SEASON III Summer

"Knee-deep in June."

A

And knee-deep in work, too, for June will not give you anything for nothing if you are running a garden. I had my hands full, not only with the legitimate work of June, which is great, but May is sure to have left you in the lurch; this "getting forward" process so much preached by the Master is not seconded by May with at all a whole heart.

"March ain't never nothin' new!
Apriles altogether too
Brash fer me, and May—I jes'
'Bominate its promises.
Little hints o' sunshine and
Green around the timber-land,
A few blossoms and a few
Chip birds, and a sprout or two—
Drap asleep, and it turns in
'Fore daylight and snows agen!"[1]

[1] James Whitcomb Riley.

[Pg 128]

My poet is an American, but the complaint may be raised also in the old country; only I do not "'bominate" promises. I love them, and as I am perforce a gardener it is a good thing, for I often get nothing else.

But be the garden forward or not, how lovely a garden can be, even a neglected garden, these last weeks of May and first of June.

The chestnuts are scarcely over, the laburnum is raining gold, the may trees are like snow, a delicious reminder when the sun is doing its duty brilliantly; the roses are just breaking from the bud, and now we can congratulate ourselves on the wholesale slaughter of green grub and green fly, without, however, giving up the pursuit.

But what was the matter with those newly-planted rose trees? The crimson rambler, for one, that was to ramp up the verandah, had not ramped an inch; it had only put forth some miserable, half-starved leaves and not one bud. The Others derided it freely. William Allen Richardson looked unhappy too; the new standards seemed more contented, and the Reine[Pg 129] Marie Hortense, who also was destined to cover the verandah as rapidly as might be with pink Gloire de Dijon roses, had really begun her work with a will. Why then had my much-vaunted crimson rambler failed me? I had been told they disliked a wall, but not a verandah. "A worm i' the root," suggested One; but I held to certain laws of the Medes and Persians, and one was to leave the roots alone until the right time; so if my rambler wished to flourish elsewhere it must bide until the autumn; though in the front, over an old stump, and down in the kitchen garden it was the same tale, the ramblers refused to ramble.
B

But the business of the month must not be kept waiting a day, in fact, we began the last week in May, and that was promoting the nurslings from their shelter to the open borders.

[Pg 130]

The two large round beds that were generally devoted to Griggs's semi-red geraniums and scraggy calceolarias, and which were the only regular planting-out beds the garden possessed, were now a subject of much disquieting thought to me.

They were so terribly important. By them I felt my reputation must stand or fall. They were plainly visible from everywhere. They needed to be a brilliant mass of colour from June to October; no easy problem for one lot of flowers to solve. I had set my face against Griggs's geraniums bordered with calceolarias and lobelias, the refuge of the destitute; any other refuge was to be mine, I resolved. And since it had been no silent resolve, it had perforce to be kept.

At present those beds were an eyesore, but one for which I did not feel responsible. Before I took in hand the reins of garden government, Griggs had buried there a mixture of tulips and edged them with alternate polyanthuses—the poorest of specimens—and forget-me—nots that had weathered the winter in what Griggs termed[Pg 131] a "spotty" way. It was certainly a suggestive phrase for those particular plants. But I had been able to join the Others in their chorus of condemnation. Now the time had arrived for a change, and the responsibility appalled me.

I had had visions of those two beds with many various inhabitants. At first the dream had been of violas, pale mauve deepening into the dark purple, but to complete that idea some tall things with a strong colour—red salvias or good red geraniums—were needed; these, planted some eighteen inches apart, would bring out the delicate background. But the dream vanished perforce. Apart from the lack of good red anything, my violas had failed me, and some few dozen little plants were all I could reckon upon. Why, I do not know; it was just this, the seeds had not come up.

So then I dreamed of all my straight little antirrhinums; they would surely make a fine glaring effect. I had red, yellow, white and a good quantity. Jim liked the[Pg 132] idea; red was to be the centre, and yellow and white alternate, a broad border.

Griggs took his arrangement away. The dilapidated tulips were saved, of course, and kept in a dry place stored for the autumn planting out.

On the polyanthus roots too I laid rescuing hands. They were not very good colours, but needing so much I dared not waste. The best of the lot I had noted, and now placed them down the shaded lime walk. They could grow where the primroses grew, and in spring I should welcome even their uncertain shades down amongst the bright green of the wild things. The beds were turned over well, and a little fresh soil and manure dug in; then, when neat, smooth and ready, I brought up the first detachment of small antirrhinums from the nursery for their adornment. These had grown to the height of from five to six inches, but had still a slender air. I think it would have helped their more rapid development had they been moved sooner from their first box. With seedlings, friend[Pg 133] Ignoramus, you cannot be too particular. Never let them have the slightest check; keep them watered, cared for, and as they need it give them room. They will then reward you.

All one cool afternoon Jim and I planted out. We began in the centre and made rings round with an impromptu compass formed by a stick and string. In the rounds thus made the plantlets were steadily and firmly placed, eight inches apart, though eight inches seemed a great deal of spare room.

"They will grow," I persisted; "they are small for their age, but will soon need elbow room."

"I feel I am playing with little tin soldiers, don't you?" suggested Jim; "but they are strong little beggars and will grow bigger, won't they?"

"Oh, rather! over a foot, though they are the dwarf kind, you know; but they branch out like the wicked bay tree."

"Well, there's room for it," said Jim, and then we worked on steadily until tea-time.

"What are you sprinkling that bed with[Pg 134] those tiny green twigs for?" asked one of the Others. "We want something a trifle cheering there, you must remember, Mary. We have to look at it all the summer."

"We don't want to have to regret Griggs's semi-red 'janiums," said another of the Others.

"They will be a blazing mass of colour," I answered confidently as I hurried over my tea. "Come, Jim, they must be got in."

"Remember it is for this summer," shouted the Other.

"And not to adorn our graves, my dear," came after us.

What had happened in my short absence? I saw with new eyes, the eyes not of the fond mother but of the critic.

"Jim!" and my whisper was awful.

"What's up? Have we done anything wrong?"

