Above from left to right: St. John’s wort (Hypericum perforatum), chief among the magical herbs of midsummer; yarrow (Achillea millefolium), used apotropaically and in love divination; houseleek (Sempervivum tectorum) kept lightning from the roof.

Then doth the iouyful feast of John the Baptist take his turne,
When bonfires great with loftie flame, in every towne doe burne:
And yong men round about with maides, doe daunce in every streete,
With garlandes wrought of Motherwort, or else with Vervaine sweete
And many other flowres faire, with Violets in their hands,
Whereas they all doe fondly thinke, that whosoever standes,
And thorow the flowres beholds the flame, his eyes shall feel no paine.

—The Popish Kingdom or Reigne of Antichrist written in Latin Verse by Thos. Naogeorgus and Englyshed by Barnaby Googe, 1570

Naogeorgus (Thomas Kirchmeyer), a Protestant pastor and polemicist, goes on to describe fully the paganistic rites proper to midsummer’s eve in sixteenth-century Catholic Germany: leaping through bonfires, casting herbs and flowers into the flames, solemnly invoking that all ills be consumed in the conflagration until the circle of the year comes round again, and rolling flaming wheels down mountainsides in imitation of the sun, in the hope that all mischief, harm, and danger is likewise thrown down to hell.

These midsummer revelries and bonfires were common throughout Europe. The term “midsomer” is first found in the Old English translation of the Venerable Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum completed in 731 A.D. Bede speaks of the quarter in which the sun rises at the solstitialem, the solstice, which the Saxon translator renders as “middum sumere.” The term was applied to the great Christian celebration of the birth of John the Baptist, six months before the Midwinter’s Mass celebrating the birth of Christ. (The tradition that the Evangelist proceeded the Christ by six months is derived from the gospel of Luke, the only account of John’s infancy; when Mary the mother of Jesus came to tell Elizabeth the mother of John that she was with child, the infant Baptist leapt in his mother’s womb.)

Several primary sources for the celebration of midsummer in England are quoted in The Oxford Companion to the Calendar Year (Blackburn & Holford-Stevens, 1999). In thirteenth-century Gloucestershire, the monk of Winchcomb cites three rites associated with Saint John’s Eve: the collection of bones and refuse by boys to make bonfires, the carrying of burning brands through the fields, and the rolling of a flaming wheel downhill. The monk says that these practices are had from the pagans, and that the wheel is turned to signify that the sun ascends to the highest point of its circle at the solstice and then returns. By the sixteenth century, the rowdiness of the medieval midsummer revelry led to the establishment of officially sanctioned pageants and processions through the main thoroughfares of the capital city and its suburbs.  Some two thousand military men played a part, as recorded by the Elizabethan antiquarian John Stow in his Survey of London, published in 1598.

Stow also notes that every man’s door was decked with birch, fennel, St. John’s wort, orpine (Sedum telephium) and other midsummer herbs and flowers on Saint John’s Eve, and on the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul celebrated on the following day.

In The Englishman’s Flora (1951), Geoffrey Grigson compiled a list of the herbs of Saint Jean used in midsummer rites in France, based on the research of the noted anthropologist and folklorist, Arnold van Gennep. These include mugwort (Artemisia vulgaris), St. John’s wort (Hypericum perforatum), corn marigold (Chrysanthemum segetum), yarrow (Achillea millefolium), vervain (Verbena officinalis) and houseleek (Sempervivum tectorum). The herbs and flowers were gathered when the morning dew was still on them, as this increased their magical power. They were then passed through the smoke of the midsummer bonfire, which made them more powerful still. Thus fortified, they were used as agents of blessing and protection, and hung above the doors of households and cattle byres. Like bad weather, diseases of cattle were attributed to the activities of witches and malign beings.

All but the corn marigold grow in Bonnefont Garden, and that has a home in Trie Cloister. I intend to make some garlands. Is anyone celebrating?

—Deirdre Larkin

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Above, from left to right: lady’s mantle (Alchemilla mollis) in Cuxa Cloister; downy thornapple (Datura metel) in Bonnefont Garden; fiddleheads of the royal fern (Osmunda regalis) in Trie Cloister. All photographs by the author, Barbara Bell.

