CHAPTER I.

THE FLOWER-GARDEN--ITS ROMANCE AND REALITY.

“There’s not a flower can grow upon the earth Without a flower upon the spiritual side; All that we see is pattern of what shall be in the mount, Related royally, and built up to eterne significance. There’s nothing small; No lily, muffled hum of summer bee, But finds its coupling in the spinning stars; No pebble at your feet but proves a sphere; No chaffinch but implies a cherubim; Earth is full of heaven, And every common bush a-fire with God.”

A beautiful garden, tastefully laid out, and well kept, is a certain evidence of taste, refinement and culture. It makes a lowly cottage attractive, and lends a charm to the stateliest palace.

An English writer, lately visiting our country, writes:

“I can conceive of nothing more dreary than to live in the country and have no garden. To have no garden is to take the poetry, and nearly all the charms away from country life. To have a garden, is to have many friends continually near.

“What a difference between what Mr. Carlyle calls an ‘umbrageous man’s rest, in which a king might wish to sit and smoke, and call it his,’ with its roses, and honeysuckles, and fuchsias clambering in through the very windows in crowds, and the dreary, arid prospect around thousands of American houses!”

This hardly seems a fair criticism upon our homes. Having been an enthusiastic lover of flowers from childhood, and having cultivated them ever since the use of the hands was learned, I cannot recognize its truth;--have never known of many such houses, as he describes. Yet many American writers will declare that slender porticos, fanciful verandas, sculptured gables, and deep bay windows are often seen in this country, without a vestige of a flower or climbing vine about them; while in England, the poorest laborer’s cot is a bower of greenery; and his little plat of flowers, often vies with that of his employer.

It is not always wealth or art that gives to English homes their beauty and picturesqueness, but it is the attention of their inmates, to the cultivation of the “_Green things of the earth_.”

It is not the latticed casement nor the high gable that attracts the notice of the traveler, but the brilliant flowers and the trailing vines that drape and embower them.

American women live in-doors too much, and thus sacrifice their health and spirits. They cultivate neuralgia, dyspepsia, and all their attendant ills--rather than the beautiful and glorious flowers which God has scattered so abundantly all over the world.

This little pamphlet is written for the purpose of coaxing them to come out into the sunshine, and begging them to

“List to Nature’s teachings.”

A little garden, all one’s own, is a real Eden! Earth possesses no greater charm; and there is no cosmetic equal to the fresh, sweet morning air, and the cheerful sunshine.

You can make no investment which will give you such interest; health, happiness, and pure enjoyment will be the coin in which it is paid; and the returns are not made semi-annually, but daily.

With what intense delight one watches the first tiny leaves of the seeds one has planted; and what pleasure one takes in the unfolding of the first flower! A grand garden cared for by a gardener, can never give its possessor as much delight as one in which nearly all the work is done by one’s own hands.

To be sure, Pat O’Shovelem’s aid is needful to prepare the ground, lay out the beds, and harden the walks; but, gentler, smaller hands can plant the seeds and roots, can keep down the weeds, tie up, stake, train, water and prune.

I have little faith in American women becoming farmers,--holding the plow--wielding the spade or the shovel; but I do know from long experience, that all the rest of the work can be accomplished by women, if they possess a love for the beautiful. There lies the trouble; few of our children are taught to garden; if they possess a natural taste for the pursuit, sometimes it is gratified, but not always.

Mrs. Japonica and Miss McFlimsey hold up their hands in holy horror at the very idea of any of their kindred soiling their hands with the work.

“Flora work among her namesakes!” they exclaim; “forbid it all Japonicadom!”

Yet how much harder do they work at the crowded party or ball! To dance the “German,” requires quite as much physical strength as to plant a flower-garden, and rake off the weeds;--but that is the fashion, and beef tea and stimulants must be resorted to, to sustain the feeble knees, uplift the nerveless fingers. Women can find strength to cultivate a garden successfully, if they will commence by degrees. If their muscles and sinews are not accustomed to the work, they will soon rebel against it when forced to attend to it for several hours at once.

