Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/339

326 One point of my Ned’s speech had been that there seemed to be two unhappy classes of society who were doomed never to enjoy the best pleasures of external Nature. Members of Parliament, who cannot leave London till the middle of August; and whale-fishers who leave the verdant part of the earth behind them in April, and go among the icebergs till it is time to come home, and meet the winter. For his own part, Ned declared, nothing should induce him to command a whale-ship, or to go into parliament: whereupon his opponent advised him to suspend his resolution till he was sought by some constituency, or till he had learned how love of country makes a patriot indifferent to pleasure, in town or country. Ned considered that stoicism rather doubtful, seeing how ready members are to make every patriotic consideration give way to the Derby day.

No time is to be lost, now that the short holiday has begun. “Have you remembered our paste-eggs?” asks Charley.

Yes: mother and sisters have remembered to keep the dozen largest eggs of the week for the purpose. Jane and Bell have collected odds and ends of gay silk; and before bed-time the little saucepan will be brought in, and the boys will tie up, and boil their eggs with their own hands. To-morrow evening, the engraving will begin; the scratching with knife and pin, whereby each egg will exhibit a graceful swan on a lake, or a hovering dove; or a group of human figures. Jane proposes a group at the altar, as Nanny the nursemaid is to be married on Monday, Easter Monday. Nanny must have the very best paste-egg, this year: and, for her part, she hopes the young people will all be at her wedding.

There is time, however, for a stroll before dark, and candlelight pursuits. We all turn out upon the lawn after tea,—even little Master Harry, who ought to be going to bed. He has something to tell first, however. The rooks are winging home to the park-woods, and as the boys look up at the cawing flock, and fear it is too early for rook pie, Harry informs them that “Harry was a Apil fool.” Ned hardly believed it because his mother thinks that children should not be made April fools of till they are old enough to know the difference between the standing joke and a fib: but Harry is right. He had been so eager—had begged so earnestly—“Do make Harry a Apil fool!” that he was supposed to have his eyes sufficiently open. Some salt was put into his little hand, and he was sent to catch birds on the grass. By the time the salt was melted there, he was tired; but still proud of his dignity in having been fooled like bigger people. In our part of the country, and in many others, the joke does not seem to wear out at all. We are all regularly taken in, sooner or later before twelve at noon on the 1st of April.

The scent of violets is strong in the evening air; and we turn to the walk where the border, to the very end of the shrubbery, is entirely composed of double violets. This is my special vanity—this violet border; and the lads now make their annual observation that there are none so sweet anywhere else. Violets suggest primroses: and though there are plenty in the garden, we agree that we must go to-morrow to the High and Low Copses for more, and for whatever else we can find. There is so much to do that the question is where to begin. It is time to be sowing our annuals, and giving the last touches of excellence to our auriculas for the show; yet we must have long walks every day; and the boys rush to the river-bank to look after the boat.

The question is, whether they would prefer the fun of mending and painting the boat, at the cost of waiting a week for the use of it, or letting the carpenter botch it to go out in to-morrow. They will undertake the business themselves, and make a good job of it. They will see about the colours before breakfast, and paint away all the morning. The mother raises the point of the smell and sick head-aches: but wilful boys ignore sick headaches; and they may run the risk if they choose.

It is difficult to give up duck-and-drake on such an evening, when the pale clear sky is reflected in the broad pools of the river, and it is such pretty work breaking up the surface into ripples and circles. Again and again we think we are making our last cast, and find ourselves tempted to try again: but there is the flower-garden to be seen while there is yet light enough.

The girls have done their best with their brothers’ gardens: and the display is indeed rather surprising, so early in the season. The rock-mound which separates the two plots was expected to be fragrant with wall flowers, and shining with periwinkle, blue and white, and tufted with daffodils: but the borders are gay beyond expectation. There are half-a-dozen varieties of tulips; and hyacinths, on the point of blowing; and auriculas in pots, carefully covered every night; and sweet double primroses; and the crown imperial is superb; and the Persian iris most elegant; and the fritillaries of different kinds, and kingwort; and jonquils, in their pride and delicacy. There may be plenty to do, which the sisters have left to their brothers for the pleasure of doing it: but the grand essential—abundance of flowering plants—has been splendidly managed.

The first job here must be to provide a shade and shelter for the hyacinths and auriculas. Such a noonday sun as we may expect now, and such April storms as will certainly pass over us, will ruin the flowers, if we do not take care. Therefore, however busy we may otherwise be, we are to bring in a score or so of rods from the copse, and stick them in, so as to support a light awning in the sun, and to stand a brisk wind which would tear the blossoms, or break the stalks, if the plants were not under cover.

The weeding is all done; every bed kept clear up to this very noon: but the walks need hoeing and rolling. The grass must be rolled too: but the lads like the work. They must sow their annuals, if they can possibly find time: and to-morrow they must examine their own particular fruit trees in the orchard.

Ah! we had been dreading the introduction of that sore subject. There is bad news about Ned’s standard cherry-tree. Charley’s is a wall tree, happily for him. His blossoms appear to be safe: