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Cloud Hill Nursery, R. D. 1, Quakertown, Pennsylvania, is a rock garden to end all rock gardens. It is more, too. It is an example of what can be done with something seemingly worthless, when that apparently useless thing is seen and then dreamed of by people with vision and imagination.

"And like all things of beauty and charm—yes, and profit, too," Says Mrs. Doretta Klaber, the magician who has turned these acres into the beauty spot it is now, "it didn't, like Topsy 'just grow.' It had to be planned, waited for, worked for—and even prayed for."

We were standing in the doorway of the living room, looking up the rock-strewn slope to where a lovely spring sent a rivulet of clear water down a man-made trench among thousands of hardy perennials growing in planned confusion among the boulders.

"You should have seen this place the way it was the first time we saw it," Mrs. Klaber said with a smile and a rueful shake of her head. "It was the most abandoned looking place you ever saw. What made it worse, too," she added, laughing, "was that Mr. Klaber is an architect and consultant in city planning."

WE MOVED to a bench on the screen-enclosed porch, and with a pitcher of iced tea on a table between us, and with the panorama of the rock garden spread in front of us, Mrs. Klaber began to tell me how this miracle had come to pass.

"For twenty-five years I have been interested in flowers and plants," Mrs. Klaber said. "In Chicago, in Washington, D. C., and in New York—wherever Mr. Klaber's profession called him, I went along and planned gardens for individuals and for other architects. The last place we lived was New York, where Mr. Klaber taught architecture at Columbia University. After living and working there for a few years, we suddenly realized one important fact. That fact was that slowly, so slowly we hadn't recognized it until then, our situation in life had changed. We were free! Our children were raised, educated, and busy with lives of their own. The necessity for earning a great deal of money was gone. We had, at last, reached the point where we had only ourselves to look after.

"We decided to find a small place in the country, some place where Mr. Klaber would be close to large cities for architectural and planning consultancy. I knew I could busy myself with a garden almost anywhere.

"In 1944 we started looking at small country places. We chose this section of Pennsylvania because of its nearness to Philadelphia and New York—for Mr. Klaber's work—and because of its natural beauty. In a few months we had been shown, and had examined, dozens of places. Some were nice, but none of them caused that breathless leap to the heart and mind we knew we would experience when we found the ideal place. Then, one day, our by now rather reluctant weary agent drove us to this spot. Perhaps he did it deliberately—not, of course, expecting us to buy it—but to show us how very terrible a place could be. And then, he might have thought, we'd appreciate the prettier places he had shown us.

"This place was a complete mess, when we first saw it. It was shoulder-high in weeds, and among the weeds could be seen rocks, rocks and more rocks. Farm animals of all kinds were in evidence everywhere; there was rubbish, empty cans, bales of wire, and broken glass all over the place.

"The farm house was tiny, and with few conveniences. Two rooms downstairs and two upstairs.

"But among all this confusion and mess there seemed to be a sunniness and subtle charm that, although hidden layers deep, showed some indications of being there. It might have been the apple blossoms on the few old trees that were in such dire need of care. It might have been the spring of cool clear water at the top of the slope, or the shadows cast by the funny old barn. Whatever it was—it was there. And, crazy as I knew it to be, I wanted to live here.

"I turned to look at Mr. Klaber. I saw that his practiced eye was examining every inch of the place—and I had a sinking feeling. With his experience this place must have seemed even more terrible to him than, at first glance, it had to me. He caught my eye.

"'What do you think of it?' he asked, poker-faced as usual.

"I took a deep breath. I might as well tell the truth, I thought.

"'I love it,' I said. 'It's ideal for a rock garden nursery.'

"For a moment he looked at me, and then he glanced once more around the littered place.

"Then he smiled. 'I like it, too,' he said. 'It's got something.'

