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Mabel Osgood Wright - The Garden, You, and I

M >> Mabel Osgood Wright >> The Garden, You, and I




The pony, Ginger, had a basket of second-crop clover flowers provided
for him; Reddy some corned-beef hash, his favourite dish, coaxed from
Anastasia; while for Punch, Judy, and as many of their children as would
venture down from the rafters, the Infant had compounded a wonderful
salad of mixed nuts and corn. As the Infant ordained that "the childrens
shan't tum in 'til d'sert," we had the substantial part of our meal in
peace; but the candles were no sooner blown out and the cake cut than
Ginger left his clover to nibble the young carrots, the squirrels got
into the nut dish bodily and began sorting over the nuts to find those
they liked best, with such vigour that the others flew in our faces, and
Reddy fell off the box upon which the Infant had balanced him with
difficulty, nearly carrying the table-cloth with him, while at this
moment, the feast becoming decidedly crumby, we were surrounded by the
entire flock of English sparrows!

* * * * *

Now this is not at all what I started to tell you; quite the contrary.
Please forgive this domestic excursion into the land of maternal pride
and happenings. What I meant to write of was my conviction, that came
through sitting on the hay rafters and looking down upon the garden,
that as a beautiful painting is improved by proper framing, so should
the garden be enclosed at different points by frames, to focus the eye
upon some central object.

Though the greater part of the garden is as yet only planned and merely
enough set out in each part to fix special boundaries, as in the case of
the rose bed, I realize that as a whole it is too open and lacks
perspective. You see it all at once; there are no breaks. No matter in
what corner scarlet salvia and vermilion nasturtiums may be planted,
they are sure to get in range with the pink verbenas and magenta phlox
in a teeth-on-edge way.

From other viewpoints the result is no better. Looking from the piazza
that skirts two sides of the house, where we usually spend much time,
three portions of the garden are in sight at once, and all on different
planes, without proper separating frames; the rose garden is near at
hand, the old borders leading to the sundial being at right angles with
it. At the right, the lower end of the knoll and the gap with its bed of
heliotrope are prominent, while between, at a third distance, is the
proposed location of the white-birch screen, the old wall rockery, etc.
The rockery and rose garden are in their proper relation, but the other
portions should be given perspective by framing, and the result of my
day-dreams is that this, according to nature, should be done by the
grouping of shrubs and the drapery of vines.

I now for the first time fully understand the uses of the pergola in
landscape gardening, the open sides of which form a series of
vine-draped frames. I had always before thought it a stiff and
artificial sort of arrangement, as well as the tall clipped yews, laurel
trees in tubs, and marble vases and columns that are parts of the usual
framework of the more formal gardens. And while these things would be
decidedly out of place in gardens of our class, and at best could only
be indulged in via white-painted wooden imitations, the woman who is her
own gardener may exercise endless skill in bringing about equally good
results with the rustic material at hand and by following wild nature,
who, after all, is the first model.

[Illustration: THE SILVER MAPLE BY THE LANE GATE.]

I think I hear Evan laughing at my preachment concerning his special
art, but the comprehension of it has all come through looking at the
natural landscape effects that have happened at Opal Farm owing to the
fact that the hand of man has there been stayed these many years. On
either side of the rough bars leading between our boundary wall and the
meadow stands a dead cedar tree, from which the dry, moss-covered
branches have been broken by the loads of hay that used to be gathered
up at random and carted out this way. Wild birds doubtless used these
branches as perches of vantage from which they might view the country,
both during feeding excursions and in migration, and thus have sown the
seed of their provender, for lo and behold, around the old trees have
grown vines of wild grapes, with flowers that perfume the entire meadow
in June. Here the woody, spiral-climbing waxwork holds aloft its
clusters of berries that look like bunches of miniature lemons until on
being ripe they open and show the coral fruit; Virginia creeper of the
five-pointed fingers, clinging tendrils, glorious autumn colour, and
spreading clusters of purple blackberries, and wild white clematis, the
"traveller's joy" of moist roadside copses, all blending together and
stretching out hands, until this season being undisturbed, they have
clasped to form a natural arch of surpassing beauty.

