. British bee journal & bee-keepers adviser. Bees. 398 THE BRITISH BEE JOURNAL. Dec. 5, 1918. THE BEE GARDEN. The Official Lists (continued). By A. F. Hah,wood. Primula veris, P. vulgaris (Cowslip and Primrose).âReally it is difficult to keep one's thoughts from playing fantastic tricks. Mental concentration is often almost impossible to achieve, and at this moment, as I raise my eyes and see the slanting rain, the occasional detachment and fall of a leaf from the plane-tree before my "' desirable villa residence," my thoughts flit, impish, to memories of the last great scene in
. British bee journal & bee-keepers adviser. Bees. 398 THE BRITISH BEE JOURNAL. Dec. 5, 1918. THE BEE GARDEN. The Official Lists (continued). By A. F. Hah,wood. Primula veris, P. vulgaris (Cowslip and Primrose).âReally it is difficult to keep one's thoughts from playing fantastic tricks. Mental concentration is often almost impossible to achieve, and at this moment, as I raise my eyes and see the slanting rain, the occasional detachment and fall of a leaf from the plane-tree before my "' desirable villa residence," my thoughts flit, impish, to memories of the last great scene in " Cyrano de Bergerac," where the autumn leaves give rise to the exquisite dialogue :â Cyrano : Les f euilles ! Roxane : Elles sont d'un blond venitien. Regardez-les toniber. Cyrano : Comme elle tombent bien! Dans ce trajet si court de la branche a la terre, Comme elles savent mettre une beaute derniere, Et malgre leur terreur de pourrir sur le sol, Veulent que cette chute ait la grace d'un vol. Thence to visions of spring in Oxford- shire woods and meadows, and I see again the fields sloping to the Evenlode, each with its spring crossed by stepping- stones, the kine browsing a herbage rich in floral beauty, whereof the greatest wealth is perhaps the cowslip. I visualise, too, a little old-fashioned house in the changeless village of Ascot-under-Wych- wood and two little old ladies the crown of whose charming hospitality is the offer of a glass of nectar such as Olympus never knew, brewed long since from the cowslips' petals and matured to absolute perfection in the great stone jars so lovingly stored in the little cellar, and only broached in honour of such as establish a claim upon the old-young hearts of these dames, of whom I am always reminded when I see a reproduction of Whistler's portrait of his mother. Crossing the meads and climbing high stiles of up-ended stone slabs, 1 reach the Dean brook, and, crossing by a little foot- bridge, wander along the further
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