You have heard of the marvelous Persian garden of gems—four hundred feet in length and ninety feet wide—made to imitate the most beautiful blooms of earth. It cost millions upon millions. Do you know that it is in your power, with the advance of floriculture, to create gardens far more resplendent in beauty—great gardens of delight fit for the touch of angel's feet, while the whole is flooded with billows of sweetest perfume? Three years ago that was a patch of barren earth; now you have pulled down a section of paradise upon it and condensed there the tints of the morning, the splendors of the evening, the beauty of the rainbow, and the effulgence which flames in the mantles of the suns.
I love to think of Nature as a person—first born daughter of God—her head white with the snows of the centuries, her cheeks radiant with the flush of recurrent springtime, emblems of eternal youth. She takes you by the hand, leads you into the forests, talks to you of the soul of the tree, tells you how intelligent it is. There is one standing in the open. It has performed a feat no civil engineer can emulate. Think of those roots so busily scurrying around in the earth, gathering food to send up the cambium highway to nourish the trees. See the taut cords thrown out to anchor it against the storms. Look at those trees on the outskirts. Among wild animals the strongest are on guard on the outside to protect the herd. So these sentinel trees guard their wards against the storms. Fool man cuts down the guards and the wards fall before the sweep of the storm. Mother Nature—dear, friendly soul—takes you into her holy of holies and reveals her mysteries. She makes a confident of you. She throws open her doors and shows you the wide vistas of a new land you may enter and glorify. Follow her direction, and what a friend you have! Cross her, thinking you know more than she does, and she laughs at you. She takes you into the garden and the nursery and discloses her wonders and helps you to work miracles. You plant seeds and bulbs, and beauty rises to greet you. Did you ever think of the royal position of the florist and horticulturist?
The sacred poet speaks of the "labor of the olive." What a flood of light that opens upon us. "All things are yours." Let us go out into the grove you have planted. I once took off my hat to myself. While living in the Republican Valley, near the 100th meridian, I planted some bull pine seed. When the little trees were large enough, I transplanted them in rows six feet apart and started a miniature forest. Twenty-five years after I went to see them. The rows were straight. The trees had fine bodies six inches through. They were miniature columns in a temple, holding up a canopy of green. The ground was covered with a thick carpet of needles. It was one of the most pleasing sights I ever saw. Then I thought, "What if I had planted forty acres?" I would have had a Mecca to which horticultural pilgrims would have flocked from hundreds of miles. I planted the trees, and the faithful servants kept on working day and night, and that beautiful grove was the result. Every tree you plant is your servant, and how faithful it is—no shirking, always at it whether you are looking or not. Look at that cherry tree. How the tiny rootlets scurry through the soil—faithful children gathering food to send up to their mother. Look at that flood of bloom. Then the fruit grows till a mass of red gleams from the leafy coverts. There is a great difference between a patch of brown earth and your faithful Jonathan. What a marvel that little patch of soil, absolutely milked by those busy foragers, and the extracts of it glowing in red beauty on the tree. Talk of chemists! Those quiet rootlets surpass them all.
Albert Victor iris, from Mr. Harrison's garden—about one-third size.
If you want to be in the realm of miracles, lay down your hoe awhile and sit among your flowers. Your brain devised the plan, your hand planted the seeds and bulbs. "Behold the lilies, how they grow." Now sit there and think it out. At your feet are artists no human skill may imitate. Two peonies grow side by side. Golden Harvest opens with yellow petals fading to purest white. In the center is a miniature Festiva Maxima—blood drops and all. How can those roots send up the golden tints, the snowy white and the red, and never have the colors mixed? Close by is a Plutarch, deep brilliant red. The roots intermingle. How is it possible to pick out of the dull soil, Nature's eternal drab, that brilliant color for your peony? There are your iris, the new sorts absolutely undescribable. There are a dozen different shades in a single bloom. But those blind artists at work in their subterranean studios never make a mistake. The standards must have just such colors, the falls just such tints, and where did they get that dazzling radiant reflex such as you see on Perfection, Monsignor and Black Knight? But it is always there shimmering in the sunlight. There is a fairy—a pure snowy queen. How was that sweetness and purity ever extracted from the scentless soil? Every bloom uncorks a vial of perfume which has the odor of the peach blossom.
Did you ever sit down in your kingdom and see what a royal throne you occupied? What a reception your flowers give you! The ambrosia and nectar of the feasts of the deities of fable are overshadowed by the fragrance and sweetness of your worshippers. It would seem that every flower, like a royal subject, was bent on rendering the most exalted honor to her king. No company of maidens preparing for nuptials were ever arrayed like these. Each one is striving to do her best. The highest art ever displayed in the palaces of kings is no comparison to the beauty and splendor of your reception. By divine right you are supreme. The fertile soil puts her tributes at your feet; for you all the viewless influences of nature are at work; for you the sun shines and the showers fall. So brothers, don't creep but mount up as on eagle's wings. Invoice yourself and see how great you are! Don't live all the while in the basement—spend some time in the upper story of your calling!
You are not making the earth weep blood. You are not spreading on the fields a carpet of mangled forms. You are not dropping ruin and death from the skies or polluting God's pure waters with submarines. You are not turning all your energies into the work of destruction, despoiling the treasures of art and the pride of the ages and turning the fairest portions of the earth into desolations. You are not changing yourselves into demons to gloat over starvation and ruin. You are soldiers of peace. Behind you was the somber earth. You touched it with the wand of your power, and beauty, health and pleasure sprang up to bless you.
See what you have done! You have clothed the barrenness of the dreary plain with gardens, orchards and forests. You have been at work with God and glorified a vast empire, and now he has blessed the work of your hands. Instead of the air sodden with tears and tremulous with the wail of widows and orphans, you are welcomed with the joy of children and the delight of mothers. All along the lines of progress you receive the most cordial ovations, and when you pass on to the land where "everlasting spring abides", may you receive the royal welcome, "Well done, good and faithful servant."