Garden by degrees, my friends, and cultivate your muscles, with your plants!

An hour, or even half an hour, is long enough for a commencement, and the next day extend the time ten minutes, and so on, until you can work for three, or even six hours in succession.

But take it easy; provide an old piece of carpeting to kneel upon while planting, or weeding with a fork; and if your knees are not accustomed to that position, humor them by placing an empty raisin or soap box upon the carpet, and sit upon that;--and if a cushion would also be agreeable, cover a small pillow with some dark chintz, and place that on the box. Now you will have a luxurious seat, and can garden without a sense of pain; yet _don’t stay too long, nor become too much heated_. The carpeting protects the skirts from the dampness of the soil, and should always be used. It can be kept conveniently at hand, with the box and the cushion.

Of course, flounces, puffs, and furbelows, with their accompanying upper skirts, are not suitable for such occupations. A dark chintz dress is the best, for it can go into the wash-tub when it is in need of cleansing. A woolen bathing dress makes an excellent garden costume--for skirts are always in the way. If it is admissible on the beach, where wealth and fashion do congregate, why not in the garden, surrounding one’s house?

A large shade hat, and a pair of old kid gloves are indispensable. Rubber gloves are often recommended, but are far too clumsy for the fingers.

Now, the dress is bespoken, and we must purchase the tools required. A large three-pronged iron fork, with a short handle, is needful for loosening the ground, removing plants and uprooting weeds. I should rather do without a trowel than such a fork. They can be purchased of all hardware dealers.

A small set of tools, comprising a rake and hoe on one handle, a trowel, and a spade, are very essential. With their aid much light work can be accomplished without calling upon Mr. O’Shovelem.

A watering pot, with a large nozzle, and a fine sprinkler, is also required.

With these implements, _every woman can be her own gardener_--and not only raise all the flowers she may desire, but also contribute a large share of the vegetables that are always welcomed at the table, during both summer and winter.

The cultivation of the soil possesses a wonderful fascination; its very odor, after a refreshing shower, is inspiring; and as you gather your flowers, you will also gather improvement in many ways.

“He made them all, and what He designs, can ne’er be deemed unworthy of our study, and our love.” If we see a pot of flowers in a window, it gives us respect for the inmates of the dwelling--but if we see a beauteous garden, “_A brilliant carpet of unnumbered dyes_,” we know that there is taste and refinement within that home.

On the European continent, women work in the fields with the men, and become beasts of burden. I hope never to see them thus, in this more favored land, but I do desire to have them take a daily interval from the labor and care of the house, and breathe into their hearts the oxygen and iron contained in the fresh air; taste the balm and the tonic of the sunlight and the garden.

Every day there is some work to be done, if the garden is well kept. There is no need of having a “_weeding-day_,” like a “_washing-day_,”--for the weeds can be kept down, daily. Every morning dig over one or two beds, according to their size,--and continue the work until all are cleaned up. Then commence again, and thus prevent the soil from becoming baked; and let the air and moisture enter the earth, and nourish the tender roots.

That is my way of gardening. After the beds are made, the walks prepared, no man’s hand or foot enters the sacred precinct, excepting to admire, and to receive the flowers.

In the early spring time a half hour may suffice to exhaust the little strength one possesses, but before October comes, with its autumnal glories, several hours can be passed in out-door work without much sense of fatigue.

All the delights of a garden are not comprised in gathering nosegays, and arranging bouquets, vases or festal garlands;--there is great enjoyment in watching the vegetating of the seeds; the developing of the tiny leaves, the forming of the minute buds--and then comes at last--

“The bright, consummate flower!”

Floriculture has been called the gem of all cultures. Its influence makes us more courteous, if not more intelligent; and what can we find in nature so emblematical of bloom, decay, and death?