"Look at them!"

They looked absurd. They looked impossible. The bed so big and they so small, so like tiny tin soldiers, that my faith failed me. The Others would be confronted by little[Pg 135] green twigs all the summer and regret Griggs's régime. It was hopeless! they could never rise to the occasion.

"They must come up, Jim."

"Oh, rot! Let's put 'em a bit thicker; they will flower all right, you said so half-an-hour ago."

"I don't know what I said half-an-hour ago; I feel sure now that they will take months to do anything! And what shall I do meanwhile? It's the pricking out; we were behind with that, you see. They must come up and go somewhere, where it won't matter so awfully. These beds must be a success, even if I spend every farthing I possess on buying ready-made plants."

We took them up. Jim was impressed with my sorrow. We planted those we had disturbed in the border in front as an edging.

"It won't matter so much here, they don't strike the eye, because other things are coming here in clumps, but for those two beds!"

I had nightmares of tiny tin soldiers dressed in green who marched round and round and disappeared, and then two bare[Pg 136] brown beds loomed up like giant's eyes, and the Others all shouted,

"Isn't it hideous? What did you do it for? Oh, Mary, what a mess you have made of it!"
N

Next afternoon Jim and I, his Reverence and the Young Man—who also joined the Council—calculated exactly how many plants would be required to really fill those beds with a desirable effect. I could hardly believe it, the calculation ended in two hundred for each bed. I sat down on the grass and looked and looked as though looking would make the necessary quantity appear.

"It can't be done," I moaned in the bluest despair. "I don't possess four hundred of anything; so there!"

"You might make a kind of pattern," began the Young Man.

"I hate a kaleidoscopic effect," I growled.

"You've jolly well got to have one," said Jim.

[Pg 137]

"There might be a border," suggested his Reverence.

"Really, you may mix some flowers," ventured the Young Man, rather fearful of having his head snapped off again.

"I have seen uncommonly pretty beds done that way. Why, in the Park this year I noticed a background of small close blue flowers, and out of them rose tall pink geraniums. The effect was excellent," said his Reverence.

"'You may see as good sights many times in tarts,'" I remarked, and they none of them knew, not even Jim, that I was quoting the learned Bacon, but thought my temper was affecting my reason.

"Get up off the damp grass," said Jim, offering violent assistance, "and come and contemplate the nursery. Great Scott! after all your bragging to collapse like this. Aren't the babies there still?"

"I have hundreds of nothing, and they are all such tiny things it would take thousands of them to fill these hideous big beds."

[Pg 138]

So rather a downcast procession wended their way round the shrubbery to the little yard with its frame and manure heap and enclosures of plantlets.

His Reverence drew out pencil and paper, and after making several very shaky rounds to represent the two beds, he began to fill in with names as suggested to him by Jim and the Young Man.

"Let us start with the biggest geraniums in the centre, a group of six we will say, as they are not very big any of them. Now then, a row next of those yellow daisies, that will fill up a good bit and look bright, too. Then we might have those stocks, all colours are they? Do famously. And then the little snapdragons, what do you call them?—anti—anti—what? snapdragon will do for me. You say they are too small! Oh, but they will grow. Red, then yellow, then white. Why, see, Mary, the round is nearly full. Then a row of the smallest geraniums, don't you think, and end up with an edging of blue lobelia. That would be fine, eh?"

[Pg 139]

Jim saw my face and burst into laughter. I was in no laughing mood.

"Good heavens, sir! Imagine such a higgledy-piggledy assembly as that—all sizes—all colours—all blooming anyhow!"

"Not at all, not at all. Now, Young Man, what do you say? Look here—" And with the warmth of an inventor his Reverence read over his list and grew more in love with his colour scheme than ever.

"Yes," said the Young Man, at intervals, "yes, that fills in grandly;" and then he caught my eye, a flash of indignation, so he began to hesitate and hedge. "Only, you see, your Reverence, that for flowers, that is, for bedding out, it seems you need—you have to think—" and he looked at me but got no assistance. "Perhaps there might be too many colours, mightn't there?" he wound up feebly.

"Too many colours! Why, my dear fellow, it isn't for a funeral! Do you want all the flowers to wear black coats like you and me?"

"No, no, sir, only, you see in one bed—"

"Bless the man, of course they are in[Pg 140] one bed! Why, where is the harm in variety? Just look here—" and we went through the scheme again. "Now, come; if you don't like this, what can you suggest better, eh?"

The Young Man looked so nonplussed and uncomfortable, and his Reverence was falling deeper and deeper in love with his arrangement, I saw that I must at once take the matter in hand or it would be too late.

"I know," I said suddenly. I did not know, at least, not what I would do, only what I would not, which is sometimes a great help in the other direction.

"Well, let us hear your idea," said his Reverence, with enforced patience, looking fondly at his scheme.

"The antirrhinums are too small and the violas too few," I began.

"Well, that is not much of an idea!"

"No, but I am thinking—" and so I was, for a thought had come.

Then his Reverence laughed. "Ah, well, you think. In the meantime I will leave you my list and go and see after old Griggs." He linked his arm in the Young Man's and[Pg 141] walked him off. He, looking penitently back, found no forgiveness; I had no use for the penitence of cowards.

Then I began to expound to Jim the idea that had come like a flash! like a revelation! until Jim said, "Get on, let's have the idea. I don't personally think his Reverence's scheme at all bad, you know. I just laid low because I saw what a stew you were in, but personally I like a bit of colour."

Then I explained to Jim what a delirium those beds would be, and Jim would have left me too had I not said he should do all the measurements for the beds as I wanted somebody with an eye! How queer men are, even in embryo. They always hang together, and it is only flattery that can overcome their prejudices.

Jim grew interested. The idea was to be all yellow. I had those marguerites of Griggs's cuttings developed now into fair-sized plants in spite of their neglected childhood, for I had seen to them since. They should grow in the centre; then should come my marigolds, which were very thriving,[Pg 142] two kinds of them, the big, rather clumsy African, but with handsome colouring, and the smaller, neater, darker French variety, and we would finish with a good border of tagetes.

