-2 "■"S^J'SMstKZiJ 



Miss Dovxe's Phimilas. 



nlit in Miss Rcbtrta M. Dcyne's ga 



Seafitld, Gcrey, Wtxfcid 



Current Topics. 



B.v E. Knowldix, F.R.H.S. 



SAID llie old huntsman to the membors of the famous 

 Jorrockses when mislakiusr the pantry door for 

 tlie teg'itimale exit, in exploring the weatlier, 

 "... .as dark as pitch and a great smell of 

 cheese." Our current topics as we write are as 

 strongly impregnated with a great smell of apples 

 blended with the murky odours of Anna LifiFe)', and 

 the talk is apples, simply apples. What a delightful 

 variety there is in gardening ! No sooner were we 

 sickening of the gardeners' greeting, " How's the 

 Mums?" than we find the apple flavouring our conver- 

 sation to the extent of the garlic in Spanish cookery, 

 for there is no getting away from it as far as we can see, 

 nor any desire to. But it is an old story, this of the 

 apple, as old as .Adam, and perhaps older ; for is it not 

 written that in prehistoric times, according to the 

 evidence unearthed in the lake dwellings of Central 

 Europe, our primitive ancestors knew what an apple 

 was? Of course some critic maj- tell us that these were 

 merely crabs, but, dear critic, would you, seriously, have 

 us believe that our first mother could, or would, have 

 tempted "himself" with a common vinegary crab? 

 Perish the thought ; and the evolution of the apple 

 seems lost in the gloom of ages, so we needn't bother 

 about it. Coming down to more modern times we, who 

 flatter ourselves with this fillip to fruit culture — this 

 new discovery of the suitability of our fine climate and 

 wretched weather to apple growing —what do 7i'c find ? 

 Is it a new cult for old Ireland? Or is it merely a 

 revival ? The latter we suspect when finding that con- 

 siderably over a hundred years ago one Doctor King 

 constrained to sing : — 



" Mountown ! thou sweet retreat from Dublin cares, 

 Be famous for thy apples and thy pears, 

 Mountown ! the muses' most delicious theme, 

 Oh ! may thy Codlins ever swim in cream." 

 Even further back Dublin Pippins were paraded in 



poetry with No ! Put up your blue pencil, Mon 



Editeur, we spare your feelings, our experience of 

 editors being (strictlj- sub rosn) that they will rarely rise 

 with you aeroplanaticall_\' into the realms of poetry — 

 alleged poetry. 



"The worst of progress antl all that sort of thing," 



says the Daily Sketchy " is to make life so complex . . . 

 The latest terror comes from the Royal Horticultural 

 Society in the shape of a chart of colours ... It is .1 

 terrible affair, for it contains 1 ,450 different colours . . . 

 Some oi us by means of great exertion and constant 

 reference to the rainbow can just manage to remember 

 the names of seven colours. Some few there are who 

 carry the thing on a little further and learn off by heart 

 the names printed above the little pans in the colour 

 boxes ..." And so on, and so on. Well, we have 

 seen the colour chart for which, by the way, (he Royal 

 Horticultural Society is only responsible for publication 

 to its members. Its descriptive matter is in French, 

 had it been in Irish the possibility (we don't say the proba- 

 bilit)-) is we could have more pleasantly parted with 15s. 

 and taken it to our heart ; as it is complications are addcti 

 to complexity. But what a grand thing it should be for the 

 pea-men — the sweet ones of course — in order to confound 

 those Nationalists (the N. S. P.) in their "too much alike" 

 business, bad cess to 'em, could not even leave us our 

 Dodwell F. Browne, but must needs bracket it with 

 half a dozen others. Bracket em together — altogether, 

 boys ! That's where the colour chart comes in — to the 

 extent, at least, of ',450 colours. .Surely those S. P. 

 Nationalists will now take occasion hy the hand and 

 make the bounds of freedom wider yet. "Too much 

 alike ! " Don't be talking ! No more disqualifjing 

 tricks with the judges ; just give each a copy of the 

 colour chart, and— there you are. 



Arbor Week should be a great day for Ireland. .And 

 how much better to make a week of it than one pallry 

 little da}', which may turn out wet and mucky to 

 iuu/, and anything but nice for man or tree. Surely, 

 now, we may expect something more than last year's 

 achieveinent, when a few solitary somethings were 

 stuck in somewhere (about the sloblands of Clonlarf, 

 was it ?) b}' somebodies, and glorified with names 

 which -no matter, it was to the best of our recollec- 

 tion of the Press reports of that date, a tree-mcndous 

 operation necessitating speeching, refreshments and 

 other "allegations," including a few trees. We believe 

 there is no truth in the report that every spade in 

 Dublin has been bought up against this auspicious 

 week. Better weather and more power to it, even to 

 the extent of a month— Arbor Month— in twelve months 

 time. 



