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 ©ANY ORIGINAL I^OEMS 
 
 SUGGESTED AND ARRANGED BY 
 
 KATE SANBORN : 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 WALTER SATTERLE: 
 
 "Give me whe good old wee^-day blossoms 
 
 I USED mo SEE SO LONG AGO, 
 &3I11H HEALTHY SWEETNESS IH JBHEII^ BOSOMS, 
 FJEADY AND GLAD TO BUD AN' BLOW." 
 
 BOSTON 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY 
 
 1883 
 
 i- 
 

 
 
 
 Copyright, 1882, by Kate Sanborn. 
 
 Exchange 
 •Western Ont. Univ. Library 
 
 APR 1 7 1940 
 
 jFranfcltn $re0s: 
 
 RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 
 BOSTON. 
 
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 ©ON TENTS. 
 
 i~y- 
 
 fAGE 
 
 'IE OLD GARDEN. Rose Teery Cooke .... 5 
 
 BOUR LADY-OF-THE-LILIES. Lucy Laecom 
 
 THE GARDEN OF "AULD LANG SYNE." Maey D. 
 
 Brine 11 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOMS. Edna Dean Peoctoe 14 
 
 OUR GREAT-GRANDMOTHER'S ADIEU TO HER GARDEN. Milton. 15 
 
 AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. Julia C. R. Doee . . . . 16 
 
 MY GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. Hezekiah Butteewoeth . . 19 
 AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN OF OLD-FASHIONED FLOWERS. 
 
 Mary Russell Mitfobd 22 
 
 A SOUTHERN GARDEN. Marion Habland 24 
 
 THE GARDENS OF THE PURITAN GRANDMOTHER. Sarah Oene 
 
 Jewett 25 
 
 CORISANDE'S GARDEN. "London Society" 26 
 
 HANNAH'S FLOWERS. "E. H. Arr" (Mrs. Ellen H. Rollins) . 28" 
 
 DANIEL WEBSTER'S MOTHER'S GARDEN. Petee Harvey . . 29 
 
 3 
 
 _^MB 
 
 — 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO THE SIMPLE NAMES OF OLD-FASHIONED 
 
 FLOWERS 30 
 
 FOUR-O' CLOCKS. II. E. Sanford 31 
 
 A VISIT TO MISS MITFORD. Catherine M. Sedgwick ... 32 
 
 AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN IN AUTUMN. H. B. Stowe . 32 
 
 ON GARDENS. Francis Bacon 33 
 
 I LOVE A GARDEN. Thomas Hood ....... 34 
 
 THE FOOR MAN'S GARDEN. Maky Howitt 35 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. Charles F. Gerry .... 38 
 
HE 
 
 LD 
 
 ARDEN. 
 
 T'S well enough: looks kinder knowin', 
 
 Them red and yeller leaves and things 
 They make a mortal sight o' showin', 
 Some like a bird that never sings. 
 
 But birds to sing, and blows for smellin', 
 Was what we had when I was young: 
 
 A patchwork quilt is jist as tellin' 
 
 As them things on the grassplot flung. 
 
 You'd ought to seen my granny's gardin, 
 With pinks as sweet as any spice, 
 
 And posy-beds she worked so hard in 
 
 To keep 'em square and clean and nice. 
 
 Tulips — my land! their bright cups holdin' 
 Right up to catch the sun and dew, 
 
 Purple and white and brown an' golden, 
 And red with sunshine streamin' through. 
 
GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 
 
 And Canterbury-bells a-swingin', 
 
 Dim blue like bits of April sky, 
 
 And dancin' columbines a-ringin' 
 For every bee an' butterfly. 
 
 Crocus an' hyacinths an' daffy, 
 
 Yeller as dandelines to see, 
 A-lookin' at ye kinder laughy, 
 
 As though to say, " Why, here we be ! " 
 
 And white narcissus, straight and slender, 
 With rings of red fire in their snow ; 
 
 And little snowflakes, just as tender 
 
 As things that in a greenhouse blow. 
 
 And roses — my! that tall old white one, 
 Milk with the sunrise in the cup, 
 
 And some most red enough to fright one, 
 And pink, like sea-shells curling up. 
 
 Roses don't smell like them no longer, 
 
 There's smoke an' bone-dust in 'em now 
 
 Mabbe the bushes do grow stronger, 
 
 But I'd as lieves they'd smell as grow. 
 
 And lilies — well, they was too splendid, 
 All dazzlin' white, an' gold inside, 
 
 Jest as though Natur had intended 
 To make a blossom for a bride. 
 
THE OLD GARDEN. 
 
 Oh, yes ! I know your Ji^p-pan lilies, 
 As big as p'inies, and as proud: 
 
 They smell — oh my ! — and amaryllis, 
 No smell at all, — a pretty crowd ! 
 
 Give me the old Dutch honeysuckle 
 
 A-makin' even the night-time sweet, 
 
 A-blossomin' at every knuckle, 
 
 And hangin' to your very feet. 
 
