328 THE BOOK OF A NATURALIST 



the way in which it came before me that has given 

 it such a lustre in my mind. I was motoring with 

 friends from Land's End to London, when in coming 

 through the hilly country near Tavistock I caught 

 sight of a flower unknown to me on a tall stalk 

 among the thick herbage at the roadside, and 

 shouted to the chauffeur to stop. He did so after 

 rushing on a farther hundred yards or so, but very 

 reluctantly, as he was angry with the hills and 

 anxious to get to Exeter. I walked back and 

 secured my strange lovely flower, and for the rest 

 of the day it was a delight to us, and I'm pretty 

 sure that its image exists still and shines in the 

 memory of all who were with me in the car that 

 day — the chauffeur excepted. 



I am bringing too many flowers into this chapter, 

 since only one is named in the title, but once I 

 begin to think of them they keep me, and a dream 

 of fair flowers is as much to me as that Dream of 

 Fair Women is to the Tennysons and Swinburnes 

 who write poetry. Or perhaps they are more like 

 fair little girls than grown women, the beautiful 

 little dear ones I loved and remember — Alice and 

 Doris, and pensive Monica, " laughing AUegra and 

 Edith with golden hair," and dozens more. But 

 I must really break away from this crowd to 

 concentrate on my chequered daffodil, only I must 

 first be allowed to mention just one more — the 

 blue columbine, the wild flower, always true blue 

 and supposed to be indigenous. I don't believe 

 it ; I imagine for various reasons that it is a garden 



