=* A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook *= This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please contact a FP administrator before proceeding. This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE. _Title:_ Green Fingers: A Present for a Good Gardener _Date of first publication:_ 1936 _Author:_ Reginald Arkell (1882-1959) _Date first posted:_ July 23, 2017 _Date last updated:_ July 23, 2017 Faded Page eBook #20170719 This ebook was produced by: Barbara Watson, David T. Jones, Alex White & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net GREEN FINGERS [Illustration: “A LOVESOME THING—GOD WOT!”] GREEN FINGERS _A PRESENT FOR A GOOD GARDENER_ _by_ REGINALD ARKELL _pictured by_ EUGÈNE HASTAIN [Illustration] McCLELLAND & STEWART, LIMITED PUBLISHERS TORONTO COPYRIGHT, 1936, BY MCCLELLAND & STEWART, LIMITED All rights reserved—no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher. PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY Quinn & Boden Company, Inc. BOOK MANUFACTURERS RAHWAY, NEW JERSEY _To My Landlord_ I’LL tell you a rather remarkable thing: The wall of my garden belongs to the King. And, would you believe it, the rent that I pay, Is merely a trifle of twopence a day. My garden, I have to admit it, is small; But you _should_ see the roses I grow on the wall. RICHMOND. _August_, 1934. [Illustration] [Illustration] _Contents_ PAGE “GREEN FINGERS” 1 WE GROW THE SAME ROSES 2 “COME DOWN TO KEW—” 4 FLOWERS OF THE MIND 5 LEGEND OF ROSEMARY 6 A NURSERYMAN 8 BEES 9 A CONCRETE EXAMPLE 10 GREEN FLY 11 THE PASSION FLOWER AND THE PEA 13 MY GARDENER COMPLAINS 14 THE LADY WITH THE LAMP 15 SWEET PEA CULTURE 16 UNHAPPY HAMPSTEAD 17 THE BALLAD OF THE BUTTERCUP 18 DEPRESSION 20 ROCK GARDENS 21 THE LADY OF SHALOTS 22 THE OLD RED WALL 23 THE GAZEBO 24 THE TOMATO MAN 26 MUMMY’S GARDEN 27 I SAW NINE PESTS 29 EASTER DAY 30 LIFE BEGINS AT TWENTY-ONE 31 THE EVER-OPEN DOOR 32 THE OLD HOUSE 33 A GARDEN SONG 34 GOD’S GARDEN 35 SAILORS DON’T CARE 37 A PERFECT LADY 38 THE OLD LAWN 39 BANK HOLIDAY 40 YOU KNOW THIS WOMAN 41 WHEN WE WERE BOYS 42 GRAVES IN MY GARDEN 43 MARTHA AND MARY 44 WARNED OFF 45 A HYMN OF HATE 46 MR. GARDENER 47 THE LADY WHO WAS HERE BEFORE 48 “CAN YOU BEAT IT, COOK?” 49 TABLE FLOWERS 50 TRAGEDY AT KEW 51 HIBISCUS 52 WINTER AND SUMMER 53 THE MASTER AND THE MISSUS 54 SPRING AT KEW 56 WHAT IS A GARDEN? 58 COMMON OR GARDEN 59 THE DÉBUTANTE 60 “IT ISN’T GARDENING!” 61 CHRISTMAS ROSES 62 MAY 63 TESTIMONIAL 64 PLANTAINS 65 FORGET-ME-NOTS 66 THE NEW GARDEN 67 GIVE ME A GARDEN 68 ROSES AT OWLPEN 69 EPIGRAM 70 HATTON GARDEN 71 RECIPE FOR HAPPINESS 72 SNAKE’S-HEAD FRITILLARIES 73 CHILDREN’S HOUR 74 DROUGHT 75 THOSE LATIN NAMES 76 THE STATION-MASTER’S GARDEN 78 WISTARIA 79 SINGLE-HANDED 81 THE TWENTY-FIRST OF MAY 82 SCILLA NUTANS 83 SPRING 84 JASMINE OR JESSAMINE? 85 ANY HUSBAND 87 ALMOST HUMAN 88 WON BY WAITING 89 COME INTO THE GARDEN 90 ODD MAN OUT 91 PRODIGAL IN PERFUME 92 EPILOGUE 93 _Full-Page Illustrations_ “A LOVESOME THING—GOD WOT!” _Frontispiece_ PAGE “I SAW NINE PESTS” 28 “NOAH WAS NEVER A GARDENER” 36 “THE GARDEN OF EDEN WAS NOT A SUCCESS” 80 “HE LIKES TO LIE AND SMOKE HIS PIPE” 86 “_Green Fingers_” THIS book is meant for people who Can always make their gardens do Exactly what they want them to; Who search their borders every night, And catch their slugs by candle-light; Who always start at crack of dawn To dig the plantains from their lawn; Whose paths are _always_ free from weeds; Whose plants are _always_ grown from seeds; Who are _most_ careful not to prune That standard rose a day too soon; Who are _quite_ rude to men who sell Tobacco plants that have no smell; In fact, to all of you, I mean, Whose fingers are reputed green Because you keep your borders clean. [Illustration] _We Grow the Same Roses_ [Illustration] WHAT is a nation? Just the same Old garden with A different name. It may be here, It may be there; We grow the same roses Everywhere. It doesn’t matter What we do, You are the same as me, And I, as you. It doesn’t matter If short or tall— We grow the same roses After all. Though some are poor And some are rich, It doesn’t matter Which is which. Though men are brave And women fair, We grow the same roses Everywhere. It doesn’t matter Where we sit, Some choose the gallery And some, the pit; Some like the circle And some a stall— We grow the same roses After all. English or Russian, French or Scot; We seem so different— We are not. And though we quarrel Now and then, We kiss and make it Up again. The earth was made For every one; We share the same old stars, The same old sun. It doesn’t matter, The world is small— We grow the same roses After all. “_Come down to Kew—_” [Illustration] YOU know, of course, that pleasant rhyme, “Come down to Kew in Lilac-time”: I often feel it isn’t fair To other flowers growing there So I intend to write a rhyme, “Come down to Kew at _any_ time.” Come down to Kew, I mean to say, When Bluebells paint the woods of May; Come down to Kew, shall be my tune, When Roses, rioting in June, Usher the summer pageant in Until the Autumn days begin. Come down to Kew; though days are cold, The leaves are yellow, brown and gold. Come down to Kew, I mean to write, And see the Winter Aconite; Its little ruff is wet with rime— Come