I’m the biggest stink!

While checking the now mostly dormant bulbs in the protected cold frame the other day, I caught a whiff of putrescence. The only aroid blooming in the frame at that time was Arum byzantinum, so that was ruled out as a source. A dead animal seemed likely, so I began to hunt around. Then I remembered that the Dracunculus on the side of the house was about to bloom. I checked the dragon arum, and sure enough it was in odoriferous, reeking bloom. But that was not what I was smelling.

There was at least one other likely possibility, the Voodoo lily Sauromatum ( or if you prefer Typhonium). These, too, are starting to bloom around the garden. Their scent varies – typically it reminds me more of rat feces than anything else. But that was not what I was smelling.

Then I remembered something else, something which has not bloomed in the garden for years. Around the corner from the protected cold frame, under the Rhapidophyllum, in the shade of the Noisette roses and Smilax smallii, for years a plant of Amorphophallus konjac has appeared yearly without blooming. I took a look and sure enough, there it was, a chalky, brownish maroon spadix projecting up from the liver and maroon frill of the spathe. There it was, pumping out its particular stench.

The Dracunculus and the Amorphophallus grow against the same wall of the house, separated by maybe twenty feet. It was as if these two were competing with one another to see which could be the smelliest. And that’s when I had this hilarious thought: they reminded me of the two prime donne in Mozart’s opera Der Schauspieldirektor: only this time the performers were singing “I’m the biggest stink” “No, I’m the biggest stink”, “No, surely I’m the biggest stink” and so on.

I’m letting the flies decide this one.

In the images above, the upper image is that of Dracunculus vulgaris and the lower image is that of Amorphophallus konjac.

Our rose covered cottage

For the next two weeks or so our house will be in rose-covered cottage mode. In the image above, the pale yellow roses spilling onto the roof are the Noisette roses 'Claire Jacquier' and

'Alister Stella Gray'. Nearby is a shrub of the fine old hybrid 'Scharlachglut', and around the corner, out of view in this picture, 'Madame Gregoire Staechelin' covers one side of the deck. All of these roses are richly fragrant, and they have the sort of fragrance which is free on the air.

The two Noisettes are yellow in cool, dull weather; in our typically sunny warm weather they are a very pale yellow or cream color. 'Madame Gregoire Staechelin' blooms in a range of cool pinks verging sometimes to very rich pink-red. 'Scharlachglut' is a wonderful color: it’s not simply red. When the blooms first open under cool conditions, they are an amazing, rich velvety red. What’s more, the red has a warmth of color which is very appealing. It’s well named: as the name suggests, it really does glow. Such is the fragrance of this rose that even if the blooms were tiny and white, I would still grow it.

Little Snappy

Several days of heavy rain earlier this week brought out the toads: these are now singing all day in the pond. It also brought out the little one shown above. I was looking out the front door and saw something odd on the sidewalk. At first I thought it might be a dead mouse washed in by the rain. But that didn't seem quite right. So I went out and took a close look and was surprised to find a baby snapping turtle. It seems to have a bit of egg tooth left, so perhaps it's a hatchling. I have a hunch that snapping turtles usually hatch out in the late summer or autumn, but I've heard that sometimes the hatchlings spend the first winter in the nest.

I kept Little Snappy in the house only long enough to get some pictures over a period of two days. Then it was released in the garden pool.

Like box turtles, snapping turtles are more likely to be seen dead on the road than alive in this area. But they are around and seemingly holding on well. Evidently they don't hesitate to travel overland.

For more pictures of Little Snappy, see:

http://www.jimmckenney.com/little_snappy_page.htm

Broken tulips

This post repeats one I made this morning on the Scottish Rock Garden Club Forum. The topic of the old virus infected tulips had come up, and one forum contributor expressed disbelief that anyone would pay, and pay well, for diseased tulip bulbs.

Let me try to explain.

The short answer is that there appears to be no substitute for the real thing. What are currently sold as “Rembrandt tulips” here in the US are at best crude imitations of the fine old broken tulips and do not remotely approach their rare, sophisticated beauty; particularly is this true of the best of the bizarre tulips which are my personal favorites. The modern Rembrandt tulips I have seen are as plastic child’s toys compared to the aged Morocco leather of the old bizarre tulips.

