THE YEAR’S HIGH NOON 
with the wild honey of the pale scabious stars, lavender, 
and primrose, and of their dark companion of fragrant 
cottage-garden memory, the old red scabious, or “ Betty’s 
Pincushion,” that looks for all the world like a heap 
of clustered garnets. But it is not on cottage gardens 
alone that the scabious’ scent grows eloquent; close 
your eyes for a moment and the green walls of a deep 
lane encompass you, or, should a cool waft of the 
summer wind take you unawares, you may seem to feel 
beneath your feet the velvet turf of broad rolling downs 
and to breathe the flying airs of those high solitudes. 
And for sheer sweetness what imaginable odour 
could rival the hedges of sweet-peas that fly their frail 
garlands with so exquisite a grace on either side the 
orchard alleys and climb in trailing clouds of glory on 
the trellis. Indeed, I have sometimes been moved to 
wonder as to whether, given a less complaisant nature, 
the sweet-pea might not boast as opulent a following as 
the orchid. 
No lovelier range of colours could there be—from 
the blackest grape-purple to tenderest blue, from purest 
carmine to clear rose and faintest blush, rich bronze to 
orange, sulphur to cream and white, peach to pale shell- 
pink, they sing together like the morning stars. Some, 
of course, are variously winged, while others are freaked 
and flushed and shaded in such a butterfly host of pretty 
dyes as might well bewilder the vision and render choice 
a mere futility. It were best to sow them all. For¬ 
tunately they are not coy, and a reasonable amount of 
courtship will be richly rewarded. I am well pleased 
that for this season I took thought beforehand to 
G 