down to Kew at any time. _Flowers of the Mind_ [Illustration] _LAST winter, when I was in bed with the ’Flu_ _And a temperature of a hundred and two,_ _I was telling the gardener what he should do._ You must keep the _Neurosis_ well watered, I said. Be certain to weed the Anæmia bed. That yellow _Myopis_ is getting too tall, Tie up the _Lumbago_ that grows on the wall. Those scarlet _Convulsions_ are quite a disgrace, They’re like the _Deliriums_—all over the place. The pink _Pyorrhœa_ is covered with blight, That golden _Arthritis_ has died in the night. Those little dwarf _Asthmas_ are nearly in bloom— _But just then the doctor came into the room._ _Legend of Rosemary_ [Illustration] THERE once was a lady, divinely tall, Who lived high up in a castle wall, And longed to be lord in her husband’s hall. A troubadour chanced to be passing by, As the lady looked down from her casement high. He stood at the foot of the castle wall, And sang to the lady, divinely tall, Who longed to be lord in her husband’s hall: “A holy father, from over the sea, Has brought me this cutting of Rosemary. “Plant it carefully by the wall. If it grows a tree, both healthy and tall, You shall be lord in your husband’s hall.” The lady listened, and so it befell. She wore the doublet and hose as well. _And even to-day_ _There are cynics who say:_ _The wife who means to master her man_ _Will trot down the path with her watering-can—_ _And if you follow her, you will see_ _She always waters her Rosemary._ [Illustration] _A Nurseryman_ THE Queen was in the garden, A-smelling of a rose. She started for to pick one, To please her royal nose; When up speaks the gardener: “You can’t have none of those.” The Queen was in the green-house, A-looking at a grape. She started to admire one: Its colour, bloom and shape. When up comes the gardener, Before she could escape. The Queen is in the parlour A-slamming of the door; And writing of a letter Because she feels so sore: “I don’t want no gardener; So don’t come back no more.” _Bees_ SOME men make money As bees make honey; They spend their lives In filling hives— I think that’s funny. I’m not a busy bee; No honest toil for me, And when my Banker, Each time I meet him in the street, Gets frank and franker, He does not worry me— I have a recipe; I find some busy bee Who has the sense to be Friendly to me. _A Concrete Example_ MY next-door neighbour, Mrs. Jones, Has got a garden full of stones: A crazy path, a lily pond, A rockery, and, just beyond, A sundial with a strange device, Which Mrs. Jones thinks rather nice. My next-door neighbour, Mrs. Jones, Puts little plants between the stones. They are so delicate and small They don’t mean anything at all. I can’t think how she gets them in, Unless she plants them with a pin. My next-door neighbour, Mrs. Jones, Once asked me in to see her stones. We stood and talked about a flower For quite a quarter of an hour. “Where is this lovely thing?” I cried. “You’re standing on it,” she replied. [Illustration] _Green Fly_ [Illustration] OF every single garden pest, I think I hate the Green Fly best. My hate for him is stern and strong; I’ve hated him both loud and long. Since first I met him in the Spring I’ve hated him like anything. There was one Green Fly, I recall; I hated him the most of all. He sat upon my finest rose, And put his finger to his nose. Then sneered, and turned away his head To bite my rose of royal red. Next day I noticed, with alarm, That he had started out to charm A lady fly, as green in hue As all the grass that ever grew. He wooed, he won; she named the night— And gave my rose another bite. Ye gods, quoth I, if this goes on, Before another week has gone, These two will propagate their kind, Until, one morning, I shall find A million Green Fly on my Roses, All with their fingers to their noses. I made a fire, I stoked it hot With all the rubbish I had got; I picked the rose of royal red Which should have been their bridal bed; And on the day they twain were mated They also were incinerated. [Illustration] _The Passion Flower and the Pea_ I THINK that I shall never be So popular that I shall see A Passion Flower named after me. Though famous people of to-day, _Are_ honoured in this curious way. In Carter’s Catalogue, I see That Mary Pickford is a Pea. Jack Hobbs, Lord Beatty, Nurse Cavell, And Sonny Boy, are Peas as well. When they name something after me, I only hope that I shall be A Passion Flower and not a Pea. _My Gardener Complains_ THE Missus seems To think it fun To work from dawn To set of sun, And do two jobs Instead of one. The Missus loves To rush around, And do each job That can be found. She covers quite A lot of ground. I can’t think why She works that way, For, after all, She gets no pay And never has A holiday. [Illustration] _The Lady with the Lamp_ THERE is a lady, sweet and kind As any lady you will find. I’ve known her nearly all my life; She is, in fact, my present wife. In daylight, she is kind to all, But, as the evening shadows fall, With jam-pot, salt and sugar-tongs She starts to right her garden’s wrongs. With her electric torch, she prowls, Scaring the Nightjars and the Owls, And if she sees a slug or snail She sugar-tongs him by the tail. Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch, Beware the awful Avalanche— And Slugs, that walk abroad by night, Beware my wife’s electric light. [Illustration] _Sweet Pea Culture_ PREPARE the ground in Autumn And sprinkle lime about; Give the soil time to settle Before you plant them out. The trenches should be three feet deep And also two feet wide, With bone-meal, soot and farm manure Mixed with the soil inside. You’ll find that mid-September Is the proper time to start: Thin out the plants until they stand Just half a foot apart. Be careful how you drain the soil, Put sand along each row— _But, Gladys, she just shoves them in,_ _And, golly, how they grow!_ [Illustration] _Unhappy Hampstead_ I ALWAYS thought it was a pity That dwellers in our garden city Had not seen fit to emulate The owner of some great estate Who throws his garden open wide That every one may walk inside. So I suggested to some friends That we should try to make amends: It seemed the least that we could do, To throw our gardens open, too; And let the Garden City see Just what a garden ought to be. Two weeks before the fateful day, My Calliopses passed away. And e’er another week was past, My pet Gloxinia breathed her last. While, crowning tragedy of all, The Flowering Peach began to fall. _And so I fled—I could not face_ _Humiliation and Disgrace._ [Illustration] _The Ballad of the Buttercup_ A MAN, as mad as any hatter, Once said that mud is misplaced matter; And he would argue, I suppose, A weed is any plant that grows Outside its own especial sphere— I trust I make my meaning clear. And you are wondering, no doubt, What all this bother is about. While walking down my garden way, I found a buttercup to-day; A lovely thing it was, indeed, And yet, in theory, a weed. “Alas, poor Buttercup,” I said, “Already you’re as good as dead. If Mary sees you, Buttercup, Your number is distinctly up. What can be done?” Just then, my wife Swooped forward with her pruning-knife. “Observe,” I cried, “dear wife of mine, Observe this Lesser Celandine, The fairest flower by poets sung, In every land and every tongue . . .” But Mary merely shook her head: “It is a Buttercup,” she said. [Illustration] _Depression_ [Illustration] _A GARDEN is a lovesome thing—_ _When it starts blooming in the Spring._ The daffodil, the snowdrop white, The dainty Winter Aconite. . . . And just as it is going strong, The Woolly Aphis comes along. Wire Worms and Weevils think it fun To eat your annuals one by one. Until the Caterpillars start To break your horticultural heart. _Go, take a flat or buy a yacht._ _A garden is a lovesome thing—God wot!_ [Illustration] _Rock Gardens_ ROCK Gardens are really ridiculous things, Like peaches with pepper and donkeys with wings. You make out a list of the plants you must buy, You stick them in pockets, and most of them die. And if you are foolish enough to suppose You can keep them alive with the aid of a hose— What dire disillusion awaits you next day: The water is certain to wash them away. [Illustration] _The Lady of Shalots_ “HAVE you forgotten, Curly Head, That night beside the Parsley Bed?” “I have forgotten it,” she said. “Do you recall the word you spoke That night beneath the Artichoke?” “Oh, that,” said she, “was just a joke.” “Have you forgotten how you cried Among the Onions?” I sighed. “Well, do you blame me?” she replied. I spoke of sympathetic scenes Between the Parsnips and the Beans; But when I called her my Shalot And said what Celery I got— She told me not to talk such rot. _Ah, Kitchen Garden, soaked in rain_ _I ne’er shall see her like again._ _The Old Red Wall_ THE old red wall Seemed terribly tall To children at their play; Its top, so high That it reached the sky, Seemed ever so far away. It was built of brick, So terribly thick That nothing could make it fall; Each holiday time We longed to climb To the top of the old red wall. The world seems strange; The maps all change And Empires pass away. But the old red wall Doesn’t worry at all, It dreams of a child at play. And the child come back On a well-worn track, Has grown so terribly tall: He can sit and sigh For the days gone by On the top of the old red wall. _The Gazebo_ [Illustration] _Visitor_: YOU see that summer-house, which stands Across the road from “Happylands”? I have been wondering a lot About the chimney it has got. Is it a summer-house, or not? _Rustic_: Well, now you mentions it to me, That be a caution, so it be. I’ve lived here eighty year or more And never thought of that before. It be a caution, to be sure. _Gardener_: The gazebo, Miss? They used to wait For coaches that were always late, On what was once a busy track, And so it had a chimney stack— Those coaching days are coming back. . . . _And so they gossip and explain,_ _While I, behind the window-pane,_ _Search Memory’s ever-shifting sands_ _For laughing eyes and little hands—_ _The girl who lived at “Happylands.”