Flowers from Memory’s Garden

Flowers from Memory's Garden By Mrs. Deseret F. Eyring A Letter from a Mother to her Son Dear Son: — As the "honey bee" was searching for a poem to send you, she came across the one entitled, "Give Them the Flowers Now." I am copying it to send in this letter, not to re- mind you to send flowers, but to show you that I appreciate those you have already given me. In memory I see a small boy kneeling by his mother's side, as he is taking his first lesson in rose and flower planting. ' He often helped in this way until his mother's health failed, and then he did all the planting, while she looked on and gave instructions. I wonder if you remember the first two rose bushes, the canary-colored tea rose, the favorite of the May Queen and the girl graduate, and the "June" rose with its delicate pink color and sweet perfume. I know you will remember our first rose garden in which we planted the roses we received from the East, and how those were cultivated and pruned until they and the "June" rose vied with each other in beauty and fragrance. Of course you remember the climbing vines that covered the arbor leading to the north gate. Here honeysuckle, trumpet-creeper, woodbine, myrtle, and ivy ran riot, and the cherry and apple trees made dense shade. The blossoms of the cherry tree were the first of our flowers to attract the honey bees, the fruit from the apple tree was the joy of the children. Under the trees we planted our first lawn which we encircled with beds of iris. Then you will remember the vines that grew over the north porch wall; the wisteria bore such large clusters of blossoms, some lavender and some white, while the vine that resembled the jasamine made such thrifty growth that it almost covered the porch roof with immense chocolate colored clusters of bloom. On the south wall the crimson-ramblers made 3uch a promise of beauty, but always failed us just when coming into bloom, because mildew spoiled their beauty. The other climbers on this wall were more kind, some of our darkest and most beau- tiful roses grew there. Now come with me to the north side of the house, and look at the triangular gladiolus bed where we planted the bulbs the

FLOWERS FROM MEMORY'S GARDENS 59T spring you left for the University. You did not get to see those flowers, but mother spent many happy evening hours sitting on the porch admiring the gorgeous array of color. In memory, see the two east gardens on either side of the path to the east gate. Here shrubs and perennials grew. Perennial phlox, with their immense clusters of white, salmon, pink, lavender, and rose-pink blooms, grew to perfection. They were the first to break through the soil in Spring and the last to disappear in Autumn. In these gardens the canna lilies and chrysan- themums grew. The red-hot-poker stood like a sentinel to fcuard the corners where the crimson syringa and box plants had their home. A bridal-wreath stood on each side of the gate, and near the fence grew the mock-orange, with its dainty white bell-shaped blossoms with yellow centers. Not far away was the golden-glow, and near it stood the sweet brier rose. Near here I planted the peonies you sent me. I still remember the large white flowers that looked like frosted snow. The centers contained a crimson spot and the petals splashes of delicate color. Do you remember the honey suckle and the myrtle that grew on the north side of the store room? Here the song- sparrows loved to congregate and sing their evening and morn- ing songs. Although they were near the kitchen door, they vre not afraid, for we never killed our birds. Near the door of the store-room stood an old tub on a high bench. We had splendid success raising pansies from seed in this unsightly seed bed. Under a low growing tree that grew near, we planted a violet bed. The violets received just enough sun and just enough shade. The purple varieties were so large and fragrant, the white kind had such long stems, were marked with blue and were always in bloom. Just to the south was our youngest rose garden, with its twenty very choice roses, the pick of the flower catalogues. You did not get to see this garden at its best, it was the joy of your mother's heart. You surely have not forgotten the climbing roses on the south wall of the house. It seems but yesterday that you stood on a high ladder as you tacked strips of cloth across the rose stems to hold the vines in place. Some of the vines were so thrifty that they seemed to wish to reach to the top-most part of the gable. Some were in bud in February and buds were still to be found in November. How we learn to love the "Pillar of Gold" with its bronze-green foliage, its almost thornless stems, and its wonderful roses. The roses — what beauties, their apricot color blended and tinged with pink, their perfume all that one could ask for. These roses clustered around my bed-room window; they smiled at me and gave me cheer in the long

598 IMPROVEMENT ERA hours while I was alone. This is my memory garden and linked with it is the memory of my children whose labors helped to make all this beauty possible. Circumstances made it best for us to come north to live with you. I remember how no pains were spared to make us wel- come. You led me to a sunny window and said, "I thought you would miss your flowers, mother dear, so I have made you a little garden just outside. You can see the flowers from this window." I truly enjoyed that garden, a patriotic garden planted with red, white, and blue asters. Later we moved to another home. Of course, you remember the Dorothy Perkim climber with its clusters of dainty pink roses, growing by the side of the crimson-rambler which did not mildew this time. I well remember the following Christmas, our first flowers from the green house were purchased. Their fragrance filled the whole house. Then came the Easter lily, at Easter time. I took great pleasure in the weeks that followed watching the buds unfold, and now, although years have passed, when I close my eyes I can still see my favorite flower, my perfect Easter lily. When you were east at school, I sometimes felt very lonely. On Mother's Day I longed to hear from my children. The postman made his last call. There was no letter, mother could hardly repress her tears, when lo — a messenger boy arrived with a box of flowers. The card indicated that the flowers were from you and your dear wife. The box contained seven beautiful carnations, fresh, young, and fragrant. They were a joy to your mother in and of themselves, and they breathed love from my children — this was a greater joy. Now, dear son, I wish to thank you for the many beautiful boquets and potted plants which you and your dear wife and her thoughtful mother have given me, for the happiness I experienced in your home among the flowers, and for the wild flowers yau brought home from Timpanogos. — And, now dear eon, if Providence decree that you should not be near me when my "closed eyes cannot see the white roses," I want you to re- member that you have always given me flowers, and with your kindness and thoughtfulness have brightened my life, and that I do not forget the "bloom from the happy heart's garden, plucked in the spirit of love." And if mother receives an inheritance on the glorified earth and has a home surrounded with flowers, one of my greatest joys will be to have you visit me there and walk with me through that garden while we contemplate the undreamed of beauty of the flowers that never fade. "Blooms from the happy heart's garden Plucked in the spirit of love,

FLOWERS FROM MEMORY'S GARDENS 599 Blooms that are earthly reflections Of flowers that hlossom above; Words cannot tell what a measure Of hlessing such gifts will allow To dwell in the lives of many, So give them the flowers now!'" Snowflake, Arizona Your Loving Mother, The Navajo Shepherd Only a hogan is his home. A rounded hut of wood and clay; A shelter from the chill of night And from the burning day. Seen from his door, the world around Has neither claimant, fence, nor bound But cedar groves and sage-brush gray, And ) > i in .ti forests for away. He is a shepherd of the wastes, Where distances the eyes bedim; His wealth of flocks that he infolds Within the desert's rim. His the wild life where distance blends The earth and sky in craggy ends, And haunting solitudes are grim With sand-dunes to the vision's brim. Lonely his life and few his wants — A lonely, lonely life and free, Where comfort brings its happiness Through frugal industry; And here his wife contented lives Enjoying what each season gives; A life in nature's harmony — All she desires to be. Crooning her labor-chant, she weave* Close by her lowly curtained door. The blankets filled with mystic signs Of ancient tribal lore. The emblems that some thought portrays Of history and tribal ways — The Indian legends told of yore Her warp and woof restore. Only a hogan is his home! And here infolded in its wall, His wife and children have his love — - Held in the desert's thrall. His creed has in its circle cast The dreamful worship of the Past, With faith that whatsoe'er befall There's one Great Spirit over all! Payson, Utah Joseph Longking Townsend.