The Daily Gardener

Jennifer Ebeling
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The Daily Gardener is a weekday podcast celebrating garden history, literature, and the small botanical stories that shape how we garden today. Each episode follows an "on this day" format, uncovering the people, plants, books, and moments that have quietly influenced gardens across time. New episodes are released Monday through Friday, and each show features a thoughtfully chosen garden book.

  1. 4H AGO

    March 3, 2026 Matthias de l'Obel, Charles Morren, James Merrill, The Seed Keeper by Diane Wilson, and Edward Thomas

    Subscribe Apple | Google | Spotify | Stitcher | iHeart Support The Daily Gardener Patreon Buy Me A Coffee Connect for FREE! The Friday Newsletter |  Daily Gardener Community Today's Show Notes March third sits right on a hinge. Winter hasn't let go. Spring hasn't fully arrived. But the day is longer. The light is different. It's the kind of light that catches the dust in the potting shed and makes you reach for your gloves, even if the ground is still too hard for a spade. And something in the ground knows it. Today is about how we notice that change — how we name it, how we measure it, and how we remember what matters. Today's Garden History 1616 Matthias de l'Obel died. Matthias lived during what historians now call the botanical Renaissance — a time when plants were finally being seen for what they were, not just for what they could cure. Before Matthias, plants were often grouped by superstition, by medicine, or simply alphabetically. Matthias did something radical. He looked at the leaves. Their shapes. Their veins. Their structure. He believed plants should be understood by how they grow — not by what humans hope to extract from them. In doing so, he helped lay the groundwork for one of the most important distinctions in botany: grasses and lilies on one side, broad-leaved plants on the other. What we now call monocots and dicots began with careful looking. Matthias served as royal botanist to King James I and tended influential gardens in England. But his life wasn't without friction. He accused John Gerard, author of the famous Herball, of using his work without credit. There's also a quieter, more human detail. Matthias used a visual pun as his personal seal. His books bore an image of two poplar trees — aubels in French — a small botanical wink at his own name. His legacy still blooms today. The genus Lobelia carries his name — those vivid blue and red flowers that pull hummingbirds close and reward anyone willing to look carefully. Matthias reminds us that before a plant is a cure, or a decoration, or a crop, it is a life. And that life has a signature written right into the veins of its leaves. When we stop to trace a leaf with our thumb, we are talking to the plant in the language Matthias helped us learn. 1807 Charles Morren was born in Ghent, Belgium. Charles gave gardeners a word we still use — even if we don't always realize it. Phenology is the heartbeat of the garden. It's the internal calendar that tells the crocus to push through the snow and the lilac to hold its breath. It's the study of time in the living world — when the first leaf opens, when a flower blooms, when birds arrive. If you've ever written "first snowdrop" in a notebook, you've been practicing phenology. Charles wasn't just watching the seasons. He was trying to understand how climate, light, and time shape the life of a plant. And then there's vanilla. For centuries, vanilla vines grew in Europe but never produced fruit. The flowers opened — and failed. Charles discovered why. The vanilla orchid depended on a specific Mexican bee. Without it, the flower needed help. In 1836, Charles became the first person in Europe to successfully hand-pollinate vanilla. He proved it could be done. Think of Charles in that glasshouse, holding a tiny sliver of wood, acting as a surrogate for a bee thousands of miles away. It was a moment of profound intimacy between a man and a flower — a secret shared in the quiet of a Belgian winter. He didn't patent the method. He didn't profit from it. He remained a teacher. The world would later learn that it was actually a twelve-year-old enslaved boy, Edmond Albius, who refined the technique and transformed vanilla production forever. But Charles's contribution remains essential. He also founded La Belgique Horticole, one of the most beautiful garden journals of the nineteenth century — a place where science and beauty were allowed to coexist. Charles reminds us that the garden has its own clock, and that paying attention to timing is one of the quiet disciplines of care. Unearthed Words In today's Unearthed Words, we hear a line from the American poet and translator James Merrill, born on this day in 1926. James was a poet who understood that even the smallest acts of tending are declarations of belonging. He once wrote: "Nor do I try to keep a garden, only An avocado in a glass of water… I am earth's no less." A pit. A glass. A beginning. Even that, he told us, counts. Book Recommendation The Seed Keeper by Diane Wilson It's Spring Awakening Week here on The Daily Gardener, which means this week's book recommendations mark the moment when gardeners shift from waiting to watching, and from dreaming to doing. This is a novel that changes how gardeners think about seeds. In The Seed Keeper, seeds are not commodities. They are relatives. Carriers of memory. Objects of responsibility. The story follows Rosalie Iron Wing, a Dakhóta woman whose life is shaped by land, loss, and the quiet act of saving what matters. Women sew seeds into hems. Hide them during displacement. Carry them through war, boarding schools, and erasure. This book asks a question: What does it mean to plant something — knowing it came from someone else's hands? When you press a seed into the soil this spring, remember that you aren't just planting a flower. You are holding a tiny, living baton in a relay race that has lasted for centuries. You are the next chapter in a story that someone else loved enough to keep alive. It's a story about resilience. And remembering our original relationship to the earth. Botanic Spark And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart. 1878 Edward Thomas was born. Edward was a lover of nature who listened closely to ordinary days. On his birthday, he wrote a poem called March the Third, noting that the day held "twelve hours singing for the bird." Not a promise. Just a fact. The poem ends this way: This day unpromised is more dear Than all the named days of the year When seasonable sweets come in, Because we know how lucky we are. Edward looked at the dust on the nettles to see the soul. For him, the truth was simple: dust on nettles, scents released when a spade cuts a root. That sharp, cold smell of damp earth and bruised roots — the true perfume of a gardener's New Year. It's the smell of waking up. Edward reminds us that beauty isn't always in bloom. Sometimes it's in the noticing. Final Thoughts Whether you are tracing the veins of a leaf like Matthias or waiting for the garden's clock to strike spring like Charles, you are part of a long line of people who refused to let the beauty of the world go unnoticed. Gardens speak in many languages. Leaves. Light. Timing. Seeds. Some are written down. Some are carried forward quietly. If today feels like a threshold, that's because it is. March third doesn't promise spring — but it does lean toward it. Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