_ [Illustration] _The Tomato Man_ [Illustration] WHENEVER I met the Tomato Man, I took to my heels and away I ran. He used to stand at his cottage door Oozing tomatoes from every pore. I always felt that the back of his head Was like a tomato—his cheeks were red, And he smoked a pipe, when I stopped to talk, That was rather like a tomato stalk. Tomato Men are the same to-day; You can always tell them a mile away: They lean on the fence, they smoke a pipe And are just a little bit over-ripe. [Illustration] _Mummy’s Garden_ MUMMY has a garden That is all her very own; She often goes to sit there When she wants to be alone. When she feels _un-so-ciable_, She won’t come out to play, And if I try to peep at her She makes me run away. [Illustration] Mummy’s little garden Has an arbour and a seat. Sometimes she lets me sit there As a most _es-pe-cial_ treat. Nobody must talk to her Until ’tis time for tea. I wonder what she thinks about? I wonder if it’s me? [Illustration: “I SAW NINE PESTS”] _I Saw Nine Pests_ AS I sat under a poplar tall, I saw nine pests come over the wall. I saw nine pests come wandering by; A slug, a snail and a carrot fly. I saw nine pests descending on me: Wire-worm, weevil and radish flea. I saw nine pests, a depressing sight: Pear midge, mildew and apple blight. Nine garden pests came over the wall, And the woolly aphis was worst of all. _Easter Day_ [Illustration] THE Squire has got a greenhouse, Where Easter lilies grow. They stand beside the altar, And make a lovely show. While simple snowdrops that I send Are hidden at the other end. When I have got a greenhouse, My flowers will be so fine, The lilies at the altar Will every one be mine; And all the flowers that others send, Will decorate the other end. _Life Begins at Twenty-one_ WHEN my first book has been published, dear, I’ll take a cottage not far from here— A little old place where roses climb Smelling so sweet in the summertime; And every morning, from ten till one, I’ll scribble, and when my work is done We’ll drift together, just me and you (Bother the grammar), in our canoe. I will paddle and you will steer When my first book has been published, dear. [Illustration] _The Ever-open Door_ [Illustration] GOOD gardeners all will deprecate The man who shuts his garden gate. _My_ garden gate is open wide, And _any one_ can walk inside— Except, of course, the ass who says: “_My_ lupins have been out for _days_.” _The Old House_ THE old house stands to-day As when you went away: The shaded porch, the poplar tall, The Hollyhocks along the wall. The shrubbery, With hammock swinging drowsily. The writing on the window-pane: “I go, but I return again.” The corner, too, In which the Christmas roses grew. Nothing has altered, as you see, Yet everything is changed for me. _A Garden Song_ [Illustration] OLD-FASHIONED gardens, underneath the trees, Cowslips and columbines are nodding in the breeze; Lilac and lavender so sweet and shy, Bring back the memories of days gone by. Old-fashioned gardens, waking with the dawn, Daisies and daffodils are laughing on the lawn; Harebells and hollyhocks that grow so high, Bring back the memories of days gone by. _God’s Garden_ A GARDEN is a funny thing; However much you try, Some plants will never seem to grow, They fade away, and die. I cannot say why this should be: Some flowers will _never_ grow for me. [Illustration] I sometimes think, in Paradise, That garden in the sky, The borders will be full of blooms, And none will ever die. And in that garden I shall see The flowers that would not grow for me. [Illustration: “NOAH WAS NEVER A GARDENER”] _Sailors Don’t Care_ NOAH was never a gardener, Or he would have said to Shem: “When the animals walk in, two by two, Be certain that Japheth and Ham and you Stop those horrible wire-worm from getting through— I couldn’t be plagued with them.” Columbus wasn’t a gardener, Or, standing on deck, one night, He’d have turned his vessel the other way; He wouldn’t have gone to the U.S.A., And our orchards would never have known to-day That foul American blight. _A Perfect Lady_ [Illustration] I KNEW a girl who was so pure She couldn’t say the word Manure. Indeed, her modesty was such She wouldn’t pass a rabbit-hutch; And butterflies upon the wing Would make her blush like anything. That lady is a gardener now, And all her views have changed, somehow. She squashes green-fly with her thumb, And knows how little snowdrops come: In fact, the garden she has got Has broadened out her mind a lot. _The Old Lawn_ MY lawn is very, very old; Three hundred years, at least, I’m told. It saw the Roundheads marching through, And heard the cheers for Waterloo. A man admired my lawn, to-day; And how it laughed to hear him say: “Your bit of turf looks nice and flat. Next year, _I’ll_ have a lawn like that.” [Illustration] _Bank Holiday_ (AFTER BLAKE) AND did the honeysuckle climb On Eden’s arbours, cool and green? And was the lesser celandine In Eden’s pleasant pastures seen? And did the yellow buttercup And cowslip gild some golden glade? And did the bluebell and the rose Bloom in the garden He had made? I will not rest by day or night, Until the tripper’s thoughtless hand Has left some flowers for our delight In England’s green and pleasant land. [Illustration] _You Know this Woman_ I KNOW a charming woman, And every time she calls She leaves my carpet on the floor, My pictures on the walls. She doesn’t steal my silver, Or ask me for a loan; She doesn’t use my fountain-pen— She _always_ brings her own. But shew her in your garden The treasures you have got, And, if you turn your head away, She’ll pinch the blooming lot. [Illustration] _When We were Boys_ WHEN I was very young indeed They always wanted me