All the Compton pots along the terrace are filled with blue Hyacinths and Forget-me-nots; all the beds about the house are stuffed with Tulips and again Forget-me-nots. Now, some people ‹we read in a garden-book the other day› eschew this plant, Myosotis silvestris, because “it spreads so rapidly that it may almost be regarded as a weed.” We are the kind of people who like our flowers to spread like weeds; especially when, as in the case of this attractive sinner, every bed becomes a delicate cloud of blue from which on long stems the Darwins rear their cups of wonderful colour.
A little later on, we mean to make the same use of Nemophila, which last year, in spite of ceaseless rain, kept bravely blue in the patch where it had been sown until quite the end of autumn.
Every one tells us that Madonna Lilies will not succeed in our soil. We are making another effort with giant bulbs, which, so far, promise splendidly.
Fate, in its unexpected way, has provided us with a double row of red Duc van Thol Tulips on each side of the two little rose beds that run down the grass slope under the bench yclept “Schöne Aussicht.” That particular slope, by the way, in the pristine days of jungle, was the worst bit of wilderness. Heather, Gorse, Bramble, Bracken and underwood made it simply impenetrable. Now, cleared and turfed, it leads the eye gently on to the Pine Tree Avenue; to the green of the fields beyond; to the valley and the distant hills. In a triangular bed at the top a clump of Lilac has been planted and carpeted beneath with “Bachelor’s Buttons.” Already it is very gay, although the Lilacs are only in bud. We believe these double Daisies go by another title in gardening circles, but this is a name associated with youthful memories. They ought to flourish the whole year round, since bachelors will always be in season. We shall see.
There is nothing that gives one a more intimate sense of the joy of spring than the renewed song of the birds. It is good to wake at early dawn and hear the soft sleepy calls and cries with which they first rouse each other, then the exquisite voice of thrush or blackbird, singing as it were under its breath the morning hymn which is one of the most touching things in Nature.
Just now a small bird was spinning out a monody as delicate and continuous and attenuated as a spider’s gossamer—some feathered mother, we fancy, cradling her eggs. We never heard any song quite like it before. Adam shakes his head and says we are bringing the birds about the house with our winter largesses; but one might as well be told that if you want to keep your house tidy you should banish the children!
Says Victor Hugo: