“Can you?”—and here the Master of Villino Loki, in a state of inveteracy and resentment foreign to his usually placid character, feels he must again speak in the first person—“Can you?” ‹this is sarcastic› “I tell you, sir, that for the last three years I have cut that infernal Bracken, not twice in the twelvemonth, but four times and more—and look at it!”
You may imagine me pointing, with an indignation difficult to repress, to some corner of the cleared ground that does not happen to have been visited quite lately by the spud or the furze-cutter.
“This,” I say with emphasis, “I myself purged of all visible Bracken only last month!”
Now, as a matter of fact, the space in question, if not actually covered with the pertinacious fronds, is dotted with scores, nay hundreds, of forceful shoots; some still cosily curled up in their “crosier” stage, others impudently stretching themselves under the sun and persisting, in spite of all edicts, in screening its rays from the hard-struggling grass. What chance has humble grass against a thing that will sprout three inches in one night? And, if you look closer, you perceive a host of baby offshoots cheerfully pushing from some deep-burrowing ancient subterranean body, its innumerable little bald heads between the sorely tried, recently established grass settlements.
Twice cut, forsooth!—Why, to this day, in the very middle of paths made three years ago ‹“Three—years-ago—sir!”›, you will discover here, there, and there again, a healthy shoot, sappy and erect, balancing its bright green plume right in the way, as if in defiance of all extermination.
No—the most that can be claimed as a result of the war which is still being waged upon the Brake is that, perhaps, this pertinacious growth is beginning to betray some signs of discouragement. The ranks of the legions, as they make their periodical reappearance with an obstinacy worthy of a better cause, grow a trifle thinner year by year.
“If you only cut them young,” says Adam, consolingly but with cruel imagery, “they say the roots will bleed to death.”
This—Corporal Nym would hint—is as may be. As in the case of our wonderful forbears, bloodletting in the Spring, if not really conducive to better health, seems to interfere little with their thriving. Meanwhile, happily, as no scion of Pteris Aquilina ‹if it cannot really be prevented from cropping up where it chooses› is now allowed ever to reach its baleful maturity, the desired and much-petted grass is gradually establishing itself. And, with that eager optimism in gardening matters which is a characteristic of the family at Villino Loki, we look forward, in a few years, to the prospect of a succession of grassy carpets from crest to foot on our hillside.
But this consummation, much desired, can, we are aware, only be secured by unremitting labour. Sometimes the Master of the House ‹who, having rashly vowed to achieve the task, considers himself bound to see it through himself› is assailed by something very like misdoubt as he rests awhile upon his spud, blunted by some two hours’ punching at sporadic croziers, and computes the remaining roods, nay, the acres, still to be dealt with ...
If seven men, with seven spuds