Garden and forest [Volume 6, Issue 274]

Garden and Forest.

Garden Gossip. —May.
THE great annual spring transformation scene takes place
frequently in New England with astounding suddenness.
There is a tradition here that by the fifteenth of May vegetation is always at a certain point, whatever may have been the
laggard habit of the season, so that at times all things have to
hustle. When the British rode over to Concord after the Lexington fight, on the i9th of April, I775, the grain was wavingin
the fields, and the same phenomenon was visible at the same
date in the memorable year I865, which saw the close of the
Rebellion. Occasionally, since then, as in the year I882, there
have been similarly early springs, but they are not of ordinary
occurrence, and the Yankee farmer is usually compelled to
wait till May to see the ripple of his growing wheat or rye
under the breeze.
In an average year, when wind and frost keep the soil
chilled, the change from brown fields to green ones, and from
bare boughs to leafy shadow, is often wrought with magical
rapidity. It was the second week in May, this year, when, in a
twinkling, the east wind, which had been blowing for a month,
went out to sea, the storms ceased, the full sun blazed fiercely
in the heavens and coaxed the mercury up into the eighties;
the wet earth steamed, and twenty-four hours worked like enchantment. The Willows literally burst into bloom. One
morning saw them tipped with struggling buds, the next beheld them ablaze with yellow catkins, about which the bees
boomed loudly. A shower of white blossoms fell upon all
the Cherry-trees, the Forsythias flamed with gold, the Swamp
Maples flushed in the sunlight, and Tulips and Daffodils made
the garden gay with blossom.
Forth from the cold clod came the points of Day Lilies
and the leaves of the Shooting Star, while the Bee Balm
littered the ground with its fragrant shoots. English Daisies
and Pansies blossomed freely, leaves of Bluebells and Foxgloves and Larkspur made a brave show, and seedlings of
Columbine and Hollyhock vied with the precocious weeds for
precedence in the border. In a garden of perennials, therefore,
one does well not to meddle too early with the soil, for in it
are germinating all manner of little plants, which must attain
a certain height before the weeds can be singled out and
treated as they deserve.
A New England spring is so treacherous that the careful
gardener in these parts sets out-of-doors no house-plants until
Decoration Day, for the rural New Englander times his gardening by the public feasts and fasts. The suburban dweller
rakes his lawn first for Fast Day, and then plants his Peas; his
showy gardening is reserved for the 30th of May. He eats his
own strawberries, if he is lucky, on Bunker Hill Day, and his
green peas accompany his Independence salmon on the Fourth
of July. He among us who can cut his own asparagus on the
Ioth of May achieves true distinction, as does the gardener
who can show a dish of strawberries in perfection by the middle of June.
These early spring days are as busy as they are pleasant.
When the ground is dry enough the plow is brought to bear,
and the rich brown furrows are turned up to the sun. The
picturesqueness of the process has been revealed to us by
Troyon, who delights in the struggling horses, the active
figures of the plowmen and the splendid color of the fresh
earth. Whoso loves a garden takes pleasure in each stage of
its development, rejoicing even in the stiffness of its early
stages, when he waits for the appearance of the seed in its
straight rows or within its Box-edged borders. At all times its
grassy stretches, its shaded nooks, its clumps of shrubbery,
have their attraction, but never more than in the opening season, when each day brings a new visitor-a bud, an opening
flower, an unexpected shoot where one had given up hope of
resurrection. It is not so much the extent of a garden that
gives delight as the personal thought given to its arrangement
either for picturesqueness, for use, or for pure gorgeousness,
in which the untrained eye delights. In old gardens one reaps
the fruit of the care and thought of a past generation; in new
ones we labor for a result to come, but not until we put ourselves into it, whether wisely or unwisely, do we get the best
out of a plaisance.
Thosemoments one spends in eager labor are not more

valuable than the apparently idle ones, in which the mind
works and plans a future effect. There is ever a period of
brooding before the real idea is born. To imitate, to do by
rule, is easy; to hire trained skill is possible to the wealthy; to
reflect is possible to all; and who shall say that any realized
happiness of completion rivals the dreamy prospect of a charm
to come from the thoughtful study of to-day.
For a garden is never' completed, and has always within it

