House and Garden 
vine, among the yellowing leaves of which 
hang, during autumn, tight bunches of small 
purple grapes that supply the wherewithal 
for grape wine. At one side of the narrow 
railed-in space separating the front door 
from the street, stands an old pear tree, 
loaded every season with fruit which, owing 
to its ‘ iron ’ quality, escapes the hands of 
boy-marauders. The little spot reflects all 
the tints of the rainbow, save in the depth 
of winter. The first buds to pierce the 
brown earth and brighten its dull surface, are 
such tender blossoms as the snowdrop, he- 
patica and winter aconite. To them succeed 
crocuses, hyacinths, tulips, the scale of color 
mounting ever higher as the season ad¬ 
vances, until it culminates in a blaze of 
scarlet, blue, and yellow, that to be fully 
appreciated should flame against gray, vener¬ 
able walls or light up the dark sweep of some 
cedar-studded lawn. The square garden 
behind the house slopes to the brook near 
the bridge, and is shut in on two sides by 
high mud walls half hidden beneath manes 
of ivy. Along the stream—bordered just 
there by willows—is a broad band of turf 
hanked by nut bushes that shelter each a 
rustic seat, and sparkling in spring with 
clumps of daffodils tossing their heads in 
sprightly dance. When the sun is shining 
through their golden petals and burnishing 
the surface of the water, when it is brighten¬ 
ing the pink willow-buds and revealing un¬ 
suspected tints in the mossy trunks of the 
apple-trees beyond the brook, that little 
strip of grass is a joy, the remembrance of 
which abides throughout the year, until the 
changing months make it once again some¬ 
thing more than a memory.” 1 
Not only for ornament are some plants 
and herbs cultivated. Our villagers are 
learned in the lore of the herbalist. An 
old pensioner in my parish who was wounded 
in the Indian Mutiny and bore bravely the 
effects of the wounds until his dying day, 
used to collect sundry herbs and simples and 
wondrously relieve the pain. It was in 
winter that he suffered most, when the herbs 
refused to grow. “ Floures of Lavender do 
cure the beating of the harte,” an old re¬ 
ceipt book tells us. “ They are very pleas¬ 
ing and delightful to the brain, which is 
much refreshed by their sweetness. Good 
housewives always have lavender not only for 
nosegays and posies, but for linen and ap¬ 
parel.” Many are the quaint remedies 
which the herb-garden supplies, relics of 
gypsy lore, and not without their efficacy if 
received and served with faith. 
] This garden is in the village of West Hendred, Berks, and is 
described by Miss Hayden in her book “ Travels through our 
Village.” 
Old Cottage at Bledlow, Bucks 
2 55 
