These n.o.ble old pear-trees are a great feature of the Vale of Evesham, especially in the more calcareous parts where the lias limestone is not far from the surface; they are exquisite in spring in clouds of pure white blossoms long before the apples are in bloom; in the autumn the foliage presents every tint of crimson, green and gold all softly subdued, and in winter, when the framework of the tree can be seen, it is noticeable how far the ma.s.sive limbs extend, carrying their girth almost to the summit, in a way that not even the oak can excel. The timber is short in the grain, and wears smooth in the long wood ploughs, and is very suitable for carving quite small and elaborate patterns for such articles as picture frames; but it is somewhat liable to the attack of the woodworm.
CHAPTER XV.
PLUMS--CHERRIES.
"A right down hearty one he be as"ll make some of our maids look alive.
And the worst time of year for such work too, when the May-Dukes is in, and the Hearts a-colouring!"
--Crusty John in _Alice Lorraine_.
The Vale of Evesham has the credit of being the birthplace of two most valuable plums--the Damascene, and the Persh.o.r.e, or Egg plum. These both grow on their own stocks, so require no grafting, and can readily be propagated by severing the suckers which spring up around them from the roots of the tree. The Damascene, as its name implies, is a species of Damson, but coa.r.s.er than the real Damson or the Prune Damson. They are not so popular on the London market as in the markets of the north, especially in Manchester, where they command prices little inferior to the better sorts, as they yield a brilliant red dye suitable for dying printed cotton goods. When really ripe they are excellent for cooking, and are not to be despised, even raw, on a thirsty autumn day. In years of scarcity these have fetched 30s. and over per "pot" of 72 pounds.
The Persh.o.r.e is a very different plum, green when unripe, and attaining a golden colour later; they are immense bearers and very hardy, frequently saving the situation for the plum-growers when all other kinds are destroyed by spring frosts. They are specially valuable for bottling, and it is rumoured that in the hands of skilful manufacturers they become "apricots" under certain conditions. As "cookers," too, they are perhaps the most useful of plums, for they can be used in a very green and hard state. It is a wonderful sight to see them being despatched by tram at the Evesham stations, loaded sometimes loose like coals in the trucks for the big preserving firms in the north. The trees grow very irregularly and are difficult to keep in shape by pruning, as they send forth suckers from all parts when an attempt is made to keep them symmetrical. The only purpose for which the fruit is of little use is for eating raw, they are not unpleasant when just ripe, but that stage is soon pa.s.sed and they become woody and unpalatable.
I planted a thousand of these trees in a new orchard, and took great pains with the pruning myself, for it was curious that in that land of fruit at the time no professional pruner could be found. I sought the advice of a market-gardener and plum-grower, who, in the early stage of their growth, gave me an object-lesson, cutting back the young shoots rather hard to induce them to throw out more at the point of incision, so as to produce eventually a fuller head; while he reiterated the instruction, "It is no use being afraid of "em."
This young orchard adjoined the Great Western Railway, and one day when pruning there I saw a remarkable sight, and I have never found any one with a similar experience. The telegraph wires were magnified into stout ropes by a coating of white rime, and I could see a distinct series of waves approximating to the dots and dashes of the Morse code running along them. The movement would run for a time up towards London, cease for a moment, and then run downwards towards Evesham, and so on almost continuously. I thought it might be caused by the pa.s.sage of electricity, but I cannot get a satisfactory explanation. No trains were pa.s.sing, there was no wind, the rime was not thawing or falling off, and apparently there was nothing to agitate either poles or wires.
This orchard was not a lucky one; it was too low, having only one flat meadow between it and the brook, and therefore very liable to spring frosts. I have seen the trees well past the blossoming stage, with young plums as large as peas, which after two nights" sharp frost turned black and fell off to such an extent that there was scarcely a plum left; but I had a few very good crops which gave employment to a number of additional hands besides my regular people.
A season came when the plum-trees in my new orchard were badly attacked by the caterpillars of the winter-moth, but the cuckoos soon found them out, and I could see half a dozen at once enjoying a bountiful feast. When better plums are abundant the Persh.o.r.e falls to very low prices; I have sold quant.i.ties at 1s. or 1s. 3d. per pot of 72 pounds, at which of course there was a loss; but it is needless to say that at such times the consumer never gets the benefit, 2d. a pound being about the lowest figure at which they are ever seen on offer in the shops.
The Victoria is a very superior plum to the Persh.o.r.e, and a local plum called Jimmy Moore is also a favourite. I believe this plum is very similar to, if not identical with, one sold as Emperor; both it and the Victoria nearly always made good prices and bore well. The Victoria, especially, was so prolific that in some seasons, if not carefully propped, every branch would be broken off by, the weight of fruit, and the tree left a wreck. Not discouraged, however, it would shoot out again and in a few years bear as well as ever.
