March Winds 



rushes out the remaining buds. Dingy grey-green things 

 they are, but some insects see and visit them, and if I 

 happen along and find them agape, I use my amber or 

 sealing-wax to transfer some pollen, for though I do not 

 greatly admire the dull flowers, nor later on the coarse, 

 floppy leaves, I do like to see a good crop of fruit, like 

 a clutch of emerald-green pheasant's eggs, or a dish of 

 unripe tomatoes, closely packed in the heart of each plant. 

 They are at their best when full grown but still unripe, 

 for they only lose in brightness of green and take on a 

 dull yellowish tinge when they begin to scent the air 

 with a mixed odour of bananas and pineapple, and their 

 next stage is to roll off and rot, and, unless removed, to 

 produce a crowd of seedlings where they fall. A very 

 much finer thing is Mandragora autumnalis, but like many 

 other good things it is as scarce, at any rate in England, 

 as it is beautiful. Fancy a rosette of handsome deep 

 green leaves, as it might be those of a mullein, lying flat 

 on the ground, and clean and vigorous all through the 

 winter months, and then fill up the centre of this rosette 

 with a score of purple blossoms, much resembling stem- 

 less flowers of Anemone Pulsatilla, and you have some idea 

 of what the Autumnal Mandrake should be. Ever since 

 last November I had been watching for the reappearance 

 of two specimens, and though it was not until the middle 

 of May I rejoiced over their safe return, I write of them 

 here as they should be in flower at the same time as their 

 dowdy sister, and I believe should have kept up a succes- 

 sion of their purple blossoms from the late autumn. But 

 it is an unpunctual creature, and you never know when it 

 will choose to flower from season to season. Its name 