To be sure, the growing of virus infected tulips is a guilty pleasure: most of us who grow them know better and should probably not grow them. But they are like a drug: once you have succumbed to their peculiar charms, you are hooked for life. These are tulips to be admired individually in the hand, in the cozy, warm comfort of familiar domestic surroundings, as if one were living in a Vermeer painting. Perhaps the glass you hold in your other hand will contain a libation of similar muted, dark hues, layered character and ancient history. Savor each slowly, as their quality deserves. You will look at other tulips as the worldly man looks at the country bumpkin, and perhaps make comments about the rude good health of these everyday tulips. I’m not saying this is right or admirable, I’m just saying that this is what often happens.
I gladly gave my innocence to these tulips when I was a teenager, and I’ve never regretted it.
I’ve learned to live with the guilt.

That's 'Insulinde' (or 'Insulinda') in the image above.

Corona imperialis

This post is essentially a repeat of one made this morning on the PBS forum.
I’ve admitted to my failure with Fritillaria imperialis in the past, and it’s not simply Schadenfreude which now gives me pleasure when I consider that I am evidently in the distinguished company of some very accomplished growers.

How many of you know William Walsh's poem Rivals? It expresses well my feelings about my love affair with Fritillaria imperialis. Walsh died in 1708; here it is from the Oxford Book of English Verse, with the text slightly modified (and the meter massacred) to fit this topic:

Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst!
By partners in each other kind
Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.

Corona imperialis, for all the pangs you see

Are labouring in my breast,

I beg not you would favor me,

Would you but slight the rest!
How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.

My apologies to the memory of William Walsh, who probably would have known this plant as Corona imperialis.

Generally speaking, I think it’s a mistake to dwell too much on failures – I suspect that even the worst growers among us have enough imagination to fabricate explanations for the failures. Focus instead on successes – not that they are necessarily any easier to understand.
And I have a success to focus on. Sometime back in the early 70s I received a dozen bulbs of Fritillaria imperialis from a Dutch supplier; they were mailed directly to me from the Netherlands (not that that made a difference). I planted them here and there around the garden. As usual, all bloomed magnificently the first year. Several returned the second year without bloom. By the third year, only one remained. That plant was planted under a copper beech. Also, and don’t hold me to this, I vaguely remember dumping a full eighty pound bad of ground limestone or hydrated lime on that spot.
For the next ten or so years that one surviving plant reappeared but never bloomed. Then it began to bloom, and for about another ten years it bloomed yearly. It was eventually a huge plant, easily four feet high and with proportionately large flowers.
Then one summer I dumped a wheelbarrow load of something on the crown imperial site, and that was the end of it – it never reappeared, and when I dug down to look for the bulb there was nothing there. But it had survived for about twenty years, and that experience made me a believer.
I’ve noticed that when growing in the shade of deciduous trees, Fritillaria imperialis is one of those plants whose foliage expands noticeably as the trees leaf out. I take that as a hint that it is adapted to life in the shade of deciduous woody plants.
In a small little tended garden I know in the valley of Virginia (i.e.
between the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Shenandoah Mountains) a plant of Fritillaria imperialis grew for years. The climate there differs little from the climate here: winters are of comparable severity (perhaps a bit colder
there) and summers are comparably hot and humid and sporadically wet. But there is one significant difference, and it’s readily observable to the experienced gardener. The garden flora there is a bit different because the soil there is full of lime. The garden in question is on old farmland, and the autochthon is by nature full of limestone.
Might something as simple as pH or readily available calcium be the answer to the culture of this plant? I put that hypothesis to the test last fall with a few bulbs of both Fritillaria imperialis and F. persica (and also F.pallidiflora, another species whose stature gives it potential value as a garden plant). I loaded the planting site with ground limestone. It’s too soon to tell now because they’ve just finished blooming, but in a few weeks I’ll be getting hints on their prognosis. These bulbs are in a spot exposed to sun for several hours during the middle of the day.
If this iteration of the experiment does not work, I’m game to try again next year in a site under deciduous trees. Also on the roster: trials in gypsum and in a non-acid forming sulfur source.
Several dozen other species of Fritillaria have proven to be manageable
here: you would think I might grow the crown imperial, too. I’m not ready to give up yet.

In the image at the top you see on the left Fritillaria imperialis and on the right Fritillaria persica as they appear in Parkinson's PARADISI IN SOLE Paradisus Terrestris of 1629.

The wet dog bush

The wet dog bush is blooming now, just in time to join the wet dog trillium. The bush is Illicium floridanum and the trillium is Trillium erectum. They share not only the same disagreeable scent but also sufficient beauty to lure in unsuspecting flower sniffers. They are also approximately the same color, a red with a sort of garnet quality.

