Stocks and other geraniums—even the mauvy-tinted ones looked quite well away from all touch of red—with a border of lobelia, were placed under the study window in a narrow bed running along the front of the house, thus helping his Reverence to realise his ideal. Then by degrees we arranged all the contents of my nursery, some in clumps, some in rows, down the herbaceous border, and others in the front border, the border which had looked so dismal and unpromising on that November day when I first took my garden in hand. There had been a brushing up of old inhabitants—Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums—but much was still left to be desired.
You cannot do everything in the first year. It is no use thinking you can.
One day, at the very beginning of June, I visited the potting-shed, our one and only shed, which held a collection such as may be imagined after the reign of Griggs for twenty years. In a dark corner I came across some queer-looking roots sprouting away in a most astoundingly lively fashion.
"Griggs, what on earth are these?" I called to that worthy.
"Them? Oh! them's daylers. Just stuck 'em there to keep dry for the winter. They oughter be out by now, they oughter."
"Oh! I should think so," and then I marvelled on the nature of dahlias.
"Is this a good place for them during the winter? Don't they want anything to eat or drink?"
"Bless yer! no, they takes their fill in the summer, but they oughter be out by now; some'ow I've come to overlook them."