I didn’t ask him to spell it, because I don’t fancy he can spell any better than I can. I merely said, “I don’t think I quite caught the name?”
“I said ‘’ARDS,’ Mum; (crescendo) ‘’ARDS.’ We allus calls ’em that ’cos they’re so ’ard to pull up.”
I thanked him, and still, in secret, call them the Sunshine flowers—though I admit that Virginia, having recently set out gaily to rectify my shocking laxity in the matter of the proper cultivation of an orchard, at last decided herself to call them “’Ards.” She found that the act of sitting down violently and unexpectedly so many times in the course of trying to pull up a few innocent-looking plants, wore her out more than it did the ’ards; so she gave it up at length, and there they remain until this day!
Intermingling with Queen Mary’s Pincushions and the Sunshine flowers is a rosy purple flower that blends delightfully with the other two; Knapweed is one of its names; it looks something like a thistle bloom at a distance, but it is really a relation of the Sweet Sultan that grows in the garden beds, I believe.
Then there are Harebells dancing in the wind on the top of little grassy mounds; so frail they look—yet “Hussy” never seems to walk on them! Ragged Robins flutter pink petals beside a little brook that runs down at the side of the orchard; and here are also big blue forget-me-nots, with bright yellow centres.
But there is one thing about this orchard that very few people have discovered, and that is the host of sweet-smelling things that you walk on or rub against, as you carry the wicker-chair down to the bottom wall.
Do you know what it is like to walk on Pennyroyal and Sweet Basil? Have you ever stood still suddenly and said, “What is it?” as a delicious aromatic scent added itself to all the other lovely scents floating around?
I discovered a whole world of beautiful scents in among the orchard grass. The Pennyroyal was most unsuspicious-looking, till I stepped on it. (I didn’t mean to step on it; but then one must walk somewhere!) Next I found out the Sweet Basil, with its unobtrusive pink flowers.
Still I hadn’t found it all; a little later I came upon some wild mint beside the brook. The tansy I had long been friendly with; the scent of it seems to fit in so exactly with a hot summer day; and the wild thyme that grows on a sunny bank at one side of the orchard you couldn’t possibly miss, the bees have so much to say about it. Bushes of balm, that have possibly strayed away from the garden, are always at hand, to rub a leaf when desired.
But I think of all my favourites, the black peppermint has first place. I shall never forget the day I first discovered its dark shoots pushing up undaunted among the grass; not but what I had a long-standing friendship with peppermint—in my first childhood, as bull’s-eyes; in my second childhood, as peppermint creams.