iK^i^s 
 
Jleto gorii 
 
 &tatt CoIIcgf of agricuUurc 
 
 2t Cornell mnibttiitp 
 
 Stfiata, M. S. 
 
 %ibtatp 
 
SB 455.D51 
 
 Confidences of an amateur gardner . 
 
 3 1924 002 832 297 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924002832297 
 
CONFIDENCES 
 
 OF AN 
 
 AMATEUR GARDENER 
 
 A. M. DEW-SMITH 
 
 AUTHOR OF " A WHITE UMBRELLA 
 
 ' And forth withoute wordes mo, 
 In at the wiket went I tho, 
 That Ydelnesse hadde opened me 
 Into that gardin fair to see." 
 
 Ro7nnunt of the Rose. 
 
 LONDON 
 SEELEY AND CO. LIMITED 
 
 38 Great Russell Street 
 1897 
 
 w 
 
The following papers have appeared in the Pall Mall 
 Gazette under the heading Wares of Autolyciis, and are 
 reprinted by the courtesy of the Editor. 
 
1 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^^^^ra 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. CLEARING THE GROUND ... 
 
 II. THINGS IN POTS 
 
 III. LITIXE BULBS 
 
 IV. IN THE POTTING-SHED 
 V. THE HARE AND THE CARNATIONS 
 
 VI. BILLIKINS 
 
 VII. FREESIAS ... 
 
 VIII. A RAINY DAY 
 
 IX. THE PITCHER-PLANT 
 
 X. DREAMS 
 
 XI. SOWING SEEDS 
 
 XII. HENS AND CHICKENS 
 
 Xni. GREEN-FI.Y 
 
 XIV. BY PARCEL-POST ... 
 
 XV. THE MOUSE AND THE PEAS 
 XVI. GARDENS OLD AND NEVl^... 
 
 XVII. THE GREEN-FLY SCORES ... 
 
 XVIII. CATS 
 
 I'AtiL. 
 I 
 
 14 
 
 25 
 
 34 
 
 39 
 
 47 
 
 51 
 
 58 
 
 64 
 
 69 
 
 76 
 
 90 
 
 98 
 
 105 
 
 113 
 
 120 
 
 127 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAI'. 
 
 
 1 A^r. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 WEEDING 
 
 T42 
 
 XX. 
 
 THE SPUDDING MANIA 
 
 ... 150 
 
 XXI. 
 
 'SUMMER IS Y-COMEN IN' 
 
 ... 156 
 
 xxti. 
 
 THE KITCHEN-GARDEN 
 
 ... 160 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 NO RAIN ! 
 
 ... 166 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 PLANTING OUT 
 
 ... 173 
 
 XXV. 
 
 BY THE RIVER-SIDE 
 
 ... 180 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 IN THE GREEN-HOUSE... 
 
 ... 188 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 A PRETTY GARDEN 
 
 ... 195 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 ROSES 
 
 202 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 BUMBLE-BEES 
 
 ... 210 
 
 XXX. 
 
 PICKING THINGS 
 
 ... 217 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 PORTULACA 
 
 ... 224 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 THE SPIDER AND THE FLY ... 
 
 ... 231 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 IN THE DARK 
 
 ... 239 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 ROSE-BEETLES 
 
 . ... 246 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 HOLLYHOCKS 
 
 ... 254 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 HEATHER AND BRACKEN 
 
 ... 262 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 BEES 
 
 ... 270 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 GOURDS 
 
 ... 278 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 A HEDGE OF SWEET-PEAS 
 
 ... 286 
 
 XL. 
 
 AUTUMN 
 
 ... 293 
 
CONFIDENCES OF 
 AN AMATEUR GARDENER 
 
 I 
 
 CLEARING THE GROUND 
 
 Four acres of wilderness. That is what our 
 garden consisted of six months ago. For the 
 place had been untenanted for two years, and 
 the one man who had been living there keeping 
 an eye on it had been powerless to hold the 
 rampant vegetation within prescribed bounds. 
 Consequently the kitchen-garden had broken 
 loose and spread everywhere, dragging in its 
 trail a troup of inquisitive weeds, who struggled 
 to get in front whenever they had an op- 
 portunity. They jumped over the low box 
 
2 CLEARING THE GROUND 
 
 borders and entirely obliterated the paths, and 
 making their way to the hedge that separated 
 the garden from the field, seemed bent on 
 climbing over it and seeing something of the 
 world. 
 
 Plants, especially vegetables, that have been 
 accustomed to any kind of restraint, become 
 very loose and untidy in their habits if left entirely 
 to themselves. They seem to lose all sense of 
 decorum and dignity. Gooseberry and currant 
 trees that are wont to stand upright in comely 
 bushes, were sprawling all over the ground, in- 
 extricably entangled with weeds of the lowest 
 description. Even the strawberry-plants — models 
 of propriety as a rule — instead of keeping to neat 
 tufts, were trying to climb trees. As for the weeds, 
 they were having it all their own way for once, 
 and were rioting, as it were, in a state of rampant 
 intoxication. Nettles had thronged together and 
 shot up into high hedges that stung one mockingly 
 in the face as one walked along, and creeping weeds 
 had made a network of strings over the ground, 
 and laughed when they tripped one up and landed 
 one on one's nose. 
 
 Eight men were turned into the wilderness, and 
 the work of destruction was carried on busily and 
 fiercely for some weeks. All the weeds and ill- 
 
CLEARING THE GROUND 3 
 
 regulated vegetables were wrestled with and cut 
 down, and the sky was lurid with the bonfires that 
 consumed their remains. A hand-to-hand tussle 
 of several days was necessary before the horse- 
 radish could be rooted out. For it had employed 
 the two years in strengthening its foundations, with 
 a view as it were to standing a siege, and had sent 
 great powerful roots into the very bowels of the 
 earth. Nothing was spared. Twelve respectable 
 old plum-trees, whose only fault was their barren- 
 ness (they had borne but one plum between them 
 the year before), were ruthlessly hewn down and 
 cast into the fire. 
 
 The spade and axe triumphed in the end. An 
 acre or so of nice brown upturned soil, a grass plot 
 or two, some neat shrubberies, several dignified 
 old trees — among which a mulberry, a walnut, and 
 a weeping willow are the most conspicuous — the 
 whole intersected with neatly-brushed gravel paths, 
 have emerged from the chaos ; all sweet and clean, 
 swept and garnished, and ready for a new population 
 of plants and flowers. 
 
 It is what I have always longed for — a piece of 
 clean unoccupied ground, with much rich, upturned 
 soil such as plants delight in, and to be allowed to 
 go about making holes, popping things in, and 
 watching them from their infancy, when they first 
 
4 CLEARING THE' GROUND 
 
 peep out of the earth, till maturity. It is an advan- 
 tage, too, to be an absolute ignoramus about 
 plants and their ways, so that everything comes in 
 the nature of a surprise ; to look on, and play with 
 them, while, others attend to their more serious 
 management and culture. 
 
 With the exception of about half an acre at the 
 far end, which has been given up to William to 
 grow peas, beans, cabbages, and anything else he 
 likes in the way of vegetables, the whole of what 
 was the kitchen-garden has been' turned into flower 
 garden. It is divided into long strips of flower 
 beds, five yards wide, and about fifty yards long, 
 divided by grass paths. There are six of these 
 nice long curved earth- mounds, besides a row of 
 a dozen smaller ones at one end. 
 
 Though we have been busy for some time stow- 
 ing away bulbs and roots under the earth, the beds 
 look delightfully empty — nothing but swelling 
 brown soil. A wire-railing along the top, destined 
 to be covered with climbing plants — roses, clematis, 
 and others, makes a sort of backbone to each bed. 
 But though most of these have already been 
 j)lanted, they are at present only sticks with labels 
 tied round their necks leaning in a forlorn manner 
 against the wire. One of the beds is filled with 
 little rose-bushes — still, also, in the stick-and-label 
 
CLEARING THE GROUND 5 
 
 Stage ; and another contains nothing but hardy- 
 carnations — vigorous little plants, whose leaves 
 have a delicious blue-grey sheen in the sun. With 
 the exception of long borders of wallflowers, these 
 are the only things above ground at present. 
 
 But the appearance of emptiness is deceptive. 
 All sorts of things are tucked away beneath the 
 soil, ready to peep out as soon as they think they 
 will be safe from frost. Indeed, as I walked round 
 this morning, and looked at the sticks and labels 
 that mark the various occupants, I wondered if the 
 work of fining up the space were not going on too 
 rapidly. The smaller beds, however, are still empty 
 and ready for seeds; and I have especially peti- 
 tioned for two strips in the kitchen-garden, where 
 I mean to have tall hedges of sweet-peas. Already 
 I am walking between them in imagination, and 
 feel the air _full of their delicious fragrance. 
 
II 
 
 THINGS IN POTS 
 
 There is to my mind something particularly 
 attractive about a new earthenware flower-pot. Six 
 months ago I felt a positive thrill of joy as I con- 
 templated several hundreds of them sitting in rows 
 on the floor of the potting-shed— just arrived from 
 the factory. There were pots of every size, from 
 great big, dignified-looking things, made to hold a 
 tree or a big palm, to tiny little pots, just big enough 
 to hold a very small seedling. I have always had an 
 especial weakness for a very small flower-pot, and 
 find it A'ery difficult when passing a flower-market, 
 where one sees rows of them, each showing off its 
 little plant, to resist buying them and carrying them 
 home in my arms. 
 
 Since I first saw the flower-pots, brand-new and 
 almost hot from the factory, great changes have taken 
 
THINGS IN POTS 7 
 
 place. They have been filled with mould, taken from 
 the potting-shedj and distributed through the frames 
 and greenhouses, and now each one boasts a plant. 
 A few weeks ago the bulbs which have been hidden 
 in them had hardly begun to show their green tips. 
 The earthy surface for the most part looked undis- 
 turhed, and but for a look of consciousness about 
 some of them, I should have thought they contained 
 nothing but mould. But warmth and moisture have 
 been making love to the dry-looking bulbs, and have 
 enticed a plant out of each. Such numbers are there 
 that I feel bewildered as I walk about among them, 
 wanting to look at all, and yet not liking to tear my- 
 self away from any. There are bulbs in every stage 
 of development, from those that are only just show- 
 ing green noses through the earth, to tall plants of 
 jonquil and narcissus that are in flower, and hyacinths 
 and tulips that are already past their prime. Cycla- 
 men and lily of the valley are also blossoming 
 away. So are Muscari botnjoides. These attractive 
 little plants, which shot up out of twenty of the 
 smallest flower-pots about ten days ago, look better 
 in pots than they do out of doors. They are now 
 about three inches high, and are sitting in a row on 
 one of the shelves, looking quite touching, as Max 
 said, and making a long strip of hazy blue colour 
 which is tlie first thing one sees on going into the 
 
g THINGS IN POTS 
 
 greenhouse. They are Hke diminutive hyacinth 
 plants — a tuft of green bulb leaves, from the centre 
 of which shoots a stalk with a pyramid cluster of 
 tiny grey-blue bells with white rims. At first each 
 plant consisted of one stalk only ; but now there is 
 a further development. A second stem with its 
 cluster of bells has crept up through the earth close 
 to the other. In some cases these infant blossoms 
 are nearly half-way up the original stalks : in others 
 they are only just beginning to peep through the 
 earth, and there is nothing to be seen but the white 
 tip of the cluster. The elder ones seem to have 
 assumed quite a motherly attitude towards these 
 babes, leaning against them affectionately, as it were 
 with their arms round their necks. 
 
 Besides the bulbs, there are a number of plants, 
 all more or less grown up, which arrived in a most 
 interesting parcel from a nurseryman. It was a 
 large bulky-looking pyramid, wrapped round with 
 matting, and suggested an unwieldy piece of furni- 
 ture. When the matting was peeled off, it disclosed 
 a regular little shrubbery of plants in flower-pots, 
 all looking as fresh and green as could be, appar- 
 ently none the worse for having spent a day and 
 night huddled together in a stuffy little tent made 
 of matting. They were wonderfully packed — each 
 plant being supported by sticks, to which it was 
 
THINGS IN POTS g 
 
 tied by numerous neat little knots of bast, after the 
 manner of the skilful gardener, and then wrapped 
 round and round with silver paper like a wax doll. 
 It was quite a business unpacking them, and to find 
 room for them on the shelves among the bulbs, a 
 matter of difficulty. I went round picking out the 
 pots full of tulips and hyacinths that had already 
 begun to wither, and putting them away under the 
 shelf, where they were out of sight. 
 
 They have had a brief existence. It seems only 
 the other day that I watched them making their 
 first appearance through the earth in the pots. 
 Since then they have bloomed and died — and their 
 little day is over till this time next year. I could 
 not help feeling, as I stowed them away, that it is 
 cruelty to such bulbs to grow them in a greenhouse 
 instead of waiting till it is warmer and letting them 
 grow out of doors in the open air. It is a poor 
 sort of existence sitting on a shelf in a glass case, 
 when one might just as well be outside growing in 
 the earth, with nothing over one but the sky. They 
 miss the pleasantest moment in a plant's life, the 
 awakening in the cool, early morning covered with 
 dew, and hearing all the early morning noises, the 
 other plants stretching themselves in their earthy 
 beds and shaking the dew-drops off, and the early 
 birds beginning to chirp to the early worm. Out 
 
10 THINGS m POTS 
 
 in the garden everything feels fresh and crisp and 
 spry early in the morning. In the greenhouse there 
 is a tired, sleepy feeling in the air, as if the plants 
 had all been up late the night before. 
 
 In some newspaper I saw the other day a notice 
 of a plant-grower's observations about the intelli- 
 gence of plants. He would have one believe that 
 plants are capable of understanding what is said to 
 them, and that they have their likes and dislikes 
 just as we have. It is a pleasant theory, and one 
 which I am quite disposed to believe. Since reading 
 it I have frequently found myself conversing with 
 the plants, and one of them has shown unmistakable 
 signs of understanding me. In the matting bundle 
 were about a dozen pots containing little creeping 
 plants destined to climb up the bare walls and posts 
 of the greenhouses, and cover the staring white 
 paint and whitewash with green. We took pains 
 to put them about wherever there was a post or 
 a bit of wire for them to catch hold o£ A long, 
 thin, passion-flower plant, that was engaged in 
 eagerly climbing up a stick of its own, I put near 
 a substantial post in the middle of the house. But 
 the pot being large, and the plant in the exact 
 middle of the pot, I noticed yesterday that it was 
 a good half yard away from the post, and that it 
 had apparently made up its mind that it was useless 
 
THINGS IN POTS n 
 
 to attempt to reach it, for it was shooting up from 
 the stick that supported it, and making a bee-Hne for 
 the roof. This seemed to me a foohsli proceeding, 
 and one to be checked. The pot, I saw, had not 
 been put quite close to the post. I moved it up, 
 and by this means reduced the distance between the 
 post and the plant by a few inches. Then turning 
 the topmost shoot round a little, I pointed out the 
 post to it, and said, " Why don't you try to climb up 
 that post ? You will find it impossible to reach the 
 roof it you have nothing to hold on to." It gave 
 no sign of having understood me at the moment, 
 but bounded back to its original position when 
 I let go : and when I left the greenhouse a minute 
 or two later, it was still making for the roof, as 
 upright and straight as an arrow. Three hours 
 later I went into the greenhouse again, and glanced 
 at the passion-flower. The aspiring top shoot had 
 bent down and was leaning right away from the 
 stick to which it was tied, and stretching out two 
 little hands in the shape of tendrils to catch hold of 
 the post. "Well, I never!'''' said William when 
 I called him and drew his attention to its curious 
 behaviour. Of course we encouraged it at once by 
 bending the stick towards the post, and tying 
 it with a piece of bast, and now it seems to have 
 
12 THINGS IN POTS 
 
 every intention of climbing the post, spiral-fashion, 
 as fast as it can go. 
 
 I believe that passion-flower plant hkes me. I feel 
 distinctly that it is pleased to see me when I go 
 into the greenhouse in the morning. Most of the 
 plants seem kindly disposed. There is, however, one 
 exception. It is a grey-green, fleshy-leaved thing 
 like a house-leek, with small pinky-green flowers. 
 I do not know its name, and have no wish to know 
 it. I disliked it from the first moment it came out 
 of the bundle, and since it has been sitting on the 
 shelf with the other plants I have grown positively to 
 detest it. And I have not the smallest doubt that 
 it cordially returns the sentiment. It is the most 
 sulky, discontented thing I have ever come across. 
 Though I have put it in a very nice place sur- 
 rounded by the most charming little trees, it has 
 not made a single friend, but just sits there grum- 
 bling. When I pass it by I always feel it is shout- 
 ing impertinent remarks at me. So much does it 
 disturb the harmony of the greenhouse that I deter- 
 mined to move it from its position and put it on 
 a shelf beside a nasty little prickly cactus to which 
 I have also taken a dislike. 
 
 The little trees which I gave it for companions 
 were, a Norfolk Island Pine, a plum-tree and a 
 
THINGS IN POTS 13 
 
 myrtle. The Norfolk Island Pine is about a foot 
 high. It has a beautifully upright stem, with very 
 symmetrical branches growing out from it all the 
 way up, which are of the most delicious colour — 
 deep green near the stem, shading off to pale green 
 at the tips. It is such a small, compact, well- 
 finished little tree, that it is difficult to believe 
 that it grows to a huge pine in its native island. 
 The plum-tree is a graceful thing about two feet 
 high, with strong, dark, slender branches covered 
 with fluffy white blossoms. The myrtle is a 
 bushy, compact little plant like a diminutive garden 
 shrub — with foliage of a beautiful deep green. 
 
 It seemed to me that when I removed the dis- 
 agreeable fat-leaved thing from their midst, these 
 three little trees shook their leaves, and gave a 
 sigh of relief. 
 
Ill 
 
 LITTLE BULBS 
 
 " No green things in tlie garden except the 
 wallflowers and carnations." I made the remark 
 myself. Five minutes after I had made it I took 
 a walk round the shrubberies, and stooping down 
 to look at something in one of the borders, found 
 the ground positively bristling with tips of green ; 
 hundreds of snowdrops, crocuses and daffadown- 
 dillies, as stiff and fresh and green as could be — 
 all reproaching me with having overlooked them. 
 "No green things but the carnations and wall- 
 flowers I Why, look at us ! " 
 
 I have felt myself in disgrace ever since, and 
 have avoided the paths where they are thickest, 
 trying to justify my remark by ignoring them. 
 But now the snowdrops, winter aconites and 
 crocuses are coming out as fast as they can, and 
 
 14 
 
LITTLE BULBS 15 
 
 the ground beneath the shrubberies is streaked 
 with white and patched with yellow, so that I can 
 no longer overlook them. The mound that 
 supports a venerable mulberry-tree in one corner 
 of the garden, is so covered with snowdrops, that 
 the tree seems to be growing from a huge snowball. 
 
 I picked a little bunch of snowdrops, an aconite 
 or two, and a crocus, and then regretted it and 
 wished I had left them where tliey were. I cannot 
 rid myself of the feeling that it is cruel to pick 
 very small bulbs ; for if you pick the flowers you 
 pick the whole thing, especially in the case of an 
 aconite, which consists of a single leaf with a 
 golden cup resting on it. I have no compunctions 
 about picking flowers off larger plants or bushes. 
 I am inclined to think that the plant rather likes 
 it. But little bulbs that grow in families close to 
 the ground I feel sure hate being picked, and I 
 never pick them without an uneasy feeling that I 
 am guilty of cruelty. 
 
 The crocuses, indeed, have had much to contend 
 with during the winter, while they lay yet buried 
 beneath the soil, and when I think of what they 
 have gone through, I cannot but admire the pluck 
 they have shown in their struggle for life, and the 
 dauntless front of saffron they are now displaying. 
 For Betty, the tailless sheep-dog, spent all her spare 
 
1 6 LITTLE BULBS 
 
 time during the winter in digging them up — 
 carrying them about in her mouth, and scattering 
 them about the lawn, or depositing them in corners 
 of the house. Whenever we found them of course 
 we planted them again ; but numbers were lost, 
 and even those that were, replanted, we felt sure 
 would have their growth retarded by being re- 
 peatedly dug up and buried again. Chastisement 
 and scoldings had no effect. She apologized 
 humbly, and then went and dug up another. 
 Apparently the fascination of digging a hole and 
 finding a bulb in it, or the pleasant sensation of 
 having a little cold bulb in her mouth was 
 irresistible. She never bit or injured the bulb, 
 and but for the apologetic air with which she 
 approached one, her ears back, and an engaging 
 waggle of her body (which did duty for a wag of 
 the tail), and for the tell-tale crocus roots that 
 could be seen hanging out of the corners of her 
 tightly-closed mouth, she might often have escaped 
 punishment. 
 
 She had a winsome, giddy way with her, in 
 spite of being the mother of three puppies, and I 
 gave up punishing her at last, and let her have 
 her own way, merely taking pains to collect the 
 poor little bulbs every morning and plant them 
 again. 
 
LITTLE BULBS ' 17 
 
 It was when Max was away that I began letting 
 the three puppies out of the stable to play on the 
 lawn. I tolerated their rampaging over the flower- 
 beds, and playing hide-and-seek among the wall- 
 flowers. But when they all went to the crocus 
 border and began digging up the bulbs and playing 
 ball with them, I felt that something must be done. 
 It would never do to have four dogs digging up the 
 bulbs. I must give the puppies away. I set about 
 finding suitable homes for them, and in the meantime 
 determined to bring them from the stable into the 
 house so that I could keep a watch on their 
 outgoings and incomings, and also be able to 
 educate them a little, and not launch them into 
 the world of polite society without giving their 
 stable manners a slight polish. I thought I would 
 have them to sleep in my room by way of a 
 beginning. 
 
 They were beautiful puppies — little black, woolly 
 sheep-dogs with white shirt fronts, and large, loose, 
 soft, white paws. Unlike their mother they had 
 long, fluffy tails. 
 
 We had christened them after three friends of 
 ours, Tommy, Isabel, and Joan. Tommy was the 
 naughtiest. He used to go about with a staggering, 
 swaggering sort of gait, seeking what he could 
 destroy. He was not the least discomposed by the 
 
1 8 LITTLE BULBS 
 
 summary descent of justice, but when after opening 
 his mouth and extracting a bulb from between his 
 Httle teeth I boxed his ears, he at once started, 
 smiling, in search of another. 
 
 Isabel was the most engaging. She had soft, 
 canoodling ways — would nibble your ear gently 
 with her small white teeth and give you little im- 
 promptu licks when you scolded her, or sit with 
 her head on one side and a very solemn expression 
 that was quite irresistible. 
 
 And Joan was the cleverest. Besides being the 
 first to dig up a bulb, she had been the first to 
 open her eyes, the first to lap, and the first to 
 bark. Which latter performance caused her mother 
 the greatest astonishment. She sat bolt upright, 
 pricked up her ears, and watched her for ten minutes 
 without moving, as if she had been a rabbit-hole. 
 
 I took them up to my room at bed-time and 
 made them a very comfortable nest in my bath. 
 I lined it with the bath-flannel and put in a warm 
 woolly rug rather crumpled up, so that they could 
 snuggle into the folds if they liked. Then I lifted 
 them all in. They took to it at once, curled them- 
 selves up into a sort of inextricable puzzle of heads 
 and tails, so that you did not know which head 
 belonged to which puppy, gave three sighs of deep 
 satisfaction, and were sound asleep before the sighs 
 
LITTLE BULBS 19 
 
 liad died away. I gazed at them with fond admir- 
 ation, and thought what a blessed thing it would be 
 for mothers if babies could be taught to behave in 
 a like exemplary manner. Then I got into bed 
 and blew out the candle. 
 
 I sleot for about an hour and a half. Then I 
 
 1 
 
 was awakened by the puppies whimpering. I 
 listened for a few minutes till the whimpering grew 
 louder, and resolved itself into loud complaints. 
 Then I said " Hush ! " in a stage whisper. The 
 sound of my voice had the unexpected effect of 
 a puff of wind on a smouldering bonfire. They 
 at once burst into excited yelps, loud enough to 
 wake the household. I lit a candle, sat up in bed, 
 held the candle over my head, looked at them, and 
 said " Diddums Wasums ! " It was a foolish 
 thing to say, and I repented it. They took it as 
 encouragement. They all got up and stood with 
 their paws on the edge of the bath looking at me, 
 while their tails wagged backwards and forwards 
 like pendulums; and they made insinuating move- 
 ments with their heads, implying that they were 
 tired of the bath, and wished to get up, and would 
 I kindly help them out. 
 
 I told them tliat they had made a mistake, 
 that it was not nearly time to get up yet, that the 
 night was only just beginning, and that they would 
 
20 LITTLE BULBS 
 
 hav^e to sleep a good seven hours more before there 
 was any sign of morning. 
 
 They said they were quite sure it was morning, 
 and that if it was not, it ought to be, and that any- 
 how no person of sense would think of sleeping a 
 whole night through on end, and they yelped 
 louder and louder. 
 
 I got up. I was rather sleepy, and perhaps not 
 quite responsible for my actions, but I yielded to 
 their frantic entreaties, and lifted them out of the 
 bath one by one and put them on the floor. They 
 were very much pleased. They wagged their tails, 
 and then all three made a pounce at my bare toes. 
 I could not allow that. I boxed their ears and 
 reprimanded them severely. Whereupon they 
 seized my nightgown from three different sides 
 and tugged, obliging me to sit down plump and 
 unexpectedly on the floor. This amused them 
 enormously. They rested on their fore-paws and 
 barked impertinently, wagging their tails on high. 
 I sat helplessly on the floor and said " Hush 1 " 
 
 I might just as well have said " Hush " 
 to a Maxim gun. They paid not the slightest 
 attention till the joke palled — which it did quite 
 suddenly, and then with one accord they walked 
 off in different directions to see what they could 
 find. 
 
LITTLE BULBS 21 
 
 Tommy found a pair of bedroom slippers, and 
 immediately settled himself comfortably on the 
 floor and began to tear the fur off. Isabel found a 
 rug with a fringe, which she set herself to chew, 
 and Joan found a waste-paper basket, the contents 
 of which she proceeded to tear into little bits and 
 chuck about the room. 
 
 Much relieved to see that they had quieted down, 
 I got into bed and blew out the light. But sleep 
 had departed as far as I was concerned. I lay with 
 one ear outside the bed-clothes listening and trying 
 to make out from the sounds where they were and 
 what they were doing. 
 
 A series of sharp, jerking growls excited my 
 curiosity. I sat up and lit a match. Tommy and 
 Joan were having a desperate tug-of-war over one of 
 mv bedroom slippers. They seized the opportunity 
 afforded by the momentary illumination of the 
 room to drop the slippers and make a dash at 
 Isabel who was chewing the rug, and forthwith all 
 three began a wild game of romps. They rolled 
 over and over ; they kicked, they tried to swallow 
 each others' heads, thev tore wildly after each other 
 round and round the room, making a noise on tlie 
 bare boards like galloping ponies. I lay on my 
 back in bed, feeling helpless and hopeless, and 
 more incapable and futile than I had ever felt in my 
 
2 2 LITTLE BULBS 
 
 life. They went on for about half an hour, and 
 then to my joy I detected signs of weariness. 
 It came on rather suddenly. They whimpered 
 a little : they found their way to a fur rug, they 
 flopped down, they sighed, and they slept. 
 
 As for me, I wept tears of gratitude and looked 
 at my watch. It was only twelve o'clock. I con- 
 gratulated myself on having got the orgie over so 
 early, for now we should sleep — perhaps all the 
 better for it — till morning. 
 
 Little did I know of the way puppies spend 
 their nights! Punctually at half-past two they 
 woke — got up, and had the whole thing over again, 
 only more thoroughly and uproariously than before. 
 They barked and yelped like fiends. They tore 
 wildly round and round the room. They romped 
 in a sort of frenzy. They carried everything from 
 its proper place and pvit it somewhere else. They 
 found my boots with trees inside them, in one 
 corner, and carried them one by one, by a button 
 or a boot-lace, bump, bump, bump ! along the floor 
 to the furthest opposite corner. They took the 
 contents of the coal-box lump by lump and spread 
 them all over the floor. 
 
 If I felt hopeless and helpless before I began now 
 to feel delirious. I could do nothing but behave 
 like a sort of automatic machine that sat up, lit a 
 
LITTLE BULBS 23 
 
 match, gazed, and lay down again, over and over 
 again, till my back positively ached. I did not 
 close my eyes once. For, all through the night, at 
 intervals of an hour and a half, did those awful 
 puppies rise and repeat the programme. 
 
 By five o'clock I was a perfect wreck, and detect- 
 ing signs that the entertainment was drawing to a 
 close again, in a sort of desperation I picked them 
 all up on to my bed and let them go to sleep on 
 the top of me — Isabel on one shoulder, Joan on 
 the other, and Tommy stretched full-length down 
 mv side. I dared not move, nor even breathe, for 
 fear I should wake them. I lay stark, staring, 
 wide-awake, in an uncomfortable position, till morn- 
 ing, for I was determined to nip their next enter- 
 tainment in the bud. Luckily for them they made 
 no attempt to begin again. Perhaps they were 
 exhausted. Their three little limp, warm, dead 
 weights lav stretched motionless on the bed, like 
 small fur rugs. Isabel dreamt she was chasing a 
 rabbit. She gave litde yelps with closed teeth, that 
 shook lier bod\-, and sounded as if she had another 
 small animal inside her; and her paws twitched, 
 imitating the action of rapid running. This set me 
 pondering on heredity. Isabel could never even 
 have seen a rabbit, much less have chased one, and 
 yet here she was, obviously in hot pursuit. Heredity 
 
24 LITTLE BULBS 
 
 sent me to sleep, and I slept till I was wakened by 
 the maid with the hot water. She stood transfixed 
 in the middle of the room, and gazed at the chaos 
 it represented. All the rugs and mats were collected 
 in heaps in the different corners. The floor was 
 strewn with torn-up bits of paper, fur and fringe, 
 and boots and shoes, and coal. All the things that 
 had been in corners were in the middle of the room, 
 and my bedroom slippers, which had been reduced 
 to two bitten soles with remnants of fur and chewed 
 red flannel, were in the fender. 
 
 "Take these awful puppies to the stable — to the 
 garden — anywhere. Let them dig up the bulbs — 
 do anything they like — and leave me alone. I 
 don't want any breakfast — only to be left quiet and 
 undisturbed for the rest of the day." 
 
 "Perhaps it is as well for mothers that babies 
 don't behave like puppies," I murmured, as I heard 
 them going bump, bump, bump ! down the stairs. 
 
IV 
 
 IX THE POTTING-SHED 
 
 The potting-shed is a little place with a tiled roof, 
 furnished with a potting-bench, a seed-cupboard, 
 and some divisions for flower-pots. It is full of 
 flower-pots and little mounds of fine earth and 
 silver sand, and has a pleasant "earthy" smell. 
 Sieves, small garden tools, tails of bast, packets of 
 seeds, and wooden and zinc labels give it a busy 
 air, as though there were always something going 
 on. It is, to my mind, one of the pleasantest places 
 in the garden, and I had visions of myself, equipped 
 with gardening gloves, and a large blue linen pina- 
 fore with enormous pockets, spending many pleasant 
 mornings there, busy with flower-pots and mould 
 and bast. 
 
 During the winter I had no good excuse for in- 
 vading it and taking possession, and William had 
 
 25 
 
26 IN THE POTTING-SHED 
 
 had it all to himself for potting out his seedlings. 
 But a few days of bright sunshine and a feeling of 
 real spring in the air made me feel that it must be 
 high time to sow some seeds. 
 
 I spent an hour rummaging in a box full of 
 packets of seeds that had come from various seed 
 merchants, loolcing for something to sow. It was 
 January, and most of the familiar things were 
 marked " Sow in March, April, or May in the 
 open border." I put them aside, and picked out 
 one or two packets with strange, unpronounceable 
 names, marked to be sown in January or February 
 in gentle heat. Since discovering that Mimulus 
 moschatus is only another name for musk, I am 
 inclined to look on the names printed on the 
 packets with suspicion, as intended to mislead, and 
 have no doubt that many of those with strange 
 names will turn out to be familiar friends in 
 disguise. 
 
 I took two of these packets, whose names 
 Eucalyptus and Abutilon were more familiar than 
 the others, and seeing an opportunity of spending 
 an hour or two among the flower-pots and mounds 
 of earth, proceeded with them to the potting-shed. 
 
 I found William already in possession. He was 
 engaged in digging cyclamen seedlings out of the 
 square earthenware pan in which they had been 
 
IN THE POTTING-SHED 27 
 
 sown, and planting them in little pots — putting 
 each tin}^ plant, which consisted of a transparent 
 bulb like a mistletoe-berr}', with some short roots 
 and one or two dark leaves growing from it, in a 
 pot by itself. He had done about seventy, and the 
 quaint little things were spread all over tlie potting- 
 bench, so that there seemed very little room for me. 
 He had a mound of soft brown leaf-mould on the 
 bench in front of him, and as I hesitated at the door 
 wondering whether I had better come another time, 
 he plunged his hands into it, and began rubbing it 
 up between his fingers, as a cook does a cake, and 
 filling the little pots with it. This fascinating occu- 
 pation decided me. I said boldly — 
 
 " William, I want to sow these seeds. Can you 
 make room for me ? " 
 
 He made room with alacrity, carrying some of 
 his little pots away till he had cleared half the 
 bench, and seemed pleased at the prospect of 
 companionship. 
 
 He is a kindlv person, William, but I have 
 always suspected him of a good-natured contempt 
 for women-folk. He views mv attempts at garden- 
 ing with an air of amiable tolerance as if he thought 
 it a pleasant amusement for me, when I had nothing 
 to do, to play with flower- pots and seeds, but that 
 my interest in them could hardly be serious. He 
 
28 IN THE POTTING-SHED 
 
 has the air, when helping me to garden, of one 
 helping a child to play — makes a great show of 
 letting me do it all myself, but in reality reduces 
 my operations to a pretence by rushing to antici- 
 pate all my wants in the way of flower-pots, earth, 
 and tools. Even when apparently absorbed in his 
 own work, I can feel that he is keeping an eye on 
 me to see that I am getting on all right, and if I 
 chance to pause and gaze vaguely about me, is quite 
 distressed if he cannot at once guess what I want, 
 and hasten to provide it. 
 
 This supervision gives me a feeling of restraint, 
 and to thoroughly enjoj;^ the delights of thepotting- 
 shed I feel I should choose a time when he is occu- 
 pied elsewhere. But being an ignorant person as 
 regards gardening, I thought it best, on this occa- 
 sion, to submit myself to his guidance. My only 
 experience of seed-sowing so far had been annuals, 
 " in the open border." These I sowed according to 
 the light of nature — scratched a place.. in the earth, 
 scattered the seed, covered them up with crumbled 
 soil, patted them down and watered them. The 
 method answered very well. They all came up and 
 flowered beautifully. But sowing seeds in pans, to 
 be raised under glass, is a very different thing, and I 
 thought it best to follow the approved fashion. 
 
 Next door to the potting-shed is another small 
 
AV THE POTTING-SHED 29 
 
 shed containing nothing but flower-pots — great big 
 pots piled up in the corner, and Uttle pots fitted 
 inside each other curling about on the floor like 
 snakes, besides a variety of flat earthenware pans 
 for seeds. I investigated them with great care, and 
 picked out two oblong, rectangular pans, of a 
 particularly nice shape and colour, and brand-new, 
 and put them on my half of the potting-bench. 
 
 According to William's directions I scattered bits 
 of flower-pot over the bottom of the pans, and then 
 set about preparing a "light soil/' This I made by 
 mixing some silver sand with some of the leaf-mould 
 that he had used for the cyclamens, and working it 
 about with my hands till it made a fine grey-brown 
 soil. With this I filled the pans, and then with a 
 nice little tool, made of a flat piece of wood with a 
 handle sticking up in the middle, patted it down till 
 the surface was quite smooth and apparently hard. 
 
 To scatter small seeds evenly over a smooth 
 surface is a difficult operation, and I did it very 
 badly. They ran together in little cluiTips, leaving 
 some places quite bare. I tried to pick some of 
 them up with my finger and thumb, by waj- of 
 separating them, but only succeeded in making a 
 pit in the middle of the pan and driving the seeds to 
 the bottom of it. I distributed them, however, to 
 the best of my ability, the Eucalyptus in one pan 
 
30 IN THE POTTING-SHED 
 
 and the Abutilon in another, and then shook a little 
 sieve with some of the sandy mixture over them till 
 they were quite covered. The potting tool then 
 came into use again, and was applied firmly till the 
 surface was quite smooth ; then the names were 
 copied from the empty seed-packets on to wooden 
 labels and stuck carefully into the right pans, and 
 the pans carried into the little greenhouse where 
 the seeds are. Here places were scraped for them 
 in the warm cocoa-fibre ; they were embedded, 
 watered with a fine rose, and left, in the hope that 
 Nature would do the rest. 
 
 Only a few days before I had been commenting 
 on the absence of animal and insect life in the 
 garden. I had not seen so much as a toad or a 
 snail for weeks. But the day after I had sown the 
 seeds I encountered a worm, and moreover had 
 high words with him. 
 
 I had left the two pans in which I had sown the 
 seeds looking as smooth and neat as could be. 
 The following morning I went to see how they 
 were getting on, and if they wanted any more water. 
 To my amazement the pan in which I had sown the 
 Eucalyptus seed, instead of the smooth surface it 
 had when I left it, presented the appearance of 
 having sufi^ered from a severe shock of earthquake. 
 Hillocks were thrown up in all directions, and right 
 
7^'^ THE POTTING-SHED 31 
 
 across the middle was a curved range of mountains, 
 aiakine: mv beautiful smooth surface look like one 
 of those raised maps, with the mountains and valleys 
 in relief. I gazed at it with consternation. What 
 had happened ? Had the seeds all gone mad ? 
 
 " William," I called, " look at these seeds. What 
 is the matter with them ? " 
 
 " That's a worm, m'm," said William, looking at 
 them. And taking a pin from his waistcoat, he 
 proceeded to probe into the earth with it. 
 
 " Don't do that, William," I said hastily. The 
 worm had behaved very badlv, but I had no uish 
 to harpoon him. 
 
 Apparently he had been concealed in one of the 
 handfuls of mould I put into the pan, but, thinking- 
 something unusual was occurring, had deemed it 
 prudent to lie low till the worst was over, submitting 
 even to the inconvenience of being patted down 
 with the potting tool without a murmur. Then, 
 when all was quiet, at dead of night probably, he 
 had ventured to look around, and with a view, I 
 suppose, to taking his bearings, had gone leaping 
 about in the pan like a sea-serpent, creating dire 
 havoc, and frightening the poor seeds out of their 
 \\its. 
 
 ]Max assured me that he would not eat the 
 seeds. He would, he said, however, in all pro- 
 
32 IN THE POTTING-SHED 
 
 bability eat some of the silver sand, which would 
 scratch his inside and give him a pain. 
 
 Leaving the law of compensation to deal with 
 him in this manner, I contented myself with patting 
 down the earth-works he had thrown up, and did 
 not attempt to evict him, more especially as I felt 
 it highly probable I should have considerable 
 difficulty in catching him. 
 
 The sowing of seeds I have since found extremely 
 fascinating. Their behaviour is at times so as- 
 tonishing, that I find myself walking about among 
 the seed-pans like an animated note of exclamation. 
 Some of them seem to pop up like Jack-in-the- 
 boxes as soon as one has turned one's back — 
 especially anything of a gourd nature — cucumbers, 
 melons, and the like. I put eight cucumber seeds 
 in a pot, in a frame, a week ago. Three days later 
 I went to look at them, and found eight little plants 
 nearly an inch high. 
 
 The subject of seeds is one on which I have a 
 tendency to grow morbid. I find myself collecting 
 orange-pips, apple-pips, date-stones, and such-like 
 things that one has been wont to cast contempt- 
 uously aside, and planting them in flower-pots to 
 see what sort of trees will come out of them. At 
 Christmas we bought at a fruiterer's a queer-looking 
 fruit called a custard-apple — an unattractive thing 
 
IN THE POTTING-SHED 33 
 
 about the size of a large fir-cone, with a thick rough 
 hide. On cutting it open we found it contained an 
 unpleasant-looking mixture, like a bad custard, and 
 some large black seeds. We planted the seeds in a 
 flower-pot, and I quite forgot their existence till 
 some time after I noticed some^long pink things in 
 a pot, that somehow reminded me of the flamingoes 
 in Alice in Wonderland, and found on investiga- 
 tion that they had issued from the black seeds of 
 the custard-apple. They came up in loops, keeping 
 their heads underground, so that they looked like 
 diminutive croquet-hoops, which may perhaps have 
 suggested the resemblance to the flamingoes. After 
 a day or two they got their heads free and stretched 
 themselves upright, and showed two pale leaves at 
 the top. They remained pale, rather sickly-looking 
 stalks about four inches high for some time, and 
 then tufts of green leaves issued from the top, and 
 they turned into rather nice little trees. I am 
 waiting with some curiosity to see what will be 
 their next development. 
 
V 
 
 THE HARE AND THE CARNATIONS 
 
 There has been a tragedy among the carnations. 
 About a fortnight ago, a burglarious animal, said 
 by William to be a hare, entered the garden and 
 nibbled the hearts out of six of the finest plants. 
 There was quite a feeling of disaster in the garden 
 the morning after it occurred. The carnations that 
 had escaped felt in their roots that their turn would 
 come next. It seemed to me that even the litrie 
 seedling carnations sitting in rows in one of the open 
 frames had got wind of it, and were trembling with 
 apprehension. William armed himself with a gun, 
 and swore vengeance, if it meant sitting beside the 
 carnations all night. But the hare deemed it 
 prudent to disarm suspicion by keeping away for 
 some nights after his first raid. 
 
 Then, when William's patience was exhausted, 
 
 34 
 
THE HARE AND THE CARNATIONS 35 
 
 and he had given up all hope of catching him, he 
 returned and took to paying them a stealthy visit 
 every night, and browsed to such purpose that in 
 the largest carnation-bed there is hardly a plant that 
 he has not nibbled. One or two plants, of a strong, 
 grassy growth, have escaped. He seems fastidiously 
 to have avoided them as too tough. But those with 
 tender young shoots he has cropped close to the 
 ground, leaving only a miserable patch of stubble. 
 