"Well," she went on, "we bought it. That first year we came up for only a few weeks in the summer. Every time we drove up here I'd bring along some plants from my garden at home, and we did what little we could in those weeks to try to clean up the place. The next year we began to work seriously on it. Cleaning up the outside, clearing the hillside of weeds, gathering the hundreds of articles that were strewn around, and—what is most important—starting my alpines from seed.

"That third year Mr. Klaber agreed to begin making the inside of the house livable for city folk. We had to have inside plumbing and a heating plant. Then, to make it completely comfortable, we added a large living room in the back, with this screened porch attached. And here we are."

"But the rock garden, Mrs. Klaber?" I asked at last. "How much work was it? What did you have to do to get it like it is now?"

She laughed. "You might not believe this—because I've just been telling you how much I fell in love with the place when I first saw it—but there was a time, it was the third year when we had actually moved in, when I stood where we're sitting now, and looked up the slope and was so frightened by the amount of work I saw had to be done, that I almost despaired." She laughed again, and said, "That's when Mr. Carmody appeared."

"You know," she went on quietly, "I think that whenever a person makes a decision to go somewhere, or to do something, or to change something—no matter how rosy the prospects look in that first magic glow of beginning, there comes a time when, for just a little while, you become frightened about what you have started or are thinking of starting.

"Well, that third year, in the springtime, when I stood here and looked at all that work, I had that terrible feeling. And at that same instant I noticed coming down the hill a knight of the road.' He was a middle-aged man, tall and lanky, and when he stopped to ask for something to eat I saw that he was clean and had a gentle appearance. While he sat on the steps eating, he offered to help me that day for the food I gave him, and I accepted the offer. He was a wonderful worker. He pulled weeds; he helped to plant; in fact he seemed to be everywhere at once. At the end of that day he suggested that if he could sleep in the barn he would be glad to help me the next day. That was the beginning.

"He stayed day after day. We suggested that he stay with us, and we agreed on a weekly wage. In the next three weeks the change in that rocky slope was almost unbelievable. We terraced the hillside, using some of the smaller stones we dug out to make walls—and all the time we weeded.

We planted and transplanted. Then at the end of those three weeks Mr. Carmody appeared at the door and told us he had come to say goodbye. We had hoped he would stay, but even this beautiful spot couldn't restrain his love of wandering for more than three weeks, so regretfully we said goodbye. It did seem rather miraculous that he should appear at the very time we needed him most.

"Of course when he wasn't busy with his own work, Mr. Klaber helped in the garden. We were fortunate that there was a natural spring at the top of the slope, and Mr. Klaber has laid underground pipes from it so that I can connect a hose almost anywhere it is needed."

WE GOT up then and strolled out into the garden.

"This is a hardy garden," Mrs. Klaber explained. "No plants are ever pampered. They must be the type to live through our winters or I won't have them. I try to use common sense when planting them, of course. I mean I give to those plants that need it the choice places of warmth and protection that the garden naturally provides. For example, I try to plant lavender so that it faces south and is protected from the north wind by a huge stone or the side of the house. Also, certain types of evergreen barberry are given as much natural protection as is possible. In the spring I push back into the ground those seedlings that have heaved out with freezing and thawing. I cover no part of my garden with sheets of glass or layers of straw or evergreens. Understand, if anyone prefers to use coverings on their garden, there is no reason why he shouldn't. But I don't, and this is why. I realize it is difficult for plants, even hardy ones, to bear up under freezing rain, ice, snow, and thawing, but you would be surprised how most of them become acclimated to such treatment. And, don't forget, I'm raising plants for sale. If my plants can stand these seasons completely in the open and without covering, I can sell them with the confidence that they will grow for others.

"I have another reason, too. Although primarily I raise plants for sale, we do get a great deal of personal enjoyment from our garden. Our living room window faces the garden, and during the long winter months, we want something pleasant to look at, and not an expanse of layers of straw or other material."

