hay is made. The bottom of a good crop of mowing grass springs from a
tangle of clover and leguminous plants, all owning blossoms, and many of
them of brilliant hues and exquisite perfume. Chief among these is the red
meadow-clover, the pride of the hayfields. Few plants can match its
perfume, or the cool freshness of its leaves. With this is mixed the
little hop-clover, and the sucklings, and other tiny gold-dust blossoms.
Meadow vetchling, and the tall meadow crowfoot, with rich yellow blooms
and dainty leaves, are set off by the pinks of the clover and the crimson
of stray sainfoin clusters. All these blossoms with the various flowers of
the grasses, tend to ripen and come to perfection together, the heats of
June bringing the whole multitude on together as in a natural forcing-pit.
It is then that the mowing grass is said to be "ripe," when all the
blossoms are shedding their pollen, and giving hay-fever to those who
enter the fields. It must be cut then, wet or fine, or the quality and
aroma of the hay passes away beyond recovery. Perhaps it is an accident
that most of our meadow flowers are white or yellow. The two most striking
exceptions are from foreign soil, the purple-blue lucerne and the crimson
sainfoin. But yellow is not the universally predominant hue of the flowers
of grasses, for in Switzerland and the Italian Alps the hayfields are as
blue with campanulas as they are here yellow with buttercups. The turf on
our chalk downs shows flowers more nearly approaching in tint the flora of
the Alps. The hair-bells with their pale blue, and the dark-purple
campanulas, give the complement of blue absent in the lower meadows, while
the tiny milkwort is as deep an ultramarine as the Alpine gentians
themselves. But the turf of the chalk downs, never rising to any height,
and without the forcing power of the valley grasses, yields no such wealth
of colour or perfume as the meadow flowers lavish on our senses in the
early weeks of June.
RIVERSIDE GARDENING
"And a river went out of Eden to water the garden."
A Recent addition to the country house is the "water garden," in which a
running brook is the centre and _motif_ of the subsidiary ornaments
of flowers, ferns, trees, shrubs, and mosses. Nature is in league with art
in the brook garden, for nowhere is wild vegetation so luxuriant, and the
two forces of warmth and moisture so generally combined, as by the banks
of running streams. The brook is its own landscape gardener, and curves
and slopes its own banks and terraces, sheltered from rough winds and
prone to the sun.
Many houses near the Thames, especially those under the chalk hills which
fringe much of the valley, have near them some rill or brook running to
the main river. On the sides of the chalk hills, though not on their
summits, these streams cut narrow gullies and glens. Wherever, in fact,
there is hilly, broken ground, the little rills form these broken ravines
and gullies, often only a few yards in width from side to side. Usually
these brooklet valleys are choked with brambles or fern, and filled with
rank undergrowth. Often the stream is overhung and invisible, or dammed
and left in soak, breeding frogs, gnats, and flies. The trees are always
tall and beautifully grown, whatever their age, for the moisture and
warmth force vertical growth; the smaller bushes--hawthorn, briar, and
wild guelder-rose--also assume graceful forms unhidden, for they always
bow their heads towards the sun-reflecting stream. Part of the charm of
the transformation of these brookside jungles into the brookside garden
lies in the gradual and experimental method of their conversion. Every one
knows that running water is the most delightful thing to play with
provided in this world; and the management of the water is the first
amusement in forming the brook garden. When the banks have been cleared of
brambles to such a distance up the sides of the hollow as the ground
suggests, and all poor or ill-grown trees have been cut away to let in the
only two "fertilisers" needed--air and sun--the dimensions of the first
pool or "reach" in the brook garden are decided upon. This must depend
partly on the size and flow of the stream. If it is a chalk spring, from
six feet to six yards wide, its flow will probably be constant throughout
the year, for it is fed from the reservoirs in the heart of the hills.