There is a garden tool that may not be in your shed, but it’s one that I use frequently: a camera. It’s handy to take photos of plant labels when I visit botanical gardens, and it helps me keep a visual record of the plants and planting combinations that pique my interest.

People often ask me how they can take better pictures of plants and gardens. There are many factors to consider, but the one that likely will provide the biggest impact is lighting. I’ve heard that some plant photographers will not venture out unless the skies are overcast; like portrait photography, most plant subjects look best under diffused, soft light. There are no harsh shadows or high-contrast conditions when shooting under a cloudy sky. It also seems quite natural to see a plant dappled with raindrops in these lighting conditions. Sometimes, when nature has not obliged, I use a spray bottle to provide droplets. Colors seem more vibrant and saturated on a cloudy day, as you can see in the photo of Alchemilla mollis, above.

There are always exceptions to the rule, and the world would be very dull if every picture looked as if it had been shot under a soft box in a studio. There are plants that, like certain movie stars of the 1940s, show their best features under a strong key light, sharp focus, and crisp shadows. Atmosphere is what we are creating here. Perennial grasses, large-veined foliage, fuzzy and spiky edges are all more dramatic when photographed with the sun behind them.

Usually, it is best to shoot a back-lighted subject in the early morning or late afternoon, when the sun is close to the horizon. If you find it necessary to bounce a little light back onto the front of your subject, either use a fill flash or a reflective card just out of the camera’s range but tilted toward your subject. In the photo of the Datura above, a slash of sunlight emphasizes the plant’s menacing nature.

Another way to create a stunning photo is to use depth of field to your advantage. A camera that has adjustable f-stops or film speed will permit you to photograph the subject in close range with the background out of focus. This creates a sense of depth, and in the case of the image of the fiddleheads above, it reveals a sense of place, which is Trie Garden at The Cloisters. If your camera only allows you to select shutter speeds, pick the fastest one to shorten the depth of field so your background will be in softer focus.

Finally, get down on the plant’s level. How often have I seen people taking pictures of children and plants from many feet above? Plants will not crane their necks to look up at you, so don’t be afraid to lie down on the path or the lawn. Sometimes you can even get away with just kneeling.

—Barbara Bell

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Above, from left to right: Calendar page for June from The Belles Heures of Jean de France, Duc de Berry, 1405–1408/1409. Pol, Jean, and Herman de Limbourg (Franco-Netherlandish, active in France, by 1399–1416). French; Made in Paris. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, The Cloisters Collection, 1954 (54.1.1); detail of the activity for the month; detail of the zodiacal symbol Cancer. See the Collection Database to learn more about this work of art.

‘Tis all enforced, the fountain and the grot,
While the sweet fields do lie forgot . . .

—Andrew Marvell, “The Mower, Against Gardens”

The scythe supplanted the sickle, an ancient hand tool that continued to be used to harvest grain throughout the Middle Ages, in the course of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Originally used for cutting hay, the scythe came to be used for grain in the sixteenth century. The form of the medieval scythe varied from place to place, and many variations on the basic form can be seen in Books of Hours produced in different periods and locales. (See www.hayinart.com for some examples.) The snath, or handle, of the scythe shown in the Belles Heures is curved, but straight-handled scythes are not uncommon.

The reaper armed with a scythe moves forward, swinging the tool from right to left in an almost semicircular movement. At the end of the swing, the center moves from the left heel, and the scythe is drawn closer to the  wielder. The blade of the scythe is kept parallel to the ground, and the mower leans forward toward the end of the stroke in order to compensate for a tendency to lift the blade. As each strip is cut by a stroke, the mown grass forms a “swath” or “swathe” at the left-hand side of the mower (Dorothy Hartley, Lost Country Life, 1979).

The importance of hay as fuel in an economy based on animal husbandry and the labor of horses and oxen can’t be overestimated. There has been a revival of interest in the use of the scythe as a green technique. In 2001 a second edition of David Tresemer’s The Scythe Book: Mowing Hay, Cutting Weeds, and Harvesting Small Grains with Hand Tools, a comprehensive treatment of the history and technique of scything first published in 1991, was issued. The work has inspired many, and the politics, poetics, and practice of this medieval technique occupy a significant niche in cyberspace. There are websites devoted to the art and science of scything, as well as the sale of scythes, sharpeners, and accessories, and a goodly number of videos demonstrating the proper use of the tool can be found on YouTube.