 And pink and buff and white carnations, 
 And rosebuds snuggled up in moss, 
 
 Heart's-ease and vi'lets, dear relations, 
 
 And gay snapdragons, bright and cross. 
 
 Give me the good old week-day blossoms 
 
 I used to see so long ago, 
 With hearty sweetness in their bosoms, 
 
 Ready and glad to bud an blow. 
 
 Well, well, I know them days is over, 
 
 And I have lost my clear young eyes ; 
 
 But can't I still smell pinks and clover? 
 I tell you some things never dies ! 
 
 Rose Tejrby Cooke. 
 
GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 
 
 OUR LADY-OF-THE-LILIES. 
 
 UR Lady-of-the-lilies, 
 The valley-lilies fair ! 
 Her brow was pure as any babe's, 
 And silvery white her hair. 
 
 The snows of ninety winters 
 
 Had fallen upon her head : 
 
 Within her clear, benignant eyes, 
 A history sweet you read. 
 
 She walked among the flowers 
 
 That her own hands had sown: 
 
 With lilies-of-the-valley white 
 Her paths were overgrown. 
 
 Through the old grassy garden, 
 Year after year they stole : 
 
 Their fragrance seemed the very breath 
 Of our dear Lady's soul. 
 
 She gave away her lilies 
 
 Freely as wild birds sing: 
 
 They bore to sick and lonely ones 
 The first glad hint of spring. 
 
O Uli LAD Y-OF- THE-LILIES. 
 
 ) 
 
 Our Lady-of-the-lilies 
 
 Loved other blossoms too : 
 She was our Sweet-Pea Grandmamma,— 
 
 The dearest flower she knew. 
 
 With early heats of summer 
 
 Came forth the sweet-pea's blush, 
 
 Pink as the soft tint of her cheek, 
 Or sunset's last, faint flush. 
 
 And, clipping bud and tendril 
 In morning's dewiest hours, 
 
 Her thoughts on lovely errands ran, — 
 "Now who shall have my flowers'? 
 
 Surely her love was in them, 
 Like sun and dew and air; 
 
 For sweet-peas wonderful as hers 
 Blossomed not anywhere. 
 
 They crowded through the fence-rail, 
 They sprang to meet her touch, 
 
 All winged and waiting for a flight: 
 Where shall we now find such'? 
 
 And oh ! what fairer blossoms 
 Can grow around her feet 
 
 In that new garden where she walks 
 Within heaven's climate sweet? 
 
GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 
 
 I think they must have brought her 
 The dear old-fashioned flowers, 
 
 Before her heart felt quite at home 
 Even in the angels' bowers. 
 
 " Our Lady-of-the-lilies," 
 
 Even there her name may be ; 
 
 While here fond memories cling to her 
 
 As Grandmamma Sweet-Pea. 
 
 Lucy Laecom. 
 
 COUNTRY PLEASURES. 
 
 IE are too apt to judge of flowers, as we do 
 of men, by their great names, or by some 
 exterior and vulgar quality ; or we like them 
 m because they are the fashion, and not by virtue 
 of their own intrinsic sweetness and beauty. I have no 
 wish to depreciate the splendid and ingenious productions 
 of the modern florist, or to deny that a trim garden is a 
 source of pleasure to me ; but I like the old-fashioned 
 flowers best. In the old English flower-bed, where only 
 perennials with an ancient ancestry are allowed to grow, 
 there is always delight ; and I should be sorry to 
 exchange its sweet flowers for any number of cartloads 
 of scentless bedding-plants mechanically arranged and 
 ribbon-bordered. 
 
 Geoege Milnee. 
 
 10 
 
THE GARDEN OF "AULD LANG SYNE." 
 
 THE GARDEN OF "AULD LANG SYNE." 
 
 H, far, far back, adown the years that stretch 
 between the then and now, 
 My memory turns, and I forget the lines of 
 care upon my brow, 
 And feel myself a child again in grandma's garden, 
 
 hard at play, — 
 That quaint old place where dwelt the lights and 
 shadows of the summer's day. 
 
 I close my eyes, and seem to hear the drowsy hum of 
 
 busy bees, 
 And catch the lullaby of winds soft singing through the 
 
 maple-trees, 
 And, bordering the gravelled walk, by memory's aid I 
 
 see once more 
 The dear old flowers grandma loved and tended in those 
 
 days of yore. 
 