It comes as a surprise to most of us that the wet dog bush is hardy in local gardens. But it is, and has been for decades here. I also planted Illicium anisatum, thinking at the time that it was the source of the spice star anise. But the spice is derived from the related I. verum. It's a good thing I didn't try to home harvest seed from I. anisatum: it's toxic, as are the native I. floridanum and its cultivars.

The various Illicium make good evergreen understorey shrubs for the woodland garden. They have some of the same foliage qualities of Skimmia and the native Osmanthus americanus. Illicium bloom freely enough to attract the unwary: give them some room when they are in bloom.

The lilies of spring

Fritillaria are the lilies of spring. The last of this season's plants are blooming now, and many of the early blooming sorts are already dormant for the summer. Fritillaria will probably never be common garden plants in our climate, but if you are willing to go to a bit of trouble many will respond well. In my experience the only species likely to persist as a garden plant is Fritillaria meleagris. Most of the Fritillaria here are grown in containers in cold frames. Most start into growth very early, and it's not unknown for unprotected plants in full bloom to be caught by overnight freezes. When this happens, the plants temporarily collapse and eventually rise up again. It's hard to believe that this is good for them, but they do seem to endure such conditions without obvious ill effect.
Check on the title line above ("The lilies of spring") to link to my Fritillaria gallery: the 2008 additions will be arriving soon.

Back from the brink

About thirty years ago I began to take an interest in the wild peonies. Very few were available in the trade, and those which were were relatively expensive. Two acquisitions from those days still thrive in the garden: Paeonia emodi and the peony which is the subject of this post.

What is it? It was obtained from the old Smirnow firm under the name Paeonia peregrina. When it first bloomed long ago, I was both enchanted and disappointed. I was expecting a bright red peony, and instead there was this "pink" one. Once I got over the initial disappointment, my affection for this plant grew. For years its handsome flowers were an annual feature of the garden. Gradually its site became overgrown and shaded, and with that came decline. At first I didn't notice, and then when I did it was almost too late. The plant had become so run down that only two frail sprouts survived. It had been years since it last bloomed.

Two years ago I rescued it and moved it to a sunny location. It has bounced back nicely, and this year it is blooming again for the first time in perhaps fifteen or twenty years. I've seen a lot more peonies in the years since this one first bloomed here, and while I'm glad to see it back, it no longer has the same fascination it once did. But as long as it survives, it will be an important part of the peony story in this garden.

But what is it? If it is indeed a wild peony, I'm betting on Paeonia arietina (or P. mascula arietina if you prefer).

Camellia 'Single Red'

Years ago I somewhere saw a glorious red Camellia japonica cultivar in full bloom. When I asked about the name, I thought I heard 'Korean Red'. That was enough to start the search. It took a while, but eventually I tracked down a plant labeled 'Korean Red' and brought it home and planted it in triumph. All winter I watched the buds with growing anticipation. The buds survived the winter and survived the deer - and opened as some pink, double-flowered camellia.

Early this year a budded plant arrived from Woodlanders under the name 'Single Red'; the catalog description mentions Korea, and the illustration said "that's the plant!". When the plant bloomed last week, I could not have been more pleased: it's just what I want.

While visiting a friend's garden last week I happened to mention this Camellia 'Single Red' and my story of 'Korean Red'. As things turned out, there is an established plant of 'Korean Red' in that garden. I could see that 'Korean Red' and 'Single Red' are not the same: the flower color of 'Single Red' is a darker, more saturated red and the anthers form a more prominent mass.

At this point, I'm glad that I did not successfully acquire a plant of 'Korean Red' years ago, otherwise I might never have discovered 'Single Red'.

Red camellias in the snow are one of the loveliest sights a garden can provide.

Tree peony 'Shima-Nishiki'

The amazing blossom shown above is the Japanese tree peony cultivar 'Shima-nishiki'. After several false starts in previous years, it's producing typical blooms this year for the first time. It was worth the wait. The flowers in previous years were small and either mostly white or mostly red. This year there are five flowers with a good admixture of red and white. What a sight these are!