Having a great pile of cedar poles, in excess of the needs of all our
other projects, my present problem is to place a series of simple arches
constructed on this natural idea, that shall frame the different garden
vistas from the best vantage-point. Rustic pillars, after the plan of
Evan's that you sent me for the corners of the rose garden, will give
the necessary formal touch, while groups of shrubs can be so placed as
not only to screen colours that should not be seen in combination, but
to make reasons for turns that would otherwise seem arbitrary.

Aunt Lavinia has promised me any number of Chinese honeysuckle vines
from the little nursery bed of rooted cuttings that is Martin
Cortright's special province, for she writes me that they began with
this before having seed beds for either hardy plants or annuals, as they
wished to have hedges of flowering shrubs in lieu of fences, and some
fine old bushes on the place furnished ample cuttings of the
old-fashioned varieties, which they have supplemented.

Aunt Lavinia also says that the purple Wisteria grows easily from the
beanlike seed and blossoms in three years, and that she has a dozen of
these two-year-old seedlings that she will send me as soon as I have
place for them. Remembering your habit of giving every old tree a vine
to comfort its old age, and in particular the silver maple by the lane
gate of your garden, with its woodpecker hole and swinging garniture
of Wisteria bloom, I have promised a similar cloak to a gnarled bird
cherry that stands midway in the fence rockery, and yet another to an
attenuated poplar, so stripped of branches as to be little more than a
pole and still keeping a certain dignity.

[Illustration: A CURTAIN TO THE SIDE PORCH.]

The honeysuckles I shall keep for panelling the piazza, they are such
clean vines and easily controlled; while on the two-story portion under
the guest-room windows some Virginia creepers can be added to make a
curtain to the side porch.

As for other vines, we have many resources. Festooned across the front
stoop at Opal Farm is an old and gigantic vine of the scarlet-and-orange
trumpet creeper, that has overrun the shed, climbed the side of the
house, and followed round the rough edges of the eaves, while all
through the grass of the front yard are seedling plants of the vine
that, in spring, are blended with tufts of the white star of Bethlehem
and yellow daffies.

In the river woods, brush and swamp lots, near by, we have found and
marked for our own the mountain fringe with its feathery foliage and
white flowers shaded with purple pink, that suggest both the bleeding
heart of gardens and the woodland Dutchman's breeches. It grows in great
strings fourteen or fifteen feet in length and seems as trainable as
smilax or the asparagus vine. Here are also woody trailers of moonseed,
with its minute white flowers in the axils of leaves that might pass at
first glance for one of the many varieties of wild grapes; the hyacinth
bean, with its deliciously fragrant chocolate flowers tinged with
violet, that is so kind in covering the unsightly underbrush of damp
places. And here, first, last, and always, come the wild grapes, showing
so many types of leaf and fruit, from the early ripening summer grape of
the high-climbing habit, having the most typical leaf and thin-skinned,
purple berries, that have fathered so many cultivated varieties; the
frost grape, with its coarsely-toothed, rather heart-shaped, pointed
leaf and small black berries, that are uneatable until after frost (and
rather horrid even then); to the riverside grape of the glossy leaf,
fragrant blossoms and fruit.

One thing must be remembered concerning wild grapes: they should be
planted, if in the open sunlight, where they will be conspicuous up to
late summer only, as soon after this time the leaves begin to grow
rusty, while those in moist and partly-shady places hold their own. I
think this contrast was borne in upon me by watching a mass of
grape-vines upon a tumble-down wall that we pass on our way to the
river woods. In August the leaves began to brown and curl at the edges,
while similar vines in the cool lane shade were still green and growing.
So you see, Mrs. Evan, that, in addition to our other treasure-trove, we
are prepared to start a free vinery as well, and as our lucky star seems
to be both of morning and evening and hangs a long while in the sky,
Meyer, Larry's successor, we find, has enough of a labourer's skill at
post setting and a carpenter's eye and hand at making an angled arch
(this isn't the right term, but you know what I mean), so that we have
not had to pause in our improvements owing to Amos Opie's rheumatic
illness.

Not that I think the old man _very_ ill, and I believe he could get
about more if he wished, for when I went down to see him this morning,
he seemed to have something on his mind, and with but little urging he
told me his dilemma. Both _The Man from Everywhere_ and Maria Maxwell
have made him good offers for his farm, _The Man's_ being the first! Now
he had fully determined to sell to _The Man_, when Maria's kindness
during his illness not only turned him in her favour, but gave him an
attachment for the place, so that now he doesn't really wish to sell at
all! It is this mental perturbation, in his very slow nature, that is,
I believe, keeping him an invalid!

