Evening at Home 62
Geo._ Cattle, too, are sometimes fed with cabbage, I believe.
_Tut._ Yes, and large fields of them are cultivated for that purpose.
They succeed best in stiff clayey soils, where they sometimes grow to an
enormous bigness. They are given to milch kine as well as to fattening
cattle.
_Geo._ Do not they give a bad taste to the milk?
_Tut._ They are apt to do so unless great care is taken to pick off all
the decayed leaves.
Coleworts, which are a smaller sort of cabbage, are sometimes grown for
feeding sheep and cattle. I think I have now mentioned most of the
useful plants of this family, which you see are numerous and important.
They both yield beef and mutton, and the sauce to them. But many of the
species are troublesome weeds. You see how yonder corn is overrun with
yellow flowers.
_Geo._ Yes: they are as thick as if they had been sown.
_Tut._ They are of this family, and called charlock, or wild mustard, or
corn kale, which, indeed, are not all exactly the same things, though
nearly resembling. These produce such plenty of seeds, that it is very
difficult to clear a field of them, if once they are suffered to grow
till the seeds ripen. An extremely common weed in gardens and by
roadsides is shepherd’s-purse, which is a very good specimen of the
pouch-bearing plants of this tribe, its seed-vessels being exactly the
figure of a heart. Lady-smock is often so abundant a weed in wet meadows
as to make them all over white with their flowers. Some call this plant
cuckoo-flower, because its flowering is about the same time with the
first appearance of that bird in spring.
_Geo._ I remember some pretty lines in a song about spring, in which
lady-smock is mentioned:—
“When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue,
Do paint the meadows with delight.”
_Tut._ They are Shakspeare’s. You see he gives the name of cuckoo-bud to
some other flower, a yellow one, which appears at the same season. But
still earlier than this time, walls and hedge-banks are enlivened by a
very small white flower, called whitlow-grass, which is one of the
tribe.
_Har._ Is it easy to distinguish the plants of this family from one
another?
_Tut._ Not very easy; for the general similarity of the flowers is so
great, that little distinction can be drawn from them. The marks of the
species are chiefly taken from the form and manner of growth of the
seed-vessel, and we will examine some of them by the descriptions in a
book of botany. There is one very remarkable seed-vessel, which probably
you have observed in the garden. It is a perfectly round large flat
pouch, which after it has shed its seed, remains on the stalk and looks
likes a thin white bladder. The plant bearing it is commonly called
honesty.
_Har._ O, I know it very well! It is put into winter flower-pots.
_Tut._ True. So much, then, for the tetradynamous or cruciform-flowered
plants. You cannot well mistake them for any other class, if you remark
the six chives, four of them, generally, but not always, longer than the
two others; the single pistil changing either into a long pod or a round
pouch containing the seeds; the four opposite petals of the flower, and
four leaves of the calyx. You may safely make a salad of the young
leaves wherever you find them: the worst they can do to you is to bite
your tongue.
THE NATIVE VILLAGE.—A DRAMA.
Scene—_A scattered Village almost hidden with trees_.
_Enter_ HARFORD _and_ BEAUMONT.
_Harford._ There is the place! This is the green on which I played many
a day with my companions; there are the tall trees that I have so often
climbed for birds’-nests; and that is the pond where I used to sail my
walnut-shell boats. What a crowd of mixed sensations rush on my mind!
What pleasures, and what regret! Yes, there is somewhat in our native
soil that affects the mind in a manner different from every other scene
in nature.
_Beaumont._ With you it must be merely the _place_; for I think you can
have no attachments of friendship or affection in it, considering your
long absence, and the removal of all your family.
_Harf._ No, I have no family connexions, and indeed can scarcely be said
ever to have had any; for, as you know, I was almost utterly neglected
after the death of my father and mother, and while all my elder brothers
and sisters were dispersed to one part or another, and the little
remaining property was disposed of, I was left with the poor people who
nursed me, to be brought up just as they thought proper; and the little
pension that was paid for me entirely ceased after a few years.
_Beau._ Then how were you afterward supported?
_Harf._ The honest couple who had the care of me continued to treat me
with the greatest kindness; and poor as they were, not only maintained
me as a child of their own, but did all in their power to procure me
advantages more suited to my birth than my deserted situation. With the
assistance of the worthy clergyman of the parish, they put me to a
day-school in the village, clothed me decently, and being themselves
sober, religious persons, took care to keep me from vice. The
obligations I am under to them, will, I hope, never be effaced from my
memory, and it is on their account alone that I have undertaken this
journey.
_Beau._ How long did you continue with them?
_Harf._ Till I was thirteen. I then felt an irresistible desire to fight
for my country; and learning by accident that a distant relation of our
family was a captain of a man-of-war, I took leave of my worthy
benefactors, and set off to the seaport where he lay, the good people
furnishing me in the best manner they were able with necessaries for the
journey. I shall never forget the tenderness with which they parted with
me. It was, if possible, beyond that of the kindest parents. You know my
subsequent adventures, from the time of my becoming a midshipman, to my
present state of first-lieutenant of the Britannia. Though it is now
fifteen years since my departure, I feel my affection for these good
folks stronger than ever, and could not be easy without taking the first
opportunity of seeing them.
_Beau._ It is a great chance if they are both living.
_Harf._ I happened to hear by a young man of the village, not long
since, that they were; but I believe much reduced in their
circumstances.
_Beau._ Whereabouts did they live?
_Harf._ Just at the turning of this corner. But what’s this?—I can’t
find the house—yet I am sure I have not forgot the situation. Surely it
must be pulled down! Oh! my dear old friends, what can have become of
you?
_Beau._ You had best ask that little girl.
_Harf._ Hark ye, my dear! do you know one John Beech, of this place?
_Girl._ What, old John Beech? O yes, very well, and Mary Beech, too.
_Harf._ Where do they live?
_Girl._ A little farther on in the lane.
_Harf._ Did they not once live hereabouts?
_Girl._ Yes, till Farmer Tything pulled the house down to make his
hop-garden.
_Harf._ Come with me to show me the place, and I’ll give you a penny.
_Girl._ Yes, that I will. (_They walk on._) There—that low thatched
house—and there’s Mary spinning at the door.
_Harf._ There, my dear (_gives money, and the girl goes away_). How my
heart beats! Surely that cannot be my nurse! Yes, I recollect her now;
but how very old and sickly she looks!
_Beau._ Fifteen years in her life, with care and hardship, must go a
great way in breaking her down.
_Harf._ (_going to the cottage-door_). Good morning, good woman; can you
give my companion and me something to drink? We are very thirsty with
walking this hot day.
_Mary Beech._ I have nothing better than water, sir; but if you please
to accept of that, I will bring you some.
_Beau._ Thank you—we will trouble you for some.
_Mary._ Will you please to walk in out of the sun, gentlemen; ours is a
very poor house, indeed; but I will find you a seat to sit down on,
while I draw the water.
_Harf._ (_to Beau._). The same good creature as ever! Let us go in.
Scene II.—_The inside of the cottage. An old man sitting by the hearth._
_Beau._ We have made bold, friend, to trouble your wife for a little
water.
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