Tulipa fosteriana 'Madame Lefeber', the Red Emperor

The tulip in the image above is the old favorite Red Emperor, or as it is officially named 'Madame Lefeber'. Although tulips have been cultivated in the Netherlands for centuries, the official naming of cultivars did not begin until as recently as the 1930s. The tulip shown here is a cultivar of the wild Tulipa fosteriana. The story behind the introduction of this cultivar is a bit sketchy, but the general outline is that what became known as Red Emperor appeared in one batch out of many of wild collected Tulipa fosteriana. Was the original Red Emperor a single plant which went on to be propagated as a clone? Or was the original Red Emperor made up of multiple plants from a distinct wild population? The early accounts I have seen do not seem to answer this question. Throughout most of my gardening life it has been better known as Red Emperor, but recently more catalogs are listing it as Madame Lefeber.

No other wild tulip which I know has larger flowers, and if there are hybrids with larger flowers I have not seen them. If I could have only one tulip, this might very well be the one.

Tulipa 'Casa Grande'

I really like big, red tulips; and there is a new one blooming in the garden this year which does red and big as well as any tulip I have ever grown. That’s it in the image above: Tulipa ‘Casa Grande’. Several of the best qualities of Tulipa greigii are shown in this cultivar: the streaked and spotted foliage, the intense red color and the distinct flower shape. Let’s hope I find big, sound bulbs when I dig them later next month.

Garden hyacinths

Garden hyacinths are blooming now, and each year my affection for these most domesticated of bulbs grows. Although there have been hyacinths in this garden since the beginning, I’ve never paid much attention to them. And until recently I’ve always taken them for granted. In our climate they generally take care of themselves: once planted, they are likely to return indefinitely.
Last year I made an effort to acquire as many different hyacinths locally as possible. Over two dozen different cultivars were on offer in local shops. The advantage of buying the bulbs locally is that you can buy one each of as many different cultivars as are on offer. In the mail order catalogs they are generally sold in units of ten or so. That’s great for those who use them for bedding plants, but it’s very inconvenient for those of us who simply want to sample the variety available in hyacinths.
Hyacinth colors range from soft and delicate to rich and saturated, and there is not a strident color among them. The oranges and reds, colors which can require careful handling in other plants, are gentle in hyacinths, partly because the reds are not really red and the oranges are so softened by a milky suffusion. The colors remind me of cake icing colors, and to my eyes they all harmonize.
I’ve found that learning to recognize hyacinth cultivars takes some practice. There are so many white, pink and blue cultivars which look alike at first glance. Come back a few days later and be prepared for them to look a bit different: hyacinth colors morph agreeably over the life of the bloom, often acquiring a silvery sheen or a white rim to the tepals. Heat and bright sun will accelerate this process. The yellow-flowered sorts in particular quickly fade to creamy white.
I was in the army in the mid-60s, stationed briefly at Ft. Bragg in North Carolina. It was February. The peepers were out, and here and there on the base I would see tazetta daffodils struggling to bloom. And hyacinths: they were short, seemingly stunted plants which pushed their cones of pastel colors up through the sandy soil along the foundations of some of the residential units. Who in the world had planted them, and how long had they been there? Seeing them made me achingly nostalgic for my home garden. And it just occurred to me that although I’ve seen thousands of hyacinths in my lifetime, those are the only ones I remember vividly. Perhaps because at the time I no doubt wondered if they might be the last I would ever see.
Nothing assures a plant of a place in this garden as much as fragrance does. The fragrance among the cultivars does vary a bit, but to my senses not by much, That in part is why I’ve never been focused on the various cultivars: in the past I never cared about the colors that much and the fragrance in most is similar. But is it? One of the major mail order bulb suppliers describes the fragrance of hyacinths as like that of peaches. Peaches? I’ve never noticed that. This year I’ll be sampling from among the more than two dozen cultivars blooming or about to bloom to see if any are peachy.

Lilium hansonii

Lilium hansonii is typically the first lily to emerge in the late winter here. It emerges during a period when we are still experiencing overnight freezes. This has never been a problem here, but early in the twentieth century David Griffiths reported that this species, although it had been grown for decades at the Bellingham Research Station, rarely flowered because the flower buds were lost annually to cold. Yet the plants went on to make good growth otherwise.

This species has an interesting history, in some ways an improbable history. It was named by Max Leichtlin, one of the bright lights of late nineteenth century European horticulture, for Peter Hanson, an amateur lily enthusiast of Brooklyn, New York. Peter Hanson? Brooklyn, New York? Not many people would associate Brooklyn with lilies these days, but in his time Peter Hanson was a well known figure in the lily world. For instance, he is said to have corresponded with Henry Elwes and to have grown Cardiocrinum giganteum.