They were all bushy plants, all hardy, and would bloom steadily through the summer and autumn.

A basket of scabious—lady's pincushions—arriving from the Master while I was planting out were also worked into my scheme, and worked in well. The dark round balls of reds, browns, blues, with tiny white pin-points, did not disturb the yellow harmony. Eventually I was proud of those beds.

When first planted they did look slightly new and stalky, but they filled out daily. His Reverence only remarked, "Well, well, have it your own way; I suppose it is ?sthetic! But my idea was more cheerful."

Griggs frankly said "yeller" was never his fancy. "Now, them 'janiums, that gives a bit o' colour."

And I quite forgave the Young Man his past for his present admiration was unbounded.[Pg 143] He had been quite unable to think, he explained.

So that great difficulty was settled.
G

Griggs's geraniums turned out one or two good dark reds among the magenta hues, and these were put in the two old stumps that hitherto had been given over to mere ramping nasturtiums, and my superior seedlings of those useful flowers were encouraged to fall over the edge and ramp downwards.

An old oil cask, cut in two, burnt out and painted green—Jim and I and the Young Man enjoyed that artistic work very much—formed two capacious tubs and were filled with more geraniums, the best and pinkest, and they brightened up the shrubbery corner where the daffodils had shone.

Stocks and other geraniums—even the mauvy-tinted ones looked quite well away from all touch of red—with a border of lobelia,[Pg 144] were placed under the study window in a narrow bed running along the front of the house, thus helping his Reverence to realise his ideal. Then by degrees we arranged all the contents of my nursery, some in clumps, some in rows, down the herbaceous border, and others in the front border, the border which had looked so dismal and unpromising on that November day when I first took my garden in hand. There had been a brushing up of old inhabitants—Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums—but much was still left to be desired.

You cannot do everything in the first year. It is no use thinking you can.
O

One day, at the very beginning of June, I visited the potting-shed, our one and only shed, which held a collection such as may be imagined after the reign of Griggs for twenty years. In a dark corner I came across some queer-looking roots[Pg 145] sprouting away in a most astoundingly lively fashion.

"Griggs, what on earth are these?" I called to that worthy.

"Them? Oh! them's daylers. Just stuck 'em there to keep dry for the winter. They oughter be out by now, they oughter."

"Oh! I should think so," and then I marvelled on the nature of dahlias.

"Is this a good place for them during the winter? Don't they want anything to eat or drink?"

"Bless yer! no, they takes their fill in the summer, but they oughter be out by now; some'ow I've come to overlook them."

That these dahlias forgave the overlooking has always been a wonder to me; perhaps they did not do so entirely. I believe more firmly than ever in the thoroughness of the edict which rules "that what a man soweth that shall he reap."

A child or a flower starved in infancy does not recover for some time, if ever, and though my dahlias kindly bloomed and did their best, once started in as good a bed as we could[Pg 146] give them, they ought to have been "potted up" in the beginning of May and kept from frosty nights; then at the end of May or beginning of June they should have been placed in their flowering position. So soon as frost touches them they droop, as we all well know, in their own peculiar, utterly dejected and forlorn manner. Then cut them down, dig them up, let them dry, and place them for the winter in a dry and protected cellar or outhouse, there to sleep until the spring calls them to fresh life.
I

I watched the long herbaceous border with an anxious eye. The poppies—those dazzling papaver—opened their large green pods and shook out blazing red and rather crinkly leaves in the sunshine. They made one hot, but happy, to look at them. For that first year in my garden I think they did their duty well, but bigger clumps will look better. Some little spiky[Pg 147] leaves that I had not recognised—how should I when no label accompanied them?—turned out to be the Iceland variety. They had one or two dainty blooms made of yellow butterflies' wings, but oh, dear! one or two! I needed a mass. The delphiniums looked healthy and promised a spiky bloom or two; the lupins were already in flower, nice, quite nice, when one has not much else, but the blue is too near purple. I must get some other varieties; the white would be prettier. The big thick leaves of the hollyhocks grew well at first, and then some beast of sorts began to fancy them and they developed a moth-eaten appearance. All Griggs could say was, "You never could do nothing with 'olly'ocks in this gardin, you couldn't." My other wiseacre, old Lovell, said, "They liked a bit o' wind through 'em." His own seemed to flourish, so mine must be moved from the sheltering hedge where I had thought they would show up.

Everywhere still grew and flourished the ever-present weeds. They needed no watering, nothing to promote their vitality, they grew apace; and I could mention other[Pg 148] varieties beside that champion grower, the ground-elder. There is a sticky, burry kind of rapid, straggling growth with tenacious hot-feeling leaves. Its hold on the earth is not strong, but it is brittle, and eludes its death-warrant that way; also a kind of elongated dandelion, that looks straight at you as though it had a right to be there. Then the common poppy, last year's nasturtium seeds, and the offspring of last year's sunflowers are as bad as weeds, and indeed the latter gave me as much trouble. The strong tuberous roots required a vigorous pull, and were growing everywhere, through the centre of every flower; I took at least a dozen out of one clump of golden rod, and vowed I would have every sunflower up before it had a chance of seeding. Of course all such things must come up or they exhaust the feeding capacity of the border.

It is all very fine to say "must," but I believe a poor soil is composed of weed seeds.

I walked down the garden with one of the Others, one who loved flowers, only in her own way. She arranged them beautifully[Pg 149] when everything was put ready to her hand; she loved picking one here and there and sticking it in her waist-band, or playing with its soft petals against her cheek, then, its brief duty done, it was forgotten.

I have seen people—even mothers—love children in the same way; but flowers and children need a broader love than that.

We walked down armed with scissors and with an empty basket; I had said that there were flowers.

"My dear girl, what on earth have you? when all is said and done. You show me a green bush thing and give it a name"—I had mentioned delphinium—"and it does sound aggressively knowledgeable, of course! And then another isolated and flowerless specimen and give it a name. But wherewithal am I to do the dinner-table to-night? Will you tell me that?"