Then it needs little care except to clear its course, and the planting of
its banks with flowers and stocking of its waters with lilies, arums,
irises, and trout is begun at once. But most streams are full in winter
and low in summer. On these the brook gardener must take a lesson from the
beavers, and make a succession of delightful little dams, cascades, and
pools, to keep his water at the right level throughout the year. Where
there is a considerable brook these dams may be carried away in winter and
ruin the garden. Stone or concrete outfalls are costly, and often give
way, undermined by the floods. But there is a form of overflow which gives
an added sparkle even to the waterfall, and costs little. Each little dam
is roofed with thin split oak, overlapping like the laths of a Venetian
blind when closed. This forms the bottom of the "shoot," and carries the
water clear of the dam into the stream below. As the water runs over the
overlapping laths it forms a ripple above each ridge, and from the
everlasting throb of these pleats of running water the sunlight flashes as
if from a moving river of diamonds. Beside these cascades, and only two
inches higher than their level, are cut "flood-overflows" paved with turf,
to let off the swollen waters in autumn rains. With the cutting out of
undergrowth and the admission of light the rank vegetation of the banks
changes to sweet grass, clovers, woodruffe, and daisies, and the flowers
natural to the soil can be planted or will often spring up by themselves.
In spring the banks should be set thick with violets, primroses, and the
lovely bronze, crimson, and purple polyanthuses. Periwinkle, daffodils,
crocuses, and scarlet or yellow tulips will all flourish and blossom
before the grass grows too high or hides their flowers. For later in the
year taller plants, which can rise, as all summer wood-plants do, above
the level of the grasses, must be set on the banks. Clumps of everlasting
peas, masses of phloxes, hollyhocks, and, far later in the year, scarlet
tritomas (red-hot pokers) look splendid among the deep greens of the
summer grass and beneath the canopy of trees. For it must be remembered
that the brookside garden is in nearly every case a shaded garden, beneath
the tall trees natural to such places. All beautiful flowering shrubs and
trees, such as the guelder-rose, the pink may, the hardy azaleas, and
certain of the more beautiful rhododendrons will aid the background of the
brook garden, and flourish naturally in its sheltered hollow. There is one
"new" rhododendron, which the writer saw recently in such a situation, but
of which he does not recollect the name, which has masses of wax-like,
pale sulphur flowers, which are mirrored in a miniature pool set almost at
its foot. This half-wild flower garden pertains mainly to the banks of the
brook gully, and not to the banks of the brook itself. It is in the
latter, by the waterside, that the special charm of these gardens should
be found. It is the nature of such places to have a strip of level ground
opposite to each of the curves of the stream. All the narcissi, or
chalice-flowers, naturally love the banks of brooks--
"Those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies."
These will grow in great tufts and ever-increasing masses, multiplying
their bulbs till they touch the water's edge. Not only the old
pheasant's-eye narcissus, but all the modern and splendid varieties in
gold, cream, white, and orange, grow best by the brookside. By these, but
on the lower ground almost level with the water, big forget-me-nots,
butterburs, and wild snake's-head lilies should be set, and all the
crimson and white varieties of garden daisy. Lily-of-the-valley, despite
its name, likes more sun than our brook garden admits except in certain
places; but certain of the lilies which flourish in the garden beds grow
with an added and more languid grace on the green bank of our
flower-bordered brook, and the American swamp-lily finds its natural
place. Then special pools will be formed for the growth of those plants,
foreign and English, which love to have their roots in water-soaked mud or
the beds of running streams, while leaves and flowers rise far above into
the light. Other pools should become "beds" for the water-flowers that
float upon the surface. In the slang of the rock garden the plants living
and flourishing on upright rocks are called "verticals." If we must have a
slang for the flora of the brook garden we will term them
"horizontals"--the plants that lie flat on the water surface, and only
use their stems as cables to anchor them to the bottom of the stream. Of
these we may plant, in addition to the white water-lily and the yellow,
the crimson scented water-lily and the wild water-villarsia. White
water-crowfoot, water-soldier, and arrowheads will form the fringe of
the pool. But the crowning floral honour of the brook garden is in the
irises set in and beside its waters, chief among which are the glorious
irises of Japan--purple, blue, rose-colour, and crimson--the pink
English flowering rush, big white mocassin flowers, New Zealand flax,
and pink buckbean, and bog arum. The great white arum of the greenhouse
is quite hardy out of doors if it is planted eighteen inches below water,
and blossoms in the brook.
