Stray Leaves from a Border Garden 
quaint; it used to mean “ Little Dandy.” In old Herbals 
they are sometimes called Muggets, and the Italian name 
is, I think, Mughetto. Some of the old superstitions con- 
nected with May-lily are very quaint. I like the idea that 
a decoction of it distilled in wine is a cure for a bad 
memory. Surely a bottle of this would be a nice present 
for many of one’s friends and neighbours, and should 
certainly be on one’s own toilet-table. There seem to be 
some places still in England where it grows wild. Boy’s 
nurse talks of a wood, I think, near Lancaster, where she 
went to gather May-lilies. And I believe, in the Sandring- 
ham woods, pseudo- wild Lilies of the Valley are cherished ; 
and I know of a wonderful modern Flower Wizard in that 
neighbourhood who is able so to retard the blossoming of 
Lilies of the Valley by artful refrigeration that we may, 
if we please, enjoy them in bloom all the year round! 
(Messrs. Jannoch, King’s Lynn, Dersingham.) 
June 6. — I heard a Nightjar this evening, after dinner, 
“churring ” or “ purring” away in the ivy-covered Beech, 
the first time this year. I do not think they are very common 
in this neighbourhood, though I believe they have been 
sometimes seen about the Lammermoors. Gilbert White 
calls it the Churn Owl, another name is the Fern Owl. 
It is sometimes also called Goatsucker, Puckeridge, and 
Dorhawk. 
June 7. — I was awake last night about 2 o’clock, and it 
was comparatively light ; there were actually birds singing, 
while an Owl was hooting weirdly ; I suppose the Brown 
Beech Owl, who lives in the old beech near my window. 
I fancy our ancestors rather liked Owls, since in old Barns 
there are sometimes found what are called “owl-holes,” 
places made especially for the Owls to get in to the barns ; 
stone perches even were sometimes provided. I believe 
they are rather maligned birds, and it is a pity game- 
keepers dislike them so much. I think it is cruel to 
keep Owls in captivity. I saw one once in a small box ; he 
looked such a melancholy captive and yet so dignified, a 
sort of owlish Napoleon. The young Thrushes have flown ; 
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