My best plum was the greengage, rather a shy bearer but always in demand. Living in a land of Goshen, like the Vale of Evesham, one gets quite hypercritical (or "picksome," as the local expression is), and scarcely cares to taste a fruit from a tree in pa.s.sing; but I used to visit my greengages at times when the pickers had done with them, for they have to be gathered somewhat unripe to ensure travelling undamaged. I often found, on the south side of the tree, a few that had been overlooked which were fully ripe, beautifully mottled, full of sunshine, and perfect in melting texture and ambrosial flavour.
For restocking old worn-out apple orchards, in Worcestershire at any rate, there is nothing to equal plum-trees; they flourished amazingly at Aldington, and soon made up for the lost apples; they appeared to follow the principle that dictates the rotation of ordinary crops, just as the leguminous plants alternate satisfactorily with the graminaceous, or, as I have read that in Norway, where a fir forest has been cut, birch will spring up automatically and take its place.
My predecessor always sold his plums on the trees for the buyer to harvest, and I heard that when the former turned a flock of Dorset ewes into one of these orchards, the buyer complained--the lower branches being heavily laden, and within a few feet of the ground--that he had watched, "Them old yows holding down bunches of plums with their harns for t"others to eat." This I imagine was in the nature of hyperbole, and not intended to be taken literally.
I had about forty cherry trees in one of my orchards, and among them a very early kind of black cherry, as well as Black Bigarreaus, White Heart and Elton Heart. The early ones made particularly good prices, but when the French cherries began to be imported, being on the market a week or two before ours they "took the keen edge off the demand,"
though wretched-looking things in comparison. The cherries from my forty trees made 80 one year when the crop was good, but they are expensive to pick as there is much shifting of heavy ladders, and the work was done by men. In Kent, I believe, women are employed at cherry-picking, ascending forty-round ladders in a gale of wind without a sign of nervousness, but with a man in attendance to pack the fruit and shift the ladders when required. I found Liverpool the best market for cherries, where they were bought by the large steamship companies for the Transatlantic liners, and where they were in demand for the seaside and holiday places in North Wales and Lancashire. Like the pear-trees, the cherry-trees are very beautiful in spring, and again in autumn, and as mine could be seen from the house and garden, they added a great charm to the place.
I must put in a word here for the bullfinch, which is unreasonably persecuted for its supposed destruction of the cherry crop when in bloom; it undoubtedly picks many blossoms to pieces, but probably no ultimate loss of weight follows; very few comparatively of the blooms ever become fruits in any case, and even if some are thus nipped in the bud, it is probable that the remainder mature into larger and finer cherries in consequence. The advantage of thinning is recognized in the case of all our fruits, and is indeed, the reason for pruning.
The vine-grower knows well the truth of the saying that, "You should get your enemy to thin your grapes," and I would sacrifice many cherries for a few of these beautiful birds in my garden, for man does not live by bread alone.
One of the old couplets, of which our forefathers were so fond, runs:
"A cherry year is a merry year, And a plum year is a dumb year."
I have seen the explanation suggested that cherries being particularly wholesome contributed to the happiness of mankind, but that the less salubrious plum tended to depression of health and spirits. There is, however, a small black cherry still grown in this and other parts of Hampshire and Surrey called the "Merry," from the French _merise_, and it was natural that when cherries were abundant the merry would also be plentiful. The word "dumb" is an archaic synonym for "damson," and the same rule would apply between it and the plum, as with the cherry and the merry. My own small place here, in the New Forest, has been known for centuries as "the Merry Gardens," and no doubt they were once grown here, as at other places in the south of England, called Merry Hills, Merry Fields, and Merry Orchards. Even now as I write, on May Day, the buds on the wild cherries in my hedges are showing the white bloom just ready to appear, and in a few days, these trees will be spangled with their little bright stars. I imagine that they are no very distant relation of the old merry-trees that once flourished here.
CHAPTER XVI.
TREES: ELM--OAK--BEECH--WILLOW--SCOTS-FIR.
"O flourish, hidden deep in fern, Old oak, I love thee well; A thousand thanks for what I learn And what remains to tell."
--_The Talking Oak_.
Keats tells us that
"The trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple"s self,"
and had he included the trees around a dwelling-house, the epigram would have been equally applicable. Sometimes, of course, it becomes absolutely necessary to cut down an ancient tree that from its proximity to one"s home has become a part of the home itself, but it is a matter for the gravest consideration, for one cannot foresee the result, and to a person who has lived long with a n.o.ble tree as a near neighbour, the place never again seems the same.
