Punch (63.1872)

234

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [December 7, 1872.

HAPPY THOUGHTS.

S Mr. Gutch is unable to come
himself, he has sent his Fore-
man, or Head Gardener.

He is of a despondent tarn,
and appears to view any dif-
ficulty as almost insur-
mountable. Occasionally he
omits his aspirates, and oc-
casionally puts them in again,
in their wrong places, so as
to do justice to the letter
" H " in his conversation.

The moment he sees the
Nook, he looks round as if
he were taking the whole
four acres in at a glance,
and shakes his head without
saying a word. He has such
a melancholy air that I al-
most expect he '11 shed tears,
beg me not to speak to him,
and walk out of the front
gate with his handkerchief
up to his eyes, distractedly.

He doesn't go so far as
this, however. He simply
observes, "It's in a bad
state, Sir," which is, I admit
at once, true; adding, hopefully, that "I'm sure we can make
something of it."

To this he replies, " To do any good with it will be a difficult job.
Why," he goes on, " I suppose this place hain't been touched not by
no one for a matter of two year or more."
I believe him to be right.

"Now," he asks me, after looking round again, and rubbing his
chin, and sniffing, " what are you going to make of this, Sir ? "

That, I tell him, is precisely what I was about to ask him.

" Flower and Kitchen, I s'pose," he says, eyeing the extent of
ground, and communing with himself.

" Certainly," I answer ; " with pigs and a cow."

We walk on a little. He seems too oppressed by the utter hope-
lessness of the situation to say a word. Can't make out what he
expected to find here. If the place had been perfect, I shouldn't
have appealed to Gutch, and Gutch wouldn't have had to send his
Foreman.

He walks on silently. Presently he stops, and takes up a lump of
earth.

" It'll be a long time afore we can do anything with that," he
says, as if he had been called upon to cook and eat it.

If left to myself, of course it would be a very long time before I
should make anything of this clod of earth. However, in order to
draw him out, and hear what he has got to say on the subject
(because if he's got nothing to say on the subject, I'd better give
up the house, grounds, and whole scheme at once), I pretend also to
take a desponding view of the clod, and we both shake our heads
over it.

" Heavy clayj " he goes on. " No doing nothing with it for a

long time. 'Tain't like a light soil, or a rich loamy soil"- Here

he weighs it on his hand, surveying it with ineffable disgust, and
then, appealing to me, says, " Look here, Sir ! What are you to do
with that f It's 'artbreaking work, it is ! "

And he throws down the clod, as if reproaching me with having
chosen such a Heaven-forsaken spot, and having trifled with his
professional feelings as a Gardener in bringing him to see it.

"Isn't it good for growing things in?" I ask diffidently. The
truth is, that I begin to wish I'd never gone in for the Nook, or,
rather, that at all events Englemoee hadn't been so hasty in the
matter.

"Well," says Me. Gutch's Head Gardener, putting his wideawake
hat on one side of his head, and scratching the other deliberately
with his right hand,—" well, we might work it so as it may come
pretty right and do fairly"—this is a great admission for him, and
I quite brighten up again : after all, the Nook's a nice place; "only
o' course it '11 be four men's time, at least, to break up the earth."
Here he stoops down and brings up another lump, with what appears
to me to be straws sticking in it. Holding this up for my inspec-
tion, he says, " Why it '11 be a goodish time afore we get this Scutch
out. I see," he goes on, with another comprehensive look round and
about, "the Scutch is everywhere. You don't get that out easily."

This last observation he makes with a knowing look at me, which,
in itself, is rather flattering to my experience of horticulture, as it
implies that I am perfectly well acquainted with the difficulties of
dealing with Scutch (of which I have never heard till this minute,
and which sounds at first like Smutch), and that in consequence as

he, the Head Gardener, wouldn't think of deceiving me, so I mustn't
dream of trying to humbug him.

"Digging," he proceeds, " and plenty of manuring. It'11 stand
a deal o' that when the Scutch is once out, or else it '11 lose 'art."

I should be sorry, I say, if did that, and it shall have any amount
of manure that may be necessary.

" Half-a-dozen cartloads," says Me. Gutch's Foreman.

