Why are magnolias so seldom planted? They are as hardy as maples—some of them at least. The M. conspicua, the M. soulangiana, M. glanca, and M. tripetala are easily had, are fine all summer, and are the glory of the spring when their flowers expand.
The American and the English beech, and also the purple beech, should be more often planted. An old beech-tree, grown on good soil, in an open field, and not mutilated,
has nothing to fear when standing among all the kings of trees. No trees that we saw in England impressed us as did the beeches at Warwick Castle.
In street planting, and along roadsides, nothing could be finer than the tulip-tree, which grows rapidly, is clean, and bears fine blossoms in early summer. They should be transplanted when small, as they easily die off if moved when large. The same is true of chestnuts, walnuts, and pecan-nuts.
Of evergreens I shall not speak, as they deserve a separate mention. But do not plant them in the city, nor in any close yard. They do not thrive, and become disfigurements rather than ornaments.
XXIII.
FAREWELL TO “SUMMER REST.”
In this bright October day I know, not what Eve felt in leaving Paradise, but what John Milton imagined that she felt. To be sure, I have no such garden as hers must have been, and besides, I leave at a different season of the year; for she inquires feelingly, “Who now shall train these flowers?” whereas my flowers are so nearly spent that there is no need of training them. Tuberoses are gone, verbenas are gone, phloxes, common roses, and all the garden tribe, except scarlet sage, faithful marigolds, that never flinch to the last, and petunias, that are more graceful than they, and full as constant. Besides, there is the slow-footed chrysanthemum, too late for summer, often too late for autumn,—that never gets its Sunday jacket on until it is time to take it off again. But the amplitude of the floral harvest has been reaped. Now we only glean. Still one leaves a home of two months—summer months—not without a fluttering somewhere about the heart. The still days, the deep days, the mellow days, without taxation or excitement, are over. Now for the plunge and rush! Now for men. Farewell, Nature!
Good by, top of the hill! from which not a dwelling can be seen, only an horizon of mountains; and where, so often, just after the sun sets, we have lingered alone, in the mystery and inexplicable delight of an evening solitary hour, lifted far above the surrounding earth, and almost as one suspended in the very ether.