Ursula carefully turned over the rest of the ground later on, but never a glimmer of a benighted bean did she find.
Still, Ananias was, as usual, quite willing to be obliging. “My beans has done uncommon well this year,” he continued. “It’s jest all accordin’ how it takes ’em; sometimes mine does well and t’other people’s doesn’t; and then agin t’other people’ll have a fine crop and I won’t have a bean. I can let you have some o’ mine if you like. I know you’re powerful fond o’ broad beans. I allus say you’re jest like my missus.” (I’m sorry I haven’t a portrait of stout, unwashed, sixty-five-year-old Sapphira to reproduce; without it you cannot possibly understand how pleased I was!)
He brought over half a bushel, explaining that he had to charge twopence a pound more than other people, as these were specially large and good yielders, that were expensive in the first place.
They were remarkably fine beans, indeed as fine as I have ever seen; and I wrote to the firm of seedsmen and told them their mammoth variety had proved all they claimed for it.
I conclude the miserable row in my garden was a twopenny packet bought from the travelling huckster who peddles seeds around the villages at suitable seasons.
These instances are sufficient to indicate the trend of Ursula’s thoughts when she started to philosophize on the garden. She interrupted her valuable remarks, however, to exclaim: “Do look at that wench!” And Virginia might well be looked at! Her exertions had turned her the colour of a peony; down her face streamed copious “extract of forehead.” The clipping mania had got thorough hold of her, and she was trying to trim every hedge about the place, leaving in her wake a trail of clippings for someone else to clear up—as is the way with all first-class amateurs.
The next task pointed out itself. Ursula got a birch broom, while I trundled the wheelbarrow out of the tool barn; and seeing that there was already a pile of greenstuff waiting disposal, I started a bonfire, while Ursula swept up and supplied extra fuel.
I feel sorry for the town dweller; he knows nothing of the real charm of a bonfire. All too often the word stands to him for nothing more than a mass of damp and decaying leaves that simply won’t burn. He can only attend to it after his return from business, unless he be one of the favoured few in town who have gardens sufficiently large to allow of their keeping regular gardeners. And unfortunately the lighting restrictions of the present day give no real scope to the bonfire maker—even if he has anything worth burning. His dank mass smoulders to death, or he adds paraffin to encourage it, and the neighbours close their windows with meaning violence, while the parish reeks of the obnoxious odour. Seldom has he air enough to fan anything like a good fire; and at length, after burning the dozenth newspaper, and listening to minute statistical particularization on the part of his wife regarding the present price of matches, collectively and individually (with deviations re sultanas, lemon soles, kitchen tea, coal-cards, sugar for the charwoman, ½d. per lb. for delivery, soda, a financial comparison of pre-war sirloin with modern soup-bones, and the antiquity of the new-laid hen), he flings himself disgustedly indoors again, depositing a layer of greasy town-garden soil and dead leaves on the door-mat, and perchance trailing it up to his dressing-room.
The town bonfire is usually an abomination; the country bonfire is often sheer delight; and the reason for this difference is due to the fact that the shut-in nature of the average town back-plot seldom supplies the good current of air that a bonfire needs to get it going full-swing; and more than this, the refuse that collects in a town garden is often sooty, unsanitary and malodorous. Whereas in the country there is a great diversity of stuff to be burnt, and much of it is delightfully aromatic. Also, the wind that sweeps continually over our hills, for instance, dries up the rubbish pile—unless it be actually raining; we seldom get that dank sodden stuff that is the bane of the town gardener. We can always get a current of air, if not a stiff breeze, to fan the first stages; and being unhampered by the claims of city offices, we can start it in the morning, and keep it going the whole day long. Our only trouble is to get the red-hot mass to slumber through the night; it has such a trick of suddenly bursting out again about 2 a.m., lighting up the cottage in the dark, and flaming forth a vivid beacon worthy of the men of Harlech, and recalling stirring scenes in old romance—only the local constabulary have no poetic leanings, and merely see in it a case for a £10 fine under the Defence of the Realm Act.