Wild Life in a Southern County Part 8

Fowls, for instance, at night roost in the sheds at some height from the ground--often the sheds are contrived specially to protect them; but in the day they roam about in the vicinity of the rickyards where they are kept. They will make runs down the centre of a double-mound hedge, and while thus rambling occasionally stroll into the jaws of their foe, who has been patiently waiting hidden in the long gra.s.s and underwood. In the day, too, rabbits often sit out in a bunch of gra.s.s, or dry furrow, a long way from the 'bury.' Their form is usually within a few paces of a well-marked 'run'--they follow the run out into the field, and then leave it and go among the gra.s.s at one side. The run, therefore, sometimes acts as a guide to the fox, who, sheltered by the tall bennets and thick bunches, occasionally glides up it in the daytime to his prey.

There is sure to be a snake or two in the gra.s.s of the orchard during the summer, especially if there chance to be an old manure-heap anywhere near; for that is the place in which they like to leave their chains of white eggs, out of which, if broken, the little snakes issue only two or three inches in length. The heat of the manure-heap acts as an incubator. When it is wet and the hay cannot be touched, the haymakers, there being nothing else for them to do, are put to turn such heaps, and frequently find the eggs of snakes. These creatures now and then get inside farmhouses, whose floors are generally on a level with the surface of the earth or nearly so. They have been found in the clock-case--the old upright eight-day clock, standing on the floor; they come after the frogs that enter at the doors--always wide open in summer--and are supposed also to eat crumbs.

In the cellar there is sure to be a toad under the barrels on the cool stone-flags; in the garden there is another, purposely kept in the cuc.u.mber-frame to protect the plant from being eaten by creeping things.

It is curious to notice that they both seem to flourish equally well-- one in the coolest, the other in the hottest place. A third may generally be found in the strawberry-bed. Strawberries are much eaten by insects of many kinds; so that the toad really does good service in a garden.

In winter, when snow is on the ground, a few larks sometimes venture into the garden where anything green yet shows above the white covering on the patches. If the weather is severe, the moorhen will come up from the brook, though two fields distant, in the night, and the marks of her feet may be traced round the house. Then, as the evening approaches, the wild ducks pa.s.s over, and every now and then during the night the weird cries of waterfowl resound in the frosty air. The heron sails slowly over, every night and every morning, backwards and forwards from the mere to the water-meadows and the brook, uttering his unearthly call at intervals.

CHAPTER TEN.

THE WOOD-PILE--LIZARDS--SHEDS AND RICKYARD--THE WITCHES' BRIAR-- INSECTS--PLANTS, FLOWERS, AND FRUIT.

The farmhouse at Wick has the gardens and orchard already mentioned upon one side, and on the other are the carthouses, sheds, and rickyard.

Between these latter and the dwelling runs a broad roadway for the waggons to enter and leave the fields, and on its border stands a great wood-pile. The f.a.ggots cut in the winter from the hedges are here stacked up as high as the roof of a cottage, and near by lies a heap of ponderous logs waiting to be split for firewood. From exposure to the weather the bark of the f.a.ggot-sticks has turned black and is rapidly decaying, and under it innumerable insects have made their homes.

For these, probably, the wrens visit the wood-pile continually; if in pa.s.sing anyone strikes the f.a.ggots with a stick, a wren will generally fly out on the opposite side. They creep like mice in between the f.a.ggots--there are numerous interstices--and thus sometimes pa.s.s fight through a corner of the stack. Sometimes a pole which has been lying by for a length of time is found to be curiously chased, as it were, all over the surface under the loose bark by creeping things. They eat channels interweaving and winding in and out in an intricate pattern, occasionally a little resembling the Moorish style of ornamentation seen on the walls of the Alhambra. I have found poles so curiously carved like this that the idea naturally occurred of using them for cabinet work. They might at least have supplied a hint for a design. Besides the wrens, many other birds visit the wood-pile--sparrows are perpetually coming, and on the retired side towards the meadow the robins build their nests. On the ridge where some of the sticks project the swallows often perch and twitter--generally a pair seem to come together.

It takes skill as well as mere strength even to do so simple a thing as to split the rough logs lying here on the ground. They are not like those Abraham Lincoln began life working at--even-grained wood, quickly divided--but tough and full of knots strangely twisted; so that it needs judgment to put the wedges in the right place.

