492 
JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER. 
June  13,  1901* 
into  the  road,  talking  gardening  all  the  way,  with  every  customer  who 
happens  to  call  with  a  pair  of  understandings  in  need  of  repair. 
Just  now  the  narrow  border  on  either  side  of  the  cobbled  pathway 
is  bright  in  its  spring  garb.  The  Crocuses  are  just  going  over,  and 
have  been  very  pretty,  but,  as  old  Sam  says,  “  them  dratted  sparrers 
make  such  a  set  at  ’em,  alius  pickin’  out  the  yaller  ones,”  and  so  much 
thread  was  taken  in  protecting  the  flowers  that  the  shoemaking  trade 
came  to  a  standstill  till  another  supply  was  obtained.  The  big  clumps 
of  Lenten  Lilies  are  all  aglow,  and  Sam  says  what  they  would  have 
beeD,  but  he  was  obliged  to  let  the  vicar’s  wife  have  all  the  early 
flowers  for  decorating  the  church  at  Easter.  What  with  his  spring 
flowers  at  Easter  and  his  fruit  at  harvest  time,  I  think  the  old  man 
firmly  believes  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  decorate  the  sacred 
edifice  without  his  aid.  But  Sam  is  in  trouble  this  year  about  his 
bulbs.  By  a  sad  stroke  of  mistaken  energy  he  has  lost  his  Hyacinths 
and  Tulips.  It  happened  in  this  way.  A  married  daughter  paid  her 
annual  visit  last  summer  with  a  little  tribe  of  offspring  in  train,  just 
when  the  first  of  the  Shallots  were  being  peeled  for  pickling,  and  the 
flower  bulbs  lay  ripening  on  the  pavement  in  front  of  the  shop. 
Prompted  by  example  and  a  childish  desire  to  help,  the  youngsters 
continued  the  peeling  after  grand-dad  had  finished,  and  findieg  that  the 
“  other  onions”  did  not  attract  tears  like  the  Shallots,  tney  confined 
their  efforts  to  them,  with  the  result  that  when  old  Sam  appeared  on 
the  scene  all  the  Hyacinth  and  Tulip  bulbs  were  nicely  peeled  and 
ready  for  the  pickle  jar.  His  grief  was  great,  but  it  is  greater  now,  as 
he  points  to  the  bare  patches,  and  tells  once  more  the  story  of  his  loss. 
Happily  there  is  recompense  in  the  “Polyacts”  (Polyanthuses)  now 
unfurling  their  trusses,  with  the  Wallflowers  and  the  Auriculas  coming 
along.  “  Purty  things  is  Racklesses,’’  says  old  Sam,  “  but  they  haves  a 
knack  o’  going  off  if  you  don’t  watch  ’em  and  divide  'em  now  and  agen.’ 
Among  his  older  loves,  the  cobbler  divides  his  affections  between 
a  Wistaria,  that  rambles  over  a  wired  archway  leading  to  the  front 
door,  and  an  Apricot  that  covers  the  front  wall  of  the  cottage.  The 
former  has  a  thick  gnarled  stem,  like  the  limb  of  a  forest  tree,  and 
when  in  bloom  the  bunches  of  purple  flowers  hang  like  clusters  of 
Grapes,  and  pervade  the  air  with  their  sweetness.  All  are  welcome  to 
come  and  see,  but  few  to  touch,  and  favoured  is  the  friend  who  carries 
away  a  bunch,  for  the  Wistaria  is  sacred.  Sam  just  remembers  it 
being  planted  ;  they  have  grown  old  together,  and  it  is  the  old  man’s 
boast  that  “  there  ain’t  another  in  the  parish  like  it,  nor  in  the  county, 
for  the  matter  o’  that.”  About  the  Apricot  he  has  some  misgivings, 
for  after  the  manner  of  its  kind  it  has  of  late  years  developed  a  habit 
of  losing  some  of  its  branches,  and  Sam  wonders  which  will  be  the 
first  to  go — bim  or  the  tree.  “Apricots  from  that  tree,”  he  says, 
“  has  won  first  prize  at  the  show  ever  since  it  started,  and  I  should 
like  to  keep  the  record ;  but  there’s  somethin’  wrong,  and,  like  me* 
it’s  gettin’  older.”  On  the  gable  end  there  is  a  tree  in  the  vigour  of 
full  bearing,  which  Sam  proudly  looks  on  as  a  masterpiece  of  fruit 
culture.  “Now  there’s  a  tree  for  you,”  he  says,  looking  over  hL 
spectacles  at  the  neatly  trained  branches.  “  A  Victoria,  and  no  Plum 
to  beat  it,  so  far  as  I’ve  seen ;  raised  it  from  a  stone,  grafted  it  from  a 
tree  in  “The  Hall”  garden,  and  trained  and  pruned  it  with  my  own 
hand,  though  I  be  no  reg’lar  gardener,  in  a  manner  o’  speakin’.” 