Grown from seed, and being completely unpampered from birth, Mrs. Klaber's plants develop resistance to an amazing degree. Of course, when the winter passes they may look a little bedraggled and disheveled, but with the coming of spring they begin to send out new shoots and perk up! She has learned from experience that some so-called hardy plants simply "can't take it" through a completely unprotected winter. Erinus alpinus usually dies in an open spot, but if given a protected position it will live through. And some of the self-sown seedlings of alpine forget-me-nots blacken and die. One thing to remember in planting a rock garden is that your experience may not coincide with that of another. You might have beautiful plants of a type that your neighbor several miles away finds it impossible to grow. Over the years you will, however, discover those plants that thrive best for you in your own garden.

"For example," Mrs. Klaber says, "one spring I planted seeds of an Alaskan corydalis. They grew fast that summer and each plant became a mound of beautiful lacy foliage. They lived through the winter in what seemed to be excellent shape, and the following spring they came up and bloomed beautifully—and then died. In my garden they were biennial instead of perennial. Soon, however, self-sown seedlings started to come up all over that section of the garden where the first plants had died."

"YOU'VE MENTIONED several times about growing your hardy perennials from seed," I said. "But how do you do it? When do you do it? And why from seeds?"

We found a bench in the shade of a peach tree. Mrs. Klaber has planted several fruit bearing trees in her garden. They give shade to certain shade-loving plants, and also add variety of height to what otherwise might be an expanse of rocks and flowers.

"Let me put it this way," she said. "My garden is made up of all types of rock plants—alpine, bog, waterside and woodland. They are plants not only from the United States, but from all parts of the world. I grow most of them from seed because the resulting seedlings are hardier than cuttings, and also because it is much cheaper than buying plants."

During the winter months Mrs. Klaber pores over catalogues, selecting and rejecting, and then finally ordering from seed houses in various parts of the world; mostly however, from Scotland, England, our own Midwest, the West and British Columbia. When the seeds arrive she puts them in ordinary glass preserving jars, securely closed, and then places them in the refrigerator. Putting them in the cold is simply a ruse to fool the seeds. They come from plants that are accustomed to lying under coverings of ice and snow and it is necessary that they be kept in the same environment until they are needed.

In late winter—your time for planting will depend, of course, on your own locality—she takes her jars of seeds out to a small shed at the back of her garden. Outside of this potting-shed, in a warm corner of the garden that faces southeast, she has her group of coldframes. These frames are home-made, and as simple as can be. Most of them are higher in the back than in the front (for additional drainage and also so that the plants in the back can be reached more easily), with sloping sides.

And here is one important thing—they are made so that the lids do not fit tightly. This is done deliberately, because then she doesn't have to "air" them; they are always well ventilated.

There are almost as many methods of seed planting as there are people who plant seed. Everyone seems to have his own method, and even the best and most tried method will vary in different localities. One sure thing is that seeds want to grow, and given a reasonable chance and reasonable treatment they will grow.

The coldframes have been opened to the weather all winter, and now the beds must be readied for planting. They are carefully raked with a hand weeder, with a constant watch for any sprouts that may be below ground, and pulling out all weeds that have accumulated over the winter.

I ASKED Mrs. Klaber to explain how she built a coldframe.

"I put the sides of my coldframes about two inches into the ground," she told me. "Then I dig out that two inches of soil so that the interior of the frame is below the surface, of the surrounding ground. Then I spread into those two inches a layer of cinders or stones—this is for drainage. Then I fill the remainder of the interior of the coldframes to within about two inches of the top with a mixture consisting of compost, sand, peat moss, well rotted manure, and small stone chips. This mixture will vary with every gardener. What you try to make is a good loose mixture that will not cake, that will allow air and moisture to percolate easily, that will never have standing water, and that will have some nourishment. In the spring when I examine my frames I don't change the soil in them, but I do add some fresh mixture to bring it to the proper height and then I level it off."

