The Hyacinths are all out in the Dutch Garden. But alas, the winds of March!—they grew and gathered and became a gale and laid some twenty of our silver-blue soldiers prostrate. Their fat juicy stalks snap all too easily. In the pots on the terrace wall, half have been swept away. However, thanks to our close planting, only the eye of the initiate could perceive the gaps. Right under the study windows there are still twin lakes of exquisite pale sapphire, breathing fragrance.

In the bank below the Dutch Garden, the Narcissus, which have been set to the tune of two thousand, are swaying long lemon-coloured buds out of a field of green spikes. There are, in that tongue of land, two Buddleia trees which have grown to unusual height and girth and are a mass of orange balls in due season. And there is a band of Iris to which we are perpetually adding, but which, mysteriously, never seems to increase. There is also a shrubby bit where you will behold a wild rose tree; two nondescript flowering evergreens; a darling little Scotch Briar, one mass of yellow Pompons, entrancing by their wild scent; those disappointing bushes known as Altheas, so eulogized by garden chroniclers; and a Rheum.

We planted the Rheum last year. This March it astonishes us by the leaf buds it has produced. They are like stormy, sinister, crimson blossoms with gaping yellow mouths, and look poisonous and tropical: altogether out of place in a Surrey moorland—especially with the innocence of the grey Lavender plant that grows beside them. What a thrilling thing a garden is and how full of surprises!—do Rheums always do this, we wonder?

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All the Compton pots along the terrace are filled with blue Hyacinths and Forget-me-nots; all the beds about the house are stuffed with Tulips and again Forget-me-nots. Now, some people we read in a garden-book the other day eschew this plant, Myosotis silvestris, because “it spreads so rapidly that it may almost be regarded as a weed.” We are the kind of people who like our flowers to spread like weeds; especially when, as in the case of this attractive sinner, every bed becomes a delicate cloud of blue from which on long stems the Darwins rear their cups of wonderful colour.

A little later on, we mean to make the same use of Nemophila, which last year, in spite of ceaseless rain, kept bravely blue in the patch where it had been sown until quite the end of autumn.

Every one tells us that Madonna Lilies will not succeed in our soil. We are making another effort with giant bulbs, which, so far, promise splendidly.

Fate, in its unexpected way, has provided us with a double row of red Duc van Thol Tulips on each side of the two little rose beds that run down the grass slope under the bench yclept “SchÖne Aussicht.” That particular slope, by the way, in the pristine days of jungle, was the worst bit of wilderness. Heather, Gorse, Bramble, Bracken and underwood made it simply impenetrable. Now, cleared and turfed, it leads the eye gently on to the Pine Tree Avenue; to the green of the fields beyond; to the valley and the distant hills. In a triangular bed at the top a clump of Lilac has been planted and carpeted beneath with “Bachelor’s Buttons.” Already it is very gay, although the Lilacs are only in bud. We believe these double Daisies go by another title in gardening circles, but this is a name associated with youthful memories. They ought to flourish the whole year round, since bachelors will always be in season. We shall see.

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There is nothing that gives one a more intimate sense of the joy of spring than the renewed song of the birds. It is good to wake at early dawn and hear the soft sleepy calls and cries with which they first rouse each other, then the exquisite voice of thrush or blackbird, singing as it were under its breath the morning hymn which is one of the most touching things in Nature.

Just now a small bird was spinning out a monody as delicate and continuous and attenuated as a spider’s gossamer—some feathered mother, we fancy, cradling her eggs. We never heard any song quite like it before. Adam shakes his head and says we are bringing the birds about the house with our winter largesses; but one might as well be told that if you want to keep your house tidy you should banish the children!

Says Victor Hugo:

Substitute “jardin” for “printemps” and you have our views. We have no children in this house, worse luck ... except the fur ones.

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Caliban, the garden man, has again broken his “pledge,” a little quicker than usual this time, and we fear we must be firm and keep to our last ultimatum—that unless he takes it afresh he will have to go. Caliban always reminds us of a prehistoric man. Whenever one meets him he looks exactly as if he had just reared himself upright from running on all fours, and would drop down again immediately as soon as we are out of sight. He has an excellent hard-working wife, and works very well himself—until the last pledge has quite worn away. We are sorry for Mrs. Caliban, the mother of three prehistoric babies: for we hear that Caliban, in the philosophic language of the district, “knocks her about a bit,” when he has had what he calls “his glass of beer.”—“You couldn’t wish for a nicer husband, when he’s sober,” she vows, poor woman, and is pathetically hopeful every time the oath of abstinence is administered! It is dreadful how many bad husbands there are in this small district. In another family the father is so well known that the mere mention of his name is enough to stiffen the employer of labour.