to weed The garden path, and mow the lawn— I started at the crack of dawn And carried on till dewy eve: Or, so I made myself believe. [Illustration] To-day, with my increasing weight, My heart is in an awful state, And stooping down to pull a weed Might make me very ill indeed. Such simple tasks, to tell the truth, Are still the privilege of youth. _Graves in my Garden_ [Illustration] ONE day, in early Spring, I placed a special order For very special seeds For a very special border; Then wrote a label, with great care, To tell me what the flowers were. A month or two went by; I saw with consternation That not a single seed Had arrived at germination. And so the label I had penned Became a tombstone in the end. [Illustration] _Martha and Mary_ MARTHA had a garden, And she tended it with care. She took a pail and watered it, Each slug or snail—she slaughtered it; There were no green-fly there. She scratched and scraped it with a hoe; There were no seeds she didn’t sow, And yet her garden _wouldn’t_ grow. [Illustration] Mary has a garden Which is full of happy flowers. She doesn’t do a thing in it But walk about and sing in it For hours and hours and hours. She never weeds and never hoes, And yet her garden always grows— Because she loves it, I suppose. [Illustration] _Warned Off_ A NUMBER of people are perfectly willing To show you their grounds if you pay them a shilling; And, being a bit of a gardening fan, I see all the gardens I possibly can. I wander, with crowds of inferior vassals, Through acres of gardens of Courts and of Castles; And here is a point I can never make out: The owner is seldom seen standing about. I fancy I hear the head gardener say: “Now, listen, I open the garden to-day, And, as we are sure to be thick on the ground, I can’t have the family hanging around.” [Illustration] _A Hymn of Hate_ WHEN my work is ended, And finished for the day; When I’ve swep’ the garden And put my tools away; Then the lady prowls around, Sticking seeds into the ground. When the sun starts shining, Them seeds they germinates; And up comes the rubbish A proper gardener hates: Nasty, stupid little seeds Turning into horrid weeds. First them filthy fox-gloves Clutters up the view; Stinking periwinkle And creeping jenny too— When the lady’s back is turned, All that lousy stuff gets burned. [Illustration] _Mr. Gardener_ HE always comes at crack of dawn And always starts to mow the lawn When you are only half awake— “Oh, stop that noise, for goodness’ sake!” You always pay him by the hour, And if you want to pick a flower To make a nosegay or a wreath, He snarls at you and shows his teeth. There are some things he likes to do, And some he likes to leave to you— While _he_ is putting in the seeds, _You_ will be pulling up the weeds. [Illustration] _The Lady Who Was Here Before_ THERE are some people that I hate. They gather round my garden gate, Discussing, till I’m sick and sore, The Lady Who Was Here Before. They stand and whisper: “What a shame. I’m thankful Mrs. What’s-her-name Is dead, poor dear, and doesn’t know. She used to love her garden so.” “They’ve thrown away those lovely rocks She got from Cheddar—_and_ the Box She planted round her heart-shaped plots Of Heartsease and Forget-me-nots.” “They’ve moved her Salpiglossis bed, And planted Primulas instead. They’ve put an ugly Poplar tree Where that nice Privet used to be.” They’ll get me so upset, some day, That I shall spring at them, and say: This is _my_ garden. GO AWAY! “_Can You beat it, Cook?_” A FUNNY old man just knocked at the door, I’ve noticed him hanging about before. He said that he wanted to come inside, And see the old garden—before he died. Then he gives me a sort of worn-out look, And he starts to cry—Can you beat it, Cook? “Do you know the Master or Mistress?” I said. “I don’t,” said he, with a shake of his head; “I left the district some years ago, There’s nobody left that I used to know: But I thought, somehow, I would like to look At the place again”—Can you beat it, Cook? I just stood there, and I shook my head. “The Master and Missus is out,” I said. “As likely as not I should get the sack If they found you about when the car came back. You take my advice and you sling your hook.” And sling it he did—Can you beat it, Cook? _Table Flowers_ [Illustration] WHEN I select some special bloom To decorate my drawing-room, I wonder, in my artless way, What all the other flowers say. Do lesser blossoms, which remain To face the sunshine and the rain, Reflect with envy and with pride Upon their fellow who has died? It may be so. And yet, again, Perhaps they sorrow for the slain, And murmur, as I wander past: “Poor Emily has gone at last.” _Tragedy at Kew_ THERE was a Prince of Austria, His coat was royal red; The finest Prince of Austria In all the tulip bed. “Here stands a Prince of Austria,” The name-plate _should_ have said. Alas, that Prince of Austria, He stood, in sad disgrace. They thought he was a Crimson King When plotting out the place. When the head gardener came along, You _should_ have seen his face. [Illustration] _Hibiscus_ IF I could be a boy again; A boy of eight or nine or ten, Why then— I’d buy a barge in Brentford town, And on the river, old and brown, Go floating down. The tide would bear me on my way, Until I came, at