 The stately hollyhocks, which grew beside the lilies white 
 
 and tall ; 
 The wondrous sunflowers in a row beside the broken 
 
 garden-wall ; 
 
 n 
 
GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 
 
 The plump white snowballs rising from a nest of ribbon- 
 grass around ; 
 
 The flaunting tulips standing guard so boldly o'er their 
 bit of ground ; 
 
 The fragrant pinks, which mingled breath with the sweet- 
 marjoram and thyme, 
 
 And watched their enterprising friends, the morning- 
 glories, climb and climb, 
 
 Until they towered o'er the porch where grandmother 
 was wont to sit, 
 
 To watch the t humming-birds, and on her blue yarn 
 stocking calmly knit ; 
 
 And oh the box ! that grew so green and sturdily beside 
 
 the walk ; 
 The mint that grandma loved ; the fennel growing high 
 
 upon its stalk ; 
 The " ragged-sailors " my young hands were fond of 
 
 pulling all apart ; 
 " Sweet-Williams," and the " four-o'clocks," — oh, lovingly 
 
 within my heart 
 
 I hold the memory of them all, and seem again to breathe 
 
 the air 
 Of that old garden ; nor can modern hothouse perfume, 
 
 rich or rare, 
 
 12 
 
 I 
 
THE GARDEN OF "AULD LANG SYNE." 
 
 Make me long less once more to see the dear old friends 
 
 of "Auld lang syne," 
 When life itself a garden seemed, and care touched not 
 
 this heart of mine. 
 
 Oh precious hours" of memory when backward I can turn 
 
 my gaze, 
 And make myself a child again, happy in childhood's 
 
 careless days ! 
 Full many a joy returns to me, full many a vision 
 
 bright ; but oh 
 
 There's none so dear to me as grandma's garden in the 
 
 long-ago. 
 
 Mart D. Brine. 
 
 
 1^ 
 
 
 ) 
 
GRANDMAS GARDEN. 
 
 CHERRY-BLOSSOMS. 
 
 ENT was dreary and late that year ; 
 April to May was going ; 
 But the loitering moon refused to round, 
 And the wild south-east was blowing. 
 
 Day by day, from my window high, 
 I watched — a lonely warder — 
 
 For a building bird in the garden-trees, 
 Or a flower in the sheltered border. 
 
 But I only heard the chilly rain 
 
 On the roof of my chamber beating ; 
 
 Or the wild sea-wind to the tossing boughs 
 Its wail of wreck repeating ; 
 
 And said, " Ah me ! 'tis a weary world 
 
 This cheerless April weather: 
 The beautiful things will droop and die, — 
 
 Blossom and bird together." 
 
 At last the storm was spent. I slept, 
 Lulled by the tired wind's sighing, 
 
 To wake at morn, with the sunshine full 
 On floor and garden lying ; — 
 
 And lo ! the hyacinth-buds were blown ; 
 A robin was softly singing ; 
 
 14 
 
OUR GREAT-GRANDMOTHER'S ADIEU TO HER GARDEN. 
 
 The cherry-blooms by the wall were white ; 
 And the Easter bells were ringing ! 
 
 It was long ago ; but the memory lives ; 
 
 And in all life's Lenten sorrows, — 
 When tempests of grief and trouble beat, 
 
 And I dread the dark to-morrows, — 
 
 I think of the garden after the rain ; 
 
 And hope to my heart comes singing, 
 " At morn the cherry-blooms will be white, 
 
 And the Easter bells be ringing." 
 
 Edna Dean Pkoctoe. 
 
 OUR GREAT-GRANDMOTHER'S ADIEU TO HER GARDEN. 
 
 O FLOWERS, 
 
 That never will in other climate grow, 
 
 My early visitation, and my last 
 
 At even, which I bred up with tender hand 
 
 From the first opening bud, and gave ye names ! 
 
 Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank 
 
 Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount] 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book XL 
 
GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 
 
 AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 
 
 N old-fashioned garden? Yes, my dear, 
 No donbt it is. I was thinking here 
 Only to-day, as I sat in the sun, 
 How fair was the scene I looked upon, 
 
 Yet wondered still, with a vague surprise, 
 
 How it might look to other eyes. 
 
 Tis a wide old garden. Not a bed 
 
 Cut here and there in the turf; instead, 
 
 The broad straight paths run east and west, 
 
 Down which two horsemen could ride abreast, 
 
 And north and south with an equal state, 
 
 From the gray stone wall to the low white gate. 
 
 And, where they cross on the middle line, 
 
 Virgin's-bower and wild woodbine 
 
 Clamber and climb at their own sweet will 
 
 Over the latticed arbor still ; 
 
 Though, since they were planted, years have flown, 
 
 And many a time have the roses blown. 
 
 To the right the hill runs down to the river, 
 Where the willows droop, and the aspens shiver; 
 
 16 
 
AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 
 
 And under the shade of the hemlock-trees 
 The low ferns nod to the passing breeze ; 
 There wild flowers blossom, and mosses creep, 
 With a tangle of vines o'er the wooded steep. 
 
 So quiet it is, so cool and still, 
 
 In the green retreat of the shady hill ! 
 
 And you scarce can tell, as you look within, 
 
 Where the garden ends, and the woods begin ; 
 
 But here, where we stand, what a blaze of light, 
 
 What a wealth of color, makes glad the sight ! 
 
 Red roses burn in the morning glow; 
 White roses proffer their cups of snow; 
 In scarlet and crimson, and cloth-of-gold, 
 The zinnias flaunt and the marigold ; 
 And stately and tall the lilies stand, 
 Like vestal virgins, on either hand. 
 
