In the midst of one of the lawns grew a grand old yew tree, the lower
branches of which were easy to climb. It was a favourite haunt of the
younger girls, each having her special seat, and here they might often
be seen perched like birds, and certainly chattering enough to suggest a
flock of magpies. A stalwart oak close by supported a swing that was far
more romantic than the swing in the playground at Winterburn Lodge,
because a strong push would send the happy occupant high up among the
green leaves, and give her a flying peep into a missel-thrush's nest on
the topmost bough, where four gaping yellow mouths were clamouring for
food. In a corner, down a flight of steps, there was a pond where grew
marsh marigolds, and irises, and forget-me-nots, and other water-loving
plants. A pair of ducks lived here in a wooden hutch, and would come
waddling up to be fed with bread, which the girls saved from breakfast
for them. Great was the delight of the whole school when one morning a
brood of seven small ducklings appeared on the water, each as yellow as
a canary, and seemingly quite at home already in its native element.
Then there was the rose garden, where every variety of the queen of
flowers seemed to flourish, from the delicate Marechal Niel to the
sweet, oldfashioned, striped York and Lancaster. Archways and pillars
were covered with climbers and ramblers, a little untrained, but hanging
down in such glorious profusion that one almost approved of the neglect.
Round this garden was a high hedge of clipped holly, so that it was
sheltered from every wind, and the roses bloomed as if in a greenhouse.
Nor must we forget the peacocks, which were as much a feature of the old
house as the twisted chimneys, or the stone balls on the porch. There
were six of them, and the gorgeous sheen of their feathers as they
spread their tails in the sunshine was a sight worth remembering. In
fact, as Miss Russell often remarked, they gave a finishing touch to the
whole scene, and made the Manor look more than ever like a medieval
picture.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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