    12 min

  2. 1D AGO

    March 2, 2026 John Jacob Mauer, Carl Linnaeus, Richard Wilbur, My Garden in Spring by E. A. Bowles, and Margaret Sibella Brown

    Subscribe Apple | Google | Spotify | Stitcher | iHeart Support The Daily Gardener Patreon Buy Me A Coffee Connect for FREE! The Friday Newsletter |  Daily Gardener Community Today's Show Notes Early March is when a garden starts to argue with winter. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just a little give in the light. A softening at the edges. Proof — quiet but persistent — that something is already underway. Today's stories are for the people who kept going. Often unseen. Often unnamed. But essential. Today's Garden History 1875 John Jacob Mauer was born. If his name isn't familiar, that's not unusual. Garden history is full of people like Jacob — the ones whose hands shaped a place, even when their names didn't stay attached to it. Jacob became head gardener at Warley Place in Essex, the great English estate claimed and controlled by Ellen Ann Willmott. Ellen is remembered for a plant with a dramatic nickname — Eryngium giganteum, called Miss Willmott's Ghost, because the story goes she scattered its seed in other people's gardens. But if you walk Warley Place now, what lingers isn't a single plant slipped into hedges elsewhere. It's the structure. The rockwork. The alpine ravine. And the spring bulbs that still rise every March — snowdrops, crocuses, daffodils — without asking who owns the land. Jacob came to England from Switzerland in 1894, just nineteen years old, after Ellen personally recruited him. She promised him two things: a small house and a pension when his working life was done. Promises, though, can be delicate things in estate gardens. Ellen was known to dismiss gardeners for a single weed. So staying — for decades — meant working under constant pressure. By day, Jacob kept Ellen's borders immaculate. By night, he worked his own small patch — onions, leeks, potatoes — because feeding your family still matters, even when you're keeping someone else's garden alive. Jacob and his wife raised a large family there. And the detail that survives — the one people remember — is his daughters' names, drawn straight from the garden: Rose. Violet. Lily. Marguerite. Iris. When Ellen's admirers arrived — guests from Kew, from universities — Jacob led the tours. He knew the garden best. But his accent made him hard for some visitors to understand. And so the groups would drift away, leaving him standing among the plants he had raised. Think of the silence in that moment. Jacob standing in the damp morning air, surrounded by plants that knew his touch better than they knew the sun, while the experts walked on, never realizing that the very man they couldn't understand was the one truly speaking the garden's language. And yet Jacob had a voice. He published notes from Warley Place in The Garden magazine. Unheard in person — then read later, at home. One image from Ellen's biographer, Audrey Le Lièvre, captures the distance between them. Ellen would stop at the hedge line of South Lodge — never crossing it — calling for Jacob to come to her, no matter the hour. Despite her difficult and eccentric reputation, when Ellen Willmott died alone in 1934, her family was long gone. Years earlier, after the death of her sister Rose, she had written the heartbreaking line: "Now, there is no one to send the first snowdrops to." After Ellen's death, Warley Place changed quickly. Plants were lifted, packed, carried away. The estate was sold. South Lodge was sold. And the promise that first brought Jacob to England quietly disappeared. When Jacob left South Lodge, he didn't just leave a house. He left forty years of muscle memory. He left the stones he had placed by hand in the ravine — stones still cold from the English winter when he turned his back on them for the last time and returned to Switzerland with his wife. In the summer of 1937, after years of toil and strain, Jacob died. Two years later, in 1939, the house at Warley Place was demolished. But the bulbs didn't notice. Every March, they still come up — as if the ground itself remembers who worked there. 1776 Carl Linnaeus wrote a letter meant to be opened after his death. Not a farewell. Instructions. What worried him was simple: rats, moths, damp, time. What follows is an excerpt from the letter he wrote on this day in 1776: A voice from the grave to her who was my dear wife: The two herbaria in the Museum. Let neither rats nor moths damage them. Let no naturalist steal a single plant. Take great care who is shown them. Valuable though they already are, they will still be worth more as time goes on. They are the greatest collection the world has ever seen. Do not sell them for less than a thousand ducats. The library in my museum, with all my books, is worth at least 3,000 copper dollars. Do not sell it, but give it to the Uppsala Library. Carl Linne What came after his death was not order. It was family disagreement, money, and uncertainty. His son, Carl Linnaeus the Younger, worked tirelessly to preserve the collections — and then died just five years later, in 1783. After that, the collections left Sweden. The English botanist and founder of the Linnean Society, James Edward Smith, purchased them and put them on a ship to England. By the time Swedish officials realized what had happened, it was already too late. Carl's life's work became the foundation of the Linnean Society of London — a defining hinge in botanical history. There was a Swedish warship sent in pursuit. That part is true. Whether it caught up or not matters less than what it reveals: a nation reluctant to lose a lifetime of careful naming. And for all of Linnaeus's anxiety, his favorite plant was small — the twinflower, Linnaea borealis. Low to the ground. Quiet. Persistent. He once said the twinflower was "long overlooked, lowly, insignificant" — a reminder that even the man who named the world felt small within it. If you've ever trusted a Latin name to hold a plant steady across borders and centuries, this is part of the reason it worked. Not brilliance alone. But vigilance. And care. Unearthed Words In today's Unearthed Words, we hear an excerpt from the American poet and translator Richard Wilbur, born on this day in 1921. Richard wrote with a steady eye for ordinary life — for the moment when something living reveals itself. From The Beautiful Changes: "Any greenness is deeper than anyone knows." And from Seed Leaves: "But something at the root More urgent than that urge Bids two true leaves emerge…" Until those true leaves appear, every seedling looks the same. Book Recommendation My Garden in Spring by E. A. Bowles It's Spring Awakening Week here on The Daily Gardener, which means this week's book recommendations mark the moment when gardeners shift from waiting to watching, and from dreaming to doing. Edward Augustus Bowles — known to his family and friends as Gussie — wrote this book from the threshold of the season he loved most. Early March was his time. Snowdrops drew him outdoors — a devoted galanthophile, a lover of that small, spring-flowering bulb. Gussie kept a part of his garden, which he called the Lunatic Asylum, where odd plants were allowed to stay odd. But what lasts most is his generosity. Visitors were sent home with plants — not sold, but shared. As if gardening were something you pass along, not possess. When you plant a division from a friend, you aren't just planting a root. You're planting a conversation that never has to end. Botanic Spark And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart. 1866 Margaret Sibella Brown was born in Nova Scotia. Margaret was a bryologist — someone who studied mosses and liverworts, plants most people step over without seeing. She was largely self-taught — and still became internationally respected. During World War I, when cotton was scarce, Margaret helped collect sphagnum moss for medical dressings — turning bogs into something like a pharmacy. Imagine Margaret in those damp woods, her fingers cold as she gathered moss that would eventually find its way into a muslin bag for a wounded soldier. It is the ultimate gardener's prayer: that the quiet things we grow might actually save someone. If you notice moss today, don't treat it as background. Lean in. Use a hand lens — or your phone. It's a forest close to the ground. Soft. Persistent. Alive with detail. Final Thoughts A garden may carry one name — but it's shaped by many hands. By the ones who show up early. Who stay late. Who keep going when no one is watching. If you need one line to carry into the rest of this day, take Richard Wilbur's: "Any greenness is deeper than anyone knows." Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