Near the wood-pile is a well and a stone trough for thirsty horses to drink from, and as the water, carelessly pumped in by the carters' lads, frequently overflows, the ground just there is usually moist. If one of the loose oak logs that lie here with the gra.s.s growing up round it is rolled over, occasionally a lizard may be found under it. This lizard is slender, and not more than three or four inches in length, general colour a yellowish green. Where one is found a second is commonly close by. They are elegantly shaped, and quick in their motions, speedily making off. They may now and then be discovered under large stones, if there is a crevice, in the meadows. They do not in the least resemble the ordinary 'land-lizard,' which is a much coa.r.s.er-looking and larger creature, and is not an inhabitant of this locality: at all events it is rare enough to have escaped me here, though I have often observed it in districts where the soil is light and sandy and where there is a good deal of heath-land. The land-lizards will stroll indoors if the door be left open. These lesser but more elegant lizards appear to prefer a damp spot--cool and moist, but not positively wet.

A large shed built against the side of the adjacent stable is used as a carpenter's workshop--much carpenter's work is done on a farm--and here is a bench with a vice and variety of tools. When sawing, the wood operated on often 'ties' the saw, as it is called--that is, pinches it-- which makes it hard to work; a thin wedge of wood is then inserted to open a way, and the blade of the saw rubbed with a little grease, which the metal, heated by the friction, melts into oil. This eases the work--a little grease, too, will make a gimlet bore quicker. Country carpenters keep this grease in a horn--a cow's horn stopped at the larger end with a piece of wood and at the other by its own natural growth. Now the mice (which are everywhere on farm premises) are so outrageously fond of grease that they will spend any length of time gnaw-gnaw-gnawing till they do get at it. Right through the solid stopper of wood they eat their way, and even through the horn; so that the carpenter is puzzled to know how to preserve it out of their reach.

It is of no use putting it on a shelf, because they either rush up the wall or drop from above. At last, however, he has. .h.i.t upon a dodge.

He has suspended the horn high above the ground by a loop of copper wire, which projects six or eight inches from the wall, like a lamp on a bracket. The mice may get on the bench, and may run up the wall, but when they get to the wire they cannot walk out on it--like tight-rope walking--the more especially as the wire, being thin and flexible, bends and sways if they attempt it. This answers the purpose as a rule; but even here the carpenter declares that once now and then his horn is pilfered, and can only account for it by supposing that a bolder mouse than common makes a desperate leap for it, and succeeds in landing on the flat surface of the wooden stopper.

The shed has one small window only, which has no gla.s.s, but is secured by an iron bar (he needs no larger window, for all carpenters work with the door open); and through this window a robin has entered and built a nest in a quiet corner behind some timber. Though a man is at work here so often, hammering and sawing, the birds come fearlessly to their young, and pick up the crumbs he leaves from his luncheon.

Between the timber framework of the shed and the brickwork of the adjacent stable c.h.i.n.ks have opened, and in these and in the c.h.i.n.ks between the wooden lintel of the stable-door and the bricks above it the bats frequently hide, pa.s.sing the day there. Others hide in the tiles of the roof where their nests are made. The labouring lads often amuse themselves searching for these creatures, whose one object in daylight seems to be to cling to something; they will hang to the coat with the claws at the extremity of their membranous wings, and if left alone will creep out of sight into the pocket. There are two well-marked species of bats here--one small and the other much larger.

The lesser bat flies nearer to the ground, and almost always follows the contour of some object or building. They hawk to and fro for hours in the evening under the eaves of the farmhouse, and frequently enter the great garrets and the still larger cheese-room (where the cheese is stored to mature)--sometimes through the windows, and sometimes seeming to creep through hales made by sparrows or starlings in the roof. Moths are probably the attraction; of these there are generally plenty in and about old houses. Occasionally a bat will come into the sitting-room, should the doors be left open on a warm summer evening: this the old folk think an evil omen, and still worse if in its alarm at the attempts made to drive it away it should chance to knock against the candle and overturn or put it out. They think, too, that a bat seen in daytime is a bad sign. Once now and then one gets disturbed by some means in the tiles, and flutters in a helpless manner to the nearest shelter; for in daylight they seem quite at a loss, though flying so swiftly at night.

The greater bat hawks at a considerable elevation above houses and trees, and wheels and turns with singular abruptness, so that some think it a test of a good shot to bring them down. The reason, however, why many find it difficult to hit a bat is because they are unaccustomed to shoot at night, and not because of its manner of flight for it often goes quite straight. It is also believed to be a test of good hearing to be able to hear the low shrill squeak of the bat uttered as it flies: the same is said of the shrew mouse, whose cry is yet more faint and acute. The swift, too, has a peculiar kind of screech, but easily heard.

