the amateur, and may, incidentally, entertain with such various bits of information in regard to the works and ways of flowering plants, the origin and fitness of their names, and their relations to human life, as come of the "reading of many books," and so encourage in my fellow-woman that habit of spending much time "with body and with spirit," in "God's out-of-doors," which is one of Van Dyke's beautiful steps "in the footpath of peace," my end in making this book will be well attained.

CHAPTER VII

Perennials

To begin with the hardy perennials—which, to be effective, should be in a border of their own. At the outset, this should be made free of stones, then mellow the earth as far down as two feet. At the bottom put in about one foot of well-seasoned manure. Now add leaf-mold, a little peat, a sprinkling of wood ashes, and a top layer of sifted garden loam. If the soil be clayey, add some fine pure sand, to keep it friable.

Seeds of perennials are naturally slow in germinating—their time of coming up being a period varying from one week to two months. It may here be stated that all perennial plants undergo a period of rest. It is not certain that this "rest" is in any sense a recuperation. It is supposed to be a hereditary trait induced by natural environment—a means by which the plant resists untoward circumstances of climate. In the tropics, plants rest during dry seasons, in much the same manner as during our Northern winters.

Investigations—so far—show that this hereditary trait has not been entirely overcome by culture. Any attempt of the cultivator to ignore this resting period is apt to injure the plant, from the fact that any energy used in abnormal development may be subtracted from subsequent growth or development.

Before I had taken this "old-time garden" in hand—fashioning new borders, and freeing the old from encumbering jungles—many plants, both annual and perennial, had, no doubt, found place in it as before stated. Groups of blue-eyed periwinkle still held their own among usurping forces. A discouraged day-lily looked forlornly out of the tangle, where year by year a courageous double English violet shyly perfected a blossom or two. Here and there a straggling bush of blush roses reached out for the June sunshine, and, to my delight, I found—half strangled among the over-growth—my old acquaintance, a pink flowering almond. The dear old thing was "on its last legs." We carefully removed it to kindlier quarters.

Straightway it took heart, and sending up new green shoots, gave us, that very year, upon "the parent stem" a tuft or two of rosy bloom.

Now, after ten years of high living, it has become an illustrious shrub; and to sit in the old garden in the May-time while the shadows and sunshine dance together on the lawn and vernal odors sweeten all the air, watching the long pink wreaths of flowering almond sway in the south wind, is to lend one's self to the divine gladness of spring, and know that simple joy in living, that is the birthright of all God's creatures in this—His beautiful and perfect—world.

The flowering almond has been often divided, and all about the garden its rosy wreaths may now be seen.

Here, too, was another old friend, the Yellow Globe flower—a shrub too large and straggling of habit to find a home in the perennial beds. It has taken a front seat among the tall shrubs and repeated itself many times. It has a long period of blooming, and is a most satisfactory inhabitant of the garden.

And now, as a possible help in the selection and arrangement of the perennial border, let me tell you what I have learned in regard to those under my care, in respect to their habit of growth, their treatment, and characteristics.

The Rose is, as we know, crowned queen of the flowers, and has her own separate place in the garden; but as the Lily kindly fraternizes with all her sister-flowers, and is easily Queen among the social perennials, I give her the first place in this catalogue of my border favorites.

The Lily—we are told—derives its name from the Celtic word li—signifying whiteness and purity. Quick to seize upon symbolic accessories to their art, the old painters put in the hand of the angelic messenger who brought to the Virgin Mary tidings of her divine motherhood, this chaste and exquisite flower. Hence the Lilium Candidum was known as the "Lily of Annunciation" and as the Madonna Lily, which last is, I think, the more poetic and beautiful of the two names.

As the genus lilium embraces about fifty distinct species one may not aspire to a large show of lilies in a moderate-sized garden.

"It does not seem necessary," says Mr. C. L. Allen (an expert in lily cultivation) "to improve, or rather, to attempt an improvement on that which is already perfect, as the lily is, wherever found in its natural habitat. It seems to us that nature has exhausted her resources in the perfection of the species, and regards as an interference all efforts of man to improve her work."

"L. Candidum," says the same authority, "is older than history, as the first notice made of plants speaks of it as a 'well-known plant.' It is the loveliest, as well as the oldest, and if we were to have but one lily Candidum would be the one." I quite agree with this decision. The Madonna has ever been the lily dearest to my heart. Although its native habitat is the Levant, the Candidum has adapted itself to our colder temperature, and is easily perfected in our temperate climate, and in the hardy garden.

Some twenty years ago this lily was extensively forced for the Easter market.

In the present decade the Bermuda Lily (L. longiflorum) is almost exclusively forced for the Easter trade, and popularly known as the "Easter Lily." Its cultivation for that April festival has now become one of the established industries of that lovely clime. The bulbs—there grown in wide flowery fields—are, early in autumn, received by our florists and directly potted for the Easter harvest.

A lady passing the winter in Bermuda brought from that island some bulbs of L. longiflorum, which finally coming into the possession of Mr. H. K. Harris of Philadelphia, he honored the flower by bestowing upon it his own name, and as L. Harrisii, brought it into prominent notice among our florists, who now force it for Easter-time. The Bermuda-grown bulbs are preferred by them to the Dutch-grown ones, as they are earlier ripened and come into bloom quicker.

For myself I prefer the Madonna, with its more open flower, to the trumpet-like Bermuda. It is, too, an old acquaintance, has a more delicate odor, and hangs its sprays more gracefully. The Bermuda needs much coaxing to live through our bleak Northern winters, but the Candidum is absolutely hardy.

The Madonna holds to her corner with the tenacity of a family cat—she is a long time settling herself in a "strange garret."

Mine had undergone the vicissitude of three moving days before settling in their present quarters. I distributed them well through my sunniest border. Their next neighbors were some elderly Bee Larkspurs. The first and second year the lovely blue Delphiniums did most of the blooming.

After that the Lilies and Larkspurs punctually celebrated together the "great and glorious Fourth"—the tall Madonnas (some years in throngs of two hundred) leading the fair procession—the Larkspurs like swarms of blue butterflies flitting about among the snow of the lilies. Then,