A Rolling Stone by B. M. Croker

It was an undeniable fact that the chauffeur spent much more time in the Manor grounds than driving the car. The car was rarely used, and anything was better than loafing about the yard or the village with his hands in his pockets -- one of the unemployed. Wynyard liked the fresh smell of the earth, and growing things, the songs of birds -- especially of the blackbird, with his leisurely fluting note.

The garden, which lay to the left of the house, overlooked meadows, and was evidently as ancient as the Manor itself. It was also one after the heart of Bacon, "Spacious and fair, encompassed with a stately hedge. " The farmer, who had neglected the roof and upper floors of the dwelling, had suffered these same yew hedges to grow as they pleased; and they now required a great deal of labour in trimming them to moderate proportions. The soil was rich -- anything and everything seemed to flourish in the garden, which was intersected by broad gravelled walks that crossed one another at regular intervals; these were lined by a variety of old-fashioned plants -- myrtle, lavender, and sweetbrier, grown to gigantic dimensions; here were also Madonna Lilies, London Pride, Hollyhocks, Sweet-William, and bushes of out-of-date roses, such as the "York and Lancaster," and other Georgian survivals. Precisely in the middle of the garden, where four walks met, was a hoary sundial, which bore the inscription, "TIME TRIES ALL. " A path, leading direct from the sundial to an ancient bowling-green, was enclosed with rustic arches, and in the summer time the Manor pergola was a veritable tunnel of roses, and one of the sights of the neighbourhood.