 Here gay sweet-peas, like butterflies, 
 Flutter and dance under summer skies ; 
 Blue violets here in the shade are set, 
 With a border of fragrant mignonette ; 
 And here are pansies and columbine, 
 And the burning stars of the cypress-vine. 
 
 Stately hollyhocks, row on row, 
 Golden sunflowers all aglow, 
 
OR AND MA'S GARDEN. 
 
 Scarlet poppies, and larkspurs blue, 
 Asters of every shade and hue ; 
 And over the wall, like a trail of fire, 
 The red nasturtium climbs high and higher. 
 
 My lady's-slippers are fair to see, 
 
 And her pinks are as sweet as sweet can be, 
 
 With gillyflowers and mourning-brides, 
 
 And many another flower besides. 
 
 Do you see that rose without a thorn'? 
 
 It was planted the year my Hal was born. 
 
 And he is a man now. Yes, my dear, 
 An old-fashioned garden. But, sitting here, 
 I think how often lover and maid 
 Down these long flowery paths have strayed, 
 And how little feet have over them run 
 That will stir no more in shade or sun. 
 
 As one who reads from an open book, 
 On these fair luminous scrolls I look ; 
 And all the story of life is there, — 
 Its loves and losses, hope and despair. 
 An old-fashioned garden — but to my eyes 
 Fair as the hills of paradise. 
 
 Julia C. K. Dorr. 
 
MY GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. 
 
 MY GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. 
 
 Y grandmother's garden ! how well I remember 
 That spot that delighted my eyes when a boy ! 
 From the balm-breathing June to the mellowed 
 September 
 I hailed its fresh blossoms each morning with joy. 
 
 In fancy I see it when eve dark and chilly, 
 O'ercasting the city, forbids me to roam : 
 
 In memory blossoms the rose and the lily 
 
 When solitude freshens the pictures of home. 
 
 I seem on the garden-gate swinging and singing, 
 Or on the bars leaning in summer eves long ; 
 
 And, waiting my father his team homeward bringing, 
 I list once again to the whippoorwill's song. 
 
 1 remember the porch where the woodbine in clusters 
 Of billowy green o'er the white roses hung ; 
 
 The swallows, whose purple and emerald lustres 
 
 Shot swift through the air where the orioles sung. 
 
 O'er the old mossy wall, in the mellow airs blowing, 
 The lilacs made fragrant the evenings of May ; 
 
 19 
 
GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 
 
 And close by the door where the house-leeks were 
 growing, 
 My grandmother's garden, my pleasure-ground, lay. 
 
 A-near was the orchard, the moss to it clinging, 
 
 The home of the birds and the banquet of bees : 
 
 There oft, when the Whitsuntide church-bells were 
 ringing, 
 Like hills of red roses trees flamed over trees. 
 
 My grandmother's garden with green box was bor- 
 dered ; 
 There bloomed the blue myrtles, the first flowers 
 of spring ; 
 There the peony's leaves seemed with pansies embroi- 
 dered ; 
 And hands of the fairies the bluebells to swing. 
 
 The balm-bed was there ; the sweets from its flowers 
 The humming-birds, gemming the air, came to draw : 
 
 And peeped from the woodbine and jessamine bowers 
 The hives of the honey-bees golden with straw. / 
 
 There oft, with her hymn-book, my grandmother wan- 
 dered, 
 Then seated herself in the arbor alone, 
 And read the old hymns, and on holy themes pon- 
 dered, 
 While long on the hilltops the western light shone. 
 
 20 
 
MY GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. 
 
 They are gone, all are gone, whom that garden once 
 gladdened : 
 No more shall I see them, — the young or the old : 
 Nor my grandmother's face with long memories sad- 
 dened ; 
 Her crown of bright silver is changed into gold. 
 
 Dimmer light have the springs and the summers that 
 follow ; 
 
 The charm of the roses is not now as then ; 
 In duller-gold skies flits the purple-winged swallow: 
 
 My heart ne'er will feel its old freshness again. 
 
 > The joys youth expected were lost in the winning ; 
 
 The distance enchanting from death's door is gone ; 
 And life a lost thread, like the firefly's, is spinning: 
 I am lonely at night, and am weary at morn. 
 
 But oft, with emotion that time doth not harden, 
 I turn to my old home, its lessons recall ; 
 
 And the brightest of scenes is my grandmother's garden, 
 Its pansies of spring, and its asters of fall. 
 
 And wherever I roam, in whatever bright harbor 
 The anchor may drop, I remember with joy 
 
 The prayers that in summer-time rose from the arbor 
 In that blooming garden when I was a boy. 
 
 Hezekiah Buttekworth. 
 