As far as I know, there is no viable Hanson tradition in Brooklyn or anywhere else. What he knew seems to have died with him.

Evidently the Lilium hansonii in cultivation in the west for the first century was clonal in nature. It was not until the middle of the twentieth century that new material of truly wild origin was collected in Korea. Unfortunately this newly collected material and the long existing clone seem to be muddled now.

Lilium hansonii is not a common lily in gardens. It has long had a well-deserved reputation for being easily grown, but it does not appeal to the prevailing taste in lilies. It's worth growing for its handsomely whorled foliage alone.

This is often the first lily to bloom each year in this garden. The image above, made on March 31, 2008, gives an idea of how quickly it begins to grow in late winter and earliest spring.

Corydalis 'G P Baker'

The genus Corydalis is represented in this garden by several species. Those growing here are mostly rather inconspicuous plants of soft colors. The form shown here is one of the older cultivars of bright coloring.

The world of garden Corydalis is roiling. A few decades ago, only a few of the drabber wild forms were likely to be seen in American gardens. With the appearance of Janis Ruksans' list, we finally have access to some of the very numerous cultivars being developed in Europe.

The name of this plant illustrated is variously given as 'George Baker', 'G. P. Baker', 'George P. Baker' and so on. Beautiful and easily grown they are, but their garden effect is fleeting.

Hacquetia epipactis

This is a favorite plant. It belongs to that small group of plants whose interest derives not from their flowers but rather from colorful bracts. Flowering dogwood, Cornus florida, is another example. Hacquetia is a member of the botanical family Umbelliferae (also known as the Apiaceae).

The first time I saw Hacquetia epipactis (in a photograph in Anna Griffith’s 1965 A Guide to Rock Garden Plants) I immediately liked it. It reminded me of the winter aconites: there is the same central touch of yellow and the surrounding ruff of green. In the Hacquetia the bracts which surround the central tuft of true flowers are an electric chartreuse green: they really catch the eye.

In the garden the advantage of these plants which are grown for colorful bracts is the long period of seeming bloom. The bracts remain in good condition for weeks, long after the true flowers have faded and fallen.

When not in bloom Hacquetia is a tiny, unobtrusive thing. It’s only a few inches high. It has grown here for years and seems to be doing well. It’s not well known; I know I have found a gardening soul mate when a visitor recognizes it.

Cardiocrinum cordatum

Most of the typical lilies, the members of the genus Lilium, are only now just beginning to poke above ground. The martagons are an exception: Lilium hansonii is already about a foot out of the ground and ‘Preston Yellow’ is not far behind.

The plant in the image above is Cardiocrinum cordatum, shown in late June of 2004 as it was about to bloom. This year the plant seems unusually robust; it already has a salad-plate sized rosette of foliage up. At this stage it looks a bit like skunk cabbage. Will it bloom this year? It has bloomed twice here in the past.

This plant is above ground for a relatively short period of time, generally about three months. Non-blooming plants sometimes die down for the year just when the true lilies are coming into bloom. It last bloomed here in early July of 2004.

The structure of this plant is odd. The leaves are arranged in a false whorl about halfway up the stem. A few scattered leaves appear above the false whorl. At this time of year the foliage appears to be acauline, but later the annual stem will raise the false whorl up to about 12 to 18” above the ground; the flowers will be at the three or four foot level.

Contrary to what one reads in much of the gardening literature, Cardiocrinum are not monocarpic. A friend recently showed me a newspaper article from a major newspaper in which this misunderstanding was repeated.

The image above was made shortly before the plant bloomed in 2004. Let’s hope that there will be new images of blooms in a few months.

Gardening with books

An image posted on the Pacific Bulb Society wiki recently released a flood of memories for me.

Plants are important to me, of course; but so, too, are books. A gardening life led without books is not for me. I enjoy my plants through my books, and books as much as anything help to keep it all together. The image posted shows the daffodil ‘Snipe’, one I’ve known about for nearly fifty years. It was illustrated on plate XVIII of Patrick Synge’s Collins Guide to Bulbs, published in 1961. Back in those days, I never saw it on the daffodil lists from which I bought, although the similar-in-name and somewhat similar-in-appearance ‘Jack Snipe’ eventually became widely available. Both are cyclamineus hybrids and they have a similar color pattern, but the similarity ends there. ‘Snipe’ began to appear on the list of one of the big suppliers recently; maybe this year it will finally find its way into this garden.