    15 min

  3. 4D AGO

    February 27, 2026 Jacob Bigelow, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Elizabeth-Ellen Long, Dream Gardens by Tania Compton, and Peter Stuyvesant's Pear Tree

    Subscribe Apple | Google | Spotify | Stitcher | iHeart Support The Daily Gardener Patreon Buy Me A Coffee Connect for FREE! The Friday Newsletter |  Daily Gardener Community Today's Show Notes Late February has a particular restraint to it. The color is mostly gone. What remains are the outlines—paths, trunks, and the stone walls of our memories. This is the part of the season where gardens tell the truth about themselves. What was built to last is still standing. Today's Garden History 1787 Jacob Bigelow was born in Salisbury, Massachusetts. The American physician, botanist, and botanical illustrator believed a garden should offer solace, not only in bloom, but in every season that strips a place down to its bones. He was the visionary behind Mount Auburn Cemetery, founded in 1831, America's first garden cemetery: winding paths, evergreens, and stone architecture meant to harmonize with the land. In winter, Mount Auburn is honest. Nothing hides behind flowers. You see the structure. You feel the intention. Bigelow was also a pioneering botanist. In 1814, he published Florula Bostoniensis, the first systematic catalog of New England plants, arguing that the most meaningful botany begins right where you live. Later, as a physician, he articulated a radical idea. He believed many conditions were self-limited, that nature often knows how to resolve itself if we allow it time. That belief followed him into the landscape. One of his final acts was designing a massive granite sphinx at Mount Auburn, a Civil War memorial. He placed an American water lily at its base, a flower he could no longer see, but one he had cataloged decades earlier in the muddy wetlands of New England. By the time the monument was installed in 1872, Bigelow's eyesight was nearly gone. He experienced the sphinx not with vision, but with his hands. A garden built to endure, even when sight fades, even when winter comes. 1807 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born. Longfellow was a poet, but he was also a gardener of structure. At his Cambridge, Massachusetts home, he designed formal parterres edged in boxwood—lyre-shaped beds, symmetry he once described as a Persian rug spread across the lawn. These were gardens made for February. When the flowers were gone, the geometry remained. Longfellow understood that winter reveals design. It shows us whether a garden was thoughtfully built, or merely dressed for summer. For Henry, the garden was a poem in two forms: the carefully composed lines of his boxwood beds, and the wild, unwritten history of the weeds at the gate. Walking with the naturalist Louis Agassiz, he pointed out a roadside weed known as "the white man's foot"—broadleaf plantain, Plantago major. A weed as a record. Footsteps written in leaves. Longfellow taught us to look closely, even at what grows uninvited. Unearthed Words In today's Unearthed Words, we hear a poem from the American poet Elizabeth-Ellen Long, born on this day in 1908. Elizabeth wrote during the mid-twentieth century, living quietly in the California hills. She worked from a small cabin, sending her observations out like letters in a bottle to readers who, like her, found beauty in the quietest things. She wrote for the still months. For overlooked hours. For the garden when color is no longer the point. Here is Song of Gray Things by Elizabeth-Ellen Long: In any weather, any day, Much is lovely that is gray – Driftwood smoothed to satin by The tide's cool fingers, early sky, Lichen stars that lightly dapple Stone walls around an apple Orchard, birch bark, and the thin Warped rails of fences holding in Reluctant meadows, kittens' fur, Dried wild grasses sweet as myrrh, As well as cobweb lace on eaves, Sudden wind in willow leaves, And pigeons proudly marching down The slanted rooftops of a town. Book Recommendation Dream Gardens by Tania Compton It's time to grow the Grow That Garden Library, with today's book: Dream Gardens, by Tania Compton. It's Planning & Design Week here on The Daily Gardener, which means all of the book recommendations for this week feature books devoted to imagining gardens before they're planted, and to the ideas, drawings, and principles that shape great outdoor spaces. Dream Gardens was the winner of the Sunday Times Gardening Book of the Year in 2007. Gardeners continue to love it because it balances beauty with real usefulness. First, it offers wide-ranging design inspiration. The book features one hundred modern and contemporary gardens, from minimalist city plots to expansive rural landscapes, making it a true sourcebook for many kinds of spaces. Second, it delivers practical plant knowledge. Each garden is fully captioned, identifying the plants used, so the designs aren't just admired, they can be translated into real gardens. And third, it offers designer insight. Tania explains the goals and decisions behind each landscape, helping readers understand how great gardens are structured, not just how they look. In the introduction, she reminds us that gardening is a perpetual process, that the dream of transforming a site never truly ends, because gardens are always moving through growth, change, decay, and renewal. It's a perfect book for the end of February, when the most important gardening is happening in the imagination. Botanic Spark And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart. 1867 New York City lost its oldest living thing. Peter Stuyvesant's pear tree, a European pear, Pyrus communis, planted around 1647, was struck and fatally damaged when two horse-drawn wagons collided at the corner of 13th Street and Third Avenue. For more than two centuries, the tree had stood, surviving the city grid, surviving generations, bearing fruit long after the man who planted it was gone. After it fell, pieces of the trunk were preserved like relics. A cross-section still rests at the New-York Historical Society. And the corner did not forget. New pear trees were planted, successors, continuations, a reminder that even in the gray of February, gardens do not end. They are simply waiting for the next hand to tend them. They are handed forward. Final Thoughts February is not asking for flowers. It's asking what will last. From Jacob Bigelow's winter garden of stone, to Longfellow's boxwood geometry, to Elizabeth-Ellen Long's lichen stars, and the long memory of a fallen pear tree, this day reminds us that a garden's soul lives in what endures. In structure. In patience. In quiet, winter resilience. Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