 Carnation buds and shoots are considered a 
 choice delicacy among hares and rabbits. They 
 will come for miles to feed upon them, discovering 
 their whereabouts by that mysterious thing called 
 " instinct." This particular animal has had reason 
 to congratulate himself on his find a fortnight ago. 
 For he must have had quite a pleasant time brows- 
 ing unmolested every night for the last week, with 
 the whole garden to himself. 
 
 Though protections for the poor carnations were 
 thought of and talked about as soon as it was 
 discovered that he had come back, it was a 
 week before they were put into action. The beds 
 were hooped over at intervals down their whole 
 length, and fishing-nets stretched over them and 
 pegged down at the side, making a sort of tent over 
 the carnations through which it was impossible for 
 an animal larger than a mouse to penetrate. 
 
36 THE HARE AND THE CARNATIONS 
 
 I should like to have seen the hare's face when 
 he arrived, the night after this had been done — 
 eager for a meal. In the dark he would probably 
 bump his nose against the netting and wonder what 
 it was. Then he would move along to avoid it, 
 and finding more of it, mutter, "What the carnation 
 can this be ! " Feverishly and anxiously he would 
 begin to grope along the edge of the bed, and 
 when he had nosed his way all round and found no 
 opening that would admit anything larger than a 
 mouse, it would have dawned upon him that he was 
 sold. Then, doubtless, his language would have 
 been wholly unfit for publication. 
 
 William hoped he would be fool enough to 
 remove one of the pegs, get under the netting, and 
 then lose his head and forget the way out. In 
 which case he would probably have been jugged 
 by this time. But I am happy to say his greed 
 has not had such dire consequences. A hare is a 
 pretty creature, and I cannot help sympathizing 
 with this one, and admiring his nice, clean, whole- 
 some tastes. There is something suggestive of a 
 poem in the thought of his browsing in solitude in 
 the night, lighted only by the stars (or, it may be, 
 by the moon), and going off home at early dawn, 
 his whiskers and fur all covered with dew, with a 
 nice little bundle of tender, dewy carnation-shoots 
 
THE HARE AXD THE CARXATIONS 37 
 
 under his arm for the breakfast of his wife and 
 family. 
 
 I would willingly supply him with a basket of 
 vegetables every night — with a shoot or two of 
 carnation thrown in — to make up for having put 
 a stop to his nightly feast. But I shall pro- 
 bably never have an opportunity of speaking to 
 him, for the poor little cropped carnations, and his 
 tell-tale footprints in the beds, are the only trace he 
 has left. 
 
 But though I sympathize with the hare, I sym- 
 pathize even more with the carnations. Nothing 
 can be more unpleasant than to have to sit still and 
 endure to have your leaves and tender shoots 
 nibbled off as soon as they emerge from the earth. 
 JNIr. Brown, who kno\\s about hares and carnations, 
 sa)'S the plants are not spoilt, but that they will 
 throw out new shoots, become more bushy, and 
 probably be all the better for their cruel priming. 
 It is a comfort to think they are not utterly cowed, 
 or entirely annihilated by the treatment they have 
 received, but only roused into growing with 
 redoubled energ)^ 
 
 In fact the treatment the carnations received at 
 the teeth of the hare was only what many plants 
 receive at the hands of a gardener, with a view to 
 their future good. By putting a stop to the growth 
 
38 THE HARE AND THE CARNATIONS 
 
 of a plant in one direction, you force it to try 
 another way — throw out a shoot somewhere else. 
 The opposition seems even to rouse its determin- 
 ation, so that it throws out new shoots with greater 
 vigour. By judicious rebuffs of this kind you can, 
 it seems, turn a lanky tree into a bush, and also 
 make a dozen new trees from the bits you cut off. 
 A little oleander-tree in the greenhouse had a 
 tendency to gawkiness. It was stretching three 
 lanky stems upwards, as if intent on reaching the 
 roof, while down below the trunk was naked and 
 bare of foliage. At William's suggestion I cut the 
 three lanky shoots right off and left nothing but 
 the bare trunk. The shoots were divided into six 
 cuttings, put into a flower-pot — as near the edge of 
 the pot as possible — and watered abundantly. In 
 about a week I pulled one of them up to see how 
 it was getting on, and found that it was putting out 
 a number of tiny white roots. And on looking at 
 the oleander trunk I found that it was covered with 
 tiny green buds. These have since grown into 
 branches, converting the gawky tree into a neat 
 shrub. The cuttings, too, have grown into respect- 
 able trees, and each one has been given a pot to 
 itself. 
 
VI 
 
 BILLIKIXS 
 
 The birds had been busy about their nests for 
 some weeks. Such a fussing and chattering and 
 hopping about there had been at first. Such 
 excitement when one of them happened to find a 
 particularly nice bit of fluff wherewith to line a nest. 
 When the nests were ready the fuss subsided. 
 There was a sort of lull. For the hen birds were 
 all busy laying and hatching eggs — a business that 
 requires repose. Their mates sat and sang to them 
 — sentimental songs and luUabys for the most part, 
 and had whispered conversations with each other 
 as to how their wives were getting on, and how 
 many eggs they had laid. 
 
 Then we began to find little bits of broken egg- 
 shell beneath the trees, and shrill chirpings came 
 from the nests, where a short time ago the mothers 
 
 39 
 
40 BILLIKINS 
 
 sat silently brooding. And the birds, instead of 
 fussing over bits of fluff and straw, swept back- 
 wards and forwards with worms and insects in their 
 beaks. 
 
 At the foot of an old tree-trunk, covered with 
 ivy, we picked up a nest of young birds. The 
 nest had fallen out of a tree and lay battered on the 
 ground, and the mother-bird, scared by the cata- 
 strophe, had deserted them. They lay huddled up 
 among the ruins of the nest, chirping frantically 
 with terror and hunger. So we took them home, 
 and put them, nest and all, into a basket lined with 
 hay and cotton-wool on a little table in the corner 
 of the drawing-room. 
 
 They were an extraordinary little quartette. 
 Perfectly naked bodies with superfluous-looking 
 appendages of legs and wings, and enormous mouths 
 that opened like wash-leather purses with yellow 
 rims, and closed automatically when you popped 
 anything in. 
 
 Max pronounced them sparrows, but absolved 
 me from slaughtering caterpillars for them by say- 
 ing that sparrows would eat anything. So I tried 
 bread-and-milk and hard-boiled egg, which I 
 popped into their gaping mouths with a quill pen, 
 and, judging by the eagerness with which they 
 gulped it down, I gathered that they approved of 
 
BILLIKINS ' 4t 
 
 the diet. In fact, at this stage greed was their 
 chief characteristic. Whenever any one came with- 
 in a yard of them the four mouths would open 
 spontaneously, and they would clamour loudly till 
 we had stuffed them quite full, when the beaks 
 would shut with a satisfied snap, and huddled 
 together they would drop off to sleep, while some 
 mysterious mechanism inside them dealt with the 
 bread-and-milk and egg, and made it into bones 
 and muscles, and especially into grey fluff, which 
 began to crop out all over them. 
 
 Then one morning, a few days after we had 
 found them, one of the little bodies lay limp and 
 dead in the bottom of the nest. And the next 
 morning we found another, and the next morning 
 another. And the next morning we quite expected 
 to find the last one limp and dead. Instead of 
 which he was alive and as vigorous as could be — 
 looking as if he fully meant to illustrate the law of 
 the survival of the fittest in his own small person. 
 He was rampantly eager to be filled, and opened 
 his mouth wide and screamed loudly whenever the 
 quill pen hove in sight, refusing to be satisfied till 
 we had stuffed him so full that he must frequently 
 have had a pain in his little inside. 
 
 The fluff grew apace, and soon the little naked 
 body was quite decently covered. And then a 
 
4^ BiLLIKINS 
 
 change came over him. From having been nothmg 
 but a mouth with a digestive apparatus, he became 
 a person — a very small person, it is true, but 
 undoubtedly a person. He himself was the first to 
 make this discovery. He looked down at his legs 
 and his breast, took stock of his size, gave a peck 
 at his fluff to see what it was, then looked up at us 
 and said, " Chirp ! You're another ! " 
 
 It was obvious that he must have a name at 
 once. Some one suggested " Billikins." We tried 
 it. "That's me!" he said; "Billikins, at your 
 service." And he hopped out of the nest on to the 
 edge of the basket. 
 
 From that day his development was rapid. 
 Feathers grew among the fluff, till he was a grey 
 feathery ball ; the beak grew small and shapely, the 
 eyes bright and intelligent. Very soon he could 
 hop about on the table, and flutter from one chair- 
 back to another, or from the table to a convenient 
 finger or shoulder. He developed, too, a heart 
 chock-full and overflowing with affection, all of 
 which he lavished upon us giants, not one whit 
 rebuffed by our size. He seemed to look upon us 
 as large and most adorable birds, and his aim and 
 object was to be always with us. He would perch 
 on one's shoulder or arm, or on the top of one's 
 head, every now and then hopping forward, and 
 
niLLIKINS 43 
 
 with a chirp giving one a soft little peck on the 
 cheek just to remind one that he was there. For he 
 seemed to realize that he was so small that he might, 
 easily be overlooked if he did not occasionally assert 
 himself in this way. Or he would snuggle down 
 inside the frill at one's neck, fluffing out his feathers 
 as if he were having a dust-bath, and then carry on 
 a chirping conversation, interspersed with gentle 
 pecks. He particularly disliked being left in a 
 room by himself, and would try to follow one 
 unobserved by hopping along on the floor at one's 
 heels. The little tap, tap ! would betray him, and 
 bring upon, him a rebuke ; for it was considered 
 a dangerous habit. 
 
 Unlike the Scotsman, Billikins considered that 
 cold water was meant to drink — not to wash in — 
 and he steadily refused to use it for the latter purpose. 
 We tried to entice him to take a plunge in a bowl of 
 water, by splashing up little showers of spray ; but 
 though he was much interested in the proceeding, 
 and chirped with excitement as he watched, nothing 
 would induce him to venture so much as a toe in 
 the bowl. It was a case of le premier pas qui coute, 
 we thought ; so I took upon myself to initiate him 
 into the delights of bathing, one day, by picking 
 him up and plunging him straight in. The result 
 was as great a shock to me as it was to Billikins. 
 
44 BILLIKINS 
 
 He went in a fluffy, perky little bird ; he came out 
 a -miserable, draggled little atom, with all his fluff 
 plastered down so that his little naked body showed 
 through. All his bright perkiness had gone 
 suddenly out, and he lay in my hand, a poor little 
 prostrate heap, with his eye wandering in a vague, 
 frightened way — crushed and bewildered by the 
 sudden immersion. As for me, I was as stunned 
 and bewildered as he was. " You have killed 
 Billikins ! " kept ringing in my ears as I carried 
 him rapidly into the house to the kitchen fire. 
 
 I had on a gown with a small black-and-white 
 check. I made a soft nest of it, and pillowed him 
 gently on it, and sat where the warmth of the fire 
 could reach him, and gently rubbed his little body 
 and stroked his head. The news of the disaster had 
 spread, and an anxious group knelt round the small 
 invalid, watching the little panting body and the 
 wandering eye, and overwhelming him with tender 
 epithets, to which, contrary to his usual habit, he 
 vouchsafed no reply. At last he stirred a little and 
 his eye grew a trifle brighter, and then, in answer 
 to his name gently whispered, he gave a faint chirp. 
 It was the crisis. Rapid recovery ensued. He 
 began a rather feeble chirping conversation with 
 us, and said he was really all right. The feathers 
 began to dry and fluff out again, until he was 
 
BILLIKINS 45 
 
 completely covered. Then his legs regained their 
 strength. He stood up, pecked at his feathers- a 
 little, and hopped on to my finger, which I held 
 towards him as a perch, 
 
 After this terrible experience Billikins's popularity 
 reached a sort of zenith. He became more engag- 
 ing in his ways than ever. Considering his size, it 
 was marvellous the important position he occupied 
 in the household, and even among our circle of 
 acquaintances — all of whom substituted Billikins 
 for the weather as a topic for conversation, " How's 
 Billikins ? " doing duty for " What a beautiful 
 day ! " 
 
 After the bath episode, too — doubtless to show 
 that he bore me no ill-will — his tenderness and 
 pretty little attentions to me were marked with a 
 delicate and subtle emphasis. He showed an 
 especial affection for the black-and-white checked 
 gown, and would fly straight to me when I came 
 into the room wearing it, and hardly leave my 
 shoulder all day. 
 
 One day, about a month after the bath, he was 
 helping me to write some letters. He was in one 
 of his high-spirited, cheeky moods, and amused 
 himself hopping after the pen, and trying to pick 
 up the words as they dropped from it, and making 
 dirty smudges on the paper with his inky toes. 
 
46 BILLIKINS 
 
 When I remonstrated with him he would hop on 
 to my shoulder and peck my ear or my nose if I 
 happened to turn my head, chirping all sorts of 
 nonsensical terms of endearment in my ear. Soon 
 he tired of the game, and went and perched on a 
 bronze pig, that he was rather fond of. It was a 
 stupid-looking pig, with wide-staring, expressionless 
 eyes, but Billikins was never tired of trying to get 
 a response out of it, peering round into its face 
 from his position on its back, and chirping ques- 
 tions at it in his most insinuating and piquant 
 manner. After writing for some minutes it struck 
 me that he had been very quiet for a long time, 
 anil I turned round to see where he was. He had 
 fallen off the pig and was lying motionless on the 
 table beside it. I dropped my pen and picked him 
 up hurriedly. He was quite warm, but his head 
 hung back limply over my hand. I felt under his 
 wing for his heart. It had stopped. Billikins 
 was dead. 
 
 The tears that were shed over him would have 
 surprised most people. But then those who did 
 not know Billikins could have no idea how utterly 
 adorable he was. 
 
VII 
 
 FREESIAS 
 
 There is something particularly attractive about 
 a freesia. In its youth it is apt to straggle rather 
 awkwardly — to lie prone and hang over the flower- 
 pot, as if it had not a sufficient hold upon the soil. 
 But when it is full grown, and a long slender stem, 
 with a cluster of creamy-yellow or white, trumpet- 
 shaped bells, leans forward from a surrounding of 
 delicate green grass, to greet one, one realizes 
 that instead of being awkward it is an extremely 
 graceful thing. It has a scent of a delicate 
 piquancy, which is most refreshing; and as it is 
 of those flowers which " do best perfume the air," 
 it is one of the most delightful plants to have in 
 a greenhouse. 
 
 It was on one of the hot, sunny days that 
 come upon us sometimes unexpectedly in early 
 
 47 
 
48 FREESIAS 
 
 spring that a party of bees paid the freesias a flying 
 visit. The sun was beating through the glass on 
 to the flowers and drawing their fragrance from 
 them, so that the warm air was almost heavy with 
 it, and it required only the slightest stretch of 
 imagination to believe that it was the middle of 
 summer. 
 
 The ventilators at the top of the greenhouse 
 were wide open, and it must have been a whiff 
 of the freesias through these that attracted the 
 bees as they were passing, for when I went to look 
 at the plants in the morning they were already in 
 possession, fussing about among the flowers and 
 filling the air with loud humming. The hurry 
 and bustle they were in betokened that they were 
 on their way somewhere else, and had merely 
 stopped for a minute or two because, having 
 happened by accident upon a perfect garden of 
 sweetness, they could not bear to let it go to waste. 
 " We really must stop and gather this," they 
 seemed to say ; " but we have no time to lose, so 
 let us be as quick as possible." 
 
 Though they made occasional sweeps among 
 the other plants to see if there were anything of 
 interest, they confined their attention mainly to the 
 freesias, which were nodding and dipping their 
 slender stemmed blossoms as the bees burrowed 
 
FREESIAS 49 
 
 first into one and then into another, taking care 
 not to overlook any of them. Occasionally in 
 their eagerness they disappeared right inside the 
 blossom, nothing but a brown hind-leg betraying 
 the thief. Even the blossoms that had begun to 
 wither and curl up were considered worth in- 
 vestigation. I watched a noisy, busy fellow who 
 seemed to consider that these half-withered blossoms 
 contained the best spoils. He went from one to 
 the other, kicking the folds aside with an impatient 
 petulance that was very funny to see, making his 
 way inside the blossom, and coming out again with 
 a hum of satisfaction. 
 
 Besides those that were busy among the freesias, 
 numbers of bees seemed to have collected as much 
 honey as they could carry — or, perhaps only as 
 much as they had time for — and were anxious to 
 get out and go on. They were banging themselves 
 furiously against the panes of glass in the roof, 
 and humming angrily at finding their way barred 
 by something they did not understand. They 
 had obviously come in through one of the 
 ventilators at the top, which were all wide open, 
 but every one of them seemed to have forgotten 
 the fact, and to imagine that they could break a 
 hole in the glass if they only banged hard enough. 
 I tried to dust them off the glass in the direction 
 
50 FREESIAS 
 
 of the ventilators, with a freesia blossom ; but they 
 refused to be dictated to, and showed signs of 
 losing their temper at my interference. So I let 
 them alone with a sigh at their obstinacy, wondering 
 that creatures that had such a reputation for 
 intelligence could be so stupid. 
 
 I went to see how my seeds were getting on, 
 and spent some time watering them, pulling up 
 weeds, and generally attending to their wants. But 
 I was oppressed the whole time with the thought 
 that the poor bees would all die of exhaustion if 
 they continued to bang themselves with such fury. 
 I went back to see how they were getting on, 
 intending to open all the windows, and regardless 
 of their feelings, brush them out with a feather 
 broom. The windows were still shut, but the bees 
 had all disappeared. I had fully expected to find 
 dozens of little brown bodies dead upon the 
 shelves, so I looked about carefully; but there 
 was not so much as a ghost of a bee to be seen, 
 and though I listened carefully, not a hum betrayed 
 a loiterer left behind. They had gone as mysteri- 
 ously as they had come, leaving not a trace of 
 their visit. 
 
 Since that hot sunny day we have had several hard 
 frosts, and I have wondered whether the bees found 
 a snug, warm corner to shelter them from the cold. 
 
VIII 
 
 A RAINY DAY 
 
 There is nothing to my mind so delightful as 
 rain. Even a rainy day in London has its charms. 
 The wet flagstones, the shining streaks and puddles 
 in the streets, the umbrellas jostling along on the 
 pavements, the lumbering omnibuses swaying 
 heavily with more umbrellas growing on their 
 tops like mushrooms, the hansoms flying through 
 the streets with rain pouring off the oilskin capes of 
 the cabmen in bucketfuls, have an exhilarating 
 effect on one's spirits. 
 
 Such a sentiment, I feel, lays me open to the 
 charge of being a demented enthusiast. For to 
 the majority of rightly organized persons a rainy 
 day in London is, I believe, one of the most 
 depressing things in life. 
 
 But in the country that man or woman must 
 
 SI 
 
52 A RAINY DAY 
 
 have, I think, a disposition towards melancholy to 
 whom the rain means nothing but gloom, and be 
 a churlish, unsympathetic fellow who can sulk and 
 sigh while the rest of nature is smiling and singing. 
 One may have, it is true, too much even of a good 
 thing; and rain that pelts on and on without 
 ceasing from a sulky sky, till the earth begins to 
 turn mouldy and the vegetation looks sodden, is 
 apt to pall ; just as sun that beats down upon us 
 for weeks, and dries the moisture out of the plants 
 and grass, so that everything is brown and parched 
 and covered with dust, wearies us at last. But a 
 fine, persistent, cool rain, such as we had a day 
 or two ago, coming after a week of dryness, is, I 
 think, one of the most refreshing and inspiriting 
 things on earth. 
 
 On rainy days I envy men the fashion of their 
 clothes, and begin to think seriously of discarding 
 petticoats for a neat suit of oilskins, such as sailors 
 wear; a pair of loose trousers ending in boots, a 
 short pilot-jacket and a small cap, the latter more 
 by way of decoration than for purposes of use ; 
 for there is nothing pleasanter than to feel a gentle 
 rain beating on one's face and head. But fear of 
 public opinion prevents my adopting this attire, 
 so I must needs make the best of an ordinary 
 mackintosh and a pair of snow-boots. The latter 
 
A RAINY BAY 53 
 
 are very comfortable, drawn over one's indoor 
 shoes; but they must not be so big that one's 
 feet walk about independently, and come down 
 on the ground each time with a heavy double 
 '•' plump." With my petticoats well tucked up, 
 and completely covered with a mackintosh, nothing 
 on my head and snow-boots on my feet — a 
 pyramid-shaped bundle with feet — I am rain-proof, 
 and can enjoy even a thorough downpour without 
 the disturbing knowledge that I am getting wet 
 through, and shall have to change all my clothes 
 w^hen I go in, or run the risk of rheumatic 
 fever. 
 
 The smell of a garden after rain is most delicious, 
 even when there is nothing in it but earth and 
 green leaves. In hot weather the "earthy" smell 
 is quite pungent. But even in the cool days of 
 early spring it is very noticeable. There is a 
 particularly cheerful air about the wet and dripping 
 shrubberies. They look freshened up and " spry." 
 All their leaves have been washed, and are still 
 wet from their bath; each one has a raindrop 
 hanging from its point, so that they glisten all 
 over, and there is such a chirping and chattering 
 going on in them that one wonders what it is all 
 about. Birds delight in a shower. It seems to 
 go to their heads and make them quite hilarious. 
 
54 A RAINY DA Y 
 
 They have large convivial parties at which they all 
 talk, at once, for the pleasure of hearing their own 
 voices, or because they cannot help it, rather than 
 that they have anything to say. They go hopping 
 and pecking about as if they were full of new 
 plans and resolutions, and had so much to do 
 and felt so industrious that they must begin 
 at once. 
 
 But the most delightful things to look at after 
 rain at this time of year are the small things that 
 are just coming up and beginning to flower, such 
 as violets and primroses. They positively love 
 it. They drink it in through their roots and pores, 
 and their leaves grow stiff and strong with new 
 vigour and life. New violets appear under the 
 leaves where one could see none the day before, 
 looking dark and moist, and tightly rolled up 
 yellow buds show themselves among the primrose 
 tufts. The wild primrose plants that are dotted 
 about in the shrubberies look so happy that I 
 cannot help stopping to -smile at them. Only 
 yesterday I had noticed that they were looking 
 tired, and, as it were, bored and listless. But now, 
 after the rain, the leaves are dewy and moist, and 
 each one stands out stiff and fresh and green, alive 
 and awake in every fibre. 
 
 The primrose is one of the best-lovpd of wild 
 
A J? A/NT DAY 55 
 
 flowers. It is loved, I think, for its pretty sweet- 
 smelling leaf, and the pleasant places it chooses 
 to grow in, even more than for the flower itself. 
 Whether it is clustering along the banks of a 
 picturesque lane, nestling beneath a hedge, or 
 helping the pale mauve dog-violet to carpet a 
 copse, it suits its surroundings so well that it seems 
 perverse and foolish to take it from those of its 
 own choosing and plant it in stiff rows in a garden 
 bed, where, moreover, it loses its character and 
 becomes a polyanthus. 
 
 It was one of the friends of our childhood, too, 
 and this has done much to make it beloved. 
 Delicious April afternoons spent gathering primroses 
 in sunny copses when we were children have 
 surrounded it with a far-away misty poetry, which 
 the smell and sight recall. 
 
 In my own case I can account for my feelings 
 about most flowers by early association. Those 
 that grew in the strip of ground bordered by large 
 smooth stones in which I dug and planted, and 
 sowed, and watered before I was ten years old 
 are enwrapped in a sort of glamour of indescribably 
 delightful sensations, hard to recall and impossible 
 to keep with one for more than a flash, but which 
 never entirely leaves them. Some of these are 
 plants which I cannot help feeling, had I met them 
 
56 A RAINY DA Y 
 
 for the first time in later life, I should have disliked. 
 Among these are pelargoniums and balsams. For 
 both of these I have that sort of affection one has 
 for a thing or person one does not admire. ' A 
 week ago I discovered in a back row in the green- 
 house, a small pelargonium, almost the exact 
 counterpart of the compact, sturdy little plant that 
 was the central ornament and pride of the garden 
 of my childhood. It had two little blossoms on 
 one stalk, cheek by cheek, of the precise deep 
 magenta of my old friend. The sight brought 
 a sudden rush of the air that played about that 
 little pebble-marked plot years ago — a medley of 
 the colour, smell, and texture of plants and 
 earthiness, • merged into one soul-possessing sense 
 of beauty, that made one realize that a garden in 
 those days meant more for one than it can ever 
 mean again, 
 
 A sudden jump into the world of one's childhood 
 never fails to make one realize how much more 
 intense and pervading were one's impressions, 
 especially those received through the senses of 
 sight and smell. On very rare occasions I can 
 recall for a brief moment — perhaps half-a-second — 
 my feelings on first seeing a ripe red strawberry 
 beneath its leaves. The richness of the red, 
 contrasting with the deep green of the leaf; the 
 
A RAINY DAY 57 
 
 luscious smell of the fruit; and something about 
 the way the little seeds were embedded over it 
 went to make a feeling so deep and over- 
 powering for the beauty of the thing, that it has 
 never completely died away. Every now and then 
 a flash of light seems to shine suddenly on the 
 picture of the strawberry and its leaf, and I realize 
 again for a moment what a beautiful thing a 
 strawberry really is, if one only knew it. 
 
 I have had the same experience on coming 
 unexpectedly upon a coloured picture-book that 
 I had not seen for more than twenty-five years. 
 When I was little more than an infant I had pored 
 over the details, absorbed the colours, and followed 
 the reading of the story into a delightful enchanted 
 fairyland. The sudden sight of it again, recalled 
 the entrancing wonder a coloured picture-book had 
 been in those days, and made one sigh to think 
 that the years have dulled one's sensibilities, and 
 deadened one's soul, so that such passionate delight 
 in things is no longer possible. 
 
IX 
 
 THE PITCHER-PLANT 
 
 One of the smallest pots in the greenhouse con- 
 tains a diminutive pitcher-plant, labelled after the 
 manner of botanists, who always seem to give the 
 longest names to the smallest plants, Cephalotes 
 follicularis. It is of the kind that has independent 
 pitchers on stalks, not hanging from the end of its 
 leaves, like orchid-house pitchers, and it eats insects. 
 At least, it would if it could get them. 
 
 Each little pitcher is especially designed to entice 
 silly inquisitive ants or flies to take a look inside. 
 It has a rather interesting, curious appearance, 
 calculated to attract attention, and a little honey 
 scattered about outside, where it can be seen and 
 smelt, suggests that there is plenty more inside. 
 The ascent of the outside of the pitcher is made 
 
 58 
 
THE PITCHER-PLANT 59 
 
 easy by a little path, furnished on each side with 
 a fringe, by which the insect can pull himself up if 
 he feels inclined. 
 
 When he reaches the top, he finds that the open- 
 ing is lined with curved grooves, set close together, 
 and leading over the edge, right into the inside 
 of the pitcher, and which are, moreover, so smooth 
 and delightful to walk upon that, before he knows 
 where he is, he has run up one side, slipped over the 
 top, and slithered heedlessly and gaily down the 
 other. From the inside of the pitcher there is no 
 return. What happens to the silly insect after the 
 fatal slither I do not precisely know, and indeed 
 would prefer not to know. But from stories I have 
 heard of roads that are as slippery as ice, leading 
 to spikes that turn inwards and stab him, sticky 
 hairs that stretch out and catch hold of him, 
 and horrible poisonous stuffs that squirt at him 
 from the walls, I gather that the inside of that bag 
 is like the worst possible kind of nightmare. 
 
 In Nature one's sympathies are continually being 
 divided. One is sorry for the hungry spider, who 
 must go without his dinner for want of a flj^, and 
 extremely sorry for the fly whose lot it is to provide 
 the much-wished-for meal. 
 
 And lately when I have passed by the pitcher- 
 plant every morning, and glanced at it to see how 
 
6o THE PITCHER-PLANT 
 
 it was getting on, I have been worried by the 
 thought that since it took up its abode with us 
 three months ago the poor httle thing has, as far 
 as I can see, not had a single insect to eat. So 
 much pity did I feel for it that I went so far the 
 other day as to capture an ant that was tearing 
 about on a rose-tree — looking for aphides, I suppose 
 — and with murderous intent put him in the flower- 
 pot containing the pitcher-plant. He scurried 
 aimlessly about for a second or two, as if he did 
 not quite understand his sudden change of sur- 
 roundings, and then he stumbled across the opening 
 of one of the paths running up the side of the 
 pitcher, and without a moment's pause or consider- 
 ation began tearing up. Contempt for his idiotcy, 
 and a sudden horror at the fate which awaited him, 
 brought about a revulsion of feeling. With the 
 stick with which I had captured him I gave him 
 a flick, that landed him on his back on the floor 
 some three feet below. Apparently he was none 
 the worse ; for he picked himself up in a twinkling 
 and scurried on, reminding me somehow of the 
 clown at a circus, who, in the course of his aim- 
 less running about, will turn an utterly irrelevant 
 and, as it were, involuntary somersault, and con- 
 tinue his course as if nothing had occurred to 
 interrupt it. 
 
THE PITCHER-PLANT 6i 
 
 Then, for I felt that my treatment of the pitcher- 
 plant had been shabby, I proceeded to investigate 
 each of the little bags to see if there might not be 
 some trace, in the way of bones and skulls, of its 
 having had a meal more recently than I supposed. 
 A part of its equipment, which I had not noticed 
 before, was a lid overhanging the opening of the 
 bag, to prevent, I suppose, untidy insects looking 
 upon it as a convenient hole to shoot rubbish. I 
 had some difficulty in seeing in. I contrived, how- 
 ever, by tilting and turning and twisting the flower- 
 pot, to make a fairly thorough investigation of each 
 bag. I found at the bottom of each a little collec- 
 tion of rubbish, consisting chiefly of bits of leaf and 
 stick and mud, mixed witli water, but nothing of 
 a more interesting or nourishing description. 
 
 I derived a certain amount of comfort, however, 
 from the discovery. For as long as the little 
 pitchers contained something, it seemed to me the 
 plant was not so much to be pitied as if they had 
 been perfectly empty. It was, I thought, a kindly 
 attention on the part of Nature, who, unable to 
 provide an insect, but not liking to pass the little 
 gaping mouths without putting something in, had 
 mixed a little pudding of leaf and mud, and popped 
 it in, on the chance that the plant might take it 
 for a fly. 
 
62 THE PITCHER-PLANT 
 
 When I went to look at it the day after my 
 discovery, I did so for the first time for many 
 weeks, without any feeling of uneasiness as to its 
 welfare. Something unusual about its appearance, 
 however, caused me to look a little closer, when to 
 my amazement I saw that the little pitchers were 
 all perfectly empty ! It flashed through my mind 
 that the poor little thing, unable to withstand the 
 pangs of hunger, had, in a fit of desperation, raven- 
 ously devoured the mud and rubbish. 
 
 I called excitedly to Max, who was outside. 
 " Just look at this extraordinary pitcher-plant ! It 
 has actually eaten up all the dust and rubbish at 
 the bottom of its bags ! " 
 
 " Eaten it ! " said Max. " Why, I've just washed 
 them all out ! " 
 
 Max has a morbid horror of dust and dirt. And, 
 whereas the little rubbish-heap at the bottom of 
 each pitcher had been a source of gratification to 
 me, he had thought of it only with disgust, and 
 had been oppressed by the thought of the discom- 
 fort the plant must have endured from its want of 
 cleanliness. In fact, as he explained to me, it had 
 been a source of such perpetual annoyance to him, 
 that at last, unable to bear it any longer, he had 
 washed it. He had filled each little pitcher with 
 water, stirred up the rubbish at the bottom with a 
 
THE PITCHER-PLANT 63 
 
 camel-hair brush, and then, turning the Httle plant 
 upside down, had shaken it all out. He had 
 repeated the operation several times, and was per- 
 fectly satisfied with the result. 
 
 As for me, I felt bewildered at the different 
 aspects which one and the same thing may present 
 when looked at from opposite points of view. 
 
X 
 
 DREAMS 
 
 It is still early for sowing seeds out of doors. 
 
 So I have to content myself with poring over seed 
 
 catalogues, making lists of what I want, and dis- 
 
 patcliing them with postal orders to the seed 
 
 merchants, and then walking about and choosing 
 
 spots and strips to sow them in, and indulging 
 
 in imaginative dreams as to what the garden will 
 
 look like when tliey are all up. My knowledge 
 
 of gardening being very elementary, the dreams 
 
 are sometimes vague. But one main idea I cling 
 
 to, and that is to have plenty of the flowers I like 
 
 best, and to grow them for the most part all 
 
 together in masses or long rows, not dotted about 
 
 as isolated plants. In my dreams I see the ground 
 
 64 
 
DREAMS 65 
 
 about the shrubberies thickly dotted with all sorts 
 of primroses, the seedlings of which will be ready 
 for planting out soon, and also a narrow sloping 
 bank with a hedge of little plum-trees as a back- 
 ground, and a grass border in front, thickly covered 
 with the commoner sorts. Two rectangular beds, 
 about nine feet by six, and a border sixty feet long, 
 I have marked with my eye to be sown with 
 mignonette ; and there are several unoccupied 
 places about the shrubberies where I can see colum- 
 bines of every sort and colour nodding and fluttering 
 in the sun. 
 
 The arrival of a packet of seeds always gives me 
 a feeling of wholesome industry. There is such a 
 pleasant suggestion of fresh air and sunshine, earthi- 
 ness, and sweet smells, and, above all, of cleanliness 
 about them, that they act as a sort of moral tonic 
 and rouse one to plot and plan and work. Con- 
 sequently, when I find a fat envelope in my break- 
 fast plate full of neatly-done-up paper parcels with 
 seeds rattling about inside, the day at once assumes 
 a new face — that of a pleasant sort of busy day, 
 such as one likes to meet at one's breakfast table. 
 
 As I open the envelope and pour the Httle 
 packets into my lap, my mind runs forward, and 
 I have visions of sunny hours spent digging, sow- 
 ing, watering, and watching, and still further on of 
 
66 DREAMS 
 
 beds and borders gay with the colours and sweet 
 with the fragrance of the flowers. My purchases 
 consist for the most part of seeds of common 
 things, such as mignonette, sweet - peas, stocks, 
 asters, phlox, poppies, and nasturtiums. But I have 
 indulged in a few packets of annuals with strange 
 names, and also in one packet of sweet-scented 
 tobacco and another of evening primrose seed. 
 
 The two latter set me dreaming and recalling 
 pictures from the past rather than painting them 
 for the future. Somewhere, in the far-away regions 
 of my memory, there was an old-fashioned garden 
 where along a terrace near the house ran a thick 
 border of sweet-scented tobacco that used to 
 breathe its sweetness into the warm night air, and 
 find its way into the house through the open 
 windows. I have shadowy dreams of walking along 
 the terrace on summer nights, when the air was 
 laden with the perfume of the flower,' and the 
 darkness flecked with the silent white blossoms 
 gently moving on their slender stems. 
 
 I mean to try to produce a whiffy of that garden 
 of the past, for summer nights to come, by planting 
 the tobacco thickly in the beds beneath the sitting- 
 room windows. But Nature has not blessed me 
 with much patience, and I sigh to think that 
 I must wait many months for the white blossoms. 
 
DREAMS 67 
 
 Tlie evening primrose seed recalls pictures from 
 a book. In Mr. W. H. Hudson's Idle Days in 
 Patagonia there is a chapter on the " Perfume 
 of the Evening Primrose," which carries you away 
 to the airy, grassy plains of Patagonia, where you 
 can he on your back with nothing but great 
 stretches of sky overhead, and nothing around 
 you but great stretches of plain, covered with 
 grass, and dotted with the faint, floppy yellow 
 blossoms of the evening primrose — " a plant of 
 somewhat melancholy aspect," he calls it, " suggest- 
 ing to a fanciful mind the image of a maiden 
 originally intended by Nature to be her most 
 perfect type of grace and ethereal loveliness, but 
 who soon outgrew her strength with all beauty of 
 form, and who now wanders abroad careless of 
 appearances in a faded flimsy garment, her fair 
 yellow hair dishevelled, her mournful eyes fixed 
 ever on the earth where she will shortly be." 
 I have a vague and foolish notion that by scatter- 
 ing the seed on a waste piece of ground at the back 
 of the garden I may be able to reproduce a little 
 whifF of the atmosphere of Patagonia, and realize 
 with greater truth what those endless grassy plains 
 are like. 
 
 But so far these are nothing but dreams. Time 
 must pass before they are realized. And meantime 
 
68 DREAMS 
 
 I must possess my soul in patience and be content 
 with seed lists, and the moral support derived from 
 a rather elaborate gardening outfit. This consists 
 of a blue linen apron that covers me all over, and 
 has two enormously capacious pockets in front ; a 
 pair of dark-coloured tan gardening gloves with 
 gauntlets — the kind that are smooth inside and slip 
 on easily — and a hat almost as big as an umbrella. 
 A series of common chip baskets of various sizes, 
 one of which I carry on my arm ; a trowel, a fork, 
 a tail of bast, a pair of scissors, and a particularly 
 nice watering-can, complete the equipment. Like 
 the White Knight, I think " it is always well to be 
 provided for every thing. " In spite of feeling that 
 I bear a very strong resemblance to that gentleman 
 when thus equipped, I feel that my appearance is 
 appreciated by the plants. It seems to put us on 
 a pleasant footing of sympathy with each other. 
 They recognize me as a friend, and though my 
 attentions may consist merely of pulling up an 
 occasional weed, cutting off a dead leaf, or giving 
 a friendly touch or support to a straggling branch, 
 I feel that they are more pleased to see me when 
 I am obviously on gardening intent than when in 
 ordinary attire. 
 
XI 
 
 SOWING SEEDS 
 
 A BRIGHT sunny morning, after several days' rain, 
 made me feel that I must be up and doing. I 
 resolved to sow sweet-peas and mignonette every- 
 where — all along the borders in the kitchen-garden, 
 in hedges, and in large clumps wherever I could 
 find a vacant spot. I donned my blue apron, put 
 the seed-packets into a basket, took my fork and 
 my garden gloves, and went towards the kitchen- 
 garden where, a day or two before, I had mentally 
 appropriated a long strip for a hedge of sweet-peas. 
 
 There was a sunny breeze, and little light clouds 
 were sailing in a leisurely way across the sky. As 
 I walked, the seeds in the basket ran about inside 
 their packets, rattling cheerfully. A lark accom- 
 panied me overhead, with a distant carolling ; and 
 
 the two sounds combined gave me a feeling of 
 
 69 
 
70 SOWING SEEDS 
 
 cheerful industry. I was in good humour with 
 myself, the seeds, the lark, the fine day, and the 
 world in general. 
 
 The flow of my good spirits received a slight 
 check when I found two silly old men planting 
 potatoes in the very patch that I had designed to 
 hedge with sweet-peas. They were within a yard 
 of the box border, and were about to make another 
 row just where I intended to put the sweet-peas, 
 when I arrived on the scene. I felt annoyed with 
 them for being there at all. They seemed to be 
 filling the garden with their baskets and tools and 
 lines and fuss, and they shambled about in their 
 baggy trousers and muddy boots as if they thought 
 the business of planting potatoes the most im.portant 
 in the world. I told them that they must on no 
 account come any further with their potatoes. 
 They looked a little puzzled and scratched their 
 heads, and for a moment I thought they were going 
 to argue with me. However, they had apparently 
 no such intention ; for after filling up the holes 
 that already had potatoes in them, they collected 
 their traps and shambled off out of sight, so that 
 I had the whole garden to myself, which was just 
 what I wanted. 
 
 It seemed to me that the ground wanted digging 
 before I sowed the seed. So I proceeded to turn 
 
SOWING SEEDS 71 
 
 up the soil with my fork, travelling along the gravel 
 path on my knees and working with such a will that 
 I had to pause about every yard to rest and pant. 
 The soil was moist and dark-coloured, and I turned 
 up a great many fine fat worms, which I took 
 special care to throw among the potatoes. A star- 
 ling sat in a tree in the privet hedge that separates 
 the garden from the field, watching this operation 
 with the greatest interest. He kept chirping 
 remarks over his shoulder to his companions who 
 were pecking about in the field behind, which I 
 suppose had reference to the size and quality of the 
 worms I was unearthing. On one occasion his 
 interest rose to excitement. I made a bad shot with 
 one of the worms, and instead of throwing him 
 on to the potato-patch, threw him sideways, where 
 he landed tightly wound round a twig of an espalier 
 apple-tree. He was apparently a little stunned, for 
 he stayed there, not making the slightest effort to 
 unwind himself. I could see that the starling had 
 the greatest difficulty in refraining from hopping 
 off his tree and going to his assistance, and that he 
 was longing for my back to be turned when he 
 would hasten to untie him. Indeed his chattering 
 about it began to get on my nerves, and in order 
 to put a stop to it, I was obliged to go and untie 
 the silly thing myself 
 
 It took me about an hour to dig the whole 
 
73 SOWING SEEDS 
 
 border, for besides turning up the soil with the fork, 
 I crumbled it in my hand till it was fine and 
 powdery. When I had finished I surveyed my 
 work with satisfaction. The whole length of the 
 border, a little way from the box edging, ran a 
 smooth strip about a foot wide of fine, dark new 
 soil, a rich soft bed for the seeds. 
 
 I felt that I must stretch my limbs before begin- 
 ning the work of scraping aside the soil and sowing 
 the peas. So I went to the potting-shed to write 
 some labels, for I intended keeping the different 
 colours separate in the hedge, and labelling them, 
 so that I might settle when they bloomed which 
 were the best to sow again next year. 
 
 The bright day had roused everyone to industry. 
 I passed Max and William, busy unpacking and 
 sorting some fruit-trees that a retreating nursery- 
 man's cart had just deposited, and stopped a 
 moment to chat and look at the trees — nice little 
 dark-stemmed espalier apples and plums. I wrote 
 my labels with great care : Princess Beatrice, 
 Blanche Burpee, Adonis, Princess May, Mrs. Glad- 
 stone, Dorothy Tennant, and the Countess of 
 Radnor, and then went to the house to write a 
 note, which my eagerness to garden had made me 
 forget. 
 
