Interwoven with the human
tragedy, that, like the churchyard yew, it seems the most
human of green things.
Here in September great masses of the plant are already
showing a greenish cream-colour of the opening blossoms, which
will be at their perfection in October. Then, when the sun
shines, there will be no lingering red admiral, nor blue fly
or fly of any colour, nor yellow wasp, nor any honey-eating or
late honey-gathering insect that will not be here to feed on
the ivy's sweetness. And behind the blossoming curtain, alive
with the minute, multitudinous, swift-moving, glittering
forms, some nobler form will be hidden in a hole or fissure in
the wall. Here on many a night I have listened to the
sibilant screech of the white owl and the brown owl's clear,
long-drawn, quavering lamentation:
"Good Ivy, what byrdys hast thou?"
"Non but the Howlet, that How! How!"
Chapter Nine: Rural Rides
"A-birding on a Broncho" is the title of a charming little book
published some years ago, and probably better known to readers
on the other side of the Atlantic than in England. I remember
reading it with pleasure and pride on account of the author's
name, Florence Merriam, seeing that, on my mother's side, I am
partly a Merriam myself (of the branch on the other side of
the Atlantic), and having been informed that all of that rare
name are of one family, I took it that we were related, though
perhaps very distantly.