It has been said that “as domestic floriculture and gardening has been the inclination of beings, and the choice of philosophers, so it has been the favorite of public and private men, a pleasure of the greatest, and the care of the meanest: and indeed an employment and a possession, for which no man is too high nor too low. Flowers are the relics of Eden’s bowers.”

And there is no pastime that can give as much pleasure, with so small an expenditure. Gray, the poet, and also a skillful naturalist, tells us that the enjoyment of life depends upon “having always something going forward;” and exclaims: “_Happy are they who can create a rose-tree, or erect a honeysuckle!_”

It is indeed this very “_having always something going forward_” that produces the enjoyment experienced by the amateur gardener; the glory and fragrance of the flowers forming the crowning gratification. There is a pride--a most pleasing pride--in culling a bouquet for a friend, from flowers raised by one’s own hand.

The creation of a beautiful object is certainly “_a great fact_,” of which any of us may be justly and honestly proud.

Few of us possess the talent to transfer and perpetuate on canvas, or in marble, the glorious hues and forms of nature, but the lowest and humblest can raise flowers which Solomon, in all his glory, could not have eclipsed!

Why does not everybody have a _Geranium_, a _Rose_, a _Fuchsia_, or some other flower in a window, if they do not own land enough to plant a garden? They are very cheap--next to nothing, if raised from a cutting, and of small price if purchased from the florist; and there is companionship in them, as well as grace and beauty.

Charming Leigh Hunt, whom I love to quote, says:

“Flowers sweeten the air, rejoice the eye, link you with nature and innocence, and are something to love. If they cannot love you in return, they cannot hate you; cannot utter hateful words even if neglected; for, though they are all beauty, they possess no vanity; and living, as they do, to do you good, and afford you pleasure, how can you neglect them!”

There are few dwellers in the country who are so destitute as not to be able to indulge in a love for flowers. The garden may be of the smallest size--a mere tiny circle--and it will often be loved the more for its smallness, and receive more care and attention.

It will not do to care for it a week, and then neglect it for two weeks. It demands constant care, daily attendance, waterings, and weedings.

Nothing destroys its beauty like the noxious weeds that will grow up, like Jonah’s gourd, if not constantly uprooted. The tenacity of their life is wonderful; uprooting will not always kill them, and they will mature their seeds, and prepare for another struggle with you in an ensuing summer, even when their roots lie withering in the sun. “What hidden virtue is in these things, that it is granted to sow themselves with the wind, and to grapple the earth with this unmitigable stubbornness, and to flourish in spite of obstacles, and never to suffer blight beneath any sun or shade, but always to mock their enemies, with the same wicked luxuriance?”

Thus enquires Hawthorne, while sturdily waging a warfare against them, in the garden of the “Old Manse,” at Concord, Mass., and no one can “make reply.” Animal manures, though very stimulating to vegetable life, are the sources whence many of the grassy weeds spring. Artificial manures do not introduce so many of these pests into the beds and borders, yet some of them are so highly charged with noxious exhalations that one dislikes to apply them.

Mineral fertilizers are not open to these objections, and I have found them preferable to others on that account.

Guano is always beneficial, if not applied in too large quantities. An iron spoonful of it dug into the ground two or three inches from the stems of the plants will increase their growth and beauty. A less quantity should be given to tender annuals, and small plants.

Liquid animal manures are also easily applied, and give to the plant an immediate stimulant. In pouring it on, avoid touching the leaves or the stems of the plants, but give the earth a copious supply of a weak solution. Guano applied in this manner is very beneficial. I have used all of these with decided success; and always feed my garden bountifully; and receive in return a bountiful supply of flowers and vegetables.

Plant with care and skill; water when needful; feed plenty of nourishment; keep clear from all weeds; tie, stake, prune and cultivate daily, and you will never regret the small investment required to commence and continue a garden; but will become more and more enamored with the occupation; and will yearly increase your stock, and multiply your labors, and will be ready to say with Thomson, the poet of nature:

“I care not, Fortune, what you me deny, You cannot rob me of free Nature’s grace; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns by living streams at eve: Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave; Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.”