 21 
 
GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 
 
 AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN OF OLD-FASHIONED 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 EN having said that half the parish had 
 mounted on a hay-rick close by to look at 
 my garden, which lies beneath it (an acre of 
 flowers rich in color as a painter's palette), 
 I could not resist the sight of the ladder, and one evening, 
 when all the men were away, climbed up to take myself 
 a view of my flowery domain. I wish you could see it ! 
 — masses of the Siberian larkspur and Sweet-Williams 
 (mostly double) ; the still brighter new larkspur, rich as 
 an Oriental butterfly — such a size and such a blue ! — 
 amongst roses in millions, with the blue and white Can- 
 terbury-bells (also double), and the white foxglove, and 
 the variegated monkshood; the carmine pea in its stal- 
 wart beauty ; the nemophila, like the sky above its head ; 
 the new erysinum, with its gay orange tufts ; hundreds 
 of lesser annuals ; and fuchsias, zinnias, salvias, geraniums, 
 past computation. So bright are the flowers, that the 
 green really does not predominate amongst them. 
 
 To Miss Baekett. 
 
 Three-Mile Cross, June 20, 1S42. 
 
 My dear Love, — I write to say that on Saturday next 
 we shall send you some flowers. Oh, how I wish we 
 could transport you into the garden where they grow! 
 
 22 
 
AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 
 
 You would like it, it is so pretty. One side, a hedge 
 of hawthorn, with giant trees rising above it beyond the 
 hedge, whilst all down within the garden are clumps of 
 matchless hollyhocks and splendid dahlias ; the top of 
 the garden being shut in by the old irregular cottage, 
 with its dark brick-work covered with vines and roses, 
 and its picturesque chimneys mingling with the bay-tree, 
 again rising into its bright and shining cone, and two old 
 pear-trees festooned with honeysuckle ; the bottom of the 
 garden and the remaining side consisting of lower hedge- 
 rows melting into wooded uplands, dotted with white 
 cottages, and patches of common. Nothing can well be 
 imagined more beautitul than this little bit of ground is now. 
 Huge masses of lupines (say fifty or sixty spiral spikes), 
 some white, some lilac ; immense clumps of the enam- 
 elled Siberian larkspur, glittering like some enormous 
 Chinese jar ; the white-and-azure blossoms of the varie- 
 gated monkshood ; flags of all colors ; roses of every shade, 
 some covering the house and stables, and over-topping 
 the roofs, others mingling with tall apple-trees, others 
 again, especially the beautiful double Scotch rose, low but 
 broad, standing in bright relief to the blues and purples ; 
 and the Oriental poppy, like an orange lamp, for it really 
 seems to have light within it, shining amidst the deeper 
 greens ; above all, the pyramid of geraniums, beautiful 
 beyond all beauty, rising in front of our garden-room, 
 whilst each corner is filled with the same beautiful flower, 
 and the whole air perfumed by the delicious honeysuckle. 
 Nothing can be more lovely. 
 
 Mary Kussell Mitfoed. 
 
 23 
 
GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 
 
 A SOUTHERN GARDEN. 
 
 ^|HE house was of brick, large and commodious ; 
 and flanked by neat out-houses and servants' 
 quarters, presented an imposing appearance, an 
 air of lordly beauty. The shade-trees were 
 forest-born, — the maple, oak, beech, and, fairest of all, the 
 tulip-poplar. Excepting in the greenhouse, on the south 
 side of the mansion, and a rose-creeper that climbed 
 upon the piazza, not a flower was tolerated within 
 the spacious yard ; and the sward was always green 
 and smooth. 
 
 In the garden, beauty and utility joined hands, and 
 danced together down the walks. There were squares 
 of thrifty vegetables, deserving a home in the visioned 
 Eden of an ambitious horticulturist ; and the banished 
 floral treasures here expanded in every variety of hue 
 and fragrance. The enclosure was well stocked with 
 fruit-trees, currant and raspberry bushes ; and at the 
 angles formed by the straight, broad walks were clumps 
 of lilacs and snowballs (their stems hoary with moss), 
 thickets of cinnamon and damask roses, white and red, 
 or, standing up erect and stiff, a calycanthus-tree. There 
 grew the dwarf lilac and the jessamine family, — the 
 star, the Catalonian, the white and yellow, — thatching 
 one arbor ; while the odorous Florida, the coral, and the 
 
 24 
 
GARDENS OF THE PURITAN GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 more common but dearer garden honeysuckles, wreathed 
 their lithe tendrils over another ; and ever-blowing wall- 
 flowers, humble and sweet, gaudy beds of carnations, 
 brightly-smiling coreopsis, and pure lilies with their fra- 
 grant hearts powdered with golden dust, — a witching 
 wilderness of delights. 
 
 Makiox Harland. 
 
 THE GARDENS OF THE PURITAN GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 HERE is a great pathos in the fact, that, in 
 so stern and hard a life, there was time or 
 place for any gardens at all. I can picture 
 to myself the little slips and cuttings that had 
 been brought over in the ship, and more carefully guarded 
 than any of the household gods. 
 
 I can see the women looking at them tearfully when 
 they came into bloom, because nothing else could be a 
 better reminder of their old home. What fears there 
 must have been lest the first winter's cold might kill 
 them ! and with love and care they must have been tended. 
 