Beyond the stables are the cattle-sheds and cow-yards. These sheds are open on the side towards the yard, supported there by a row of wooden pillars stepped on stones to keep them from rotting. On the large cross-beams within the swallows make their nests. When the eggs are hard set, the bird will sit so close that with care and a gentle manner of approach you may sometimes even stroke her back lightly with your finger without making her rise. They become so accustomed to men constantly in and out the sheds as to feel little alarm. Some build their nests higher up under the roof-tree.

To the adjoining rickyard redstarts come every summer, building their nests there; 'horse-matchers' or stonechats also in summer often visit the rickyard, though they do not build in it. Some elm trees shade the ricks, and once now and then a wood-pigeon settles in them for a little while. The coo of the dove may be heard frequently, but she does not build very near the house.

On this farm the rookery is at some distance in the meadows, and the rooks rarely come nearer than the field just outside the post and rails that enclose the rickyard, though they pa.s.s over constantly, flying low down without fear, unless some one chances just then to come out carrying a gun. Then they seem seized with an uncontrollable panic, and stop short in their career by a violent effort of the wings, to wheel off immediately at a tangent. Perhaps no other bird shows such evident signs of recognising a gun. Chaffinches, it must not be forgotten, frequent the rickyard in numbers.

Finally come the rats. Though trapped, shot, and ferreted without mercy, the rats insist on a share of the good things going. They especially haunt the pigsties, and when the pigs are served with their food feed with them at the same trough. Those old rats that come to the farmstead are cunning fierce beasts, not to be destroyed without much difficulty. They will not step on a trap, though never so cleverly laid; they will face a ferret, unless he happens to be particularly large and determined, and bite viciously at dogs. But with all their cunning there is one simple trick which they are not up to: this is to post yourself high up above the ground, when they will not suspect your presence; a ladder is placed against a tree within easy shot of the pigsty, and the gunner, have previously arranged that everything shall be kept quiet, takes his stand on it, and from thence kills a couple perhaps at once.

On looking back, it appears that the farmhouse, garden, orchard, and rickyard at Wick are constantly visited by about thirty-five wild creatures, and, in addition, five others come now and then, making a total of forty. Of these forty, twenty-six are birds, two bats, eight quadrupeds, and four reptiles. This does not include some few additional birds that only come at long intervals, nor those that simply fly overhead or are heard singing at a distance.

The great meadow hedge--the highway of the birds--where it approaches the ha-ha wall of the orchard, is lovely in June with the wild roses blooming on the briars which there grow in profusion. Some of these briars stretch forth into the meadow, and then, bent down by their own weight, form an arch crowned with flowers. There is an old superst.i.tion about these arches of briar hung out along the hedgerow: magical cures of whooping-cough and some other diseases of childhood can, it is believed, be effected by pa.s.sing the child at sunrise under the briar facing the rising sun.

This had to be performed by the 'wise woman.' There was one in every hamlet but a few years ago--and indeed here and there an aged woman retains something like a reputation for witchcraft still. The 'wise woman' conducted the child entrusted to her care at the dawn to the hedge, where she knew there was a briar growing in such a position that a person could creep under it facing the east, and there, as the sun rose, pa.s.sed the child through.

In the hollow just beneath the ha-ha wall, where it is moist, grow tall rushes; and here the great dragon-fly darts to and fro so swiftly as to leave the impression of a line of green drawn suddenly through the air.

Though travelling at such speed, he has the power of stopping abruptly, and instantly afterwards returns upon his path. These handsome insects are often placed on mirrors as an ornament in farmhouses. The labourers will have it that they sting like the hornet; but this they say also of many other harmless creatures, seeming to have a general distrust of the insect kind. They will tell you alarming stories of terrible sufferings--arms swollen to double the natural size, necks inflamed, and so forth--caused by the bites of unknown flies. Not being able to discover what fly it is that inflicts these poisonous wounds, and having spent so many hours in the fields without experiencing such effects, I rather doubt these statements, though put forth in perfect good faith: indeed, I have often seen the arms and chests of the men in harvest time with huge b.u.mps rising on them which they declared were thus caused.