Mrs. Klaber then takes her sifter—a home made one, which is simply a wooden box with the bottom knocked out and ¼-inch mesh nailed over the opening—and shakes a layer of fine mixture about ½ inch deep over the surface of the soil in the frame. She smooths this out with a piece of lath that fits into the width of the frame. Then she presses the edge of the lath into the soil to mark rows about three inches apart. Now, with the jars of seeds—and with labels on which she has printed all necessary data pertaining to each different kind of seed—she begins to plant.

The label is placed at the back of the row. It is usually a wooden one, marked with ink, and stuck into the ground. The packet is opened, held close to the row, and shaken gently. The idea is to spread the seeds evenly and far enough apart so that they won't come up too crowded. This last is very important, and the smaller the seed the more care should be taken so that the resulting plants have room. Some seeds are so very tiny that it may take a year or more before the resulting plants are large enough to transplant, so they must have elbow space in which to develop. The seeds are of all shapes and sizes; some are so small they are like dust, some are like grains of sand, while others are as large as pebbles. But each kind has a distinctive individuality of its own.

As soon as the row of seeds is spread, Mrs. Klaber covers them with a layer of fine sand. She then gently presses the row down with her fingers so that the seeds will come in close contact with the soil. When the whole frame is finished she waters it carefully and gently with a fine spray. Then she covers the beds with a few sheets of newspaper. Later, when each row sprouts and it needs light and air, it is easy to tear the paper. Now she puts on covers of glass cloth (ordinary glass sometimes breaks), and the surrounding ground is dusted with slugshot and ant powder. The slugshot will guard against slugs and snails and all those other little creatures that consider seeds a delicacy, while the ant powder will keep those little, pests from actually running away with the seeds.

"About uncovering the seeds," Mrs. Klaber explained. "I don't always keep the newspapers on them until they sprout. If there is the least sign of moss forming I take the cover off."

From this time on Mrs. Klaber watches her beds carefully. It is still winter, and when she sees signs of heaving, she gently presses the soil back into place. The soil is kept damp, but not wet, and she always hopes for a late snow. Whenever that lovely white stuff does come sifting down, she bundles up and hurries out to uncover all the frames. There is nothing like a good cover of ice and snow to make hardy alpines feel at home.

AS SPRING passes into summer the seedlings begin to respond and grow. As the very hot days approach, Mrs. Klaber has slat covers ready to rush to the rescue. These covers are made of ordinary wood lath, spaced their own width apart, and attached to a frame. As soon as the sun becomes too warm the glass-cloth covers are removed from the coldframes and the slat covers take their place. Mrs. Klaber claims this type of cover is wonderful. As the sun moves across the sky each section of the coldframe gets light and shade. Later on, when the coldframes are emptied, these same slat covers will be used on the nursery beds to protect newly transplanted seedlings.

There seem to be just as many opinions about when to transplant seedlings from coldframes into nursery beds as there are methods of growing plants from seed. Only experience will tell you what to do in your own garden. There are some seedlings that simply resent too early disturbance; others can be transplanted at almost any stage. If they have been planted thinly in the coldframe it is fine to leave them there longer than if they are crowded and seem to cry for more space.

Mrs. Klaber's nursery beds are in a space about twelve by twenty-five feet. All the stones are removed and the ground leveled and then divided by boards six inches wide stood on edge. These boards are held in place by stakes driven into the ground. She tries to keep the beds about four feet wide with a path between them about eighteen inches wide. In this way she can work from either side without too much strain. Then she fills these beds to within a few inches of the top of the boards with her mixture of compost, peat moss, sand, old manure, and stone chips. The idea of raising the beds above the ground is to provide good drainage (one of the most important things in gardening). And by leaving a few inches of space at the top of the bed, the seedlings will have a chance to grow and still be covered, when needed, by the slat covers.