 . . . Those earliest gardens were very pathetic in 
 the contrast of then extent, and their power of sug- 
 gestion and association. Every seed that came up was 
 thanked for its kindness, and every flower that bloomed 
 was the child of a beloved ancestry. 
 
 Sarah Orne Jewett 
 
 (From Atlantic Monthly). 
 
GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 
 
 CORISANDE'S GARDEN. 
 
 " No flowers are admitted that have not perfume," said the duchess to 
 Lothair. " It is very old-fashioned." 
 
 TURN the printed leaves, and fancy brings me, 
 
 Without command, 
 To where thy garden wondrously enrings me, 
 
 O Corisande ! 
 
 I tread the turfen terraces, luxurious, 
 
 Its ancient pride, 
 With golden yew cut into arches, curious, 
 
 Along one side. 
 
 And over me and round me float inthralling 
 
 Its perfume sweet, 
 With sunny sheen and dusky shadow falling 
 
 About my feet. 
 
 They call thy garden, Corisande, old-fashioned, 
 
 A garden where 
 The flowers breathe their lives away, imprisoned, 
 
 To scent the air. 
 
 Where woodbines wander, and the wall-flower pushes 
 
 Its way alone, 
 And where, in wafts of fragrance, sweet-brier bushes 
 
 Make themselves known, 
 
 26 
 
CORISANDE'S GARDEN. 
 
 With banks of violets for southern breezes 
 
 To seek and find, 
 And starred and trellised jessamine, that pleases 
 
 The summer wind. 
 
 And here the flowers' queen, in perfect beauty 
 
 And calm repose, 
 Leads a soft life of perfume, with one duty. — 
 
 To be a rose. 
 
 And clove-carnations overgrow the places 
 
 Where they were set, 
 And mist-like in the intervening spaces 
 
 Creep mignonette. 
 
 With purple stocks, in sudden breezes swerving. 
 
 And lilies white, 
 As if their lifted petals tender curving, 
 
 Held heaven's light. 
 
 And tangled wantonly, together growing, 
 
 Are frail sweet-peas ; 
 And all above them, ever coming, going, 
 
 Communist bees. 
 
 O sunlit, soft-hued place for love and lovers ! 
 
 In all thine air 
 Some reminiscence of lost Eden hovers 
 
 And makes thee fair. 
 
 London Society, 
 
 27 
 
GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 
 
 HANNAH'S FLOWERS. 
 
 '/-•••""--•^•■g^ TT> you ever have an old-fashioned flower-bed in a 
 country garden, — a long, narrow strip of mellow 
 
 earth, sown crosswise in rows, with various kinds 
 of seeds? You sprinkle these seeds in little 
 furrows a foot apart, pat a thin layer of earth over them, 
 and wait. After a warm shower some late May morning, 
 you find your bed full of ridges, with here and there a 
 crack. In a few hours these cracks have run along the 
 ridges, and from them spring a host of tiny leaves, most 
 of them in pairs. You can almost see them grow." 
 
 I do not see such roses now, so full of scent, so deep- 
 dyed, as the double damask and white ones which blos- 
 somed in my grandmother's garden. It seems as if they 
 must have gotten their strength from the rugged soil. The 
 damask ones were like peonies for size ; and their bushes, 
 thick with full-blown flowers and buds, in every stage of 
 opening, were only surpassed for beauty by those of the 
 creamy- white rose, which were as soft-tinted as the first 
 blush of dawn, and daintily scented as the quickening 
 breath of spring. 
 
 Hannah's flowers were all sweet-smelling, gracious, hardy, 
 grateful things. Her pinks were marvels for color and 
 scent. Her bachelor's-buttons, blue and purple and white, 
 perfumed the morning. Her columbines, wild denizens of 
 the garden, kept always a woodland flavor. They got mixed 
 and unsettled as to color, but held fast their untamed nature. 
 
DANIEL WEBSTER'S MOTHER'S GARDEN. 
 
 The pride of the garden were the two peony-roots just 
 inside the gate on either side. They were amongst the 
 earliest comers in spring, peeping up out of the brown 
 mould with their great crimson leaf-buds, which speedily 
 thrust up into strong stocks, to be the bearers of as many 
 blossoms. How those peonies grew ! New stocks came up 
 every year, and each new stock seemed to bring with it 
 a peony heavier and deeper-dyed than before. Jonathan 
 tied them up every season ; but still they waxed bigger and 
 bigger, until a barrel-hoop would not hold them. They were 
 the envy of all the children, and the admiration of farmers' 
 
 wives - "E. H. Are." 
 
 (Mks. Ellen H. Rollins.) 
 
