DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



But I have topped the low hill and, passing over, 

 leave the wind to roar like a wild sea in the tops of 

 the trees which form the long straggling ridge of the 

 wood below and, as I step down its cleared and 

 sheltered sunny southern slope, how can I describe 

 or give an impression of ' my garden ' here ? I 

 have dropped into primrose land ; primroses every- 

 where, not small isolated flowers but huge strong 

 clumps, smothered in fine long-stalked flowers of 

 purest yellow. Away they run up the wood in chains 

 and patches, like a gigantic pattern of finest lace, 

 nestling around the bole of grey lichened oak, en- 

 circling the sprouting stubs of pink-budded hazel 

 and wych-elm : often with their delicate downy pink 

 stalks hidden in dry rustling oak leaves and con- 

 trasting with the shining green rosettes of pushing 

 blue-bell roots, or sometimes almost covered with 

 green tassel-flowered dog's mercury. 



What exquisite beauty is here and why? Why 

 this lavish waste ? Are they displayed to welcome 

 the first notes of the newly-arrived chiflf-chaflf, or are 

 they there to hide the desolation caused by the greed 

 of the flock of heavy-winged wood-pigeons, which have 



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