    11 min

  4. 5D AGO

    February 26, 2026 Carl Albert Purpus, Jacob Whitman Bailey, Victor Hugo, Envisioning Landscapes by OJB Landscape Architecture, and Moses Gray

    Subscribe Apple | Google | Spotify | Stitcher | iHeart Support The Daily Gardener Patreon Buy Me A Coffee Connect for FREE! The Friday Newsletter |  Daily Gardener Community Today's Show Notes Late February is when we're still living on foundations. What was laid months ago. Years ago. Sometimes generations ago. In the garden, we admire what blooms, but we rarely see the hands that prepared the ground. The quiet labor. The early encouragement. The moment, long ago, when a child noticed something growing and never quite let it go. Today's stories belong to those hidden beginnings: the unseen work, the early spark, and the people who made it possible for a lifetime of discovery to take root. Today's Garden History 1851 Carl Albert Purpus was born in southwest Bavaria. He would become one of the great, unsung engines of North American botany, a man who lived his life in the remote elsewheres of the world, collecting plants so that others might name them, study them, and someday grow them. Purpus was a bridge between the wild and the garden. He crossed deserts and scaled volcanoes, working across Mexico and the American West for decades. By the end of his long life, he had amassed more than 17,000 numbered specimens in Mexico and nearly 2,000 more in the American West. Remarkably, most of this monumental effort was unpaid. Purpus lived an ascetic life. No alcohol. No tobacco. A profound simplicity, shared in his later years with more than sixty cats. From his base at Hacienda Zacuapam in the Mexican state of Veracruz along the Gulf Coast, he launched expeditions into cloud forests and the ash-covered slopes of Popocatépetl, an active stratovolcano in central Mexico. Plants followed him home, and so did danger. He survived malaria, the chaos of the Mexican Revolution, and even a machete attack by burglars. But perhaps his most Purpus moment came in 1897, during a shipwreck off Baja California. As the ship went down, he ignored the panic to save what mattered most: his plant presses. He spent the night sleeping on a desolate beach, guarding his soggy specimens from what he described as "very numerous" coyotes. Gardeners still walk among his legacy. When we encounter Snow Mountain beardtongue, Penstemon purpusii, or the striking night-blooming cactus Hylocereus purpusii, we are seeing the rewards of a man who searched for the winter-hardy in tropical places, plants tough enough to survive the frost of a northern garden. Carl Albert Purpus lived at the edge of things: the edge of wilderness, the edge of science, and the edge of recognition. Today, we remember the man who quietly carried the beauty of volcanic peaks into the palm of our hands. 1857 Jacob Whitman Bailey died at forty-five. Bailey is remembered as the Father of American Microscopy, a man who taught a generation of scientists how to see what the naked eye could not. Gardeners know his name in another way. The desert marigolds, the genus Baileya, were named in his honor by his close friends Asa Gray and William Henry Harvey. These bright, woolly-stemmed flowers of the American Southwest stand as a living monument to a man who spent his life looking much closer at things. Bailey was also a pioneer of American algology, the study of algae. He amassed a collection of more than 4,500 specimens, mapping the microscopic forests of ponds and rivers and laying groundwork that still supports water gardens today. But his life was marked by devastating loss. In 1852, Bailey and his son survived the burning of the steamboat Henry Clay on the Hudson River. His wife and daughter did not. Afterward, Bailey wrote, "After the dread event and consequent shock, I never regained my original tone." He continued his work anyway. He returned to West Point, refined microscope lenses, and studied diatoms, the intricate, glass-like shells of the smallest lives. Sometimes, the people who teach us how to see are carrying a grief we never notice. Unearthed Words In today's Unearthed Words, we hear a line from the French novelist, poet, and essayist Victor Hugo, born on this day in 1802. Hugo lived and worked in nineteenth-century France, a period marked by exile, political upheaval, and long seasons of reflection. In Les Misérables, he defends a flower bed criticized for not producing food, writing: "The beautiful is as useful as the useful… more so, perhaps." Later, he wrote: "A garden to walk in and immensity to dream in — what more could he ask? A few flowers at his feet and above him the stars." Victor spent many of his most productive years in exile on the island of Guernsey, where his garden at Hauteville House became both refuge and compass. There, he planted an oak for a future he knew he would not live to see. He built spaces meant not for display, but for thought. For endurance. Victor once said he had three teachers in his life: his mother, an old priest, and a garden. Not a classroom. Not a lecture. A garden. It was there he learned how to look closely—at the curve of a petal, at the shape of a thought—and how to stand beneath immensity without needing to master it. Some lessons arrive that way. Quietly. Early. And for life. Book Recommendation Envisioning Landscapes by OJB Landscape Architecture It's time to grow the Grow That Garden Library with today's book: Envisioning Landscapes, by OJB Landscape Architecture—OJB, the Office of James Burnett. It's Planning & Design Week here on The Daily Gardener, which means all of the book recommendations for this week feature books devoted to imagining gardens before they're planted, and to the ideas, drawings, and principles that shape great outdoor spaces. This is a book about modern landscapes, but at its heart, it's a book about care. Across three decades of work, OJB shows how landscapes can be repaired, reimagined, and made generous again. Their gardens and public spaces are precise, but never cold. Rigorous, but welcoming. Architecture critic Christopher Hawthorne writes that for OJB, a landscape project begins with the need to transform or repair, and that this work becomes the engine for landscapes that are "precise and enveloping, rigorous and welcoming at the same time." There's an optimism here—not loud, not naïve—but rooted in attention. Attention to land. To people. To what a place has been, and what it still might become. It's a beautiful book to linger with, especially this time of year, when we're imagining what could grow next. Botanic Spark And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart. 1786 Moses Gray was born in the frontier settlement of Sauquoit, New York. Moses was a man of the earth, and of the industry of his time. By his own account, he received just six weeks of formal schooling in his entire life. But he understood something that many with far more education miss: curiosity requires a patron. His son, Asa Gray, would go on to become the Father of American Botany—the defining voice of plant science in the nineteenth century. But that legacy almost didn't happen. In Asa's early years at Harvard, botany was not a profession in the way we think of it now. It was precarious. Poorly paid. More than once, Asa stood on the edge of abandoning his research, ready to return to the stable, predictable life of a country doctor simply to survive. Each time the dream faltered, Moses stepped in. The tanner—who spent his days grinding bark to cure leather—quietly sent his hard-earned money to Cambridge. He didn't just offer a loan. He underwrote time. He bought his son the freedom to look at the world a little longer, and a little more deeply. Asa never forgot those early years working at his father's side. Long days feeding the bark mill. Driving the horse in endless, monotonous circles. And then, in the stolen hours between chores, Asa identified his very first plant: the spring beauty, Claytonia virginica. Moses Gray never discovered a species. He never wrote a botanical paper. But without the tanner from Sauquoit, the great gardens and herbaria of America would look very different today. Every great garden has someone like Moses Gray behind it—someone who prepared the soil, someone who paid the cost, someone who believed in the harvest long before the first seed ever sprouted. Final Thoughts Much of what we love in the garden was once carried carefully through difficulty. Pressed flat. Protected from the weather. Saved when other things were lost. The great work isn't always loud. Sometimes it looks like quiet persistence: a child given time to notice, a life spent gathering, a belief that beauty is worth keeping. Those early acts endure. They are the invisible generosity still shaping the garden, even now. Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