 I was away from the scene of my work about 
 half-an-hour. As I went towards the kitchen- 
 
SOWING SEEDS ' 73 
 
 garden again, I saw Max and William moving 
 away, carrying little trees, and the two shambling 
 ones following them with spades. I wondered if 
 they had seen and admired my work, and looked 
 myself to see if I could observe the difference be- 
 tween my newly-dug-up strip and the potato-patch. 
 
 There was something I could not make out lying 
 on the ground at intervals along the strip. 1 
 strained my eyes as I approached, to make out 
 what it was, and saw with a feeling of annoyance 
 that they had carelessly deposited fruit-trees just 
 on the part I had dug so carefully. I hastened up 
 to throw them off on to the path out of my way. 
 But when I reached the spot I stood and gazed 
 instead. The whole length of my strip, at intervals 
 of about two yards, down the very middle, were 
 great holes, at the side of each of which lay an 
 apple-tree, apparently just waiting to be put in. 
 
 My indignation rose. " Max!" I called, trying 
 to be calm and polite, " I am going to sow sweet- 
 peas here. You can't plant your fruit-trees in the 
 same place. There won't be room." 
 
 He was busy, some little way off, superintending 
 the digging of more holes. " The espaliers must 
 go there," he shouted ; " there is no other place. 
 Can't you sow your sweet-peas somewhere else ? " 
 And hardly waiting for my answer, he proceeded 
 
74 SOWING SEEDS 
 
 with his directions to the shambling ones to dig 
 another hole. 
 
 Sow my sweet-peas somewhere else ! I felt too 
 indignant to speak, and could do nothing but gaze 
 angrily and helplessly at their four backs stooping 
 over the little trees. They were so much absorbed 
 in what they were doing that it did not even seem 
 to occur to any of them that I had a grievance. 
 
 I picked up my basket with the sweet-peas and 
 mignonette and my fork and turned away with tears 
 of rage in my eyes. The starling looked on, and 
 I could hear quite plainly that he was telling the 
 other starlings all about it. 
 
 A greyness came over the sun, and a sympathetic 
 little shower began to fall. I thought to myself, If I 
 get wet through and catch a cold and die, perhaps 
 they will be sorry, and I resolved not to go in. 
 
 I walked from the kitchen-garden into the flower- 
 garden, and came upon a new flower-bed that had 
 just been made — a long narrow strip the whole 
 length of the hedge, with a grass border in front. 
 It was obviously designed for something — had pro- 
 bably been made on purpose. As I passed it I had 
 an idea, and paused looking at it. I would fill it with 
 sweet-peas and mignonette, and have my revenge I 
 
 I set to work at once, anxious to complete it 
 before they had finished putting in their fruit-trees. 
 
SOWING SEEDS 75 
 
 The ground had been newly prepared, and was soft 
 and crumbly and delightful to work on. The strip 
 was too long for a hedge the whole way, so I sowed 
 the sweet-peas in clumps, first pale mauve, then 
 pink, then white, then salmon colour, at intervals of 
 a yard the whole way down. I drew a circle on the 
 soil for each clump, and then distributed the seed in 
 a sort of geometrical pattern inside it. Thirty clumps 
 took me to the end of the bed. I looked round 
 when I came to the end to see if they had finished 
 their tree- planting, and could see the tops of their 
 heads over the hedge, going off in the opposite 
 direction. So I felt safe for a little longer. With 
 the side of my fork I scraped a strip about half-a- 
 foot wide, the whole length of the bed in front of 
 the sweet-peas. Then walking along in the attitude 
 of the traditional sower I showered it thickly with 
 mignonette seed, and going over the ground again 
 covered it up. The shower had sprinkled on while 
 I sowed, but I had worked so quickly, and been so 
 absorbed that I had not noticed it. 
 
 As I stood up to contemplate my work the rain 
 stopped ; the grey veil was drawn aside, the sun 
 shone out again, and a lark shot up quite close. I 
 felt better. " After all, life has its compensations," 
 I said, as I walked towards the house crumpling 
 the empty seed-packets in my hand. 
 
XII 
 
 HENS AND CHICKENS ~ 
 
 " If you go and live in the country," my friends 
 said, "you must have something to do besides 
 gardening- — look after hens, or something of that 
 sort." They all said it, so that at last I began to 
 think there must be something in it, and that I 
 should find life in the country insupportable if I 
 did nothing but garden. The general opinion 
 seemed in favour of hens. So I chose hens. 
 
 I enclosed a little bit of ground in an out-of-the- 
 way part of the garden with wire-netting, and built 
 a most attractive little house in one corner, with a 
 perch for them to go to bed on (a most uncomfort- 
 able bed I should have thought, but my gardener 
 told me they preferred it), and six little boxes full 
 of clean straw in a row for them to lay their eggs 
 in. Then I bought six hens and a cock and put 
 
 them into it. 
 
 76 
 
HEA^S AND CHICKENS 77 
 
 I had never taken any interest in cocks and hens 
 before. I knew that hens existed for the purpose 
 of laying eggs for breakfast, and that cocks were 
 nuisances that made unearthly, meaningless noises 
 in the middle of the night ; but that was about all. 
 Consequently, when I had put them into the run, I 
 watched them with some curiosity to see how they 
 would take to it, and how they would behave. 
 
 I never saw any one with such a self-satisfied 
 proprietary air as the cock. One would have 
 thought he had chosen the site, enclosed the run, 
 and built the hen-house himself and put the straw 
 into the nests with his own hands. He walked the 
 liens round, drawing their attention to the various 
 points and advantages. " I think you will find the 
 nests most comfortable," he said, with the air of a 
 landlady showing off her well-aired beds — " clean 
 and well strawed. I am sure there are many hens 
 who would envy you such extremely well-made and 
 convenient boxes for laying eggs in. And one 
 each, as I'm alive ! so that there need be no 
 quarrelling." While he delivered this lecture the 
 hens all peered into the hen-house over each other's 
 shoulders. He then drew their attention to the 
 soil, scratched up a little of it, and said, "Very 
 fine soil indeed ; plenty of slugs and other interest- 
 ing objects to be found, with here and there a tuft 
 
78 HENS AND CHICKENS 
 
 of grass to whet the beak upon, and stones and 
 grits to aid digestion. Look at it for yourseh-es, 
 I beg." And he stood aside and watched them 
 with an air of proud proprietorship, as they followed 
 his directions and investigated the soil for them- 
 selves. He then proceeded to take stock of the 
 dimensions, the view, and the site generally. But 
 this he did, as it were, on his own account, as if he 
 thought such weighty matters were beyond the 
 comprehension of hens. 
 
 The hens were not so ready to approve everything 
 as the cock. They seemed at first somewhat in- 
 clined to resent my looking at them. They eyed 
 me with an expression of indignant surprise, but 
 when they saw that I had no intention of moving, 
 paid me no further attention. They were not, how- 
 ever, going to give their unqualified admiration to 
 anything before thoroughly testing it. They 
 walked about with a coldly critical look in their 
 eyes, seeming to say, " It is not bad, as far as one 
 can judge, but it is far too early to pronounce an 
 opinion." 
 
 The morning after their instalment I went out 
 eagerly to see if they had laid any eggs. Two of 
 the hens and the cock were busy scratching holes 
 in a corner of the yard. The other four were 
 presumably in the hen-house, to which I directed 
 
ff£A^S AXD CHICKENS 79 
 
 my steps. I found they were very much there. 
 As I opened the door there was a wild hysterical 
 shriek, and they all four flew straight in my face 
 and out of the door, banging me on the head with 
 their wings and legs as they passed. I was so 
 startled and terrified that I fled inside the hen- 
 house, shutting the door after me, and it was some 
 time before I dared venture out again. My be- 
 haviour had created a frightful commotion. They 
 were all talking and shouting at once, when I 
 timidly emerged. The cock seemed the most 
 indignant of all. He remonstrated loudly with me 
 as I passed by : " Really, I never heard of such 
 behaviour. How can 3'ou expect them to lay any 
 eggs if you go invading their privacy like that 
 without even knocking at the door ? When I have 
 taken so much trouble to make them feel at home 
 it is too bad. You should remember that hens have 
 nerves." I felt reproved, and from that day never 
 ventured to look for eggs till I had counted the 
 hens and found they were all safe outside. And 
 as long as I respected their convenience in this 
 particular they did not seem to resent my appropri- 
 ation of the eggs they had laid. The cock, who 
 was nothing if not philosophical, had, I think, 
 pointed out to them that if I took their eggs I 
 made up for it by feeding them very well, and that 
 
8o HENS AND CHICKENS 
 
 after all you could not have everything in this 
 world. 
 
 One morning I found that one of the hens had 
 taken to her bed, and that nothing would induce 
 her to get up. She even refused to stir when I 
 went into the hen-house — merely blinked at me 
 and sat tight. When she had stayed there for two 
 days on end I began to think she must be ill. I 
 consulted all my poultry-books, but could find no 
 mention of her disease. Then I consulted my 
 cook. "Why, she's broody, m'm," she said. 
 " She wants to sit. You must give her some eggs 
 and she'll hatch you out some chickens." " But 
 I have no eggs to give her," I objected. " Why 
 doesn't she lay her own ? " " Well, m'm, she's 
 been a-laying of them for some time past, but 
 we've eaten them all. I dare say Mr. Hodge 
 would let you have a dozen." " Ordinary eggs 
 such as we have for breakfast?" I asked. "Yes, 
 m'm, that's the kind, and the newer the better." 
 
 Now, it is not to be supposed that I am so 
 grossly ignorant as not to know that hens hatch 
 chickens out of eggs ; but I assure you it had never 
 struck me before what a remarkable process it is. 
 I put thirteen perfectly ordinary eggs under that 
 hen. They contained nothing but yolk and white; 
 (I am sure of this, because I tested them by eating 
 
HENS AND CHICKENS 8i 
 
 one for breakfast ;) and at the end of twenty-one 
 days, during which time the hen did absolutely 
 nothing but sit on them, ten chickens walked out 
 of them, all covered with fluffy feathers, with beaks, 
 eyes, wings, and strong legs, witii toe-nails, and all 
 as spry and 'cute as could be. Where they got 
 their fluff and feathers from was what puzzled me. 
 Certainly nothing can be less like fluff and feathers 
 than the yolk and white of an egg. And yet that 
 there was nothing else to make them of inside the 
 egg I felt as morally certain as one can be about 
 anything. Anyhow, there they were, and there was 
 not the least doubt about them. At least, there was 
 no doubt about them the first time I visited them. 
 When, an hour or two later, I went to look at them 
 again I received a dreadful shock. Every single 
 chicken had disappeared, and the hen was crouch- 
 ing with what seemed to me a most guilty ex- 
 pression on her countenance. Stories of animals 
 that devour their young flashed through my mind. 
 She had eaten them all ! " What have you done 
 with your chickens, you wicked, inhuman mother ? " 
 I shouted at her. Immediately ten small heads 
 with bright eyes peeped out at different points from 
 beneath her feathers, making her look like a sort of 
 porcupine with heads instead of quills. They were 
 all underneath, though how she managed to stow 
 
82 HENS AND CHICKENS 
 
 them so that not so much as a toe of any one of 
 them was to be seen was a mystery. 
 
 The remarkable intelligence which those chickens 
 displayed on the very day of their birth filled me 
 with amazement. Compared with the intelligence 
 of the average new-born baby it was little short of 
 astounding. When he was only a day old, I saw 
 one of them performing his toilet, with as much 
 ease as if he had been at it for years — pulling his 
 ridiculous little wings out, and tidying the bits of 
 down one by one with his beak. A new-born baby 
 can do absolutely nothing for itself. It cannot sit 
 up, much less stand or walk. It cannot see; it 
 cannot hear. It can hardly keep its own head on, 
 and its expression, compared with that of a chicken, 
 is absolutely idiotic. It cannot even feed itself, and 
 as for taking its own tub, and putting on its own 
 clothes, why the notion is ridiculous. A chicken 
 stands, walks, runs, sees, hears, feeds itself, takes an 
 intelligent interest in the universe, and performs its 
 own toilet the very day it is born. And such 
 extraordinary intelligence does it display in every- 
 thing that it does, that I am convinced that if it 
 were the custom for chickens to wear clothes it 
 would put on its own socks and shoes, tie its sun- 
 bonnet under its chin, and go for a walk five 
 minutes after it was born. 
 
JIENS AND CHICKENS 83 
 
 That such extraordinary atoms of intelligence 
 as chickens should develop into nothing better 
 than cocks and hens shows that there must be 
 something very seriously wrong with their education. 
 With a view to forming some theory as to the 
 cause of their degeneration, I observed very care- 
 fully the way the mother educated them, and came 
 to the conclusion that she educated them horribly. 
 
 She taught them three things, better left un- 
 taught : greed, destruction, and the use of bad 
 language. Her lessons in greed I watched with 
 amusement, and some admiration of her methods. I 
 would bring out a saucer of chopped-up egg, oatmeal, 
 and things chickens like. She would pounce upon 
 it, seize great lumps of the food, and apparently 
 gobble it up in a great hurry, talking all the time 
 at a great rate. " Come along ! Eat it all up ! 
 Stuff it down ! Get as much as you can ! Don't 
 leave a scrap ! " But, as a matter of fact, her 
 devouring of the food was a pretence. She merely 
 chucked it up and down, and flung it about, man- 
 aging to give an appearance of rapid consumption, 
 and awful greed. It took the chickens in. They 
 pounced too, and gobbled as hard as they could. 
 
 Her lessons in destruction I viewed with less 
 equanimity. In one of the numerous poultry-books 
 I purchasedj I read that it was a mistake to imagine 
 
84 HENS AND CHICKENS 
 
 that chickens did harm in a garden. The small 
 amount of mischief they did — so said the book — 
 was more than compensated for by the benefit they 
 conferred by devouring slugs and insects. So 
 when they were about a week old I turned them all 
 into a little yard, on to which my sitting-room 
 window looked, and which contained a little grass- 
 plot, some gravel-paths, and a flower-bed or two 
 along the wall. Into one of the flower-beds I had 
 just transplanted some nasturtiums, and, feeling a 
 little apprehensive lest they should walk over them 
 and break them down, I established myself at my 
 writing-table in the window, where I could glance 
 at them occasionally while doing my accounts. 
 
 The hen conducted them round the yard in a 
 most orderly fashion, poking into all the corners, 
 pecking about on the ground, and apparently 
 giving them a little lecture on the best places for 
 finding slugs. The chickens followed her closely, 
 listening with great attention, like a group of eager, 
 docile scholars thirsting for knowledge, and nothing 
 could have been more decorous than the behaviour 
 of the whole party. They passed the nasturtium- 
 bed once or twice without even glancing at it, 
 though I had noticed that they paid some attention 
 to the other flower-beds, nipping off an insect or 
 two from the plants. So I congratulated myself 
 
HENS AND CHICKENS 85 
 
 with the thought that it probably contained nothing 
 in their line, and felt I might safely withdraw my 
 surveillance. 
 
 I went to order the dinner. I was absent not 
 more than ten minutes, and when I came back 
 looked out of the window to see how they were 
 getting on. If I had not seen it with my own eyes I 
 could hardly have believed that one hen could have 
 done so much in so short a time. The nasturtium- 
 bed was scattered all over the yard. Earth and 
 nasturtium plants were strewn all about — flung 
 out with such strength and fury that they covered 
 the ground for several yards around the scene of 
 action. Where the bed had been was nothing but 
 a deep pit, in which the hen, with her back to me, 
 was still digging in a sort of frenzy, flinging great 
 handfuls of earth out behind, and talking in an 
 excited way to her chickens, who were all peering 
 down into the hole, and occasionally imitating their 
 mother by giving a little backward scratch and 
 flinging their small contribution of earth into the 
 yard. " Come on," she seemed to say, " be quick I 
 she'll be back in a minute ! Don't leave a single 
 plant ! Dig them all up, like this ! Scratch, 
 scratch ! Fling, fling ! " 
 
 I could hardly contain my rage. I rushed out 
 at her with a stick, and she fled from the pit with 
 
86 HENS AND CHICKENS 
 
 a shriek. " Here she is ! I told you so ! " I was 
 so angry that I drove her into her coop that I had 
 taken the precaution to bring out, and shut her up. 
 If it had been ignorance I could have forgiven it. 
 But she had so evidently planned the whole thing 
 beforehand. And her duplicity had been so shock- 
 ing. She had walked past the bed with such an 
 innocent air, just to give me the impression that it 
 was the last thing she would think of touching, 
 and then as soon as my back was turned — for, 
 judging by what she had accomplished, she could 
 not have lost a second — had torn to it and begun 
 her work of destruction. 
 
 The whole party was somewhat cowed by my 
 sudden appearance and summary treatment. The 
 chickens crowded up to the coop, and looked at me 
 rather awe-struck, while the mother kept up a 
 muttering under her breath which sounded rather 
 rude, but I did not understand what she was saying. 
 I left her for a few minutes, which time she ap- 
 parently spent in brooding over my treatment, and 
 making up her mind what to say, for as soon as 
 I entered the garden again, she put her head 
 through the bars and hurled such a storm of abuse 
 at me that I really felt thankful that I did not 
 understand what she was saying — stretching her 
 neck, and making frantic efforts to get out of the 
 
IfENS AND CHICKENS S7 
 
 coop. After she had vented her wrath and set a 
 shocking example to her chickens by using the 
 most horrible language, her tone became ex- 
 postulatory and her remarks more intelligible. 
 " Look at my chickens ! " she said, " all over the 
 place! and I not able to get at them, shut up in 
 this box and feeling like a fool. How do you 
 expect me to educate them ? How can they have 
 any respect for their mother when they see your 
 monstrous treatment of her ? It is really too bad. 
 I must beg you to let me out at once. I cannot 
 and will not stand it ! " 
 
 I looked round for the chickens. They were 
 indeed all over the place. One had made his 
 way through a fence of wire-netting that enclosed 
 a flower-bed in one corner, arid appeared to be 
 busily employed over something — killing a worm, I 
 gathered from his gestures. I went up quietly 
 behind him to see what he was doing. I had sown 
 a row of my favourite flowers — sweet-peas — in this 
 sheltered corner, where I thought they would be 
 safe from sparrows. They were just about an inch 
 above the ground and beginning to unfurl their 
 leaves. The chicken was engaged in pulling them 
 up, shaking them as if they were worms, and 
 casting them aside. The ground was soft, and they 
 came up easily, roots and all. This apparently 
 
88 HENS AND CHICKENS 
 
 surprised and pleased him, for he had done five, 
 and was going on steadily as if he meant to do the 
 whole row, when I arrived on the scene and stopped 
 his little game. I felt very much inclined to smack 
 him. "But what can one expect," I thought, as I 
 proceeded to put the sweet-peas back into their 
 holes, " with such a mother as an example ! " 
 
 I came to the conclusion, however, that a 
 chicken's capacity for doing good in a garden by. 
 no means equalled his capacity for destruction, and 
 I thought it advisable to turn them all out into 
 a field where there were no flower-beds and no 
 seeds — nothing, in fact, but grass for them to 
 destroy. They probably did not find it as amusing 
 as the garden ; but then they had to learn, like 
 every one else, that life is not all amusement. 
 
 From the day they were turned into the field 
 they began to degenerate. Instead of the intelligent 
 balls of fluff they were the day they were born, they 
 grew rapidly into gawky, scraggy, hobble-de-hoy 
 cocks and hens. Their eyes lost their inquisitive 
 sparkle, and became sour and suspicious-looking. 
 I never saw so striking an example of the deteriorat- 
 ing effect of a poor education. I made up my 
 mind that I would educate the next batch myself. 
 But circumstances occurred which prevented there 
 ever being another batch. William came to me 
 
HENS AND CHICKENS 89 
 
 and said, " Hadn't I better fatten up some of those 
 chickens r " " Fatten them up ! " I cried ; " why, 
 surely they are quite fat enough." " Not fat 
 enough for the table, m'm." " For the table I " 
 I exclaimed. "You don't suppose I am going to 
 eat them, do you ? " " Well, m'm," he said, " you 
 can't keep them all. There are six cocks and only 
 four hens, and the cocks '11 kill each other as soon 
 as they get a bit bigger." I considered the question 
 and made up my mind. " You may fatten those 
 little cocks," I said, " and when they are fat enough 
 you may kill them and send them to market. 
 But don't let me hear anv more about them, or 
 even see them again. And you may break up all 
 the new coops for firewood. I shall hatch no more 
 chickens to be fattened for the table. I consider it 
 a barbarous pursuit." 
 
XIII 
 
 GREEX-FLY 
 
 If I were to arrange the insects I have met, in 
 order of merit, judging them solely by the feelings 
 they inspire in me, down at the bottom of the list, 
 in company with the household-fly (when mouldy) 
 and the wood-louse, would come those nasty little 
 sticky green things called by the learned " aphides " 
 and by the vulgar " green-fly." They have fat, 
 transparent green bodies with a tight thin skin, 
 and long sticky legs that they move with great 
 difficulty, as if the joints wanted oiling. They 
 live chiefly round the necks of rosebuds, crowded 
 so closely together that it makes you quite un- 
 comfortable to look at them. If there is not 
 standing-room for them on the rosebud, they sit 
 in layers one on top of the other, looking very 
 
 hot. If you give them a poke with a bit of stick 
 
 90 
 
GREEN-FLY gt 
 
 they fall off in clumps of two or three in an in- 
 toxicated sort of way, and lie on their backs with 
 their sticky legs in the air. When they do this 
 you go in-doors and take a bath. 
 
 There is only one other insect that inspires me 
 with the same feelings of disgust, and that, I have 
 always considered (and shall continue to consider 
 till I hear to the contrary) first-cousin to the green- 
 fly. It is, if anything, more repulsive than its first- 
 cousin. It sits on a twig of grass, or lavender, 
 in early summer and spits till it has enveloped 
 itself in a little blob of froth, which looks par- 
 ticularly revolting. A larch-wood with which I 
 am well acquainted is at one time of the year 
 made quite loathsome by these nasty little blobs 
 hanging to nearly every blade of grass. Once, in 
 my youth, I ventured to investigate one of them. 
 I had been told that it had an inhabitant, and was 
 loth to believe, from mere hearsay, that any creature 
 could be so degraded as to inhabit such a medium. 
 Overcoming my sensations of disgust, I took a 
 little blade of grass and scraped some of the froth 
 aside, and disclosed a nauseous-looking green thing 
 that moved uneasily about on being disturbed. 
 On which I quickly covered him up again, and 
 tried to think of other things. 
 
 Both greenhouses having been newly painted 
 
92 GREElSf-FL Y 
 
 and glazed, and containing new pots, new soil, and 
 new plants, they have a particularly fresh, bright 
 appearance, and there had been no sign of blight 
 or decay on anything. Indeed, with the exception 
 of a worm that made havoc in one of the seed- 
 pans, and a party of bees that paid us a flying visit 
 one sunny morning, I have seen no insects at all. 
 Consequently I was not prepared for the unpleasant 
 discovery I made the other morning. 
 
 A dozen little rose-trees that stood at th^ back 
 behind other plants in the small greenhouse at- 
 tracted my attention. They had begun to show 
 buds, and some of them seemed to be already com- 
 ing out. As I wished to examine them a little 
 more closely and see what sort of roses they were, 
 I reached in among the other plants and took two 
 of the pots out and put them on a shelf in front, 
 and proceeded to look at the buds. To my disgust 
 I saw that they were simply covered with green- 
 fly ! I took a little twig and began brushing them 
 off; But, as I particularly object to squashing 
 them, I succeeded merely in scattering them on 
 to the floor, and even on to some of the other 
 plants. So I threw down the twig, shook my 
 hands, brushed and shook my skirt, and went out 
 into tlie garden to air myself and get rid of the 
 unpleasant sensations the operation had caused. 
 
GREEN-FLY 93 
 
 Round at the back of the greenhouse I came 
 upon Max and William. William was busy over an 
 iron bucket with holes in it, in which he had some 
 red-hot cinders, and Max was looking on and direct- 
 ing him. "What are you doing ? " I asked. " We 
 are going to smoke the green-fly," they said. They 
 had taken from the greenhouse all the tender 
 seedlings and delicate plants that might be sup- 
 posed to object to smoke, and had collected and 
 put in their places all those that were being tor- 
 mented by green-fly. They purposed then shut- 
 ting up the windows and doors, and filling the place 
 with tobacco smoke. The green-fly, they said, 
 would object to this so strongly that they would 
 turn brown and fall off dead. 
 
 Some rope that had been unravelled and soaked 
 in tobacco-juice was put moist into the cinder- 
 bucket, where it began at once to smoulder and 
 send up volumes of thick white smoke. It was 
 then carried into the greenhouse by William, who 
 emerged coughing, and the door shut vipon it. 
 In a few minutes, from the cloudy appearance on 
 the glass, we could see that the place was full of 
 smoke, and soon it began to pour out from the 
 cracks, chinks, and little orifices in the roof and 
 round the door. In order to be eflfectual the 
 soaked rope must smoulder, but not blaze, The 
 
94 GREEN-FLY 
 
 cinders in the pail proved, however, a little too 
 powerful, for it suddenly burst into flames. Wil- 
 liam, who was peering through the window to see 
 how it was getting on, was obliged to open the 
 door, penetrate into the midst of the smoke, and 
 put it out. He came out staggering, and looking 
 a sickly green, and had to be brought to with 
 brandy, which, he being a water-drinker, had a 
 surprisingly rapid effect. The effect of the smoke 
 on William made me tremble for the fate of 
 the plants. It seemed to me they were a little 
 overdoing it. It was surely hardly necessary, I 
 thought, to subject a fragile, transparent creature, 
 the size of a pin's head, to several hours of treat- 
 ment, a few seconds of which would nearly "do 
 for " a man. However, it was satisfactory to think 
 they would be so thoroughly annihilated, and I 
 thought what a pleasing sight the corpses would be 
 on the morrow. 
 
 It was too late to see them that night, but I 
 hastened to gloat over them immediately after break- 
 fast the following day. A nasty stale smell greeted 
 me as I opened the door. The plants and seedlings 
 had a faded, depressed, chastened look, as if they 
 were all recovering from a serious illness. Some 
 were drooping despondently, and others showed 
 symptoms of turning yellow. Never mind, I 
 
GREEN-FL Y 95 
 
 thought, they will soon recover when they see the 
 corpses strewing the ground, and realize that they 
 are free from their little tormentors ; and I glanced 
 eagerly about on the shelf and floor for signs of 
 the massacre. There were none. The smoke had 
 apparently done its work so thoroughly that there 
 were not even any charred remains to be seen. 
 Then I looked at the rose-bushes, started, looked 
 a little nearer, and rubbed my eyes, while vague 
 recollections passed through my mind of having 
 somewhere read of an optical disease which begins 
 with insects and ends with a pink hippopotamus 
 in your bath. Sitting in crowds on the rose-buds 
 were, it seemed to me, even more green-fly than 
 there had been the day before — looking, if anything', 
 fatter, greener, more transparent than ever. 
 
 William, who is of a sanguine disposition, 
 assured me that some of them had begun to turn 
 yellow, and that another dose would certainly do 
 for them. But I confess I felt sceptical, and was 
 not at all surprised when fumes of brown paper 
 soaked in the strongest tobacco juice yielded only 
 a stray corpse or two. Then the plants were all 
 syringed with an infusion of quassia chips — bitter 
 stuff that is said to be particularly distasteful to 
 them. Anyhow, as William remarked, they don't 
 lihe it. " How do you know that, William ? " I 
 
96 GREEN-FL Y 
 
 asked, when he made the remark to me. " Well," 
 he said, " I took one of them off the plant, and 
 dropped a little of it on him, and he turned brown." 
 Finally, after trjang a variety of remedies, none of 
 which made any appreciable difference in their 
 numbers, we were recommended by a friend to try 
 " Mac Dougall's Insecticide," which he said he had 
 found a " certain kill." William went in pursuit of 
 the article at once, and came back with a packet 
 containing half-a-dozen sheets about a foot square 
 of thick, dark-brown cardboard. According to the 
 directions, one sheet, which costs ninepence, is 
 enough to fumigate i,ooo cubic feet. By doing a 
 mysterious little sum it was ascertained that one- 
 half of the greenhouse that could be shut off" from 
 the rest contained 3,500 cubic feet, and that conse- 
 quently four sheets of paper would suffice. Before 
 starting we collected all the plants that wanted 
 treatment (chiefly roses, lilies, and calceolarias), 
 and put them in front. One little azalea was suffer- 
 ing from a thing called "thrip" — a little, long- 
 bodied black insect of most objectionable appear- 
 ance — and was looking very ill and shabby. We 
 gave it a special seat in the front row. We 
 suspended the sheets of cardboard banner-wise from 
 the ends of sticks, and supported the sticks in 
 flower-pots, which we put upside down on the 
 
GREEN-FLY 97 
 
 ground. Then, after seeing that the windows and 
 ventilators were tightly shut, a match was put to the 
 bottom edge of each sheet, and they were left to 
 smoulder. We watched through the window till 
 the place was full of thick white smoke, and then 
 we left it for the night. 
 
 Max called me out before breakfast the next 
 morning to see the result. The floors and flower- 
 pots were simply strewed with corpses, so that 
 William had to get a broom to sweep them up. 
 So complete was the massacre that we have since 
 searched the plants in vain for a living aphis or 
 thrip. The experiment left no smell after the first 
 day, and the plants have not been in the least 
 injured by the smoke. In fact, they look better 
 and fresher than before. The calceolarias have 
 shot up rapidly and are growing into strong plants, 
 and " Ethel Brownlow," a tea-rose of most exquisite 
 " old-rose " colour, that was suffering very much 
 from the plague, is covered with roses. 
 

 Mfj 
 
 
 
 XIV 
 
 BY PARCEL-POST 
 
 Outside, things seem to be taking a long time to 
 
 wake up. Though the perennials jjlanted in the 
 
 autumn have as much green leaf up as enables me 
 
 to recognize among them delphinuuus, peonies, 
 
 lupins, and phloxes, and the rose-trees and climbing 
 
 plants are covered with buds, and the carnations and 
 
 wallflowers make streaks of green, the general aspect 
 
 of the garden is brown and earthy. A cursory 
 
 glance at the kitchen-garden beyond the hedge 
 
 might lead one to suppose that it is still in the 
 
 same state as a month or two ago, just after having 
 
 been converted from wilderness to brown soil — a 
 
 series of empty beds, neatly bordered with box and 
 
 98 
 
BY PARCEL-POST 99 
 
 intersected with gravel patiis. But a walk through 
 it yesterday brought me to the conclusion that 
 there is more going on there than anywhere else. 
 It is true there is not much in the way of vegetables 
 above ground at present. But there are two long 
 raised beds containing asparagus, some mounds 
 containing seakale and rhubarb, several long rows 
 of little green things like cabbages, and dotted 
 about in many of the beds are labels showing 
 where seeds have been sown. There are rows of 
 dark-stemmed espalier trees standing with out- 
 stretched arms down either side of the main 
 paths, and about one-third of the garden is 
 filled with little naked bushes, hardly visible 
 against the dark soil, but for the labels that flap 
 in the wind — gooseberries, currants, and rasp- 
 berries, which I noticed, on looking closely at 
 them, are putting out buds at a great rate. One 
 bed, containing rows of small green things, flat on 
 the ground and rather beset with weeds, I found on 
 investigation to be a strawberry-bed. 
 
 It was when sighing over the slowness of things 
 the other day that my eye was caught by an ad- 
 vertisement of " strong young plants, warranted to 
 bloom this year," among which were twelve Nicotiana 
 Affinis for a shilling, and many other tempting things 
 for incredibly small sums. I made out a list at once 
 
loo BY PARCEL-POST 
 
 of the things that attracted me most, and sent an 
 order for twenty-four tobacco-plants, twenty-four 
 Iceland poppies, twelve Salvia Patens, and twelve 
 Verbascum Olympicum. The latter is a magnifi- 
 cent weed commonly known as mullein. It grows 
 a huge spike, six feet high, covered with small 
 golden-yellow blossoms from a tuft of large grey-, 
 green plush leaves. The Salvia Patens I saw a 
 year or two ago growing in great abundance in a 
 garden in Surrey. The colour seemed to me one 
 of the most beautiful things I had ever seen — a 
 pure blue like that of the tiny Alpine gentian, but 
 differing from the gentian in being of a velvety 
 instead of a smooth texture. 
 
 The promptness, efficiency, and quietness of the 
 post always arnazes me. You drop a letter into a 
 box, probably on your own hall-table, just as you 
 drop a penny in the slot, and like the penny it sets 
 the whole post-machine working. The letter per- 
 forms a series of evolutions, is handed on from one 
 place to another, and before you know where you 
 are, a chocolate box is shot out on to your breakfast- 
 plate. I found it on my plate with my letters when 
 I came down to breakfast two days after I liad 
 dropped the letter in the post — a wooden box with 
 the nurseryman's label on the outside, and edges of 
 green moss sticking out beneath the lid. I had 
 
BY PARCEL-FOST loi 
 
 expected at the very least a hamper as a result of 
 my order, if not a nurseryman's cart, and I hastened 
 to undo the box before I had my breakfast, to see 
 what it could possibly contain. Inside were five 
 little newspaper bundles, containing what at first 
 seemed nothing but a little mud, some of which 
 was scattered about on the bottom of the box. 
 But on taking off the newspaper I found five little 
 clumps of tiny seedlings with their roots wrapped 
 round with damp earth and moss. I took off the 
 moss and some of the earth, and saw that each 
 clump consisted of a dozen or so of wee plants, 
 with roots and leaves of their own complete, and 
 unmistakably answering to their names by their 
 foliage, but so small and young that they were 
 quite touching. In spite of their journey through 
 the post they looked quite fresh and green, and as 
 healthy as could be. 
 
 Max laughed at their size. He said I had been 
 "done," and assured me that he had a patch of 
 Iceland poppies six times the size of my whole 
 twenty-four put together, for which he had paid 
 a neighbouring nurseryman only threepence, my 
 twenty-four having cost me one and sixpence. 
 As a matter of fact, their youth and smallness 
 was what appealed to me most about them, and 
 I could not help feeling that I had far rather have 
 
102 JSY PARCEL-POST 
 
 these babes, and watch them grow up, than the aged 
 clump he had bought from his nurseryman for 
 threepence. In fact, I was more than content with 
 my bargain, especially as, when I came to investigate 
 the bundles and separate the muddy little things, I 
 found that I had been dealt with liberally in the 
 matter of number, and had been given in two cases 
 fourteen for twelve and twenty-eight Iceland poppies 
 instead of twenty-four. There was, besides, an extra 
 bundle marked "gratis," and containing six very nice 
 little carnation plants. 
 
 It was pouring with rain when they arrived. But 
 I could not bear the thought of their staying any 
 longer wrapped in bits of newspaper in a chocolate 
 box, after a tiresome journey through the post. So 
 I wrapped myself in a mackintosh, put on my thick 
 boots, took a fork, and went forth and planted them. 
 As I dug holes for them and tucked them in up to 
 their necks, with the moist earth pressed firmly 
 round their roots, I felt that they were distinctly 
 grateful to me, and rejoiced to find themselves 
 once more in a comfortable bed. 
 
 I planted the tobacco in a bed beneath my sitting- 
 room windows. The windows are low, and if the 
 plants grow they will soon be able to look into 
 the rooms. The tiny salvias and the still tinier 
 verbascums I planted alternately in the long 
 
£Y PARCEL-POST 103 
 
 strip where last week I pvit the dumps of sweet- 
 peas and the border of mignonette. The gorgeous 
 blue of the salvia and the golden yellow of the 
 mullein will have, I think, a fine effect. But it 
 is difficult to imagine that such wee things will 
 ever develop to the plants I have in my mind's 
 eye ; especially as now that they are bedded up 
 to their necks in earth, there is nothing to be 
 seen but a green leaf or two, in the case of the 
 mullein only one little soft grey thing. The 
 Iceland poppies I planted in groups of seven in 
 the corners of a square bed that is now gay with 
 a border of daffodils in full bloom. 
 
 I felt as much solicitude for these young seedlings 
 as if they had been so many infants or young birds, 
 and as soon as the rain was over went out to see 
 how they were getting on. All seemed to have 
 revived after their journey and were looking fresh 
 and vigorous. But there had been a tragedy 
 among the Iceland poppies. One of them had 
 been pulled up, and lay limp and dying on the 
 ground, an inch or two from where he had been 
 planted. I looked round, puzzled to know who 
 could have been guilty of such wanton cruelty,, 
 and my eye fell upon the starling, who was, 
 occupying his favourite position in the tree in 
 the hedge, and chatting volubly in a somewhat; 
 
I04 BY PARCEL-POST 
 
 apologetic fashion. Something in his manner 
 betrayed the culprit. So I listened to what he 
 had to say, and gathered from his somewhat 
 incoherent remarks that as soon as my back was 
 turned after planting the poppies, a huge worm 
 had peeped out of the earth quite close to the 
 poor little seedling. Knowing my dislike to worms 
 he had immediately hopped down to remove it, but 
 in pulling it up, perhaps a trifle roughly, he had 
 pulled up the poppy too, and found himself totally 
 unable to plant it again, for which he was very 
 sorry. 
 
 I dug a hole, put the poor little poppy in, tucked 
 him up comfortably and gave him some water, and 
 in an hour or two he had quite revived, and looked 
 as happy as the others. 
 
XV 
 
 THE MOUSE AND THE PEAS 
 
 It was my own fault, I admit. But then, as I 
 told myself afterwards, I did not know what sort of 
 mouse it was going to be. I thought, of course, 
 that it was the sort of mouse that sits in the grate 
 in the middle of the night scratching the paper, 
 and, when you throw something at it, goes mad 
 and tears up the window-curtains and then over 
 your bed. 
 
 The sweet-peas had been in the ground about 
 ten days, and were just beginning to think about 
 coming up — in fact, a series of cracks in the earth, 
 through which, if you looked close, you could see 
 something white, encouraged one to hope that in a 
 day or two they would be above ground — when 
 William came up to me in the garden, where I was 
 
 105 
 
jo6 THE MOUSE AND THE PEAS 
 
 picking daffodils, and told me that the mice had 
 been eating my sweet-peas. 
 
 " Mice ! " I said, incredulously. " Not mice, 
 William ? " for I thought he must mean sparrows. 
 He assured me he meant mice. I followed him, 
 still unbelieving, into the kitchen-garden. There 
 he pointed out to me a series of little holes, scraped 
 in the ground, as it were, with a very small hand, 
 and scattered round them, on the ground, bits of 
 the hard outer shell of the pea, which the mouse 
 had discarded as indigestible. 
 
 Now I had imagined that the only enemies I had 
 to fear for my sweet-peas were sparrows. And I 
 had taken elaborate measures to circumvent these 
 little wretches by covering the ground where they 
 were sown with a net-work of black cotton — a labour 
 which had taken me the better part of a day. I 
 had, moreover, spent a small fortune on the seed, 
 choosing all the choicest varieties from the seed- 
 merchant's lists, and I was looking forward to a 
 glorious hedge in a few months' time. So, to feel 
 that all this was to end in a meal for a greedy 
 mouse was to feel extremely foolish and not a little 
 aggravated. 
 
 I looked blankly at William. " What are we to 
 do, William ? " I asked. I had heard of soaking 
 peas in paraffin to make them distasteful to animals 
 
THE MOUSE AND THE PEAS 107 
 
 who might otherwise be disposed to eat them, but 
 it was too late to do that now. 
 
 " I'd best lay a few mouse-traps," said William. 
 
 I detest mouse-traps — indeed, traps of any kind. 
 But the prospect of having all my sweet-peas 
 devoured was one I could not face. I told William 
 to get some mouse-traps and put them along the 
 border at once. 
 
 An hour or two later I went out and found six 
 little traps placed on the ground at intervals, the 
 whole length of my sowing. Inside each was a 
 little bit of yellow cheese hanging from a hook in 
 the ceiling, and the door of each being wide open 
 gave them a sort of "Will you walk into my 
 parlour ? " air. I took one up and examined it. It 
 was a wooden affair, with wire bars. The cheese 
 was put at the farthest end from the door, so that 
 the mouse had to go right inside to get at it. It 
 was so arranged that as soon as he touched it, it 
 bounced up to the ceiling, at the same time shutting 
 down the door by which he had entered like a port- 
 cullis, and there he was a prisoner. What happened 
 to him then ? I asked myself. What ■ would 
 William do with him ? Kill the poor little thing 
 ruthlessly, I was afraid. Or, worse still, give him to 
 the cat. I resolved not to think about it. 
 
 During the rest of the day, however, I found 
 
io8 THE MOUSE AND THE PEAS 
 
 my footsteps continually turning towards the kitchen- 
 garden, to see if there were any mice in the traps. 
 And each time I had a feeling of relief when I 
 found they were still empty, 
 
 I awoke early the next morning, and as I awoke a 
 conviction came into my head with a sort of unpleasant 
 bang that there was a mouse in one of the traps. I 
 felt so sure of it that I could almost see him. I 
 fell to wondering again what William would do 
 with him, and then tried to dismiss him from my 
 thoughts, and go to sleep again. But I could not 
 get him out of my head. He seemed to be sending 
 me telepathic messages through the cold morning 
 air, begging me to get up and come and let him 
 out.. In fact, so persistently worrying was the 
 thought of him that at last, half-asleep, and hardly 
 knowing what I was doing, I got up, performed a 
 hasty toilet, and before I quite knew where I was, 
 found myself walking towards the kitchen- garden. 
 The keen morning air woke me up thoroughly. I 
 gazed ahead as I came near the mouse-traps, and 
 felt quite sick when I saw that one of the cheese- 
 holders was standing on end, showing that the 
 door was down and a prisoner inside. So dis- 
 tressed was I at the discovery, that I had to summon 
 all my resolution to go straight up to it and look 
 inside. Sure enough, there was a mouse. Not, 
 
THE MOUSE AND THE PEAS 109 
 
 however, a grey, large-eared mouse such as I had 
 expected, but a little brown, furry fellow, with small 
 ears and bright eyes. 
 
