-Supplement  to 
236 
JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER. 
March  13,  1902. 
Earth’s  Many  Voices. 
I  do  not  know  who  originated  tliat  sentence,  “  Earth’s  many 
voices  ” ;  it  is  a  very  popular  one,  and  therefore  I  feel  very 
ignorant.  It  is  the  stock  quotation  which  is  so  hard  to  locate. 
Of  course,  you  might  get  out  of  the  difficulty  by  suggesting 
Shakespeare;  but  that  won’t  do  always.  I  wonder  if  anyone 
has  ever  tried  to  form  an  estimate  of  the  number  of  voices?  The 
task  would  be  difficult,  if  not  impossible.  We  are  all  so  busy 
nowadays  we  have  time  to  hear  nothing  but  the  voice  of  the 
thunder  of  Sinai;  the  “still  small  voice”  is  drowned  in  the  din 
of  life.  I  am  sure  we  should  be  better  men  and  women  if  only 
we  could  get  away  at  times,  and  have  a  quiet  half-hour  with 
N  ature. 
I  do  not  know  anything  more  calculated  to  relieve  harassed 
brain  and  body  than  the  soothing  influences  of  the  peaceful 
countrJ^  It  may  not  be  that  the  country  best  available  is  beau¬ 
tiful  ;  we  cannot  look  for  that  evei'y where,  but  the  deadest  level 
or  the  bleakest  moor  has  a  beauty  of  its  own; — anywhere  away 
from  man  and  his  works.  Even  the  best  of  town  gardens  lack 
something — there  is  the  distant  echo  of  the  streets,  the  ever-to- 
be-found  smut,  the  sense  of  enclosure  and  limited  space.  I  do 
not  deny  that  there,  on  a  spring  morning,  are  many  signs  of 
quickening  life ;  but  there  are  too  many  traces  of  man  about. 
I  had  rather  look  for  the  first  Daisy  in  a  bye-lane,  'or  the  Cow¬ 
slip  on  the  bank  in  the  pasture,  or  the  Marsh  Marigold  in  the 
muddy  bottom.  You  expect  to  find  certain  flowers  in  the  garden  ; 
there  is  nO'  element  of  surprise  there,  whereas  in  a  country  walk 
you  do  not  know  what  you  may  come  across.  Vivid  colours  are 
rare  in  early  spring,  unless  I  make  an  exception  of  the  Daffodil ; 
but  its  yelloTV  is  hardly  vivid.  The  Hyacinths  can’t  rank  as  spring 
flowers;  they  promise  so  long  before  they  fulfil.  The  prettiest 
sight  I  ever  see  is  a  wood  of  Oak  carpeted  with  that  fair  Wind¬ 
flower,  the  Anemone.  The  foliage  is  qs  graceful  as  the  flower, 
and  it  has  such  a  quaint  woodland  scent.  Generally  where  it 
grows  will  be  found  the  Dog  Violet,  the  contrast  of  lavender  and 
delicate  green.  Do  you  like  the  rustle  of  the  dry  leaves  at  your 
feet?  the  snap  of  the  rotten  branch  on  which  you  tread  partially 
hidden  by  moss?  A  wood  on  a  hillside,  sloping  towards  the 
sun,  with  a  tiny  stream  as  a  boundary ;  a  wmod  where  wild 
pigeons  build,  and  make  endless  echo  with  their  melancholy 
“coo.”  I  say  melancholy,  but  it  is  not  really  so.  It  must  be 
the  vain  repetition  that  haunts  one.  Happy  are  those  people 
who  own,  or  live  near,  a  rookery.  You  can  never  be  dull  with 
those  busy  house-builders  about.  They  are  thievish  and  quarrel¬ 
some  and  noisy,  but  full  of  life  and  energy. 
All  this  winter  the  missel  thrush  or  Charley  cock  has  fed 
on  my  Holly  berries.  He  and  his  mate — to-day  early  I  found 
her  dead,  alas! — are  never  long  away.  He  will  pay  me  for  those 
berries  shortly ;  and  so  will  the  bold  blackbird  remember  the 
debt  he  owes  for  my  rosy  Cherries  that  fed  him  and  his  family 
last  July.  I  do  not  think  the  birds  will  forget  the  winter  crumbs 
and  the  dish  of  water  when  all  their  sources  of  drink  were  frozen 
hard.  The  creepers  that  reached  to  the  sill  last  year  now  gently 
tap  on  the  window-pane,  and  the  Ivy  has  covered  another  section 
of  the  dull,  dead.  wall.  Since  last^year  the  Weeping  Ash  has 
encroached  on  the  lawn,  and  the  evergreens  in  the  far  border 
have  put  out  fresh  branches.  In  January  I  noticed  there  were 
visibly  green  buds  on  the  Clematis  that  makes  the  porch  a  purple 
gloiy,  and  the  first  bit  of  sky  seeks  the  earth  when  the  little 
Periwinkle  opens.  It  is  good  to  be  alive  ;  such  a  joy  to  think 
that  winter  is  behind  us.  Mind,  I.  don’t  say  we  have  lost  all 
cold  weather ;  but  there  is  hope,  and  the  lengthening  days  speak 
of  sunshine  to  come. 