WHEN MRS. KLABER decides that the seedlings in her coldframes are large enough to transplant, she moves them very carefully into a container that has just a little water in the bottom. There are three rules she follows at this time: (1) Be very careful that the delicate rootlets aren't damaged. (2) Do not let them dry out. (3) Replant them as soon as possible. In order to be certain that these rules are followed she usually moves only one row at a time. She also leaves the label in the coldframe (making a new one for the nursery beds), just in case some late arrivals show up. The little seedlings are planted in the beds from two to four inches apart. This, of course, is determined by the type of plant and its probable growth.

It is at this time that the utmost care in cultivation and weeding is necessary. These plants are accustomed to melting snows constantly seeping among them with the excellent drainage of their native slopes and stony soil; therefore, it is very important that they be watered carefully. The ground should be moist at all times, but standing water should be definitely avoided.

"It is this stage of planting," Mrs. Klaber says, "that I sometimes find to be the most critical. I expect, as does every gardener, that many of the seeds will not germinate in the coldframes. I don't feel too badly about that. But what does seem to be a pity is that sometimes those that do germinate and seem to be sturdy little plants will, for no apparent reason, sicken and die when transplanted into the nursery beds. It is in this 'nursery' stage that the challenge and thrill really comes. I consider half the work done when the seedlings are in the beds—the first stage is the germination of the seeds and the last stage is the planting in the large garden—but right here, in the middle stage, is where the battle is won or lost. This may sound complicated and difficult, but it isn't really so. For every plant that dies, there are ten more to take its place. And as you get more and more experience you discover those that are easy to handle and a pleasure to grow. However, if you are like I am, you'll always find some time for the 'problem plants,' for these present a challenge and an exquisite thrill when finally brought to sturdy, beautiful planthood.'"

MRS. KLABER carefully watches the growing seedlings in the nursery beds until she thinks they are large enough and strong enough to take their places in her main garden. Then, usually after a rain when the ground is still moist, she begins to move them. She plants them firmly, waters them, and places some loose dry soil over the wet ground, and if the sun is very hot she shades them for a few days.

Mrs. Klaber uses her nursery beds in another way, too. One might even call them her "hospital." When some of the plants in the large garden seem to be weakening, or if she receives a gift of plants, they are put immediately into the nursery beds. Her reason for this is perfectly reasonable. In a large garden there are so many plants that sometimes it's impossible to give individual attention to each and every one. But by keeping the occasional "invalids" and new plants in the nursery beds, and if, like a doctor, you stop there every morning to examine and help them, you can't avoid saving a great many plants that might otherwise die. When these sick plants are strong again they once more take their place in the large garden, and weaker plants are moved to the beds for attention.

Although almost all of Mrs. Klaber's plants are grown from seed, she does use other methods to further propagate those strong plants she has already, grown. One of the methods she uses is to make cuttings. In this way she can obtain exact duplicates of the plants, which is never the case with seeds. No matter how conscientious the grower, plants from seed will vary, due to cross-fertilization. This will, of course, make things more interesting, but is less reliable if definite types of plants are wanted.

The cuttings are taken from new growth, and are made about three inches long, cut just below a joint. The lower leaves are removed and the cuttings are inserted an inch or two into a bed of ordinary sand, which is then pressed tightly against them. They are watered and watched carefully until indications of new growth show they have rooted. When this happens they are removed from the sand bed and put into the nursery, where they stay until they have developed a strong enough root system to be planted in the main garden.

Another method Mrs. Klaber uses is to make a layering. She does this without moving the parent plant from the large garden. Layering is made by selecting a branch and then making a cut about half way through it. The branch is then bent over until that part of it where the cut has been made can be covered with soil. The soil is tamped firmly down over it and a stone is put on it to hold it in place. After a few months the stone is lifted and it is usually found that the branch has taken root where the incision was made. The branch is then cut completely through at a point between the new root and the parent plant, and that section of the branch with the new root is planted in the garden.

Still another method is called division. Here the plants that grow in clumps are pulled apart, each making a new plant. You will find by experimentation which plants will react favorably to this method, and which plants are better left alone, or propagated by cuttings or by layering.