 I picked up the trap and looked in at him. He 
 seemed terrified, and looked wildly about for escape. 
 Then I noticed that his tail was caught tight under- 
 neath the door, and that he could hardly move. I 
 released it by raising the door the least little bit, 
 and this enabled him to whisk about in rather an 
 alarming fashion. I put him down on the ground 
 again, and wondered what on earth had induced me 
 to come out and look at him. What could I do' 
 now I had come ? I had an almost uncontrollable 
 impulse to open the door and let him out, and I 
 stooped down with that object. Then I suddenly 
 thought of William. What a goose he would 
 think me ! To tell him to put mouse-traps to 
 catch the mice, and then to go and let them out ! 
 But I did not know what kind of mouse he was 
 going to be, I argued with myself. I did not know 
 he would be so brown and furry, nor have such 
 bright eyes, nor such long whiskers, nor such funny 
 httle hands, nor look so very small and frightened ; 
 and I again stooped and put my hand to the port- 
 cullis. Then I thought of my beautiful hedge of 
 sweet-peas, and of the long morning I had spent in 
 sowing them. I had put each pea in separately. 
 
no THE MOUSE AND THE PEAS 
 
 making a sort of pattern in the drill. It had taken 
 me hours to go the whole length of the border, and 
 my back had positively ached with stooping when 
 I came to the end. I pulled myself together. No. 
 If the mouse was foolish and greedy enough to go 
 into the trap, he must abide the consequences. I 
 would leave him to William^ and think no more 
 about him. 
 
 I turned away resolutely and began walking 
 towards the house. When I got a few yards 
 down the gravel path, however, I looked back. 
 There is something fatal about looking back, espe- 
 cially if you are a woman. It is, I suppose, the 
 heritage of Lot's wife. I had left the mouse-trap 
 turned so that I could see the bars. When I 
 looked back and saw that little brown field-mouse, 
 with his little nose pressed against the bars, and 
 gazing with wistful misery at my retreating figure, I 
 did not turn to salt, but I turned to something 
 equally apt to melt, and I melted ; I became a 
 melting mass of remorse and pity. 
 
 I went back and picked up the mouse-trap, mur- 
 muring all sorts of fond and foolish things, and 
 stroking its wooden sides in a silly, caressing man- 
 ner. I walked off to the far-end of the garden, 
 where the privet-hedge was just beginning to show 
 its green shoots. I looked round .cautiously to 
 
THE MOUSE AND THE PEAS iii 
 
 see if William was anywhere in sight, and being- 
 satisfied that he was not, I stooped down and 
 made a hole through the hedge and looked 
 through to see what it was like on the other side. 
 I could see a dry ditch with grass and weeds grow- 
 ing in it, and a few primroses on the bank — ^just the 
 place a field-mouse might be supposed to like. I 
 put the trap through the hole, with the portcullis 
 end first, pressed down the wooden bar that held 
 the cheese till the door was open, said " Shoo I " at 
 the mouse, and out it shot. 
 
 It ran down into the ditch, and then sat there, as 
 if it were too bewildered by what had taken place 
 to move, till I was obliged to say " Shoo ! " at it 
 again. Then it ran off and disappeared beneath a 
 dock-leaf. I watched for a few minutes to see if it 
 would reappear; but it did not. So I got up, 
 and putting the mouse-trap in my pocket, walked 
 towards the house, trying to look as unconcerned 
 as possible. As I passed the sweet-peas I ducked 
 quickly, and deposited the trap on the spot from 
 whence I had taken it, and went on. 
 
 In the course of the day I asked William if he 
 had caught any mice, and affected surprise when he 
 replied in the negative. I repeated the inquiry 
 every day for a fortnight, and always received the 
 same answer. By dint of early rising I myself 
 
112 THE MOUSE AND THE PEAS 
 
 caught six, and sent them on their way rejoicing 
 through the hole in the hedge, taking the precaution 
 to box their ears with a stick as they whisked out 
 of the trap. By the end of a fortnight they 
 had apparently made up their minds that the 
 sweet- peas were not worth such treatment, for the 
 mouse-traps remained empty for a week on end. The 
 sweet-peas were, moreover, well above ground, and 
 big enough to take care of themselves. 
 
XVI 
 
 GARDENS OLD AND NEW 
 
 A GARDEN begins to be really enjoyable when 
 there are things to pick. In this new-old garden, 
 where all the flower-beds have been dug up and 
 planted anew, there has so far been nothing to 
 pick. It is true there have been hundreds of 
 yellow, purple, and white crocuses, blue squills, 
 and hepaticas. But such small bulbs do not invite 
 one to gather them; they seem rather to beg to 
 be let alone. During the last fortnight, however, 
 thousands of violets have appeared under the trees 
 in the shrubberies. So thickly have they blossomed 
 this year that from a little distance they look like 
 a purple carpet beneath the trees. There is some- 
 thing irresistible about a sweet-scented violet, some- 
 thing that entices one to pick it at once. And 
 during the last fortnight I have picked and picked 
 
 113 ' 
 
1^4 GARDENS OLD AND NEW 
 
 till I have been weary, wondering often the while 
 whether the small fragrant bunches of dark purple 
 that I have dotted about the house were worth 
 half the trouble the tiresome little things gave 
 one — the stooping, the burrowing down among 
 the leaves to get the stalk as long as possible, 
 and the tying up in bunches. In these par- 
 ticular violets, which have been let alone j'ear 
 after year to grow as they will, the stalks are most 
 aggravatingly short ; and when I have picked my 
 basket full and settled down to arrange them in 
 bunches, I generally find that I have at the end, 
 to make a little bunch of heads with about half-an- 
 inch of stalk only, which, in order that each may 
 reach the water, have to be piut in a saucer. A 
 little encouragement and attention, however, in the 
 way of digging about the roots, manuring, and 
 separating, will, I am told, induce violets to grow 
 as long stalks as one can wish. And I am deter- 
 mined that as soon as these troublesome little 
 things have done flowering they shall have all their 
 creature comforts attended to and be given as com- 
 fortable beds as possible, in order that they may be 
 more conveniently picked next year. 
 
 Clumps of yellow daffodils have also appeared 
 dotted about in the shrubberies, and these are so 
 ornamental arranged in Japanese pots and vases in 
 
GARDENS OLD AND NEW 115 
 
 the house (especially when a liberal supply of the 
 long green spikes is put with them) that I have 
 gathered great bunches ruthlessly. While violets 
 and daffodils have been making purple and yellow 
 patches underfoot, overhead flowering shrubs have 
 been budding and bursting into colour. The most 
 beautiful of these has been an old almond-tree, 
 whose branches have been a mass of pink blossoms 
 against the sky. William has made several expedi- 
 tions up a ladder into the tree to cut off the par- 
 ticular branch I marked from below to grace an old 
 Chinese blue-and-white jar that occupies a corner 
 of my sitting-room. 
 
 There is the same contrast between an old garden 
 such as this, and a new garden, such as I watched 
 being cleared in the midst of pine-trees on the top 
 of a heather-clad hill in Surrey the other day, as 
 there is between the old village, with its thatched- 
 roofed cottages, that you come upon in a hollow in 
 our English counties, where it has slumbered for 
 centuries, surrounded by cultivated fields, and a 
 brand-new settlement cropping up on a bare uncul- 
 tivated spot in one of the colonies. The one is 
 full of associations of the generations of people it 
 has watched run their lives: the trees, shrubs, 
 hedges, grass, and the soil itself are full of traditions 
 they have been absorbing for centuries; the very 
 
ii6 GARDENS OLD AND NEW 
 
 air seems heavy with human history. The other 
 has no associations but those of Nature, Earth, 
 air, and water are pure and uncontaminated by 
 humanity. 
 
 As I looked at the bare patch of sandy soil that 
 was being converted into a kitchen-garden with hoe 
 and axe, I thought that with a slight stretch of 
 imagination I might fancy myself in a new colony 
 watching a settler making his plot of ground habit- 
 able. All around were pines, heather, and gorse. 
 Not far off, the new house could be seen appearing 
 above the tops of the trees, and in the air was that 
 strange feeling of lightness and freedom that there 
 is about a place that has not been lived in, that has 
 no sign of ever having been lived in : no tombs of 
 ancient Britons, even ; no human bones ; no trace of 
 anything human having passed that way. 
 
 I was, however, only in Surrey, within forty miles 
 of London, where a large tract of heathery, piney 
 country seems to have been overlooked by man 
 since the beginning of time — despised as poor, 
 unprofitable land, not worth cultivation. Not many 
 years ago some one happened to come across it, 
 noticed that the air had a purity and freshness almost 
 unknown in other parts of England, drew attention 
 to the fact, built himself a house, and settled down 
 on the top of the hill. Since then people have been 
 
GARDENS OLD AND NEW 117 
 
 flocking to it steadily year by year, and houses crop- 
 ping up, as it were, like mushrooms in a night. But 
 the air still keeps its strange purity and freshness, 
 and will do so, we may hope, for a generation or 
 two more. There is still about the place that 
 delightful feeling of freedom to do as you please 
 that there is in a new country before that tyrant 
 conventionality has begun to stiffen everybody, 
 as it were with starch, and make them unable 
 to move this way or that for fear of spoiling their 
 irreproachable bearing. 
 
 The soil of the new kitchen-garden looked to me 
 sandy, yellow, and poor, very different from the rich 
 brown earth of the garden I am most familiar with. 
 But so far nothing had been done but to clear 
 the space, dig out the roots of gorse, bracken, 
 heather, and mark the paths and beds with a border 
 of box. Though the poor-looking, sandy soil of 
 this part of Surrey is the despair of gardeners 
 when they first attack it, so that they feel hopeless 
 about inducing anything to grow there, a few years' 
 experience has proved in many cases that though 
 they may not care much about the soil, many 
 plants delight in the invigorating air, and grow 
 luxuriantly. Some of these hill-gardens boasted 
 last year the most gorgeous borders of herbaceous 
 plants. One of these could, I think, have held its 
 
ii8 GARDENS OLD AND NEW 
 
 own in a beauty show against any border in the 
 country. Cactus-dahlias, dark-blue and pale-blue 
 delphiniums, tall white phloxes, and red-hot pokers 
 had grown to an enormous height, and jostled each 
 other in the backgrovind, while the foreground was 
 ablaze with smaller plants and annuals. 
 
 Flowers sometimes show a preference for a par- 
 ticular spot, and will grow there in profusion, while 
 refusing to flourish in another place only a few 
 yards off. Something in the air, the soil, or the 
 surroundings, it may be merely the view, pleases 
 them, and they settle down, send out roots and,, 
 branches, and take possession of the ground in a 
 determined way that shows they mean to stay 
 there. 
 
 A queer, long-shaped cottage, built bungalow- 
 fashion, all on one floor, of logs with the bark on, 
 in one of these clearings, is so much loved by 
 flowers, that in summer it nestles in a perfect bower 
 of green leaves and blossoms. Creepers — clematis, 
 honeysuckle, roses, and ivy — race up the walls as 
 soon as they are stuck in, and seem so bent on 
 covering them up entirely, that last year nothing 
 could be seen of the cottage but its windows 
 and chimneys and bits of the roof peeping out 
 here and there from a tangle of green. It seems 
 as if they found the rough bark of the logs a 
 
GARDENS OLD AND NEW 119 
 
 Sympathetic thing to climb on — reminding them, 
 perhaps, of the trunks of trees in their native haunts 
 — and climbed with a will. Not content with 
 covering the walls and hanging in festoons from the 
 porch, they had in several places forced their way 
 through the roof to see what it was Hke inside, and 
 had sent straggling sprays along the rafters in the 
 ceilings. A narrow bed ran round the outside of 
 the house, and this was so filled with plants that it 
 looked as if all the flowers in, the garden had 
 crowded up to the cottage and were trying to look 
 in at the windows. In early spring this bed had 
 been gay with bulbs : crocuses, snowdrops, daffodils, 
 narcissi, hyacinths, and tulips. But later on it was 
 filled with scented verbena, heliotrope, and the 
 sweet-smelling, crinkly-leaved geranium. These 
 were so content with their surroundings, and grew 
 at such a pace, that a few weeks after they had been 
 put in they were flourishing bushes reaching half- 
 way up the walls. In fact, so profusely did they 
 branch and flower, trail and straggle, that they 
 required severe pruning to keep them in order and 
 prevent their getting in at the windows and filling 
 the house. One carried away great bunches of the 
 sweet-smelhng things, and left no trace of the 
 theft. 
 
XVII 
 
 THE GREEN-FLY SCORES 
 
 A STORY is told, somewhere, of the South Sea 
 Islanders, that some traders wishing to ingratiate 
 themselves, made them presents of various objects 
 of English manufacture, among other things of 
 some common door-nails. The islanders were 
 very much puzzled as to what these could be, and 
 for what use they were intended. After much 
 consulting they came to the conclusion that they 
 must be the buds from some plant. So thinking 
 life might not be quite extinct they planted them 
 in rows and watered them with care. 
 
 When one sees the wonderful things in the way 
 of plants and flowers that develop from extra- 
 ordinary-looking things in the way of roots and 
 seeds, one is not surprised at the South Sea 
 Islanders' excessive faith, but rather inclined to 
 
THE GREEN-FLY SCORES 121 
 
 wonder that their hopes in this particular instance 
 were doomed to disappointment. We plant some 
 little bits of rubbish that look like dead spiders — 
 and in which we might reasonably suppose life to 
 be quite as extinct as in the South Sea Islanders' 
 door-nails — and they develop into a mass of gorge- 
 ous scarlet anemones. We scatter a little brown 
 dust, that looks very much like powdered tobacco, 
 and quite as dead, on a rockery, and some months 
 later we find it has developed into hundreds of 
 the bluest of blue Alpine gentians. These experi- 
 ments I confess I have not yet made myself, but 
 I saw the results in great perfection in Surrey last 
 week, and was also shown samples of the insig- 
 nificant objects and stuff from which they sprang. 
 Even in my own experience I am continually 
 being startled by the extraordinary things that 
 come out of insignificant-looking seeds. 
 
 One of the most amusing results we have had 
 from a packet of seeds is a pan full of young sensi- 
 tive-plants. There are about fifty of them in a pan 
 a foot square. At present they are not more than 
 half-an-inch high. Each one consists of the two 
 original flat leaves that come up first to make 
 a sort of platform for the real thing, and, springing 
 from the centre of these, one, or sometimes two, 
 tiny acacia leaves. They looked so like spread-out 
 
122 THE GREEN-FLY SCORES 
 
 hands, that, not realizing that they were sensitive, 
 I instinctively gave one of them a pat with a twig 
 I was holding. Instantly the little hand shut up 
 tight, and the arm went down like a railway signal. 
 I was so surprised and amused that I could not 
 resist patting the whole fifty, one after the other ; 
 and then when I had finished I began again and 
 patted them all a second time. In fact, there is 
 something so fascinating to me in their behaviour 
 that since I discovered them a week ago, I have 
 not been able to resist patting them every time 
 I go into the greenhouse. Max pretends they 
 hate it, and begs me not to tease them. I myself 
 have noticed a tendency on their part to grow 
 bored, and refuse, after several pats, to play any 
 more. They realize, I suppose, that I am only 
 making fun of them. 
 
 Some time ago, in a box of green sphagnum 
 moss that had come from a nurseryman, and is 
 used for putting round some of the things in 
 pots, I believe to keep them warm, Max found 
 some tiny sundew seedlings — so tiny that the little 
 fringed hand was scarcely bigger than a pin's head. 
 He picked them out carefully and planted them 
 again in a flower-pot full of wet moss and peat, 
 hoping that they would grow and catch flies for his 
 amusement. They took to their new surroundings 
 
THE GREEN-FLY SCORES 123 
 
 and grew apace, and the other day I found him 
 feeding one of them with a very small spider, not 
 quite so big as a pin's head, and a very fat green-fly 
 off a rose-tree. Now, though a large spider inspires 
 me with horror, terror, and loathing, there is some- 
 thing attractive and endearing about a very small 
 spider. It is so much more of a " person " than 
 other small insects, and a " person " of that size is 
 quite touching. Consequently when I saw the poor 
 little thing lifting its legs one by one from the sun- 
 dew in its endeavour to get free, and drawing out 
 each time a long hair of the sticky stuff that was 
 glueing it to the trap, all my sympathies went out 
 to it, and I begged Max to let it go. He paid no 
 attention to my request, but merely gave the 
 spider a little push on to the middle of the leaf, 
 where the sundew's tendrils began to fold round 
 it, and proceeded to put the aphis, which he had 
 on the end of a twig, in the middle of another 
 leaf. I told him I thought it was perfectly odious 
 of him to torture two poor little insects that had 
 never done him the least harm. He said that, on 
 the contrary, the aphis had done him a great deal 
 of harm by eating the rose-trees and distributing 
 its objectionable offspring all over the place. 
 
 " Well, but the spider ! " I pleaded. For I felt 
 myself there was not much to be said for sparing 
 
124 THE GREEN-FLY SCORES 
 
 the aphis. He pretended to be absorbed in the 
 aphis and made no reply, and after watching him 
 for a few minutes I gave it up, and left him, with 
 a storm of indignation at his cruelty and pity for 
 the spider and even for the aphis raging in my 
 breast. The aphis however, as it turned out, 
 was quite able to take care of itself. It even 
 showed itself possessed of a sense of humour, for 
 it scored off Max in a way that amused me very 
 much, and which he had apparently not foreseen. 
 
 I was so annoyed with Max and so disgusted 
 with the sundew that I avoided going near the 
 odious little plant for the next few days, and for- 
 bore to ask any questions as to the fate of the 
 spider or the aphis. He, however, volunteered the 
 information the following day that the spider had 
 succumbed, but that the aphis had escaped and 
 entirely disappeared. He added that he was unable 
 to account for its disappearance, as he had taken the 
 precaution to cover the flower-pot with a bell-glass. 
 
 A day or two later I was in the greenhouse 
 snipping the seed-pods off an azalea. This is an 
 occupation I find extremely soothing and conducive 
 to meditation. The greenhouse was hot, and the 
 snipping of the scissors and the buzzing of a 
 bumble-bee who was fussing about were beginning 
 to make me feel quite drowsy, when I was aroused 
 
THE GREEN-FLY SCORES 125 
 
 by an exclamation from Max, whom I had not 
 heard enter. I turned round and saw that he 
 was examining the sundew. He had lifted the 
 bell-glass, and was contemplating the plant with 
 an expression of the greatest disgust. Though 
 I had vowed not to look at the sundew again, my 
 curiosity got the belter of me, and I could not resist 
 going up to see what was the matter. The escaped 
 aphis had not been idle. It had revenged itself by 
 simply covering the sundew with its loathsome 
 offspring. With the greatest care it had avoided 
 depositing any of them on the top of the leaf, 
 where they might be caught by the sticky tendrils ; 
 but up each stalk, and underneath the leaf, as high 
 as they dared go, the horrid little things were 
 sitting in crowds. I laughed so much at the sight 
 and at Max's discomfiture that I felt quite ill. 
 I told him his sundew was quite spoilt, and that 
 he had much better throw it away. But he scorned 
 my advice on the subject, and I left him fiercely 
 puffing smoke at them from his tobacco-pipe — 
 treatment by which he succeeded in exterminating 
 them. 
 
 Last night I came across a book which con- 
 tained a most amusing account of the habits of 
 the creature, and in which the observations of 
 M. Charles Bonnet, the naturalist, are quoted, and 
 
126 THE GREEN-FLY SCORES 
 
 which somewhat explained its curious behaviour. 
 M. Charles Bonnet caught an aphis and shut it 
 up quite by itself in a glass-case, taking the 
 greatest precautions to prevent any of its friends 
 having access to it. He then proceeded to watch 
 it every day from four o'clock in the morning till 
 nine o'clock at night almost continuously. He 
 observed that it changed its dress — its skin, I 
 mean — four times: once in the early morning (on 
 getting up, I suppose), once at two o'clock in the 
 day (for lunch ?), and twice at seven in the evening 
 (obviously for dinner). "On the ist of June," he 
 says, " at about seven o'clock in the evening, I saw, 
 with great satisfaction, that it had given birth to 
 another ; from that time I thought I ought to look 
 upon it as a female. From that day up to the 
 aoth inclusive, she produced ninety-five little ones, 
 all alive and doing well, the greatest number of 
 which were born under my own eyes ! " 
 
XVIII 
 
 CATS 
 
 On the whole my feelings towards cats are those 
 of indifference. I believe I could dispense with them 
 altogether and feel none the worse. But I have 
 met with three cats in the course of my life whose 
 demeanour and behaviour aroused a certain amount 
 of interest and evoked feelings that could not be 
 characterized as those of indifference. 
 
 For "Pumps," a little black cat that lived in a 
 house at which I occasionally visited, I had some- 
 thing akin to horror. Nothing could account for 
 the way that little cat used to behave but the 
 supposition that it was possessed by a fiend. 
 It delighted in playing practical jokes upon 
 inoffensive visitors — such as jumping on their 
 
 backs and pulling their hair down when they least 
 
 127 
 
128 CATS 
 
 expected it ; climbing up their legs while they sat 
 at meals, and pouncing at them in the dark from 
 behind doors and beneath sofas. But its most 
 odious habit was that of accompanying one to one's 
 room at night, for no other object apparently 
 than that of annoying an inoffensive visitor. 
 
 Its method was to creep stealthily beside one 
 along the passages and up the stairs, and every 
 now and then, as if yielding to an uncontrollable 
 frenzied impulse, to make a mad dash and scoot 
 wildly up the stairs, and crouch in an obscure 
 corner till one caught it up, when it would start 
 again. It then contrived to slip unobserved into 
 one's room, where it would hide in a dark corner 
 till a fitting opportunity occurred, when it would 
 dash suddenly from the corner, and pounce upon 
 one as if one were a mouse, causing the unsuspect- 
 ing visitor to scream loudly, which was apparently 
 what it wanted. 
 
 After this had occurred on one or two evenings, 
 one made it a habit to search the corners till one 
 came upon two shining coals and a vague outline 
 in a crouching attitude, which one promptly chased 
 out with the hearth-broom. 
 
 Its exit always excited my admiration. It would 
 gallop out like a spirited charger, with its tail erect 
 — giving a sort of importance and dignity to an 
 
CATS 129 
 
 incident that might otherwise have suggested 
 nothing but humihation. 
 
 I was never on anything but "distant" terms 
 with the yellow cat, and do not even know what 
 her name was ; but there were things about her — 
 her cold reserve, her decorous behaviour under all 
 circumstances, and the astounding independence 
 with which she lived her own life, and thought her 
 own thoughts, that excited my admiration — and I 
 always think of her with respect. 
 
 Before I made her acquaintance she used to live 
 in the stable, and was, I believe, the property of 
 the stable-boy. She must have had some sort of 
 fellow-feeling for him, for when he left she, as it 
 were, packed up and moved into the kitchen, and 
 a sort of bond of union grew up between her and 
 the cook. Its basis seemed to be an understanding 
 that they should let each other alone. They never 
 spoke to each other, as far as I could hear. They 
 just lived together in the kitchen, and respected 
 each other's independence. But one felt that they 
 thoroughly understood each other. It would have 
 been intolerable to that cat to have been asked 
 questions as to where she had been, or where she 
 was going, or what she was thinking about. The 
 cook felt this instinctively and acted accordingly. 
 And it would have been irritating to the cook if 
 
 K 
 
I30 CATS 
 
 the cat had walked about and got in her way, and 
 tripped her up when she was at her work. The cat 
 knew this, and avoided it. When I went into the 
 kitchen to order the dinner, I generally found her 
 rolled up asleep in a small wicker chair with a 
 cushion on it, that she had entirely appropriated to 
 her own use. Very occasionally, and only when 
 there was no cooking going on, I found her sitting 
 bolt upright on the hearth, gazing pensively at the 
 embers, and looking as if her mind was far away in 
 the regions of abstract thought and only her out- 
 ward form decorated the hearth. But whatever her 
 attitude, it was always one of dignified repose. 
 
 The peaceful current of her life was undisturbed 
 for two years. At the end of that time the cook 
 married and went away. On the day on which she 
 walked away in her wedding garment a new cook 
 walked in and took her place. The cat sat up and 
 gazed steadfastly at the new arrival for about a 
 minute, and then, having apparently satisfied herself 
 that she was not the sort of person she could stand, 
 got up and walked deliberately and firmly out of 
 the room. As far as I know she never set foot in 
 the kitchen again. The new cook informed me 
 that the day after she arrived she had met her in 
 the garden. " She walked alongside of me quite 
 friendly-like," she said, "till I stooped down to 
 
CATS 131 
 
 Stroke her, when she suddenly went for me, and 
 clawed hold of my legs so vicious-like that she almost 
 fetched blood, and then bolted away into the bushes 
 with her tail up, and I never see her again." 
 
 After that she disappeared entirely for three 
 weeks. Then one morning when we were sitting 
 at breakfast she appeared at the dining-room 
 window, and made a face that looked like a 
 " meeow." We let her in at once. She looked 
 wretchedly thin and miserable, and had scratches 
 on her face as if she had been in the wars, and also 
 she had completely lost her voice, for though ev.ery 
 time we caught her eye she looked as if she wanted 
 to say something, all she did was to open her 
 mouth and make a noiseless face at us. 
 
 We provided her with a saucer of milk and some 
 fish at once. She devoured them eagerly, and then 
 walked round the table shooting her head and back 
 up at any hand that showed a tendency to pat her, 
 purring hoarsely, and every now and then gazing 
 at us and making the same noiseless remark she 
 had made at first, and showing signs of gratitude 
 and feeling that I had not deemed her capable of. 
 I gathered that what she was trying to say was 
 something to this effect : — " I have had a horrible 
 time, and can stand it no longer. You must let 
 me stay here." So I told her she might as long 
 
132 CATS 
 
 as she behaved herself. She gave a responsive 
 purr when I said this, and jumped lightly up on 
 to a corner of the sofa, where, after sitting lost in 
 deep thought and gazing at vacancy for a few 
 minutes, she curled herself up and went to sleep. 
 
 The next six months of her existence were passed 
 principally on the corner of the sofa, where she was 
 unmolested, and where I had ample opportunity of 
 observing her ways. Her daily routine never varied. 
 She fed — she performed her toilet — she slept. 
 
 The performance of her toilet had a fascination 
 for me. She did it with such scrupulousness, 
 attending to every part of her person in turn. 
 First, sitting up, she would wash her head and face 
 all over with her hand. Then stretching herself 
 full length on the sofa she would lick herself from 
 her neck down, back and front, ending up with her 
 legs. Not a square inch was neglected, but it 
 always seemed to me she bestowed an undue share 
 of attention on her right leg, which she would 
 hoist over her shoulder and groom with an energy 
 that appeared to me a little overdone — but perhaps 
 my observations were at fault. 
 
 As I said, she spent a peaceful six months on 
 the sofa, and seemed quite happy. Then the 
 even tenor of her life was again disturbed. It is 
 my almost invariable habit to go into the kitchen 
 
CATS 133 
 
 every morning when I order the dinner. But, 
 being more than usually busy on one occasion, I 
 sent for the cook to attend on me in the dining- 
 room. As she stood before me discussing joints 
 and vegetables, I noticed that the cat had awakened, 
 and was sitting bolt upright, gazing at her with an 
 expression of mingled horror and surprise. " Good 
 Lord ! " she seemed to say, " that woman again ! I 
 hoped she was dead." So marked was it, that the 
 cook noticed it; for after returning the gaze for 
 a minute she said, " I can't abide that cat, m'm. 
 Nasty vicious thing! She'd go for me again, if 
 I gave her the chance." The animal gave a 
 start, as if she understood the purport of the 
 words, bristled slightly, and then, as if to say, 
 " No ; I really can't stand this ! " jumped off the 
 sofa, walked stiffly out of the window on to the 
 lawn, and disappeared round the corner of the 
 house. 
 
 From that day to this she has not shown her 
 face. I have given orders that when she next calls 
 she shall be encouraged with milk and fish, and 
 treated kindly ; but it is months now since she 
 went off, and I begin to think she has gone for 
 good. 
 
 She wanted but little here below, that cat — 
 one chair or the corner of a sofa, and to be 
 
134 CATS 
 
 let alone and not have the companionship of 
 those she loathed forced upon her. It seems 
 hard that that little was denied her. But such 
 is life ! 
 
 I believe I was really fond of "Tabitha" — the 
 cat who came to us a few months after the yellow 
 cat had disappeared, and who, from the interest 
 she took in the garden, I always allude to as " the 
 gardening cat." She was a very ordinary-looking 
 cat of a grey-brown colour, with white chest and 
 paws, and a thin, insignificant tail. Before she 
 came to us her world had consisted of a kitchen, 
 and the roofs, chimney-pots, brick walls, and paved 
 yards of a dull London street. She had spent 
 most of her time dozing over the kitchen fire. 
 Occasionally she roused herself to catch a mouse, 
 but I am told gave no sign of possessing a 
 soul. 
 
 The moment that she stepped out of the cat- 
 basket in which she had travelled from London, 
 on to the lawn, was an epoch in her career. She 
 gazed about her bewildered and blinking for a few 
 minutes, looked at the trees, then up at the sky, 
 and seemed to experience a sort of thrill at the 
 sound of the birds singing. Then she took a step 
 foi'ward and smelt the grass rather cautiously to 
 see what it could be — gave another look all round, 
 
CATS 135 
 
 and sat herself down with, as it were, a sigh of 
 ineffable content. 
 
 After sitting for some moments, with her head 
 slightly raised, drinking in draughts of entrancing 
 sights, smells, and sounds, she got up and looked 
 about her again. Not far from the place where 
 she had emerged on to the lawn was a fir-tree, 
 beneath which was a patch of violets in full bloom. 
 She walked off towards this and proceeded to smell 
 the violets. After a sniff or two she paused and 
 appeared to consider the scent, as an old gentle- 
 man considers the flavour of port wine. She 
 seemed to find it good, for after inhaling a little 
 more she sat herself slowly down among the 
 leaves, and contemplated them for some moments 
 as if lost in wonder as to what they could possibly 
 be. Then she roused herself, looked round again, 
 and caught sight of a bed full of wallflowers, 
 tulips, and hyacinths. She ran across to it, and 
 began to investigate them. There seemed to be 
 something particularly intoxicating about the scent 
 of a plant of deep red wallflower, for after smelling 
 it she arched her back, and attempted to rub her- 
 self against the plant, and then lay down on the 
 ground and rolled as if slightly intoxicated. Then 
 she sat up, and, as if trying to pull herself together, 
 began to clean her face with her paw very energetic- 
 
136 CATS 
 
 ally. She paused, however, with her paw half-way 
 to her face, and looked out at the lawn again. 
 Then her feelings got the better of her sense of 
 decorum (there had been an obvious struggle going 
 on between them), and with tail erect she galloped 
 out on to the lawn, scooted wildly round the 
 grass, and finally dashed up the fir-tree, where 
 she had a sudden reaction, and, seating herself 
 down on a branch in a dignified and decorous 
 manner, became once more a cat of irreproachable 
 bearing. 
 
 She sat there for some time and reflected, and 
 then came down again, looking rather subdued, 
 and stepping very cautiously along the trunk of 
 the tree. She then proceeded on a voyage of 
 discovery round the garden. I did not follow 
 her, but I saw her when she came back, and she 
 seemed to me a different cat. There was a light 
 in her eye and a buoyancy in her step as if she 
 had been drinking champagne. 
 
 From that day forth she behaved in every way 
 like a cat consumed with a passion for Nature. 
 She spent all her time in the garden, and was 
 always to be found sitting among the flowers, 
 perched on a rockery, up a tree, or walking 
 about the paths or on the lawn. The songs 
 of birds seemed to give her a strange pleasure. 
 

CATS 137 
 
 She would sit for hours listening to them, 
 gazing up at the trees and blinking, and as far 
 as 1 could see she made no attempt to catch 
 them. 
 
 I frequently observed her smelling the daisies 
 on the lawn. When she had satisfied her nostrils, 
 she invariably sat herself down in orthodox cat- 
 fashion, her two front paws planted close together, 
 and gazed at them. "What extraordinary things 
 daisies are, if you come to think of it ! " her 
 attitude seemed to express. On one occasion I 
 came across her sitting in this upright attitude on 
 one of the paths, gazing intently at something on 
 the ground. After gazing for a minute or two she 
 put out a paw and gave the " something " a pat, 
 and then gazed again. I went up to see what it 
 was, and found she was observing the ways of a 
 large garden beetle. She got up when she saw me 
 and walked backwards and forwards with her tail 
 up, purring loudly, evidently wishing me to take 
 notice of her interesting discovery. When I walked 
 on, she seated herself again in her neat, formal 
 attitude, and continued her observations. A quarter 
 of an hour later I passed the place again. She had 
 gone, and the beetle was walking off in a rather 
 ungainly manner towards one of the flower-beds, 
 where he disappeared beneath a large leaf. I was 
 
138 CATS 
 
 glad to see that Tabitha's thirst for knowledge had 
 not led her to vivisect him. 
 
 She took the greatest interest in my gardening 
 operations, and always accompanied me when 1 
 went to sow seeds. She would run to meet me, 
 " mewing," as soon as I appeared with my basket, 
 and follow me round the garden, sitting on the 
 path beside me as I sowed the seeds, watching my 
 every movement, and looking as if she was longing 
 to do it herself. 
 
 As Tabitha's soul enlarged and her love of nature 
 increased, her bodily frame seemed to diminish. 
 She grew thinner and more ethereal-looking every 
 day. One felt tempted to believe that, like the 
 famous Eva Fliegen who lived on the scent of 
 flowers for seventeen years, she imagined she could 
 subsist on the odour of a wallflower or a violet. She 
 became extremely fastidious about her food, refused 
 milk altogether, and would drink nothing but pure 
 water from an enamelled bowl, and she showed at 
 times a strange repugnance to meat. She even tried 
 to overcome her carnal appetite for fish. While we 
 were having our meals she usually sat on a corner 
 of the sideboard. For soup she had the greatest 
 contempt, and showed no sign of even being alive 
 when it was in the room. But when the fish came 
 in, she always awoke, and jumping lightly down 
 
CATS 139 
 
 from her perch, would seat herself on the ground and 
 gaze upwards at the table. If one took no notice 
 of her she would stretch up a paw, and touch one 
 gently on the arm. When a piece of fish was 
 offered to her she would first smell it all over, and 
 then turn her head away with a face of disgust as 
 much as to say, " No, I really cannot." Then she 
 would be irresistibly compelled to turn towards it 
 again. When she got as far as this, she was 
 usually a lost cat, and would take the morsel and 
 devour it. And having once yielded to her impulse 
 she would greedily clamour for more. But I have 
 known, her resist her appetite from the first, and 
 after investigating the proffered morsel, with a face 
 that implied it was as much as she could do to look 
 at it, turn and walk away, and jumping up on to 
 her accustomed place, gaze at us with eyes that 
 said plainly, ".How can you be so gross ? " 
 
 I came to look upon Tabitha as a saint among 
 cats, and had she died at a certain period of her 
 career, should doubtless have thought of her ever 
 after as surrounded with a sort of halo of glory. 
 
 The birds were beginning to build when she first 
 came to us, and I often thought how nice it was to 
 have a cat who took an intelligent interest in them, 
 and who had no ferocious instincts which might 
 lead her to slaughter them. 
 
I40 , CATS 
 
 A thrush had built in a tree not far from my 
 window, from which I could see it sitting and 
 hatching its eggs. I used often to watch it, and 
 think how pretty and soft and quiet it looked. 
 One day I was startled by a sudden shrieking and 
 commotion among the birds. All the sparrows 
 that were building in the ivy seemed to be circling 
 round something, and chirping with rage and ex- 
 citement. Instinctively I looked out of the window 
 at the thrush's nest. It had gone ! I looked down 
 at the ground and caught sight of a cat with some- 
 thing in her mouth. I flew down the stairs, with 
 my heart in my throat, and out into the garden, 
 and found myself face to face with Tabitha. She 
 had the thrush in her mouth ; her eyes blazed, and 
 she looked like the fiend incarnate. I made a dash 
 at her, but she evaded me, and disappeared like 
 lightning into the shrubbery. 
 
 I wept tears of rage and sorrow for the thrush, 
 and of disappointment in Tabitha. From that day 
 I witnessed the gradual triumphing of her lower 
 nature and the dwindling of her soul. Instead 
 of spending her time admiring the flowers, and 
 helping me to garden, I was continually coming 
 upon her crouching behind bushes, with an unholy 
 gleam in her eye, watching the birds at play. At 
 the end of a week I could bear it no longer. I 
 
CATS 141 
 
 put her in the cat-basket, and sent her back to 
 London. 
 
 I sometimes wonder whether she looks back 
 upon her sojourn in the garden as an entrancing 
 dream. I also wonder whether her apparent love 
 of nature may not have been an elaborate piece 
 of acting, specially designed to put me off the 
 scent. 
 
XIX 
 
 WEEDING 
 
 The daffodils are over. Nothing is to be seen, 
 where a short time ago there were streaks and 
 patches of gold, but the leaves ; and these, instead 
 of standing upright and stiff, lie limp on the 
 ground in untidy clymps. Here and there a late 
 narcissus is to be seen, and is to be congratulated 
 on being behind its time ; for those that were 
 earlier were torn to pieces and beaten to the ground 
 by the gales that swept over the garden a fortnight 
 ago. The wallflowers, too, which have been more 
 brilliant than usual this year, are beginning to fade, 
 and it is difRcult to find any without withered 
 blossoms clinging to their stems. Even the tulips 
 and hyacinths are past their first beauty, and show 
 a tendency to lean heavily against their supports, 
 
 or lie prone altogether if they have no support to 
 
 142 
 
WEEDING 143 
 
 lean against. In fact, the spring flowers' season is 
 coming to an end, and there seems to be a sort of 
 pause in the garden — a dead season with nothing 
 particular going on, while we are waiting for the 
 summer flowers to appear. 
 
 For the first time it seems to me that things 
 grow slowly. Perennials are a little late with us, 
 and as I walk about the flower-beds, measuring 
 their height with my eye, and looking for buds, I 
 feel that a gap in the sequence of gay colour is 
 inevitable, when the flowers that are lingering with 
 us now have disappeared, and those that blossom 
 in summer have not yet arrived. Delphiniums, 
 phloxes, peonies, and columbines are already sturdy 
 little bushes, and numbers of other things that I 
 am less familiar with form green tufts about the 
 beds. But they look as if months must elapse 
 before they can develop into tall flowering plants. 
 
 Some weeks ago the roses were all pruned 
 ruthlessly to the ground. It was said by an 
 authority on the subject that the most important 
 shoots were still underground, and that this treat- 
 ment would encourage them to emerge. It seemed 
 to me, at the time, a barbarous thing to do, for 
 they were fairly well-grown little trees; and I felt 
 inchned to be indignant when I went to look at 
 them the day after the pruning, and saw nothing 
 
144 WEEDING 
 
 but the poor little clipped stalks peeping out of the 
 earth. The means, however, appear to be justified 
 by the end, for the shoots beneath the earth have 
 been pushing up rapidly, and already the bushes 
 are nearly a foot high. As for my seeds: some 
 of them — such as sweet-peas, nasturtiums, and 
 mignonette — are above ground. But they are still 
 so small that it is difficult to distinguish them from 
 the weeds that are hurrying up around them. 
 
 In fact, the only things that grow apace at this 
 time of year are the weeds, and they are certainly 
 making the most of their opportunities. This 
 pause between spring and summer in the garden 
 may almost be considered the weeds' season. 
 Every year about this time they make a desperate 
 effort to regain possession of the soil from which 
 they have been evicted — an effort which ends every 
 year in their ruthless massacre and destruction. 
 
 One cannot help feeling sorry for them ; for, 
 before we took to making gardens and filling them 
 with foreign plants, the weeds were in possession, 
 and had it all their own way. And one cannot 
 help wondering at the persistent way in which they 
 appear again year after year, only to be mown down 
 and cast into the fire. Not a square inch in the 
 garden at this present moment but has its seedling 
 weed, which, if you look aside for a while and give 
 
WEEDING 145 
 
 it a chance, will grow in an incredibly short time to 
 a plant trailing hundreds of dependent seedlings in 
 its wake. If we did not wage war against them 
 with might and main, our flowers would have a 
 very poor chance. In fact, let them alone at this 
 time of year, and in a couple of months they will 
 have converted the neatest of gardens into a chaotic 
 wilderness. 
 
 During the past week I have spent many hours 
 weeding, and though I have cast basketfuls of 
 weeds on to the gravel path I have made no 
 perceptible difference in their numbers. There 
 seem to be innumerable little weeds ready to pop 
 up and take the place of the older ones as soon as 
 they are rooted out. 
 
 On days when the sun is bright but not too hot, 
 and the air is fresh but not windy, I find weeding 
 a pleasant occupation, and can spend hours over 
 it without finding it irksome. There is a curious 
 fascination about picking things. If the sky is 
 fair, I wish for no pleasanter occupation than to 
 pick flowers or fruit. And weeding partakes of the 
 nature of picking, in that it can be done mechanic- 
 ally, leaving one's mind free to wander where it will 
 — to plot, plan, cogitate, and reflect. The chief 
 drawback to it, and what prevents its being an ideal 
 occupation, is that the weeds grow on the ground. 
 
146 WEEDING 
 
 This necessitates stooping, and stooping is un- 
 comfortable. In fact, as with reading in bed, so 
 with weeding, it is almost impossible to find a 
 position that is comfortable for more than ten 
 minutes at a time. I find kneeling the least 
 fatiguing attitude. One can lean over the flower- 
 bed, and, resting on one hand, pull up the weeds 
 with the other. One can vary the position by 
 kneeling first on one knee, then on the other, 
 and then on both together. 
 
 All one needs in the way of equipment is a 
 pair of gloves — not the ordinary leather gardening 
 gloves, but an old pair of kid gloves which are thin 
 enough to enable one to feel what one is about and 
 manipulate the tiny weeds — and a fork to dig up 
 refractory things that have long roots, and will not 
 yield to gentle persuasion. 
 