[Illustration: WATER VIOLET AND WILD IRIS. _From photographs by E.
Seeley_.]
The brook garden is like a colony. It is always extending its range,
following the course of the stream. Each year adds a little more to the
completeness of the lower pools, and each year some yards of the upper
waters and their banks are brought into partial harmony with the lower
reaches. In one perfect example of this kind of garden, under the
Berkshire downs, the succession of trout-pools, water gardening, half-wild
banks, and turf-walk stretches for nearly a mile among the fields in a
narrow glen, unseen from either side, except for its narrow riband of
tree-tops among the fields; but within its narrow limits it is glorious
with flowers, cascades, pools full of trout, set with water-plants in
blossom, and the haunt of innumerable birds. Even the wild ducks ascend to
the topmost pools, and are constantly in flight down the narrow winding
vistas of grass, water, and trees, which they, like the kingfishers and
water-hens, seem to think are set out for their especial pleasure.
COTTAGES AND CAMPING OUT
This is supposed to be a "business" country, but one wonders why new wants
which accompany any change of daily habit are so slowly realised. Take,
for instance, the annual migration to the Thames Valley, which has assumed
proportions never reached before. Beyond the enlargement of the riverside
inns, little has been done to meet this new taste of English families for
rustic life in place of the seaside; and though the thousands of visitors
to the "happy valley" of our largest river do contrive to enjoy a maximum
of fresh air and outdoor life, this is often accompanied by a needless
sacrifice of comfort. If any improvements in the conditions of life by the
river can be suggested and put into practice, these will certainly benefit
other districts. The profits accruing to intelligent provision for such a
demand should also be considerable. But the first condition is that the
wants and wishes of those who take their pleasure in this way should be
properly understood.
The boating part of the river life is quite well organised; indeed, it
would be difficult to improve upon it. Its convenience and elasticity is
remarkable. The way in which the leading boatbuilders provide craft of all
descriptions, which may be left by their hirers at any point on the river,
to be brought back to Oxford or Reading by train, is beyond all praise. It
is a triumph of good sense and management. But boating is only part of the
amusement of the holiday, just as bathing is at the seaside. The real
object with which an ever-growing number of visitors have adopted the
river life is in order to spend the utmost length of time out of doors and
in beautiful scenery. To this end they need accommodation of a special
kind. The large hotel, with its inducements to spend much time over meals
and indoors, is wholly out of place for such a purpose. What is needed is
a cottage which can be rented either wholly or in part, or actual camp
life under tents. The latter is now not confined to boating-men travelling
up or down the river. It is enjoyed partly as an annexe to up-river
houseboats; more often as "camping out" for its own sake, the tents being
pitched near the river, but in complete detachment from any other
habitation, fixed or floating. In these tents whole families of the
well-to-do classes now elect to live, sometimes for weeks; rising early,
bathing in the river, sometimes cooking their own food, or more often
employing a servant or local man-of-all-work to do this, taking their
meals in the open, and using the tents only to sleep in, or as a shelter
from rain. Even little children now share the delights of this _al
fresco_ life, which realises their wildest dreams of adventure, and is
by general consent as wholesome as it is entrancing. Whether their elders
derive as much pleasure as they might from the same environment is
doubtful. The business is not properly organised, and only half understood
by the greater number of those who are nevertheless so well pleased by the
experiment that they are anxious to repeat it. Sporadic camping out
involves too much fetching and carrying. Tradesmen do not "call" at
isolated tents in a riverside meadow, and all commodities have to be
fetched by the campers. On the other hand, sociable camping out, when
several groups set up their tents in proximity, needs proper arrangement.
Philosophers may see in it the evolution of the social life from its
primitive elements, with the growth of division of labour and reciprocal
good offices. English families would usually prefer the sporadic tent, if
it were not for the hard work involved. But if camping out is to be a real
success, such understandings and arrangements must be made. Where this is
not done the result is a failure, obvious to the passer-by. Separate and
unsightly fires for cooking, and untidiness, because there are no "hours"
for performing the light but necessary domestic work, are common objects
of individualism on the camping ground. Yachts, which are
self-maintaining, never have clothes hanging in the rigging after 8 a.m.
when in harbour, and the self-respecting camp must not fall behind this
example.
