52 A YEAR IN A LANCASHIRE GARDEN. 



consolation. There is nothing I am more sorry to 

 have missed than the great shrub almost tree 

 of Buddleia globosa, which grows in the centre of 

 one of the herbaceous borders. It has been, as 

 it always is, covered with its golden balls, smelling 

 of honey, and recalling an old garden in Somer- 

 setshire which I knew years ago. It is certainly 

 true that nothing calls up associations of the past 

 as does the sense of smell. A whiff of perfume 

 stealing through the air, or entering into an open 

 window, and one is reminded of some far-off place 

 on some long-past day when the same perfume 

 floated along, and for one single moment the 

 past will seem more real than the present. The 

 Buddleia, the Magnolia, and one or two other 

 flowers always have this power over me. 



I have still one Azalea, and only one, in blossom ; 

 it has a small and very fragrant white flower. 



I have been lately reading several articles about 

 the fly-catching flowers. Is it generally known 

 that no fly-catcher is more cruel and more greedy 

 than the common Ghent Azalea, especially, I think, 

 the large sweet yellow one ? On one single blos- 

 som, which I gathered just before leaving home, 

 at the end of May, I found no less than six flies ; 

 four of them were quite dead, and of one or two 