Near  the  road,  on  a  bit  of  ground  rejoicing  in  the  name  of  orchard, 
are  the  Apples — the  Blenheim  Orange  I  spoke  of,  a  Wellington,  and 
one  or  two  others  bearing  local  titles.  Sam  planted  them,  and  has 
watched  their  development ;  year  after  year  he  has  thinned  their 
superfluous  branches,  and  applied  the  annual  dressings  of  whitewash 
to  the  stems.  “The  old  Blemon,”  he  remarks,  has  put  many  a  bright 
pound  in  my  pocket.  He  doesn’t  bear  every  year,  but  then  you  can’t 
expect  it  of  no  Apple.  He  don’t  often  miss,  though,  and  the  fruit  goes 
on  the  floor  in  the  spare  room  till  nigh  Christmas  ;  and  there’s  one 
man  alius  ready  to  have  ’em  at  any  price.” 
But  in  Rose  time  the  old  shoemaker  betrays  his  pet  fancy.  In  the 
early  morning  before  half  the  world  is  awake  you  can  find  him  with 
his  cobbler’s  apron  on,  for  that  is  part  and  parcel  of  Sam’s  attire 
peering,  not  over  this  time,  but  through  his  spectacles,  in  search  of  the 
mischievous  maggot  or  the  troublesome  aphides.  He  has  his  own 
ideas  about  the  latter,  which  no  naturalist  would  ever  shake.  “  They 
be  all  the  same  thing,”  he  says,  “and  a  dratted  nuisance  at  that,  but 
their  colour  changes  according  to  the  food  as  they  eats.  Take  a  black 
dolphin  off  a  Broad  Bean  and  give  him  a  feed  o’  Rose,  why  he’d 
change  to  green  of  course.”  Whether  the  above  theory  is  founded  on 
actual  demonstration  I  have  never  been  able  to  discover  ;  but  the* 
shoemaker  knows  a  thing  or  two  about  Roses,  though  the  names  he 
gives  them  are  altogether  unintelligible  to  anyone  but  himself.  At  a 
certain  season  he  may  be  seen  plodding  along  the  bank  sides  with  bis 
eye  fixed  on  the  hedgerow,  from  which  one  after  the  other  the  Brier 
stocks  are  drawD,  and  transferred  to  the  little  prepared  space  near  the 
workshop ;  and  woe  to  the  boots  that  want  patching  when  budding  is 
in  process.  The  job  has  to  wait,  be  it  ever  so  important,  and  a  grey  head 
bends  low  over  the  stocks,  and  the  buds  are  inserted  with  deft  fingers. 