 Weeds of the chickweed and shepherd's purse 
 description have a very slight hold on the soil, and 
 are delightfully easy to pull up ; but thistles and the 
 like send great roots right down into the earth, and 
 resist stubbornly any attempt to evict them. A 
 tussle with a strong thistle is often quite exhausting. 
 I once had a desperate fight with a thing called black 
 bryony which lasted half-an-hour, and left me pros- 
 trate and exhausted. It was a harmless-looking 
 little weed when I attacked it, having only just 
 
WEEDING 147 
 
 come up ; but I was told that if left to itself it 
 would send out great creeping stems that would 
 cover the whole garden, and even climb the trees. 
 So, though it was a pretty soft grey-green thing, I 
 thought I had better pull it up. I gave it a little 
 pull, but found that its hold on the ground was 
 firm, like that of a thistle. So 1 took the fork, 
 and running it in beneath the leaves tried to draw 
 the root gently up. I was surprised to find that 
 it did not move. I attacked it from every side, 
 bringing my whole strength to act as leverage ; and 
 still it did not move an inch. I began to feel hot 
 and cross, and repeated the attack with redoubled 
 energy. It still sat calm and unmoved. Then I 
 began digging round it with a fork, and taking up 
 handfuls of earth and throwing them out on to the 
 bed. I found it had a great thick forked root like 
 a colossal parsnip that, as far as I could see, went 
 right down into the bowels of the earth. 
 
 Had I been sensible I should have left it at this 
 point. But my temper was roused. I felt I must 
 conquer or die in the attempt, and I continued to 
 dig like a sort of fury. When I had gone what 
 seemed to me several miles into the earth, and 
 found that the root instead of beginning to taper 
 was growing thicker, I began prodding at it with 
 the fork, feeling desperately that I must do some- 
 
148 WEEDING 
 
 thing to it. After prodding viciously for some 
 minutes it occurred to me that I might cut it 
 through, so I started prodding it all round, sending 
 the fork in up to the hilt. Then taking hold of 
 the top I pulled with all my might. There was a 
 crack, and I found myself landed on my back in 
 the gravel walk, with the top half of the root in 
 my arms. I got up panting and smoothed my 
 ruffled hair. I saw Max coming towards me. 
 " Look ! " I cried, holding up .the bit of root 
 triumphantly. " It's no use," he said, " unless you 
 get up the whole root. If you leave a scrap in the 
 ground it will grow again before you know where 
 you are." 
 
 Though I have not much sympathy with weeds 
 in general, and tear them up ruthlessly, there are 
 some that I cannot bring myself to wage war 
 against. The leaves of the little celandine, even 
 when the golden cups have disappeared, make a 
 beautiful dark green carpet beneath the trees, and 
 are far too ornamental to be destroyed. And 
 woodruff' brings a breath of meadow air into the 
 garden, which one could not bear to chase away. 
 I am even somewhat loth to destroy chickweed ; 
 for it is a pretty thing if allowed to grow thickly 
 together. There is a fir-tree in the corner of the 
 garden growing in the midst of a circular bed, 
 
WEEDING 149 
 
 which, happening to be empty in the early spring, 
 chickweed took possession of and filled so com- 
 pletely that nothing else could find a spot. The 
 pale green made such a pretty mat for the dark 
 fir-tree to rest upon that we let it alone till it had 
 grown to form a soft pale-green feathery cushion, 
 that was one of the most ornamental things in the 
 garden. Only yesterday it was rooted out to make 
 room for violets, which are now being separated 
 and planted out. 
 
XX 
 
 THE SPUDDING MANIA 
 
 It was after I had spent a week walking about 
 the garden on my hands and knees pulHng up 
 weeds that I was seized with a " spudding " mania. 
 I was in rather low spirits about the plants at the 
 time, and much oppressed by the thought that the 
 weeds were absorbing all the life of the garden, for 
 they were growing with such furious vitality that 
 everything else seemed paralyzed — feeling no doubt 
 that it was useless to compete with such exuberance. 
 
 My eyes, from being continually bent on the 
 ground looking for weeds, had assumed a downward 
 droop. The condition of the lawn was not a thing 
 that interested me till, when walking across it, I all 
 at once became aware that it was, like the flower- 
 beds, full of weeds. All sorts of things that had 
 no business to be there were growing luxuriantly. 
 
 ISO 
 
THE SPUDDING MANIA 151 
 
 Tufts of dandelions, mats of daisies, and " pancakes " 
 of plantains were dotted about so thickly, and 
 spreading so rapidly, that there was hardly any 
 room for grass, and hundreds of yellow dandelions, 
 white daisies, and grey " cocks and hens " that had 
 escaped the machine were holding up their heads 
 with effrontery, as if they imagined the lawn was 
 nothing but a field. 
 
 I sighed a despairing sigh. If they were not 
 uprooted at once they would spread all over the 
 garden, and turn it into a wilderness again before 
 we knew where we were ; and stooping down I tried 
 to dislodge a plantain. But it was too firmly 
 embedded in the grass, and I only succeeded in 
 breaking off its head, leaving a strong root ready to 
 start again. I resolved to buy a spud and employ 
 my spare minutes in "spudding." 
 
 The ironmonger showed me a variety of instru- 
 ments warranted to dislodge the most obstinate 
 thistle. There were some with mechanical devices. 
 You pressed something and something occurred, 
 I did not clearly gather what. Others had a 
 metal cylinder at the end which cut out the 
 root of the weed. These made deep holes in the 
 ground, which you were to fill up by putting 
 in the root upside down. It was assumed that it 
 would not know how to grow again upside down. 
 
152 THE SPUDDING MANIA 
 
 an assumption which my dealings with weeds 
 during the past week led me to look upon as 
 somewhat rash. I finally walked off with an 
 ordinary two-pronged fork, which had a piece of 
 iron at the back, for a lever and a long handle, so 
 that I could spud without stooping. 
 
 I had intended to employ only my odd moments 
 in spudding, but I found that there was a curious 
 fascination about it, and that my footsteps were 
 continually wending towards the lawn. I kept the 
 spud just inside the front door, and whenever I 
 went out I mechanically took it with me, and went 
 straight to the lawn and began to uproot the 
 objectionable plants. If I forgot it, and happened 
 to walk across the lawn and saw a plantain or a 
 thistle, I could not resist going back for it. I 
 made a plan to attack the plantains first, and, when 
 I had entirely annihilated them, to go on to the 
 thistles, and then do the daisies. But I gave this 
 up after a day or two, and took to doing each in 
 turn — plantains first, then thistles, then daisies, and 
 then odd plants whose names I did not know. 
 After a time I was not satisfied unless I had had a 
 turn at-each kind every day. 
 
 Then I took to collecting the uprooted plants in 
 heaps, and counting them, and seeing how many 
 I could get up in a minute. This greatly added to 
 
THE SPUDDING MANIA 153 
 
 the fascinations of the pursuit. I used to say to 
 myself when I was starting to go for a walk, " I will 
 just do twenty plantains before I go ; " and when I 
 came back, " I will just do a dozen daisies before I 
 go in." 
 
 Soon I began to get up early to see if I could do 
 a hundred before breakfast. But even this did not 
 satisfy me. The impulse to spud would come 
 upon me at all sorts of inconvenient moments — 
 when I was engaged in writing a letter, or even in 
 entertaining a visitor — and would worry me so per- 
 sistently that frequently, in order to get rid of it, 
 I was obliged to stop what I was doing, and go 
 out and do a hundred thistles. 
 
 I was in the midst of ordering the dinner one 
 day, and was surveying viands in the larder, and 
 conversing with the cook. We had got as far as 
 puddings when my attention began to wander. It 
 wandered out to the corner of the hall where my 
 spud stood, and then out on to the lawn where the 
 thistles and daisies were basking in the sun. I tried 
 to get it back to puddings. I even kept up a 
 rambling, incoherent conversation about puddings. 
 " Let me see : we had a gooseberry tart yesterday. 
 
 Suppose we suppose we " But it was no 
 
 good. My mind was beyond my control, spudding 
 on the lawn, and I had to follow it. I told the cook 
 
154 THE SPUDDING MANIA 
 
 I would think about puddings and let her know, and 
 I left her looking rather surprised, and went off and 
 began digging up daisies. 
 
 As I dug I suddenly realized with a sort of shock 
 that I was becoming a monomaniac. When I 
 considered my behaviour during the past week, it 
 seemed to me that my time had been almost 
 entirely taken up with spudding. I had thought of 
 nothing but plantains, thistles, and daisies all day 
 long. My one idea had been to see how many I 
 could uproot in a day. I was perpetually counting 
 them up in my head, and making plans for the 
 division of the lawn into sections that should be 
 attacked in turn. Even my dreams consisted of 
 thistles and daisy roots arranged in geometrical 
 patterns. "If you give way to this," I said to 
 myself solemnly, " you will become a lunatic. You 
 must put a stop to it at once." 
 
 At first I tried mere resistance. I walked about 
 on the lawn and looked at the disfiguring patches, 
 and resisted to the utmost the impulse to dig them 
 up. Occasionally I was victorious, but, as a rule, it 
 ended in my saying, " I will just do this o?ze." 
 When I had once yielded, it was all up with me. I 
 at once fell to, and did a hundred. After a day or 
 two of perpetual struggles, which were beginning to 
 wear me out, it occurred to me that I had better 
 
THE SPUDDING MANIA 155 
 
 treat myself homceopathically. I would deal with 
 myself in the matter of spudding as confectioners 
 are said to deal with new assistants in the matter of 
 eating tarts — force myself to do nothing but dig up 
 weeds till I gave it up for ever from pure weariness 
 and satiety. I got up at seven the next morning, 
 and spudded for an hour before breakfast. Imme- 
 diately after breakfast I went out and began again. 
 By ten o'clock, to my joy, I felt that satiety was 
 setting in, but I spudded on. By eleven I ardently 
 desired to stop, but I spudded on. By twelve I 
 wished that I might never see another plaintain, but 
 I spudded on. By one I sank prostrate on the 
 lawn, physically exhausted, and absolutely sick 
 of spudding. Homoeopathy triumphed. I have 
 never had the slightest impulse to spud since. 
 
XXI 
 
 ' SUMMER IS Y-COMEN IN 
 
 For a whole fortnight my eyes have been bent 
 towards earth. I have been so much absorbed with 
 the wreeds that it has not even occurred to me to 
 look up and see what was going on overhead. 
 When I did so 1 looked up at a different worid. 
 The trees have been gradually and silently putting 
 out their leaves and spreading, as it were, a new 
 canopy over the garden. Whereas a short time 
 ago one saw nothing but bare stems against a grey 
 sky, now one looks up into fresh green leaves, 
 through which one catches glimpses of blue. The 
 chestnuts, of which there are a good many in the 
 garden, are almost in full leaf, and make quite a 
 thick shade over some of the walks. The sunlight 
 filtering through the transparent young green gives 
 one a feeling of midsummer. They are thick with 
 
 156 
 
'SUMMER IS Y-COMEN IN' 157 
 
 pyramids of pink and white buds, some of which 
 have already burst into blossom. The lilacs are not 
 only covered with leaves, but are being weighed 
 down to the ground with great branches of sweet- 
 smelling white and mauve, which stretch out and 
 invite one to smell them as one walks about the 
 shrubberies. Laburnums, syringas, and pink and 
 white thorn are green all over and thick with buds, 
 which look eager to be out and enjoy the sun. 
 
 The three patriarchs of the garden — a weeping 
 willow, a walnut, and a mulberry — do not show the 
 eager haste of the younger trees and shrubs, but are 
 putting out their leaves in a dignified manner. 
 The weeping willow has been least able to resist 
 the encouragement of the sun, and is already pour- 
 ing its feathery green down on to the lawn; the 
 walnut is covered with reddish-brown tufts of leaves 
 and catkins ; and even the twisted, knotty branches 
 of the aged mulberry, the most backward of all, 
 are bristling with little buds which are already 
 tinged with green. 
 
 Best of all, the nightingale has come. We 
 heard him for the first time ten days ago. He 
 was a little chary of his song at first, and shy 
 of coming near the house, and in order to hear 
 him we had to wrap up and go out into the 
 garden between eleven and twelve at night and 
 
158 'SUMMER IS Y-COMEN IN' 
 
 stand very still listening. But he is getting 
 bolder and bolder, and last night he piped and 
 jugged in a tree beneath my open window with 
 such a will that, when at last I went to sleep, I 
 dreamt I was writing indignant letters to the 
 newspapers insisting on the suppression of street 
 noises. For even the nightingale may become a 
 bore if he sings at the wrong time — when one is 
 trying to go to sleep, and his persistent pipe and 
 liquid "jug" is the only thing that disturbs the 
 silence of the night. 
 
 The first time that I heard a nightingale I was 
 very much disappointed. I had heard so much 
 about him that I expected something more 
 strangely wonderful — something, in fact, not like 
 the song of a bird at all. " That a nightingale ! " 
 I said. "Why it is not a bit better than a 
 thrush." But familiarity with the nightingale's 
 song does not breed contempt. It grows more 
 beautiful, and more unlike the song of any other 
 bird, the more one hears it. One has only to 
 listen to it in a garden with other birds to feel 
 what a thing apart it is. The twittering and piping 
 of thrushes, blackbirds, finches, and other birds 
 resolve themselves into a hardly noticeable back- 
 ground, against which the nightingale's song stands 
 out distinct and vivid as a shining river in a mist. 
 
'SUMMER IS Y-COMEN IN' 159 
 
 Beautiful as the sound is, it does not bring the 
 whifF of midsummer, that comes with the cuckoo — 
 the deUcious suggestions of summer sunshine, 
 shady trees and running water, green meadows 
 and haymaking that he always brings with him. 
 If it were not for these associations many of us 
 would, I fancy, vote the cuckoo a bore. For when 
 he once begins, he sings all day with a persistency 
 that has a tendency to get on one's nerves. He 
 insists, too, on being heard. It is almost as if he 
 knocked at the drum of one's ear ; for, do what 
 one will, one cannot avoid hearing his note above 
 all the drowsy hum of summer. 
 
XXII 
 
 THE KITCHEN-GARDEN 
 
 Hitherto I have taken very little interest in 
 the kitchen-garden. Beyond occasional glances 
 through the gap in the privet-hedge that separates 
 it from the flower-garden, and one tour of in- 
 spection which I made early in the year, I have 
 been hardly aware of its existence. An ideal 
 kitchen-garden should, I think, be old — old enough 
 to have seen centuries of vegetables run their 
 course. It should have an old grey-stone wall 
 running round it, covered with fruit trees ; borders 
 of old-fashioned flowers growing very much as 
 they please ; a hedge of lavender, another of sweet- 
 briar, and a corner filled with herbs with old- 
 fashioned names. 
 
 Ours is by no means the kitchen-garden of my 
 
 fancy. And the fact that it falls far short of my 
 
 1 60 
 
THE KITCHEN-GARDEN i6i 
 
 ideal may account for the small amount of interest 
 I have taken in it. It is surrounded by a privet- 
 hedge instead of a wall. Over the hedge one can 
 see into a field, now golden with buttercups, where 
 earlier in the year the starlings used to peck about. 
 A privet-hedge with a gap in it separates it from 
 the flower-garden. The last time I looked through 
 the gap, the general impression was of flat, empty 
 beds, box borders, and gravel paths. " But during 
 the last week the peas have been staked, and the 
 ground is criss-crossed with tall hedges of branching 
 sticks, which give it an appearance of everything 
 having suddenly grown up. There are thirteen 
 rows of peas of various heights — some with their 
 leaves only just unfurled, and others, the most 
 advanced, forming bushy green hedges, covered 
 with white buds, and pulling themselves up as fast 
 as they can by the sticks, and bending to look at 
 the world through the branches. 
 
 It seems that there is an art even in the staking 
 of peas. A day or two ago bundles of branching 
 sticks arrived in a cart, and soon after I saw my 
 two old friends the potato-planters standing in the 
 midst of them under a group of chestnuts in the 
 corner of the garden, busy slashing the end of 
 each one to a point with a bill-hook. They made 
 quite a pretty picture with the stack of cut wood — 
 
 M 
 
i62 THE KITCHEN-GARDEN 
 
 always a picturesque-looking thing — and the green 
 chestnuts, reminding one of forest woodcutters and 
 brush-makers, and I watched them for some time, 
 admiring the scene and their dexterity. 
 
 A hedge of branches was put on each side of 
 the row of peas — not straight upright, but the two 
 sides sloping in opposite directions. Each stick 
 was just about a foot apart, and the spaces between 
 were filled with smaller branches with a good many 
 twigs, so that the small pea-plants might have 
 something to catch hold of. When they were 
 all driven in, the tops of the branches, and any 
 untidy twigs that showed a tendency to straggle, 
 were trimmed off with the clippers, so that the 
 hedges present a neat and tidy appearance. 
 
 For the kitchen-garden is nothing if not neat. 
 Everything is made to grow symmetrically in rows 
 and rectangular patches. Between the hedges of 
 peas are rows of young spinach, looking very fresh 
 and green, and beyond, at the other end of the 
 garden, are numbers of rows of little green things 
 coming up as fast as they can — carrots, turnips, 
 lettuces, cauliflowers, celery, and a number of 
 other things too young to answer to their names. 
 All are models of neatness and order; and here, 
 at any rate, the weeds are not having it all their 
 own way. The little espalier fruit-trees that stand 
 
THE KITCHEN-GARDEN 163 
 
 with outstretched arms along each path, about a 
 yard inside the box-borders, have within the last 
 fortnight covered themselves with blossoms, and 
 are making pretty pink and white streaks every- 
 where, which add greatly to the appearance of this 
 part of the garden. The strawberry-plants, too, 
 especially "Stevens' Wonder," are covered with 
 clusters of white blossoms, and are unfolding green 
 shining leaves, and growing into big bushy tufts 
 that are rapidly covering up the brown soil. 
 
 At one end of the garden is a long strip running 
 the whole length of the privet-hedge, which I 
 foresee may develop into the herb-garden of my 
 ideal kitchen-garden. Running the whole length 
 in front, is a border of young parsley, just beginning 
 to form curly tufts. The rest of the bed is divided 
 into square patches, only tinged with green at 
 present, but labelled with such pretty old-world 
 names as "Basil," "Sweet Marjoram," "Thyme," 
 " Balm," " Rosemary," and " Hyssop " — not much 
 more than names to me, but full of suggestions of 
 sweet old-fashioned formal gardens, with terraces, 
 yew-trees cut into various shapes, peacocks, and 
 ladies looking like Dresden china figures. 
 
 But perhaps the thing that has drawn my foot- 
 steps most frequently to the kitchen-garden during 
 the last few days is a small prickly berberis, one 
 
i64 THE KITCHEN-GARDEN 
 
 of a row of flowering shrubs that have been planted 
 in front of the privet-hedge. This httle tree took 
 to straggling up in one long untidy stem, with the 
 object, apparently, of looking over the hedge into 
 the field, instead of making a neat ornamental bush. 
 So according to the approved method of dealing 
 with plants that have a tendency to gawkiness, the 
 main stem was cut straight off. Max, who per- 
 formed the operation, took up the discarded branch 
 and was examining it, when he noticed a sort of 
 swelling on the bark, which looked as if the tree 
 were suffering from some disease. He touched it 
 with his finger, and found that it was soft. He 
 gave it a little push, when it moved, and betrayed 
 itself as no disease of the bark, but a fine, fat 
 caterpillar, so exactly resembling the bark of the 
 branch it was resting on in colour and woody 
 appearance, as to be undistinguishable from it, 
 and lying in so limpet-like a fashion on the 
 branch, that it was impossible to say where the 
 caterpillar ended and the tree began — pretending, 
 in fact, in order to mislead the birds, that it was 
 part of the tree, and not something good to eat. 
 When we pushed it, it tried to lie quite still, 
 evidently thinking it was attacked by some bird, 
 and must keep up its character of being part of 
 the tree, if it wished to save its skin. It wanted 
 
THE KITCHEN-GARDEN 165 
 
 several prods to force it into betraying itself hope- 
 lessly by budging. Even then it only moved an 
 inch, and then settled, down carefully again as if it 
 hoped it might escape further observation. Curi- 
 osity and a certain amount of pity for it draw me 
 to gaze at it several times a day. What an exist- 
 ence ! To have to pretend all day long you are a 
 tree, when you are really a caterpillar ! It makes 
 one positively ache with fatigue to think of it. 
 
XXIII 
 
 NO RAIN ! 
 
 During the last fortnight sunshine and a cloud- 
 less blue sky have compelled us to lay aside our 
 winter garments, and don cottons and muslins : for 
 we have been having a little foretaste of midsummer. 
 They make one feel very lazy, the sunshine and 
 warmth, when they first arrive — very little inclined 
 to be up and doing. Instead of weeding and 
 watering, I have lounged lazily on the lawn, under 
 the shade of a huge Japanese umbrella, enjoying 
 the warm air, listening to the nightingales, and the 
 bumble-bees in the chestnuts, and feasting my eyes 
 on the laburnums, lilacs, and pink-and-white may 
 all now in full bloom. Running through the hum 
 of birds and insects, as I doze drowsily I can 
 hear the "jingle, jingle" of the little zinc barrel on 
 
 wheels, journeying about the garden, and the 
 
 i66 
 
NO RAW! 167 
 
 "swish" of the hose, and through the trees I 
 catch sight of the garden-boy going backwards and 
 forwards with cans of water; for we have had no 
 rain for a month, and the kitchen-garden has been 
 having a thorough watering. 
 
 William is a utilitarian at heart, and in his 
 opinion it is more important that we should have 
 fruit and vegetables to feast our appetites on, than 
 flowers to feast our eyes and noses on. Conse- 
 quently, the fruit and vegetables are his first 
 thought in this dry weather. What is the use, he 
 says to himself, of my having sown and staked all 
 these rows of peas if they are to bear no pods, or 
 of the master having bought all these strawberry- 
 plants and fruit-trees if they are to produce no 
 fruit ? So he has devoted all his energy for several 
 days past to emptying the tanks and wells of the 
 water they stored up during the rainy season, 
 wheeling it into the kitchen-garden, and " sousing " 
 the vegetables and fruit-trees. So thoroughly has 
 it been done that the kitchen-garden has the 
 " earthy " smell one notices after a shower of rain. 
 
 For occasionally the "jingling " and "swishing" 
 have roused me from my lethargy, and I have 
 wandered to the kitchen-garden and looked on at 
 the watering. It is very satisfactory to see how 
 the things enjoy it. The peas seem to shake them- 
 
1 68 NO RAIN! 
 
 selves with satisfaction as the water showers over 
 their leaves and sinks in about their roots. The 
 strawberry-plants drink it in like thirsty animals. 
 Each of these has had the whole of a moderate- 
 sized can to itself — poured into the very centre of 
 the plant, that it might run right down among the 
 roots. The young fruit-trees were treated with 
 even greater liberality ; each one had half a barrel 
 to itself. The hose was turned on and allowed to 
 play till they stood in a little pond of water. The 
 ground about them remained moist-for several days, 
 so thorough had been the soaking. 
 
 After looking at this water-feast in the kitchen- 
 garden, I walked through the gap to the flower- 
 garden, and wandered among the beds. Instead 
 of the nice brown, moist appearance the earth had 
 a month ago, it looked grey, dusty, and dry. The 
 plants, too, looked grey and dusty. Some of them 
 looked petrified, as if they had lost all power of 
 growth or movement, and would remain little stunted 
 dwarfs for the rest of their days. They seemed 
 even to have made up their minds to accept the 
 inevitable, and were putting out stunted, dwarf-like 
 blossoms — faded, melancholy-looking things, with 
 no richness or life about them. Others drooped 
 and lay heavily on the ground, too feeble to raise 
 themselves, much less to think of making a blossom. 
 
NO RAIN! 169 
 
 They seemed to implore me, as I passed, " If you 
 cannot turn on a shower of rain, do go and get a 
 watering-can and water us." 
 
 It would have been inhuman to resist such an 
 appeal. I went in search of my watering-can, I 
 tucked my petticoats up, and I set to work and 
 watered. I watered hard for the rest of the day. 
 And the next day, and the next day, I watered 
 again. In fact, it seems that only just having 
 recovered from the " spudding mania," I am in 
 great danger of being attacked by a watering mania. 
 I have journeyed backwards and forwards between the 
 pump in the stable-yard and the flower-beds, till my 
 back has ached, and my knees have begun to shake. 
 For one watering-can, especially if it is a small one, 
 goes a very little way. Occasionally I have varied 
 the proceedings by trying a larger can — one that 
 holds about three times as much as the small one. 
 But it is so heavy that one has to twist oneself into 
 a break-back attitude in order to carry it at all, and 
 even then it is impossible to avoid the water going 
 " slop, slop," over one's dress at every step. So 
 that after carrying it once, I have gone back with 
 relief to the little can, feeling that these incon- 
 veniences quite outweighed the disadvantage of 
 the extra journeys. 
 
 The gratitude of the plants, however, more than 
 
lyo NO RAIN! 
 
 rewards one for any inconvenience one may suffer 
 in watering them. They seem positively to beam 
 when they see me approaching with the can. I 
 can almost imagine I see them stretching their 
 necks and looking out for me, as the animals in 
 the Zoo watch for the keeper to come and feed 
 them. 
 
 The difEculty is to harden one's heart when 
 fatigue sets in, and refuse to water any more. 
 When I have made up my mind to stop, and am 
 carrying the empty can back to put it away, I 
 invariably pass some thirsty little plant gazing at 
 me beseechingly and begging for a little water, 
 and I find it almost impossible not to yield and 
 fill the can once more. If one did not sternly 
 resist such appeals there would be no reason that 
 one should ever stop watering. I have at last 
 to be absolutely obdurate — to walk resolutely away 
 thinking of other things, till I have deposited the 
 watering-can in the tool-house. 
 
 It is a satisfaction to find that there are some 
 plants that grow apace and flourish in this dry 
 weather. One plant especially seems thoroughly 
 to enjoy it, and to look brighter and greener the 
 more sun it absorbs. It is one of those great 
 Oriental poppies with floppy petals of a rich scarlet. 
 It has been covered with furry green buds, about 
 
NO RAIN! 171 
 
 the size of a pigeon's-egg, for some days. Yester- 
 day I saw that one of the buds had burst at the 
 side, and showed the inside tightly packed with 
 what looked like scarlet silk handkerchiefs — not 
 folded neatly, but stuffed in anyhow, and so 
 crumpled that one could not believe it possible 
 they would ever get rid of the creases. To-day 
 several buds have entirely opened and shaken out 
 an amazing quantity of scarlet silk petals, which 
 are glorying in the sun, absorbing the heat, and 
 quickly losing their creases. They are remarkable- 
 looking things, and make brilliant patches of colour 
 in the garden. 
 
 But these sun and drought-loving creatures are 
 in the minority. The garden for the most part 
 clamours for rain. It is true there have been one 
 or two slight attempts at rain during the last few 
 days, but they have not done more than slightly 
 wet the surface of the ground — underneath is as 
 dry and dusty as ever. A week ago we thought 
 we were in for a thunderstorm, with a waterspout 
 to follow. But we were disappointed. The sky 
 clouded over, and the air became heavy with a 
 suppressed storm. The clouds growled a little, 
 and spat a few daggers of lightning at us, and 
 some reluctant heavy drops fell; and then the 
 greyness suddenly moved away and the sun came 
 
172 NO -RAIN I 
 
 out again. A waterspout would have been better 
 than nothing. But what we really want is, as the 
 American minister put it when praying for rain, 
 " Not a violent storm, O Lord, that will wash away 
 the fences and haystacks, but a gentle drizzle- 
 drozzle, lasting about a fortnight." 
 
 I was amused the other day by seeing the device 
 of a friend for protecting from the sun during 
 this dry weather some little pansies that had just 
 been planted out. The bottoms were cut out of 
 a number of little paper-bags, such as a grocer 
 uses to put a pound of rice in, and one of these 
 paper cylinders was put over each plant. The 
 shade they afforded seemed to be much appreciated 
 by the newly- planted pansies. Whereas they had 
 been limp and fainting from the sun, they became 
 quite fresh and stiff again. They looked very 
 quaint inside their little bags as we looked down 
 upon them stretching themselves up, and, as it 
 were, trying to look over the top. 
 
XXIV 
 
 PLANTING OUT 
 
 I AM of a hopeful disposition. When I awoke 
 in the morning and heard the unmistakable sound 
 of rain showering on the leaves of the trees outside 
 my window, I thought it would go on for a week. 
 Max, who has what seems to me blind faith in that 
 mystery the barometer, shook his head gloomily, 
 and said it would not last. And, as occasionally 
 happens, the barometer was right. The shower 
 lasted only about an hour. But though it was 
 short, it was very refreshing. It put a new face, 
 as it were, on the garden. There was quite a 
 pleasant dampness about the shrubberies and 
 flower-beds after it. Some of the trees were 
 actually dripping, and in walking across the lawn I 
 got my shoes quite wet. It seemed, too, to stir 
 everything up. The plants that had been half- 
 
 173 
 
174 PLANTING OUT 
 
 asleep in the beds woke up and set about growing. 
 And William and the boy, who had been walking 
 about watering and weeding in a half-hearted way, 
 were suddenly roused to energy, and began planting 
 out seedlings in all the beds. 
 
 For some weeks the frames had been full of 
 young seedlings, waiting for rain, to be planted in 
 the open garden. They had been kept waiting so 
 long that some of them had almost grown up, and 
 the frames were beginning to be very much over- 
 crowded. They had had rather a dull time of it 
 in the frames, for they were most of them in low 
 seed-pans, and even by stretching themselves to the 
 utmost they could not see more than the sky. As 
 they were lifted out and put on the ground, and a 
 passing breeze caught their leaves and ruffled them, 
 one might almost have imagined they were thrilling 
 with excitement at their first view of the world. 
 
 The sweet-scented tobacco, stocks, and portulaca 
 seedlings interested me most. For besides being 
 old friends, I had watched these particular plants 
 from their infancy. Thei'e were, however, numbers 
 of other things with long names (mostly beginning 
 with P) that I did not know and took no special 
 interest in. 
 
 The sweet-scented tobacco I had sown myself, 
 and had watched every day from the first day the 
 
PLANTING OUT 175 
 
 seedlings appeared above ground. I had been 
 interested, too, in the sowing of the stocks. They 
 are flowers that I have always had a special liking 
 for. To bury my face in a bunch of stocks fills 
 me with indescribable sensations and memories 
 of pleasant, hot sunshine in some garden-world 
 long ago. I cannot definitely connect the sensa- 
 tions with anything in my past, and should like 
 to believe that they belong to some previous state 
 of existence when I was (perhaps) a ladybird living 
 on a stock in a cottage garden. Pleasant associ- 
 ations give me also a friendly feeling for portulaca. 
 It is a little plant with a marked character of its 
 own, which, like stocks, suggests hot sun. It 
 grows close to the ground, and is covered with 
 bright-coloured flowers. The seed had come up 
 well and flourished, so that there were hundreds 
 of healthy little plants in the frames ready to be 
 planted out. 
 
 Before the seedlings could be put into the flower- 
 beds, room had to be made. Early in the morning, 
 while the rain was still going on, all the poor old 
 wallflowers that had filled the beds for the past six 
 months were dug up and piled up one on top of 
 the other in a huge rubbish-heap in an out-of-the- 
 way corner of the garden. They had been looking 
 shabby for some time past, and the day before the 
 
176 PLANTING OUT 
 
 rain, when I walked round the garden and saw the 
 straggling, untidy bushes, with the long stalks 
 covered with seed-pods, and here and there a 
 withered petal, I thought it was high time they 
 were put out of sight. Still, I could not help 
 lamenting, as I watched them being pulled up, and 
 thrown in heaps on the grass beside the beds. 
 The garden looked bare and empty when they were 
 gone, and the little plants that were put in their 
 place looked absurdly small and insignificant. 
 
 Most of my favourites were put into a long, 
 deep bed that runs in front of the greenhouse, and 
 has plenty of sun. Tobacco-plants were put along 
 the wall in the back row. Then came a deep band 
 of stocks of all colours, and in frqnt one or two 
 rows of tiny Portulaca plants. It was quite pleasant 
 to see them taken out of the pans where they had 
 been so crowded together, and put into a large bed 
 where each one had plenty of room to grow and 
 stretch its leaves. The ground, .-was still moist 
 from the rain, so that it was easy to tuck them 
 in comfortably and fix them firmly, and William 
 performed the operation very skilfully, I thought. 
 In fact, after watching him for some time I felt 
 moved to imitate his industry, and, putting on my 
 gardening-apron, spent the rest of the day grubbing 
 about, weeding and transplanting mignonette. 
 
Planting out 177 
 
 I had sown a long border of mignonette early in 
 the year, and it had come up very unevenly. In 
 some places it was so thickly crowded together that 
 it had hardly room to grow, while in other parts 
 there were gaps where the earth was quite bare. I 
 went along the whole border, pulling up the little 
 plants where they were close together, so as to leave 
 each one that remained in the ground a square inch 
 or two to spread itself over — little enough for a 
 mignonette plant, which will, I believe, easily cover 
 a square foot. When I came to the end of the 
 border I had a basketful of the little pulled-up 
 plants. I could not bring myself to tlirow the 
 young things full of life on to the top of the cast- 
 off wallflowers, so I set to work and planted them 
 again. Some I put into the bare places in the 
 border, and the rest I planted in groups round 
 another bed near the house. They had tiny, hair- 
 like roots, which in sonie cases came up complete, 
 but a great many broke in the pulling-up, and I 
 afterwards found that all these broken ones drooped 
 and died after their transplanting. Those which 
 had kept the whole root survived and flourished, 
 and looked after a day or two just as well as those 
 which had never been moved. 
 
 It was on Saturday that the rain came, and 
 brought upon us this attack of energy, and caused 
 
X7B PLANTING OUT 
 
 all the commotion among the seedlings. On 
 Sunday morning when I awoke I listened again 
 for the cheerful sound of a refreshing rain on the 
 trees. But all was silent, and the sun pouring in 
 at my bedroom window assured me that the rain 
 had gone and sunshine was back again. And so it 
 was. The sun shone all day. The lawn was quite 
 dry by eleven o'clock, and by midday the earth had 
 lost its moist look, and had turned grey and dusty 
 again. Towards evening, as I was starting for 
 church, I paid the transplanted seedlings a visit. 
 We had left thein looking fresh and well the day 
 before. But the day's heat had been too much for 
 them. They were all drooping and looking faint 
 and ill. The large leaves of the tobacco-plants lay 
 flat and limp on the ground. The little stocks 
 were drooping sideways with all their stiffness gone, 
 and the poor little portulacas had fallen flat and 
 lay in the most dejected attitudes, looking past 
 recovery. Their first day in the world had been 
 too much for them. 
 
 The church bells were ringing, and I was obliged 
 to leave them, but I was haunted by the picture 
 of their drooping attitudes, and all through the 
 sermon I was carrying imaginary cans of water and 
 showering it over them. I hurried back, resolved 
 not to go to bed till I had watered them all. I 
 
PLANTING OUT 179 
 
 groped for my watering-can in the tool-house — for 
 it was nearly dark — made my way to the stable- 
 pump, filled it, and hastened to the flower-bed, and 
 began watering. In the darkness the plants looked 
 more nearly dead than they had ever done before. 
 I filled the can again and again, and, beginning 
 with the tobacco-plants in the background, and 
 taking care as I walked about in the dark not 
 to tread on the stocks, I watered each plant 
 thoroughly. The moon rose while I was journey- 
 ing backwards and forwards. It kept for the most 
 part behind clouds, but every now and then it came 
 out, and lighted up the greenhouse and the flower- 
 beds with a pale light. A nightingale sat in a tree 
 not far off, and "jugged " at intervals, and once I 
 watered a toad, and he hopped heavily away from 
 beneath the shower. Otherwise nothing disturbed 
 the silence, and I felt like a person in a dream. 
 The poor little portulacas were lying so flat on the 
 ground that I was afraid they would never be able 
 to get up again. So when I had emptied the last 
 canful I set to work and picked each one up out of 
 the mud, and propped him into an upright position 
 with little stones and bits of earth. The clock 
 struck twelve as I finished the last one. 
 
XXV • 
 
 BY THE RIVER-SIDE 
 
 If I could be a plant and choose my surround- 
 ings, I would be a yellow iris living on the banks 
 of a river. So I have thought since a day last 
 week that I spent lying in a boat, in among the 
 sedges, reeds, and irises, dabbling my hands in the 
 cool, clear water, and watching the birds dip in and 
 out along the bank. 
 
 For a month we had watched the green gradually 
 dying out of the grass in the garden, and the 
 young plants shrivelling away for want of moisture, 
 till a longing came upon one for running water, 
 and to see plants growing green and full of life on 
 the river-bank. 
 
 A train carried us through miles of fen country 
 
 ' — low-lying, flat plains of grass and crops, stretch-* 
 
 ing till they mingled in the distance with a misty 
 
 1 80 
 
BY THE RIVER-SIDE i8i 
 
 horizon. Here and there the flatness was cut by 
 long dykes of shining water, along whose banks 
 bricks of dark-coloured peat ran piled up in walls. 
 Now and then we passed a windmill standing black 
 against the sky, and sometimes groups of men and 
 women hoeing among the crops, or a pair of great 
 horses, with proudly arched necks, dragging a 
 harrow over the dark brown soil. It was refreshing 
 to find that the dryness that our little plot of earth 
 was suffering from had not spread over the whole 
 earth, and that there were miles and miles of 
 country like that through which we were passing 
 where things were moist and green. 
 
 The train took us to a little red-roofed town with 
 a river running through it. The country was still 
 flat and wide, but trees had begun to appear. Pine- 
 woods hid the horizon, and the little station stood 
 against a background of big green oaks. Beneath 
 the trees, in the midst of great stacks of cut wood, 
 was a sawmill at work. The ground was carpeted 
 with chips, sawdust, and shavings, and a sawing 
 sound issued from a' black shed near the engine. 
 The trees were big and tall, and thick with green 
 — the pale green of early summer — and made a 
 cool, shady canopy over the encampment. 
 
 We hired a boat that lay idle in the water near 
 the bank, and paddled lazily through the archway 
 
i82 BY THE RIVER-SIDE 
 
 of an old grey bridge, and up-stream to where the 
 river ran among fields. 
 
 It was a small river. But the water, unlike the 
 sluggish waters we had passed on our journey, was 
 deep and swiftly flowing, and so clear that one 
 could see right down to the bottom, lined with 
 green weeds and water-lily leaves, which had not 
 yet reached the surface. To plunge one's eyes 
 through clear running water into the cool green 
 shade of fern and moss-like things, gently stirred 
 with the current, felt like taking a dip with one's 
 whole being. I leaned over the side of the boat, 
 and gazed down till I could imagine myself a 
 water-nymph moving in and out among the 
 leaves, or one of the fish that now and then 
 darted, swift and dark, disturbed by the dipping of 
 the oars. 
 
 Here and there the weeds rose to the surface of 
 the water, and lay in thick masses, through which 
 it was difficult to cleave one's way ; or an early 
 water-lily leaf lay flat and shining in the sun. Near 
 the banks were carpets of the pretty little white 
 water-ranunculus — hundreds of white blossoms 
 standing upright from a matting of green, thick 
 enough for a bird to walk on. At one part we 
 passed an island of this crowfoot, with miniature 
 trees and shrubs growing on it. A water-wagtail 
 
BY THE RIVER-SIDE 183 
 
 had taken possession of it, and was wagging and 
 pecking about, so much monarch of all he sur- 
 veyed that he was not disturbed by the boat gliding 
 by — merely paused for a second to glance at us, 
 and then continued to peck and wag. 
 
 All along the banks, crowding close to the 
 water's edge as if to drink, and sometimes standing 
 right in the water, were plants growing with a 
 luxuriance that made me envious for my poor 
 dried-up garden. Rushes, sedges, and reeds of all 
 sorts stood out in the river, being swayed by the 
 running water ; great clumps of yellow irises, 
 covered with buds and here and there a flag already 
 out, made a fringe nearer the bank ; while the 
 banks themselves, and the ledges and peninsulas 
 that jutted into the river, were thick with water- 
 plantains, "codlings and cream," comfery, docks, 
 and many other less familiar river-side plants. Some 
 of the docks had grown to such a size that they 
 looked quite magnificent, the shade of the large 
 leaves forming attractive sheltering-places for water- 
 side animals. A water-rat ran out from behind one 
 as we glided past. We watched him swimming along 
 close to the bank, disappearing and appearing again 
 among the docks and irises, holding his head well 
 above the water and looking like a diminutive walrus. 
 
 The river-edge curved and formed a little bay 
 
i84 BV THE RIVER-SIDE 
 
 of clear, still water at one place. We pulled the 
 boat in close to the bank, dragging ourselves gently 
 by the rushes till it nestled comfortably in the 
 midst of sedges. A stump sticking up on the bank 
 served to tie the boat to. For though the water 
 looked still as in a pond, had we not been tied we 
 should have drifted slowly down stream with the 
 current. Near the bank, growing in the water all 
 around us, were hedges of irises and clumps of 
 docks. Looking in among them one could imagine 
 it a miniature jungle. I lay and indulged in dreams 
 such as one dreamed in childhood — that I was but 
 two inches high, the Thumbeline of Hans Andersen's 
 fascinating story, pushing my way in and out among 
 the irises. Pulling myself up, in fancy, by the stalk, 
 I reached one of the buds just unfolding, and buried 
 my face in the yellow flag. Then slipping down 
 again I found myself on a little ledge close to the 
 water's edge — a tiny peninsula nearly surrounded 
 by water, whereon grew one of the huge docks. Its 
 great palm-like leaves spread out and overhung the 
 water. From the ledge I slipped into the water 
 and swam a tiny stroke or two till I reached a water- 
 lily leaf. Here I lay, and looking over the edge 
 gazed into the depths at the wonderful bowers of 
 green. Then when, in imagination, I had gazed to 
 my heart's content, I swam back to the dock, where 
 
BY THE RIVER-SIDE 185 
 
 I found a white Persian cat, without a tail, browsing 
 on one of the leaves. 
 
