Mid-August and the lists beginning to come in! Mr. Eden Phillpotts, in his delightful garden book, says that no one is a true garden lover who is not instantly lost in every nurseryman’s list, who does not immediately draw out orders far beyond his means, and spend his time in plans and combinations that shall transcend Kew as well as Babylon. What garden lovers are we in this respect! It is only when the orders are written out and the prices totted up that sober reason obtrudes its forbidding countenance—and then the painful process of “knocking off” begins. Nevertheless we are becoming adepts in combining lavishness with economy. There are delightful firms whose plants are literally to be had at a quarter of the price of others, with results quite as happy.

There is the Dutchman who sends us our bulbs. He has grown to be a friend, and his English letters are charming, “Dear Mrs.,” he wrote when Gladioli, “The Bride,” arrived in a state no Bride should be in, really without a wedding garment—“Dear Mrs., She is a flower the most agreeable in the garden, but she is very unpleasant to travel.”

His catalogue makes equally fascinating reading. The quaint spelling and phraseology are more than attractive. Who, for instance, would not wish to invest in Narcissus, thus described:

“Astrardente, white and apricot orange, edged fiery scarlet magnificent and nice flowers.”

“Nothing,” says another grower, “can equal, much less excel, early single Tulips.”

“Pottebakke White,” cries a third, “is a very large pure white flower, and not to surpass better.”

“Of snow-like variety and delicious fragrance a most beloved flower,” thus our special Hollander labels Lilium Longiflorum Takesima, in words that have a certain charm of poetic simplicity which would not have misbecome the artistic Japanese himself.

However tempted by other nationalities, we choose to be Dutch in our bulbs. This is the list we have just dispatched to Haarlem:

Of these some of the scarlet and rose “Duc van Thol” Tulips, and all the “Cavaignac” and “Fabiola” Hyacinths are for forcing; and, of course, the Roman Hyacinths also. The other bulbs are destined for the open ground.

Gladiolus Hollandia is described as the “Pink Brenchlyensis,” and is much recommended. We have never grown her yet, but her scarlet cousin is a great success in our garden. We find our Gladioli do so much better when planted in the spring, that we are asking the firm not to send them to us for another seven months. But they are included in the autumn list so that he may reserve us good sound tubers.

It is evidently against garden decorum to mention the name of a horticulturist, for some garden writers make a point of assuring the reader that they will never be guilty of such an indiscretion; but we see no harm at all in paying, by the way of this discursive pen, a tribute to the perfect satisfaction hitherto afforded us by our chosen bulb grower, Mr. Thoolen, of Haarlem. His Tulips, Hyacinths, and Narcissi have stood the test for three years. Of course, in our soil we cannot expect more than one good season out of anything except Crocus, Scilla, and Narcissi.

Daffodils, which up till now have been unaccountably absent from our garden plans, are to be heavily indulged in this year. Besides what appears in the above list we are venturing on another thousand from a certain Mr. Telkamp, likewise in the land of windmills.

The following is the order which we have just dispatched to him:

He advertises a thousand Daffodils for ten shillings—two and a half dollars! Miraculous, if true! It is worth the plunge.

We have decided to take a slice off the kitchen garden to be kept entirely for bulbs and tubers for cutting. There a hundred “Madonna” Lilies, three dozen Auratum, a hundred Tigrinum, and a few hundreds of other kinds shall be given all the chances that completely fresh soil and good exposure can afford. Five hundred Parrot Tulips, three hundred “Thomas Moore,” and a hundred “Bizarres” are to make a field of glory for the harvest. The hundred Gladiolus Brenchlyensis and the hundred Hollandia will rear their scarlet and pink spears; and Iris shall stand in ranks.

The Mistress of the Villino has still an hour of bliss before her in picking out Iris for her list. The “Florentina” shall certainly be largely of the company, and preference is to be given generally to the misty blue and purple kinds. Then the speculation in cheap bulbs provides a thousand mixed May flowering Tulips.... Adam’s face will be a study when he finds how much of his cherished potato and cabbage land will be required. But what a span of beauty it will make; and what sheaves of delight for ourselves and our friends!

Every year the extravagant woman above mentioned, who has got the vice of garden-gambling into her very system, extends her ambitions. But how much is there not still to be accomplished before she is satisfied, if ever a garden-lover is satisfied!

For a long time she has dreamt of a shady pool—somewhere. And, after beholding the adorable vision before described in Messrs. Wallace’s exhibit at Holland House this summer, she had been quite sure that it would be difficult to exist another year without a nook with Irises about it and a sunk basin, and a little statue mysteriously contrived in the green. Coming across an advertisement in Country Life, where an artistic firm of garden-decorators offers just what she wants, a small round stone pond with a Faun sitting cross-legged on the brim of it, it becomes quite clear to her that there are cravings which must be satisfied. She is willing to give up the vision of a new Azalea dell for this year only, of course and of a paved walk with Cypresses on each side, ending in a rondpoint hedged about with more Cypresses, with a stone bench in the middle, for the more immediately alluring claim. But, O, ye gods and little fishes, how insatiable are still the needs of the Villino on the hill!

There is the orchard for the slope above the sunk tennis court; to be a glory some Spring with Apple and Pear blossom, while Daffodils, Narcissi and Scilla riot underneath. And there is the round Autumn Garden to be dug out and levelled in the wood, where Sunflowers, Michaelmas Daisies, “Fire King” Antirrhinums, Nasturtiums and flaunting orange and saffron Dahlias are to make a rim of splendour against a cropped green hedge. The centre of this blazing circle is to be flagged and consecrated to “Herbs.” That will be something to live for; to see accomplished some golden autumn of the future!

So much has already been done in what was, most of it, a mere sodden tangle, impenetrable not only to human beings but even to the light of heaven, that it gives one heart for what may be achieved in the future. Yet never does the Grandmother of Loki feel the uncertainty of life more keenly than when she is in the midst of her garden dreams. Every winter indeed, when the bulbs are planted, she wonders, with a pang, if she will see them come up in the Spring; how much more does she now ask herself whether the hidden Autumn Garden, or the Italian walk, or the Bowery Orchard, or even the Sunk Fountain, are ever destined to rejoice her.

Well, after all, she gets an extraordinary amount of pleasure out of the mere mental picture, and who can say if the very uncertainty of all things here below does not add to their zest?