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THE GARDNER'S GUIDE

I was looking over the proof sheets for some Library of Congress catalogue cards when I observed the name of Bunkum—Mrs. Martha Matilda Bunkum was the full name, and I was further privileged to learn that she was born in 1851. Everyone knows Mrs. Bunkum's two great works: "Handy Hints for Hillside Gardens," and "Care and Cultivation of Crocuses." Now, it seemed, she had accumulated all her horticultural wisdom into one book, which was called "The Gardener's Guide, or a Vade Mecum of Useful Information for Amateur Gardeners, by Martha Matilda Bunkum." The Library of Congress card went on to say that the book was published in New York, by the well-known firm of Ponsonby, Perks & Co., in the year 1911. It brought tears to my eyes, recalling the days when I, too, was a cataloguer, to see that the book had "xiv, 7, xv, 27, 316 p., illus., plates.", and moreover was 19 centimeters high.

As soon as I had recovered from my emotion, I pressed the electric bell three times—a signal that brings Miss Anderson, the head of the order department, into my office, unless she happens to be arranging her hair before the mirror in the stack-room at the moment. This time she came promptly.

"Miss Anderson," I said, "we must get a copy of Mrs. Bunkum's 'Gardener's Guide.'"

She instantly looked intelligent and replied, "We have one here now, on approval; it came in from Malkan this morning," and she hurried out to get it.

When I had the book, I regarded it lovingly.

"I wish I knew what the 'A. L. A. Book List' says about this," I pondered.

"It will be along in a couple of months," said Miss Anderson, "and then we can find out."

I told Miss Anderson to keep the book, anyhow, and to have this copy charged to my private account.

That night, on the way home, I expended $1.65 for flower seeds. They were all put up in attractive little envelopes, with the most gorgeous pictures on the front, representing blossoms of tropical splendor. On the backs was a great deal of information, as well as Latin names, confident prediction of what a dazzling mass of bloom the little packets would bring forth, and warnings "not to plant these seeds deeper than one-sixteenth of an inch."

All but the sunflowers. I could not get any sunflower seeds in packets, and finally had to get them in a paper bag—an enormous lot of them, for five cents. But there were no pictures, and no directions about depth. All this, I reflected, would be forthcoming from the pages of Mrs. Bunkum.

On the following evening, in company with Jane, I went forth to sow. Jane had the "Gardener's Guide" and I took certain tools and implements. By the time I had a trench excavated a little shower came up, and Jane retreated to the veranda. I had on old clothes and didn't mind.

"Jane!" I called, "look up Mrs. Bunkum and see how deep to plant sunflower seeds."

All the directions on the little packets were so precise about depths—some seeds an inch, some half an inch, and some (the poppies, for instance) only a sixteenth of an inch below the surface—that I was tremendously impressed with the importance of it all. Previously, I had thought you just stuck seeds in any old way.

But the rain was coming down harder now, and my spectacles were getting blurred. Jane seemed to be lost in admiration of the frontispiece to the "Gardener's Guide."

She began to turn the leaves of the index rapidly, and I could hear her mutter: "Q, R, S—here it is. Scrap-book, screens, slugs, sowing, spider on box. Oh, I hate spiders! Sunbonnet, sun-dial, sweet peas. Why, there isn't anything about sunflowers!"

This annoyed me very much.

"Jane," I said, "how perfectly absurd! Do you suppose an authority like Mrs. Bunkum would write a book on gardening, and not mention such common things as sunflowers? Look again."

She did so, but presently shouted back: "Well, I don't care! It goes right from sun-dial to sweet peas, and then Sweet William, and then to the T's—Tigrinum and Tobacco Water. I don't see what this 'Sunbonnet' means, do you? Perhaps it's a misprint for sunflower. I'll look it up—page 199."

Presently Jane found the reference she was hunting, and read it to me, leaning out over the rail of the veranda.

"Unless a woman possesses a skin impervious to wind and sun, she is apt to come through the summer looking as red and brown as an Indian; and if one is often out in the glare, about the only headgear that can be worn to prevent this, is the old-fashioned sunbonnet. With its poke before and cape behind, protecting the neck, one really cannot become sunburned, and pink ones are not so bad. Retired behind its friendly shelter, you are somewhat deaf to the world; and at the distant house, people may shout to you and bells be rung at you, and, if your occupation be engrossing, the excuse 'no one can hear through a sunbonnet' must be accepted."