_What_ Maria wants of the farm neither Bart nor I can imagine. She has a
little property, a few thousand dollars, enough probably to buy the farm
and put it in livable repair, but this money we thought she was saving
for the so-called rainy day (which is much more apt to be a very dry
period) of spinsterhood! Of course she has some definite plan, but
whether it is bees or boarders, jam or a kindergarten, we do not know,
but we may be very sure that she is not jumping at random. Only I'm a
little afraid, much as I should like her for a next-door neighbour,
that, with her practical head, she would insist upon making hay of the
lily meadow!

"Straying away again from the horticultural to the domestic things," I
hear you say. Yes; but now that the days are shortening a bit, it seems
natural to think more about people again. If I only knew whether Maria
means to give up her teaching this winter, I would ask her to stay with
us and begin to train the Infant's mind in the way it should think, for
my head and hands will be full and my heart overflowing, I imagine. Ah!
this happy, blessed summer! Yes, I know that you know, though I have
never told you. That's what it means to have real friends. But to the
shrubs.

Will you do me one more favour before even the suspicion of frost
touches my enthusiasm, that I may have everything in order in my _Garden
Boke_ against a planting season when Time may again hold his remorseless
sway. This list of eighteen or more shrubs is made from those I know and
like, with selections from that Aunt Lavinia sent me. Is it
comprehensive, think you? Of course we cannot go into novelties in this
direction, any more than we may with the roses.

There is the little pale pink, Daphne Mezereum, that flowers before its
leaves come in April. I saw it at Aunt Lavinia's and Mrs. Marchant had a
great circle of the bushes. Then Forsythias, with yellow flowers, the
red and pink varieties of Japanese quince, double-flowering almond and
plum, the white spireas (they all have strange new names in the
catalogue), the earliest being what mother used to call bridal-wreath
(_prunifolia_), with its long wands covered with double flowers, like
tiny white daisies, the St. Peter's wreath (_Van Houttei_) with the
clustered flowers like small white wild roses, two pink species,
Billardii and Anthony Waterer, beautiful if gathered before the flowers
open, as the colour fades quickly, and a little dwarf bush, Fortune's
white spirea, that I have seen at the florist's. Next the old-fashioned
purple lilac, that seems to hold its own against all newcomers for
garden use, the white tree lilac, the fragrant white mock orange or
syringa (_Coronarius_), the Japanese barberry of yellow flowers and
coral berries, the three deutzias, two being the tall _crenata_ and
_scabra_ and the third the charming low-growing _gracilis_, the
old-fashioned snowball or Guelder rose (_viburnum opulus sterilis_), the
weigelias, rose-pink and white, the white summer-flowering hydrangea
(_paniculata grandiflora_), and the brown-flowered, sweet-scented
strawberry shrub (_calycanthus floridus_).

"Truly a small slice from the loaf the catalogues offer," you say. Yes;
but you must remember that our wild nursery has a long chain to add to
these.

In looking over the list of shrubs, it seems to me that the majority of
them, like the early wild flowers, are white, but then it is almost as
impossible to have too many white flowers as too many green leaves.

_September 15._ I was prevented from finishing this until to-day, when I
have a new domestic event to relate. Maria, no longer a music mistress,
has leased the Opal Farm, it seems, and will remain with me this winter
pending the repairing of the house, which Amos Opie himself is to
superintend. I wish I could fathom the ins and outs of the matter, which
are not at present clear, but probably I shall know in time. Meanwhile,
I have Maria for a winter companion, and a mystery to solve and puzzle
about; is not this truly feminine bliss?




XVII

THE INS AND OUTS OF THE MATTER


Chronicled by the rays of light and sound waves upon the walls of the
house at Opal Farm.


PEOPLE INVOLVED

_The Man from Everywhere_, keeping bachelor's hall in the
eastern half of the farm home.

_Amos Opie_, living in the western half of the house, the separating
door being locked on his side.

_Maria Maxwell_, who, upon hearing Opie is again ill, has
dropped in to give him hot soup and medicine.