The Elm is said to be the Worcestershire weed, as the oak is in Herefordshire; the former attains a great size, but it is not very deeply rooted, and a heavy gale will sometimes cause many unwelcome gaps in a stately avenue. Big branches, too, have a way of falling without the least notice, and on the whole it is safer not to have elms near houses or cottages. One of the finest avenues of elms I know, is to be seen at the Palace of the Bishop of Winchester at Farnham in Surrey, but the land is quite exceptionally good, and in the palmy days of hop-growing, the adjoining fields commanded a rent of 20 an acre for what is known as the "Heart land of Farnham," where hops of the most superlative quality were grown. When the dappled deer are grouped under this n.o.ble avenue, in the light and shade beneath the elms, they form an old English picture of country life not to be surpa.s.sed.
The elm is a sure sign of rich land, it is never seen on thin poor soils. An intending purchaser, or tenant, of a farm should always regard its presence as a certain indication of a likely venture. It is a terrible robber, and therefore a nuisance round arable land, causing a spreading shade, under which the corn will be found thin, "scrawley," and "broken-kneed," with poor, shrivelled ears; and the alternating green crops will also suffer in their way. In an orchard it is still worse; I had several at one time surrounded by Blenheim apples, which were always small, scanty, and colourless. Eventually, I cut the elms down, the biggest, carrying perhaps 100 cubic feet of timber at 9d. a foot at the time, was only worth 75s., though it must have destroyed scores of pounds worth of fruit during its many years of growth. The elm seems particularly liable to be struck by lightning, possibly owing to its height, and several suffered in this way during my time at Aldington.
From the scarcity of oak in the Vale of Evesham elm was often used for making the coffers or chests we generally see made from the former wood. I have one of these, nicely carved with the scrolls and bold devices of the Jacobean period, and it is so dark in colour as to pa.s.s at first sight for old oak. The timber is not much used in building, except for rough farm sheds; as boards it is liable to twist and become what is called "cross-winding." The land in the New Forest is mostly too poor for the elm, and this should warn the theorists, who during the war have advocated reclaiming the open heaths and moors for agricultural purposes, against such an ignorant proposition. I suppose it would cost at least 100 an acre to clear, drain, fence, level, make roads, and erect the necessary farm buildings, houses and cottages, with the result that it would command less than 1 per acre as annual rent; and I should be sorry to be compelled to farm it at that.
Oaks are somewhat scarce in Worcestershire, and are rarely found in the Vale of Evesham. I had one remarkably fine specimen in a meadow on Claybrook, the farm I owned, adjoining the Aldington land. It covered an area measuring 22 yards by 22 yards = 484 square yards, the tenth part of an acre. The trunk measured 12 feet in circ.u.mference, about 7 feet from the ground. The rule for estimating the age of growing oak-trees is to calculate 15 years to each inch of radius = 540 years to a yard, therefore a tree 6 feet in diameter, and about 20 feet round, including bark and knots, would be just that age. According to this rule my tree would be not less than 330 years old, which of course is young for an oak.
The life of this oak was saved in a peculiar way by "a pint of drink,"
and the story was told me by the agent of an old lady, the previous owner. It had been decided to fell the tree, and two professional sawyers, who were also "tree-fallers" (fellers), arrived one morning for the purpose with their axes and cross-cut saw. They surveyed the prospect and agreeing that it presented a tough job, an adjournment was arranged to the neighbouring "Royal Oak" for a pint of drink before commencing operations. Coming back, half an hour later, they had just stripped and rolled up their shirt sleeves, when the agent appeared on the road not far off. "Hullo," he shouted, "have you made a start?" "Just about to begin," replied the head man. "Well then, don"t," said the agent, "the old lady died last night, and I must wait till the new owners have considered the matter." So the tree was saved, and curiously enough by its namesake the "Royal Oak." The new owner spared it, and later when it became my property I did likewise, for I should have considered it sacrilege to destroy the finest oak in the neighbourhood. Some years after I had sold the farm I heard that the tree was blown down in a gale, its enormous head and widespread branches must have offered immense resistance to the wind, and the fall of it must have been great.
The most celebrated, if not the biggest oak in the New Forest is the Knightwood oak, not far from Lyndhurst; it is 17 feet in circ.u.mference, which would make it not less than 450 years old by the above rule. It is strange to think that it may have been an acorn in the year 1469, in the reign of Henry VI., and that 200 years later it could easily have peeped over the heads of its neighbours in 1669, to see Charles II., who probably went riding along the main Christchurch road from Lyndhurst with a team of courtiers and court beauties, in all the pomp of royalty. We know that in that year with reference to the waste of timber in the Forest during his father"s reign he was especially interested in the planting of young oaks, and enclosed a nursery of 300 acres for their growth. It is also recorded that he did not forget the maids of honour of his court, upon whom he bestowed the young woods of Brockenhurst.