The common harvest bug, which gets under the skin, certainly does not cause such great swellings as I have seen; nor the stoat-fly, which latter is the most bloodthirsty wretch imaginable.

With a low hissing buzz, a long, narrow, and brownish grey insect settles on your hand as you walk among the hay, and presently you feel a tingling sensation, and may watch (if you have the patience to endure the irritation) its body gradually dilate and grow darker in colour as it absorbs the blood. When once thoroughly engaged, nothing will frighten this fly away: you may crush him, but he will not move from fear: he will remain till, replete with blood, he falls off helpless into the gra.s.s.

The horses in the waggons have at this season to be watched by a boy armed with a spray of ash, with which he flicks off the stoats that would otherwise drive the animals frantic. A green spray is a great protection against flies; if you carry a bough in your hand as you walk among the meadows they will not annoy you half so much. Such a bough is very necessary when lying _perdu_ in a dry ditch in summer to shoot a young rabbit, and when it is essential to keep quiet and still. Without it it is difficult to avoid lifting the hand to knock the flies away-- which motion is sure to alarm the rabbit that may at that very moment be peeping out preparatory to issuing from his hole. It is impossible not to pity the horses in the hayfields on a sultry day; despite all the care taken, their nostrils are literally black with crowds of flies, which constantly endeavour to crawl over the eyeball. Sunshine itself does not appear so potent in bringing, forth insects as the close electrical kind or heat that precedes a thunderstorm. This is so well known that when the flies are more than usually busy the farmer makes haste to get in his hay, and lets down the canvas over his rick. The cows give warning at the same time by scampering about in the wildest and most ludicrous manner--their tails held up in the air--tormented by insects.

The ha-ha wall, built of loose stones, is the home of thousands upon thousands of ants, whose nests are everywhere here, the ground being undisturbed by pa.s.sing footsteps. They ascend trees to a great height, and may be seen going up the trunk sometimes in a continuous stream, one behind the other in Indian file.

In one spot on the edge of the ha-ha is a row of beehives--the garden wall and a shrubbery shelter them here from the north and east, and the drop of the ha-ha gives them a clear exit and entrance. This is thought a great advantage--not to have any hedge or bush in front of the hives-- because the bees, heavily laden with honey or pollen, encounter no obstruction in coming home. They are believed to work more energetically when this is the case, and they certainly do seem to exhibit signs of annoyance, as if out of temper, if they get entangled in a bush. Indeed, if you chance to be pursued by an angry cloud of bees whose ire you have aroused, the only safe place is a hedge or bush, into which make haste to thrust yourself, when the boughs and leaves will baffle them. If the hive be moved to a different place, the bees that chance at the time to be out in the fields collecting honey, upon their return, finding their home gone, are evidently at a loss. They fly round, hovering about over the spot for a long time before they discover the fresh position of the hive.

The great hornet, with its tinge of reddish orange, comes through the garden sometimes with a heavy buzz, distinguishable in a moment from the sound of any other insect. All country folk believe the hornet's sting to be the most poisonous and painful of any, and will relate instances of persons losing the use of their arms for a few days in consequence of the violent inflammation. Sometimes the hornet selects for its nest an aperture in an old shed near the farmhouse. I have seen their nests quite close to houses; but, unless wantonly disturbed, there is not the slightest danger from them, or indeed from any other insects of this cla.s.s. I think the common hive-bees are the worst tempered of any--they resent the slightest interference with their motions. The hornet often chooses an old hollow withy-pollard for the site of its nest.

In the orchard there is at least one nest of the humble-bee, made at a great depth in a deserted mouse's hole. These bees have eaten away and removed the gra.s.s just round the entrance, so as to get a clear road in and out. They are as industrious as the hive-bee; but, as there are not nearly so many working together in one colony, they do not store up anything approaching to the same quant.i.ty of honey. There is a superst.i.tion that if a humble-bee buzzes in at the window of the sitting-room it is a sure sign of a coming visitor.

Be careful how you pick up a ripe apple, all glowing orange, from the gra.s.s in the orchard; roll it over with your foot first, or you may chance to find that you have got a handful of wasps. They eat away the interior of the fruit, leaving little but the rind; and this very hollowness causes the rind to a.s.sume richer tints and a more tempting appearance. Specked apples on the tree, whether pecked by a blackbird, eaten by wasps or ants, always ripen fastest, and if you do not mind cutting out that portion, are the best. Such a fallen apple, when hollowed out within, is a veritable torpedo if incautiously handled.

