HERBS 



state how many scenes they recall to memory ! 

 We found them on the tops of the glorious Downs 

 when the wheat was ripe in the plains and the 

 earth beneath seemed all golden. Some, too, con- 

 cealed themselves on the pastures behind those 

 bunches of tough grass the cattle left untouched. 

 And even in cold November, when the mist lifted, 

 while the dewdrops clustered thickly on the grass, 

 one or two hung their heads under the furze. 



Hawkweeds, which many mistake for dande- 

 lions ; cowslips, in seed now, and primroses, with 

 foreign primulas around them and enclosed by 

 small hurdles, foxgloves, some with white and 

 some with red flowers, all these have their story 

 and are intensely English. Rough-leaved comfrey 

 of the side of the river and brook, one species 

 of which is so much talked of as better forage than 

 grass, is here, its bells opening. 



Borage, whose leaves float in the claret-cup 

 ladled out to thirsty travellers at the London rail- 

 way stations in the hot weather ; knotted figwort, 

 common in ditches; Aaron's Rod, found in old gar- 

 dens ; lovely veronicas ; mints and calamints whose 

 leaves, if touched, scent the fingers, and which 

 grow everywhere by cornfield and hedgerow. 



This bunch of wild thyme once again calls up 

 a vision of the Downs ; it is not so thick and 

 strong, and it lacks that cushion of herbage which 



