My uncle afterwards told me, that some of the grasses run chiefly to stalks, the leaves decaying as the seed advances towards perfection: such as rye-grass, dog’s-tail grass, and fine bent; while others, whose leaves continue to grow after the seed is formed, retain their verdure and juices during the whole season, as in the poa and fescue tribes, whose leaves are green and fresh, when the seeds are ripe. Ignorant farmers do not attend to this, and often, in mistake, sow those very grasses that run all to stalk and seed. Besides the numerous families of real grasses, there is also a great variety of plants cultivated by farmers, to supply their places, and are, therefore, called the artificial grasses.
“In some cases they are of more rapid growth than a crop of grass—in others, the change is of use to the soil. Sainfoin, for instance, of which you see so much in Gloucestershire, is found to be particularly adapted to a soil exhausted by repeated corn crops, because its root enters deeply into the ground, while the fibrous roots of corn spread close to the surface. Lucern, clover, vetches, and other succulent and quickly growing plants of this nature, are also called artificial grasses—and are thus of great advantage to the farmer, by supplying his cattle with excellent food, and at the same time by alternately giving rest to different portions of his ground.”
4th.—Some visiters have just arrived; they are to spend a week here, and I am sure we shall not go on half so pleasantly, for these people will interrupt all our employments, and will, I suppose, be very formal. I said so to my aunt this morning, and I was surprised to find that she was not of that opinion; I thought she would particularly dislike having the regular, happy life here deranged.
I have been very busy in my garden this morning. With some help I have completed the little flower beds, which I intend to be so pretty next spring—they are intermixed with grass-plots, and are made up of good, fresh earth, properly prepared for the plants they are to contain. Mary, who seems to have a great deal of knowledge, has assisted me—for I find that much of the art of gardening consists in suiting the soil to the nature of the plants. In my jonquil bed, she advised me to put abundance of sand, and no manure. This has been done; and this fine mild dry day, I planted it with the bulbs as she directed me. I have a narcissus bed, too, and this has been made up with what the gardener calls hazel loam, and a small portion of manure. These two beds, along with one for hyacinths, that I described before, and one for carnations, make up what I call my regular flower-beds, on the upper part of the sloping bank. Besides these, I have two beds at one side, one for roses of different kinds, and one for white lilies. These last have, I am told, very magnificent flowers, and in order to have them very fine, a great deal of fresh manure has been dug in to nearly two feet in depth.
Some days ago, I planted a number of rose-trees, contributions from all my kind friends. I have also made little edgings to all my beds; and I am now, like a mere child, already longing for the time when I shall see them covered with blossoms. But I have not nearly done yet all that I intend; for I heard a gentleman, who comes sometimes to see my uncle, Mr. Biggs, telling him of such a variety of nice plants, and the modes of managing them, that I am determined to try some of the things which he mentioned. I must first consult my uncle, because I have great plans in view; but I am afraid all these strangers will prevent him from having time to listen to me.
I find that this is a busy season in the garden, though the decline of the year, and that several plants, and almost all deciduous trees and shrubs, should be transplanted now. I have quite got into the spirit of gardening, I think; it is indeed a delightful occupation to the mind, as well as the body. There is not only much to think of, and to remember to do at the right time, but also to know why it should be done.
Tuesday night.—Though I am tired after all my hard work to-day, I must tell you, Mamma, before I go to bed, that I see how foolish it is to judge of people in a hurry, or to think strangers must be tiresome, because they interrupt our usual habits. The strangers who arrived to-day appear to be very pleasing; Mr. Lumley, who has travelled a great deal, has many entertaining things to tell; and his daughters, and their mother also, are very nice people. They brought some pretty kinds of work with them, and I was glad to find that we might employ ourselves, instead of sitting up stifly and formally.
5th.—I mentioned last night, that the Lumleys seemed to be a very agreeable family; yet, when I woke this morning, I felt that some of my apprehensions were returning. Night, however, has come round again, and I must tell you, dear Mamma, that we have passed the day most pleasantly; partly in our usual occupations, for I found that my cousins never neglect those which are most important, for any guests whatever; and partly in walking and in gardening.
The Miss Lumleys pleased me very much, by appearing interested in the progress of my garden, and they even helped me to transplant several of my flowers. Then came my uncle and Mr. Lumley; they examined every part of my garden, and asked me several questions. My uncle inquired about the new scheme of which I had been talking, and said he would assist me as much as possible. I shewed him the old quarry, and boldly described all that I intended to do—frequently referring to hints I had picked up from his conversations with Mr. Biggs. My uncle said he was rejoiced to find that I could attend so well to general conversation, and gave me the quarry to reward me. When I had finished what I had to do in my garden, he and Mr. Lumley took Frederick and me to walk with them, and I heard numbers of entertaining things,—much more than I can now put in my journal.
We left the forest, and passing through the open fields which lie between it and the Severn, we walked for some time close by the edge of the river. I saw a beautiful bird sitting on a projecting stone, and we all stopped to observe it; sometimes fluttering its wings, and exposing its brilliant blue, green, and red plumage to the sun. It then took wing, and hovered in the air for some time, watching for the moment to dart on its victim. At last we saw it make a spring of twelve or fifteen feet upwards, and then drop perpendicularly into the water, where it remained several seconds. It was a kingfisher, which Mr. Lumley told me is a very common bird on the continent. He says it is shy and solitary, frequenting banks of rivers, where it will sit still for hours, as we saw it. It usually takes possession of a hole in the bank, which had previously been made by a martin, or a mole, and which it enlarges a little for its own purpose. The hole has generally an ascending direction, and penetrates two or three feet into the bank; at the end it is scooped into a hollow, where quantities of small fishes’ bones are often found. Mr. L. has seen these nests frequently; and he told me that as the old birds appear to have nothing in their bills when they feed their young, it is thought that they discharge from their stomach the requisite nourishment.