    13 min

  5. 6D AGO

    February 25, 2026 Stephen Switzer, Josif Pančić, Thomas Moore, What Makes a Garden by Jinny Blom, and Pierre-Auguste Renoir

    Subscribe Apple | Google | Spotify | Stitcher | iHeart Support The Daily Gardener Patreon Buy Me A Coffee Connect for FREE! The Friday Newsletter |  Daily Gardener Community Today's Show Notes Some gardeners love order. Straight lines. Rules that behave. And some gardeners love wildness. They admire the old plant that refuses correction—the one that leans, the one that surprises, the one that moves where it wants. After Emily Dickinson died, her sister Lavinia Dickinson took over the garden. Emily's niece later remembered it this way: "All [Lavinia's] flowers did as they liked: tyrannized over her, hopped out of their own beds and into each other's beds, were never reproved or removed as long as they bloomed; for a live flower to Aunt Lavinia was more than any dead horticultural principle." Today's show celebrates that kind of garden—the one that grows with personality, persistence, and permission. Today's Garden History 1682 Stephen Switzer was baptized in Hampshire. An English gardener, designer, and writer, Switzer became one of the earliest voices arguing that gardens did not need to be forced into obedience. At a time when trees were clipped into cones, spirals, and peacocks, he openly mocked the fashion, calling it a parade of "monstrous shapes of Screws, Monkeys, Giants, and the like." Instead, he championed what he called Forest—or Rural—Gardening. Gardens that followed the land. Gardens that opened outward. Gardens that trusted the countryside instead of hiding behind walls. Switzer believed beauty did not have to be wasteful. He promoted the ferme ornée—the ornamental farm—where orchards, pasture, and kitchen crops were woven directly into the designed landscape. Profit and pleasure. Working land made beautiful. He helped shape estates like Castle Howard and Blenheim Palace, but he was not merely a theorist. Later in life, he ran a seed shop in Westminster, London, under the sign of The Flower-Pot. He sold Italian broccoli, Spanish cardoons, and lucerne—alfalfa—to anyone willing to try something new. He believed gardens should feed people, and that good ideas, like seeds, were meant to be shared. 1888 Josif Pančić died. The Serbian physician and botanist is often called the father of Serbian botany. For decades he walked mountains and forests across the Balkans, documenting nearly 2,500 plant species. For twenty years he searched for a tree locals insisted existed—a strange, slender spruce spoken of almost like a legend. When he finally found it, high in a remote Balkan valley, it proved to be something extraordinary: a living relic from deep geological time. The Serbian spruce, Picea omorika, is an endemic relict, a survivor from ancient forests that once covered much of Europe. At first, other botanists did not believe him. Some claimed the tree must have come from Asia or North America. But Pančić was right. Today, Serbian spruce is grown in gardens worldwide, beloved for its narrow, elegant form, silver-backed needles, and ability to tolerate wind, cold, and city air. Its slender, pendulous branches shed snow easily, making it one of the most recommended conifers for urban gardens. Pančić believed plants had to be encountered alive—seen with the eyes, felt with the fingers. He founded Serbia's first botanical garden not as a showpiece, but as a living classroom. And when he died, his final wish was to be buried on the mountain he loved most, a reminder that his work was never about ownership, only understanding. Unearthed Words In today's Unearthed Words, we hear a poem from the Irish poet, singer, songwriter, and entertainer Thomas Moore, born on this day in 1779. Moore lived and worked in Ireland and England during the early nineteenth century, when songs and poems were often carried by memory and voice. His most famous botanical work, "The Last Rose of Summer," was written in 1805. It begins: 'Tis the last rose of Summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes Or give sigh for sigh! Moore's rose stands alone, blooming in the quiet after abundance has passed. It is a gentle meditation on endurance, on the poignancy of what remains when others have faded. Gardeners know this feeling well—the single bloom that holds the season just a little longer. Book Recommendation What Makes a Garden by Jinny Blom It's Planning & Design Week here on The Daily Gardener, which means this week's recommendations focus on imagining gardens before they're planted—the ideas, drawings, and principles that shape outdoor spaces. In this thoughtful book, Jinny Blom brings together psychology, ecology, design history, and hands-in-the-soil experience to ask a deeper question: What is a garden actually for? She writes about structure—paths, edges, enclosures—but insists that structure exists to support life, not suppress it. Gardens, she reminds us, are not wilderness. They are relationships. Here's how she puts it: "There is a term we use in landscaping when what we are building is in a filthy, mud-splattered and semi-constructed state. If we need to tidy it up quickly, we call it 'civilising.' But the word has stayed with me. Isn't garden-making a considerate relationship between us and nature? In making a garden, we are offering to borrow a small part of the wilderness—to fashion it, care for it in a stylised manner, and enjoy it." Botanic Spark And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart. 1841 Pierre-Auguste Renoir was born. Late in life, crippled by arthritis, Renoir bought a sun-washed property in the south of France—Les Collettes—not for comfort, but to save its ancient olive trees from being cut down. He refused to let gardeners weed the paths. When they asked which plants should go, he replied simply, "What weeds?" For Renoir, the garden was not decoration. It was an outdoor studio. A refuge. A place where light could move freely and life could continue, even when the body faltered. The olives were pressed into oil. The trees still stand. And the garden he protected remains open today. Final Thoughts Not all gardens want taming. Some ask for listening instead. To love a plant because it is old. To keep one that leans. To forgive the one that wanders. To value what survives without polish. And to make room—in our gardens and ourselves—for what grows a little wild. Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