Wasps are incurable drunkards. If they find something sweet and tempting they stick to it, and swill till they fall senseless to the ground. They are then most dangerous, because unseen and unheard, and one may put one's hand on them in ignorance of their whereabouts.

Noticing once that a particular pear tree appeared to attract wasps, though there was little or no fruit on it, I watched their motions, and found they settled at the mouth of certain circular apertures that had been made in the trunk. There the sap was slowly exuding, and to this sap the wasps came and sipped it till they could sip no more. The tree being old and of small value, it was determined to see what caused these circular holes. They were cut out with a gouge, when the whole interior of the trunk was found bored with winding tunnels, through which a pistol bullet might have been pa.s.sed. This had been done by an enormous grub, as long and large as one's finger.

Old-world plants and flowers linger still like heirlooms in the farmhouse garden, though their pleasant odour is ofttimes choked by the gaseous fumes from the furnaces of the steam-ploughing engines as they pa.s.s along the road to their labour. Then a dark vapour rises above the tops of the green elms, and the old walls tremble and the earth itself quakes beneath the pressure of the iron giant, while the atmosphere is tainted with the smell of cotton-waste and oil. How little these accord with the quiet, sunny slumber of the homestead. But the breeze comes, and ere the rattle of the wheels and cogs has died away, the fragrance of the flowers and green things has rea.s.serted itself. Such a sunny slumber, and such a fragrance of flowers, both wild and cultivated, have dwelt round and over the place these 200 years, and mayhap before that.

It is perhaps a fancy only, yet I think that where men and nature have dwelt side by side time out of mind there is a sense of a presence, a genius of the spot, a haunting sweetness and loveliness not elsewhere to be found. The most lavish expenditure, even when guided by true taste, cannot produce this feeling about a modern dwelling.

At Wick, by the side of the garden path, grows a perfect little hedge of lavender; every drawer in the house, when opened, emits an odour of its dried flowers. Here, too, are sweet marjoram, rosemary, and rue; so also bay and thyme, and some pot-herbs whose use is forgotten, besides southernwood and wormwood. They do not make medical potions at home here now, but the lily-leaves are used to allay inflammation of the skin. The house-leek had a reputation with the cottage herbalists; it is still talked of, but I think very rarely used.

Among the flowers here are beautiful dark-petalled wallflowers, sweet-williams, sweet-briar, and pansies. In spring the yellow crocus lifts its head from among the gra.s.s of the green in front of the house (as the snowdrops did also), and here and there a daffodil. These, I think, never look so lovely as when rising from the green sward; the daffodils grow, too, in the orchard. Woodbine is everywhere--climbing over the garden seat under the sycamore tree, whose leaves are spotted sometimes with tiny reddish dots, the honey-dew.

Just outside the rickyard, where the gra.s.s of the meadow has not been mown but fed by cattle, grow the tall b.u.t.tercups, rising to the knee.

The children use the long hollow stems as tubes wherewith to suck up the warm new milk through its crown of thick froth, from the oaken milking-pail. There is a fable that the b.u.t.tercups make the b.u.t.ter yellow when they come--but the cows never eat them, being so bitter; they eat all round close up to the very stems, but leave them standing scrupulously. The children, top, make similar pipes of straw to suck up the new cider fresh from the cider-mill, as it stands in the tubs directly after the grinding. Under the shady trees of the orchard the hare's parsley flourishes, and immediately without the orchard edge, on the 'sh.o.r.e' of the ditch, grow thick bunches of the beautiful blue crane's-bill, or wild geranium, which ought to be a garden flower and not left to the chance mercy of the scythe. There, too, the herb Robert hides, and its foliage, turning colour, lies like crimson lace on the bank.

Even the tall thistles of the ditch have their beauty--the flower has a delicate tint, varying with the species from mauve to purple; the humble-bee visits every thistle-bloom in his path, and there must therefore be sweetness in it. Then in the autumn issues forth the floating thistledown, streaming through the air and rolling like an aerial ball over the tips of the bennets. Thistledown is sometimes gathered to fill pillow-cases, and a pillow so filled is exquisitely soft. There is not a nook or corner of the old place where something interesting may not be found. Even the slates on a modern addition to the homestead are each bordered with yellow lichen--perhaps because they adjoin thatch, for slates do not seem generally to encourage the growth of lichen. It appears to prefer tiles, which therefore sooner a.s.sume an antique tint.