"You have a most lovely bunch of poppies in the drawing-room, and I cut the copper-beech, which was wicked of me. Very soon you shall have roses and sweet-peas and all these seedlings; and next year[Pg 150] you shall have sweet-Williams and cup and saucer Canterbury bells and foxgloves and—"

"Next year! my dear. I am wanting some flowers for to-night."

"To-night! Oh, dear, let me think. Why won't the things make haste? You must have something, of course."

What was there? A good many things in bud, but had they been out I could not have cut them. Just the one first specimen! To cut from a plant you need such a big show, and all the tall perennials were no good anyway for the table decoration. The blue cornflowers were coming; the godetias held promising buds of pinkiness; the Shirley poppies, too, and the sweet-peas; but for to-night! Everything was for to-morrow. Down the garden we walked, hope always deferred, and beyond the garden shone a field of brilliantly deep red. I caught my breath. "Isn't it lovely? It is old Mason's saint-foin; let us take some. And see, there are white daisies in the hay there, mine aren't out yet. And with grasses, those lovely, wavy grasses! don't you think that will do?"

[Pg 151]

The table did look lovely, but small thanks to my garden, I felt; though the Other One cared not for that, and comforted me by saying that gardening had certainly developed my resources if not the flowers.

Nature's garden is at its best in June.

The wild rose and honeysuckle scent the hedges, the tall white daisies shine in the grass, the ruddy chickweed, with the setting sun behind, glows like the evening clouds; and the tall, dainty, white meadow-sweet offers itself to one's hand. Were it a garden flower we should prize it almost as we do gypsophila. But Nature does not mean her favourites to be promoted to the drawing-room. Their rustic beauty fades at once, and it seems truly unkind to cut so short their joyous sunny day.
T

The dinner-table that had caused me so much anxiety was specially needed for an American friend of one of the Others. She greeted the pretty effect with, "My! how cunning! Do all these pretty[Pg 152] things grow in your garden, Mistress Mary?"

"In mine and Nature's," I added.

"You have a little rhyme about Mary and her garden, haven't you? And her lamb, too. Have you a lamb?"

"Oh, yes," said one of the Others, "she has a lamb, the new version of that rhyme, too, 'with coat as black as soot.'"

But what she meant, or why I grew hot, it passes my wisdom to say.

"Say now, do you grow nightingales in your garden, Mistress Mary? I assure you, sir," turning to his Reverence, "I have never yet compassed an introduction to that much-vaunted British institooshon, the nightingale. I am just crazy till I hear those liquid tones, the jug jug and jar jar: such vurry ugly equivalents they sound to me for thrilling notes, but the best, I conclude, our poor speech can do in imitation of that divine melody."

When our friend had quite finished—I noticed she landed herself without fear in the longest of sentences, and brought them[Pg 153] always with much aplomb to the neatest of conclusions, an accomplishment in which she must find the majority of her English cousins sadly deficient—his Reverence promised her the wished-for concert; and he further dilated on the beauties represented by jug jug and jar jar, until she assured him that with him for her guide she would face that dark and lonely walk of Mistress Mary's—she meant my lime trees—where doubtless she would find a blue or white lady flitting past, with a sigh, wasn't it? for some recalcitrant lover.

However, I noticed she walked off later with the Young Man, who dropped in after dinner, and she asked him all about the jug jug and jar jar with ever-increasing animation.

It certainly was very cool that night, as it can be in June even after a hot day. We looked round to send Jim for shawls, but Jim had vanished, to his work, no doubt. We strolled down the lime walk to see if the nightingales would oblige us, which I doubted, as nightingales are as careful of their throats in a cool wind as are prima donnas.

[Pg 154]

"You really mustn't talk," I heard the Young Man say.

"Land's sake! but do they want it all their own way? Though who could talk when the whole night is throbbing with beauty? Just look at that intense blue vault above us, and the calm stars shimmering down on us. Say! doesn't it make you feel just too awfully small for anything? You don't feel inclined to get up and preach now, do you? Just shut your eyes and listen; that's about all one can do."

The figures wandered up and down under the overhanging lime boughs, two and two, and presently the black and white ones ahead of us stopped. When we wandered off again somehow we had changed partners, and Mamie was arm-in-arm with her special Other One and the Young Man was walking with me.

"I had such a lot I wanted to talk to you about," he began. This sounded interesting, but he seemed unable to get further.

"About the Sunday school?" I asked gently, for we were still listening for the nightingale.

[Pg 155]

It was almost a cross "No" that he muttered as we passed Mamie and her friend.

"Oh, I know," I suggested; "it is about the garden. You haven't been helping me in my garden for weeks and weeks. What can one talk of better than a garden? I think it is the most interesting subject, and you must want to know how the nurslings are turning out, now they are started in real life."

I suppose Mamie had caught the word garden, for she began to sing in a very high thread-of-silver voice,

"If love's gardener sweet were I,
I would cull the stars for thy pleasure."

"Say, tall and reverend sir, can you reach a star? Look how they twinkle!"

The Young Man is so very English I half feared he would not understand how to take her, but Mamie's freedom was infectious.

"All the stars are not up there," he said, "fortunately for my arms. They are twinkling under these trees to-night."

"Why, you are poetical! But these lively stars of white and blue are not the kind to[Pg 156] cull, are they, Mistress Mary? Land's sake! but they might prove as big an undertaking as one of those fiery worlds twinkling up there. 'How I wonder what you are!' Why, we don't wonder, we know. I learnt all about them at school. But who knows what I am composed of?"

"'Ribbons and laces and sweet pretty faces!' is what they taught me at my school," said the Young Man, calmly.

"Really, the nightingale can't sing if we all talk so much. Do let us try and be quiet for two minutes," I said.

But Mamie was walking away laughing, and saying the nightingale would soon get used to her dulcet tones, and the Young Man stayed listening with me.

"And yet it's true," he said, "what she says; how is one ever to know about another person, particularly when that other person always turns the conversation when one begins to talk about—"

"You are getting mixed," I interrupted. "Don't you like talking about my garden?"

"Not always."

[Pg 157]

"Well, then, there's the parish."