 The sight recalled me from the world of dreams 
 to that of reality, and to a sense of iny size. The 
 Persian cat was a huge caterpillar, as long as my 
 middle finger, with red whiskers, a black nose, and 
 long white fur. He was devouring the dock -leaf 
 as if his life depended on it, which it probably did. 
 With two little hands in front, he held on to the 
 dock-leaf, and his small black nose went up and 
 down as his teeth cut into the green stuff, making 
 a rapidly widening hole. He had a business-like 
 methodical way with him, and evidently took his 
 meals on a system. The soft part of the leaf he ate 
 in semi-circles, till he came to a rib. He then ate 
 along the rib, being careful to crop it close and 
 leave no untidy edges. Then with sudden deter- 
 mination he attacked the rib, cut his way through 
 it, and proceeded with the next section. 
 
 " Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to 
 do." I picked a rush and tickled his nose with 
 the sharp point. He started back and stood for 
 a moment motionless with his head in the air 
 as if wondering what it could possibly be. Then, 
 as if he had made up his mind that it was only 
 imagination, he fell to and began eating again. I 
 took the rush and tickled him again. He started 
 
i86 BY THE RIVER-SIDE 
 
 more violently than before, and assumed an atti- 
 tude of surprise and indignation, which suggested 
 that if he could only discover his tormentor he 
 would certainly "go for" him. After a pause of 
 one or two seconds he fell to on the dock again. 
 
 I tickled him once more, and this time his dis- 
 cretion got the better of his valour. He turned 
 tail and scuttled down the stem of the dock-leaf at 
 such a rate that we laughed aloud. 
 
 Following him with our eyes we came upon a 
 smaller counterpart — a Persian kitten as it were — 
 seated on another dock-leaf and also engaged on a 
 meal. I tickled his nose with the rush, when he 
 promptly and hysterically tumbled off into the boat, 
 and disappeared beneath the boarding. 
 
 " He'll be drowned ! " I exclaimed in dismay. 
 " We must break the boat and get him out ! " and 
 I looked round wildly for some means of rescuing 
 him. He was equal to the emergency, however, for 
 in another second his black head appeared from 
 beneath the board, and walking at a great rate he 
 was half-way up the side of the boat before I had 
 recovered from the shock. I held a leaf beneath 
 him, pushed him on to it, and transferred him from 
 the boat to his dock island and his mother — who 
 quite oblivious of his peril was hiding in a corner, 
 still wondering what had pricked her nose. 
 
BY THE RIVERSIDE 187 
 
 We thought we had presumed enough on our 
 advantage, so we left them to pursue their pleasant 
 lives unmolested, and untying the rope that bound 
 us to the shore, slid out, and down the stream 
 home. 
 
 As I walked about my poor thirsty garden in 
 the evening, and saw how dry and dusty the plants 
 looked after a long day's baking, I longed for a river 
 or even a little stream running through their midst. 
 I went to look at the irises which I had collected into 
 one bed in a corner of the garden. The leaves 
 looked dwarfed and grey after those on the river- 
 bank, and the tips drooped a little. If I could only 
 dig them all up and take them down to the river 
 for a fortnight's holiday with the docks and their 
 cousins the yellow flags ! How they would enjoy 
 it! 
 
XXVI 
 
 IN THE GREENHOUSE 
 
 On cool days, when it is too chilly to sit out of 
 doors, the moist heat of a greenhouse is very 
 pleasant. There is always plenty to occupy one — 
 seed-pods or dead leaves to be snipped off, weeds 
 to be removed from the pots, and things that are 
 trying to climb to be given a helping hand. 
 
 But when the sun beats down through the glass 
 
 roof day after day, and is absorbed and breathed 
 
 out again by the walls, the pots, and the plants, the 
 
 heat becomes unbearable. Some of the plants even, 
 
 especially the young ones, seemed to find it too 
 
 hot when the heat first came. They drooped and 
 
 looked faint. Then we began to think of blinds. 
 
 We consulted catalogues and price-lists, and made 
 
 calculations, and came to the conclusion that to 
 
 cover the roofs with blinds would cost about thirty 
 
 pounds. 
 
 i88 
 
IN THE GREENHOUSE 189 
 
 William smiled when we mentioned this to him, 
 and said that three-pennyworth of " skim milk " 
 and two-pennyworth of whiting would answer the 
 purpose just as well. So we took his advice, and, 
 instead of thirty pounds on blinds, expended five- 
 pence on skimmed milk and whiting, with which he 
 whitewashed the roofs and sides of the greenhouses. 
 It had the effect of a cool white blind, which saved 
 the plants from the heat of the sun, and those 
 which had begun to droop revived at once. 
 
 At present the greenhouse seems to be chiefly 
 filled with calceolarias that have been raised from 
 seed. They have been covered with blossom for 
 a month, and make great splashes of red and 
 yellow down each side. Some are curiously spotted, 
 others plain and velvety. They are showy things, 
 and the colours are sometimes very fine, but like 
 all flowers that have an abnormal shape, they are 
 to me unattractive and unsympathetic. A flower 
 should, 1 think, have petals and an eye of some 
 sort — something which one can look upon as a 
 face. I find it difficult to look upon a bag with 
 a hole at the top, as a flower at all. There is a 
 want of personality about it. As a child, when one 
 jived much in the world of "pretence," it was a 
 favourite pretence that flowers were people ; but 
 calceolarias were never anything but dolls' purses. 
 
I go IN THE GREENHOUSE 
 
 Pelargoniums have been in full flower for a 
 couple of months, and have been vying with the 
 calceolarias in decorating the shelves. The colour- 
 ing of these is also] very fine and gaudy — running 
 through all shades of red and mauve — with deep 
 velvet splashes. My favourites are those with 
 sweet-scented leaves. Like most things that have 
 scented leaves, the flower is small and insignificant, 
 compared with those that have no other attraction 
 than bright colour. 
 
 But the things that have attracted my attention 
 most lately, have been the tigridias. There is 
 something fascinating about these curiously bril- 
 liant things. If the calceolarias suflFer from 
 want of personality, tigridias have so much that 
 they are almost human. They are things which, 
 I believe, do equally well out of doors, and under 
 glass, and we have several clumps of them in the 
 garden which we hope will flower later on. The 
 first time I saw one in flower, I thought it was a 
 red Passion-flower, growing by mistake on a bulb. 
 At a distance the appearance is somewhat similar. 
 It has an upright fork pistil rising from a cup- 
 shaped centre. But instead of a ring of petals 
 standing out, it has three large ones that droop 
 backwards, and three small spotted ones like 
 tongues, filling the gaps in between. We have 
 
IN THE GREENHOUSE 191 
 
 three colours in flower at present — a brilliant 
 crimson, a deep " blush " pink, and a bright yellow. 
 In each kind the central cup and the little tongue- 
 like petals are spotted with deep crimson. 
 
 When the flower comes out it only lasts a few 
 hours, so that unless one watches, 'one may miss 
 seeing it altogether. The bud, like an iris bud, 
 looks like a neatly rolled up umbrella. It unrolls 
 itself (when you are not looking), remains expanded 
 for an hour or two, then rolls itself up again into 
 an untidy sort of mother gamp, instead of a neat 
 umbrella, becomes moist and nasty, and falls off". 
 
 From childhood I have always wished to see a 
 bud opening out into a flower, and have never been 
 able to account for the fact that though buds are 
 unfolding and becoming flowers all day long, I have 
 never been able to catch one in the act. Only the 
 other day I thought my wish was about to be 
 gratified. I came upon a large white evening 
 primrose-bud that seemed to be on the point of 
 opening. The petals had been a little loosened, 
 and I felt for a moment that I could see it tremb- 
 ling a little before they fell apart. I stood and 
 watched it for some moments, but it remained per- 
 fectly motionless. Then I thought it was showing 
 a tendency to shut up again. Perhaps, I said to 
 myself, it thinks I am staring too rudely. I will 
 
192 IN THE GREENHOUSE 
 
 walk away, go once round the kitchen-garden, and 
 then come back quietly and watch it. from behind 
 a tree. When I came back it was wide open. I 
 felt inclined to beat it. 
 
 In the same way I have watched tigridia buds, 
 till my patience has been exhausted, but have never 
 once seen one opening. As long as I am in sight 
 they remain tightly rolled up. As soon as I go 
 away they unfold, and when I come back I find 
 them with all their petals spread, and, as it were, a 
 look of triumph on their countenances. 
 
 We have at present a good many crinums and 
 cannas in flower. The cannas I do not care for. 
 The flower looks like an ill-shapen gladiolus. But 
 the crinums, with their great tufts of lilies, like an 
 amaryllis, are rather fine. The huge bulb, too, is 
 interesting. It fills the whole of an enormous 
 flower-pot, and has to be chained down, or rather 
 tied round with wire, or it would grow and burst 
 the pot. A row of tiger-lilies in the background 
 is in flower too, and nod their spotted orange- 
 blossoms over the other plants in a protecting 
 manner. 
 
 These things make a good deal of gay colour in 
 the house, but there is much bare wall and naked 
 post to be covered up before it has the green 
 bowery appearance of a pretty greenhouse. We 
 
IN THE GREENHOUSE 193 
 
 have put a variety of climbing plants at the foot of 
 the posts, and along the walls, and given them all 
 the encouragement we could in the way of things 
 to catch hold of, tying them up with bast, and 
 directing them in the way they should go. Two 
 things — a tacsonia and a plumbago — that we put 
 at the foot of the two main posts, have done very 
 well. When we planted them four months ago 
 they neither of them reached the stage, which is 
 about three feet from the ground. The plumbago 
 is now within a few inches of the roof. It has sent 
 out numerous branches, and flowered the other day 
 for "the first time. The tacsonia reached the top 
 some time ago, and is now about a couple of yards 
 on its way along the main beam of the house. It 
 has an advantage over the plumbago in having 
 tendrils by which to pull itself along. It uses these 
 in the most curious way, catching hold of anything 
 it comes across with them, twisting them round the 
 object, and even tying knots to keep them firm, 
 and then gradually twisting the tendril into a spiral 
 spring that will give, but not break, if it is pulled. 
 There is a black bryony in the garden which has 
 been busy during the past month, climbing a laurel- 
 tree. An insect has eaten little holes in some of 
 the laurel-leaves, and the other day we noticed that 
 the bryony had taken advantage of this by passing 
 
194 IN THE GREENHOUSE 
 
 the tendrils through the holes, and twisting them 
 tightly round and round, till it had firm hold of 
 the leaf — a thing one can hardly believe its doing 
 unless it possessed both sight and intelligence. 
 
 At the same time that we planted the tacsonia 
 and plumbago near the posts, we planted a little 
 climber called Jicus repens at the foot of a bare 
 wall. It has a small leaf which clings closely to 
 anything it happens to climb, and a short time 
 before, I had seen a greenhouse wall thickly covered 
 with it, and looking at a distance as if it were 
 covered with dark-coloured moss. Since it took 
 up its abode with us, however, it has obstinately 
 refused to make a single new leaf. It has stayed 
 sulkily at the foot of the wall, showing not the 
 slightest tendency to climb. 
 
 We are going now to try a heliotrope, which has 
 been growing very rampantly in its pot, spreading 
 itself over the shelf, and apparently very anxious to 
 climb something. I once saw a small greenhouse 
 almost entirely filled with a climbing heliotrope, the 
 blossoms of which were tumbling from the walls 
 and filling the air with fragrance. 
 
XXVII 
 
 A PRETTY GARDEN 
 
 I REMEMBER OH One occasion being both amused 
 and pleased by the enthusiastic admiration of a 
 foreigner — a native of Sweden — for the beauty of 
 our English landscape. We were in a train, and 
 were flying from Grimsby, where we had landed, to 
 London. It was early in September. The corn 
 had just been cut, and the country was looking 
 delightfully green and fresh. The train carried us 
 through miles of fields stacked with newly-cut corn, 
 and divided by thick green hedges. Every now 
 and then we passed cottages with thatched roofs 
 and a haystack or two nestling in bowers of green' 
 trees. Picturesque groups of men and women were 
 working in the fields, cutting and stacking the corn, 
 and here and there sleek cows chewed the cud, or 
 
 woolly sheep grazed in groups. 
 
 195 
 
196 A PRETTY GARDEN 
 
 The foreigner gazed out of the window, his face 
 glowing with the rapture of admiration, every now 
 and then turning to tne to ejaculate — 
 
 "Ah! It is beautiful! this country of yours; 
 beautiful ! beautiful ! It is one huge garden — a 
 perfect garden! I have never seen anything like 
 it." And then he added : " But this is not the 
 way to see it, rushing past like this. One should 
 be up in a balloon looking down at it. Then 
 one could enjoy it! Not too high — just a little 
 way up — so ! " And he made a gesture as if he 
 already imagined himself in mid-air gazing down 
 at the landscape. 
 
 I have often thought of his enthusiasm and his 
 balloon plan. And lately I have sometimes wished 
 I could take a flight up into the air, and look down 
 at the various gardens, looking so gay at this time 
 of year with their show of flowers. A garden that 
 I saw the other day would, I think, well repay a 
 journey up into the sky to view it from a balloon — 
 " Not too high, just a httle way up," as the Swedish 
 gentleman said. 
 
 It was a small garden, made in a hollow that had 
 once apparently been an orchard. For there were 
 remains of the orchard, in the shape of old twisted 
 Uchen-covered apple and pear trees, woven in 
 and out among the flowers, the gnarled branches 
 
A PRETTY GARDEN 197 
 
 occasionally making charming frames to patches 
 of gay flowers. 
 
 The house was in the middle of the garden, 
 nestling down among flower-beds and shrubs, as if 
 it were growing there like any other plant. Some 
 houses stand aloof from the garden, as if they had 
 nothing to do with it and took no interest in it. 
 They appear to occupy themselves looking out into 
 the road (if they are near enough) or watching the 
 visitors who come to the front door. Such houses 
 always seem to me to have a bored, gloomy expres- 
 sion. This house obviously took not the least 
 interest in what went on in the road, nor in the 
 visitors who came to the front door. Its whole 
 interest was in the garden. It liked the flowers, 
 and was perfectly happy in the middle of them. 
 And the flowers liked it. They crowded up round 
 it as close as they could, and tried to look in at 
 the doors and windows. It was so thickly covered 
 with creepers and trailing plants, that it could hardly 
 see out of its eyes. There was a verandah shading 
 the windows at one end, the roof of which was 
 completely covered with a sweet-scented vine. And 
 at another end a laburnum had been planted close 
 to the house, and, leaning back against it, had 
 spread its branches all over the wall. 
 
 A terrace ran along beneath the windows, gay 
 
198 A PRETTY GARDEN 
 
 with borders of flowers, growing so thickly 
 together that they had often to lean out on to the 
 path because they had not room. Things of a 
 kind were for the most part massed together, and 
 made very effective patches of colour. There was 
 one very brilliant patch of hybrid columbines 
 graceful things with long spurs and combinations 
 of delicate colouring; another of Iceland poppies; 
 and running through the borders in streaks and 
 patches was the misty grey-blue of the large- 
 flowered flax. 
 
 Over the tops of the flowers one looked down 
 upon the hollow with the old fruit-trees, and follow- 
 ing some stone steps dipped down into it from the 
 terrace, and found oneself on a smooth grass lawn, 
 with flowers and shrubs all around. At one end 
 tall elms with the thick green foliage of midsum- 
 mer rose from a still further dip, and made a cool, 
 green shade ; and at the other end lay a rock- 
 garden, reminding one of some brilliant "impres- 
 sionist " picture in the sun ; while through the 
 knotty branches of the fruit-trees, one looked up 
 at a bank fringed with irises, beyond which one 
 caught glimpses of a kitchen-garden, where rose- 
 bushes seemed to be straggling and tumbling all 
 over the paths. 
 
 Everything was growing with an untidy luxuri- 
 
A PRETTY GARDEN 199 
 
 ance that was charming. One felt inclined to 
 believe that the flowers had planted and arranged 
 themselves, rather than that they had been planted 
 by the hand of man. There was no tiresome 
 symmetry. Things grew in irregular clumps, not 
 in straight rows. Even the hedges of sweet-peas 
 ran in curves instead of in straight lines, and the 
 rose-trees, instead of being clipped into tidy bushes 
 or tufts at the tops of bare sticks, made long wreaths 
 and festoons that reminded one of pictures in the 
 story of the Sleeping Beauty. 
 
 The slope nearest the house, as one looked up 
 from the hollow, was covered with rose-trees 
 growing in this way in a tangle of curved branches. 
 Some of the branches were weighed right down 
 to the lawn with masses of roses. They were red 
 roses, for the most part, from the brightest to the 
 deepest velvety crimson that is almost black. But 
 here and there were branches of pale, lackadaisical- 
 looking tea roses, with floppy petals — very graceful 
 and beautiful things, but neither as rich in colour 
 nor scent as the others. 
 
 Turning away from the roses, and making one's 
 way through the apple trees, one found oneself in 
 a sort of miniature dell at the foot of the iris bank, 
 where tall blue delphiniums, yellow mulleins with 
 their handsome grey-green leaves, peonies, white 
 
200 A PRETTY GARDEN 
 
 and pink, and feathery spireas were massed in 
 picturesque groups. At one end of this, Httle dell 
 were more of the pretty-coloured, long-spurred 
 columbines, this time dotted about among grass, 
 and with the tall shady trees as a background. 
 
 There was quite a garden of irises at the top 
 of the bank — all collected together in a long bed, 
 and most of thern showing their delicate silken 
 flags. They made a sort of platform from which 
 one could look into the kitchen-garden beyond, 
 where symmetry and order seem to reign (chafed 
 at, however, by the rose-bushes, who were trying 
 to make festoons over the paths), and down on to 
 the flower-garden at the roses, and at the rock- 
 garden, lying like a brightly-coloured island in the 
 midst of the green. Rock-gardens are frequently 
 built up against walls or high banks, and I had 
 never realized till I saw this one how much prettier 
 they are when growing, out in the open, with 
 nothing behind them but trees and distant land- 
 scape. This one lay, a httle stony mound, in 
 the middle of the garden, not leaning up against 
 anything, but standing by itself with garden all 
 round, and trees as a background. 
 
 The sun was beating down on it, and lazy little 
 plants were sunning themselves on the grey stones, 
 or spreading themselves in the hollows, all their 
 
A PRETTY GARDEN 201 
 
 flowers open to drink in the warmtli. Here and 
 there were groups of such things as red poppies 
 and pink peonies. At one part there was a tangle 
 of briar roses and irises, and high up on a ledge 
 was a handsome plant of the shrub Cistus Ladani- 
 ferus, with large white blossoms with deep purple 
 patches near the centre. The plant that made 
 the most brilliant display of colour, however, was 
 the attractive little thing which is often called a 
 rock cistus, but whose real name is helianthemum. 
 It is a small plant with grey-green leaves, and 
 covered with a constant succession of delicate 
 flowers with petals that look as if you could blow 
 them off if you tried, of every shade of colour, 
 from yellow to deep red. It is one of the most 
 effective things one can have in a garden, and is 
 besides very easy to grow. Lately I saw a whole 
 garden decorated with it, the result of one three- 
 penny packet of mixed seed. Lying in clumps 
 on the rock-garden, all its blossoms open in the 
 morning sun, it was, I think, the prettiest thing 
 I had ever seen, and was, indeed, the sight which 
 reminded me of my Swedish friend, and made me 
 wish to take a flight up into the air and view the 
 garden from a balloon. 
 
XXVIII 
 
 ROSES 
 
 After seeing the rampant way in which plants 
 were growing and flowering in somebody else's 
 garden, I felt a little out of conceit with my own. 
 The little six-months-old plants which had been 
 stunted by the drought looked as if they were 
 likely to remain dwarfs to the end of their lives. 
 I was especially dissatisfied with the rose-bushes, 
 none of which were more than a foot high. I 
 sighed to think how many years must pass before 
 they could grow into the great branching wreaths 
 of roses I had admired so much. 
 
 As if to shame me for my reproaches they all 
 began to come into flower, and in a few days the 
 little bushes were so covered with roses that the 
 rose-beds were a mass of variegated colour, some 
 
ROSES 203 
 
 of the tiniest plants bearing roses as big as them- 
 selves. 
 
 There are two long beds divided by a grass path. 
 One contains nothing but tea roses, and the others 
 nothing but ordinary roses — hybrid perpetuals, as 
 they are called. Down the centre of each bed is 
 a trellis which we hope will some day be covered 
 with climbing roses. The plants were put in last 
 autumn, and during the winter months were forlorn- 
 looking little bare trees with labels flapping in the 
 wind. 
 
 Early in the spring they were all cut down to 
 the ground, leaving nothing but the stump. It 
 seemed rough treatment at the time, and one 
 wondered whether they would ever recover from it. 
 But very soon new shoots began to appear from 
 underground, and in a short time they were re- 
 spectable-looking little bushes, much sturdier and 
 healthiei: than when they were first planted. About 
 a month ago we noticed that buds were forming, 
 and now for more than a fortnight they have been 
 in full bloom. The smallest plants seem to have 
 the largest roses. Some of the tiny trees have 
 roses bigger than themselves, and so heavy that 
 they are unable to hold them up, but are weighed 
 down to the ground with them. 
 
 Every morning armed with a large chip basket 
 
204 HOSES 
 
 and a pair of scissors, I go out and pick till the 
 basket is full, and there are enough roses to fill all 
 the bowls in the house. It is surprising to see how 
 little difference this wholesale picking makes. The 
 rose-beds look just as gaily coloured after they have 
 been robbed of their spoils as before. The best 
 kind of vessels to arrange them in are, jugs for 
 those with long stalks, bowls for those with medium 
 stalks, and soup-plates for those that one is obliged 
 to pick with very short stalks ; and to this end it is 
 well to begin by emptying the basket out on to the 
 table and dividing the roses into three piles, of long 
 stalks, medium stalks, and short stalks. 
 
 The rose-trees are so thickly covered with buds 
 however that in most cases it is impossible to pick a 
 long stalk without picking a number of young buds 
 too, and as the plants are still very young and small 
 one is loth to do this. It seems cruel to the little 
 plant to pick young, undeveloped buds. On the 
 other hand, a rose never looks so beautiful as on 
 a long stalk with plenty of its own green leaves, 
 and one would fain believe that it does the plant 
 good to have its buds picked. Whether it does 
 them good or not, I find myself much bothered by 
 a troublesome disinclination to pick buds of any 
 kind, and especially those of roses, carnations, and 
 sweet-peas. In the case of carnations this means 
 
sV<-'.^^;P^ 
 
JiOSES 205 
 
 practically not picking them at all, since the stalks 
 are usually covered with buds. I have a friend 
 who always picks sweet-peas in great branches, 
 quite regardless of the buds. They look far more 
 beautiful when picked with a good deal of their 
 own green in this way, and arranged loosely in a 
 vase, than as one usually sees them, in tight 
 bunches with nothing but the blossoms ; and I 
 always admire her way of arranging them very 
 much. It seem to me, too, that there is a gener- 
 osity and lavishness in her way of picking them, 
 that betokens a large nature, while about my way 
 there is something that savours of niggardliness, 
 and I have sometimes made up my mind to imitate 
 her lavish generosity and pluck recklessly. But 
 after picking a branch or two covered with young 
 buds my heart misgives me, and I fall back to my 
 own niggardly manner of picking them with short 
 stalks. The other day we were given a magnificent 
 bunch of carnations of very choice and rare kinds. 
 One admired the generous way in which the giver 
 had cut them— with long stalks covered with buds 
 — almost as much as the exquisite colours of the 
 flowers themselves. 
 
 The hybrid roses, from their manner of growth, 
 present most difficulties in the way of buds and 
 short stalks. The teas are more inclined to 
 
2o6 ROSES 
 
 Straggle and make long branches, and even on 
 these small plants one can often pick them with 
 long stalks and leaves. 
 
 My systematic picking of the flowers has, I 
 think, had a good effect on the plants. They seem 
 to be determined to keep pace with me and not 
 lose ground, and to be putting extra vigour into 
 growing new shoots to make up for those they 
 have lost. The plants have more buds now than 
 they had a week ago, and I am told they will 
 keep on flowering and increasing till August, in 
 which month they will reach their zenith of 
 beauty. 
 
 From continually walking about among them, 
 I am beginning to learn some of their names. 
 Hitherto my list of names has consisted of three 
 only : Gloire de Dijon, Marechal Niel, and La 
 France, names which happen for various reasons to 
 have been forced upon my attention. Other roses I 
 have divided simply into red roses and white roses, 
 and have not troubled to inquire whether they had 
 names or not. So great was my ignorance that I 
 imagined there was only one rose called a tea rose, 
 and that it was so called because its colour was like 
 weak tea with a good deal of cream in it. Now I 
 find, somewhat to my bewilderment, that every 
 rose has its name, in most cases a Christian name 
 
JiOSES 207 
 
 and surname like anybody else, and that tea-rose is 
 the name of a class in which there are dozens of 
 different varieties. 
 
 Most of the tea roses were new to me, and at 
 first I was inclined to be prejudiced against them, as 
 new-fangled, affected-looking things, with washed- 
 out colours and no scent to speak of, and like many 
 people I had a weakness for the " good old-fashioned " 
 sweet-scented red rose that one could bury one's face 
 in. But I am beginning to think better of the tea 
 roses. There is, it is true, compared with the ordinary 
 roses, something lackadaisical and sentimental about 
 the way they bow their heads and sprawl about, but 
 at the same time there is something extremely 
 graceful, and the buds, with their curled petals and 
 delicate tints, are most beautiful. They are very 
 easy to arrange, too, and a bunch of the various 
 shades put carelessly into a jug, or any vessel over 
 which they can lean their heads, looks charming. 
 Some of them when wide open show their centres, 
 and look like very large wild roses with untidy, grace- 
 ful, flopping petals. Madame Pernet Ducher is one 
 of this kind — a beautiful white, with deep cream 
 towards the middle, and a cream-yellow bud. 
 There are a good many extremely pretty ones of 
 the colour one calls " old rose," some of them 
 shading to deep cream towards the centre. Fran- 
 
2o8 ROSES 
 
 cesca Kruger, Ethel Brownlow, and Cleopatra are the 
 best of this kind that I have noticed so far. Madame 
 Falcot, an untidy pink-cream, is also very pretty. 
 
 My favourite rose in the whole garden, however, 
 is in the other bed, among the hybrid perpetuals. 
 It is called Sir Rowland Hill, and is one of those 
 very deep velvety reds, with a most delicious scent. 
 These very dark red roses are, I think, the most 
 beautiful of all, and I wish we had more of them. 
 A whole garden of Sir Rowland Hill would be 
 delicious. Roses have a tendency to run too much 
 to pink. And though some of these are very hand- 
 some in shape, a great many have no scent at all. 
 And what is the good of a rose that has no scent ? 
 Some of the very pale pink, however, are much to 
 be admired. There is one called Margaret Dickson, 
 white, shading to pink towards the middle, which is 
 most beautiful in shape and delicacy of colouring. 
 
 On the trellis down the middle of the beds, the 
 climbing roses are doing very well. The two best 
 are Reine Olga de Wiirtemberg and Crimson 
 Rambler. The former is a most beautiful rose, of 
 a brilliant crimson colour, with a dash of blue in it. 
 Our little plant, which was only put in last autumn, 
 has been covered with buds and full-blown roses 
 for some weeks past, and is rapidly making its way 
 up the trellis. 
 
ROSES 209 
 
 Crimson Rambler is a well-known and popular 
 climbing rose. It is a small cluster rose of very- 
 much the same light crimson as Reine Olga, and 
 has very thick foliage. It is to be hoped it will like 
 its surroundings and do well with us, for a great 
 mass of it covering the trellis would look very 
 fine. 
 
XXIX 
 
 BUMBLE-BEES 
 
 I HAVE heard of a garden where the birds were 
 on such friendly terms with the people who lived in 
 the house that they used to fly to meet them in 
 crowds when they emerged. They would perch on 
 their shoulders and heads, and hop after them on 
 the ground, chirping ecstatically, and behave in 
 every way like the birds in the picture of St. 
 Francis. Some member of the family with an 
 especial sympathy for birds had established a 
 tradition that the birds in the garden and the 
 human beings in the house were on friendly terms. 
 This had been handed on from bird to bird, and 
 it no more occurred to one of them to be afraid 
 of human beings than it does to a domestic dog or 
 cat. It sounds an ideal state of things, and suggests 
 Arcadia. 
 
 2IO 
 
B UMBLE-BEES 2 1 1 
 
 I have often wished that it were possible to live 
 on like terms of intimacy and affection with insects 
 — at least, with some insects. Of course there are 
 insects and insects. Some, like dragon-flies and 
 butterflies, seem to exist for decorative purposes 
 only. A dragon-fly with iridescent wings darting 
 in and out among the sedges* at the water-side, or 
 a butterfly flitting about among the flowers or 
 chasing another in the sun, add to the beauty of 
 the landscape, and may appeal to one's sense of the 
 beautiful, and give one vague aesthetic emotions 
 and feelings of sympathy with Nature. But 
 whether flitting in the sun or stuck on pins in rows: 
 in a collection, like postage-stamps, they are to me 
 utterly without personality. 
 
 Other insects — such as wasps, gnats, midges, 
 household flies, earwigs, and the tribe of abomina- 
 tions, green-fly, black-fly, and the like that live on 
 plants, seem to exist simply for the purpose of 
 annoying, and one's impulse is to annihilate them 
 speedily, rather than to try to make friends with them. 
 
 About spiders one's feelings are mixed. They are 
 certainly not without personality. They err rather 
 on the side of having so much personality as to be 
 uncanny, and I suppose it is for that reason that 
 one finds them so terrifying. For the same reason 
 one cannot help having a sort of weird sympathy 
 
212 B UMBLE-BEES 
 
 with them, and I can quite imagine, under certain 
 circumstances, making friends with certain kinds 
 of spiders — small spiders, or even large spiders, if 
 they were not too fat. There are numerous stories 
 of human beings and spiders having become friends 
 (generally in prison, when both have been hard up 
 for companionship, it is true), which testify to an 
 affinity between us and them. 
 
 But apart from these more or less impossible 
 insects there are tribes of insects living in a garden, 
 with some of which it would be quite amusing to 
 be on friendly terms. In fact, if one happens to 
 investigate a small patch of ground one is quite 
 appalled by the number of curious creatures 
 walking about in it, some of them so extraordinary 
 to look at that it is really like the Zoological 
 Gardens on a small scale. 
 
 The insect that above all others I should like to 
 be on friendly terms with, and have for a pet, is a 
 bumble-bee. There is something particularly at- 
 tractive about a bumble-bee, and I have always felt 
 that if we could induce them to look upon us as 
 friends we should find them delightful companions. 
 A bumble-bee has a charming personality — owing, 
 I think, chiefly to his woolliness ; and his manners, 
 voice, gestures, and behaviour generally assure one 
 that his nature is as charming as his woolly 
 
BUMBLE-BEES 213 
 
 personality — that he is a really delightful fellow. I 
 feel sure too that if one understood what he was 
 talking about one would find him most amusing. 
 His gestures are always quaint, and there is at 
 times a waggishness and slightly buffoonish air 
 about them that convince one that he has a keen 
 sense of humour. 
 
 He has a heavy, lumbering, good-natured sort of 
 air that reminds one of the performing elephant at 
 a circus ; and hke the elephant there is something 
 irresistibly comic about his attitudes. One of the 
 funniest things I ever saw was a large black bumble- 
 bee sitting on its haunches in the middle of the road 
 and (apparently) licking its front paw like a dog. 
 
 With all my aspirations I am forced to admit 
 that my attempts to make friends with bumble-bees 
 have been so far wholly unsuccessful. They look 
 upon me at best as an idle busybody with a taste 
 for interfering, and give me to understand, by polite 
 gestures, that I had far better attend to my own 
 business, and leave them to attend to theirs. 
 
 While the syringa has been in bloom I have 
 idled away a good deal of time sitting on the lawn 
 beneath one of the trees, which has been a mass of 
 white sweet-scented blossom. To save myself from 
 the reproach of absolute idleness, I have had an 
 open book in my hand, at which I have occasionally 
 
214 BUMBLE-BEES 
 
 glanced. But the heat, the scent of the syringa, 
 and the hum of insects have a soothing effect on 
 one's mind, and I have for the most part felt too 
 drowsy and contented to do anything but gaze out 
 at the flower-beds across the lawn, pluck little bits 
 of grass, and think vague thoughts about things in 
 general, and watch the insects. 
 
 A little bank covered with moss and grass runs 
 along one side of the lawn beneath the syringa 
 trees, and makes a comfortable back against which 
 to lean. And, resting on one arm, one can watch 
 a whole army of bumble-bees, which, for some 
 mysterious reason of their own, delight in burrow- 
 ing in the moss. They are, for the most part, the 
 large, black, woolly bumble-bees, but occasionally 
 a tawny stranger takes part in the pursuit. I have 
 counted as many as twenty, busy burrowing, and 
 the bank is so full of the holes they have made, 
 that it looks like a miniature rabbit-warren. 
 
 At first we thought they were making caves to 
 live in, but as they never made the hole big enough 
 to admit more than their head and shoulders, and 
 also, after burrowing for some time in one hole, 
 frequently went on and made another, that theory 
 was abandoned. Some one suggested that beneath 
 the moss there grew a small clover that bumble-bees 
 considered a great delicacy, and that they were in 
 
BUMBLE-BEES 215 
 
 search of this. We investigated the soil beneath the 
 moss, however, and could find no trace of clover — - 
 nothing, in fact, but brown earth. 
 
 During the drought there seemed to be more of 
 them, and they appeared to burrow with greater 
 energy than before. This suggested the idea that 
 they were looking for moisture. I wondered that 
 it had not occurred to me before, and hastened to 
 fill a watering-can, in order to give the bank a 
 thorough watering, that they might not burrow in 
 vain. There were eight woolly backs partly con- 
 cealed in the moss when I came back with the can. 
 They all seemed to be busy digging with their 
 noses and front paws like dogs, and reminded me 
 very much of a young collie I once knew who used 
 to delight in digging a hole in the moss in a certain 
 wood, and taking deep-sounding sniffs of the moist 
 earth. He would dig hole after hole, and plunge 
 his whole head into them, and snifF loud sniffs of 
 deep satisfaction. 
 
 Before giving all of them the pleasant surprise 
 of an unexpected shower of rain, I thought I would 
 give one of them a little water all to himself, and 
 watch his delight. Vague stories of grateful lions 
 and tigers floated through my mind, and I felt that 
 I was probably about to make them all my friends 
 for life by the cups of cold water I was about to 
 
2i6 BUMBLE-BEES 
 
 bestow to relieve their thirst. I chose a very 
 thirsty-looking fellow, and pouring a little water on 
 the bank just above him, let a tiny stream trickle 
 down till it reached him. He raised his head when 
 he felt the cold water touch him, and it immediately 
 ran down into the hole he had dug, and made a 
 little pond. Instead of plunging in and drinking 
 eagerly and gratefully, he raised his paw and looked 
 at the water beneath him in the greatest surprise, 
 as if he was at a loss to understand what it was, 
 and then, with a snort of unmistakable indignation, 
 extricated himself from the moss and flew away 
 humming loudly and angrily. I felt impatient at 
 his want of intelligence, and, taking the can, let a 
 shower of water fall on the bank and on the backs 
 of the other bees. They all stopped digging, got 
 out of the moss hurriedly, and flew oflf buzzing 
 with annoyance. 
 
 It was some days before they would come back. 
 And even then they only came in two and threes, 
 instead of in dozens. I feel that I am further than 
 ever from making friends with them, and I have 
 not even discovered what they were digging for. 
 
XXX 
 
 PICKING THINGS 
 
 The occupation of gathering things I have always 
 found particularly agreeable. Whether it be that, 
 having the instinct of a collector, I like to see a 
 little heap or bunch grow beneath my grasp, or 
 that being by nature a lazy person I like to achieve 
 a sort of spurious industry by the pursuit of an 
 occupation that calls for exertion neither of mind 
 nor body, I do not know. But whatever be the 
 cause, it is a fact that I take an especial delight in 
 gathering things — whether fruit, flowers, vegetables, 
 or shells by the sea-shore. 
 
 On sunny mornings I find gathering peas a 
 pleasant occupation. Nowhere can one be so 
 completely out of the world away from the distrac- 
 tions of humanity as when seated between hedges 
 
 of green peas picking the full pods. The green 
 
 217 
 
2i8 PICKING THINGS 
 
 shade and the twittering and sunshine going on 
 above and all around one give a pleasant colouring 
 to one's thoughts. The shght exertion of pulling 
 the pods and the monotonous little sound they 
 make when dropped into the basket among the 
 others, soothe one into a sort of pleasant dreami- 
 ness, and encourage one's mind to wander lazily in 
 the pleasant groves of memory, where one may 
 catch glimpses of the time when the tops of the 
 hedges towered above one's head, and between the 
 rows seemed like long green avenues, and to split 
 the pods and find five or six little green men sitting 
 in a row thrilled one with delight. 
 
 My memory would have me believe that in those 
 days the hedges of peas were taller, the leaves 
 greener, and the pods far larger than now-a-days, 
 and but for one little incident I would swear he 
 was right. When I was about six years old some 
 one told me that if I could find a pod containing 
 nine peas I could wish what I liked and it would 
 come to pass. Every year when the peas were 
 being gathered I used to search for the magic nine, 
 but never could find more than five or six, or at most 
 seven. At last I gave it up in despair, thinking 
 it one of the fables invented to annoy children. 
 
 When plucking peas the other day the fable came 
 back to me, and I opened a pod and counted the 
 
PICKING THINGS 219 
 
 peas. There were nine. I opened another and 
 another. They all contained nine, many of them 
 ten, and in one I found eleven. So I am forced 
 to believe that the pea-pods of the present gener- 
 ation are larger than those of the past. 
 
 There are many less pleasant ways of spending 
 an hour on a sunny day than seated among the 
 currant and gooseberry bushes plucking the ripe 
 clusters of fruit into one's basket. There is not 
 quite the same satisfaction to be got out of eating 
 them as of yore, it is true. They seem to be far 
 sourer than in days gone by, and more full of little 
 hard stones. 
 
 But it is only when there are no flowers to gather 
 that one spends one's time dreaming among the 
 peas and currants. And in the month of July 
 flowers are plentiful. The flower-beds are, perhaps, 
 gayer than at any other time of year. The rose- 
 garden is still a veritable garden of roses, and 
 shows no sign of giving in, the tea roses especially 
 being much more thickly covered with buds than 
 they were a fortnight ago. 
 
 Most of my time just now, however, is spent in 
 the kitchen-garden, where two sweet-pea hedges 
 are in flower. In order to keep them in flower as 
 long as possible, it is necessary to pick them rigor- 
 ously, and especially to nip in the bud all attempts 
 
2 20 PICKING THINGS 
 
 to make seed-pods. As they come out very quickly 
 and go rapidly to seed, it is no easy task to keep 
 them in check. And the enormous bunches that 
 are picked every day seem to make very little differ- 
 ence. I have not yet discovered an ideal method 
 of picking them. If one pulls at them in the 
 ordinary way it is difficult to avoid tearing off great 
 branches of the plants. If one plucks them with a 
 little jerk, so as to dislodge the stalk from the joint 
 from whence it springs, it usually brings away a 
 little new shoot. And cutting them with a pair of 
 scissors takes about twice as long as any other 
 method. Perhaps the most satisfactory plan is to 
 vary the methods — to break and tear till one is 
 disgusted at the havoc created in the hedge — to 
 pluck with careful little jerks till one's arm aches, 
 and the clusters of young shoots at the end of the 
 stalks get on one's mind, and then to take one's 
 scissors and snip. Whatever be the method, the 
 time spent among the sweet-peas is always pleasant. 
 And even if one took no pleasure in the picking, 
 the result would reward one. Nothing is more 
 deliciously fragrant in a room than a large bowl of 
 sweet-peas with a little mignonette put in here and 
 there among them. 
 
 It may be morbid taste on my part, but the 
 colours I admire most and mean to remember for 
 
PICKING THINGS 221 
 
 next year, are the pale heliotrope and very pale 
 salmon-pink. A small hedge of Princess May 
 (heliotrope) and Adonis (salmon-pink) is just 
 coming into flower, and the two delicate colours 
 together are extremely pretty. Some of those bear- 
 ing different fiames are, as far as 1 can see, pre- 
 cisely the same in colour — which may possibly be 
 accounted for by the fact that the seed came from 
 two or three different seed merchants. T can see 
 no difference between Princess May and Countess 
 of Radnor, both very pretty pale heliotropes ; nor 
 between Venus and Adonis, pale salmon-pinks. 
 
 Max, knowing my love of gathering and snip- 
 ping, made me a present the other day of a new pair 
 of gardening scissors — a small neat paii", such as 
 drapers use, with rounded points that do not stick 
 into the lining of one's pocket — and bid me employ 
 my spare moments in snipping the seed-pods off 
 the Shirley poppies, in order to encourage these 
 pretty things, which are favourites of his, to keep 
 flowering as long as possible. Consequently, my 
 steps, instead of turning always towards the sweet- 
 pea hedge, have taken to turning towards the 
 Shirley poppy bed at the other end of the garden, 
 and I have spent much time standing among the 
 pretty silken petals with their delicate shades of 
 pink and red, and snipping off the heads of those 
 
22 2 PICKING THINGS 
 
 that have already dropped their petals. They are 
 in one of the hottest corners of the garden — a spot 
 where the sun always seems to beat down with 
 especial heat, and the poppies catch it all, and flash 
 their colours in the sunshine, so that one can see 
 the bright-coloured patch from a great distance. 
 As I often spend as much as an hour standing 
 among them snipping, I should be in danger of sun- 
 stroke if I did not provide myself with a Japanese 
 umbrella, which, as the snipping only requires one 
 hand, there is no difficulty about holding up. 
 
 I find it almost as fascinating an occupation as, 
 earlier in the year, I found spudding, and just as 
 difficult to stop. When I have made up my mind 
 that I have spent quite enough time at it, and am 
 turning to go away, I invariably catch sight of a 
 group of heads that have quite escaped me, and 
 find it impossible to resist going back to snip them. 
 It requires, indeed, great strength of mind at last 
 to put the scissors in my pocket and absolutely 
 refuse to snip one more. 
 
