Days and hours in a garden

by E. V. B.

On the left are the Allée Verte, and the dovecote, and small orchard, bounded by Beech and Yew, and crossed by flower-bordered smooth-shaven grassy ways, all leading to the Broad Walk; on the right a little hidden path passes on to the oft-named Fantaisie. Just before coming to the Yew tree, on warm days ever since the beginning of the month, one is met and surrounded by a wonderful cloud of fragrance! One looks round in vain for some bed of flowers whence should proceed so powerful a scent. It is like the finest Jasmine and Citron, and I know not what of sweetest unknown incense. It is the greeting sent out from a dense mass of Spurge Laurel (Daphne pontifia), with unobtrusive green flowers in full bloom. It grows over a bit of the Iris bank, and its great luxuriance proves how it loves a southern aspect.

In our garden the birds have divided the kingdom amongst them, and in this half is the portion that fell to the reed sparrow. He keeps the Silver Birch alive with his busy note. Landmarks, known only to themselves, divide the territory of the reed sparrow from the realm of the nightingale. The fiery-hearted nightingale! He sings all day, and his song makes the night glorious. The north-east region of the garden he keeps for himself alone. There, on still evenings, long after sunset, is heard the faint barking of distant watch-dogs, or the sound of horses’ hoofs on the road. There is his favourite tree—the grand old Thorn—where, as he sings, he may press a thousand thorns into his breast! There, across the hedge, he sees the meadow with a shimmering yellow of Cowslips all over it—if Cowslips be his desire, as is said. There, not too far off, is the straight long railroad—and he loves the thunder of the train, and the red, fire-spitting engine; but late in the night, when there is dark and death-like silence among the trees, then the nightingale claims possession of the whole, and all the garden is his own. I know not if the nightingale’s song be melancholy or joyous. His voice has all the pathos of the finest things, and in the broken notes we feel that not all nor half his soul is uttered, and in each splendid fragment there is the sense of endless possibilities; this, I think, is the secret of the nightingale’s incomparable charm.

I have omitted to mention amongst our Pansies, a very choice kind. It is a curious burnt-brown colour, like the once fashionable “Paris brûlé.” We name it Highcliff, after the place from whence we had it first. Two large pink Oleanders in the greenhouse will soon be blossoming all over. We tried them last year in the open air, but they did not do, and had to return to their glass. A lovely face gazes at me all the time I write, and will not suffer itself to be neglected! It is a choice white Cactus of great size, with warm lemon colouring in the outer leaves. The stamens are so delicately set, they tremble at the slightest touch, and the starry pointal is itself a flower!

JUNE.

A Mosaic of Nectared Sweets.

IX.

JUNE.

Of Pink May—Swallows in the Porch—Flowers de Luce—Poppies—A Little Scotch Rose, and “Clutie.”