St. Luke's Summer--The Orchard--The Barberry--White Haricot
Beans--Transplanting--The Rockery.
_October 15._--This is St. Luke's summer, or the "Indian summer" as it
is called in America. The air is soft and warm and still. The yellow
leaves fall from the Beeches in countless numbers, but slowly and
noiselessly, and as if reluctant to let go their hold. The rooks come
back to us again across the fields, and clamour among the empty nests,
which were their homes in spring. The "remontant" Roses are putting out
their latest blooms, and the Antirrhinums, Mulleins, and some few other
flowers, show themselves "remontant" also. There is an aromatic
fragrance everywhere from the withering leaves and from the lingering
flowers.
But there is sadness with it all. We cannot deceive ourselves, but we
know that all is now over, and that at any moment the frost may come,
and leave us nothing but decay and death.
There are some lines in Morris's _Earthly Paradise_--the very best
lines, I think, in the whole poem--which speak of some old men's last
peaceful days, as
"--like those days of later autumn-tide,
When he who in some town may chance to bide
Opens the window for the balmy air,
And, seeing the golden hazy sky so fair,
And from some city garden hearing still
The wheeling rooks the air with music fill--
Sweet, hopeful music--thinketh, Is this spring?
Surely the year can scarce be perishing.
But then he leaves the clamour of the town,
And sees the withered scanty leaves fall down;
The half-ploughed field, the flowerless garden plot;
The full dark stream, by summer long forgot;
The tangled hedges where, relaxed and dead,
The twining plants their withered berries shed,
And feels therewith the treachery of the sun,
And knows the pleasant time is well-nigh done."
Was picture ever more truly painted?--and any day it may be true for us.
Our Apple harvest has been over for nearly a fortnight; but how pleasant
the orchard was while it lasted, and how pleasant the seat in the corner
by the Limes, whence we see the distant spire on the green wooded
slopes. The grey, gnarled old Apple-trees have, for the most part, done
well. The Ribston Pippins are especially fine, and so is an apple, which
we believe to be the King of the Pippins. On the other hand, we have
some poor and worthless sorts--probably local varieties,--which no
pomologist, however able and obliging, would undertake to name. One of
the prettiest of Apples--and one of the best, too--is the Delaware. It
has an orange-red colour, and reminds one almost of an Orange as it
hangs upon the tree. It has a crisp, delicious flavour, but requires to
be eaten as soon as it is ripe, for otherwise it soon gets mealy. Indeed
all eating apples, with but few exceptions, are best when freshly
gathered, or, better still, when, on some clear soft day, they have just
fallen on the grass, and lie there, warmed by the rays of the autumn
sun.
Of my Pears I have not much to say: the new trees I have planted have
hardly come into bearing, and the old ones are of inferior quality. In
another year or two, however, I shall hope to be supplied through all
the winter months up to the middle of the spring. Plums have done but
little, and Damsons, which are supposed to succeed so well in
Lancashire, are an absolute failure. I must not forget the Red Siberian
Crab, which has been laden with fruit, and one tree of which should find
its corner in every garden. Last of all, I have to speak of the
Barberry. There is a great bush which stands by the grass walk in the
walled garden. In the summer it was a mass of scented yellow blossoms,
round which bees were always buzzing. Then, as the year grew older,
bunches of bright coral hung over it from top to bottom. We consider our
Barberries as not the least important of our fruit crop. We preserve
them, some in bunches, some picked like Currants. We crystallize them in
sugar, and they become delicious _bonbons_. We steep them in salt and
water, and they keep as a gay garnish for cold meat or game. Our
Barberry-tree is not looking its best at present; a big branch has
withered, and I must cut it in.
_October 24._--Since I wrote we have had a great gale, which has swept
over us, and torn down an Elm in the wood and a fine Chestnut in the
croft. I could ill spare either of them, and it is but poor comfort to
think that our piled-up logs will outlast the winter. It was the "wild
west wind," of which Shelley sings, which has done the mischief; and
smaller branches, lying scattered all over the lawn and walks, show us
where it passed.
We are now preparing our Mushroom bed, for we shall need it as the green
vegetables fail us. I have said but little about the kitchen garden,
for I do not suppose it differs much from that of other people. Our Peas
have, however, served us particularly well, and we had our last dish on
October 1--later than I ever before have known them here. One excellent
vegetable I have generally grown, and I would thoroughly recommend it to
any one who has space to spare: it is the French White Haricot. It is
not often seen with us though it is so very common in France. It is a
species of French Bean, of which you eat the white bean itself instead
of slicing up the pod. I suspect that, taking England through, there are
very few gardens where the White Haricot is found.
We are now busy with our planting. Some Rhododendrons and Aucubas in the
borders near the front gate have been pining away--starved by the
Elm-tree roots around them. We are trenching up the ground, cutting away
what smaller roots we can, and putting in manure and some new shrubs. We
are planting a row of Hollies to screen a wall towards the lane. We are
moving a Salisburia adiantifolia, with its strange foliage like a
gigantic Maidenhair Fern, from a corner into a more prominent place. We
shall then set to work to re-arrange the rockery. This, I think, I have
never mentioned. In the middle of the little wood was once a pond, but I
found the stagnant water and the soaking leaves, which fell and rotted
there, no advantage to the place; I therefore drained away the water and
planted beds of Azaleas and Rhododendrons along the slopes, with
Primroses, Violets, and Blue Bells, and in the middle of all I have
lately placed a tuft of Pampas-grass. On one slope I have managed a
rockery with a stone tank in the centre, where for three summers past
has flowered an Aponogeton distachyon. I have means of turning on fresh
water into the tank, and I am well repaid for any trouble, as the little
white boat-blossoms, laden with delicious spicy scent, rise up to the
surface of their tiny lake. The rockery is, however, too much under the
shade and drip of trees, and I cannot hope that delicate alpine flowers
should grow there. Sedums and Saxifragas, Aquilegias, Aubrietias, the
white Arabis, and the yellow Moneywort, besides Ferns of various kinds,
all do well. In another part of the wood is a loggery, which I have
entirely covered with the large white Bindweed, which rambles about at
its own will, and opens its blossoms, sometimes a dozen at a time, all
through the summer months. Past that, there is a little patch of
Bluebells, then more beds of Rhododendrons, and then a short walk, which
takes us by a private path to the village church, and then by another
branch returns again towards the house. In this part of the grounds
there is still room for planting, and I shall probably try some Tree
Rhododendrons. A standard Honeysuckle, which I have endeavoured to grow,
has done no good as yet; its shoots get nipped by the north-east winds,
but I do not yet despair. The most useful undergrowth I find is the
Elder; it thrives wonderfully, and is covered with blossom and with
berry. One variety, the Parsley-leaved Elder, is here equally hardy with
the common Elder, and much more graceful in its growth.
We have now to take in our tender and half-hardy plants, for fear of a
sudden frost. The large Myrtles, which have stood out in their boxes,
must be placed in safety, and the Lobelia cardinalis and other
bedding-plants, which we may need next year, must be removed.