 1 ANIEL WEBSTER always kept his mother's old 
 garden in good condition, ordering his factotum 
 John Taylor to do so, if it required the labor of 
 an extra hand. Till death he loved the flowers 
 that used to bloom there. The common carnation-pink 
 never failed to be acceptable to him on this account, and 
 he always received a bouquet of these flowers with peculiar 
 gratitude. At the time of his great reception in Boston, 
 from the thousands of elegant bouquets showered upon his 
 head as he drove through the streets, a niece of his selected 
 a bunch of carnation-pinks, and presented them to him. 
 
 He kissed the hand of the donor, saying, " How fra- 
 grant, how delightful, are these little flowers, such as 
 bloomed in my mother's garden ! " 
 
 Peter Harvey. 
 
 29 
 
GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO THE SIMPLE NAMES OF OLD- 
 FASHIONED FLOWERS. 
 
 URELY there is marked character enough about 
 every plant to give it some simple English name, 
 without drawing either upon living characters or 
 dead languages. It is hard work to make • the 
 maurandias and alstrasmerias and eschschotzias — the com- 
 monest flowers of our modern gardens — look passable even 
 in prose. They are sad dead letters in the glowing descrip- 
 tion' of a bright scene in June. But what are these to 
 the pollopostemonopetalae and eleutheromacrostemones of 
 Wachendorf, with such daily additions as the native name 
 of Iztactepoteacuxochitl icohuoey, or the more classical 
 ponderosity of Evisymum PerofTskganum, like the verbum 
 Graecum, Spermagoraiolekitholakanopoledes, — words that 
 should only be said upon holiday, when one has nothing else 
 to do ! As to poetry attempting to immortalize a modern 
 bouquet, it is utterly hopeless ; and if our cultivators expect 
 to have their new varieties handed down to posterity, they 
 must return to such musical sounds as eglantine and cow- 
 slip, cuckoo-pint and primrose, or such as our " plainer 
 sires " gave in larkspur and honeysuckle, ragged-robin and 
 love-lies-bleeding, before bards will adopt their pets into 
 immortal song. 
 
 30 
 
FOUR-0' CLOCKS. 
 
 FOUR-O'CLOCKS. 
 
 '■ite-''-' 1 -'' -- 1 
 
 OUR O'CLOCK, the resting-time of the day ; 
 Sunlight with shade a fantastic patchwork 
 weaves, 
 But the shadows lengthen : the wind, while dying 
 away, 
 Lingers to rustle the quivering aspen-leaves. 
 
 I'm under the pear-tree, sitting all alone : 
 
 My garden is gay with asters, pinks, and phlox, 
 
 And many a posy for others' pleasure sown; 
 
 But here, for myself, I have planted four-o'clocks. 
 
 " Old-fashioned," you think, and cannot my choice approve ; 
 
 Rarer blossoms your fancy craves, no doubt ; 
 But, after all, it isn't the flowers we love, 
 
 But the dear old times that they make us think about. 
 
 It's a way they have of making us love them so ; 
 
 We care not long how fragrant and gay they may be ; 
 But deep in our hearts they strike their roots and grow, 
 
 Tangled and twined with various memory. 
 
 H. E. Sanfobd. 
 
GRANDMA 'S GARDEN. 
 
 MISS SEDGWICK'S VISIT TO MISS MITFORD. 
 
 HE led us directly through her house into her 
 garden, a perfect bouquet of flowers. " I must 
 show you my geraniums while it is light, for 
 I love them next to my father." The garden 
 is filled, matted, with flowering shrubs and vines. The 
 trees are wreathed with honeysuckles and roses, and the 
 girls have brought away the most splendid specimens of 
 heart's-ease to press in their journals. Oh that I could 
 give my countrywomen a vision of this little paradise of 
 flowers, that they might learn how taste, industry, and an 
 earnest love and study of the art of garden-culture, might 
 triumph over small space and humble means ! 
 
 AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN IN AUTUMN. 
 
 HE house stood almost concealed amid a forest 
 of apple-trees, in spring blushing with blos- 
 soms, and in autumn golden with fruit. 
 
 And near by might be seen the garden, sur- 
 rounded by a red picket-fence, enclosing all sorts of mag- 
 nificence. 
 
FBANCIS BACON ON GARDENS. 
 
 There in autumn might be seen abundant squash- 
 vines, which seemed puzzled for room where to bestow 
 themselves, and bright golden squashes, and full- orbed 
 yellow pumpkins, looking as satisfied as the evening sun 
 when he has just had his face washed in a shower, 
 and is sinking soberly to bed. There were superannuated 
 seed-cucumbers, enjoying the pleasures of a contempla- 
 tive old age ; and Indian corn nicely done up in green 
 silk, with a specimen tassel hanging at the end of each 
 ear. The beams of the summer sun darted through 
 rows of crimson currants, abounding on bushes by the 
 fence, while a sulky black-currant bush sat scowling in 
 one corner, a sort of garden curiosity. 
 
 Mrs. H. B. Stowe. 
 
 FRANCIS BACON ON GARDENS. 
 
 OD ALMIGHTY first planted a garden, and 
 indeed it is the purest of human pleasures. 
 . . . I do hold it, in the royal ordering of 
 gardens, there ought to be gardens for every 
 
 month in the year, in which, severally, things of beauty 
 
 may be there in season. 
 
