THE MAJOR 
I never see a glorious show of Tulips or Hyacinths without 
being reminded of my old friend Major Tiffin. How fond 
he was of the gorgeous blooms, and how successful his 
gardening operations always seemed to be ! Flowers are 
said only to grow well in the gardens of those who love 
them. He was a retired Indian officer, who, after a long 
life spent in heated struggles with Punjaubees and Sikhs 
(he had begun life in the days when lads started in life at 
sixteen or earlier, and had probably seen many a battle 
before they were twenty), had subsided to daily struggles 
with Green-fly and Slug, Caterpillar and Wireworm, and all 
the host of minor woes which beset the true gardener. 
He had only a tiny garden, but admirably adapted for 
beautifying. Up the cliffs of an old quarry he had trained 
Roses in what novels call “ wild profusion, 5 ’ and well did the 
lovely Eglantines and their fellows repay his clever care. 
On the inclined banks in the lush grass, grew pink and 
cream-coloured Peonies, tall White Lilies, Red Lilies, Colum- 
bines of all colours, Auriculas, and a thousand pretty things, 
each of which he knew by name. But I think the old garden 
to me looked its prettiest in Tulip and Narcissus time, when, 
in the grass on the sloping banks, I saw the many different 
Narcissus and red and yellow Tulips peering at their sweet 
will, unchecked above the grass blades, when the Blue- 
bells, white and blue, were to be seen in thick clumps under 
the Lilac-bushes, and when in the first warm evening of 
May I accompanied the Major on deliberate visits of 
inquiry to each beloved clump. I remember the sunny 
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