W hen , by an unlooked-for sequence of events, I became manager of "The Garden with House Attached" (as an important preliminary) along with "The Third Son" [1] I went over from Cambridge to take account of its possibilities. And here be it stated that from the time of his first trousers "The Third Son" had been my assistant gardener; and in all my horticultural enterprises, might still be counted in as "aider and abettor." "Mother," said this astute young person—on our return from this inspecti

A s before our advent at the "Mansion House" the man-of-all-work—after a long administration of its out-door affairs in the soft service of an easily-gratified mistress (the dear "Lady of the Wheeled Chair") had been abstracted from the family circle, the first step in our gardening was to call in the local "Man with the Hoe." This useful personage (let it here be said) was not—like Mr. Markham's terrible hero—"Brother to the ox." His "jaw" and "forehead" were all right, and, owing to the use of

M eantime , the dear "Lady" (who had anticipated our coming to the Mansion House, by a sudden resolve to commit her burden of housekeeping to younger and abler hands—and retain of her old establishment but a single personal attendant—as faithful friend, companion, and amanuensis) wheeled into the very thick of action—had watched with anxious eyes this removal of ancient landmarks—this general upheaval of things. An almost helpless invalid—wheeled daily through eight patient summers into her belo

A part from that æsthetic satisfaction which house plants afford, the principle of growth, which they exemplify, has its own strong and almost universal attraction. Thus it is that we behold in dust-blurred windows of squalid tenements rows of dented tomato cans, desolately holding their stunted geraniums, fuchsias, and other feeble bits of greenery. Such half-pathetic attempts at floriculture are, indeed, "touches of nature" that "make us kin" to the forlorn inmates of these shabby, ill-conditi

A pril was two weeks old. Already Passion-week had come. Easter-time would soon begin. Crocuses dotted the short new grass on the lawn. Mated robins chose nesting places in the old orchard, and the big cherry tree had put on its crown of snow-tipped buds. On that cheery spring morning—wheeled out for her daily airing—"The Lady" looked expectantly at the bulbs' circles, where the newly uncovered hyacinths and tulips—pushing vigorously up for the sun's warm kisses—already showed bud and leaf of pa

T hat strain in the New England make-up which manifests itself in "taking care of things" ran in the blood of the dear Lady. Her provident forbears—intent upon "getting the best" of any burglar bent upon the acquisition of the family silver—had protected many of the first floor windows with prison-like bars of iron. Later on, when the "Conservatory," with its long southern exposure of glass, had been added to the Mansion, there arose the necessity of some invincible protection of that quarter fr

T o 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 u

H ard by the Lover's walk, in an old-time bed, a blue Flower-de-luce, some roots of white and purple Phlox, a bunch or two of "Leaf-for-ever," and another of scented yellow Lilies, had long stoutly held their own. Here, every spring-time, the Lady caused to be planted her Dahlia bulbs—by no means the choicest of their kind, but taking amicably to the situation, and every autumn generously contributing their scarlet, lavender, and purple bloom to the color scheme of the big bowpots that adorned t

T he Rose is no mushroom Queen. Her ancestry dates away back to the Garden of Eden, and if Eve did not there gather a rosebud boutonniere for Adam, it was because that primitive young man had not a buttonhole "to his name." The Rose of all flowers has been most praised by poets. From Isaiah's day to our own they have celebrated its charms. In English history it figured as the badge in the feuds between the houses of York and Lancaster. Among the ancients the Rose was the symbol of secrecy, and w

T he Salvias, grouped in the perennial border, make a fine color show. Coming when the earlier brightness of the season has passed, their scarlet clumps last from late August to the time of frost. Raised from seed their flowering season is briefer, and, as the plants are comparatively inexpensive, it is well to get their full worth by setting out well-grown Salvia plants in early June. The Gladiolus is another effective flower, and should find place in the perennial borders. Plant bulbs about th

A well-ordered garden is, in a measure, dependent upon the annuals, coming in bloom (as they do) after most of the perennials have had their short summer hour. As February days lengthen the seedsman's catalogues come pouring in. Turning a resolute back on the allurements and temptations of "Prize Collections" I find it safer to pin my hopes to some well-tried seedsman, and selecting in accordance with experience and the length of my purse, send in an early order. Time was when I anticipated the

T he originator of the "Mansion House" was compelled to obey literally the scripture injunction and "build upon a rock." A substratum of that safe "foundation" lay directly beneath the site chosen for his home and must have been hewn or exploded out previous to the placing of its corner stone. Consequently within a good foot or more of the house there is found but a thin layer of soil, where climbers may not obtain a foothold. I had formerly great success with perennial vines and creepers, among

T he poorest of us have our "castles in Spain." Why not have our gardens ? Such a garden I have "in my mind's eye," but before I make bold to describe this airy creation (which, for lack of leisure and "hard cash," is doomed never to materialize) let me explain that my garden in Spain is not purely ornamental; that its beds and walks, although tastefully laid out, are strictly devoted to "the useful," to culinary and medicinal ends. In earlier times our Materia Medica (including though it did th

I find it good to think of plants as mysterious fellow-existences, about which the half is not yet known—to speculate on their psychological properties—on what has been called "The cerebral processes of plants." Darwin has thus expressed himself on this interesting question: "It has," he says, "always pleased me to exalt plants in the scale of organized beings, and I therefore felt especial pleasure in showing how many and what admirably well-adapted movements the tip of a root possesses.... It

I t seems but yesterday that the punctual year brought back her Daffodils—that Hyacinth and Tulip pushed up green shoots for the spring sunshine—and now the Syringa bushes are white with bloom. In one short week midsummer will have come, that beautiful holiday of the summer solstice, whose festal observance is, in England, of great antiquity. The old practice of lighting bonfires in London and in other towns (and even in villages) is probably a remnant of the pagan rites once observed on that da