DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



is where the daffodils grow, where they bloom in 

 lavish profusion, and there I have wandered. They 

 are out in the meadows and orchards, great breadths 

 of them, massed yellow patches, or single outposts 

 scouting the hedgerows ; the advance guards prospect- 

 ing new and untried soil, preparatory to colonising. 

 But these hardy yellow lilies of the open fields have 

 short stalks as yet, and are later than those which fleck 

 the neighbouring wood there they are tall and finer, 

 great sturdy fellows, but never coarse, never unrefined, 

 which cannot always be said of those which figure 

 at our spring shows. How well the natural carpet 

 of dry brown oak leaves shows off the neat, straight 

 tufts of spiky leaves ! 



Daffodils, yes, daffodils by the million million, 

 singly, in groups, massed in battalions, each a perfect 

 flower, regiment after regiment, the whole wood is 

 tessellated and dappled with them. Where the young 

 unfelled oaks are thinnest, and the undergrowth 

 cleared they crowd and run riot : a glimpse of the 

 well-trimmed ride shows just a lane of gold, while half- 

 way down gleams a group of silver birch stems, almost 

 snow-white as the sunlight strikes them. On they 



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