"You only do that to annoy."

"I don't! But to please you I will talk of your last sermon."

The Young Man was very hard to please; he said he preferred to know the exact ingredients of the stars, so I stopped Mamie to ask her, but she said we were becoming prosaic; the stars were really little holes in heaven's floor that the angels made to peep through. "That's what they taught at your school, didn't they, Reverend Young Man?"

"They did. My education has greatly helped me to retain my fond delusions and pet prejudices."

"Why, what an ideal education for a clergyman!"

"Since young ladies are taught to weigh the stars and won't listen for nightingales, it does seem good to me."

"Now, don't you get rattled. Mistress Mary, you have been rubbing him up the wrong way, and, mercy me! however can a poor Yank hear your nightingale? That is a[Pg 158] delusion I must part with unless he condescends to commence soon."

"Well, wait, do wait quietly for one minute."

So for a brief pause there was silence; and the stir of the leaves and little rustle of unseen creeping things could be heard, and then, yes, there it was! We all raised a warning finger, but the throbbing note broke through the stillness; a little gurgle, a break, and then a longer effort.

"Oh, my! Is that it? It makes me creep all over. Oh, don't let us talk. Will it go on?"

Yes, it went on. After some tentative "jugs" and "jars" it broke into a full-throated throb, and even our fair visitor's exclamation did not scare it.

"It is singing to-night," said One; "really, it must be in honour of you, Mamie. It seldom sings with such vigour!"

In the centre of the sloping field grew a fine clump of trees, birch, chestnut and one or two straight pines; the nightingale had chosen this for his stage, and now again quite[Pg 159] distinctly rose the gurgling note, and continued, too, right through Miss Mamie's piercing whisper.

"Why! it's purfectly lovely! I guess I must take one or two back to Amurica. This grove of trees, the dense blue sky, the silence of all you dear people, and just that one divine voice throbbing with love! It makes me feel like melting. If anyone proposed to me now I should just have no strength to refuse. Don't feel nervous, most Reverend Young Man. I am really thinking of that fascinating Mr Jim. Say! has he gone to bed?"

Jim! Where was he? I saw the Young Man give a start, and a quick glance showed me we had both solved the mystery of that persistently gurgling bird. "He ought to be doing his preparation," I said in firm tones.

"Don't, Mary! how you shouted. Now he has stopped. Oh, what a pity!"

The Young Man whistled softly, and after a pause a little answering whistle came from another spot.

"What is that?" asked Mamie.

"Night-jar," suggested the Young Man.

[Pg 160]

We listened in vain for more warblings from the nightingale. He had flown for good, and they all said it was my fault.

"Did you have a good concert?" asked his Reverence, as we returned to the drawing-room.

And at the chorus of approval he laughed, and assured us the nightingale had given him a dress rehearsal, and that was why we waited so long.

Mamie declared his Reverence was the biggest dear she had met "this side," for you never could believe a word he said. He and the Young Man had both been to the same school, she reckoned.

Next morning she had a tale to tell of her own special nightingale throbbing with love just below her window, and again in the early morning hours at her door. When she laid great stress on the "throbbing with love," Jim got bashfully red. Then she maintained she heard him flutter downstairs just as she was going to pipe her love tale too, and that always, always, she[Pg 161] will love her English nightingale the best of all British institooshons.

"You don't think she really knows," whispered Jim to me, "because if she does, she is going rather far, isn't she?"
H

How lovely a garden can be by moonlight, even a poor little garden. The moon is merciful, she touches all things, even the weeds, with a soft mystery; hallows the lily and every white bloom; in her light the red and blue flowers are not faded or extinguished, but softened; distances, shadows are intenser, more suggestive than in the garish glory of the sun; soft voices, soft footsteps are needed for the moonlit garden, and one may not think of work or gardeners. The flowers are asleep, wake them not; all but those of strong sweet scent and small blossom, like the jessamine and nicotina, which fittingly star the night garden, and these are sweeter now than ever, and thus[Pg 162] woo to them the little moths, those flitting, dusky, silent lovers.

The lime-tree avenue became a favourite night walk. The path that was once gravel, and by long neglect had become green in patches, was encouraged in its overgrowth, and Griggs and a scythe will turn it in time to quite a respectable grass walk, I hope. In the subdued light the feathery tall weeds gave it quite a fairy glade appearance.

I can dream in my garden by moonlight, and perhaps not always of my garden.
T

The little perennial and biennial seeds sown in the open in April were, at the end of June, ready for thinning. They had each developed the "body" prepared for them, and nice, sturdy little "bodies" they were, but growing too close together and needing more elbow room. I do not think one ever sows seeds thinly enough, and this is not so much to be regretted[Pg 163] for economy's sake as for the sake of the tiny plants' nourishment. Here again was a great waste of plant life, though, had all been wanted, all could have been used, for they are none the worse for this shifting. Still, half a row instead of two would have been sufficient for my needs.

I selected the sturdiest, left some growing where they were, at about six inches apart, and moved the others to a new bed, also allowing them six inches; the rest were wasted, except a few, which found their way to a corner of some cottage gardens. But this is not the time when people are grateful for them; they like the well-grown plants in the autumn, which can then be placed in their spring bed.

If the weather has been very dry it is a good plan to water the plants well before beginning to divide them, which, of course, is done by loosening the ground with a little fork and carefully selecting the young root you want from the many. Water well, too, when your work is finished, and continue to watch over them unless the rain comes to bless them.

[Pg 164]

For these plantlets I chose a nursery that was not exposed all day to the sun. One has to think for them; they repay it with quicker and sturdier growth, which means better flowering capacity in the spring.

So all my wallflowers, forget-me-nots, Canterbury-bells, sweet-Williams, silene, were thus attended to, and, added to my nursery division of perennial seeds, which I now divided up in like fashion, made a grand show, or promise rather.

His Reverence was brought to admire, but he looked at the patch I had chosen and said,

"Do you know I had cauliflowers in here last year, and it is just the very spot that suits them."

"I know," I said. "I hope it will suit my children too."