    12 min

  6. FEB 24

    February 24, 2026 Mary Eleanor Bowes, Charles Reid Barnes, Octavia E. Butler, Garden Design Master Class edited by Carl Dellatore, and Steve Jobs

    Subscribe Apple | Google | Spotify | Stitcher | iHeart Support The Daily Gardener Patreon Buy Me A Coffee Connect for FREE! The Friday Newsletter |  Daily Gardener Community Today's Show Notes Some people tower in history. They change what we know. They change what we build. And yet, when you look closely, so many of the truly influential people turn out to be gardeners. Not always in the literal sense, but in the way they think: patiently, experimentally, always working toward a future they may never fully see. Today's Garden History 1749 Mary Eleanor Bowes was born. She's often remembered as "The Unhappy Countess," but in her own time she was also described—famously—as "the most intelligent female botanist of the age." Mary was born into astonishing wealth, the sole heiress to a massive coal fortune. Unlike most women in Georgian England, she was educated seriously. Her father, George Bowes, raised her in a world of books, teaching, and landscape ambition—gardens that were not quiet, private places, but showcases. Statements. Experiments. At her estates—Gibside in northern England and Chelsea along the Thames in London—Mary built hothouses and collected rare plants with the focus of a scientist, not the casual interest of a fashionable hobbyist. In 1777, she financed the explorer William Paterson to travel to the Cape of Good Hope to collect plant specimens for her. Then came one of the most extraordinary objects in garden history: her botanical cabinet. A mahogany piece engineered like a portable lab, it opened from the side to reveal long drawers sized for herbarium sheets—pressed plants mounted on paper. It included a fold-down writing surface for notes and labels. Its hollow legs were lead-lined and fitted with taps, suggesting liquids could be released, as if the cabinet might even have supported living specimens during study or transit. Science disguised as furniture. A garden archive built to travel. Mary's life was also marked by brutality. Her second marriage, to Andrew Robinson Stoney, was violently abusive. He used her gardens as a weapon—barring her from her own hothouses and even releasing rabbits into her flower beds to destroy her plants. And yet she fought back. In 1789, she reclaimed her fortune and secured a rare divorce, a landmark victory for a woman of her time. When she died, she requested something unforgettable: to be buried in a magnificent dress, carrying a small silver trumpet so she could, as some later put it, "blow her own trumpet at the Resurrection." 1910 Charles Reid Barnes died in Chicago. Barnes wasn't a household name. But he gave gardeners one of the most important words we use to understand plant life. In 1893, he coined the term photosynthesis—a precise name for the way plants make food from light. Interestingly, Barnes himself preferred another word, photosyntax, but the botanical world chose photosynthesis, and the name stuck. Before that, the process was often called assimilation—a word so vague it could mean almost anything. Barnes wanted clarity. Plants don't "eat" soil. They manufacture their own food from sunlight, air, and water. Barnes also studied mosses and other bryophytes—small, resilient plants that live in the margins and quietly hold ecosystems together. As a professor and editor, he pushed botany forward—from naming plants to understanding how they function. Barnes died after an accidental fall at just fifty-one, but the language he gave us still shapes how we garden. Unearthed Words In today's Unearthed Words, we hear an excerpt from the American science fiction writer Octavia E. Butler, born on this day in 1947. Octavia was living in California in the early 1990s when she began writing about climate collapse, migration, and survival. I n her work, gardening and seed-saving are not hobbies. They are acts of continuity. From Parable of the Sower: "I was weeding the back garden and thinking about the way plants seed themselves, windborne, animalborne, waterborne, far from their parent plants. They have no ability at all to travel great distances under their own power, and yet, they do travel. Even they don't have to just sit in one place and wait to be wiped out. There are islands thousands of miles from anywhere—the Hawaiian Islands, for example, and Easter Island—where plants seeded themselves and grew long before any humans arrived. Earthseed. I am Earthseed. Anyone can be. Someday, I think there will be a lot of us. And I think we'll have to seed ourselves farther and farther from this dying place." Even in a story about upheaval and uncertainty, she begins with a simple act. Weeding. Tending. Paying attention to what is growing close at hand. It's a quiet reminder that even in the most unsettled times, the work of the garden continues. Book Recommendation Garden Design Master Class edited by Carl Dellatore It's Planning & Design Week here on The Daily Gardener, which means all of this week's recommendations focus on imagining gardens before they're planted—the ideas, drawings, and principles that shape great outdoor spaces. This book gathers the voices of one hundred landscape designers in short essays that feel less like instruction and more like studio conversations. These are people who have spent years looking carefully—at light, at borders, at rhythm, at paths and proportion. The kinds of quiet decisions that make a garden feel inevitable, as if it had always been waiting to take this shape. If you're longing for garden visits while winter still holds on, this book offers a way to wander without leaving home. Botanic Spark And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart. 1955 Steve Jobs was born. He grew up in what used to be apricot country—orchards that existed long before Silicon Valley became Silicon Valley. Later in life, he became deeply attentive to how long living things take to mature. He once reflected that no amount of money can buy the one thing a great garden requires most: an old tree. For his own home, he commissioned the British garden designer Penelope Hobhouse to create an English cottage garden shaped by restraint, beauty, and serious horticultural intention. And in his final grand project, Apple Park, he pushed for a true park—not an office complex. Thousands of trees. Native species. A landscape designed to function like an ecosystem. A man who had everything kept returning to gardens—to patience, to time, to things that could not be rushed. Final Thoughts The garden teaches the long view. It turns wealth into stewardship. Imagination into survival. Science into clarity. And it reminds us—quietly—that just as it always has, the future is built one small, living thing at a time. Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

