. Henry Nicholson Ellacombe hon. canon of Bristol, vicar of Bitton and rural dean, 1822-1916 a memoir . mones, daffodils, crocuses,irises, squills, snowdrops, snow glories, roses, cyclamens,heaths, spurges, thorn-apples, periwinkles, pinks,phloxes, snapdragons, spiraeas, primroses, campanulas,paeonies, sunflowers ; there was no attempt at produc-ing an effect, no thought of a colour scheme ; the onlyconsideration when a new plant was introduced intothe garden was as to what place would suit it best asregarding shelter and sun and air so long as it didnot interfere with the earlier inhabitants.
. Henry Nicholson Ellacombe hon. canon of Bristol, vicar of Bitton and rural dean, 1822-1916 a memoir . mones, daffodils, crocuses,irises, squills, snowdrops, snow glories, roses, cyclamens,heaths, spurges, thorn-apples, periwinkles, pinks,phloxes, snapdragons, spiraeas, primroses, campanulas,paeonies, sunflowers ; there was no attempt at produc-ing an effect, no thought of a colour scheme ; the onlyconsideration when a new plant was introduced intothe garden was as to what place would suit it best asregarding shelter and sun and air so long as it didnot interfere with the earlier inhabitants. The resultwas that they all grew happily together as in nature;there was no time of the year when it was not possibleto find something in flower. Then there were the trees—the remarkable elmby the gate, Oreodaphne by the porch, several kindsof thorn, the great Catalpa, Rhus, Parrotia persica,the cut-leaved beech, the tall Gingko, the cedar overwhich Canon Ellacombe leapt eighty years ago, themagnificent oak in the far corner of the garden which hehad himself planted, the Mamre oak and many I THE CANONS LAST YEARS 223 How it all came back again, the glory and theglow and the joy of those summer years. The gardenwas full of flowers, the air was full of their scent, birdswere singing everywhere, the rooks were feeding theirbrood in the tall elm, away across the lawn or behindthe huge leaves of the gunnera we saw familiar facesand heard familiar voices, he himself with his tall figure,his keen eye, his hearty voice, hurried off to welcomesome new-comer, the church bells were ringing merrilyfor a wedding. We listened again : it was a muffledpeal. Once more we gripped Ashmores hand, we saidgood-bye to the garden and we parted at the gate togo to our various homes, some by rail, some by motor-car, some on foot. It was a sad parting, for each one ofus knew that never again could we hope to meet atBitton vicarage, that very likely some of us wouldnever again enter its gate. To
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