I took a scything course a few years ago, but haven’t kept my hand in. Do any of you scythe?

—Deirdre Larkin

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Above, from left: dragon arum (Dracunculus vulgaris) growing in Bonnefont garden; detail of the spathe and spadix common to arums; detail of the reptilian markings on the stems.

Arums and other members of the botanical family Araceae are fly pollinated, and their flowers imitate both the color and the smell of rotting meat in order to attract pollinators. The little cuckoo-pint featured in last week’s post is by no means the most fetid member of the family. Cuckoo-pint’s enormous tropical cousin, Amorphophallus titanum, notorious for its overpowering stench, is native to Sumatra.  The titan arum is also cultivated in conservatories and gains worldwide attention when it blooms in botanical gardens like Kew.

Dragon arum (Dracunculus vulgaris) is an imposing, large-flowered medieval species that blooms in Bonnefont Garden at the end of May or the beginning of June, a week or so later than Arum italicum and several weeks after Arum maculatum. (See “Adam and Eve and Arum,” May 22, 2009). A native of the Mediterranean, it is neither as big nor as smelly as some of the tropical arums, but it is a very striking plant and is often grown as a horticultural curiosity. Although the flower of Dracunculus vulgaris lasts five or six days, it only stinks strongly for a single day, after opening fully. (In botanical nomenclature, the epithet ‘vulgaris’ simply means common or ordinary, but this plant is vulgar in more ways than one.)

Like other arums in the medieval pharmacopoeia, dracontea—or serpentaria, as it was also known—was credited with the power to dissolve obstructions and cleanse the skin. Like A. maculatum, it was both an aphrodisiac and an abortifacient. The same fifteenth-century source that lists the plant’s medicinal applications, the Herbarius Latinus, notes that the dragon arum can be buried and used to generate green and red snakes. A powder made from these can then be burned, causing many serpents to appear (Anderson, German Herbals through 1500, 1984). The practical value of this attribute isn’t made clear, although it might well be useful in frightening enemies or impressing an audience.

Magical properties were ascribed to the dragon arum long before the Middle Ages; the first-century herbalist Dioscorides records the belief that carrying the roots of the plant or rubbing its leaves on the hands affords protection against the bite of vipers. The supernatural character assigned to the plant can be readily understood on encountering it in the flesh, in the garden or in the wild.

Even a scientifically educated modern beholder is struck by the strange form and ominous aura of the dragon arum, and could almost be persuaded of its powers. Those who have only seen Dracunculus in a medieval herbal (it is a frequently depicted plant) or a photographic field guide can’t feel the full force of its association with snakes, sexuality, and death. Only when confronted with the bizarre reptilian markings on the sheaths of its five-foot stems, the large leaves shaped like bat wings, and the fearsome stench emitted by the enormous flower—with its blackish-red spathe and phallic spadix—can we truly comprehend the medieval point of view.

—Deirdre Larkin

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Above, from left: Cuckoo-pint (Arum maculatum) growing in Bonnefont Garden; Detail from The Unicorn in Captivity that shows cuckoo-pint growing within the enclosure; Italian arum, (Arum italicum) growing in Bonnefont Garden.

Of all the spring-blooming “cuckoo plants” (see “Sumer is Icumen In,” April 3, 2009) associated not only with the bird but with magic, sexuality, snakes, and death, the cuckoo-pint or wake-robin is the most famous.

The form of the flower is peculiar to the botanical family known as the Araceae, which includes tropical species from Africa as well as European woodland flowers and the American natives Jack-in-the-pulpit and skunk cabbage. The flower consists of a hood, or spathe, and a rod, or spadix. (Note the purplish, fleshy color of the spadix above). The form of the cuckoo-pint suggested copulation to the medieval mind, and the plant was known by a number of names that expressed either its venereal character (”Adam and Eve,” “lords and ladies,” “cuckoo-pintle,” and “wake-robin”) or its sinister aspect (”adder’s food” or “snake’s meat”).