Jane read this with the liveliest interest, and at its conclusion remarked: "I believe I'll get a blue one, in spite of her!"

I sneezed two or three times at this point, and asked her to try again for sunflowers.

"Look here," I suggested, "I've noticed that index. Perhaps sunflowers are entered under their class as hardy annuals, or biennials, or periodicals, or whatever they are. Look 'em up that way."

She did so.

"Nothing under 'Hardy annuals,'" she announced, "except 'hardy roses'; under 'Biennials' it says 'see also names of flowers.'"

This made her laugh and say: "Here's a librarian getting a taste of his own medicine. No, it gives a reference to page 117. Here it is: 'There are but few hardy biennials. The important ones, which no garden should be without, are: Digitalis, and Campanula Medium.' Why, I thought Digitalis was something you put in your eye!"

"Did you look under 'periodicals'?" I retorted. "I could put something in her eye! Did you look under 'periodicals'?"

Jane referred again to the index.

"There isn't any such thing," she said presently; "don't you mean perennials? Here's a lot about them. Oh, yes, and a list of them, too. Now, let me see—Aquilegia, Dianthus barbatus, Dicentra spectabilis—gracious! do you suppose any of those are sunflowers?"

I groaned.

"Would you mind getting me a rain-coat? I'm afraid these seeds will sprout in my hand in a few minutes, if we don't get some information soon."

Jane went into the house, but returned in about five minutes with an umbrella.

"Your rain-coat isn't here," she said, "you left it at the library that day that it cleared during the afternoon. I will send Amanda out with this umbrella."

"Do so by all means," I replied, "as I have only two hands occupied with the trowel and the sunflower seeds it will be a pleasure to balance an umbrella as well."

But Jane did not notice the sarcasm, and presently Amanda tiptoed out through the wet grass with the umbrella. I was left trying to hold it, and wondering how Mrs. Bunkum acted in a crisis like this. But of course she never got caught in one. She would know right off the bat just how deep to put the seeds. At any rate, Jane's researches among the Aquilegias had given me an idea.

"Look here," I called, "Mrs. Bunkum is so confounded classical or scientific, or whatever it is, that I believe she scorns to use such a vulgar word as sunflower. She's probably put it under its scientific name."

Jane looked as though the last difficulty had been removed.

"What would the scientific name be?" she inquired.

"I am trying to think, as well as I can, standing in this puddle." I was sparring for time. "It would be helio something, I suppose," I added.

"Heliotrope, of course!" exclaimed Jane, with a glad chortle. "Here they are; all about them!"

"No! no! no!" I shouted, "I do wish you wouldn't jump at conclusions so. Heliotrope means a flower that turns around to follow the sun."

"Well," she said, "I thought sunflowers did that."

"So they do," I told her, "but heliotropes are little blue things, as you very well know—or ought to. Now, you go to the telephone, and call up the library, and ask for Miss Fairfax. She is in the reference room now, or ought to be."

There was a pause, while I could hear Jane at the telephone.