 33 
 
GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 
 
 I LOVE A GARDEN. 
 
 1ND so do I," '-and I," "and I," exclaim in 
 chorus all the he and she fellows of the Horti- 
 cultural Society. 
 
 "And I," whispers the philosophical ghost of 
 Lord Bacon. 
 
 " And I," sings the poetical spirit of Andrew Marvel. 
 
 " Et moi aussi" chimes in the shade of Delille. 
 
 " And I," says the spectre of Sir William Temple, 
 
 echoed by Pope and Darwin, and a host of the English 
 
 poets, the sonorous voice of Milton resounding above 
 
 them all. 
 
 " And I," murmurs the apparition of Boccaccio. 
 " And I," " and I," sob two invisibles, remembering 
 Eden. 
 
 (What a string I have touched !) 
 " We all love a garden ! " shout millions of human 
 voices, male and female, and juvenile, base, tenor, and 
 treble. From the east, the west, the north, and the 
 south, ,the universal burden swells on the wind, as if 
 declaring in a roll of thunder that we all love a garden. 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
THE POOR MAN'S GARDEN. 
 
 THE POOR MAN'S GARDEN. 
 
 HE rich man in his garden walks, 
 And 'neath his garden trees : 
 Wrapped in a dream of other things, 
 He seems to take his ease. 
 
 One moment he beholds his flowers, 
 The next they are forgot : 
 
 He eateth of his rarest fruits 
 
 As though he ate them not. 
 
 It is not with the poor man so : 
 He knows each inch of ground, 
 
 And every single plant and flower 
 That grows within its bound. 
 
 He knows where grow his wall-flowers, 
 And when they will be out, 
 
 His moss-rose, and convolvulus 
 That twines his pales about. 
 
 He knows his red Sweet- Williams, 
 
 And the stocks that cost him dear, 
 
 That well-set row of crimson stocks ; 
 For he bought the seed last year. 
 
 35 
 
GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 
 
 A rich man has his wall-fruit, 
 
 And his delicious vines, 
 His fruit for every season, 
 
 His melons, and his pines. 
 
 The poor man has his gooseberries, 
 His currants white and red, 
 
 His apple and his damson tree, 
 And a little strawberry-bed. 
 
 A happy man he thinks himself, 
 A man that's passing well, 
 
 To have some fruit for the children, 
 And some besides to sell. 
 
 Around the rich man's trellised bower 
 Gay, costly creepers run : 
 
 The poor man has his scarlet-beans 
 To screen him from the sun. 
 
 And there before the little bench, 
 O'ershadowed by the bower, 
 
 Grow southernwood and lemon-thyme, 
 Sweet-pea and gilly-nower, 
 
 And pinks and clove-carnations, 
 Rich scented, side by side, 
 
 And at the end a hollyhock, 
 
 With an edge of London-pride. 
 
 36 
 
 ' 
 
THE POOR MAN'S GARDEN. 
 
 ) 
 
 And here the old grandmother comes 
 When her day's work is done ; 
 
 And here they bring the sickly babe, 
 To cheer it in the sun. 
 
 And here, on sabbath mornings, 
 
 The goodman comes to get 
 His Sunday nosegay, — moss-rose bud, 
 
 White pink, and mignonette. 
 
 • • • 
 
 Yes, in the poor man's garden grow 
 
 Far more than herbs and flowers, — 
 
 Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind, 
 And joy for weary hours. 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 ) 
 
GRANDMA'S GARDEN. 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. 
 
 SUNNY spot of boyhood years 
 Was grandma's garden olden : 
 
 Its fragrance rare comes floating back 
 O'er forty summers golden. 
 
 I see the yellow marigold ; 
 
 The fringed " chiny-aster ; " 
 And morning-glories pink and red, 
 
 And white, like alabaster ; 
 
 The peony, with wealth of bloom ; 
 
 The patch of striped grasses ; 
 The four-o'clocks and London-prides ; 
 
 And pinks in fragrant masses. 
 
 The lilac, standing by the door, 
 Was one of that collection, 
 
 And always showed a wealth of bloom 
 In time of ' old election." 
 
 The poppy, too, was not forgot, 
 Nor crimson prince's-feather : 
 Oh, what a swamp of beauty rare 
 
 Was Qfrnwina nr» fncrpfVipr J 
 
 wnat a swamp ot beauty 
 Was growing up together 
 
 38 
 
GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. 
 
 And when the early blossoms came 
 
 Our garden-patch adorning, 
 How joyfully I watched for them 
 
 Each fragrance-laden morning ! 
 
 All through the long, bright summer days, 
 It proved a home of pleasure 
 
 For humming-birds and butterflies 
 That sought its hidden treasure. 
 
 But she who planted them is gone 
 
 Where bright ones greet the comer, 
 And where the flowers richly bloom 
 
 Through one eternal summer. 
 
 Charles F. Gerry 
 
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