close of day, To countries far away; Where lovely girls their flowers would fling While dancing round me in a ring— And I would be their king. _Winter and Summer_ IN winter, when she goes to town, She dons a dainty silken gown. Her heels are high as Babel’s tower, She is as fragrant as a flower. While unconsidered moments pass, She stands before her looking-glass, To paint the lily, gild the rose And put more powder on her nose. . . . But when the sun is shining down, She doesn’t give a thought to town. Wearing a cotton over-all, She trains the roses on the wall. Her shoes have got the flattest heels; Beside the lily-pond she kneels, And, as the golden moments pass, She needs no other looking-glass. She doesn’t think about her clothes, There is _no_ powder on her nose. . . . _The Master and the Missus_ THE Master knows his proper place, And never picks a rose; The Missus cuts a basketful Beneath my very nose. The Master, he’s a gentleman And knows his limitations; The Missus, on the other hand, Plays hell with my carnations. The Master has the common sense To leave a man alone; The Missus muddles round the place, As if it was her own. The Master says: “Good morning, John; I hope you’re feeling nicely.” The Missus says: “Your time to start Is eight o’clock, precisely.” It makes me go all hot and cold, To think such things should be. Why is it that the likes of her Should rule the likes of me? Why should she always make me feel I has to beg her pardon Each time she ever shoves her nose Inside my kitchen garden? [Illustration] _Spring at Kew_ [Illustration] WHILE sitting by the lake at Kew; A thing I very often do; I thought that I would like to sing A little song about the Spring: _My dear, I bring to you_ _Forget-me-nots of blue;_ _No mournful lilies guard your sleep,_ _Nor rosemary, nor rue;_ _But early violets from the brake,_ _To greet you when you wake._ I sang my little song of Spring; I sang and sang, like anything; Until a dabchick darted out To see what it was all about. _My dear, I place with care_ _Beside your pillow there_ _A daffodil from Carrow Hill,_ _None finer anywhere._ _These cowslips hold the morning dew—_ _I picked them, dear, for you._ The dabchick gave his tail a shake, And hurried, with a widening wake, Across the water, cool and green, To tell his friends what he had seen. [Illustration] _What is a Garden?_ _WHAT is a garden?_ _Goodness knows!_ _You’ve got a garden,_ _I suppose:_ To one it is a piece of ground For which some gravel must be found. To some, those seeds that must be sown, To some a lawn that must be mown. To some a ton of Cheddar rocks; To some it means a window-box; To some, who dare not pick a flower— A man, at eighteen pence an hour. To some, it is a silly jest About the latest garden pest; To some, a haven where they find Forgetfulness and peace of mind. . . . _What is a garden?_ _Large or small,_ _’Tis just a garden,_ _After all._ [Illustration] _Common or Garden_ I HAVEN’T got a greenhouse; I don’t see why I should. I can’t afford a greenhouse; I wouldn’t if I could. Why people build a greenhouse, I’ve never understood. You’ll find inside a greenhouse Each strange exotic thing That shuns our English sunshine And fears our English spring— An oak without an acorn, A lark that cannot sing. I’d rather have the flowers Our simple fathers knew, Than these new-fangled blossoms Of every shape and hue— I’d rather have a skylark Than a parrot at the Zoo. _The Débutante_ MISS LETTUCE is a débutante, Deserving of a ballad; She does not quickly run to seed, Is very popular indeed In any social salad. In June, when she is coming out, Miss Lettuce can resist the drought. Miss Lettuce has the biggest heart In all the kitchen garden. Be sure to pick her in her prime, For if she isn’t caught in time Her heart is apt to harden. You’ll find her at her best, I mean, When she is young, and fresh—and green. “_It isn’t Gardening!_” WE worshipped at the wicket, Till the sporting legend grew That the playing-fields of Eton Paved the way to Waterloo; And to say “It isn’t cricket” Was the ultimate taboo. To call a man a hero, Just because he wields a bat, Would savour in these testing times Of talking through one’s hat. Let’s say “It isn’t gardening” And let it stop at that. _Christmas Roses_ THE lawn is like a lump of lead, Your garden has been put to bed And you have locked the potting-shed. The snow has just commenced to fall, The world is wrapped in winter’s pall. There are no signs of life at all. When, like a star which shines at night, That miracle of green and white— A Christmas Rose creeps into sight: _A lonely herald of the Spring,_ _Of happy birds that nest and sing,_ _Of butterflies upon the wing,_ _Of fairies dancing in a ring—_ _And all that sort of thing._ [Illustration] _May_ [Illustration] BETWEEN the lilac and the rose— The drifting tide of blossom flows; An ecstasy of pink and white Scenting the quiet aisles of night As though the branches of the trees Had caught the foam of coral seas. The world is young, both man and maid March in its eager cavalcade. In city street and scented lane, The golden age is born again; And there is happiness to win, For summer is a-coming in. _Testimonial_ THE Director of Kew Is a gentleman who Knows more about flowers than my grandmother