"And above all," says Mrs. Klaber, "don't be afraid of your plants. If you decide some are in the wrong place in your garden, or that the colors clash, or you want to move them for any other reason, simply move them. Be careful, of course, to do it gently, and be certain to dig up the whole root system. Try to disturb the soil as little as possible—then move them quickly. Just as you did with seedlings, plant firmly, water them, shade them when necessary, and the job is done."

She tries not to move them in the summer during a long, dry spell, because then the plants are having a hard time simply bearing up under drought and heat, and they need all their strength just to keep alive. But in the spring or in the fall, when the plants are strong and at the height of their beauty, the weather is usually favorable to move them without danger of damaging them. So don't be afraid of your plants. Treat them gently but firmly.

ALTHOUGH A great deal of Mrs. Klaber's time is taken up with coldframes and nursery beds, the garden itself needs attention, too. In all the year there are two seasons when it is most necessary to work in it carefully. Of these two seasons the more important is spring. As early as possible at this time the entire garden should have a complete going over. Weeds are pulled—all weeds—every blade of them. And as each part of the garden is weeded it is cultivated. Mrs. Klaber takes a small wheelbarrow filled with her mixture and, using a shovel and a sweeping motion, spreads the soil over the entire garden. It doesn't matter if the mixture half buries some of the plants. They wouldn't be treated any more gently in their natural surroundings when sliding gravel loosened by melting snow falls on them. Later she goes among them and shakes the loose soil down around their roots. While she weeds she also removes rotting leaves and dead shoots and any plants that have died.

"Of course," she says, "all summer I go over the garden for weeds, but that first spring cleaning-up gets most of them. Another bit of work that starts in the springtime and continues throughout the summer is the removal of dead flowers after they have bloomed (unless, of course, you want them to go to seed for later use). Also if flowers are cut off as each plant stops blooming, many of them will thank you with an encore. And, too, with spreaders such as cerastium arabis, and some of the pinks, I like to give the whole plant a haircut, snipping the foliage back a good third or more. They look shorn and forelorn at first but they soon bounce back, greener and more beautiful.

Then in the fall, before there is a chance of the garden becoming frozen, it is given another cleaning. Once again weeds are removed and a top dressing of the mixture is spread over everything. Special attention is given at this time to young seedlings and to wet spots in the garden. The seedlings and the damp spots are given an extra coat of stone chips, because wet earth will heave the most in the freezing and thawing to come, and the young seedlings with their tender roots do not have the strength of older plants to hold deeply to the soil. Leaves that fall to the ground at this time are allowed to stay there, unless they are forming mats around the plants. All coldframes are put away, and all is ready for winter.

WE CAME back from our tour of the garden and once more sat on the steps in the sunshine. "What about prices?" I asked. "How do you charge for the various plants you sell?"

"First of all," she said, "I do only a cash and carry business. I don't sell by mail, like many nurseries. We don't do a large business, but it's growing every year. I have people who come for plants from a radius of about a hundred miles. They know that what I sell them is good. I'm proud of my plants. Of course all nurseries usually have about the same prices for things, but some growers—and I think I'm one of this kind—have some plants that are not of the usual kind. I mean plants that take time and care to grow—the same time and care that would have produced hundreds of the more common plants. Anyway, the prices range from 35 cents each to a high of $2 each. And often it just isn't possible actually to know what a certain plant has cost you in labor, worry, and waiting. When you take into consideration that some plants take nearly three years to grow from seed—how can I charge what they are really worth? Sometimes I actually hate to part with them, because I've become so attached to them.

"I do very little advertising. My customers tell one another, and that's the thing I want. Most of the people stop because they see our signs, and a great deal of my enjoyment comes from showing them my garden. Mr. Klaber and I both like meeting people, and I suppose that's another reason why we like to grow plants and sell them. Of course I'm proud that experts and specialists come from a distance to see what I have done, but even if they didn't, this is the life we love. This little place is what we have wanted all our lives."