“Dere Miss, my husband as been very unlucky and strained hisself again and ad to give up his work.”

Thus the poor wife starts the usual appeal when the inevitable has occurred and there is no more bread in the house. We are quite accustomed to these missives, which indeed might be stereotyped with space left for the date. Although the brother of a local policeman, this black sheep is altogether so hopeless, that, in order to keep his poor little progeny from growing sable in their turn, we have placed a lamb out here and there in divers charitable folds. Alfie, the last rescued, is a more original letter-writer than his mother. This was the document that he sent her from that happy Home for Little Boys where we trust he will grow up with an unimpeachable fleece.

“Dere Mother,—I hope this finds you well. I hope James and Vilet and Alice are well and nice and good. This is a very nice place. I hope you will tell me when you are going to call that I may be in. God bless you.

In yet another family, the head of which was in the habit of spending ten or twelve shillings a week regularly on cigarettes and tipple, until Nemesis overtook him in the shape of consumption, the pretty, hard-working, fiery-haired Irish wife declares without a thought of unkindness, that if she could only get him “out of the way for good” she could “do all right” for herself and her three small children.

If ever woman has a voice in social reform, though with a few glaring exceptions legal interference with the liberty of the subject is abhorrent to Loki’s Grandmother, and she has little wish herself for suffrage or any other rage, she vows that she will vote and vote and vote for any measure that may tend to eliminate the Public House from the countryside—curse of the small home that it is! In every one of these cases there would be comfort and happiness in the family were it not for the perpetual temptation to the breadwinner.

The blacker the sheep, sad to say, the larger as a rule the family of doubtfully hued lambs. Mrs. Mutton—the letter-writer—is “not so well just now.” She is pathetically anxious that the new babe may be born alive, having lost the last one. Loki’s Ma-Ma went to see her the other day, and found her with a knowledgeable neighbour who has promised to “see her through,” and in a state of profound gloom, not unmixed, however, with a faint, pleasurable importance.

“Oh, Miss, we have just heard of such a sad thing in the village. The nurse, she’s just been up to tell me—a pore young woman, Miss, gone with her first!”

“Oh, dear!”—Loki’s Mother is duly impressed, but anxious to distract Mrs. Mutton’s mind—“That is very sad. I hope you’re feeling pretty well to-day, Mrs. Mutton?”

“No, Miss, I’m very poorly these days. Mrs. Tosher here says she’s never seen any one like me. ‘What can it be,’ she says, ‘that makes you like this?’ Don’t you, Mrs. Tosher?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“I fell agin the water-butt this morning,” goes on Mrs. Mutton, in the melancholy drone that is habitual to her. “A kind of weakness it was come over me. I hit my eye—something awful, Miss, as you can see!”

The signorina had been tactfully averting her gaze from that black orb; she now blesses the superior tact which enables her to contemplate it calmly.

Mrs. Tosher—a large, jovial, untidy female with a shrunken “blue cotton” inadequately fastened by two safety pins across her capacious bosom—gives a heavy but non-committal groan. Mr. Mutton’s name is not mentioned. The water-butt explanation is accepted without demur.

“Of course, she’s ’ad a shock to-day, Miss, you see,” says the village matron, and brings the conversation back to the original topic, which is one of great attraction.

“Yes, Miss, it ’aving been just as it might be me, Miss.” Mrs. Mutton sighs, and looks in a detached, if one-sided manner, out of the grimy window. The visitor perceives there is nothing for it: she must hear the details. Wisely she resigns herself.

“What happened?”

“Well, it was all along of two suet dumplings and some chops, Miss, which wasn’t as they ought to have been, having been kept in the ’ouse too long, you see. Wasn’t that it, Mrs. Tosher, my dear?”

“Yes, my dear, and some ’ard bits of parsnip.”

“But it was mostly the chops, Miss, they’d been kept, you see. The doctors, they couldn’t do nothing for her.” Mrs. Mutton sighs and lifts the fringe of her shawl to the damaged eye. Tragic as the tale is, Loki’s Mother visibly brightens:

“But then the poor thing was poisoned,” she cries cheerfully.

“Yes, Miss, potomaine poison along of her condition, being the same as mine, Miss.”

“But, Mrs. Mutton, anyone—”

“No, Miss.” Mrs. Tosher intervenes: she cannot allow this foolish attempt at consolation to proceed. “The doctor said it was along of her condition.”

“Yes, Miss, it’s the condition as done it—all along of a bit of chop—kept like—and ’ard parsnips.”