Amos Opie was more than usually uncomfortable this particular September
evening. It may have been either a rather sudden change in the weather
or the fact that now that he was sufficiently well to get about the
kitchen and sit in the well-house porch, of a sunny morning, Maria
Maxwell had given up the habit of running over several times a day to
give him his medicine and be sure that the kettle boiled and his tea was
freshly drawn, instead of being what she called "stewed bitterness" that
had stood on the leaves all day.

Whichever it was, he felt wretched in body and mind, and began to think
himself neglected and was consequently aggrieved. He hesitated a few
minutes before he opened the door leading to _The Man's_ part of the
house, took a few steps into the square hall, and called "Mr. Blake" in
a quavering voice; but no answer came, as the bachelor had not yet
returned from the reservoir.

Going back, he settled heavily into the rocking-chair and groaned,--it
was not from real pain, simply he had relaxed his grip and was making
himself miserable,--then he began to talk to himself.

"_She_ doesn't come in so often now _he's_ come home, and _he_ fights
shy o' the place, thinkin' mebbe _she's_ around, and they both wants to
buy. _He's_ offered me thirty-five hundred cash, and _she's_ offered me
thirty hundred cash, which is all the place's worth, for it'll take
another ten hundred to straighten out the house, with new winder frames,
floorin' 'nd plaster 'nd shingles, beams and sills all bein'
sound,--when the truth is I don't wish ter sell nohow, yet can't afford
to hold! I don't see light noway 'nd I'm feelin' another turn comin'
when I was nigh ready ter git about agin to Miss'ss Penrose flower
poles. O lordy! lordy! I wish I had some more o' that settling medicine
Maria Maxwell brought me" (people very seldom spoke of that young woman
except by her complete name). "If I had my wind, I'd yell over to her to
come up! Yes, I vow I would!"

David, the hound, who had been lying asleep before the stove, in which
the fire had died away, got up, stretched himself, and, going to his
master, after gazing in his face for several minutes, licked his hands
thoroughly and solemnly, in a way totally different from the careless
and irresponsible licks of a joyous dog; then raising his head gave a
long-drawn bay that finally broke from its melancholy music and
degenerated into a howl.

Amos must have dozed in his chair, for it seemed only a moment when a
knock sounded on the side door and, without waiting for a reply, Maria
Maxwell entered, a cape thrown about her shoulders, a lantern in one
hand, and in the other a covered pitcher from which steam was curling.

"I heard David howling and I went to our gate to look; I saw that there
wasn't a light in the farm-house and so knew that something was the
matter. No fire in the stove and the room quite chilly! Where is that
neighbour of yours in the other half of the house? Couldn't he have
brought you in a few sticks?"

"He isn't ter hum just now," replied Amos, in tones that were
unnecessarily feeble, while at the same time an idea entered his brain
that almost made him chuckle; but the sound which was quenched in his
throat only came to Maria as an uncomfortable struggle for breath that
hastened her exit to the woodpile by the side fence for the material to
revive the fire. In going round the house, her arms laden with logs, she
bumped into the figure of _The Man_ leading his bicycle across the
grass, which deadened his footfall, as the lantern she carried blinded
her to all objects not within its direct rays.

"Maria Maxwell! Is Opie ill again? You must not carry such a heavy
load!" he exclaimed all in one breath, as he very quickly transferred
the logs to his own arms, and was making the fire in the open stove
almost before she had regained the porch, so that when she had lighted a
lamp and drawn the turkey-red curtains, the reflections of the flames
began to dance on the wall and cheerfulness suddenly replaced gloom.

Still Amos sat in an attitude of dejection. Thanking _The Man_ for his
aid, but taking no further notice of him, Maria began to heat the broth
which was contained in the pitcher, asking Amos at the same time if he
did not think that he would feel better in bed.

"I dunno's place has much to do with it," he grumbled; "this can't go on
no longer, it's doing for me, that it is!"

Maria, thinking that he referred to bodily illness, hastened the
preparations for bed, and _The Man_, feeling helpless as all men do when
something active is being done in which they have no part, rose to go,
and, with his hand on the latch of the porch door, said in a low voice:
"If I might help you in any way, I should be very glad; I do not quite
like leaving you alone with this old fellow,--you may need help in
getting him to bed. Tell me frankly, would you like me to stay?"

"Frankly I would rather you would not," said Maria, yet in so cordial a
tone that no offence could be gathered from it in any way.