 By dint of much practice I have acquired con- 
 siderable dexterity. The scissors click and the 
 poppy-heads fall almost as quickly as I can count, 
 and I rarely snip off a bud by mistake. At first I 
 very often made this mistake. Not that the furry 
 green buds that bow their necks, and have pink 
 
PICKING THINGS 223 
 
 silk showing through the cracks, at all resemble the 
 little stiff seed-pods, with crowns on their heads 
 and ruffs round their necks, but they grow so close 
 together that the stalks are often entangled, so that 
 it is difficult sometimes to see which is which. 
 
 Max excuses himself from performing this office 
 for the Shirley poppies, on the ground that he is 
 occupied with the carnations. We have a large 
 bed of these which are just coming into flower. 
 A great many of them were nibbled down to the 
 ground by a hare in the early spring. But they 
 recovered, and do not seem to be any the worse for 
 the treatment. Every morning new ones come out 
 and have to be passed judgment on. The single 
 ones and those whose colour is not approved of are 
 ruthlessly rooted out and cast on to the rubbish 
 heap, while the best and handsomest are " layered " 
 in order to make extra plants to fill the gaps. 
 This is done by separating the outside shoots from 
 the main plant, and (without removing them alto- 
 gether), making a little cut on the underneath side 
 of each, and pegging it down as one does a straw- 
 berry-runner, when it will start an independent root 
 of its own. Some very fine crimsons, salmons, and 
 yellows have come out, and also one or two of the 
 various shades of heliotrope, which are, I believe, 
 the newest thing in carnations. 
 
XXXI 
 
 PORTULACA 
 
 Considering the treatment they received from 
 the sparrows when they were first planted out, it is 
 a marvel that any of the portulacas survived at all. 
 
 Sparrows, like street urchins, indulge in certain 
 pastimes at certain seasons of the year which are 
 even more annoying to gardeners than those of the 
 street urchins are to the passers-by. 
 
 Early in the year they play the game of tearing 
 the yellow crocuses — a game as disastrous to the 
 poor little crocuses as it is exasperating to those 
 who planted them. The game consists in tearing 
 the petals of the crocuses to ribbons, and the object 
 seems to be to see who can tear most in a given 
 time. Judging by the keenness with which the 
 game is played, I should say there must be prizes 
 
 for the most accomplished crocus-tearer. Crocus- 
 
 224 
 
PORTULACA 225 
 
 tearing remains in season for some weeks, as long 
 indeed as there are any crocuses to tear ; until, in 
 fact, the poor little things, who have pluckily tried 
 to keep their heads up and go on blossoming, give 
 in, and lie prone and torn to shreds on the ground. 
 
 Then comes the game of nipping the heads off 
 the peas, as soon as they appear above ground. 
 The sparrows take up their position in a tree com- 
 manding the row of peas, and watch, and, as soon 
 as a crack comes in the ground and the seedling 
 shows its head, they hop down and nip it off. It is 
 a game requiring, I should think, greater dexterity 
 and quickness of eye than crocus-tearing, and is 
 (probably on this account) not so universally 
 popular — though quite popular enough. 
 
 Then, when the seedlings have grown too big for 
 any fun to be had out of nipping their heads off, 
 comes the dust-bath game, and it is this game 
 that the poor little portulacas suffered from. 
 
 This may possibly be more in the nature of a 
 " Kur " than a game. It may be that sparrows find 
 it necessary to take a course of dust-baths once 
 a year, just as some of us find it necessary to go 
 abroad and "take the waters." But, whether the 
 motive be the pursuit of health or of amusement, 
 it is an obnoxious habit, and one which a gardener 
 cannot view with equanimity. 
 
w 
 
 226 PORTULACA 
 
 They choose sunny spots in the flower-beds 
 here seeds have just been sown or seedlings just 
 planted out, and where the earth has been turned 
 up and raked fine, and, settling down in the middle 
 of the seeds, or on the top of the seedlings, scratch 
 holes in the earth with their bodies and legs, and 
 rub themselves down into them. The result is 
 that the seeds and seedlings are sent flying, and 
 lying exposed in the sun shrivel up and die. They 
 usually form parties for the pursuit of this pastime. 
 I have seen as many as six of them sitting close 
 together in their various baths, scratching and 
 pecking about, fluffing out their wings and feathers, 
 and keeping up a continual flow of conversation 
 with each other. 
 
 The portulaca bed, lying in full sun all day long, 
 and having a fine, dusty soil, attracted them at 
 once, and soon became one of their favourite 
 resorts. They flocked to it in crowds every day 
 for their dust-baths, and scratched and dug with 
 such energy that if I had not mounted guard over 
 them I doubt whether a single plant would have 
 been allowed to grow up. 
 
 My plan was to hide behind a tree in the neigh- 
 bourhood of the bed, and watch till about a dozen 
 of them were comfortably established in their baths 
 and engaged in exchanging commonplaces with 
 
PORTULACA 227 
 
 each other ; and then suddenly to dart out at them 
 with a roar, and a Japanese umbrella, which I 
 would open and shut noisily in their faces. They 
 would all fly off with screams to the nearest tree, 
 and sit there shrieking and talking about it, and it 
 would usually be some time before any of them 
 would venture to approach again. By repeated 
 onslaughts I instilled into most of them a whole- 
 some awe of myself and the Japanese umbrella, so 
 that dust-baths considerably decreased in popu- 
 larity, the repeated shocks to the nerves, I suppose, 
 detracting from the benefit to be derived from 
 the cure. After a time I found it quite enough 
 to leave an open Japanese umbrella on the grass 
 beside the bed. Being a hght thing and adapted 
 to catch the wind, a slight breeze was enough to 
 set it moving. And whether this created the im- 
 pression in the minds of the sparrows that some 
 one was concealed behind it, or whether they 
 attributed its behaviour to supernatural agency, 
 I observed that they never ventured to alight on 
 the bed if the umbrella was anywhere near. 
 
 In spite of being sat upon and dug up every day, 
 the portulacas showed throughout the most stub- 
 born determination not to be beaten, and really held 
 their ground with remarkable pluck. And as soon 
 as they were relieved from the sparows they began 
 
228 PORTULACA 
 
 to grow with all speed. So rapidly did they put 
 out branches and spread over the ground that in a 
 very short time, instead of the two little rows of 
 scarcely visible seedlings, there was a long border 
 about a foot and a half deep of thick green matting. 
 Then the buds began to appear, and soon the 
 matting was dotted all over with coloured blossoms. 
 
 During the late hot weather, when everything in 
 the garden has been burnt up and in want of rain ; 
 when the sun has scorched down with such force 
 on the grass that one has scarcely dared to venture 
 from beneath the shade of the trees and walk across 
 it ; and when even the roses and sweet-peas have 
 begun to hang their heads and look limp, the portu- 
 lacas have been quite a refreshing sight. They 
 positively revel in the hot weather, the scorching 
 rays of the sun, and the dry, powdery soil. They 
 lie sunning themselves in the dust, absorbing heat, 
 and looking gayer and gayer day by day, as new 
 blossoms keep opening out. The flowers are ex- 
 tremely pretty and bright-coloured. I counted 
 seven different shades the other day in a small 
 patch — bright scarlet, crimson lake, pale pink, pale 
 salmon, deep yellow, pale yellow, and white. 
 
 It has always seemed to me that this little plant 
 has a very independent character of its own. It 
 shows indeed an obstinacy and determination to have 
 
PORTULACA 229 
 
 its own way not at all unlike that of human beings. 
 If it does not want to grow, nothing you can do 
 will persuade it to do so. If it makes up its mind 
 to grow, it will do so in spite of any obstacles that 
 may be put in its way, and I have known it to 
 indulge in unmistakable " sulks " from jealousy. 
 
 The border, which is now revelling in sunshine, 
 was grown from seed sown in a pan under glass in 
 the spring. The seedlings all came up well, and 
 seemed strong, healthy little plants. When they 
 were about an inch high they were all, with the 
 exception of twenty-five, planted out into their 
 present position. The five-and-twenty were destined 
 to be given to a friend who complained that he 
 could not raise portulaca from seed, and so were 
 left in the pan till a convenient opportunity occurred 
 for transferring them to his garden. Apparently 
 they resented being left behind ; for from that day 
 they absolutely refused to grow another scrap, but 
 simply sat and sulked in the pan. At the present 
 moment each of those that were planted out, covers 
 about three-quarters of a foot square, while those 
 that were left in the pan have remained precisely 
 as they were when the others were removed, and 
 are still little inch-high seedlings. 
 
 In the background behind the portulaca is a row 
 of sweet-scented tobacco. They are large plants. 
 
230 PORTULACA 
 
 from two to four feet high, and from five o'clock 
 in the afternoon, on, are covered with white blos- 
 soms. During the daytime they are rather shabby 
 plants, being covered with dirty-looking, tightly- 
 rolled-up buds. All through this hot weather they 
 have slept peacefully with the sun scorching down 
 on their heads, much to the disgust, it seems to me, 
 of the portulacas. " Look at those stupid old 
 tobaccos ! " they seem to say, " asleep on a day 
 like this! They really ought to be ashamed of 
 themselves." About five o'clock the tobaccos 
 waken up : all the white blossoms open out in the 
 evening air, and, bending over, they look with equal 
 contempt at the portulacas, which by this time are 
 fast asleep, with all their eyes tightly closed. 
 
XXXII 
 
 THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 
 
 It was a hot sultry day, and I had spent the 
 morning picking roses. Tom Tug, my young 
 bull-dog, had gone with me — as he usually does — 
 following me in a heavy, lazy sort of way, from 
 bush to bush, and flopping down in the shade while 
 I picked. Then when I had picked a basketful of 
 tea roses, he had carried it down the white, dusty 
 road for me. We took the roses to a friend, and, 
 when we had emptied the basket, went into her 
 garden to look at a large purple clematis and a 
 white everlasting pea that were climbing luxuriantly 
 up a wall. She picked some sprays covered thickly 
 with the purple and white blossoms and filled our 
 
 empty basket, and Tom Tug carried it up the road 
 
 231 
 
232 THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 
 
 again, looking solemn and dignified beyond his 
 years with the weight of responsibility. 
 
 Lunch was waiting for us when we got back. I 
 put the basket on the table, meaning to put the 
 flowers in water afterwards. It was a common 
 white chip basket. But the flowers had arranged 
 themselves picturesquely, as flowers will if left to 
 themselves, and were tumbling over the edge of the 
 basket in graceful sprays, so that it made a pretty 
 object, standing on the corner of the table, not far 
 from a dish with a ripe yellow melon. 
 
 The room was hot. The blinds were down, but 
 the windows were open, and a slight breeze stirred 
 the blinds and let in every now and then streaks of 
 the hot sunshine from out of doors. A party of 
 flies were dancing round on the ceihng, and occa- 
 sionally making descents on to the lunch-table and 
 disgusting us by nibbling the sugar, and taking 
 sips at the fruit-tart, and setting one wondering 
 how it was that civilization had advanced so far 
 without having invented a means of annihilating 
 household flies. 
 
 Another party was annoying Tom Tug, who, hot 
 and tired after his walk, lay stretched full length on 
 the carpet, in a flat and loose way, suggestive of an 
 ideal state of repose. "What a disgusting bore 
 these flies are ! " he seemed to say, as he lay watch- 
 
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 233 
 
 ing them with half-closed eyes. Every now and 
 then he made a vicious snap and click with his jaws, 
 but he never seemed to catch one. They flew away 
 laughing — up to the table to annoy us, or to join 
 the dance on the ceiling, or merely made a little 
 circle in the air, and returned to tease Tom Tug. 
 Two or three of them were playing round the 
 basket of purple clematis, making circles in the air 
 and alighting on the handle. One of the grey- 
 purple clematis buds that hung over the edge of 
 the basket was nodding gently up and down. As 
 I watched it idly I caught sight of a greeny -brown 
 spider moving about and apparently engaged in 
 making fast his tackle. Suddenly he swung him- 
 self off the bud and climbed rapidly up an invisible 
 ladder till he reached the handle of the basket. 
 Here he paused and sat down for a minute. One 
 of the flies alighted on the handle of the basket, 
 a few inches from where he was sitting. The spider 
 apparently saw him ; for he crouched down for a 
 second and then ran underneath the handle and 
 " lay low." We could just see the tip of one of his 
 legs sticking out from underneath. The fly began 
 walking in the direction of the spot where he lay 
 hid — but along the far edge of the handle, which 
 was a broad one. When he got near, he apparently 
 caught sight of the projecting black claw, for he 
 
2 34 THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 
 
 turned and began deliberately walking towards it. 
 I put my fingers in my ears, expecting a pounce 
 on the part of the spider. The fly walked calmly 
 to the edge, and looked over. There was a spas- 
 modic jerk of the black claw, and — the fly flew gaily 
 off and joined the dance on the ceihng; 
 
 As soon as he had gone, the spider came out from 
 his hiding-place, and ran backwards and forwards 
 along the handle, laying his net. Once or twice 
 he let himself down with his legs sprawling into the 
 middle of the flowers, and after running about from 
 one blossom to another, hauled himself up again, 
 or climbed up some invisible ladder to another part 
 of the basket — on one occasion even running across 
 a suspension-bridge to the melon, hastily laying a 
 few nets there, and then going back to the basket by 
 the bridge, and taking up his position on the edge. 
 
 After dancing on the ceiling for a few seconds 
 while the spider was thus engaged, the fly came 
 back and alighted on the handle just above the 
 spider. He imitated the action of washing his 
 hands (to show his unconcern, I suppose), and then 
 giving a kick to his wings with his hind legs, pro- 
 ceeded to walk down the handle. The spider on 
 the edge of the basket at once began walking 
 towards him. He seemed carefully to have timed 
 his pace so that they must inevitably meet when 
 
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 235 
 
 the fly reached the foot of the handle. And so 
 they undoubtedly would if the fly's courage had 
 not failed when he was within an inch of the 
 bottom. He hesitated, faltered, and then, with a 
 " bizz," flew off and described several circles in the 
 air, in which he contrived almost to brush the 
 spider's face — a proceeding that enraged that 
 "insect" so that he could hardly contain himself 
 Each time he passed close to him he raised his 
 paw, as if he would have liked to grab him ; but 
 the fly was so quick that he never even succeeded 
 in touching him. After describing about a dozen 
 circles the fly again ahghted on the handle and pro- 
 ceeded to perform rather an elaborate toilet. The 
 spider meantime, I suppose to give vent to his 
 feelings, or perhaps merely to show what could be 
 done, employed his time letting himself down to 
 the table-cloth — all his legs flying — and hauling 
 himself up again — a proceeding that somewhat 
 alarmed the fly, for he flew off to the window, and 
 it was some seconds before he ventured to come 
 back again. When he did, the spider seemed 
 somewhat to have recovered his self-control, and 
 for some seconds he busied himself with his web, 
 running backwards and forwards on the basket and 
 in and out among the flowers, leaving a little thread 
 wherever he went. 
 
236 THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 
 
 A little gust of wind blew the blind aside and let 
 a band of sunshine on to the table and showed us 
 the basket enveloped in a perfect net-work of silken 
 threads. After running hither and thither for some 
 minutes and making knots, he sat down and 
 watched. Then a sort of game began — a game of 
 " catch-who-catch-can," or " I-spy-I " — between the 
 two. The fly would go as near as he dared to the 
 spider without being caught, flying off" as soon as 
 the spider made the slightest movement. As he 
 gut near, the spider would crouch down and settle 
 himself for a pounce. The fly would go so near 
 that the pounce seemed imminent, and I would 
 instinctively put my fingers in my ears and lean 
 away from them with my nerves taut to snapping 
 point, when just as they were in each other's arms 
 the fly would whisk off with a little "bizz" of 
 mockery — perform a circle or two in the air, during 
 which he would, so to speak, pull the spider's nose 
 in passing — and, alighting at a safe distance, would 
 again perform his silly toilet. After a round or 
 two of this the spider seemed to be quivering with 
 rage and excitement, and to be hardly able to 
 control himself. The curious thing was, that the 
 fly seemed to be quite proof against the dangers of 
 the web. Whether it was that he saw the threads 
 and picked his steps so as to avoid them, I do not 
 
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 237 
 
 know, but he walked about among them without so 
 much as stumbling. 
 
 Once or twice the spider seized the opportunity 
 of the fly's circling round to hide himself behind a 
 leaf, doubtless thinking that if the fly did not see 
 him he would have a better chance. But even this 
 subterfuge failed. The fly would spot him at once, 
 and alighting at a safe distance from which he 
 could easily escape if the spider darted out, remark 
 slyly, "Ah! I see you, hiding behind a leaf!" and 
 fly off again. When he did this the spider nearly 
 burst with rage. In fact, after the game had 
 gone on for some minutes, he seemed to be posi- 
 tively worn out with excitement, and to be tremb- 
 ling in every limb. The fly, on the other hand, 
 remairted as cool as a cucumber. 
 
 I could stand it no longer. I gave the fly a 
 shove, and tried to push him into one of the webs, 
 but he flew off laughing at me as he had done at 
 the spider. Then I said to the spider, " I am very 
 sorry to disturb you, and break all the little webs 
 you have taken such trouble to make ; but, believe 
 me, you will be far happier on the jasmine outside 
 the window, than in this hot lunch-room, being 
 teased by rude flies ; " and I lifted up the spray of 
 clematis on which he happened to be sitting, and 
 carried it to] the open window. By dint of sundry 
 
238 THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 
 
 jerks and shakes I succeeded in transferring him 
 to a jasmine leaf that was looking in at the 
 window, and left him sitting there, probably a 
 little bewildered at the sudden change in his 
 circumstances. 
 
 As I turned back from the window to put the 
 flowers in water, Tom Tug made a successful snap 
 at a fly. He chewed it a few minutes, swallowed it 
 thoughtfully, and slept on. I do not know one fly 
 from another, but I shall always believe that that 
 tiresome fly met with its reward. 
 
XXXIII 
 
 IN THE DARK 
 
 It is in hot, sultry weather such as we have liad 
 lately that one sees something of the garden under 
 a different aspect — in the dark. The night air 
 entices us from our houses into the open, where, 
 with a deep transparent sky over our heads instead 
 of a roof, and a moist dewy earth beneath our feet in- 
 stead of a carpet, we can enjoy the cool darkness and 
 silence that have taken the place of hot sunshine 
 and the chatting and humming of birds and insects. 
 
 My dream of having plenty of sweet-scented 
 tobacco has been fully realized, and at night for 
 some weeks past the garden has been fragrant with 
 it. In the spring 1 sowed the better part of a very 
 small threepenny packet of the seed in two earthen- 
 ware pans. The results are two rows of about sixty 
 
 239 
 
240 IN THE DARK 
 
 feet in length of tall plants which have flourished 
 splendidly in the hot, dry weather, and which are 
 covered with the^ white trumpet-shaped blossoms. 
 On hot, still nights, the air is so laden with the 
 scent that it finds its way through the open windows 
 into the house. 
 
 There is something curiously impressive about 
 these flowers that keep a night vigil while every- 
 thing else slumbers. In one of the beds of her- 
 baceous plants in the flower-garden is a plant of 
 CEnothera eximia, one of the largest of the evening 
 primroses, towards which our footsteps have con- 
 stantly turned of late. Its white blossom is one 
 of the most remarkable things I have ever seen. 
 The foliage, something like that of a dandelion 
 (though not so much so as that of CEnothera taraxa- 
 cifolia), lies in flat tufts on the ground ; and the 
 blossom, which is by night a pure luminous white, 
 rests on it with its petals outspread, and its face 
 exposed to the sky, looking like a pale earth-moon 
 in the dark. Ours is a small plant, and only one 
 blossom has opened at a time. The solitariness 
 adds, I think, to its impressiveness, and also lends 
 it a curious conspicuousness, so that the pale disc 
 attracts one's attention from a distance. Lying 
 there, white and shining in the midst of darkness 
 and slumber, it looks awake and alive in every fibre, 
 
IN THE DARK 241 
 
 and as it were poised in expectation of something — 
 the visit, it may be, of some winged night moth or 
 insect. That these blossoms of the night receive 
 such ghostly visitors is a fact with a suggestion of 
 " eeriness." They make themselves as conspicuous 
 as possible, it is said, in order to attract them. For 
 in their eager search for honey the insects brush 
 the pollen about and fertilize the plant. CEnothera 
 eximia has an enormously long neck. One might 
 almost think that, in its desire to be seen, it was 
 craning it upward — stretching itself as far as possible 
 tip away from the ground — ^which for aught I know 
 may be the case. 
 
 The wakefulness of these night blossoms seems 
 to throw the slumber of the rest of the garden into 
 relief. The plants whose forms one sees dimly 
 outlined bow their heads in sleep, and if one listens 
 one seems to hear a universal breathing, so that one 
 instinctively hushes the scrunching of one's foot- 
 steps on the gravel path, and lowers one's voice to 
 a whisper. 
 
 For Tom Tug, the bull-dog, these night rambles 
 in the garden palpitate with excitement. The dark- 
 ness is alive with things, smells, and sounds that are 
 hidden from our grosser senses. His eyes, ears, 
 nose are everywhere, and his march along the 
 darkest path a series of surprises and thrills. Be- 
 
242 IN THE DARK 
 
 yond giving an occasional glance to see that we are 
 following properly, his attention is entirely riveted 
 on the gloom — peering into the darkness, pricking 
 his ears, starting suddenly in pursuit of some in- 
 visible winged creature, or pursuing some earth- 
 bound insect with his nose to the ground. 
 
 Sometimes the object is conspicuous enough to 
 be apparent even to our clumsier senses, and follow- 
 ing close upon him we have been in time to see a 
 pale moth flit in among the plants, or a fat worm 
 rapidly withdraw its length into a hole in the grass, 
 or a toad hop heavily away into the bushes. 
 
 Like other people, toads prefer the cool darkness 
 to take their walks abroad in, rather than hot sun- 
 shine. There have been so many of them sitting 
 about in the paths enjoying the night air, that we 
 have been glad of Tom Tug's services as forerunner 
 to hurry them out of danger from our footsteps. 
 This he does very effectively by pursuing them 
 along the ground with his nose, and occasionally 
 giving them a shove which causes them to hop. 
 Having discovered that he had only to touch the 
 toad with his nose (pull the string, as it were) to 
 make it hop, he becomes so enamoured of the 
 game that he persists in it till the toad gives in 
 from fatigue and refuses to hop any more. He 
 then tries stirring it up with his paw. But this we 
 
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 x^\i 
 
 
 
 
 
IN THE DARK 243 
 
 think rough on the toad, and have given him to 
 understand that it is against the rules of the game 
 to employ anything but his nose. 
 
 During the hot weather I have rarely met with 
 a toad in the daytime. They prefer, I suppose, 
 to stay in their holes or in the shade behind stones 
 or the leaves of plants. The other day, however, 
 when in the midst of the heat we were visited by 
 a refreshing shower of rain, dozens emerged from 
 their hiding-places and enjoyed shower-baths. I 
 took refuge in the greenhouse and sat there while 
 the shower lasted, enjoying the sound of the rain- 
 drops rattling on the glass roof, and hoping it 
 would go on for several hours. It lasted only a 
 few minutes — enough, however, to turn the grey 
 earth brown, and to give a delicious moist, dewy 
 appearance to everything that had been dry and 
 dusty. This the toads seemed to appreciate, for 
 when I went round the garden afterwards I saw 
 numbers of them stirring about among the weeds 
 in the shrubberies and sitting in the paths. I 
 watched a very fat (presumably) mother toad taking 
 three very small toads for a walk in one of the 
 flower-beds, and showing an energy that was quite 
 untoadlike, and can, I think, only have been inspired 
 by the rain. 
 
 The greatest surprise which these walks in the 
 
244 ^N THE DARK 
 
 dark have produced, so far, for Tom Tug has been 
 a hedgehog, which we came upon one night in the 
 middle of the path. Tom saw it first some way 
 ahead. He suddenly stood stock still with his ears 
 pricked and " pointed." Following his gaze we 
 could see a round dark object on the path, which 
 might have been a stone, except for an appearance 
 of softness round the edges. Tom's behaviour, 
 however, indicated that it was something far more 
 unusual than a stone. After gazing at it for a 
 second or two, and obviously making some mental 
 ejaculations, he darted forward and proceeded to 
 smell it all round very cautiously, turning to us 
 with eager excitement as we came up, as if to beg 
 us to look at the thing. "What an extraordinary 
 creature ! — covered with pricks, too, by Jove I " 
 he exclaimed, as he inadvertently smelt it a little 
 too close. It was a pathetic-looking little object 
 sitting there in the dark with its shoulders hunched 
 up, trying to hide its nose away, and, like Tar-Baby, 
 "sayin' nuffin." 
 
 The most impressive thing about these slow- 
 moving creatures, toads, hedgehogs, and the like, 
 is their silence and dumbness. They seem to have 
 so much more to say, and to be so much less 
 capable of saying it, than creatures that move 
 rapidly. There is nothing so eloquently dumb as 
 
IN THE DARK 245 
 
 a toad. A frog is talkative compared with it, and 
 as for such rapidly jumping and running creatures 
 as " bunnies," they positively annoy one with their 
 chatter. 
 
 Tom Tug showed a disposition, after having had 
 his nose pricked, to engage in conflict with the 
 hedgehog. He pranced round and barked remarks 
 apparently calculated to rouse it to action. " Now, 
 then, old prickly-bag ! Come on and have a 
 game ! " He became so boisterous at last, that 
 we were afraid of his molesting the creature, and 
 were obliged to take him by the collar and lead 
 him away to a safe distance, where from the shadow 
 of a tree we watched the hedgehog extricate his 
 head and walk off into tlie bushes. 
 
XXXIV 
 
 ROSE-BEETLES 
 
 The poor roses were being destroyed. And 
 
 the destroyer was an innocent little beetle, not 
 
 much bigger than a ladybird, with pretty bron!z;e 
 
 wings. There were four or five of them in each 
 
 rose, busily eating large holes in the petals. They 
 
 had quite finished a great many of the roses. 
 
 Nothing was left but the centre, with a few ragged 
 
 strings — the remains of the petals — hanging from 
 
 them. I loathe killing things; but as I gazed 
 
 at my poor eaten roses I swore that those beetles 
 
 should die, if I had to massacre them with my 
 
 own hands. I cast round in my mind for a way of 
 
 dispatching them that should be at once summary 
 
 and inoffensive. I remembered that one of my 
 
 brothers used to prepare a sort of lethal chamber 
 
 for butterflies with crushed laurel-leaves in a bottle. 
 
 246 
 
ROSE-BEETLES 247 
 
 The laurel-leaves sent them to sleep, and, as he 
 explained to me, " When they woke up they found 
 they were dead." 
 
 I hunted about till I found a large earthenware 
 pot. I half filled it with young laurel-leaves, 
 which I crushed till they gave out a pungent 
 smell of bitter almonds. Then I went to the 
 rose-bush and resolutely shook the roses over it 
 till the beetles fell in. When I had half cleared 
 the bush I looked in to see how they were getting 
 on, and was surprised to find that they were not 
 yet asleep. They were walking about among the 
 laurel-leaves — -lazily, drowsily, it is true, as if the 
 lulling effect had begun — but were apparently 
 quite awake. By way of hurrying them up, I 
 turned the pot upside down on the grass, and, 
 putting a large stone on the top, left it for half- 
 an-hour. Then I came back, meaning to bury 
 the corpses and finish off the rest of the beetles. 
 I lifted up the pot. I am not prepared to say 
 that none of them had closed their eyes; but 
 whether they had or not, they at once opened 
 them again. They all walked out from under the 
 laurel-leaves in a brisk, business-like sort of way, 
 saying, "Well, that is about the poorest attempt 
 at a lethal chamber I ever came across ; " unfurled 
 grey cobwebby wings from under their bronze 
 
248 ROSE-BEETLES 
 
 sheaths; there was a whirr-r-r! round my head, 
 and they all flew straight back to the rose-bush, 
 leaving me sitting on the grass. 
 
 I was obliged to admit that they had scored, 
 but I was not going to be- beaten. I called 
 William to my aid, and without teUing him of 
 my feeble attempt asked him what he thought 
 would be the best way of exterminating the horrible 
 little beetles that were destroying the roses. He 
 looked at them, picked a few off the flowers, 
 squashed them between ■ his finger and thumb, 
 and threw them on to the ground, with as much 
 unconcern as if he had been picking bits of thread 
 oflp his coat, and suggested syringing the bushes 
 with tobacco-juice. I told him to go and get 
 some. While he was away I searched for the 
 beetles he had pinched and thrown on the ground, 
 and, as I expected, found none of them quite dead. 
 They lay mutilated and maimed on their backs, 
 kicking their legs in the air. I finished each one 
 off carefully by stamping on it, but made up my 
 mind I would have no more killed that way. 
 
 He came back in a few minutes with a can 
 full of dirty brown stuff" and a syringe. As he 
 began to fill the syringe, preparatory to squirting 
 the bush, I indulged in a few sentimental reflections 
 over the fate of the poor little beetles whose only 
 
ROSE-BEETLES 249 
 
 crime was that they ate rose-leaves, who were now 
 without warning or preparation to be squirted into 
 eternity with tobacco-juice. And then I stood 
 aside to let him squirt, anticipating a shower of 
 little corpses on to the ground, where I made up 
 my mind they should be swept up and given decent 
 burial. 
 
 Swish! went a fine shower of tobacco-juice over 
 the roses. And then there was a pause, during 
 which William and I watched the beetles, expecting 
 to see them all tumble down dead. But tobacco- 
 juice was obviously not quite such sudden death 
 to them as I expected. One or two of them put 
 their noses in the air and sniffed, as if to say, 
 " Who's smoking bad tobacco ? " Then they 
 buried them in the roses again and continued 
 browsing. "You must give them some more, 
 William," I said; ''that wasn't quite enough." 
 He filled the syringe again and soused the tree. 
 Then again, and again, till he had nearly emptied 
 the can. They had apparently made up their 
 minds that it was only a rather dirty shower of 
 rain. One or two who got very wet stepped out 
 of the rose and shook themselves ; and some of 
 them moved to another blossom. But as for 
 dropping down dead, it did not even occur to 
 them. I looked at William. "They don't seem 
 
2 50 ROSE-BEETLES 
 
 to mind it much, do tiiey ? " He smiled. " No, 
 they don't, m'm." And he proceeded to pick 
 some more off, and pinch them — this time a little 
 more vindictively — and throw them on to the 
 ground. "That's no use, William," I said, hastily. 
 " It would take a week to kill them like that. I 
 shall try dropping them into the tobacco-juice. 
 That is sure to kill them at once. Give me the 
 can, and you can go back to your work." 
 
 There was still a good deal of the brown liquid 
 at the bottom of the can, and a mass of sodden 
 tobacco protruded above the surface. I held the 
 can near the bush and began boldly shaking the 
 beetles off into it. This onslaught seemed to 
 cause them some alarm. Some of them became 
 hysterical and lay on their backs with their legs 
 tucked away, pretending to be dead. But I was 
 determined not to be overcome by sentiment. I 
 continued to shake violently and resolutely for 
 nearly five minutes. Then I looked into the can. 
 They were all struggling and swimming about in 
 the dirty brown stuff, and climbing up the tobacco 
 mountains, as lively as possible, and apparently 
 no nearer eternity than they had been on the 
 rose-bush. I sat and watched them for a whole 
 minute, thinking that every moment would be their 
 last. And then — I blush to relate — I could bear 
 
ROSE-BEETLES 251 
 
 their struggles no longer. I took a piece of grass 
 and helped them all out. They showed their 
 gratitude by flying straight back to the rose-bush. 
 I sat down on the grass and wondered what I 
 had better do next. Obviously I must have some- 
 thing much stronger than tobacco-juice. I be- 
 thought me of a bottle of carbolic I had in the 
 house. One of the directions on it was, "To 
 destroy insect pests, mix half-a-pint in a gallon of 
 water." I went indoors and prepared a cupful, 
 about six times stronger than that recommended, 
 for I was determined that this time death should 
 be instantaneous. I would witness no more 
 struggles. I carried it out to the rose-bush, 
 popped a beetle in, and watched the effect. He 
 swam about apparently none the worse, but he 
 seemed to dislike the smell, for he tried to get 
 up the side of the cup. I put the cup down and 
 determined not to look at it for the space of two 
 minutes. By that time he would certainly be 
 dead. I took out my watch, and seating myself 
 on the grass proceeded to count the seconds. In 
 spite of my resolve I kept involuntarily glancing 
 at the cup every few seconds, and could see from 
 the commotion going on in it that the beetle still 
 lived. At the end of two minutes, which seemed 
 an eternity, I went and looked at him. He was 
 
252 ROSE-BEETLES 
 
 climbing up the side of the cup, and had nearly 
 reached the top. I had a momentary impulse to 
 push him back again, but I resisted it as base and 
 inhuman, and sat and watched him. In another 
 moment he had got his hand over the edge of 
 the cup, and had pulled himself up. He spent 
 a few moments drying his under wings, which had 
 got a little damp. Then he spread them and flew 
 straight back to the rose-bush. 
 
 I was standing looking helplessly at the poor 
 ragged roses when Max and a friend of his came 
 into the garden. " Look at these dreadful beetles ! " 
 I cried. " How is one to kill them ? I have 
 tried laurel-leaves, tobacco-juice, and carbolic. 
 Nothing seems to have the least effect on them." 
 •' Boil them," suggested Max. I shuddered. " I 
 couldn't," I said; "it would be too brutal." 
 " Boiling is not the least use," said the other man, 
 who seemed to know something about beetles. 
 " It only stupefies them, and they wake up after- 
 wards. A friend sent me a beetle from Africa a 
 few years ago. He thought he had better kill it 
 before he sent it, to keep it quiet on the journey. 
 So first he boiled it. Then he packed it in 
 creosote and sawdust in a tin box and sent it to 
 me by post. It took about a fortnight coming, 
 and when it arrived I unpacked it, stuck a pin 
 
ROSE-BEETLES 253 
 
 through it, and put it in my beetle collection. 
 About a month afterwards I went to look at it, and 
 found it slowly waving its hand in the air. It had 
 just wakened up. 
 
 "No. There is only one way to kill a beetle. 
 And that is, to grind it to powder with your heel. 
 And even then you must keep your eye on the 
 fragments, or they will get up and stick themselves 
 together again." 
 
 The beetles are still browsing among the roses. 
 
XXXV 
 
 HOLLYHOCKS 
 
 In August, if one walks about the country lanes, 
 one may see hollyhocks in perfection in the cottage 
 gardens. I passed such a garden yesterday, in the 
 midst of which, by dodging the fruit-trees and 
 bushes that grew round it, I caught sight of the 
 thatched roof and eyes of a whitewashed cottage, 
 looking as if it had dropped there .by accident, 
 and was too comfortable to move. The tall spikes 
 of the hollyhocks shot up from what looked like 
 a tangle of fruit-bushes and vegetables, and looked 
 over the hawthorn hedge into the lane, flaunting 
 their gorgeous pink, white, and yellow rosettes at 
 the passers-by. 
 
 There is nothing so pink as the pink of a 
 254 
 
HOLLYHOCKS 255 
 
 hollyhock. It is as complete and satisfactory as 
 a colour can be, and reminds one, in its effect, of 
 one of those old Italian tunes whose chords and 
 harmonies have a perfection and finish that com- 
 pletely satisfies. A tall, pink hollyhock is like a 
 perfect Idyll — one painted with the delicacy of a 
 Miss Mary Wilkins — whose predominant note is 
 sunshine and delicate colouring. In the cottage 
 garden the Idyll is of dairymaids in pink cotton 
 frocks— of cottage maidens with pink cheeks — of 
 apple- blossoms in an orchard, and the air is full 
 of the breath of new milk and new-mown hay. 
 
 In the garden of the rich — for the hollyhock 
 adapts itself to its surroundings wherever it is, 
 and is as much at home in the palace as in the 
 cottage — the Idyll has the formal grace of a 
 minuet. Instead of dairymaids, it is of men and 
 maidens in periwigs, ruffles, and silken gowns, of 
 terraces with peacocks and clipped yew-trees, and 
 the air is full of lavender and pot-pourri. 
 
 It is a flower that in its appearance and colouring 
 belongs to the last century, and it almost seems 
 as if Nature, thinking it out of harmony with the 
 present day, were determined to destroy it. For, 
 while man struggles to cultivate it and does all 
 he can to encourage it to grow and flower, Nature 
 wages incessant war against it by afflicting it with 
 
256 HOLLYHOCKS 
 
 all manner of disease. So persistent is she in her 
 efforts to' exterminate it, that gardeners are^ begin- 
 ning to weary of an unequal combat, and are giving 
 up trying to grow it. 
 
 For a long time the chief things it suffered from 
 were those little pests called "red spider" and 
 " thrip." Red spider looks to the naked eye like 
 a little reddish-yellow dust on the underneath side 
 of the leaf. If you look at it through a magnifying- 
 glass, you see that the dust is made up of a number 
 of nasty little crab-like-looking things. Under 
 their malign influence the leaves turn brown and 
 rusty, and the plant gradually shrivels away. 
 Thrip is an objectionable-looking little black thing, 
 with a long-shaped, pointed body, that lives also 
 on the under side of the leaf, and whose effect on 
 the plant is very much the same as that of red 
 spider. They are both most troublesome things 
 to cope with. They are not so sensitive to fumes 
 as green-fliy, and it is very difficult to smoke them 
 out. The best plan is to syringe them or dip the 
 plant into some pretty strong insecticide. When 
 the plant is a small one growing in a pot this is 
 practicable, but for tall hollyhocks growing out 
 of doors dipping is an impossibility, and syringing 
 so difficult as to be almost impracticable, each leaf 
 having to be syringed underneath. 
 
HOLLYHOCKS 257 
 
 It often occurs to one when looking at these tiny 
 creatures that live and have their being on plants — 
 apparently as unconscious of our existence as we 
 are of the inhabitants of another planet — to wonder 
 whether we too may not be a blight on, say, some 
 fruit, and the showers of rain that are poured down 
 upon us the futile attempt of an irate gardener to 
 syringe us away. Who knows whether red spider 
 and thrip, living on their plant-world, may not have 
 a system of civilization and society as elaborate as 
 our own, perceptible only to themselves — a fabric 
 of the imagination, as some philosophers would 
 have us believe are the etceteras of life — dwellings, 
 clothes, and the like — with which we surround 
 ourselves ? 
 
 It may be so ; but until we have accurate 
 information on the subject we cannot admit their 
 right to exist, and we use all means in our power, 
 fair or foul, to exterminate them. As if it were 
 not enough that the hollyhocks should be afflicted 
 with these two odious inhabitants. Nature has lately 
 gone out of her way to invent a new disease for 
 them — a special disease all to themselves. This 
 is a small grey-brown fungus that grows on the 
 under side of the leaf — always on the under side, 
 where it is more difficult to get at it — and gradually 
 spreads and eats the life out of the plant. When 
 
258 HOLLYHOCKS 
 
 the plant is attacked by this disease — and it is 
 getting more and more common among them — the 
 only thing is to pull it up and burn it. 
 
 Last week I saw a splendid set of hollyhock seed- 
 lings, in apparently a most flourishing condition. 
 Although only this year's seedlings, they were tall, 
 large plants, and most of them were showing for 
 flower. The foliage was abundant and of a healthy 
 green, and I was surprised when the owner said 
 that the fungus had begun to attack them all. He 
 said he was trying to keep it in check by picking 
 off and burning the leaves on which the small brown 
 spots were to be seen, adding that he considered it 
 quite worth while to make the attempt to grow 
 such ornamental things, even in the face of obstacles, 
 and that if this collection succumbed he would 
 certainly try again. 
 
 Though the ideal colour for a hollyhock is pink, 
 some of the other colours are much to be admired. 
 The yellow and the white shading to a delicate 
 green in the centre, are very delicate and pretty, 
 both in the double and single kinds, and there is a 
 rich deep maroon that is very fine. 
 
 Like most flowers that grow on spikes, hollyhocks 
 have a way of beginning to wither at the bottom 
 before they have finished coming out at the top, 
 which sometimes gives them an untidy, shabby 
 
HOLLYHOCKS 259 
 
 appearance. Wallflowers, foxgloves, delphiniums, 
 " red-hot pokers," and most flowers with long 
 spikes, have this habit, which makes them very tire- 
 some to pick. One must pick them before the 
 topmost buds are out, for if one waits till they have 
 all opened, one has to put up with a shabby fringe 
 of withered blossoms round the lower part of the 
 stalk. 
 
 In the autumn we planted one or two bulbs of 
 the much-talked-of Eremurus. They were interest- 
 ing-looking things when they first came up, the 
 large bulb leaves, folded round each other, looking 
 like a gigantic asparagus head. It may be that the 
 situation did not suit them, and that we did not see 
 the flowers at their best, but I was much disappointed 
 in their appearance. They produced tall thick 
 spikes, covered with small whitish blossoms. But 
 the lower blossoms withered and turned a dirty 
 brown long before the top ones came out, so that 
 from the beginning the spikes were untidy and 
 unsightly. 
 
 One of the prettiest of these pyramid flowers, 
 which blossoms about this time of year, is the white 
 summer hyacinth, Hyacinthus candicans. It grows 
 a tall spike several feet high, hung round with 
 graceful white bells. It is a thing that looks very 
 well in a border of herbaceous plants, but perhaps 
 
26o HOLLYHOCKS 
 
 even better among somewhat wild surroundings, 
 and planted not too close together. Lately I saw 
 groups of them dotted about among long grass, 
 against a background of green trees. The whiteness 
 and distinctness of the bells, which are hung far 
 apart on the stalk — not clustered close together — 
 made them conspicuous and striking-looking things 
 among the green. 
 
 But the most perfect of these flowers in spikes 
 that I have ever seen was a white campanula 
 growing indoors in a pot. The spikes, of which 
 there were several, were about three feet long, and 
 quite two-thirds of each was entirely covered with 
 pure white bells — every one, from the lowest to 
 the topmost, quite perfect, and without the least 
 symptom of withering. 
 
