Читать книгу The Flower-Patch Garden Book - Flora Klickmann - Страница 6

Table of Contents

The most restful-looking garden I ever had was the year the Flower-Patch decided—without any special reference to me—to be blue and mauve and purple.

This may sound foolish to anyone who is only acquainted with properly and personally conducted gardens, and who knows nothing of the vagaries of a garden which is left for months at a time without an owner giving definite orders; with sunshine, a liberal rainfall, a southern aspect, on a warm hillside; and every other inducement to Nature to get busy.

I know it appears as though a garden ought to develop according to what one puts in it. And when one reads books about the correct way to garden, it seems inevitable that the garden beds must display the colours one has planted there.

It ought to be like that—but it isn’t always!

I had not intended the Flower-Patch to be blue and mauve and purple. I meant it to be a rich mixture. And to this end, I had put in all sorts of seeds in August, where I saw a bare bit of earth—clarkias, eschscholtzias, annual candytuft, etc.—the seeds had been put in the ground in the hope that they would make some growth before the winter, and be that much ahead in the spring.

The insatiable flower-grower is always trying to take time by the forelock; and as a rule gets no farther on in the long run. One never seems able really to get ahead of either Nature or old Father Time!

But since hope springs eternal in the gardener’s chest, I left the seeds there, with many kind thoughts, when I returned to town.

What became of them, I don’t know. Possibly the birds ate them; or they may have started to do their duty, but were promptly sat upon by their neighbours. I can’t say. I only know they were not to be seen when I visited the garden the following May; but neither were the bare spaces visible, for the perennials had taken possession of any ground they could get hold of, that wasn’t already annexed by forget-me-nots.

The West of England being much milder than London, it is wonderful what headway some of the things will make as compared with conditions in town; while there are equal surprises on the other side of the ledger, when one adds up the items the rabbits and pheasants have eaten! Fortunately, there is usually enough and to spare: and the balance is generally on the right side.

I had dotted about the beds various roots of the small purple viola; quite little plants they had been, the year before. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the large, spreading clumps, smothered with flowers of an intense violet, that stands out an arrestive splash of colour for quite a long distance.

Then the aubretia! A flower I dearly love. It comes in such beautiful tints, and in such masses of bloom, clothing the stones, and carpeting the beds, wherever it gets a chance. Here, the rich “Violet King” had surpassed itself. I had planted it in among, and around, primroses. Though these were nearly over, there were enough left to show how satisfying was the intermingling of the two colours.

In addition to the rosy-violet, which is my favourite aubretia, there were others, pale mauve, pink, mauve-blue, and crimson, in various shades, and all of them charming. They are so industrious and enterprising. One loves the little low-growing flowers that make such a gorgeous show on so little; braving the uncertain spring weather with a radiant look of hopefulness.

The columbines were in full bloom. These are all self-sown, and grow like weeds. We merely pull them out when they interfere with other things. They made a pretty fluttering of purple and blue, with white and blue mixtures, as well as pink and wine colour.

Violets proclaimed their presence by their scent. While dog violets had spread in a surprising manner, and were of all shades of mauve and purple.

Speaking of violets: there is one clump of a peculiar washed-out beet-root colour, quite distinct from all the others. It isn’t as pretty as some, but it is unusual. This plant literally walks about the place! I first noticed it in a bed a good way up the hillside. Next year it had moved a few feet lower down. The following year it had wandered still lower down the slope. It throws out long runners, and they enable new plants to travel in this perambulatory fashion! We let it walk on as it pleases.

Bluebells were among the uninvited inhabitants of the garden. They get in somehow from the adjoining orchards and woods which are blue with them. Speedwell, with the little white daisies, had taken possession of the grass paths. Ground ivy was blooming at the bottoms of the walls, and wherever it could get a holding, and escape the gardener’s hoe.

Periwinkle was flowering with exceptional zest—both the small and the large flowered. It trails over banks, climbs up among the prickly branches of cotoneaster that clothes some walls, carpets the ground under trees, and tries to monopolise the paths. A most useful plant, that endeavours to do its best even under the most adverse conditions. But give it a little sunshine, and a modicum of moisture, and it shows flowers most of the year, with a specially gorgeous display in early summer. It is in the winter, however, that I, personally, prize its blossoms most of all, for it is such a hopeful reminder that spring will be here presently.

There were blue irises, blue veronica; also uncommon blue auriculas with primrose-coloured centres, and a perfume as rich as their own colouring.

Various lilacs were in bloom, from the palest mauve to deep purple. And everywhere, in the beds, between the stone paving, in the crannies of the walls and steps, among the grass by the margin of the garden pond, were forget-me-nots—the old-fashioned kind, with large, baby-blue flowers and yellow eye. I like these much better than some of the newer varieties, which are strident in comparison with the unmatchable blue of the old-world forget-me-not.

Of course there were other flowers and other colours; but the blue and mauve and purple outshone all the rest; and the yellow of the wallflowers only served to emphasise the blue.

The curious part about that garden was the way it continued the blue and purple scheme, when its spring flowers gave place to the summer show.

Not only did the sweet peas turn out to be a mauve variety, when I had ordered “Mixed” (this was due to my illegible handwriting; I couldn’t lay the blame on Nature), but the big purple mallows bloomed as never before—great bushes of violet flowers, two to three feet high. The campanulas, several sorts, were luxuriant. They were all over the garden, thanks to the gardener’s careful dividing and transplanting, from the pale blue ones with blossoms that climb up a tall stem, to the deep purple bell-flowers that would be so much more valuable if their long stems were not so weak.

The purple gladioli I had ordered, did everything the catalogue had said they would do, and a little more besides.

Of the annuals, the violet-coloured larkspurs, and the deep blue convolvulus minor made prize displays. The whole garden was a sea of purple and mauve, into which the pinks and paler colours seemed to merge, without saying too much about themselves.

It was a beautiful sight, and one I’ve never managed to repeat. Our neighbours and friends came and studied it, with a view to doing likewise. But it isn’t easy to duplicate a freak of this kind. Directly one definitely sets out a series of plants of one colour, either they look stiff and artificial and unconvincing—or else they don’t bloom that year!

One of our visitors, after looking at the scene in silence, at last said: “I’ve heard that purple and mauve are the most soothing colours for the mentally afflicted.”

I agreed and explained that this was why I surrounded myself with them. I also told him of the unknown correspondent (feminine gender) who wrote to me:

“Purple is the Spiritual Colour. It is the Heavensent ingredient in the rainbow. Alas, I see no purple in your writings!”

“I expect you had declined one of her poems,” was my visitor’s comment.

It was a comforting suggestion.