MARGINAL COMMENT
By HAROLD NICOLSON
AUGUST, the etteod-monath of our ancestors, is the month of weeds: " This is the month of weeds.
Kex, charlock, thistle, Among the shorn bristle Of stubble drop seeds.
This is the month of weeds.
" Spurry, pimpernel, quitch, Twine in the stubble, Making for trouble ; With nettle in ditch, Spurry, pimpernel, quitch."
August is not only the month of weeds; it is the month in which those of us who are clumsy with the shears., who have not those deft ripples of the back-muscles which make the good harvester, are set down, in our few hours of holiday, to scratch and pull and push these horrible invaders from the soil. There is the process known as " digging them in " which is not only exhausting in itself but which stimulates the weed to recurrence : tamen usque recurrat. There is the Dutch hoe, which when the weeds are small or young and the soil loose, produces neat and rapid effects, marred only by the difficulty of thereafter collecting and destroying the frail seed- lings which have been dislodged. And there is the bodge and hand-fork system of weeding, which requires patience but no exces- sive industry, and bf which one can without undue effort clear three square yards in as many hours. I prefer the latter system since it is good for soil and soul alike. Not only are the weeds enucleated, but one's character is improved by doing a dull thing thoroughly. The weeds that the spade digs in, the weeds that the hoe snaps, are by this slow process taken individually, each little severed stem becomes a case of conscience; to leave it un-eradicated is a moral defeat; a sense of efficient achievement is caused when the most
brittle tap-root is gouged like a carrot from the earth. * * * *
One comes to acquire, in tjaose long silent hours broken only by the grunt of some special effort, a new intimacy with the soil. One comes to learn that such phrases as " the ground is baked hard " or " the ground is soggy " are mere generalisations, taking small account of the gradations of difference between what is wet and what is dry. One comes to learn that there are certain conditions of dryness in which even the celandine can be extracted without breaking, in which even bind-weed can be pulled from the root; and that there are certain conditions of wetness when the handle of one's fork becomes a smear of greasy mud and when the little roots of the buttercup (my favourite weed) stick to one's fingers as one flicks them into the bodge. Everybody has his preferences and his prejudices in regard to weeds. Groundsel is the most amenable of all, since it pulls easily and can be given to the birds. There are some experts who regard celandine as a special enemy, and who will not admit that if one treats it gently one will find that the tubers come away in a bunch together, grouped neatly as the breasts of Diana of Ephesus. Bindweed, one must admit, is hell; the common sow-thistle irritates the hand, exudes when broken a really horrible milk, and requires deep digging if it is to be destroyed; couch grass we all know and loathe; goosegrass, from which the Swedes make coffee in war-time, can be pulled if tact is shown; the plantains are not my enemies, since the pleasure of extracting them is greater that the trouble caused; to weed nettles is not an afternoon's occu- pation, it is a major campaign; as a relaxation I recommend weeding pimpernel and shepherd's purse; but the worst of all my enemies is annual meadow grass. A bed will have been cleaned and raked: one looks at it with satisfaction as one wheels away the heavy barrow, and a week later a brown beard will have spread across the bed, " un frisson d'eau sur de la mousse," which in a few days will
turn again to green. Such sights in war-time fill one with despair. * * * * I hold the doctrine that nothing is really dull provided that you do it perfectly; and that nothing can be interesting if you allow laziness to intervene. The desire for perfectibility is implanted so
deeply in the human breast that, as one carries away the trug, or wheels away the barrow, more pain is caused by the thought of the tap-roots one has left behind than pleasure by the contemplation of the heap of weeds deposited upon the dump. Yet few human contentments can compare with the sight, after long hour's work, of the smoke from the bad weeds drifting across the summer woods, or the thought that the good weeds, neatly piled together, are making humus for future enrichment. Having done one's own work one can leave the secret processes of nature to do theirs. And for a few short hours one is lulled by the illusion that in fact by effort one has rid the bed of weeds; and as the bonfire crackles anB the flames twist in their own smoke there is comfort in the thought that the enemy has been fixed, brought to action and destroyed. Yet we know in our hearts that husbandry, as peace, depends upon constant vigilance and constant renewal of energy. We have all been obliged during the war to surrender our gardens to the tyranny of nature; our lawns have become hayfields; potatoes and cabbages dis- grace beds designed for primulas and snap-dragons; there are nettles clustering around the statue of Pomona: and in the paved walk the dandelion ousts the thyme. But many of us have striven by personal effort to clear some beds at least to remind us that here was once a flower garden. And all this, I repeat, has been good for the soul.
* * * *
Never again shall we reproach the garden-boy for taking a whole afternoon to clear a single bed. Never again shall we lightly decide to have a new azalea border by the moat. The defensive war which through four long years we have conducted so unsuccessfully against Nature has taught us more ahout gardening than we ever knew before. Today we know our own particular weeds with that intimacy which can only come from long hatred. We have learnt that the enemy, when apparently defeated, returns with fresh reserves the very moment that our back 'is turned. We have learnt that in gardening complacency is fatal and appeasement of no avail at all. And in this matter of weeds we have enormously increased our experience. Even town-dwellers must by now have come to notice with amazement the strange habits of weeds and wild-flowers in war. How curious it is that the loose-strife should blaze among the ruins of Paternoster Row; that the rosebay should flourish among the burnt heaths of Surrey; and that poppies should settle suddenly among the bomb-craters on the Downs. Why should nettles display so marked a preference for demolished areas, even as in the past they chose archaeological. sites as the happiest of all their hunting-grounds? How comes it that the seeds of wild-flowers which have never known the London streets should now germinate and prosper among the charred ruins of our churches and halls? Or that seeds which have remained dormant all these years should suddenly have been awakened by the scream of bombs to a fertility which they never previously displayed? Our botanists have noticed this phenomenon; I trust that they will publish the results of their research.
* * * *
It was always known that the seeds of certain weeds, such as the large plaintain, can remain dormant for forty years. The under- soil thrown up by bombing has obviously released seeds that have • been buried almost for a century. It is a disturbing thought. Dr. Salisbury has calculated that an ordinary plant of shepherd's purse can spread over a flower-bed as many as five thousand seeds, all capable of germination. An ordinary field poppy can produce sixty thousand seeds on a single plant. •A foxglove, it is estimated, yields nearly a million seeds. The groimdsel, most precocious of all weeds, can produce a family six weeks after its cwn birth. Other weeds, such as the yellow toadflax, can send up as many as two hundred shoots from their own roots. The ground elder spreads secretly at a terrific pace and so does the rosebay willowherb. These two enemies, once firmly established, are practically irradicable. I derive some comfort from these horrible thoughts. I realise that, in view of the fierce profligacy of nature, it is a triumph for the gardener if any flowers grow at all
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