Pleasant also it is, by the way, to vindicate the
character of green frogs. I never heard them
spoken of by gardeners but with contempt. Not
only do they persist in escaping; more than that, they
decline to catch insects, sitting motionless all day
long—pretty, if you like, but useless.
The fact is, that all these creatures are nocturnal
of habit. Very few men visit their orchid-houses
at night, as I do constantly. They would see
the frogs active enough then, creeping with wondrous
dexterity among the leaves, and springing like a green
flash upon their prey. Naturally, therefore,
they do not catch thrips or mealy-bug or aphis; these
are too small game for the midnight sports-man.
Wood-lice, centipedes, above all, cockroaches, those
hideous and deadly foes of the orchid, are their victims.
All who can keep them safe should have green frogs
by the score in every house which they do not fumigate.
I have come to the orchids at last. It follows,
indeed, almost of necessity that a man who has travelled
much, an enthusiast in horticulture, should drift
into that branch as years advance. Modesty would
be out of place here. I have had successes, and
if it please Heaven, I shall win more. But orchid
culture is not to be dealt with at the end of an article.
III.
In the days of my apprenticeship I put up a big greenhouse:
unable to manage plants in the open-air, I expected
to succeed with them under unnatural conditions!
These memories are strung together with the hope of
encouraging a forlorn and desperate amateur here or
there; and surely that confession will cheer him.
However deep his ignorance, it could not possibly
be more finished than mine some dozen years ago; and
yet I may say, Je suis arrive! What that
greenhouse cost, “chilled remembrance shudders”
to recall; briefly, six times the amount, at least,
which I should find ample now. And it was all
wrong when done; not a trace of the original arrangement
remains at this time, but there are inherent defects.
Nothing throve, of course—except the insects.
Mildew seized my roses as fast as I put them in; camellias
dropped their buds with rigid punctuality; azaleas
were devoured by thrips; “bugs,” mealy
and scaly, gathered to the feast; geraniums and pelargoniums
grew like giants, but declined to flower. I consulted
the local authority who was responsible for the well-being
of a dozen gardens in the neighbourhood—an
expert with a character to lose, from whom I bought
largely. Said he, after a thorough inspection:
“This concrete floor holds the water; you must
have it swept carefully night and morning.”
That worthy man had a large business. His advice
was sought by scores of neighbours like myself.
And I tell the story as a warning; for he represents
no small section of his class. My plants wanted
not less but a great deal more water on that villainous
concrete floor.
