The Rookery--Daffodils--Peach Blossoms--Spring Flowers--
Primroses--Violets--The Shrubs of Spring.
_March 6._--We have a tradition, or, if you will, a superstition, in
this part of the world, that rooks always begin to build on the first
Sunday in March. Last year my rooks were punctual to a day. This year,
although they began a day or two earlier, it was not till the morning of
Sunday the 1st that they showed real activity. Then the belt of trees
which they frequent, and which for want of any better name we call "our
wood," was all alive and clamorous. These rooks are only with us from
March to the end of May, and then they are off again for the rest of the
year to the woods which cluster thickly round the stately hall of the
great nobleman of our county. But they never quite forget their nests
among our Elms; and it is pleasant to see them in summer, and oftener
still in late autumn, winging their way across the fields, and then
wheeling down upon the trees. Who was it, who so happily applied to
rooks the lines from the sixth Aeneid, where Virgil, speaking of the
descent of Aeneas and his guide upon the Elysian plains, says
"Devenere locos laetos, et amoena vireta
Fortunatorum nemorum, sedesque beatas"?
"And down they came upon the happy haunts,
The pleasant greenery of the favoured groves--
Their blissful resting-place."
There are many secrets about the rooks which I can never solve. Why do
they build in the Elm rather than the Beech? My best trees are Beeches,
but there are only two nests in them, whereas in a single Elm there are
no less than ten. Why, again, do the old birds prevent the young ones
from building in some particular tree? Sometimes, no doubt, there may be
an unhappy association of the past, as in a case mentioned in
Hawthorne's _English Note Book_, where in a garden, which I took him to
see, not very far from this, some nests were once destroyed in a clump
of trees, and never since has nest been built there. Sometimes, I think,
because the rooks like to reserve certain trees as storehouses, from
whence to gather their sticks. Again, how far is rook-shooting good for
a rookery? It is commonly believed that, if a certain number are not
shot, the rooks will desert. Is this so, and, if so, what should be the
proportion? I have some sixty nests, and I wish to keep about this
number.
I have planted many wild Daffodils in the wood; they are now coming into
flower, but they do not seem to flourish as they should. I am told that
Daffodils do not do well under a rookery, but I hardly think this
likely.
If, as I said last month, the Crocus has been neglected by English
poets, the Daffodil has no right to complain. Some of the most charming
lyrics in the language are connected with this flower. Who does not
remember Herrick's
"Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;"
or Wordsworth's
"Host of golden Daffodils
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze"?
Jean Ingelow, too, in her _Persephone_, makes the Daffodil the flower
which tempts the unhappy maiden from her companions as they ramble along
the fields of Enna--
"The Daffodils were fair to see,
They nodded lightly on the lea,
Persephone, Persephone!
Lo! one she marked of rarer growth
Than Orchis or Anemone;
For it the maiden left them both
And parted from her company.
Drawn nigh she deemed it fairer still,
And stooped to gather by the rill
The Daffodil, the Daffodil."
The end of the story we all know right well, for "Perdita" told us long
ago how Persephone let her Daffodils all fall "from Dis's waggon."
_March 25._--Again we have had frost and snow, and this time it has done
us harm. The early bloom of the Apricot has turned black, and our chance
of a crop rests with the later buds. However, there are plenty still;
and now, in words familiar to half the children of England, "the crimson
blossoms of the Peach and the Nectarine are seen, and the green leaves
sprout." Here our promise is not so good, and we have nothing like the
bloom of last year; in fact, a crop of Peaches and Nectarines in the
open air is very uncertain in this Lancashire climate, and many of my
neighbours have given in entirely, and have taken to glass-houses. I
still go on; but certainly last year, in spite of the show of blossom,
was not encouraging. Whether it is the increase of smoke or of chemical
works I cannot say, but formerly wall fruit answered far better in these
parts than it does at present. It is remarkable, however, that Sir
William Temple, writing just 200 years ago, objects to growing Peaches
farther north than Northampton, and praises a Staffordshire friend for
not attempting them, and "pretending no higher, though his soil be good
enough, than to the perfection of Plums."
We have been busy renewing the Box edgings to our flower-beds where it
was required. Last year we had carelessly laid down salt on the narrow
walks to destroy some weeds, and it has injured a good deal of the Box;
some injury, too, has been caused by the growth of several strong
plants, which got out of bounds and smothered it. Our garden is not a
good spring garden. The soil is cold and heavy, and the delicate spring
flowers do not thrive; but, on the other hand, no garden about is a
better summer garden. It is a regular sun-trap, and yet even in the
hottest weather the plants keep fresh and unburnt. Meanwhile the white
Scilla, the double Daffodil, the Arabis, and some others, are doing well
enough. A bed of Daisies and another of Polyanthus are far from
satisfactory. Hepaticas I have tried over and over again, and they
always fail.
In front of one of the beds of evergreens on the lawn I planted some
double Primroses--yellow, white, red, and lilac; some of them are
showing their blossoms, but they are not vigorous. By the way, I found
it very difficult to get these Primroses, and had to pay what seemed an
excessive price for them. They are, I fear, among the old neglected
flowers, which we run a good chance of losing altogether, if gardeners
will confine themselves entirely to bedding plants.
There is a charmingly fantastic conceit in one of Herrick's poems, "To
Primroses filled with Morning Dew." He thinks they may be weeping,
because
"Ye have not seen as yet
The Violet."
My Primroses at least have not this excuse, for we have Violets in
abundance, and they scent all the air as we pass through the garden
door. Even in winter a faint fragrance lingers among their leaves--a
shadowy memory of a perfume, which haunts them even when no single
flower can be found. Bacon says that "the flower which above all others
yields the sweetest smell in the air is the Violet; specially the
double white Violet which comes twice a-year: about the middle of April
and about Bartholomew-tide." Where is the double white Violet grown now?
One of the greatest floral heresies of modern days is as regards the
Violet. Both Ruskin and Lord Stanhope have asserted that the Violet of
the Greek and Latin poets was an Iris! If so, we are to believe that
Athens was crowned with Iris; that the revellers at banquets decked
themselves with wreaths of Iris; that wine was flavoured with Iris
juice; and that a Violet is nowhere mentioned! Fortunately, however,
Pliny makes it clear that there were Violets and Irises both, in old
classic times; and the city of the Violet-crown is fragrant as of
yore.[2]
[2] See note I. on the Viola of the Romans.
Some of the flowering shrubs are now coming out and looking gay. There
is the Mezereon with its upright shoots, all purpled over with their
blossom; there is the Rhododendron dauricum with its beautiful lilac
bloom; there, the oldest favourite of all, is the Pyrus japonica, with
its bunches of cherry-coloured flowers, breaking out all along the
hard-twisted branches. This Pyrus is no doubt most effective when
trained up against a wall, and then, of course, it flowers earlier; but
one bush of it is quite worth growing in any garden.
The last bit of planting we have done this year is an addition to our
flowering-trees. We have got two of the best Robinias--the glutinosa and
the hispida--and I shall be much disappointed if they do not prove a
great success.