On
the gray walls, vines, grass, and the humble class of flowers which go
by the ignoble name of weeds straggle and cluster; and over them, held
down by the green cord of the stalk, balance the bursted balloons of
hundreds of flaming scarlet poppies that seem to have fed on fire. The
undulating swell of the Campagna is here ablaze with them for acres,
and there deepening with growing grain, or snowed over with myriads of
daisies. Music and song, too, are not wanting; hundreds of birds are in
the hedges. The lark, "from his moist cabinet rising," rains down his
trills of incessant song from invisible heights of blue sky; and
whenever one passes the wayside groves, a nightingale is sure to bubble
into song. The oranges, too, are in blossom, perfuming the air;
locust-trees are tasselled with odorous flowers; and over the walls of
the Campagna villa bursts a cascade of vines covered with foamy Banksia
roses.
The Carnival of the kitchen-gardens is now commencing. Peas are already
an old story, strawberries are abundant, and cherries are beginning to
make their appearance, in these first days of May; old women sell them
at every corner, tied together in tempting bunches, as in "the
cherry-orchard" which Miss Edgeworth has made fairy-land in our
childish memories.
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