Hard by the Lover's walk, in an old-time bed, a blue Flower-de-luce, some roots of white and purple Phlox, a bunch or two of "Leaf-for-ever," and another of scented yellow Lilies, had long stoutly held their own. Here, every spring-time, the Lady caused to be planted her Dahlia bulbs—by no means the choicest of their kind, but taking amicably to the situation, and every autumn generously contributing their scarlet, lavender, and purple bloom to the color scheme of the big bowpots that adorned the side table in the "Mansion House" hall.

Four years ago, late in July, to deaden the pain of a new bereavement, I prepared this bed for the reception of a few dozen Hollyhock plants. It was the place suggested for this use by him who had left me, and with many tender thoughts of the beloved one I undertook the carrying out of his wishes. Removing to other quarters the old inhabitants of the bed "The Man with the Hoe" dug deep and spared not for manure. This done, on a cloudy day we set the young plants. It seemed a risky undertaking to transplant at midsummer, but, covered for a time from the sun and faithfully watered, they all adjusted themselves to their new home, and have, ever since, thriven to my heart's content. The bed is long and of moderate width. The plants were set in two rows, about one foot apart, and in the space between the outer rows we put, here and there, smaller plants. In late autumn they all had a covering of litter and boughs, and were made snug for their winter nap. As the situation is high and exposed to "all the airts the wind may blow," it was not without misgivings that I waited for the spring uncovering and the after development. In due time the hardy darlings showed their pretty green shoots, and before midsummer they stood up in budded rows, ready to be staked, and about the thirteenth of July the bed burst into splendid bloom. My color scheme called for but two colors, pink and white, and wonderful it was to see the shading of the roseate flowers, varying, as it did, from wine color to such faint pink as lives between the dainty lips of a sea shell.

On some stalks (more than eight feet high) the flowers came double as a cabbage rose; on others they were half double, and the out-and-out single ones had the sheen of satin and the transparency of gauze, and all were more or less creamy or lemon-hued at the center.

I think it must be from the old association of Hollyhocks with village Fourth of July celebrations that the flower has to my mind a distinctly festal appearance. Standing at the end of my bed and looking down the rows of pink and white is to me like watching a holiday procession. Not a commonplace ordinary one, keeping step to the music of a brass band, with doughty policemen hustling the hoodlums in its rear, but one of chaste and joyous maidens gowned gayly in pink and white, such as may of old have been led by "Jephthah's daughter," what time she "went forth with timbrel and dances" to meet her rash, exultant father fresh from his victory over Israel's uncircumcised foes. Yes, the Hollyhock, though lacking the delicacy of the Lily and the fragrance of the Rose, is a flower "most fair to see." The yellows and purples are both beautiful, but for massing give me the reds, pinks, and whites.

Sow in the seed bed each spring and thus have new plants to supply places made vacant in the show bed, and to bestow on neighbors who are starting rows of this fine hardy perennial.

Hollyhock—O E holihoc—"holy mallow"—"blessed mallow"—is probably so named because brought from the Holy Land.

No garden is complete without its Violet bed. Ours was started eight years ago. We selected for it a spot "half in shade and half in shine," with a southern frontage, sheltered from the north by tall shrubs.

Two packets of choice Russian Violet seed were then sown in friable soil, well sifted, and made rich with a bottom layer of old cow manure. The bed had been laid out, prepared, and sown by the dear hands of one whose gardening is now "all done."

After all his care the seed never germinated, and early in the following autumn the bed was set with well-grown double Russian Violet plants bought of the florist. For a year or two these plants throve finely, blossomed abundantly, and increased fourfold. The third year the flowers degenerated in size and beauty, and though still, at May-time, the bloom punctually puts in an appearance, the Russians are, on the whole, far less satisfactory than the single English Violets brought from the Cambridge garden and growing in the end of the same bed. These flower most generously and come into bloom about ten days earlier than the Russians.

The Violet has an obliging way of sowing its own seed, projecting them from its capsule with dynamic force. My English darlings have a lavish habit of scattering themselves about the lawn, in that fashion, and filling in the bare places in the bed. The Russians choose rather to be propagated from runners. Friends I have who grow year after year big velvety Russian Violets. Would that I had the skill to do likewise, but to me heaven denies the power of bringing these beauties to perfection. Yet (such as they are) I hold my Violets dear, and without them spring would scarce be spring.

In all the old floral usages of the English the Violet holds a place next to the Rose. It was used at weddings, and had its place in other and sadder religious ceremonials.

With the Troubadours it was an emblem of constancy. Their prize of a golden Violet to the best versifier of the flower's graces and beauties proves in how much esteem they held this April blossom.

The Pansy, one of the Violas, was much celebrated by the elder English poets, who gave it the charming name of "Heartsease."

Pansies may be easily grown from seed. As they are less troubled by cold than most flowers—being half hardy—the seedlings may be treated as biennials. Transplant them from seed bed in September, and in November cover well with old manure, then add piled leaves and evergreen boughs, and the minute spring opens uncover.

The young plants should not be allowed to flower in the autumn. Pick off the buds as they appear and they will be likely to give you bloom all summer long. I confess to an impatience that prompts to the buying of many baskets of Pansies in May, and thus securing flowers on the spot, besides selecting my favorite colors. These plants will not achieve much after their first season, but will grow "beautifully less" in size, and finally become like Lady's Delights, those pretty plebeian Violas that accept any soil, or situation, and show their cheery little faces among the cabbages, and even in the skimpy soil of the gravel walks.

"There's Pansy, that's for thought," says Perdita, in "Winter's Tale."

Pansy—French pensee, fancy or thought, from penser, to think. Heartsease—ease of heart—tranquillity of mind—is the poet's name of the flower. Of the common names one may choose between "Johnny Jump-up" and the more elegant Lady's Delight.

The Violet, though but a tiny unassuming flower, is (both in verse and prose) often classed with the regal Rose. Both are delightful in perfume, and in that respect equally popular.

Having small knowledge of rose-growing I do not presume to hold forth on "Rose Culture." Books on that subject are many and excellent, and I should but say with "Denis," the "Minister's double," when his turn came to make a speech at the committee meeting: "So much has been said, and so well said, that I will not further pursue the subject." Nevertheless, my next chapter shall be devoted to this "Queen-flower."