The camp in the country should have its communal kitchen in a wooden
movable house, in which meals can be cooked, and from which it should be
possible to purchase food as required. Here is an opening for commercial
enterprise. The tourist agencies might rent camping grounds and supply
tents on hire, with kitchens and all proper necessaries for living under
canvas. They do this with great success for travellers in the East, and at
a moderate cost. In England tents, if not so luxurious as those provided
from Egypt for life in Palestine, are very cheap, and need no transport
animals. But such a firm could easily make them removable by arranging for
them to be called for and taken up river a few stages, as the boats are.
The hire could be fixed at so much per tent, and a camp servant could also
be provided. Commissionaires and ex-soldiers with good characters could be
found employment in the early autumn, when they now find it difficult to
earn a wage. They thoroughly understand not only the management of tents,
but the duties of a camp. Rain-proof tents with movable board floors would
be provided from London in uncertain weather on the receipt of a wire, for
life under canvas is quite pleasant even if the hours are not all serene,
if the interior is kept dry.
Though a new departure in this country camping out is part of the ordinary
and well-understood amusements of the eastern cities of the United States.
The whole State of Maine is practically a State reserve for this, the most
popular form of holiday-making in America. Its forests, rivers, and lakes
are one vast playground and public sporting domain, which is enjoyed
almost entirely by means of camping out and boating. The rivers teem with
State-reared trout, of which as many are allowed to be caught as can
possibly be consumed by the party. The woods are free to shoot in, with a
limit for deer and caribou; State-provided guides are employed at a fixed
wage. At regular intervals along the rivers are the camping grounds, each
under the control of a camp agent, who arranges for the comfort and
convenience of the travelling host of tent-dwellers. Each "base" is
properly organised and supplied, and visitors can purchase necessaries, in
addition to the fish and birds which fall to rod and gun. Ladies and
children are among those who enjoy the pastime most keenly, amusing
themselves by the river and among the woods while the husbands hunt or
fish.
The "residential cottage" is perhaps the safer basis for the complete
outdoor life, though it tends to reduce the number of hours spent in the
open. Habit is too strong when once we are under a roof. It is evidence of
the habitable nature of many of our much-abused cottages that in the
Thames-side villages a great proportion are now occupied for several
months in the year by people who, though willing to pay for simple
accommodation, will not tolerate dirt, squalor, or want of sanitation. To
their surprise they have found hundreds of cottages, homely, but not
uncomfortable, kept with scrupulous neatness, and furnished by no means
badly. Nearly all have ample kitchen accommodation, fair beds, and an
equipment of glass, china, and crockery, which shows how cheap and good
are the necessaries of life in England. The well-to-do agricultural
labourer and his wife, whose children are out in the world, the village
artisans, small tradesfolk, and "retired" couples are the owners or
occupiers, and now let their rooms at from L1 to L1 10s. per week, from
June till the middle of September. The results are good in every way.
Visitors are pleased at what seems a cheap holiday, and the letters of the
rooms save money for the winter, and realise in a pleasant way that their
later years have fallen on good times. It is also an encouragement to
landowners to build good and picturesque cottages. For the first time they
see their way to charging a fair rent on their outlay. The town comes to
help the country, and the country sees in the movement a hopeful future.
NETTING STAGS IN RICHMOND PARK
About the opening of the year I went to see the big stags netted in
Richmond Park for transfer to Windsor. Last season this unique and ancient
hunting had to be put off till February. There was too much "bone" in the
ground to make riding safe. When the frost gave, the stags were more than
usually cunning, and were helped by more than their usual share of luck.
One fine stag charged the toils at best pace, and, happening to hit a
rotten net, burst through, and went off shaking his antlers as proudly as
if he had upset a rival in a charge. Another took to the lake, and after
playing Robinson Crusoe on the island for some time, swam across to the
wood, took a standing leap out of the shallow water on the brink over the
paling, and laid up in Penn Wood.
