Garden Club – Christmas 1916


I. M. Holmes – D. Hinxman – M. Sun
K. Newsom – P.  Du Buisson – B. Medlicott
W. Poynton – B. Buxton

II. J. Chapman N. – N. Randall
P. Clarke – J. Hinxman – C. Harrison
B. Fagge – F. Fagge

III. W. Wort – E. Hudson – P. Word
C. Mackworth – P. Purmewan – M. Rose
H. Elworthy – H. Toms.

Mrs. Leys’ picture, which has formerly been held by the owners of the best cultivated garden, will now be presented every term to the House which gains the highest average of marks for its gardens. It was won last term by Fawcett House.


Twenty poems were sent in this year, and the Cup has been won by Mary Dalston. The three best poems are printed.


He-led me through the gate of age-old stone,
We stood in sunlight, but I felt the cool
Sweet shadow we had left. Then down the path
Whose red tiles lay so primly ‘twixt the beds
Of fragrant lavender. And still lie led.
The scent of roses (crimson ones) was there,
Although the bushes were a wide lawn’s space
Behind. At last he paused, I, too and stayed.
We laid us down upon the glad green turf,
Our thoughts went upward through the chinks of blue
Between the copper-beech leaves;  then I spoke:
“Who art thou?” and he said, “Ye know me not?”
“The scent of roses, and the gateway’s shade,
The greenness of the grass, and hum of bees,
The tint of flowers silvered by the dew,
The hush of dawn, and evening’s golden peace
The Spirit of this garden; this am I.
The little children know me.”
-Then I awoke.

ULYSSES (Mary Dalston).

(Lines supposed to be written by a prisoner of war in Germany.)

Midsummer’s Night! Oh would I were
Now at home, in the garden there,
For, down the gravelled walks I know
The Pinks and red Carnations grow,
And the Roses, the Roses are in bloom,
Their fragrance piercing through the gloom
Of a summer night. The Willows too,
Are bending low, as Willows do.
To kiss the silent stream below,
Whose sad mysterious waters flow
Silently thence. There ‘neath the gaze
Of the pure pale stars and the golden haze
Of a harvest moon-there, there would I lie
And scan the inscrutable sweep of sky.

Around me comrades sweat and snore
As we herd together on the floor
But I am longing to be there,
Out of this hot and noisome air,
To lie on the mossy river bank
And smell the dewy earth, and dank
Scents of the stream, and see
On the other side of the lawn from me
The lilies shimmering tall and white,
Like silver stars on a frosty night.
And hear the night wind sob in the trees
And sometimes shrilling down the breeze
The Piper’s sweet unearthly notes.
Would I might watch when softly floats
The morning o’er the rim of night,
And scan in the magic misty light
Each pansy’s bright uplifted face.
Then rise, and soft begin to pace
Familiar walks, beside the seas
Of glowing bloom and shrubs and trees.
Oh! on a night like this I’d squander
All that I have, once more to wander
At home, at home in the garden there
Where all is cool and fresh and fair,
In the silent splendid night that brings
So many mystic glorious things.
Around me comrades sweat and snore
Herded like cattle on the floor.

M. B. M.


‘Twas in the summer-time – the month of June
When filled was all my garden with delight
And ev’ry living thing raised some sweet tune
Of thankful happiness by day and night
That as I sat among my roses fair
Lulled by the drowsy humming of the bees,
It seemed as though a voice was speaking there
Amid the flow’rs; ’twas just as if the breeze
Had whispered; and the words I heard were these:-

Long, long ago, when Time was young,
Of purest white all roses were;
No prickles from their smooth stems sprung
They were the fairest of the fair.

But one, most fair of all her race,
Each day became more proud and vain
That she possessed such beauteous grace,
And sought o’er all the flow’rs to reign.

The Master the Flowers came,
And standing by the Rose’s side
He spake; for with much grief and shame
He saw, as all, her grievous pride.

“Why keepest thou not my Commands?
Why hastthou not Humility?
Thy beauty is not thine. My Hands
Yea mine, have made and fashioned thee.

“For this thy sin – wear evermore
Sharp thorns upon thy stems and leaves.
Like those that once for all I bore­
Repent – I pardon her that grieves.”

The Rose with shame bent low her head,
And o’er her face there came a flush;
Humbled – was she; remorse and dread
Both did her haughty spirit crush.

Long years have come and passed away,
But every rose her thorns still wears
In mem’ry of that far-off day
Of pride, of pardon, and of tears.

The soft voice ceased, and all was quiet and still,
Except a gentle rustling ‘mid the leaves;
The sun was sinking fast behind the hill,
And swallows flew to nests beneath the eaves.
The night fell fast, and darkness spread her veil
The fleeting hours of day grew less and less;
The whisp’ring roses knew who told that tale,
But I – I knew not – I could only guess.