The joy of gardens by McCauley Lena May

Author:McCauley, Lena May
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Gardens
Publisher: Chicago, New York, Rand, McNally and company
Published: 1911-03-25T05:00:00+00:00

IN MIDSUMMER FIELDS 117

go to some country town where flowers are loved, and look for trumpet creepers on every woodshed roof. Neglected and forgotten shacks are bowers of green, and above them wave the luxuriant bunches of blossoms of the trumpet vine.

The cobsea and Dutchman's pipe, as well as the scarlet runner, put out flowers in July, and then it is well to take note of those one would like to call his own, a vine to wreathe an unsightly window to make it a joy to the eyes, an awkward corner that would gain by a clematis trellis, or a sunny side to a porch which might become inviting if screened by a thrifty vine.

In the calendar of the wild-flower lover, April is the month of snowdrops and the frail Easter flowers, May puts on a touch of color in winking Marybuds, cowslips, and apple bloom, and June roses have stirred many a poet to song, while the air is heavy with grape blossoms and syringas and drying rose leaves.

After the flowers of early spring have gone their ways the July hedgerows adorn themselves in traveler's joy and broideries of color most enchanting. The meadows have put off their paler green to don tints rich in suggestions of bronze and reds from the ripened flowers of the grass. Here and there in the lush places, where a spring bubbles up or a bit of bog remains from days of long ago, a patch of Turk's-cap' lilies flaunt their scarlet, or a royal iris holds up its banners.

Flower gathering in July is replete with satisfaction. The days are warm, and lingering in the fields wraps the senses in a delicious sense of well-being. The sunshine has not reached the fervid heat of August, nor is there the chill and the mist that reminded one that ever-blithesome May had an edge to her temper. July crowns the summer in flowers that do not wither easily, and permits us to feel the full glory of the ripening year. It is then we like to go back to the old home and to revisit the haunts of childhood.

July spreads its vines and full-blown foliage over all, and dresses the fields in a prosperous harvest. On every side sound the notes of cicadas and crickets, and the nesting birds have not yet ceased their singing.

The returning wanderer, who had left the farm when a child, remembered how the bouncing Bets straggled along the road to the very gateway. Perhaps they would meet him now. Sure enough, when he turns the corner at the crossroads a bouncing Bet looks up shyly from the roadside, just as her cousins peep from every byway at this season. But in the course of time the bouncing Bets have increased in family, and behold, they have stolen through the gate, and a careless mower has permitted them to form a colony in a miniature hedge all along the inner fence.

Out on the roadside the mullein has opened its velvety

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