    12 min

  7. FEB 23

    February 23, 2026 Saint Serenus of Billom, Edward Forster the Younger, John Keats, How to Design a Garden by Pollyanna Wilkinson, and Ault's English Garden Seeds

    Subscribe Apple | Google | Spotify | Stitcher | iHeart Support The Daily Gardener Patreon Buy Me A Coffee Connect for FREE! The Friday Newsletter |  Daily Gardener Community Today's Show Notes February gardening can feel like a lesson in boundaries. Some days are about abundance, and some are about restraint. The quiet work done early. The plot kept small on purpose. The sanctuary we tend not for display, but for sustenance, clarity, and care. Today's stories return to that idea again and again: the garden as a place of discipline, devotion, and the kind of hope that can live inside an ordinary day. Today's Garden History 307 Saint Serenus of Billom was executed. Serenus is remembered as a gardener and Christian martyr, a figure whose story turns on restraint and moral discipline. Born in Greece, he later settled in Sirmium, a Roman city in what is now Serbia, where he supported himself by cultivating a small working garden. It was not ornamental, and it was not public. It was fruit and herbs, soil under the fingernails, and time deliberately set aside for prayer. According to legend, a woman of high rank visited Serenus's garden unaccompanied at high noon. Serenus did not accuse her or make a scene. He simply advised her to return home and come back later, in the cool of evening, with an escort. She took offense. Pride became retaliation. A false accusation was delivered to her husband at court. Serenus was cleared of wrongdoing, but his composure and his unwavering discipline drew suspicion. He was questioned, identified as a Christian, and executed by beheading on this day. In garden history, Serenus endures as a patron saint of gardeners, especially those who work alone, and those who are misunderstood or falsely accused. His story preserves the idea of the garden as a boundary, a place not meant to be crossed casually, but tended with intention. 1849 Edward Forster the Younger died in Essex, England. Edward Forster was a banker by profession and a botanist by devotion, remembered above all for his precision and his steady rhythm. As a young man, he worked with his brothers in their father's garden, where they cultivated nearly every herbaceous plant then known to be grown in England. And still, what stands out most is how Edward spent his mornings. Before the banking house opened and before the city stirred, he was already in Epping Forest, collecting specimens, making notes, building a life's work plant by plant. He served as Treasurer and later Vice-President of the Linnean Society of London. He compiled county plant lists for Camden's Britannia. He spent decades assembling materials for a Flora of Essex he never finished, yet his work endured through his herbarium, later purchased by the Scottish botanist Robert Brown and ultimately given to the British Museum. Edward's name lives on in Forster's wood-rush, Luzula forsteri, a modest woodland plant that rewards the gardener who kneels down and really looks. In his later years, Edward also turned his attention to fungi, painting delicate watercolors of mushrooms near his home, each labeled with care, each a study in attention. Unearthed Words 1795 John Keats was born. In today's Unearthed Words, we hear a reflection from the English poet John Keats, who wrote some of his most enduring work in the garden of Wentworth Place in Hampstead, including Ode to a Nightingale, composed beneath a plum tree. Trained as an apothecary and surgeon, Keats brought a precise, almost clinical eye to nature, favoring the hawthorn and musk-rose over theatrical blooms. Near the end of his life, dying in Rome, he reflected quietly: "I can feel the cold earth upon me, the daisies growing over me." It is a line that holds the garden not as decoration, but as solace. Beauty made exact, and fleeting, and true. Book Recommendation How to Design a Garden by Pollyanna Wilkinson It's Planning & Design Week on The Daily Gardener, and today's recommendation is a practical, grounding guide that begins not with plants, but with real life. Pollyanna Wilkinson starts where good design always starts: with how you actually want to use your garden. Not the fantasy version of your life, but the honest one. How much time you really have? How do you move through your days? What kind of space will support that life instead of competing with it? From there, the book builds outward into principles and decisions that help a garden become both beautiful and useful, shaped by intention rather than impulse. Botanic Spark 1858 Thomas Rawlins announced he had received his spring supply of Ault's English Garden Seeds. In Charles Town, West Virginia, gardeners could find them at the local Market House, one packet at a time. In the nineteenth century, names like Ault mattered. They signaled seed that was true to type, carefully selected, and sold with a quiet confidence in the season ahead. Gardeners gathered at places like the Market House to talk varieties, compare notes, and imagine what might be possible this year. Early Blood beets. Flat Dutch cabbage. Workhorse seeds that fed families season after season. A small purchase. A private plot. And the belief that tomorrow was worth planting for. Final Thoughts Not every garden story is famous. Some are kept small on purpose. A gardener-martyr guarding a working plot. A botanist rising before dawn. A seed agent at the Market House selling hope by the packet. These are the stories that reward attention, and the gardeners who recognize themselves in them. Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

    12 min

  8. FEB 20

    February 20, 2026 Joseph Dombey, John Christopher Willis, Ansel Adams, Pioneers of American Landscape Design, and Robert Wheelwright