The mark of the cuckoo-pint’s bad character was a blackish-purple spotting on the leaves, which appears to be a defect, but which is natural to the plant. This spot is the macula of the specific name maculatum, which is Latin for “stained.” The stock we now grow in the garden lacks this spotting; I am reasonably sure that it is indeed Arum maculatum, but it may be a garden form from which the spots have been bred out. (Since the spots appear to be necrotic and give the impression that the plant is diseased, they would be considered undesirable in an ornamental plant.) However, the characteristic spotting can be seen on the leaves of the single cuckoo-pint that peeps through the rails of the captive Unicorn’s enclosure (see detail image above). We are searching for the true species, spots and all, and should be able to obtain seed from a European botanical garden.

The tuberous roots of the cuckoo-pint are starchy. The tubers were used in a nutritious preparation similar to arrowroot that was consumed in the Middle Ages and long after. They were not only a food but also an aphrodisiac, cf. John Lyly’s  amorous foresters, who “have eaten so much wake-robin that they cannot sleep for love” (The Complete Works of John Lyly, Richard Warwick Bond, Published by The Clarendon Press, 1902).

The tubers had to be dried and heated before consumption because they contain an acrid substance that causes a burning, prickling sensation in the mouth when eaten fresh, as do the red berries that ripen in autumn. Sixteenth-century laundresses used the starch to stiffen ruffs, and the great English herbalist John Gerard remarked that the women’s hands were chapped, blistered, and smarting from handling it.

More on arums, and their noisome odor, to come . . .

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Above: Lily of the valley (Convallaria majalis)

White coral bells upon a slender stalk
Lilies-of-the-valley deck my garden walk. . . .

—Traditional English Round

In spite of its medieval association with the exotic Queen of Sheba (see last week’s post), this modest, northern European woodland flower is actually as easy to grow as it is familiar.

Lily of the valley (Convallaria majalis) does best in full or partial shade, although it prefers deeper shade. While it tolerates a wide range of soil conditions, a moist soil emended with organic matter is best. Established colonies don’t need to be divided to continue to flower well, and many old plantings persist for many years. The shoots that appear on the creeping rhizomes, known as pips, can be divided and planted in the fall or spring. Because of its spreading habit, lily of the valley is not a good candidate for borders, but is best used as a ground cover under trees, where its propensity to spread is a virtue rather than a vice.

Although the pure white bells and clean green leaves, in combination with its enchanting fragrance, are what most endear lily of the valley to its many admirers, there are a surprising number of variations on the theme. Some of these are more often read of in gardening literature than seen in nurseries, although specialist growers can and do supply them.

There is a double-flowered variety called ‘Flore-Pleno,’ a larger-than-life variety called ‘Fortin’s Giant,’ and a pink-flowered variety known as C. maialis ‘Rosea.’ The most intriguing forms are the ones with variegated foliage: ‘Hardwick Hall’ has gold margins on the leaves; ‘Aureovariegata,’ (also known in the trade as ‘Striata,’ ‘Lineata,’ and ‘Variegata’) has leaves striped with gold. I’ve seen photographs of ‘Albostriata,’ which has very dark green leaves with slender whitish-green stripes. It looks like a very handsome plant (it somehow seems less feminine than the species), but I’ve never seen it in the flesh. Does anyone know or grow it?

—Deirdre Larkin

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Above, from left to right: Detail of a potted lily of the valley forced for early display in Cuxa cloister; Detail of the tapestry The Queen of Sheba before King Solomon from Two Riddles of the Queen of Sheba; Lily of the valley fruiting in Bonnefont Garden in late summer.

I am the flower of the field,
And the lily of the valleys.
As the lily among thorns, so is
My love among the daughters.

—Canticle of Canticles (Song of Songs) 2:1-2

The lily and the rose are the chief adornments of the allegorical hortus conclusus, the enclosed garden of the Virgin rooted in the language of the Song of Songs in the Old Testament. In medieval art, the white lily emblematic of the Virgin’s purity is the flower we now call the Madonna lily (Lilium candidum). However, particularly in medieval Germany, the northern European flower Convallaria majalis, which we know as lily of the valley, was used in its stead. Unlike other May-blooming plants of the Middle Ages, many of which were associated with sexuality and death and were sinister in their associations, lily of the valley was associated with virginity, and is still used as a bridal flower.