No  prospects  look  so  dark  and  dreary  on  a  sunny  day,  and 
you  ought  not  to  be  melancholy  when  tlie  birds  are  all  in  full 
song.  The  miracle  of  spring  fills  me  anew  with  wonder  and 
pleasure.  Wonder  at  the  mighty  deeds  achieved;  pleasure  that 
I  yearly  participate  in  the  spectacle.  After  all,  when  one  comes 
to  think  of  it.  Spring  is  the  most  marvellous  season  of  the  four. 
January,  with  its  black  frosts  and  biting  skies,  is  not  a  great 
preparation  for  those  mild  and  balmy  days  so  often  vouchsafed 
to  us  in  February.  Winter  often  lingers  long,  and  as  often 
leaves  us  so  suddenly;  leaves  us,  alas!  only  to  return,  but  yet 
the  better  days  are  such  a  respite !  They  do  not  brace  you  for 
the  renewed  cold,  but  they  make  a  gleam  of  hope — you  are 
led  on  to  think  of  what  will  come,  and  there  is  nothing  yet  like 
Hope  to  bridge  over  the  abyss  that  lies  between  Despair  and 
Joy.  People  talk  of  the  pleasures  of  winter;  I  have  yet  to 
find  them.  Give  me  the  air  warmed  by  the  good  old  sun,  and 
sweetened  by  budding  flower  and  leaf.  Give  me  the  brown 
fields  putting  on  their  fresh  green  mantle.  Give  me  the  sap 
rising  in  the  trees.  Give  me  the  varied,  if  young,  life  all  round, 
and  I’ll  give  you  with  pleasure  the  winter  joys! 
With  the  spring  comes  need  for  activity.  I  cannot  be  happy 
unless  there  is  work  to  do,  and  I  like  the  work  to  be  pressing. 
I  can  always  work  best  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet.  That  is 
not  moral,  I  know ;  but  one  needs  a  bit  of  spur  as  one  passes 
the  milestones.  How  quickly  they  recur  now!  It  seems  so 
short  a  time  since  last  spring,  and  here  I  am  again  counting 
up  my  treasures.  Like  old  songs,  the  old  flowers  please  me 
best ;  it  is  the  memory  that  they  waken.  Of  every  spring  flower 
I  can  safely  say  it  has  a  distinct  location  in  my  mind,  and  I 
can  recall  in  Avhich  special  nook  of  my  childhood’s  garden  certain 
treasures  were  found.  I  could  go  to  the  spots  now ;  but  I  dare 
not,  if  I  might.  Strange  hands  make  strange  changes,  and  I 
could  not  accept  with  equanimity  the  changes  I  should  find. 
Ah !  this  is  one  of  the  penalties  of  Time.  But,  after  all,  nothing 
can  rob  one  of  the  memories.  Memory  is  like  an  herb  bed  full 
of  sweets  and  bitters.  Thank  God  when  the  sweets  prevail !  I 
found  these  lines  the  other  day ;  a  quaint  old  village  ditty  to 
spring.  Thomas  Hardy  puts  them  into  the  mouth  of  one  of  his 
sweetest  creations. 
Ari.se  !  Arise  !  Arise  ! 
And  pick  your  love  a  posy 
All  o’  the  sweetest  flowers 
That  in  the  garden  grow  ; 
The  turtle  dove  and  sma’  birds 
In  every  bough  a  building, 
So  early  in  the  spring  time 
At  the  break  of  day. 
— The  Missus. 
I 
^aeleriosis  in  KYoeinths 
By  George  Abbey. 
This  is  a  destructive  disease  of  Hyacinths,  which,  according 
to  Wakker  (Onderzock  der  Zeitten  van  Hycinthen,  Haarlem, 
1884),  has  been  well  known  in  Holland  for  some  time, 
and  in  recent  years  shown  itself  on  bulbs  in  this  country, 
an_  example  of  the  disease  as  affecting  Eoman  Hyacinth 
being  configured,  natural  size,  in  Fig.  1  at  A.  It 
was  one  of  several  similarly  diseased  bulbs  submitted 
by  a  correspondent,  “  Chelwood,”  to  the  Editor  of  the 
Journal  of  Horticulture  for  diagnosis,  and  was  examined  and 
sketched  by  me  on  January  28,  1902,  when  the  following 
notable  features  were  observed : — (1)  The  radical  part  of  the  bulb. 
Fig.  1,  A,  at  a  was  rootless,  and  showed  no  signs  of  there 
having  been  any  roots  protruded  in  accordance  with  the  current 
growth,  or  of  their  being/protruded,  while  the  base  of  the  bulb 
appeared  quite  sound.  (2)  At  b,  issuing  from  the  scales  of  the  bulh 
was  a  yellow  or  pale  brown,  mucus,  becoming  black  in  contact 
Fig.  1.  Roman  Hyacinth  Infested  with  Hyacinth  Bacteeiosis. 
A,  bulb  of  Roman  Hyacinth,  natural  size:  a,  base  of  bulb  devoid  of  roots;  b, 
point  on  bulb  where  yellow  or  brownish  matter  was  oozing  out;  c,  yellow 
spots  on  young  growth  ;  d,  patch  of  blue  mould  ;  e,  dark  spots  on  outer  scale 
of  bulb  ;  f,  brown  or  blackish  matter  in  scale  of  bulb. 
B,  bodies  found  in  yellow  mucus  from  points  of  b  and  c  of  A  »=  Bacterium 
hyHcinthi. 
C,  a  fruiting  branch  of  blue  mould  (Penic'llium  glaucum)  from  point  d  of  A. 