    Subscribe Apple | Google | Spotify | Stitcher | iHeart Support The Daily Gardener Patreon Buy Me A Coffee Connect for FREE! The Friday Newsletter |  Daily Gardener Community Today's Show Notes Hi there, and welcome to The Daily Gardener — a daily almanac of garden history, literature, and small botanical joys. I'm Jennifer Ebeling, and today is February 20. Every garden carries a quiet tension: wildness and order. What grows where it pleases, and what we ask to grow where we can reach it. Today's stories belong to people who lived inside that tension — collecting, classifying, shaping, preserving. Trying to understand the living world without draining it of wonder. Today's Garden History 1742 Joseph Dombey (JOH-zef dom-BAY) was born. Joseph lived in the Age of Enlightenment — that hungry era when Europe wanted the world's plants named, measured, and brought home. Beginning in 1778, he traveled through Peru and Chile, collecting what no European garden yet held: pressed specimens, notes, and seeds. A botanical life gathered into paper and ink. Joseph also had a nose for plants with promise. One of them was lemon verbena — Aloysia citrodora (uh-LOY-zee-uh sit-roh-DOR-uh). Here's the part gardeners love. When Joseph returned to Europe, his living collection was seized by customs and left to languish. Most of it died. But one lemon verbena survived. Just one. When it was finally returned to him, Joseph gently kept it alive. That single plant became a beginning — the mother plant of the lemon verbena that would move through European gardens and eventually into ours. Joseph's work stirred admiration and resentment. His collections sparked diplomatic disputes — the kind of tension that gathers around anything valuable. And yet he was also remembered for kindness. During outbreaks of illness in Chile, he treated the sick without charge. A botanist who didn't only collect life — he tried to preserve it. In 1793, Joseph set out on his final voyage. This time, not for plants, but for science itself. He was tasked with delivering two prototypes of a new French measuring system to Thomas Jefferson in America: a copper rod, exactly one meter long, and a copper cylinder weighing one kilogram. The future of measurement, packed into metal. But Joseph never arrived. A storm blew his ship south into the Caribbean. Privateers boarded it. Joseph was taken prisoner and confined on the volcanic island of Montserrat (MON-ser-RAT), southwest of Antigua. He died there a month later, at the age of fifty-two. Today, that copper kilogram rests at the National Institute of Standards and Technology in Maryland. And the lemony fragrance of verbena still lingers on gardeners' fingertips — a quiet inheritance of survival. 1868 John Christopher Willis (jon KRIS-tuh-fer WIL-iss) was born. John served as director of two major botanic gardens. But early in his career, while working in Ceylon in 1905, he suffered an injury to his optic nerve that ended his botanical exploration. Good vision is essential for fieldwork. Jungles are dim, dense places. Plants demand close, careful seeing. John's work moved indoors — to desks, to books, to data. From Rio de Janeiro to Cambridge, and eventually to Montreux, Switzerland, where he entered semi-retirement. Ironically, it was the loss of his physical sight that sharpened his intellectual vision. By studying vast collections of records instead of individual plants, John began to see patterns. He asked: How do plants spread? Why do some remain local, while others seem to be everywhere? His "age and area" idea was simple. The longer a species has existed, the more time it has had to move, and the farther it may have traveled. Botanists debated him. They pushed back. But gardeners still recognize the truth beneath it: every familiar plant carries a history of movement. A journey. A slow expansion — seed by seed, root by root. John's most enduring legacy came not from theory, but from usefulness. His Manual and Dictionary of the Flowering Plants and Ferns became a constant companion on desks and shelves. Not a book for showing off. A book for looking things up. For getting unstuck. For turning confusion into clarity. Today, John is remembered in the plant genus Willisia — a group of rare, aquatic plants so unusual they resemble mosses or lichens more than flowering plants. Joseph carried the wild home. John tried to understand how the wild travels. Different lives. Same impulse. To make the living world legible — without making it smaller. Unearthed Words 1902 Ansel Adams (AN-sul AD-umz) was born. In today's Unearthed Words, we hear from Ansel Adams. He wrote: "The whole world is, to me, very much alive — all the little growing things… I can't look at a swell bit of grass and earth without feeling the essential life — the things going on — within them." Ansel found sanctuary in nature. And there is a small garden moment woven quietly into his life story. When he was four years old, Ansel was playing in his family's San Francisco garden when the great earthquake struck. As he ran toward the house, an aftershock threw him against a low brick wall. He broke his nose. It was never repaired. For the rest of his life, Ansel called it his "earthquake nose." The injury pushed him away from crowds and closer to landscapes. Toward places that did not judge. Toward the steady patience of the natural world. Nature, once again, as refuge. Book Recommendation Pioneers of American Landscape Design by Charles A. Birnbaum and Robin Karson It's time to grow the Grow That Garden Library, with today's book: Pioneers of American Landscape Design by Charles A. Birnbaum and Robin Karson. This book profiles the designers who shaped how America thinks about landscape — not just as decoration, but as structure, intention, and public good. It introduces the people behind parks, estates, campuses, and civic spaces still walked today. Reading it, a gardener begins to notice choices: why paths curve, why views open, why some places feel calm without our knowing why. It's a book that gives names to things we already sense — and helps us see gardens as cultural memory, set into land. Botanic Spark 1884 Robert Wheelwright (ROB-ert WHEEL-right) was born. And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart. Robert helped shape landscape architecture into the modern profession we recognize today. He believed gardens could be designed like rooms — with entrances, pauses, and intention. Brick paths. Clipped edges. Open greens. Sheltered corners. A kind of order that felt human rather than rigid. He was a master of historic landscape restoration and a strong defender of public space, including efforts to protect Central Park. One of his most lasting projects became personal. When Goodstay Gardens in Delaware was gifted to Ellen du Pont Coleman Meeds by her father, she hired Robert to restore the Tudor garden, organized into six outdoor rooms. They worked side by side for seventeen years. In 1937, they married. Goodstay became their shared home for more than three decades. After Ellen's death, the garden was given to the University of Delaware, where it is still used for teaching today. A gifted space. A garden that began as a commission and became a shared life — and a lasting legacy. Design turning into devotion. Robert once argued that landscape architecture was a fine art, meant to refresh and calm people worn down by modern life. And a gardener hears that and thinks: Yes. Final Thoughts As we close the show today, remember: keep looking at your garden — its wild edges, and the places shaped for rest. Patterns are always expanding. There is always more to learn. For both the garden and the gardener, sometimes it's simply about having the time to grow. Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.

    12 min
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About

The Daily Gardener is a weekday podcast celebrating garden history, literature, and the small botanical stories that shape how we garden today. Each episode follows an "on this day" format, uncovering the people, plants, books, and moments that have quietly influenced gardens across time. New episodes are released Monday through Friday, and each show features a thoughtfully chosen garden book.

Information

  • Creator
    Jennifer Ebeling
  • Years Active
    2019 - 2026
  • Episodes
    577
  • Rating
    Clean
  • Copyright
    Copyright ©2019-2026, Jennifer Ebeling|The Daily Gardener All rights reserved
  • Show Website
    The Daily Gardener

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