It was on a lovely mellow January morning, after just a touch of frost,
with haze and mist veiling the distant woods, a winter sun struggling to
make itself seen, and all the birds, from the mallards on the lakes to the
jackdaws in the old oaks, beginning to talk, but with their minds not
quite made up as to whether they should take a morning flight or stop
where they were, when the business of setting up the toils began.
This, which is probably managed in exactly the same way as when Queen Dido
arranged to give a day's sport to good Aeneas, is carried out according to
the ancient and unvarying tradition of this royal and ancient park. Nor
were we allowed to forget that in this case, too, the stags were being
taken by the servants of a queen. Everything was ready for the transport
of the stags to Windsor, and in the foreground was a good strong wooden
cart, painted red and blue, and inscribed in the largest capitals with the
words, "Her Majesty's cart."
The art and practice of taking the stags in the toils is carried out in
this wise. A body of mounted men, under the orders of the superintendent
of the park, ride out to find the herds of red deer. They then ride in and
"cut" out the finest stags, and, spreading out in a broad line, chase them
at the utmost speed of horse towards that quarter of the park where the
nets are spread. Some two hundred yards in front of the nets two
deerhounds are held, and slipped as the stag gallops past--not to injure
or distress him, but to hurry him up and distract his attention from the
long lines of nets in front.
The stags were known to be full of running, and resourceful; consequently
the number of riders who had been asked to help was rather larger than
usual. Even so they had to make a wide sweep of the Southern Park before
they found their deer, and had a racing burst of more than a mile and a
half before they brought them round. Meantime, while they are away on
their quest, let us inspect the ancient contrivance of the toils. They are
heavy nets of rope, thick as a finger, and with meshes not more than ten
inches square--very strong, and to our eyes almost too solid and visible.
Partly to render them less conspicuous, the line--at least one hundred
yards long--is set in a long, narrow depression or shallow drain, running
from a wood on the Richmond side of Penn Pond down to a small pool. Just
in the centre of this line is a most ancient pollard oak, the crown of
which will hold eight men easily, ready to spring down to earth and seize
the deer as the nets fall on him. In this most appropriate watch-tower the
keeper in command at the toils, and several of his helpers, ensconced
themselves. The Richmond stags, though so constantly in the sight of the
crowds of visitors to the park, are among the boldest and gamest of all
park stags. One, who was more especially the object of the day's chase,
jumped a paling 6 ft. 3 in. high the day before, merely for amusement.
Those sometimes transferred to the paddocks at Ascot for hunting with the
Royal Buckhounds were noted for their courage and straight running.
Perhaps the most famous was old Volunteer, whose latest exploit was to
give a run of nearly thirty miles, at the end of which he was not taken.
Having had his day out, and not being taken up in the cart as usual, he
made his way home by night, jumped into his paddock, and was found there
next morning!
Holloaing, long and loud, was now heard from the east. Keen was the
keeper's glance as he looked, not to the sound, but along his line of
nets, the top at least eight feet from the ground, lightly hitched on
thick saplings, while an ample fold of some four feet more lay upon the
ground. Before and behind, the dead and tangled bracken broke the line;
the props were of natural wood, and the tawny nets themselves made no
break in the general colour of the hillside. Then the shouting came louder
down the wind. Where were they? Not coming "up the straight" certainly,
for no stags were visible and the hounds were not slipped. Suddenly from
above us three big red stags came galloping obliquely down the hill, not
as they are represented in pictures with muzzles up and horns back, but at
high speed for all that; and though they carried their horns erect, their
sides were heaving and the smoke coming out of their nostrils. They saw
the nets, but determined to push through them. One charged them gallantly
head first, and as the thick meshes fell tumultuously over his head and
back, the second jumped the falling toils twenty yards to his left, taking
them most gracefully, as if he were doing a circus trick. Down from the
tree sprang the keeper and his men, and seized the helpless stag, while
the second, which had jumped and won, stood panting and looking over his
shoulder to see what curious game this was. The third broke back and
disappeared.