But his Reverence took quite another view of the matter, and talked of "landmarks," so I fled, for I did not want to be told I must move them all again. That was impossible.

[Pg 165]
A

And now, as the sun shone day by day both lustily and long, the great difficulty of watering arose.

This was the time in the ideal gardens told of in my precious books when the busy garden boy rolls his clanking watering-tank, unfurls the sinuous hose, and from morning to night supplies the thirsting flowers.

In the Master's garden there was no lack, and his long tubes were even emptying themselves, reckless extravagance! on the velvety lawn.

But for me, oh, lack-a-day! The ground felt like hot dust, the seedlings drooped, and the Others told me not to pray for rain as they were doing the opposite, lawn tennis being in full swing.

We had a rain-water tank, and in the stables water was laid on, but it was a far cry from the stables to the garden, especially the kitchen garden, and old Griggs was a slow mover. The watering-tank groaned its way, but only the two most important beds got their daily draught. They were[Pg 166] beginning to turn yellow in an encouraging fashion, but it takes some time for the eight inches apart to fill up and become the mass of colour dreamt of.

Then I disorganised the domestic economy by insisting on the contents of the household baths finding their way down to my rose bushes. At first the housemaids liked the little jaunt, but soon there were complaints of "'indering me getting on with my work, miss," and I began to inspect possibilities of converging drain-pipes and establishing receptive barrels; also I gave his Reverence small peace in those days in my desire for a further laying on of water to the kitchen garden and some yards of hose, but he said that these were big undertakings, he must think, etc., and for that hot, dry summer we got no further than thoughts.

Griggs hated me worse than ever, an unavoidable evil. We had one pitched battle, and though it did some little good, the spirit of a defeated foe is not one easy to work with.

[Pg 167]

In the dark winter evenings Griggs seeks his fireside as the light fails, or even before if it suits him. Against this I have nothing to say, but when the long days come with their need for more gardening care, I object to the early tea-time departure.

I found my precious seedlings drooping and Griggs ready to depart for his tea.

I love my own tea, so a fellow-feeling made me kind.

"But come back, Griggs, for some watering must be done."

"I can't come no more to-night, oi 'ave to see to things a bit up at 'ome."

"Griggs "—and my voice held dignified rebuke—"you are gardener here, and these flowers are your first duty."

"There ain't no gettin' round with all them little plants wot you've started. I did give 'em a watering two days ago!"

"Two days ago! Don't you want your tea every day?"

"Maybe it'll rain soon, and that'll pull 'em round. They ain't human critturs. Don't you fuss over them, miss. Oi knows[Pg 168] their ways. Bless you, I've been a gardener these forty years."

At this I rose.

And what had been the result? Would he care to have his gardening capacity judged by the dearth that reigned at the Rectory? Did the heavy weed crops speak well for his industry? Did the underground interlacement of that pernicious ground-elder do him credit? Did the roses, the jasmine, etc., etc. My pent-up indignation overflowed and Griggs had the full benefit.

The only impression I conveyed was that "Miss Mary was takin' on in a terrible unchristian spirit." Clerk Griggs never had a doubt of his own uttermost fulfilment of the law. In his opinion, "young ladies should play the pianny and leave gardening to them as knows." Griggs meant to go home. I felt this was a decisive moment.

"You will come back and do the necessary watering," I said, "and I shall be here to see it is done; you quite understand?"

With this I walked away, and Griggs came back. I got his Reverence to support me,[Pg 169] and we decided to give an extra hour's rest in the middle of the day and insist on the watering, without which all previous efforts are rendered, null and void.
A

A useful little book, procured for the modest sum of ninepence, gave me a more intimate knowledge of the dwellers in my garden. It is a plain little book, though it reads like a fairy tale, with its stories of marriage-customs and the wind and bees and flying insects as lovers. Straightforward and interesting reading, and to those who begin to desire more knowledge of their plant life, highly to be recommended is this Story of the Plants, by Grant Allen. For surely if you love your flowers it will not be from your own more or less selfish point of view that you will regard them. Their aims and objects will interest you; their growth and evolution be of importance; and, to come round again to one's own advantage, what[Pg 170] is best for them must also be best for the garden, since flowers in their full beauty is the gardener's object, and the plants' too.

But the plants go further; they wish to end in seed. All their fine show, their sweetness and light, is with this object in view; and here I for one must come in, in heartless fashion, and thwart them. My scissors in those summer days were as much employed in cutting off dying bloom as in selecting fresh ones. Not a sweet-pea, not an antirrhinum, not a rose must hang fading on its stem. For I must lure my plants on to further flowering and prevent the feeling of "duty done" and a fine set of seeds with which they would fain wind up their summer's career. And it is a business, this chopping off of old heads. "No strength to go that way, if you please," I said to my flowers; "keep it all for blossoms and growing purposes, and I promise that your seed shall not cease from the earth, in spite of your particular thwarted efforts." When I happen to want a seed pod preserved, I mean to label it with brilliant worsted, but[Pg 171] my garden must have grown indeed before that good time comes.

The seedlings which, sown in the open, were now rewarding Jim's matutinal thinnings-out, were a comfort and encouragement. The intensely blue cornflowers furnished many a dinner-table, and though they did not face the wind with all the backbone desirable, I had not staked them, they formed a very good background to the less tall pinky-white godetias, and these, too, in July were a boon to those Others. They last very well in water, and, if diligently cut and not allowed to seed, they continue a fine show of bloom into the early autumn.

The Shirley poppies were pure joy. Sunlight or moonlight they were a feast for the eyes; but, N.B., only those which had been properly thinned out and cared for. Some had escaped this process, and the result was invariably miserable little starved plantlets, who would have been cut as poor relations could they have been seen by their fine, stately, well-developed, gorgeously-attired sisters in a patch of ground that they beautified[Pg 172] with every shade of pink, and salmon, and white, and rose. So dainty, too, were the bright petals, like crumpled satin, delicately gauffered at the edges; and what matter that their day was brief, as befits such delicate beauties. There were more and more to follow; green bud on bud hanging their small heads among the sage-green leaves, until the time came for them too to "come out" and reign as beauties for a space as long as a butterfly's life.