The phrase “the lily of the valleys” is taken from the Songs of Songs, quoted above. This Biblical poem was interpreted as a love song between King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, as well as an allegory of the marriage of Israel and Yahweh; the allegory was adapted early in the history of Christianity and used to express the relationship between the Church as bride and Christ as bridegroom. The flower symbols of the canticle were extended by Saint Jerome to refer to the Virgin, and there are many medieval poems, sermons, and artworks that employ them. This use of lily of the valley as a Marian flower is not restricted to northern art, and Mirella D’Ancona-Levi cites a number of Italian Renaissance paintings of the Virgin in which Convallaria is depicted (The Garden of the Renaissance: Botanical Symbolism in Italian Painting, 1977).

The species name majalis refers to the month of May. Lily of the valley is also known as May Lily, Our Lady’s Tears, and other names in English, including the delightful lirioconfancy, a corruption current in the sixteenth century. It is called muguet, lis des vallees, larmes de Ste-Mare in French; Maiblume, Mai-lili, and Lilienkonvallen in German, and mughetto, Giglio de Maggio, and Lacrime della Madonna in Italian (Bedevian, The Illustrated Polyglottic Dictionary of Plant Names, 1936.)

The English botanist William Turner, writing in the mid-sixteenth century, did not believe Convallaria majalis to grow wild in Britain, but he noted that it was a very common wildflower in Germany, and that it was called Lilium convallarium by the apothecaries of that country (Grigson, The Englishman’s Flora, 1955).

Renaissance herbals recommended it to strengthen the memory as well as the heart. A distillation of lily of the valley was called Aqua Aurea, golden water, worthy of being stored in golden vessels. According to the fifteenth-century Der Gart, lily of the valley distilled five times in an alembic and mixed with lavender and peppercorns stayed the plague. According to the Hortus Sanitatis, it eased headache and helped the heart (Anderson, German Herbals through 1500, 1984).

Lily of the valley was still listed in British pharmacopoeia in 1949 as a cardiac tonic similar in action to foxglove, although less dangerous. Maude Grieve records that it was used to treat the disturbed action of the heart induced by exposure to poison gas in soldiers in World War I. It is, however, a toxic plant containing poisonous glycosides and should not be ingested or used as an herbal remedy.

More to come on growing lily of the valley…

—Deirdre Larkin

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Above, from left to right: Calendar page for May, from The Belles Heures of Jean de France, Duc de Berry, 1405–1408/1409. Pol, Jean, and Herman de Limbourg (Franco-Netherlandish, active in France, by 1399–1416). French; Made in Paris. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, The Cloisters Collection, 1954 (54.1.1); detail of the activity for the month; detail of the zodiacal symbol Gemini. See the Collection Database to learn more about this work of art.

Riding or walking, in companies of green-clad couples like the courtiers of King Arthur or the Duke de Berry, or by twos, or all alone, like the Dreamer of the Roman de la Rose or the falconer of the Belles Heures, there are many variations on the medieval set piece of the May morning’s outing to the greenwood.

The aim of the outing is the bringing in of the May: the gathering of young green and growing things to adorn the person and to bless the season of renewed life and love. The custom, which appears both in courtly and folk contexts throughout medieval Europe, ultimately derives from pre-Christian traditions.

The name “May” is derived from Maia, a Roman goddess of growth (cf. maior, “bigger,” from magnus, “great, large”). Associated with fertility and vegetation, this Maia is not the same goddess as the mother of Hermes, although she has the same name. A pregnant sow was sacrificed to Maia on the first of May. Some Roman writers equated Maia with the Earth, and with the Bona Dea, or Good Goddess. The dedication feast of the Bona Dea’s temple on the Aventine was celebrated on the same day as the sacrifice to Maia (Blackburn & Holford-Strevens, The Oxford Companion to the Year, 1999).

The month has given its name to many cuckoo plants and flowers (see “Summer Is Icumen In”) associated with sexuality and fertility—chief among them is the hawthorn (Crataegus monogyna), which is itself called “May.”

More on May plants to come.

—Deirdre Larkin

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Left: A bird’s-eye view of Cuxa Cloister. Each quadrant of the garden contains a grass plot bordered with herbs and flowers. Right: Clover is planted in the lawn to provide several horticultural and ecological benefits.

