Some people have associated such a, tropical idea with the sight of a greenhouse, that they positively shrink from entering it on a warm day, and this idea is fostered by the custom, and in the explanation of the majority of gardeners on the summer cultivation of greenhouse plants, in the turning out of all and every movable plant (wholesale and retail) out of the greenhouse and huddled together sans cere-monie under trees, hedges, back walls and out-of-the-way corners; the affair is finished by putting an embargo on the greenhouse door. The place is forthwith proscribed, and like a sleigh, it is laid away until winter, when it is again stuffed full of its former occupants, and all under the absurd notion that nothing will thrive in it during the summer months.

If gardeners would for a moment study the effects of this method they would soon abandon it for a better. Nothing can be more injurious to them or to their profession.

If we would create in the minds of our employers a lively interest for the subject of our labors, we ought to render those subjects as interesting as possible. We must give a visible polish to the productions of our art. The flower garden may be parched with drouth, but the greenhouse ought always to be in a blaze of beauty. But, can this be done? Certainly. Nothing is more easy. To effect it successfully, however, the gardener must not only have a "weather eye," but also a philosophical one, so as to discern the times and the seasons, the transitions of nature and the nature of the plants, and the atmosphere we place them in as well as the soil and water we supply them with. In short, we must do things in the proper manner and at the proper time, in close imitation of the teachings of nature. We ought to have that confidence in our operations which is learned only by close practice and strict observation, and without which, plant-growing is both a profitless and pleasureless business, unsatisfactory to our employers and discreditable to ourselves.

Every summer I visit a considerable number of places where gardeners are kept, and at most, without one single exception, their greenhouses are empty; perhaps a few old and immovable and unsightly subjects were standing here and there covered with dead and dying foliage, making the wretched appearance of the house more wretched and its confusion more confused.

I admit there are many who have little encouragement to try anything of the kind suggested, and that an empty, disfigured greenhouse, for the want of taste, culture or inclination is as much appreciated as if it was that thing of beauty represented as being to some few "a joy for ever." Nor should we allow small obstacles to be sufficient apology to relinquish or chequer that art that is so worthy our best endeavors. We sacrifice time and convenience to many things not half so worthy our efforts or so satisfactory in their results.