There was a chorus of praise from the Others.

"Now, why don't you grow more of those?"

"Why did you not fill the two round beds with these? They make a much finer show!"

"Are they very difficult to grow, or very expensive? Why not more?"

"Don't they last? Won't they come again? Oh, but I would make them!"

"You shall do the thinning out and watering," said Jim, grimly, while I tried, but quite in vain, to explain that permanence was the chief thing needed by the two round beds, and that my yellow design would go on.

[Pg 173]

"They aren't half so effective," the Others murmured, "but of course you will have it your own way!"
T

The mignonette failed me; a few straggling plants and no bloom was all that packet did for me. I thought it grew as a weed everywhere, and my soil suits weeds! But I cannot master the mystery of what happens to some things below ground. The anemones never gave a sign of life. "They've rotted, that's what they've done," said Griggs, sagaciously, as he dug the spot where they had been buried and found no trace of anything. I intend to try again. Someone said damp had that effect on their roots, so next time for a more open, more sunny spot; but maybe that will prove too dry.

Those hot days of July and August! Alas and alas! how I and my flowers suffered from the "too-dry." With the[Pg 174] exception of my blazing yellow beds and my nurslings for next year, which, after my interview with Griggs, did receive a daily draught, my other flowers lifted withered faces to a piteously sunny sky and dwindled away into little dried-up sticks, all for the lack of water. A drop now and then is worse than useless; it only brings their eager roots hastily to the watered surface, and there the strong sun catches them and they are withered up for good and all.

The sweet-pea hedge that had been a source of delight and use, and that I had kept most diligently picked, during three days' absence converted its blossoms into seed-pods and then gave up the ghost.

I tried to pick it back to life with the destruction of pods and a good watering, but it was no good, and I had to turn my attention to the other less advanced sweet-peas and try and keep them going; the heat seemed to scorch the bloom and hurry on the pod.

The established perennials may survive[Pg 175] the drought; later rains may revive them, but to the poor little annuals it is good-bye for ever; and many a zinnia, stock, lobelia, and even marigold, though it is more hardy, had but a poor little starved life, and passed away with a tiny drooping head.

It was heart-breaking. Another year I must not have so large a family of these tender children. The hardy annuals which can be given straight away to Mother Earth's care fare better, and coming quicker to the flowering time are not so wasted. But those grown in boxes and transplanted claim more attention, and they could not have it; though to all water is a necessity, and they fade the sooner for its lack. The poor salpiglosis needs other soil; heavier, damper, I suppose, and some shade. I fear I must admire them in other people's gardens.

Griggs and the clanging tank on wheels was a poor substitute for the "blessed rain from heaven" that falls on all alike, while his unwilling steps could scarcely be induced to water those that lay nearest to his hand;[Pg 176] and I could not expect him—even I could not—to water everywhere every day.

If I had water laid on! if I had a hose! how I would use it!

"Yes, and think of my bill," said his Reverence. I suppose this is the way they talk of the revenue in India when the poor people are starving.

Well, well, poor folk should not have more children than they can feed, so I must give my attention more especially to the deeper-rooted perennials, though even they hang limp-leaved and will reward me in the future only according to my treatment of them. It is the Law of the Universe.

Some patches of seedlings in a neighbouring garden made all my resolves to curtail expenditure in that direction fly in an instant.

These were Mother Earth's hardy babies; no boxes or transplanting were needed. It was a mass of the bright-coloured heads of the annual phlox which excited my admiration. They are more brilliant, though smaller, than their perennial sisters, and for cutting[Pg 177] they are quite invaluable. They last, too, through three or four months. My garden must have them.

Another yellow patch caught my fancy. (I have a theory yellow flowers are hardiest; it is the primitive colour.) This was eschscholtzia, Californian poppy in other words. These seem to me indispensable; their grey-green leaves make the prettiest decoration.
I

In the Master's garden peace and plenty reigned. The hose played all day long; the grass was a joy, green as perennial youth; the flowers nodded at him in full satisfaction, and he sat and smiled at them, "feeling good," as the Americans say.

I went home and noted the brown lawn, in which even the plantains were beginning to turn colour, and thought of my border, and "felt bad." Even the brilliant yellow of my two round beds, staring like sunflowers, full among the starving, failed to comfort me.

[Pg 178]

It is always the one lamb crying in the wilderness that pulls the true shepherd's heart away from the ninety and nine trim little sheep safe in the fold.
J

Jim was very busy those days and more or less deserted me. One of the Others, a mankind from Sandhurst, divided his allegiance, and holidays and cricket absorbed him.

"One has to slack off a bit," he said, "and old Griggs can water. I'll come on again in the autumn; there will be some work with those tap-roots, you know."

But when a question arose of how much to the good my reign had proved, then Jim was with me at once. Even "Sandhurst" and the grand ideas that are a necessity of that period of development, were not allowed to be too snubbing.

"You look at those two yellow beds," said Jim. "That's one year's work, good. Next[Pg 179] year we will have a bit more, up to that style. You try and get up some weeds yourself and then you can talk."

And indeed those two yellow beds were a satisfaction; they grew and grew until not a spare inch was left between root and root, and they flared away gorgeously in the face of the hottest sun. I kept all dead heads cut down, for they were to go on right to the end of October.

The antirrhinums came on bravely, too; my little straight soldiers, now no longer so thin and leggy, but beginning to branch out, and carrying their stiff red, white or yellow spear of flowers bolt upright in the centre. But they were still small, and I was glad that I had secured a quicker effect with my yellow design. They performed a gay march past in that forlorn old border in the front, but more toward the end of the summer, owing really to the delay in pricking them out. His Reverence said they consoled him for the disaster of the crocuses in spring.

I bought some little plants of creeping jenny, six at threepence each, and put[Pg 180] them in round one of the stumps holding a group of rather mauvy-coloured creeping geraniums. They took kindly to the position, and yellow and mauve go excellently well together. Also I added three plants of gypsophila to my long border. I felt the Others would appreciate them.