To the geraniums in the bow-window the humming-bird moth comes now and then, hovering over the scarlet petals. Out of the high elms drops a huge grey moth, so exactly the colour of grey lichen that it might be pa.s.sed for it--pursued, of course, as it clumsily falls, by two or more birds eager for the spoil. It is feast-time with them when the c.o.c.kchafers come: they leave nothing but wing-cases scattered on the garden paths, like the shields of slain men-at-arms.

In the bright sunshine, when there is not a cloud in the sky, slender beetles come forth from the cracks of the earth and run swiftly across the paths, glittering green and gold, iridescent colours glistening on their backs. These are locally called sunbeetles, because they appear when the sun is brightest. Be careful not to step on or kill one; for if you do it will certainly rain, according to the old superst.i.tion.

The blackbird, when he picks up one of the larger beetles, holds it with its back towards him in his bill, so that the legs claw helplessly at the air, and thus carries it to a spot where he can pick it to pieces at his leisure.

The ha-ha wall of the orchard is the favourite haunt of b.u.t.terflies; they seem to love its sunny aspect, and often cling to the loose stones like ornaments attached by some cunning artist. Sulphur b.u.t.terflies hover here early in the spring, and later on white and brown and tiny blue b.u.t.terflies pa.s.s this way, calling _en route_. Sometimes a great n.o.ble of the b.u.t.terfly world comes in all the glory of his wide velvety wings, and deigns to pause awhile that his beauty may be seen.

Somewhere within doors, in the huge beams or woodwork, the death-tick is sure to be heard in the silence of the night: even now the old folk listen with a lingering dread. Give the woodwork a smart tap, and the insect stops a few moments, but it rapidly gets accustomed to such taps, and after a few ceases to take notice of them. This manner of building houses with great beams visibly supporting the ceiling, pa.s.sing across the roam underneath it, had one advantage. On a rainy day the children could go into the garrets or the cheese-loft and there form a swing, attaching the ropes to the hooks in the beam across the ceiling.

The brewhouse, humble though its object may be, is not without its claim to admiration. It is open from the floor to the rafters of the roof, and that roof in its pitch, the craft of the woodwork, the dull polish of the old oak, has an interest far surpa.s.sing the dead staring level of flat lath and plaster. n.o.ble workmanship in wood may be found, too, in some of the ancient barns; sometimes the beams are of black oak, in others of chestnut.

In these modern days men have lost the pleasures of the orchard; yet an old-fashioned orchard is the most delicious of places wherein to idle away the afternoon of a hazy autumn day, when the sun seems to shine with a soft slumberous warmth without glare, as if the rays came through an aerial spider's web spun across the sky, letting all the beauty, but not the heat, slip through its invisible meshes. There is a shadowy coolness in the recesses under the trees. On the damson trunks are yellowish crystalline k.n.o.bs of gum which has exuded from the bark. Now and then a leaf rustles to the ground, and at longer intervals an apple falls with a decided thump. It is silent save for the gentle twittering of the swallows on the topmost branches--they are talking of their coming journey--and perhaps occasionally the distant echo of a shot where the lead has gone whistling among a covey. It is a place to dream in, bringing with you a chair to sit on--for it will be freer from insects than the garden seat--and a book. Put away all thought of time: often in striving to get the most value from our time it slips from us as the reality did from the dog that greedily grasped at the shadow: simply dream of what you will, with apples and plums, nuts and filberts within reach.

Dusky Blenheim oranges, with a gleam of gold under the rind; a warmer tint of yellow on the pippins. Here streaks of red, here a tawny hue.

Yonder a load of great russets; near by heavy pears bending the strong branches; round black damsons; luscious egg-plums hanging their yellow ovals overhead; bullace, not yet ripe, but presently sweetly piquant.

On the walnut trees bunches of round green b.a.l.l.s--note those that show a dark spot or streak, and gently tap them with the tip of the tall slender pole placed there for the purpose. Down they come glancing from bough to bough, and, striking the hard turf, the thick green rind splits asunder, and the walnut itself rebounds upwards. Those who buy walnuts have no idea of the fine taste of the fruit thus gathered direct from the tree, when the kernel, though so curiously convoluted, slips its pale yellow skin easily and is so wondrously white. Surely it is an error to banish the orchard and the fruit garden from the pleasure-grounds of modern houses, strictly relegating them to the rear, as if something to be ashamed of.