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self that capacity for change and development which alone satisfies the craving of the mind for novelty and exercise. If at
times we grow impatient with its slowness, again we are tried
by the luxuriance of its growth; and in the necessity for constant supervision we find the secret of its hold upon men's
minds. We readily abandon a completed labor, and that alone
which calls for untiring mental exercise retains its hold upon
our interest.
In May it is a pleasure to transplant, for everything lives.
People are afraid to move things, but they really bear change
much better than the inexperienced fear. I find that if a plant
does not thrive in one locality it is well to remove it to another
for a season till it gets vigor enough to go back to where you
want it. Wild flowers seem to do better if moved when in
blossom, and by a little attention even Poppies, which particularly hate being moved about, can be persuaded to take root
in a new place. Choose the intervals between showers on a
wet day, take them up in clumps with a ball of earth, and most
of them will go on growing without flinching.
While a shrubbery is developing, there are many bare spaces,
and I have a fancy for scattering in those which show from the
window the seeds of Poppies and other gayly colored flowers
which veil in midsummer the raggedness of the surface. Possibly it is not the best art, but there are moments when the
amateur gardener of limited resources is obliged to compromise with conscience. For my own part, the flaunting blossoms seem a pleasant contrast with the dark little evergreens
and struggling shrubs which one day are to be classically correct in mass and an effective screen, but they are pretty
leisurely in their growth, and the soil is not deep and rich
enough to admit of crowding them closely together, so, with
due attention to the proper colors, I prefer to believe that the
flowers are permissible among them.
Under the parlor-windows, in a sheltered corner, some Tulips have been rejoicing our hearts with their clear rich colors
for weeks. The ground between them and the house is carpeted with Periwinkle, and the blue blossoms and glossy leaves
compose an agreeable background to their more showy neighbors. It is well to put the early flowers where they can be enjoyed
without stirring out-of-doors to see them, for the searching
winds of April render a visit to the garden often uncomfortable, if it be far removed from the house.
The warm days have tempted forth the leaflets of the Virginia Creeper, and the Akebia, most satisfactory of climbers,
has arrayed itself in its delicate and becoming leaves, and
already its little chocolate buds are visible. There is a Japanese
refinement about this charming vine, with its well-shaped leaf,
its sad-colored blossom, its gentle fragrance, its persistent
growth; for, tender as it looks, it flourishes in the most exposed
situations, and without an effort finds its way to the housetop.
Its compatriot, the Japanese Honeysuckle, shows a touch of
green all winter long, where the winds are not too keen, and
its disposition to run over the ground links the house to the
turf in very pleasing fashion. The dwarf Evergreens are looking their prettiest, sending out little tufts of yellow or blue
from every branch and preparing vigorously for that feathery
growth which will soon be so beautiful.
Over the distant woodlands is creeping a soft green cloud,
which begins to hide the gray or reddish outlines of the trees;
the Oaks and Maples are awakening, and the air is full of the
warbling of arriving birds. White buds show upon the Peartrees, and down the meadow all the brown grass is streaked
with green. Against the blue water of its winding stream the
yellow of the Willow-blossoms is apparent, and in moist spots
Ferns are uncurling. No longer we await the May, for with
her lovely smile of promise she is here.
Hingham, MIass. M. C. Robbins.
Notes of MAexican Travel.- IV.
AROUND TOLUCA.
PLEASANT are my memories of the summer weeks of I892
spent about Toluca, exploring the flora of the valley prairies, of the mountain-forests and of the summit of the great
volcano. Coming from the region of San Luis Potosi, which
all the season lay dry and dormant under the white glare of a

pitiless sky, away from the view of bare and rugged hills beyond
wide stretches of plain-hills richly colored with tints of gray
and brown and purple, but a region of death to the starving
brutes which ranged over them in a. vain quest for food-coming through the fertile valley of the Lerma, with its miles on
miles of corn-fields, coming up onto the high prairies in the
north-western part of the state of Mexico, rolling prairies and
gently sloping glades, covered with a fine, dense pasturage

MAY 24, 1893.]