I often wanted to buy ready-made flowers, and a flower shop or nursery garden became a real danger to me; but there was the five pounds to be thought of, or rather the few shillings which remained, and oh! the many things that were really necessities of the first order.

In August Griggs and I, friends for the moment, took cuttings of those geraniums whose colours, for some reason Griggs failed to fathom, pleased me. Of course those that I least liked offered the better cuttings, but I was inexorable and told Griggs I had other uses for that solitary frame. We "struck" the cuttings in some big pots, six in each. They grew easily, and for next year I shall only have the colours I like. Then, rather in astonishment at myself for patronising geraniums, I bought[Pg 181] a hundred cuttings of Henry Jacoby, a good dark red, for six shillings. I can't help coming round to the opinion that geraniums are an excellent stand-by. A dozen pink climbing geraniums were given me. My eye of faith already sees them growing up the verandah and causing even the Others to say pretty things to me. During the autumn and winter, as little cuttings they will pass their time making root in my frame. Yellow daisies and white, in wooden boxes, were to join them there; and, in order to be really forward with some things, a good supply of antirrhinum and lobelia cuttings. Naturally they will be more forward and stronger than the seedlings of February, but I have to face the question of room.
T

There comes a time of lull in the life of a garden when, if only the watering be seen to, it is possible for even the head gardener to take a holiday. In August what has been done is done[Pg 182] and cannot be altered; and what left undone must remain so. It is too late now, and the hope of "next year" is turned to eagerly, for "next year" is the only remedy left.

I had been driven to "next year" quite early in the day, for all my plants would be more established, and therefore I trusted more lavish with bloom in their second year with me. They had done their best, I doubted not, and to my eye the promise of growth at the roots began to give as much satisfaction as the few blooms sent, almost tentatively, up into their new surroundings. Ah! for the time when the blue delphinium should be a massive background for the white lilies, and these shine against a thick clump of red valerian; and then the eye should catch the brilliant yellow of the tiger-lily and feel cool in the clear purple of the Indian-pea. And then this scheme should repeat itself, diversified with the stately hollyhock and flaring sunflower, or the feathers of the spir?a, which should rival it in height. More forward in the border should[Pg 183] glow the warm-scented sweet-Williams and the bright-headed phlox; the pure white campanula should nod its bells, and the quaint Turk's head hold its own stiffly. Gaillardias and gladiolas, ixias and montbresias should strike a strong-coloured note, and clumps of Canterbury-bells, stocks, zinnias, penstemons, marigolds and scabious should each in turn—and some take a good long turn—bring their share of brightness; and the flowers of the past, the irises, the bleeding heart, the columbines, the bright scarlet geum, the yellow doronicum, should be marked by a patch of green that by diligent growing gave hope of more beauty for the future. In this bright future I was apt to wander and to lose sight of the rather meagre present. But that needs must be one of the consolations of a garden.

And so, hoping all things for my garden, I went to pay visits to other people's gardens.

One grand garden filled me with anything but envy. It was so terribly trim, such rows of variegated geraniums, big calceolarias,[Pg 184] featherfew and lobelia. I determined never to treat any bed or border to edgings; to mass even lobelia together and only break it with taller plants, such as geraniums, of the pure good colours quite possible I found, or salvias or fuchsias. Here was line after line, pattern after pattern; surely they were the "goodly sights" Bacon had seen in tarts!

Grand beds of coleus and begonias there were, but these were beyond me, savouring too much of the greenhouse, and all the flowers in the rooms spoke of gardeners and hot-houses.

"I don't think my gardener cares much for herbaceous things," said my hostess. "What flowers do live out of doors? in this climate, I mean."

And I found out that a greenhouse gardener very seldom does care for herbaceous things.

But another smaller garden made me envious. How the plants grew in that blessed soil, with a little river meandering through. No difficulty about water, and[Pg 185] that was half the difficulty of flower cultivation overcome.

I knew at once that all I wanted for perfect contentment was one small stream and one small conservatory, then things should march; but I suppose even that highly-blessed woman had a "but" in her lot.

Gardeners are so good to one another. I long for the day when I too shall say, "Oh, I will send you some of that, wait until the autumn," and "You care for this? I can spare some." They must feel they are really doing so much good in the world.

It was a proud moment when one said, "If you have Canterbury-bells to spare, send me some; mine have failed me, they are wretched specimens, and will never do any good."

And mine were sturdy; I knew that.

Old Lovell was another of my customers. He was to have some sweet-Williams and some foxgloves, and I was to have two clumps of Turk's head in exchange, and some of the many young plants surrounding his big clump of that June joy, rosy red valerian.[Pg 186] From my other friends I had promises of many good things; the small perennial sunflower, soleil d'or, some nice Michaelmas daisies, the useful pink and white Japanese anemone, a yellow lupin and some of the white variety. More delphiniums, too, I accepted with thankfulness, and I felt my garden growing and growing as the kind promises flowed in.
S

So back to my own garden with eyes terribly open to its deficiencies, "a poor thing, but mine own," at least, "mine own" for a time, and certainly "mine own" to improve; therefore the deficiencies were not to appal me, though they were still the most striking feature of my garden. The yellow beds still flared, the antirrhinums still marched, and, perhaps most consoling of all, the little plants for next year, and those for always, were well and thriving. The summer had not passed in[Pg 187] vain as far as they were concerned. No, nor passed in vain even where it only chronicled failures, for Ignoramuses must take their share of these too, as a necessary part of their education; and how the spring and summer had opened my eyes!

The red ash berries strewed the ground; the birds saw to that, finding pleasure in breaking them off with a knowing jerk of the head and not a bit from hunger; the convolvulus, nasturtium and canariensis were flinging themselves in wild confusion; there was a kind of riot even among the flowers and weeds in the long border. A few roses, especially the good old "Gloire," were giving a little after-show, but a touch of finality had come to my garden, and when a hush passed over it, broken only by an early falling leaf, I knew autumn had come, and I scarcely paused to say good-bye to my first summer's gardening, so eager was I for all that autumn meant in the way of work for the future.