knew; And she, if the stories about her are true, Knew more about gardens than _any one_ knew. This speaks rather well For the gentleman who Has charge of the wonderful Gardens at Kew. [Illustration] _Plantains_ SIR BUMPUS BULKELEY— May his tribe decrease— Awoke, one afternoon, From dreams of peace; To see a stranger Looking through the gate That kept the common herd From his estate. Sir Bumpus did not fly into a passion (One deals with cads in quite another fashion); He merely looked the fellow up and down— (A common person, from the market town) And said: “Excuse me, but may one elicit, Without offence, the object of this visit?” “Certainly,” said the stranger, with a yawn. “I stopped to count the plantains on your lawn.” _Forget-Me-Nots_ [Illustration] AT Kempsford in Gloucestershire The Thames is small, but very clear; Clear as crystal and so small, It wouldn’t float a boat at all. Just a tiny, tiny stream, Only old enough to dream. Dreaming dreams of yester-year, When some gallant cavalier, Passing by the ford we knew, Picked forget-me-nots of blue— As _we_ used to do. The cavalier is dead and gone, But still the stream goes dreaming on. _The New Garden_ IT is a most exciting thing, To take a garden in the Spring: To wonder what its borders hold; What secrets lurk beneath the mould? What kinds of roses you have got; Whether the lilac blooms, or not? Whether the peach tree, on the wall, Has ever had a peach at all. . . . It is a most exciting thing, To take a garden in the Spring; And live in such delicious doubt, Until the final flower is out. _Give Me a Garden_ “THE early Hopes which set our hearts astir, Turn Ashes,” said some old Philosopher: “And, one by one, fade as the morning mist,” Croaked, through his beard, that Ancient Pessimist. It isn’t true. When we were very small, We loved a yellow Rose upon a wall; The scent of Sweet Briar and of Mignonette— We loved them long ago, we love them yet. Some early hopes of ours, alas, are dead; They turned to ashes, as the Cynic said: But, planted in the country or the town, You’ll find a garden never lets you down. _Roses at Owlpen_ 1471 WHEN Margaret slept at Owlpen On the Eve of Tewkesbury fight, Roses grew in the garden, Rose of red and white— _The red rose of Lancaster_ _And the Yorkist rose of white_. 1934 Here, while the ghosts of Owlpen Walk in the quiet night, Roses bloom in the garden, Roses of red and white— _The red rose of Lancaster_ _And the Yorkist rose of white_. [Illustration] _Epigram_ THEY have stolen the scent From the damask rose; It flatters the eye And insults the nose. [Illustration] _Hatton Garden_ [Illustration] IN Devonshire, the diamonds That glisten on the grass Are smaller than the diamonds Behind these panes of glass. [Illustration] You can keep your diamonds, Which people place in pawn, And I will have the diamonds That laugh upon the lawn. [Illustration] _Recipe for Happiness_ A GARDEN should be rather small Or you will have no fun at all. It should be sheltered from the cold: As full of flowers as it can hold. The sun-dial, standing on the lawn, Should bear these words: I WAKE AT DAWN. A sweetly scented border, set With rosemary and mignonette. A garden path of living green— None of that crazy stuff, I mean. If these instructions you obey, You will be happy every day. _Snake’s-head Fritillaries_ IN Oxford meadows, long ago, I wandered in a dream Among those little purple flowers which grow Beside that silver stream. And, later, talking to a don Of sad and solemn mien I happened, idly, to remark upon Wild tulips I had seen. Alas, we are no longer friends, Though he is living still: There’s a fritillary rough-hews our ends Re-shape them how we will. _Children’s Hour_ [Illustration] MRS. MYOSOTIS Sits under the wall In a little blue bonnet And a green over-all. She’s like that old woman Who lived in a shoe: She has _so_ many children She doesn’t know what to do. Each in a blue bonnet And a green over-all. I’m sure we shall never Find room for them all. We shall have to throw some of them Over the wall. _Drought_ [Illustration] WHEN, with my garden hose, I slake the sod, I am as one of those Who walk with God. I am His April shower, His summer rain; I cause the drooping flower To bloom again. _O, thirsting sod,_ _Fear not that brazen sky;_ _I am your god—_ _Until His springs are dry._ _Those Latin Names_ IT was a simple country child Who took me by the hand: Why English flowers had Latin names She couldn’t understand. Those funny, friendly English flowers, That bloom from year to year— She asked me if I would explain, And so I said to her: ERANTHIS is an aconite As everybody knows, And HELLEBORUS NIGER is Our friend the Christmas rose. GALANTHUS is a snowdrop, MATTHIOLA is a stock, And CARDAMINE the meadow flower Which _you_ call lady’s smock. MUSCARI is grape hyacinth, DIANTHUS is a pink— And that’s as much as one small head Can carry, I should think. She listened, very patiently; Then turned, when I had done, To where a fine FORSYTHIA Was smiling in the sun. Said she: “I _love_ this yellow stuff.” And that, somehow, seemed praise enough. _The Station-Master’s Garden_ OUR station-master’s garden is particularly fine, It’s rather like those landscapes that they hang upon the line; And all the railway passengers put out their