So the door opened and closed again and Maria began the rather laborious
task of coaxing the old man to bed. When once there, the medicine given,
and the soup taken, which she could not but notice that he swallowed
greedily, she seated herself before the fire, resolving that, if Amos
did not feel better by nine o'clock, she would have Barney come over for
the night, as of course she must return to be near the Infant.

As she sat there she pictured for the hundredth time how she would
invest her little capital and rearrange her life, if Amos consented to
sell her the farm,--how best to restore the home without elaborating the
care of it, and take one or two people to live with her who had been ill
or needed rest in cheerful surroundings. Not always the same two, for
that is paralyzing after a time when the freshness of energetic
influence wears off; but her experience among her friends told her that
in a city's social life there was an endless supply of overwrought
nerves and bodies.

The having a home was the motive, the guests the necessity. Then she
closed her eyes again and saw the upper portion of the rich meadow land
that had lain fallow so long turned into a flower farm wherein she would
raise blossoms for a well-known city dealer who had, owing to his
artistic skill, a market for his wares and decorative skill in all the
cities of the eastern coast. She had consulted him and he approved her
plan.

The meadow was so sheltered that it would easily have a two weeks' lead
over the surrounding country, and the desirability of her crop should
lie in its perfection rather than rarity. Single violets in frames,
lilies-of-the-valley for Easter and spring weddings, sweet peas, in
separate colours, peonies, Iris, Gladioli, asters, and Dahlias: three
acres in all. Upon these was her hope built, for with a market waiting,
what lay between her and success but work?

Yes, work and the farm. Then came the vision of human companionship,
such as her cousin Bartram and Mary Penrose shared. Could flowers and a
home make up for it? After all, what is home?

Her thoughts tangled and snapped abruptly, but of one thing she was
sure. She could no longer endure teaching singing to assorted tone-deaf
children, many of whom could no more keep on the key than a cow on the
tight rope; and when she found a talented child and gave it appreciative
attention, she was oftentimes officially accused of favouritism by some
disgruntled parent with a political pull, for that was what contact with
the public schools of a large city had taught her to expect.

A log snapped--she looked at the clock. It was exactly nine! Going to
the window, she pulled back the curtain; the old moon, that has a
fashion of working northward at this time, was rising from a location
wholly new to her.

She looked at Amos; he was very still, evidently asleep, yet
unnaturally so, for the regular breathing of unconsciousness was not
there and the firelight shadows made him look pinched and strange.
Suddenly she felt alone and panic stricken; she forgot the tests so well
known to her of pulse taking, and all the countryside tales of strokes
and seizures came back to her. She did not hesitate a moment; a man was
in the same house and she felt entirely outside of the strength of her
own will.

Going to the separating door, she found it locked, on which side she
could not be sure; but seeing a long key hanging by the clock she tried
it, on general principles. It turned hard, and the lock finally yielded
with a percussive snap. Stepping into the hall, she saw a light in the
front of the house, toward which she hurried. _The Man_ was seated by a
table that was strewn with books, papers, and draughting instruments; he
was not working, but in his turn gazing at the flames from a smouldering
hearth fire, though his coat was off and the window open, for it was not
cold but merely chilly.

Hearing her step, he started, turned, and, as he saw her upon the
threshold, made a grab for his coat and swung it into place. It is
strange, this instinct in civilized man of not appearing coatless
before a woman he respects.

"Amos Opie is very ill, I'm afraid," she said gravely, without the least
self-consciousness or thought of intrusion.

"Shall I go for the doctor?" said _The Man_, reaching for his hat and at
the same time opening the long cupboard by the chimney, from which he
took a leather-covered flask.

"No, not yet; please come and look at him. Yes, I want you very much!"
This in answer to a questioning look in his eyes.

Standing together by the bed, they saw the old man's eyelids quiver and
then open narrowly. _The Man_ poured whiskey from his flask into a
glass, added water, and held it to Amos's lips, where it was quickly and
completely absorbed!

Next he put a finger on Amos's pulse and after a minute closed his watch
with a snap, but without comment.

"You feel better now, Opie?" he questioned presently in a tone that, to
the old man at least, was significant.

"What gave you this turn? Is there anything on your mind? You might as
well tell now, as you will have to sooner or later, and Miss Maxwell
must go home presently. You'll have to put up with me for the rest of
the night and a man isn't as cheerful a companion as a woman--is he,
Amos?"

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