You  may  watch,  but  you  must  not  worry,  and  between  the  operations 
of  slitting,  fixing,  and  tying,  Sam  will  tell  of  past  triumphs  in  this 
direction,  and  impart  to  the  uninitiated  as  much  of  the  mysteries  of 
Rose  budding  as  he  thinks  proper.  A  big,  umbrella-shaped  Gloire  de 
Dijon  occupied  the  centre  of  the  bed  near  the  window.  “  Look  at 
that  now,”  remarks  the  cobbler,  “  I  budded  that  the  same  year  as 
Bob  joined  the  perlice  force.  I  tried  to  make  a  cobbler  of  him,  but  he 
wouldn’t  have  it,  and  there’ll  be  no  one  to  carry  on  the  business  when 
I’m  gone.”  Bob,  by  the  way,  is  the  youngest  son  of  the  old  shoe- 
m  ker,  and  in  his  following  remarks  he  so  mixes  up  the  connection 
that  it  is  difficult  to  know  whether  he  is  talking  about  the  boy  or  the 
Rose.  When  they  are  out,  the  Gloires,  Marechals,  Rothschilds, 
La  Frances,  and  the  rest  of  them,  few  customers  go  to  the  shop  without 
a  little  bunch,  or  at  least  a  buttonhole,  of  the  sweet-scented  flowers  to 
carry  home  with  them,  for  with  his  Roses  the  old  man  is  no  niggard. 
And  the  windows  are  bright  with  flowers,  even  to  that  of  the 
workshop.  “  She  liked  ’em  so,”  says  the  old  man  ;  and  by  the 
faltering  tone,  and  the  movement  of  the  corner  of  the  apron  to  remove 
the  glistening  teardrop,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  he  refers  to  one  whose 
memory  remains  dear.  “  She  was  a  dab  hand  at  flowers  was  the 
missus.  I  raised  this  Lucy  Finnis  (pointing  to  a  Fuchsia)  from  her 
old  plant,  as  always  took  first  at  the  show.  It’s  dead  now,  and  I 
shouldn’t  like  to  lose  this,  as  it’s  a  sort  of  link,  you  know.” 
So  much  for  the  cobbler’s  flowers  and  his  fruit;  but  there  is  the 
kitchen  garden  as  well,  which  is  attended  like  the  rest.  I  haven’t 
space  to  describe  it  here,  for  I  could  not  do  it  justice  without  the 
accompaniment  of  some  of  its  owner’s  expressions;  but  proof  of  the 
old  man’s  talents  is  seen  on  the  flower  show  day,  when  a  dapper 
little  figure  in  apron  and  spectacles  darts  here  and  there  in  the  work 
of  staging  ;  nr  later  in  the  day,  attired  in  the  frockcoat  only  worn  on 
special  occasions,  he  approaches  the  raised  platform  to  receive  his 
prizes  at  the  hands  of  the  squire’s  lady. — G.  H.  H. 
Missouri  Botanical  Garden. — After  the  report  of  this  pro¬ 
gressive  central  United  States  Botanical  Garden,  which  was  given  in 
this  Journal,  on  page  393,  it  is  interesting  to  hear  that  further  extensions 
have  recently  been  made  to  it.  The  area  of  the  Missouri  Botanical 
Gardens  (better  known  as  Shaw’s  Garden,  St.  Louis)  is  to  be  nearly 
trebled  by  the  addition  of  unimproved  land  lying  west  and  south  of 
the  present  gardens.  An  addition  of  22  acres,  known  as  the  North 
American  tract,  is  now  beiDg  laid  off  and  planted.  It  is  the  intention 
of  Dr.  William  Trelease,  director  of  the  gardens,  and  Henry  C.  Irish, 
his  horticultural  assistant,  to  proceed  without  haste,  but  the  improve¬ 
ments  will  certainly  be  finished  and  in  a  high  state  of  perfection  by  the 
opening  of  the  World’s  Fair.  The  North  American  traot  will  be 
devoted  to  hardy  North  American  plants,  the  collection  of  which  will 
be  the  most  complete  in  existence.  When  the  gardens  are  completed 
they  will  comprise  127  acres,  and  with  their  broad  driveways, 
artificial  lakes,  and  great  forest  trees  will  give  the  people  another 
fine  park,  in  addition  to  the  botanical  collection,  library,  and  museum, 
which  Dr.  Asa  Gray,  the  famous  botanist,  pronounced  “  the  finest 
institutions  of  their  kind  in  this  country.”  It  is  now  proposed,  in 
time,  to  erect  a  series  of  ornamental  buildings  in  the  tract  now  used 
as  a  vegetable  garden,  which  will  be  a  permanent  home  for  the 
botanical  library,  museum,  and  herbarium,  which  are  already  crowded 
for  room. 