On that same plate XVIII is shown Narcissus cantabricus var petunioides. A plant answering to that description is about to flower in one of the cold frames now. My gosh, it’s taken nearly fifty years for this to happen.

I mentioned all of this on the PBS forum today, and also mentioned the daffodil 'Cantatrice' (also illustrated in the Synge work) for which I would like to find a source. I grew 'Cantatrice' long ago, but it disappeared as the garden grew. Within a few minutes someone replied with a lead.

I’m very happy now, happy as only someone who has known such long denial can understand. Never doubt the important role of patience in gardening.

Red Back Salamander

It rained all night the other night; when I went to bed we were under tornado warnings. The rain was heavy at times, and as expected there was seepage in the basement. I had taken up the rugs as a precaution.

That the garden the next morning was full of newly emerged sprouts did not surprise me. But the little one waiting for me on the front porch did. This is Plethodon cinereus, variously called the red back salamander, the red backed wood salamander or combinations thereof. Yes, it has two color phases, and this is the dark gray/black one. But look closely: it really isn’t black: it’s sprinkled with very fine gray speckles.

This is probably one of the more abundant amphibians in our area. But it is above ground only during a brief period in late winter-early spring and again in the fall. It’s very unusual to find one during the summer, and who’s looking during the winter?

If you are standing up and looking down, they look a lot like earthworms. When you take a closer look, you can see the tiny legs and the eyes.

Years ago I had a big collection of bromeliads which spent the frost-free season outside on the patio. During late October and November, it was not unusual to find these little salamanders crawling all over the bromeliads. This was particularly interesting because Plethodon has a Neotropical relative called Dendrotriton which is evidently adapted to life among bromeliads.

Jewel box gardening

Corydalis popovii
Tecophilaea cyanocrocus

Tecophilaea cyanocrocus

Narcissus jonquilla

The vast literature on bulbs covers so much ground that it would be hard to characterize it. But extensive reading soon shows that few writers on bulbs have been able to resist the jewel metaphor. I got to the point where I really disliked it. And then, one day earlier this year, I was opening the protected cold frame after a cold night. I lifted the lid and the perfume of tazetta daffodils enveloped me. And as I peered into the frame, the scattered bits of brilliant color made me feel as if I had opened a jewel box. It came so naturally I didn’t resist it. “Treasures” crept into an earlier blog entry; "gems" will no doubt follow.

Here are some of the jewels in bloom today: Corydalis popovii, which I first saw in my friend Bobbie’s former Fairfax, Virginia garden years ago. I remember her plant as having blooms several times larger than mine, but that’s what the first sighting of an exciting plant will do to some of us. This one has been in the frame since its receipt in 2005. It gets better yearly, but it does not divide.

If you crave blue, there are certain plants which you will want to try sooner or later. The one here is the Chilean blue crocus, Tecophilaea cyanocrocus. It’s not a crocus; currently it’s placed in a family of its own. Many early attempts to grow this plant were failures; and many of those trying were writers who, unfortunately, gave the plant a bad name. As it turns out, it’s not difficult at all to grow. If I can keep it going, anyone can. In the recent past this plant was thought to be extinct in the wild, although recently reports of wild populations have been circulating. Its biggest enemies are collectors and cattle.

Those of you fastidious about pronunciation will perhaps appreciate knowing that the o in crocus is short: thus ky-an-ó-cro-cus. One typically hears sigh-an-no-crow’-cuss, the last syllable of which expresses my sentiments well when I hear it.

If you want to try the Chilean crocus, be prepared to lighten your wallet a bit. A single corm will not cost more than lunch for two at McDonald’s, but that’s still more than most of us are used to paying for one tiny bulb.

If the price bothers you, keep in mind that this same gorgeous color is yours virtually for free. In mid summer, look around for a patch of the weed called Asiatic day flower, Commelina communis; or check the seed catalogs for its relative Commelina coelestis. Not only is the color similar; the texture of the colored petals is also very close.

The little daffodil is a form of Narcissus jonquilla received under the name henriquezii. The name, as with so many daffodil names, is dubious. This plant is very free flowering and seems much easier to grow than some of the bigger forms of Narcissus jonquilla. This species has a strong, characteristic fragrance which I prize as one of the great floral scents.

That’s enough for a first peek. All of these were on the upper tray of the jewel box; there are plenty more to come.