An Island Garden

Part 1

AN ISLAND GARDEN

BY CELIA THAXTER WITH PICTURES AND ILLUMINATIONS BY CHILDE HASSAM

BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN & CO.

The Riverside Press, Cambridge

MDCCCXCV

Copyright, 1894, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.

All rights reserved.

The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company.

MRS. MARY HEMENWAY

“WHOSE LARGENESS OF HEART IS EVEN AS THE SAND ON THE SEASHORE”

THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED

At the Isles of Shoals, among the ledges of the largest island, Appledore, lies the small garden which in the following pages I have endeavored to describe. Ever since I could remember anything, flowers have been like dear friends to me, comforters, inspirers, powers to uplift and to cheer. A lonely child, living on the lighthouse island ten miles away from the mainland, every blade of grass that sprang out of the ground, every humblest weed, was precious in my sight, and I began a little garden when not more than five years old. From this, year after year, the larger one, which has given so much pleasure to so many people, has grown. The first small bed at the lighthouse island contained only Marigolds, pot Marigolds, fire-colored blossoms which were the joy of my heart and the delight of my eyes. This scrap of garden, literally not more than a yard square, with its barbaric splendors of color, I worshiped like any Parsee. When I planted the dry, brown seeds I noticed how they were shaped, like crescents, with a fine line of ornamental dots, a “beading” along the whole length of the centre,--from this crescent sprang the Marigold plant, each of whose flowers was like

“a mimic sun, With ray-like florets round a disk-like face.”

In my childish mind I pondered much on this fact of the crescent growing into the full-rayed orb. Many thoughts had I of all the flowers I knew; very dear were they, so that after I had gathered them I felt sorry, and I had a safe place between the rocks to which I carried them when they were withered, and hid them away from all eyes, they were so precious even then.

The dear flowers! Summer after summer they return to me, always young and fresh and beautiful; but so many of the friends who have watched them and loved them with me are gone, and they return no more. I think of the lament of Moschus for Bion:--

“Ah me, when the Mallows wither in the garden, and the green Parsley, and the curled tendrils of the Anise, on a later day they spring, in another year; but we men, we, the great and mighty, or wise, when once we have died, in hollow earth we sleep, gone down into silence.”

Into silence! How deep, how unbroken is that silence! But because of tender memories of loving eyes that see them no more, my flowers are yet more beloved and tenderly cherished.

Year after year the island garden has grown in beauty and charm, so that in response to the many entreaties of strangers as well as friends who have said to me, summer after summer, “Tell us how you do it! Write a book about it and tell us how it is done, that we may go also and do likewise,” I have written this book at last. Truly it contains the fruit of much sweet and bitter experience. Of what I speak I know, and of what I know I have freely given. I trust it may help the patient gardener to a reasonable measure of success, and to that end I have spared no smallest detail that seemed to me necessary, no suggestion that might prove helpful.

DUST.

Here is a problem, a wonder for all to see. Look at this marvelous thing I hold in my hand! This is a magic surprising, a mystery Strange as a miracle, harder to understand.

What is it? Only a handful of earth: to your touch A dry rough powder you trample beneath your feet, Dark and lifeless; but think for a moment, how much It hides and holds that is beautiful, bitter, or sweet.

Think of the glory of color! The red of the rose, Green of the myriad leaves and the fields of grass, Yellow as bright as the sun where the daffodil blows, Purple where violets nod as the breezes pass.

Think of the manifold form, of the oak and the vine, Nut, and fruit, and cluster, and ears of corn; Of the anchored water-lily, a thing divine, Unfolding its dazzling snow to the kiss of morn.

Think of the delicate perfumes borne on the gale, Of the golden willow catkin’s odor of spring, Of the breath of the rich narcissus waxen-pale, Of the sweet pea’s flight of flowers, of the nettle’s sting.