In the spring of 2008, we began renovating the lawns in Cuxa Cloister by thoroughly removing the old grass with a thatch rake. We then added three inches of a mixture of topsoil and compost and raked them evenly. This was followed with a seeding of grass mixed with white clover (Trifolium repens). A thin layer of salt hay was then laid down to help retain water and protect the seed from birds. During this early stage, it is of the utmost importance to keep the soil evenly moist at all times. (Salt hay is preferable to hay as a mulch because it is free of weeds.) Once a lawn is established, however, it is best to water it as infrequently as possible. Most turf professionals recommend infrequent but deep irrigation to ensure the roots are thoroughly watered. There are many ways to conserve water in the maintenance of lawns. The most effective way is to choose the proper grass for your environment.

In Cuxa Cloister we use a sun-shade mix that consists largely of perennial rye and red fescues. These grasses are often found in the cool season mixes that are recommended for New York state climates. Fescues show good drought tolerance. On the contrary, Kentucky Blue grass requires increased irrigation and general maintenance and should be avoided. Although it is often favored for its fine texture, it is susceptible to numerous insects and disease.

The white clover (Trifolium repens) in the lawn of Cuxa Cloister was seeded at the same time as our grass in order to provide a neat, even appearance. When seeded separately, clover may look messy and weedy. In addition to their pleasing appearance, clover lawns provide numerous ecological benefits. Most important, clovers and other legumes have the ability to fix nitrogen from the atmosphere. Nitrogen in the atmosphere is of no use to plants, but clover—with the aid of bacteria called rhizobia—can transform atmospheric nitrogen into a form that is readily available to plants. This is extremely important, especially in the case of lawns, on which an incredible amount of synthetic fertilizers in the United States is used. Not only does clover help reduce the use of fertilizer, its ability to fix nitrogen also leads to a reduction in the use of pesticides and herbicides as well; pesticides because of the encouragement of beneficial insects, and herbicides because of the reduction of weeds due to competition from the clover. Clover also  greatly improves the soil structure by reducing compaction.

—Kevin Wiecks

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Above, from left to right: English daisies introduced into the garth garden in Cuxa Cloister some years ago; a realistic representation of the garth of a Carthusian monastery by Gerard David; the English daisy, Bellis perennis.

The sight is in no way so pleasantly refreshed as by fine and close grass kept short. It is impossible to produce this except with rich and firm soil; so it behoves the man who would prepare the site . . . first to clear it well from the roots of weeds, which can scarcely be done unless the roots are first dug out and the site levelled, and the whole well-flooded with boiling water, so that the fragments of roots and seeds remaining . . . may not by any means sprout forth. Then the whole plot is to be covered with rich turf of flourishing grass, the turves beaten down with broad wooden mallets and the plants of grass trodden into the ground . . . . For then little by little they may spring forth closely and cover the surface like a green cloth.

—Albertus Magnus, De Vegetalibus, translated by John Harvey in Medieval Gardens, 1981.

This famous passage, which was to be repeated verbatim in the following century by Pietro Crescenzi, is an eloquent testimony to the importance of turf in the medieval garden. A grassy enclosure or lawn was a feature of both monastic and secular gardens. In the article “The Medieval Monastic Garden” (Medieval Gardens, ed. Elisabeth MacDougall, 1986), Paul Meyvaert cites the twelfth-century cleric Hugh of Fouilloy, who considered that the green lawn of the cloister not only refreshes the eyes, but also brings the eternal paradise before the minds of beholders.

John Harvey considers a drawing of a game of bowls, dating to the reign of Edward I, to be the earliest representation of a large and truly leveled lawn, comparable to the lawn at the Palace of Westminster laid down in approximately 1239. The site was leveled with a roller, and turf was later laid down and mowed. Sylvia Landsberg notes that turves could be purchased by the thousands, and that in July of 1272, Eleanor of Castile paid one of her squires to perform nightly watering of two cartloads of turves, newly laid in a pleasure garden in June (Medieval Gardens, 2003).

While a pure and velvety sward might have been the ideal in some situations, medieval lawns may more often have been of the flowering type—a type that was certainly deliberately created in some if not all contexts. The flowering mead or meadow was an important element of the pleasure park. The locus amoenus, or “pleasant place,” of antiquity and the Middle Ages, in which many poems and romances were set, included both flowering meadows and groves, and both are included in medieval representations of Paradise.

Even when and where great pains were taken to exclude them, dandelions, plaintains, and daisies would have sprung up, as they do now. Whatever the gardener may have felt about them, they are lovingly and minutely depicted in many paintings and tapestries.

—Deirdre Larkin

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