 If a hollyhock is the pinkest thing there is, the 
 little scarlet tropseolum {Tropceolum speciosum) is 
 the reddest. Unfortunately it is also one of those 
 "contrairy" little things that will not grow unless 
 it is so minded. But when it does grow it is so 
 beautiful that, as in the case of hollyhocks, it is 
 worth making many attempts. It grows luxuriantly 
 in some parts of Surrey, and will cover a stone wall 
 or a trellis with a thick matting of the pale green 
 leaves covered with the deep scarlet blossoms — a 
 scarlet so vivid that it catches one's eye at a great 
 
HOLLYHOCKS 261 
 
 distance. Its sister, the common yellow canariensis, 
 is far easier to cultivate. It has an amiable way of 
 growing wherever you put it. It is a pretty, 
 graceful little thing, but beside the gorgeous red 
 of the other, reminds one somehow of a plain 
 maiden at a disadvantage beside a beautiful sister. 
 
XXXVI 
 
 HEATHER AND BRACKfeN 
 
 Among plants, as among animals, there are some 
 that refuse to be tamed. Do what you will — ■ 
 imprison them, treat them with severity, or even 
 with kindness — they refuse to bend their necks to 
 the yoke of domesticity. They have a sturdy 
 independence that refuses to adapt itself — a wild- 
 ness that will not be subdued. 
 
 Heather and bracken choose their own hills and 
 dells and soil, and cling to them with a wiry stub- 
 bornness impossible to overcome. So strong an 
 individuality and character of their own have they, 
 that they seem to impart it to the air, for even if 
 we burn and root them out their spirit seems to 
 hover over the spot. 
 
 Long ago I tried to capture and tame a little bit 
 
 of moor for a corner of my garden. There was a 
 
 262 
 
HEATHER AND BRACKEN 263 
 
 sandy hillock, and a dell beneath a fir-tree, which I 
 had set my heart on covering with heather and 
 lining with bracken ; and when about to return 
 home from a place where heather and bracken ran 
 wild about the hills and among the fir-trees, I spent 
 a morning tearing plants from the grey sandy soil 
 in order to transplant them to this corner of my 
 garden. It was literally tearing. For the roots of 
 bracken run about in a tangled mesh beneath the 
 soil, and one small plant will often have yards of 
 roots — dark-brown wiry roots, milky white inside, 
 tough to pull up, and yet almost impossible to 
 extract unbroken. 
 
 I succeeded with great difficulty in getting up 
 about a dozen small plants and several tufts of 
 heather. As I planted them far away from their 
 native soil, in a garden which lay in the midst of 
 cultivated fields and hedgerows, I wondered how 
 they would endure to live away from their kind, 
 where the air, instead of being the wild, pure air of a 
 moor, was heavy with the breath of agriculture, of 
 pasture lands, grazing animals, farm-yards, and sleepy 
 villages. Perhaps it was my want of faith that 
 took the courage out of them, for they made no 
 effort to live. The bracken died down and never 
 came up again. The heather grew on, but it 
 became a different sort of thing — a kind of domestic 
 
.264 HEATHER AND BRACKEN 
 
 heath instead of a little wild heather plant, so that I 
 lost all interest in it, and scarcely noticed when it, 
 too, died away. 
 
 Since then I have realized what a foolish thing it 
 was to imagine I could transplant the moor into 
 such surroundings. As well might one think to 
 transplant the Alps to one's back-yard by bringing 
 back a bit of granite in one's pocket — or to entice 
 the ocean into one's bedroom in a box of sea-salt 
 from the grocer's. 
 
 Luckily, it is not only more convenient, but in 
 most cases far pleasanter, to do as Mahomet did — 
 go to the mountain, instead of wasting time trying 
 to make the mountain come to us. Instead of 
 trying to make heather and bracken grow in a 
 garden where soil, atmosphere, and surroundings 
 are uncongenial — ^where they are at best like caged 
 beasts at the Zoo — one should go and see them on 
 their own hills, where they are growing wild and 
 untamed, and where sun, sky, mist, and breeze are 
 pure and untainted by man and his works. 
 
 I had been away from the heather and the 
 bracken for some time, and it seemed to me, 
 coming straight from a garden of domesticated 
 plants, lying in the midst of meadows, pastures, and 
 white-washed villages, that the purple of the heather- 
 clad hills was more intense, the green of the bracken 
 
HEATHER AND BRACKEN 265 
 
 more refreshing, and the air and sun purer than I had 
 known it before. There was a feeling of a wild, 
 untamed bird about the place — a hawk it might be, 
 or a night-jar, with the sound, startling and soothing 
 at the same time, of its heavy flopping wings. 
 
 As I walked over the hills, following the tracks of 
 silver sand that ran among the heather, listened to 
 the hum of the bees swarming among the purple 
 bells, and caught whifFs of the honey they were 
 gathering, I wondered whether grossness, villany, 
 or even low-spirits could live in such a place ; 
 whether even the impurest, most world-enslavened 
 soul would not be swept clean by such a breeze as 
 that playing about me. All the worries of domes- 
 ticity, of people crowding round, and the weariness 
 of having to do the same tiresome thing every day, 
 seemed to have been blown away. I had a brand- 
 new soul. Life had a new face. Dull routine had 
 had the dust and dirt swept off, and looked fresh 
 and even interesting. 
 
 There is something about the texture and smell 
 of bracken that rouses in me feelings almost " too 
 deep for words," particularly about the smell and 
 taste (for I have often eaten them) of the little 
 woolly curled fronds when they first peep out of 
 the earth. One of the things that has left a lasting 
 impression on my mind is a walk at sunset over a 
 
266 HEATHER AND BRACKEN 
 
 hill where the year before a heath fire had burned 
 the heather and left the earth black and charred. 
 All over the charred crackly blackness little points 
 of green were appearing^ — tiny tufts of new green 
 heather and soft curled fronds of bracken, with 
 their little bowed heads bathed in the sunset glow. 
 The young green things pushing up out of the 
 dead blackness looked so fresh and living, and at 
 the same time so touching, that I felt inclined to 
 stoop and stroke their heads. 
 
 The smell of bracken is one of the freshest things 
 in the world. The smell of new-mown hay is sweet 
 and clean, but there clings about it suggestions of 
 humanity: idyllic, arcadian humanity it may be, 
 but linked with the squalor of civilization. The 
 smell of bracken is as wild as a bird and as fresh 
 and pure as a mountain breeze. One can imagine 
 no existence purer or cleaner than to be in the 
 midst of green bracken all day, and to make one's 
 couch of it dried and brown at night. To awake 
 in the early morning on a dried bracken couch 
 with the keen air of pines and heather about one, 
 would make one strong enough to face the world. 
 When one compares it with the awakening in a 
 stuffy lodging, enveloped in stuffy lumpy mat- 
 tresses, pillows, and bedclothes, blinds and curtains, 
 all heavy with suggestions of dirty humanity — one 
 
HEATHER AND BRACKEN 267 
 
 longs to throw off the wrappings of civilization and 
 be a savage once more. 
 
 Heather is in even closer contact with sky and 
 wind than bracken, but more with the sun, perhaps, 
 than either. The sim seems to beat down with 
 more directness on heather than on anything else. 
 There is nothing between them to interrupt the 
 contact. The heather stretches its arms upwards 
 and draws the sun towards it — and the sun pours 
 its heat down, hot and fierce and undiluted. You 
 feel that it has come straight, has not wasted any 
 of its strength elsewhere on the way. I have seen 
 the sun beating with a fierceness that scorched, on 
 an old grey stone wall. But it was an old time- 
 worn sun — not fresh from the fountain-head. I 
 had seen it myself the day before resting on a 
 whitewashed, thatched cottage ; and the week be- 
 fore it was idly loafing among the beehives and 
 gooseberries in the garden at the back of the farm. 
 The creatures that live in the heather — grass- 
 hoppers, lizards, snakes, beetles, and spiders — are 
 sun-lovers. They seem to lead a happier, healthier 
 life than other insects — a free, Bohemian, gipsy 
 sort of life, wandering about at will and basking 
 in the sun. 
 
 As I sat on the heather bank leaning my arm 
 on one of the little bushes that was quite warm 
 
268 HEATHER AND BRACKEN 
 
 from the sun it had been absorbing, and looked 
 down at the small patch beneath my feet — (a 
 square yard it might be) — at the sandy, peaty soil, 
 the scattered fir-cones, the little bits of stick and 
 dried leaves, and tufts of bilberries (some with 
 brilliant red leaves), and the beetles and spiders 
 that were walking about, and drew into my lungs 
 the clear, invigorating air, and felt, it seemed to 
 me, more pleasantly warm than I had ever felt 
 before, my mind wandered back to the time long 
 ago when, in the midst of the heather I made a 
 tiny garden in the belief that the fairies would 
 come and play and garden in it at night. It was 
 on the slope of a hill, where a sandy path had 
 been cut. Just near the path, up a little bank, 
 was a bare patch — a sort of clearing of stony, grey, 
 sandy ground, with heather bushes all round it, 
 except in front, where it looked down the bank. 
 With my penknife I cut steps up the sandy bank — 
 and then with small heather sticks made a paling 
 and railed in the part that was open to the path, 
 and put a gate at the top of the steps. Then I 
 employed all my ingenuity in making flower-beds, 
 and paths, and rockeries,, and hillocks. I picked 
 tiny fragment's of plants in the real garden — buds 
 or small blossoms, to fill the flower-beds. Early 
 in the morning, before breakfast, when everything 
 
HEATHER AND BRACKEN 269 
 
 was covered in mist and dew, and the spiders' 
 webs were like diamond necklaces, I hurried down 
 in the hopes of catching sight of the fairies before 
 they had gone. I searched the sandy soil for tiny 
 footprints, and so firm was my belief that the fairies 
 had spent the night there, that I easily persuaded 
 myself they were plainly to be seen. 
 
XXXVII 
 
 BEES 
 
 I WAS spending a week of perfect laziness away 
 from home, enjoying somebody else's garden. The 
 lime-trees were in full blossom and filling the air 
 with a delicious smell of midsummer. I sat be- 
 neath them in a green bower, and looked up into 
 the thick heavy foliage, weighed down by clusters 
 of yellow blossoms, and absorbed the drowsy 
 summer hum made of the blending of sounds far 
 and near, that was going on all round me. 
 
 Gradually a vast humming in the lime-trees 
 overhead seemed to separate itself from the rest and 
 force my attention. It was as if the huge tree, 
 having reached the height of its glory and splen- 
 dour, were singing for joy. The yellow hanging 
 blossoms that weighed the branches towards earth 
 
 were being weighed down still further by millions 
 
 270 
 
BEES 271 
 
 of bees that clung and clustered, burying their noses 
 eagerly in the honey-laden blossoms, and pulling 
 and tugging at them till the branches nodded and 
 dipped as if stirred by the wind. 
 
 It was the bees' harvest, and between the lime- 
 trees and the kitchen-garden a ceaseless stream of 
 bees almost darkened the air as they flew. It was 
 an old-fashioned kitchen-garden, full of old-fashioned 
 flowers, such as bees love, surrounded by an old 
 grey stone wall. Centuries of absorbing the sun 
 seemed to have given the wall a heat of its own, 
 which it shed out on to the fruit and flowers, so 
 that the kitchen-garden always felt warm, even 
 when the sun was not shining. Paths bordered 
 with neat box ran through it, and round by the 
 wall ; and the borders on either side were gay with 
 flowers— tall hollyhocks of all colours, scarlet 
 poppies, blue cornflowers, white lilies, yellow mari- 
 golds, and untidy rose-bushes scattering their petals 
 lavishly on the ground, and dappling the path with 
 red and yellow. 
 
 It was only a short journey from the lime-trees 
 to the garden, and the bees laden with honey-bags 
 flew straight (in a bee-line) to the diminutive grey 
 houses that stood in a row behind the gooseberry- 
 bushes, beneath the shelter of the wall. The sun 
 beating down on the wall and on the roofs of the 
 
272 BEES 
 
 hives gave one a feeling that summer had settled 
 down in this quiet, sunny spot, and meant to stay. 
 
 One had to make one's way through the prickly 
 gooseberry-bushes to watch the ceaseless stream of 
 bees passing in and out of the hive — a noiseless, 
 busy little crowd ; the new-comers laden with little 
 yellow bags, alighting at the threshold and passing 
 in through the miniature door, and the empty- 
 handed coming out, spreading their wings, and 
 away to the lime-trees for more. 
 
 We had taken the honey that morning. Dressed 
 in bee-dresses, as a protection in case they should 
 resent our intrusion, we had spoiled the hives, which 
 we found well filled with honey. For the modern 
 bee seems to have grasped the fact that he has to 
 feed not only himself, but thousands of greedy 
 human beings, and buckles to and makes a great 
 deal more honey than he can possibly devour him- 
 self. Perhaps he thinks that if he does his best we 
 may be content to take only our share, and leave 
 enough for him. 
 
 One of the hives was literally overflowing with 
 honey. The bees came swarming and tumbling 
 out of the roof as we took it off; Not only were 
 all the little square frames with which the hive was 
 stocked, quite full, but from the roof hung great 
 heavy lumps of honeycomb, which the bees were 
 
BEES 273 
 
 busy rapidly filling with the clear, sweet liquid. 
 They had filled the main body of the hive as full 
 as it could hold, and then such profusion were the 
 flowers yielding that they were piling it up in every 
 available corner in great untidy lumps, such as 
 they like to make if left to themselves. One or two 
 bees were busy putting the finishing-touches to the 
 squares of honey in the lower part of the hive — • 
 sealing the honeycomb, as they call it. In other 
 words, they were putting the lids on the last of the 
 hundreds of little honey-pots of which a piece of 
 honeycomb is made. 
 
 What excites one's admiration in a bee is, next 
 to the neat perfection with which he does his work, 
 the little fuss he makes about it. Think of the 
 amount of clumsy paraphernalia we human beings 
 want for making jam-pots and filling them with 
 jam — the huge buildings full of huge machines, 
 the great furnaces to keep the machines going, 
 the hundreds of carts to carry the materials about, 
 the terrific noise, the awful mess — and then think 
 of a bee. He just chews a little, and produces the 
 material out of his Inside without more ado. (At 
 least, so I believe ; but his ways are a mystery to 
 me.) Then with his own hand he makes the most 
 perfectly symmetrical and beautiful little honey-pot 
 that can be imagined, of fine white wax, like the 
 
274 BEES 
 
 most delicate porcelain. Then he journeys back- 
 wards and forwards to the flower-garden or the lime- 
 tree till he has filled it to the brim with honey. 
 Then he chews a little again, and produces a lid 
 which he fastens on so cunningly that you would 
 think it was part of the honey-pot. When one 
 thinks that one small bee can do this all by himself 
 without the help of a single machine, one feels 
 almost ashamed of the human race, and begins 
 to sympathize with the people who look forward 
 to the time when each man shall learn to make 
 one thing with his own hands extremely well, 
 instead of making a thousand things horribly, with 
 dirty, noisy machines. 
 
 "The bee is little among such as fly, but her 
 fruit is the chief of sweet things," I murmured as 
 I watched them in the lime-tree. Thousands of 
 years have rolled away since it was said, and yet 
 what was true of the bee then is true of it still. 
 She is still little among such as fly, and her fruit 
 is still the chief of sweet things. From time 
 immemorial bees have swarmed, have collected 
 honey from flowers and stored it away for the 
 winter, when the flowers had ceased to bloom. 
 Their surroundings have changed, it is true, and 
 they have learned to adapt themselves to them, 
 but their ways and methods remain precisely the 
 
BEES 275 
 
 same as they were a thousand years ago. From 
 having hidden her honey in the hole of a tree 
 where it was safe, unless the savage or the bear 
 happened upon it, she has learnt to store it up 
 in all sorts of traps devised by man's cunning and 
 greed — from the old-fashioned straw beehive of 
 our grandmothers, that suggests thatched cottages 
 slumbering amid an untidy profusion of flowers 
 and vegetables, to the modern villa of a beehive 
 fitted with all sorts of newfangled appliances, and 
 filled with rows of little square boxes to teach bees 
 to be symmetrical and make their honey in neat 
 squares, instead of great untidy luscious lumps, 
 as they were wont to do when they had nothing 
 better than the trunk of a tree to store it in. But 
 in spite of modern appliances and civilization 
 generally, the bee remains the same. It continues 
 to follow the dictates of its nature, and makes its 
 honey and performs its functions in precisely the 
 same way that it did in prehistoric ages. In 
 which respect it is very much like everybody 
 else. Human beings have learnt to live in different 
 shaped houses, to wear different clothes, and to 
 adapt themselves to different tools, but the man 
 of to-day, and even the woman of to-day, are 
 singularly like the man and woman of the pre- 
 historic past. 
 
276 BEES 
 
 We had tea under the lime-trees. And honey 
 in a lordly dish was brought out — one of the great 
 irregular pendants that we had taken out of the 
 roof in the morning. As I took a large spoonful 
 of it on to my plate I paused to count the little 
 white honey-pots. Tliere were nearly a hundred — 
 all brimful of honey and neatly covered with lids. 
 I thought of the little bee and the number of 
 journeys he must have made to and from the lime- 
 tree, or the flower-beds, as he helped to fill them, 
 and how tired he must have felt as he made his 
 last journey with the heavy honey-bags at his side. 
 Then I put the hundred honey-pots on a piece of 
 toast and scrunched them up, and thought how 
 good the honey wasj 
 
 When, afterwards, I lay in the hammock, and 
 looked up into the lime-trees again to see how the 
 bees were getting on, I found that all the ordinary 
 bees had gone — home to bed, I suppose — and 
 there were nothing but bumble-bees left. Of all 
 insects the good-natured, pleasure-loving, woolly 
 bumble-bee is the one for which I feel most 
 affection. When I watch him burrowing his nose 
 for honey among the flowers, I find it impossible 
 to resist stroking his woolly back. As I watched 
 them gorging themselves with honey among the 
 lime blossoms, and dropping off drunk on to the 
 
BEES 277 
 
 lawn, where they lay intoxicated with honey, I 
 thought to myself that after all they have the best 
 of it. Instead of toiling all through the summer 
 to make honey for a winter which, after all, might 
 never come, they give themselves up to enjoying 
 the present. They make of the summer one 
 intoxicating revel among the flowers, and die of 
 pleasure before the winter comes. 
 
XXXVIII 
 
 GOURDS 
 
 It may have been the story of Jonah and the 
 Gourd that suggested it ; but when we planted the 
 seeds I quite expected them to do something out 
 of the way. We had bought a packet from a 
 seedsman, containing about a dozen different kinds 
 of gourds. They were for the most part labelled 
 "Giant Melons," and were described as green, 
 yellow, green with yellow stripes, and so forth. 
 Tlie seeds themselves were like those of a vegetable- 
 marrow, only larger. 
 
 We planted them in pots in the green-house in 
 
 April, and I awaited the result with some curiosity. 
 
 From the first their behaviour was such as to 
 
 justify my expectations. Instead of coming up 
 
 quietly, like other seeds, they created a disturbance 
 
 278 
 
GOURDS 279 
 
 in the pot, which gave it the appearance of having 
 suffered from a shock of earthquake. To look at 
 the surface of the soil beneath which they were 
 buried one could hardly believe it concealed a dozen 
 or so of quiet and apparently inanimate melon-seeds, 
 but was inclined to think one must have planted 
 beetles or snakes by mistake, and that they were 
 all making violent efforts to escape an involuntary 
 imprisonment; for the soil was all stirred up into 
 hillocks and deep cracks. Through the cracks 
 here and there one caught sight of a white loop, 
 like the arched neck of a swan, that was pushing 
 the earth up and creating a chasm. Some of these 
 loops were as thick as my little finger. 
 
 A day or two later the loops had forced their 
 way up, shaken the earth off their heads, and were 
 all above ground. Some of them at this stage 
 kept their noses in bags made of the husks of the 
 seeds. They very soon shook these off, however, 
 and showed two leaves folded together like praying 
 hands. The next thing they did was to spread 
 these out, stretch themselves upright, and show 
 themselves to be unmistakable plants. In a day 
 or two they looked like any ordinary cucumber or 
 vegetable marrow. They grew rapidly, but with 
 nothing Hke the rapidity ascribed to Jonah's gourd. 
 Rapidly enough, however, to necessitate their being 
 
28o GOURDS 
 
 potted into separate pots at the end of a week and 
 transferred to one of the frames. 
 
 In one part of the garden is a triangular bit of 
 ground with chestnut-trees along one side, which 
 for some time past had been waste ground, growing 
 nothing but coarse grass and weeds. It was an 
 eyesore to Max, and he was continually wondering 
 what to do with it, till it occurred to him to fill it 
 with the gourds which were rapidly outgrowing 
 the frame, besides occupying valuable space. The 
 ground was dug up forthwith, and a series of round 
 pits made all over it. These were filled with vege- 
 table rubbish — dead leaves and manure — and, after 
 a time, a gourd planted in the middle of each. 
 
 They continued to grow quickly, but in a quiet 
 orderly fashion, forming large circular tufts of their 
 big leaves, and showing no disposition to straggle 
 about on the ground. Indeed, I do not believe it 
 would have entered the head of one of those gourds 
 to climb or straggle unless it had been suggested to 
 them. 
 
 The pits, each one containing a plant, formed 
 two parallel rows about three yards apart, which 
 curved over the waste ground, making a sort of 
 path with gourd plants on each side. Into the 
 ground, close to each plant, were driven poles about 
 fifteen feet long. These two rows of poles were 
 
GOURDS 281 
 
 then bent towards each other and their tops tied 
 together. This made a sort of tent-like corridor, 
 which was strengthened by other poles fastened 
 horizontal-wise the whole length of each side. 
 When this framework of a corridor with its pointed 
 roof was finished, I went and walked through it and 
 tried to imagine it thickly covered with green. I 
 looked at the gourds sitting at the foot of each pole, 
 and thought to myself, " If Max and William think 
 those little gourds are going to climb those 
 enormous poles and cover this erection with green, 
 I am afraid they will be disappointed." For I 
 had never seen plants that looked less inclined to 
 climb, nor more inclined to stay where they were. 
 
 Three or four days later I passed them by, and, 
 to my great surprise, saw that one of them was 
 already three feet up the pole and was apparently 
 climbing it hand-over-hand as fast as he could go. 
 The happy thought set the fashion. They one 
 and all set to work to climb, and in an incredibly 
 short time — a day or two it seemed; some weeks 
 in reality, I suppose — they had all reached the top 
 of the erection, and many of them were stretching 
 their heads a good foot up in the air, like cater- 
 pillars, trying to see if there was not anything 
 higher they could catch hold of. 
 
 Climbing plants are very seldom given an oppor- 
 
282 GOURDS 
 
 tunity of showiog what they can do in the way of 
 climbing. Their aspirations are checked by the 
 shortness of the poles or sticks put for them to 
 climb. We had a row of aspiring scarlet-runners 
 in our kitchen-garden this year that I was quite 
 sorry for. Full of enthusiasm for climbing, they 
 rushed joyfully up to the top of the sticks, and 
 then found that they could go no further. They 
 all stood waving their heads in the air in a melan- 
 choly fashion, feeling about for something to catch 
 hold of. Some of them were even trying to pre- 
 tend to themselves that they had sticks, and were 
 drawing themselves up spiral-wise round nothing 
 at all. 
 
 While climbing up the poles, the gourds had not 
 neglected to send out side-runners horizontally; so 
 that, by the time they reached the top, the tent- 
 like corridor was thickly covered with green leaves, 
 among which were dotted large yellow blossoms. 
 The blossoms of vegetables are often very pretty, 
 but we are apt to look upon them as a mere 
 means to an end, and consequently despise them 
 as flowers. Nothing is prettier than the blossom 
 of the scarlet-runner, but because its function is 
 to produce beans our minds refuse to look upon 
 the blossom as worthy of consideration. The yellow 
 trumpet flowers of gourds, vegetable-marrows, and 
 
GOURDS 283 
 
 cu(5umbers are extremely beautiful, and if they 
 were to stop there, and not turn into vegetable- 
 marrows and cucumbers, they would doubtless 
 call forth much admiration. As it is, their beauty 
 is entirely lost sight of in the thought that they are 
 one day to minister to our greed. 
 
 As an instance of the intelligence of gourds I 
 relate the following incident. About a dozen of 
 the plants were given no poles to climb. They 
 were not wanted for the corridor, so were merely 
 dotted about on the ground to fill up the space. 
 Most of them were content to remain neat circular 
 bushes on the ground, and produced their yellow 
 blossoms and fruit in due course. But three of 
 them, doubtless possessed of greater enterprise and 
 originality than the others, looked about them, 
 and, noting the fact that while some had been 
 given poles to climb they had been given none, 
 determined not to be outdone. They were a long 
 way — several yards — from the nearest pole ; but on 
 the other side at a distance of from two to three 
 yards were the chestnut-trees. For these they 
 made, in an absolute bee-line, each one choosing 
 the tree nearest to him, and not swerving an inch 
 till they reached the foot. Only one of them, how- 
 ever, thought it worth while to climb the trees when 
 they had reached them. The others apparently 
 
284 GOURDS 
 
 acquired a taste for running about on the 
 ground and making roots on the way, and lost 
 sight of what had obviously been their original 
 object. 
 
 Inside the tent the plants having climbed to the 
 top and covered the walls with their large leaves 
 and yellow blossoms, they set about making gourds. 
 Like people blowing soap-bubbles, they seemed to 
 vie with each other as to who could produce the 
 most enormous fruit. Though I have occasion- 
 ally come across overgrown vegetable-marrows and 
 pumpkins, the size of these gourds was a revelation 
 to me. Suspended from the roof and sides of the 
 tent, they looked colossal. I almost trembled as I 
 walked beneath them lest they should fall on my 
 head, in which case they would inevitably have 
 flattened me out. Many of them were so large 
 that I could barely get my arrns round them in an 
 embrace. 
 
 I did not try to lift any of them ; but, from the 
 way they hung, and the way some of them lay on 
 the ground, they gave an impression of great 
 weight, so that one wondered that the stalk, though 
 tolerably thick, was able to support them. 
 
 " What shall we do with them ? " I asked 
 Max, as we walked through the tent looking at 
 them. 
 
GOURDS 285 
 
 " Give them to the harvest festival," he 
 answered. 
 
 " But suppose the harvest festival doesn't want 
 them ? " 
 
 "Then we can send them to the jumble sale." 
 
XXXIX 
 
 A HEDGE OF SWEET-PEAS 
 
 It is September, and the garden begins to wear a 
 look of autumn. There are still flowers in plenty, 
 but the midsummer blaze of colour is gone, and a 
 sombre hue has taken its place. 
 
 In a corner of the kitchen-garden a little splash of 
 summer seems to have stayed behind. It is a hedge 
 of sweet-peas, sown late in the season and now 
 covered with blossoms. When I pass it by, and 
 still more when I stand picking the flowers, I 
 imagine myself once more in Aunt Matilda's garden 
 where long ago I spent so many happy days. 
 
 What a luxurious paradise of flowers it was ! 
 
 There were great beds of roses, so thick together 
 
 that when you stood in the middle you could see 
 
 nothing but roses all around you, and could without 
 
 moving bury your face in masses of crimson and 
 
 286 
 
A HEDGE OF SWEET-PEAS 287 
 
 yellow, or clusters of white or pink. There were 
 whole gardens of mignonette which scented the air, 
 and to which all the bees in the neighbourhood 
 came to gather their harvest. There were long 
 borders of sweet lavender, the whole length of the 
 kitchen-garden, along which one walked, and, as one 
 crushed the fragrance in one's fingers, dreamt of 
 old-fashioned gardens and last century maidens 
 picking bunches to put among the linen in the old 
 oak presses ; and great thick hedges of sweet-brier 
 and sweet-peas, whose delicious scent wafted on the 
 air came and went in whiffs as one wandered about 
 the paths. 
 
 Every now and then something brings back 
 to me a whifif of the enchanting atmosphere of 
 that garden. For, as a child, I spent several 
 months of each year in it — playing and wandering 
 at will, and helping my old friend to tend her 
 flowers. 
 
 My love of sweet-peas dates from that time, and 
 of all things they have most power to recall those 
 happy days. For on one occasion Aunt Matilda 
 -poured twelve little brown seeds into my hand, and 
 told me that each one contained a large leafy plant, 
 with sweet-smelling blossoms packed away inside it 
 and held prisoner by some enchantment, and that if 
 I planted them in my garden and watered them, I 
 
288 A HEDGE OF SWEET-PEAS 
 
 should break the enchantment and set them free, so 
 that they would shoot up out of the earth and grow 
 higher than my head. 
 
 I planted them, and watched for many days — for 
 years it seemed — till one morning there were twelve 
 little cracks in the brown earth, and twelve tiny 
 yellow shoots peeping out of them. From that day 
 I lived In my garden, watching them grow, and 
 weaving romances for each separate plant. It is a 
 long time ago, and the garden has faded to a dim, 
 misty picture. But a whiff from a sweet-pea hedge 
 wafted on the air, or the sight of a deep purple 
 blossom, the first of the twelve to come out, carries 
 me back like a flash, and I find myself, again, for a 
 brief moment only, in that wonderful garden world, 
 in an atmosphere where succulent green things 
 growing out of the moist brown earth tinged every- 
 thing with wonder and romance. 
 
 So when, last May, I saw on the counter of the 
 village shop two little penny packets of sweet- 
 peas, with gaudy pictures of the blossoms outside, 
 and heard the old woman say they were the last she 
 had, though I had long since sowed my sweet- 
 peas for the year, I paid my two-pence and took 
 them home, thinking, as in the old days, that I 
 would plant them and set them free from their little 
 prison-houses. 
 
A HEDGE OF SWEET-PEAS 289 
 
 I walked about the garden looking for an empty 
 spot to sow them in; but every scrap of space 
 seemed to be filled up, for it was already well on in 
 May, and late for sowing seeds. At last in the 
 kitchen-garden I found a strip of ground in front of 
 the currant-bushes that seemed to have been for- 
 gotten. With a trowel I dug up the earth till it 
 was quite soft and fine and smooth on the top. 
 Then I opened the gaudy packets and counted the 
 seeds, pouring them one by one into my hand. 
 They were generous penny packets — one hundred 
 seeds in one and eighty in the other — enough to 
 make a triple row if not sowed too close together, for 
 the strip was about fifteen feet long. I set to work 
 and punctured little pits in the soft earth with my 
 finger — one even row the whole length of the strip, 
 and behind it a second, beginning midway between 
 the two first pits, so that they might be alternate, 
 and behind that a third. Then I popped the peas 
 in, one little brown ball into each hole, and filled 
 them up with some rich soil that the gardenef kept 
 for potting. 
 
 The baby sweet-pea's deadly enemy is, as I knew, 
 the sparrow. He sits on a tree watching them, and 
 as soon as they show their noses out of the earth 
 he nips them off" — not to eat apparently, for as often 
 as not he leaves the poor little heads on the ground, 
 
290 A HEDGE OF SWEET-PEAS 
 
 but simply because it amuses him. The best way 
 to frustrate him is to hedge your seeds with a row 
 of sticks driven into the ground, and then with a 
 reel of fine black cotton go from stick to stick, this 
 way and that, across and backwards and forwards, 
 till you have made a wide-meshed net a few inches 
 from the ground. When the wicked sparrow, 
 having watched you safely out of sight, alights to 
 nip off the innocent young plant that is taking its 
 first peep into the world, he is so scared by this 
 something he cannot see that his wings strike 
 against, that he flees in terror from the spot and 
 avoids it for the future. 
 
 It took me a long time — the better part of a hot 
 afternoon — to make this protection for the peas. 
 But it was a pleasant occupation, suited to the 
 weather, and I did it in a leisurely way. I walked 
 about under the trees, and picked up sticks of a 
 suitable size till I had a goodly bundle. Then I 
 sat in the shade, and cut them to the same length 
 with my penknife, whittling one end to a point that 
 it might run the more easily into the ground, and 
 making a notched ring at the other to wind the 
 cotton round. When I had finished I drove them 
 into the earth in a hne round the strip of ground 
 where the peas lay buried, and wound the cotton 
 from one stick to another across and across till I 
 
A HEDGE OF SWEET-PEAS 291 
 
 had made an invisible net. This part of the opera- 
 tion, which entailed kneeling on the ground and 
 bending over, was tiring, and made my back ache. 
 Then with a watering-can I let a shower of fine 
 spray fall upon the earth, backwards and forwards 
 and along till I was sure the moisture had pene- 
 trated down each little pit and soaked the inmate 
 till his brown husk was soft and pliant so that the 
 yellow shoot could make its way through quite 
 easily. 
 
 I went away and forgot about them for ten 
 minutes. It may possibly have been ten days, but 
 it seemed like ten minutes. And when I went back 
 to look at them again, there they were all standing 
 straight up in three even rows — little green shoots, 
 each one with a leaf ready to unfurl, looking as 
 pleased as possible with themselves and the world 
 in general, and mocking themselves of the sparrows 
 who sat watching them from a neighbouring tree, 
 doubtless feeling they had been considerably scored 
 off. 
 
 They grew up rapidly. A row of branching 
 sticks on either side encouraged them to send out 
 leafy shoots in all directions, and tendrils with which 
 they caught hold of the branches and pulled them- 
 selves up till they formed a thick green hedge, 
 through which you could hardly see the sticks, and 
 
292 A HEDGE OF SWEET-PEAS 
 
 which quite hid the currant-bushes behind. And 
 as soon as they reached the top the buds began to 
 appear and open out noiselessly in the sun till the 
 green hedge was a mass of variegated colour — deep 
 purple, crimson, pink and white. Such profusion 
 of flowers were there that they had to stretch out 
 and tumble from the hedge to get at the sun. The 
 quiet little corner of the kitchen-garden was filled 
 with their delicate scent, and transformed into the 
 most brilliant spot in the garden by their colour. 
 
 It almost seems as if- they must know of the 
 narrow escape they had of remaining imprisoned 
 the whole year through, and that they are deter- 
 mined to make the most of their unexpected life. 
 
 It is September now — and the hedge is still in 
 full bloom. Every day I pick great sweet-smelling 
 bunches, and every day new buds open out to take 
 their place — so that it looks always the same. In 
 fact, at this moment it looks as if it would bloom 
 for ever. 
 
 As I walk along picking, picking, with the sun 
 beating down on the hedge and on my head, I say 
 to myself, "Is it possible that only three months 
 ago all this beauty was packed away in two little 
 packets of tiny balls that I could hold in my hand 
 and which I bought in the village shop for two- 
 pence ? " 
 
XL 
 
 AUTUMN 
 
 As summer whisks away and autumn glides in, a 
 solemn grown-up air seems to come over the garden. 
 Instead of giddy little annuals blazing with colour, 
 rioting about on the ground, and jostling each other 
 to hold their faces up to the sun, the borders are 
 full of tall, thoughtful bushes, sunflowers, dahlias, 
 and the like, hanging their heads pensively, flowers 
 of more sombre hue than those of midsummer, 
 dusky reds, browns, and above all of the colour that 
 seems to belong most of all to autumn — yellow. 
 
 It is as if, after the excitement of summer and seed- 
 making, there came a sort of lull, while the plants 
 reviewed their past and made plans for the future. 
 
 As one walks about one feels a subdued hush. 
 293 
 
294 ^ UTUMN 
 
 The plants have had their time of levity and hilarity, 
 and are beginning to settle down and ponder on 
 the shortness of life and the mysteries of creation. 
 A spirit of thoughtful repose hangs over everything, 
 the same (only to a greater degree) as that which 
 falls over the garden at twilight— the unconscious 
 foreshadowing, it may be, of their long slumber to 
 come during the winter months. 
 
 As for us, we feel a little pensive too. Summer 
 has danced past us once more, and there are five or 
 six sombre months to be gone through before we 
 can see her gay colours again. We find ourselves 
 beguiled by the spirit of meditation, and, like the 
 plants, take to reviewing our past and making plans 
 for the future. 
 
 Making plans for the future plays by far the 
 most important part in our meditations. For hope 
 springs eternal in the gardener's breast. The 
 coming year is full of endless possibilities, and no 
 sooner does one season draw to a close than we are 
 eager for the next. The flowers for one year are no 
 sooner over than we set about gathering seeds for 
 that which is to come. We pore over illustrated 
 catalogues and spend endless time planning what 
 we shall sow. We wander about the flower-beds 
 mentally rearranging, transplanting and uprooting, 
 and we are full of eager anticipations as to what 
 
AUTUMN 295 
 
 our garden will look like when our dreams have 
 come to pass. 
 
 Meantime a great gathering-in has begun. All 
 over the country, people are gathering ripe things. 
 Husbandmen are gathering corn and fruits in the 
 fields and orchards; boys and girls are gathering 
 nuts and blackberries in the lanes ; and gardeners 
 are gathering seeds in the garden. The seed- 
 merchants are especially busy, collecting the seeds, 
 sorting them, making them up into little packets 
 and labelling them ready to be distributed all over 
 the country to those who want them, and making 
 illustrated catalogues describing the beautiful results 
 that may be hoped for by those who buy and sow 
 them. And so many people are there eager to buy 
 and sow, that seed merchants grow rich from the 
 sale of their seeds. 
 
 On a small scale we, too, have been busy gathering 
 seeds in our little patch of ground. The more 
 one sees of seeds the more does one marvel at them. 
 I. find myself continually exclaiming, " What 
 extraordinary things seeds are ! " with as much 
 fervour as if it were a new and original remark. 
 The queerness and diversity of shape in the vessels 
 plants keep their seeds in is endless. It is as if 
 Nature had amused herself seeing how many 
 different-shaped bags and boxes she could invent. 
 
296 AUTUMN 
 
 and in how many different ways she could pack 
 up the seeds. Not being a botanist I know not 
 whether she has allowed herself to be governed by 
 any law in her methods. To an ignoramus, with 
 a very limited field of observation, she appears to 
 have been governed purely by caprice. To one 
 plant she will give a seed -pod containing only one 
 seed. To another equally deserving, as far as one 
 can see, she will give several thousands ; it may be 
 millions, but I fear to exaggerate. She will give 
 to one small plant a seed as big as a bird's egg, 
 while to another larger plant she will give a seed 
 so small that a few hundred of them look like a 
 little brown dust. She will give one plant an 
 enormous seed-pod containing the stingiest allow- 
 ance of seeds, while to another she will give a small 
 insignificant-looking seed-pod so full and tightly 
 packed that one wonders, as one pours them out, 
 so small a vessel can contain them. 
 
 In the matter of the seeds themselves she does 
 not seem to have displayed such bewilderiiig in- 
 genuity. Among such common things as I am 
 acquainted with she seems for the most part to 
 have been content to make beans and balls of 
 various sizes and colours, and little wedge-shaped 
 and triangular things. I noticed that she has 
 taken pains t6 black-lead and polish the portulaca 
 
A UTUMN 297 
 
 seed, so as to give them a metallic appearance. 
 But then she doubtless felt that portulaca ought to 
 have seed a little different from other things. 
 
 When nuts begin to ripen one feels that summer 
 is already round the corner. The brown of a hazel 
 nut is autumn, with no streak of summer in it. It 
 is like dead leaves with an October sun on them. 
 We have a hedge of filberts in the garden that are 
 brown and ripe, so that one can shake them from 
 the husks. A young squirrel has discovered them, 
 and enjoys many a meal among them- He is not 
 at all like the squirrel we were brought up to believe 
 in, who was always storing up nuts for the winter, 
 for he consumes all he finds on the premises, and 
 though I have watched him often, I have not seen 
 him carry away a single nut. 
 
 I watched him the other day from behind a tree 
 during a shower of rain. He looked very bedraggled 
 running about on the tree with his fur plastered 
 down and all the fluff gone out of his tail. If I 
 had not been convinced that he could not see me, 
 I should have suspected him of trying to show -off 
 how many nuts he could devour in a minute. I 
 never saw a creature eat so rapidly. He ran about 
 from branch to branch, pausing at the foot of each 
 twig and looking along it interrogatively to see if 
 there were any nuts at the end. If there happened 
 
298 A UTUMN 
 
 to be a bunch he trusted himself fearlessly to the 
 slenderest twig, and while it swayed up and down 
 with his weight, ran along, picked the bunch, and 
 hastened back to a more solid part of the tree. 
 There he sat on his haunches, and ate them as if 
 he were being paid by the job, gnawing the shell 
 through and dropping the bits on to the ground 
 so rapidly that they made quite a clatter, and 
 making such a grinding noise with his teeth that 
 if I had not seen him I should have thought it was 
 William sharpening his scythe. 
 
 A constant fight goes on between the wind and 
 the sun at this time of year. " It is my turn now," 
 says the wind ; " you have had your fun, I want 
 mine. You must clear out." And as soon as the 
 sun shows himself in the garden he rushes at him 
 and tries to chase him out. Sometimes they 
 wrestle and play together — dodge each other round 
 corners and tear about. But the wind gets the 
 best of it in the end, and it is only when his back 
 is turned, or he is having a nap, that the sun has a 
 chance. 
 
 One wishes one could prolong the autumn, with 
 its golden-brown hues and streaky fitful sunshine 
 and wind. We should like to keep the tall plants 
 with us for a month or two longer. But, clever as 
 we may think ourselves with our gardens — our 
 
AUTUMN 299 
 
 sowing and plantings, our pruning and tending — ■ 
 we cannot beguile the seasons, capture the sun, or 
 even tie up the wind. They will go their own way 
 regardless of our coaxing. 
 
 Very soon these same tall plants, with their 
 autumn gaudiness, will have drooped and made 
 mouldy rubbish-heaps. Then we shall light bon- 
 fires and burn them, and all the old weeds that 
 have also had their day — piling up, too, the 
 branches and leaves from the trees that the wind 
 will have blown down by that time. It is some- 
 thing to look forward to on misty October evenings, 
 these bonfires with their ruddy glow, and the blaze 
 and crackling they will make when we put on more 
 rubbish and stir them up. 
 
 There will not be much to do after that — nothing 
 in fact but to tuck the garden up in its brown 
 coverlet and leave it for the winter. 
 
 THE END 
 
 KichaTd Clay &' Sons, Limited^ London &^ Bnn^^ay.