Strange that this lifeless thing gives vine, flower, tree, Color and shape and character, fragrance too; That the timber that builds the house, the ship for the sea, Out of this powder its strength and its toughness drew!

That the cocoa among the palms should suck its milk From this dry dust, while dates from the self-same soil Summon their sweet rich fruit: that our shining silk The mulberry leaves should yield to the worm’s slow toil.

How should the poppy steal sleep from the very source That grants to the grapevine juice that can madden or cheer? How does the weed find food for its fabric coarse Where the lilies proud their blossoms pure uprear?

Who shall compass or fathom God’s thought profound? We can but praise, for we may not understand; But there’s no more beautiful riddle the whole world round Than is hid in this heap of dust I hold in my hand.

Part 2

THE LIST OF PICTURES FOR AN ISLAND GARDEN

PAGE

IN THE GARDEN Frontispiece

Title--POPPY PETALS i

Headpiece to Preface--MARGARET PINKS v

Headpiece to List of Pictures--PANSIES AND ROSE CAMPIONS ix

Half-Title--NASTURTIUMS 1

Headpiece--POPPY TOPS 3

FROM THE DOORWAY 10

A SHADY SEAT 18

Headpiece--HUGELIA CŒRULEA 24

THE GARDEN IN ITS GLORY 38

Headpiece--SONG-SPARROWS 46

LARKSPURS AND LILIES 50

HOLLYHOCKS IN LATE SUMMER 60

Headpiece--SWEET PEAS 69

THE BRIDE 74

POPPY BANK IN THE EARLY MORNING 80

Headpiece--TEA ROSES 87

THE ALTAR AND SHRINE 94

A FAVORITE CORNER 100

Headpiece--POPPIES GOING TO SEED 105

HOME OF THE HUMMING-BIRD 112

SUNSET AND THE PINAFORE 124

AN ISLAND GARDEN BY CELIA THAXTER

WITH PAINTINGS BY CHILDE HASSAM

Of all the wonderful things in the wonderful universe of God, nothing seems to me more surprising than the planting of a seed in the blank earth and the result thereof. Take a Poppy seed, for instance: it lies in your palm, the merest atom of matter, hardly visible, a speck, a pin’s point in bulk, but within it is imprisoned a spirit of beauty ineffable, which will break its bonds and emerge from the dark ground and blossom in a splendor so dazzling as to baffle all powers of description.

The Genie in the Arabian tale is not half so astonishing. In this tiny casket lie folded roots, stalks, leaves, buds, flowers, seed-vessels,--surpassing color and beautiful form, all that goes to make up a plant which is as gigantic in proportion to the bounds that confine it as the Oak is to the acorn. You may watch this marvel from beginning to end in a few weeks’ time, and if you realize how great a marvel it is, you can but be lost in “wonder, love, and praise.” All seeds are most interesting, whether winged like the Dandelion and Thistle, to fly on every breeze afar; or barbed to catch in the wool of cattle or the garments of men, to be borne away and spread in all directions over the land; or feathered like the little polished silvery shuttlecocks of the Cornflower, to whirl in the wind abroad and settle presently, point downward, into the hospitable ground; or oared like the Maple, to row out upon the viewless tides of the air. But if I were to pause on the threshold of the year to consider the miracles of seeds alone, I should never, I fear, reach my garden plot at all!

Part 3

He who is born with a silver spoon in his mouth is generally considered a fortunate person, but his good fortune is small compared to that of the happy mortal who enters this world with a passion for flowers in his soul. I use the word advisedly, though it seems a weighty one for the subject, for I do not mean a light or shallow affection, or even an æsthetic admiration; no butterfly interest, but a real love which is worthy of the name, which is capable of the dignity of sacrifice, great enough to bear discomfort of body and disappointment of spirit, strong enough to fight a thousand enemies for the thing beloved, with power, with judgment, with endless patience, and to give with everything else a subtler stimulus which is more delicate and perhaps more necessary than all the rest.

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