At that she was wonderful. She started dainty little vines and
climbing plants from tiny seeds she found in rice and coffee.
Rooted things she soaked in water, rolled in fine sand, planted
according to habit, and they almost never failed to justify her
expectations. She even grew trees and shrubs from slips and
cuttings no one else would have thought of trying to cultivate, her
last resort being to cut a slip diagonally, insert the lower end in
a small potato, and plant as if rooted. And it nearly always grew!
There is a shaft of white stone standing at her head in a cemetery
that belonged to her on a corner of her husband's land; but to Mrs.
Porter's mind her mother's real monument is a cedar of Lebanon
which she set in the manner described above. The cedar tops the
brow of a little hill crossing the grounds. She carried two slips
from Ohio, where they were given to her by a man who had brought
the trees as tiny things from the holy Land. She planted both in
this way, one in her dooryard and one in her cemetery. The tree
on the hill stands thirty feet tall now, topping all others, and
has a trunk two feet in circumference.
Mrs. Porter's mother was of Dutch extraction, and like all Dutch
women she worked her special magic with bulbs, which she favoured
above other flowers. Tulips, daffodils, star flowers, lilies,
dahlias, little bright hyacinths, that she called "blue bells," she
dearly loved. From these she distilled exquisite perfume by putting
clusters, & time of perfect bloom, in bowls lined with freshly
made, unsalted butter, covering them closely, and cutting the few
drops of extract thus obtained with alcohol.
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