49 No. Main | oil on canvas | Jesse Halsey |
They come up every year in the same spot under the snowball bush, though planted eighty years ago.
Grape hyacinths are like that; “naturalizing,” the botanists
call it; perpetuating themselves year after year, if the environment is
favorable.
It is a sunny exposure in the southeast corner of the old
garden. Boxwood no longer in trim border lines, but grown rampant with the
years, shuts off the bite of the east wind that comes swirling viciously in
shore all through the early springtime.
By May Day they come out, almost invariably, just before the
apple blossoms. As a boy I used to look for them—after I heard their story.
That is fifty years ago. Seldom have I been there in the springtime, these
intervening years, but my sister used to write; “Auntie’s hyacinths are
blooming in their corner.”
The other day, by chance, I was in that seaside village and
the old garden came to mind. Untying the sagging gate, I went in.
There they were, pushing through the leaves, little sturdy
spikes of blue, vertical slender bunches of “grapes”—well named.
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