"North, double six three, please. No, double six three. Yes. Hello! Hello! Is this the library? Yes, the library. Yes; is Miss Fairfax there? Ask her to come to the 'phone, please. I said, ask her to come to the 'phone. Is that Miss Fairfax? Oh, Miss Fairfax, this is Mrs. Edwards. Mr. Edwards wants you to go as quickly as possible to the reference room and look up the scientific name for sunflowers. He says, look it up in Bailey. Do you understand? What? What? No, I said the scientific name for sunflowers, you know, s-u-n-f-l-o-w-e-r-s. The tall things with yellow petals and brown centers. Sunflowers!!! What? Who is this talking? Is this Miss Fairfax? What, isn't this the Public Library? What? Well, where is it, then? Henderson's glue factory? Oh, pardon me! I thought it was the Public Library. Central gave me the wrong number. … Hello, is this central? Well, you gave me the wrong number; you gave me North double six two. I want North double six three—the Public Library. Yes, please. Hello, is this the Public Library? Yes; who is this speaking, please? Oh, Miss Anderson? Is that you? This is Mrs. Edwards, yes. What are you staying so late for? You are? Well, I shall speak to Mr. Edwards about it. It is perfectly ridiculous to have you working overtime night after night, and all for that foolish exhibition, too. I know these librarians; if they would have the courage not to try to do so much when the city is so stingy about giving them assistants! Well, you go right home now and get your dinner. The idea! What? You have accessioned two hundred books this afternoon? If Mr. Edwards doesn't stop that, I shall, that's all. Oh, you have saved me out a copy of 'The Chaperone.' How nice of you! No, I certainly do not. I didn't like 'Cora Kirby' very much, and 'The Players' was horrid! But I did want to see what this was like—it has been very favorably criticised. What? Oh, give it to Mr. Edwards to-morrow night, put it in his bag, at the bottom; he'll never notice it. I hope there are not any more of you there! Oh, Miss Tyler and Miss Hancock, out at the desk, of course, and who? Miss Fairfax? Dear me, that reminds me. Mr. Edwards wants Miss Fairfax to look up something for him. Goodness, I forgot all about it! He is standing out there in all this rain with an umbrella in one hand, a trowel in the other, and a package of sunflower seeds in the other. He'll be furious! Do go and get Miss Fairfax to come to the 'phone right away. Yes, to come to the 'phone. … What's that? Is that central? No, please hold the line; I haven't finished yet. … Is that you, Miss Fairfax? What? Oh, Miss Anderson? What? Miss Fairfax has gone to her supper? What on earth shall I do? Who is in the reference room? David? Who's he? Oh, that new page. … David, Mr. Edwards wants you to look up the scientific name for sunflowers; look it up in Bailey, David. What? Bailey who? I don't know. Ask some of them there. … Oh, well, wait a minute. Hold the line. …

"Sam!" And she came out to the veranda again. "Sam, what Bailey is it they are to look it up in?"

"Liberty Hyde," I yelled. "Cyclopædia of American Horticulture! But any dictionary will probably do. And, for the love of Mike, get a move on! I'm drowned, paralyzed! I'll have rheumatism for a week!"

But she was already back at the telephone.

"David, are you there? Mr. Edwards says it's Liberty Hyde Bailey's Cyclopædia of Horticulture. And you are to hurry, hurry! What is that? You don't know where it is? Well, look it up in the catalogue. … Oh, ask Miss Anderson to come back. … Is that you, Miss Anderson? Will you look it up, please? Yes, the scientific name for sunflowers. In Freedom Bailey's Cyclopædia of Agriculture, or any dictionary. … Did you find it? Yes? What? Spell it. Oh, Helianthus. Thank you so much! Good-by! And don't forget to send 'The Chaperone' home by Mr. Edwards to-morrow night. Thank you for keeping me a copy. Good-by. … "

She came back to the veranda.

"I've got it at last, Sam. It's Helianthus. Where's Mrs. Bunkum? Oh, I left her in the study. Just wait a minute, now. … Yes, here it is, Helianthus, sure enough. How silly! Why doesn't she call 'em sunflowers? There, page 189. This is what Mrs. Bunkum says: 'The Helianthus Grandiflora, or common sunflower, is one of the most attractive and satisfactory of the perennials. Nothing is so suitable to place against a wall, or to employ to cover a shed or any other unattractive feature of the landscape. The stalks grow sometimes as high as eight to ten feet and bloom from July to September. It is well not to plant Delphiniums too near the Helianthus, as the shade from the former is too intense and it would not do to risk spoiling the lovely blossoms of the Delphinium. The latter … why!" broke out Jane, "she goes on about Delphiniums now, and doesn't tell any more about sunflowers!"

"Do you mean to say," I asked—and there was a hard, steely ring in my voice, "do you mean to say that Mrs. Bunkum does not tell how deep I am to plant these cussed seeds?"

Jane was about to laugh or to cry—I am not sure which.

"Not a word more than what I read," she answered.

"Jane," I said solemnly and firmly, "go into the house. What is going to happen is not a fit sight for your eyes. Praise be, that book is mine, and not the library's, and I can deal with it justly. Give it here. And if you have any affection for Martha Matilda Bunkum, kiss her good-by. I do not know how deep these seeds go, but I know how deep she goes." And I began to dig a suitable hole.

I rejoined my wife at dinner after a bath and certain life-saving remedies.

"Milton uttered curses on him who destroyed a good book, but what do you think will come up in ground fertilized by Mrs. Bunkum?" I asked.

Jane giggled.

"I do not know," she said, "but if you erect a tombstone to her, I can suggest an epitaph."

"What is it?" I questioned.

"The Gardeners Guyed," said Jane.