"Oak before ash--only a splash, Ash before oak--a regular soak,"
is a very ancient proverb referring to the relative times of the leaves of these trees appearing in the spring, and is supposed to be prophetic of the weather during the ensuing summer. I have, however, noticed for many years that the oak is invariably first, so that like some other prognostications, it seems to be unreliable.
The att.i.tudes of oak trees are a very interesting study. There is the oak which, bending forwards and stretching out a kindly hand, appears to offer a hearty welcome; the oak that starts backward in astonishment at any familiarity advanced by a pa.s.sing stranger. The oak that a.s.sumes an att.i.tude of pride and self-importance; the oak that approaches a superior neighbour with an air of humility and abas.e.m.e.nt, listening subserviently to his commands. The shrinking oak in dread of an enemy, and the oak prepared to offer a stout resistance. The hopeful oak in the prime of life, and the oak that totters in desolate and crabbed old age. The oak that enjoys in middle age the good things of life, with well-fed and rounded symmetry; and the oak that suggests decrepitude, with rough exterior, and a life-experience of hardship; the st.u.r.dy oak, the ambitious oak, the self-contained oak, and so on, through every phase of character. No other tree is so human or so expressive, and no other tree bespeaks such fort.i.tude and endurance. To say that a well-grown oak typifies the reserve and strength of the true-born Briton, is perhaps to sum up its individuality in a word.
There is one old fellow who throws back his head and roars with laughter when I go by; what can be the joke? I must stop some day and look to see if the sides of his rather tight jacket of Lincoln green moss are really splitting, and perhaps, if I can catch the pitch of his voice, I shall hear him whisper:
"A fool, a fool! I met a fool i" the forest."
I like to think that these old personalities are transmigrations, and that each is now at leisure to correct some special mistake in a previous existence. Perhaps, out there in the moonlight, they tell their stories to each other, and to the owls I hear at midnight performing an appropriately weird overture.
These talking oaks can only be found where they have grown from acorns naturally, and where they have survived the struggle of life against their enemies, including the interference of man, the attacks of grazing animals, the blasts of winter and the heavy burden of its snows. The natural woods, as distinct from the plantations of the New Forest, offer many examples of these varying trees and the lessons they convey. Such a piece of old natural forest almost surrounds my present home, and every time I pa.s.s through it I bless the memory of William the Conqueror. Randolph Caldecott, that prince of ill.u.s.trators of rural life, evidently noticed the characteristic att.i.tudes of trees; look at the sympathetic dejection displayed by the two old pollard willows in his sketch of the maiden all forlorn, in _The House that Jack Built_. The maiden has her handkerchief to her eyes, and in a few masterly strokes one of the trees is depicted with a falling tear, and the other bent double is hobbling along with a crutch supporting its withered and tottering frame.
Far otherwise is it with the plantations where the oaks are artificially cultivated for timber. These are planted close together on purpose to draw each other upwards in the struggle for air and sunlight, which prevents their branching so near the ground as the natural trees, the object being to produce an extended length of straight trunk that will eventually afford a long and regular cut of timber, free from the knots caused by the branches. All round the plantations Scots-firs are planted as "nurses," to keep off the rough winds and prevent breakage; these also help to lengthen the trunks by inducing upward development. As the trees get nearer together they are repeatedly thinned out, and, eventually, only those left which are intended to come to maturity. Under this artificial, though necessary system, the trees lose all individuality, and they never regain it because they are all more or less controlled when growing, and so become uninteresting copies of each other.
The motto of the natural oak is _festina lente_, mindful of the proverb, "early maturity means early decay." It is well known that oak, slowly and naturally grown on poor soil, is far more durable than that which is run up artificially or produced on rich land. The branches of oaks rarely cross or damage each other by friction, like those of the beech, they are obstinate and will sooner break in a gale, than give way. Where an oak and a beech grow side by side, close together, the oak suffers more than the beech, from the dense shade of the latter; and if they are so near as to touch and rub together in the wind, the oak will throw out a plaster or protection of bark, to act as a styptic to the wound in the first place, and eventually as a solid barrier against further aggression.
Paintings of landscape in which trees occur are rarely satisfactory; if you look at children playing beneath timber trees, or pa.s.sers-by, the first thing that strikes you is the majesty and the height of the tree, as compared with the human figure. In paintings this is not as a rule expressed; the trees are too insignificant, and the figures too important, so that the range and wealth of tree-life is lost.
Gainsborough"s _Market Cart_ is a notable exception, but the cart is a clumsy affair, and the shafts are much too low both on it and the horse. Constable"s _Valley Farm_, _The Haywain_, _The Cornfield_, and _Dedham Mill_ are all striking examples of his sense of tree proportion, lending no little to the n.o.bility of his pictures, and speaking eloquently of the reverence man should feel in the presence of Nature, untainted by his own fancied importance.