In My Garden Durin g the frosty mornin g s of early May
I saw the rime on the first early potatoes, and tried the experiment of washing it off before the sun got to it. I went up and down the two rows with a watering can. The young foliage showed no sign of burn. Next night I put cloches over them and again escaped damage. The persistent north-casters have brought the plagues of Egypt this year. Green- and black-fly were already rampant by the end of April. I traced the headquarters of the latter (and more foul) pest to a spindle tree planted against a hedge eight years ago. Somebody had told me that the spindle was a breeding-ground for black-fly, and I noticed every year that my tree was dirty with it. This year it was infested; so after a council of war we chopped it down, removed it to the compost and bonfire corner of the garden, and there burned it. To start the fire I re-opened a crate already nailed up for return to a London stores. I plunged in my arms to gather up the shavings and straw, and collected—a bottle of whisky! Having pointed this out to the member of the household who had unpacked the crate, I went down the garden in a less murderous frame of mind, recalling the Spanish proverb that "when one door closes, another always opens." For the first time, perhaps, in the history of gardening, man has had cause to bless that viviparous horror, the black-fly. RIC:HARD CHURCH.
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