heads and say: “The station-master’s garden’s looking very bright to-day.” Our station-master’s garden is the favourite on the rails, And all the railway passengers to Paddington or Wales, Smile across at one another, in their carriages, and say: “The station-master’s garden’s looking very bright to-day.” _Wistaria_ THERE is a village by the Seine I haven’t seen for years. I go again and yet again To see that village by the Seine— It _always_ disappears; Its houses hidden in a mist Of opal and of amethyst. [Illustration] [Illustration: “THE GARDEN OF EDEN WAS NOT A SUCCESS”] _Single-handed_ BEVERLEY NICHOLS And Marion Cran Hadn’t been born When the world began. That is the reason, I’m bound to confess, The Garden of Eden Was not a success. _The Twenty-first of May_ _I HEARD an ancient gossip say_: Upon the twenty-first of May, The man who owns a garden plot Should count the blossoms he has got. If he should find their number odd, His crimes will cry aloud to God; But if their number should be even, Then all his sins shall be forgiven. _But why the twenty-first of May_ _Should always be the vital day_ _That ancient gossip didn’t say._ _Scilla Nutans_ [Illustration] YOU’VE been, at Bluebell time, to Kew; And, like the lady at the Zoo, When first she saw a kangaroo, You’ve said: “Of course, it isn’t true.” _Spring_ [Illustration] THE Spring comes in When no one is looking; You’re lying in bed With a cold in the head, Or you may be cooking; Putting new covers upon the chairs— When, suddenly, taking you unawares, A thrush in the orchard starts to sing And, once again, you have missed the Spring. [Illustration] _Jasmine or Jessamine?_ I NEVER know which. Jasmine sounds terribly, terribly rich. And Jessamine, somehow, sounds terribly poor; I picture her over a cottager’s door, Her head in the thatch and her feet in a ditch, While Jasmine prefers a more orthodox pitch. Jasmine or Jessamine? I never know which. [Illustration] [Illustration: “HE LIKES TO LIE AND SMOKE HIS PIPE”] _Any Husband_ A HUSBAND is the sort of man Who tries to help you all he can; But, somehow, never quite succeeds In doing what the garden needs. He likes to lie and smoke his pipe, And wonder if the pears are ripe; Or else he’ll smell the mignonette Before he lights a cigarette. But, ask him if he’ll clear the dump, Or carry water from the pump, And he will find some fine excuse— In fact, he’s not the slightest use. _Almost Human_ [Illustration] LUPINS, like lots of society leaders, Are rather important and _very_ gross feeders. DAISIES are neat little servants in villas, Who wait upon tulips, narcissi and scillas. SNOWDROPS are choirboys—such emblems of purity May lose this effect on approaching maturity. The POPPY—a flapper, who’s “almost a lydy,” A bit highly-coloured and _very_ untidy. LILIES are like Miss Elizabeth Arden (Or Helena Rubinstein—begging her pardon); And WEEDS are the tramps in a gentleman’s garden. _Won by Waiting_ [Illustration] YOU’VE never finished working in a garden, Until ’tis time for you to go to bed. You’re either squirting soapsuds on the roses, Or picking all the pansies that are dead. You’re either tying up that new delphinium, Or hammering a nail into the wall— But any proper gardener will tell you That _waiting_ is the hardest job of all. _Come into the Garden_ THE band is playing a waltz refrain, I hold you, dear, in my arms again. And none will stare, For none will care— Each one is deep in his own affair. The floor is right, The band is right. They have seen two lovers before to-night. _Come into the garden,_ _Never mind the band;_ _Never mind the dancers,_ _They will understand._ _There’s a fellow feeling_ _Through the music stealing—_ _Come into the garden,_ _Never mind the band._ _Odd Man Out_ ONE day, I was passing the snapdragon bed, You will find in Hyde Park, when a snapdragon said: “Well, here’s a ridiculous state of affairs, These chaps are so anxious to charge for the chairs That no one has noticed the stupid mistakes This foolish and fat-headed gardener makes.” I stopped, and addressing the snapdragon bed: “Excuse me, but what is the matter?” I said. “I may not be much of a gardening fan, But tell me what’s wrong and I’ll help, if I can. Your troubles can all be adjusted, no doubt. Suppose you explain what you’re worried about.” “The trouble is this,” a pink snapdragon said: “We fellows are pink and this fellow is red. If _you_ were a snapdragon, what would you think Of a blossom of red in a border of pink?” The point was too clear to be argued at all, So I threw the red snapdragon over the wall. _Prodigal in Perfume_ SOME blossoms jealously refuse To let their scent take wing; You have to pick a damask rose And hold it tightly to your nose Before you smell a thing. The scent of honeysuckle floats Like music on the air. It does not hold its perfume fast, And, as you wander idly past, It tells you it is there. [Illustration] _Epilogue_ [Illustration] BEFORE you put this little book away, Please promise me that you will never say: “You should have seen my garden yesterday.” [Illustration] TRANSCRIBER NOTES Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed. Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained. [The end of _Green Fingers: A Present for a Good Gardener_ by Reginald Arkell]