" Certainly; as much as you like," I reply, heartily, in a spirit,
as it were, of true old English Country Gentleman's hospitality. Let
Gutch's Foreman make himself quite at home.
_ " We '11 get rid of the Smutch," I say, decidedly. It's the first
time I've tried the word, and I pronounce it boldly.

" The Scutch, Sir?" he inquiries.

" Yes," I reply; and then, as if to be quite certain we mean the
same, I point to it in the clod., and ask, " what do you call it ?"

"Scutch," he answers; "but they has hother names for it in
different counties. P'raps, Sir, you've 'eard it called something
else."

Very possibly: certainly never Scutch.
Happy Thought {poetical).—

But Me. Gutch

Will stop the Scutch.
Happy Thought {practical and prosaic).—Four men will do it all.
How much ?

The Foreman can't exactly say, but Me. Gutch will write to me
on the subject. I shall then want some bushes, he supposes.
" Yes, of course, bushes," I answer.
" And trees," he goes on.

" Well," I reply, doubtfully, not liking him to think that I shall
yield to every one of his suggestions, " I don't know."
Happy Thought.—What trees ?

The Foreman replies, " Well, mainly, young 'uns has '11 look well.
Fruit-trees for the wall, hand in the front, by the walk there, you
can't do better than 'ave a hoak, a hash, or a helm."

Is he going to make a park of it ? I really don't think he under-
stands that I only want this place to be a small Farm-garden or
Garden-farm.

" Then," he continues, " you '11 have the front laid out in flower-
beds, o' course."

Now he has mentioned it, I see, for the first time, that this must
have all along been my original design.

"You'll want a few hardy plants for bedding out, and quick
climbers and some roses, o' course."

Happy Thought.—Beds of roses. By all means. There are various
sorts of roses, I believe ; what does he recommend ?

"Well," he returns slowly, "there's the Glory of Die John, a
wery nice 'un ; then there's Sellin Forester as'ud come in well;
and Madame Bosankett is a good 'un to creep. Bulldy Nige would
look well, a John Chirping, a President Lincoln, and a Ptaiody
Botes. You can't do better, too, for making a show, than a Hollibo,
a Rolison, and a Tirer 'Ammyrick."

"All roses?" I ask.

" All the best sorts as is growd," he replies. " Then there's Wer-
beeners. You'd like some Werbeeners ? "

" Certainly," I answer. " Verbenas, by all means." He really
seems to forget that I'm arranging for a small Garden-farm, not a
Botanical Show-place.

" For Werbeeners," he continues, "there's Charles Squedgeley
with a cherry centre, and Mr. Pinto, and Miss Pinto pale flesh and
nearly white she is, but they 're for exhibiting. Then, s'pose you
'ad a goodish few Sinnuariers. There's Reuton's Miss Jones, white
and rosy, and Lord Wezzlemore, yellow, profusely covered with
small reddish-brown spots—no, that there's a Calsolarier, though—
and there'd be a good place for a lean-to house by the wall yonder."

Happy Thought.—A " lean-to house" must be a sort of Tower of
Pisa on the Premises.

I really don't understand what Gutch's Foreman thinks I want to
make of the place. He has partially recovered from his despond-
ency, and notes down that I shall require four men, plants, bushes,
and trees. Will I have a flower list, to note down anything that
may strike my fancy ? I thank him, and accept. He is off.

When he's gone, I examine the catalogue, and am quite taken
at first with the long names. I mark off in pencil the Philo-
dendrammedonensis Bipinnatifinicatifidum, which sounds like some-
thing between an antediluvian monster and the chorus of a comic
song: then a Sericotelinelladocalyx floribifolia splendensis, which
must be quite a firework of a flower, with a pop-bang to finish with.

Happy Thought.—A flower with a pop-bang shoot.

Under Azaleas, I select Baron Bagwig, fine form, with scarlet
spot; Duke of Cambridge, rosy carmine; Martha Spry, richly
spotted with crimson on the top lobe ; The Inimitable Sambo (one of
Bungay's, I find), covered with small crimson red specks, and of a
profuse flowering habit; and, as something satisfactory to finish
with, Lady Candlish (Improved).

Up to town, to find answers from Gardeners addressed to " X " at
Minerva Club.