![]() ![]() Narcisse's farm is very neat, with everything set out in its place. ![]() And in the very heart of the wood, there was a clearing, with a circle of stones, and an old well in the middle, next to a big dead oak tree, and everything- fallen branches, standing stones, even the well, with its rusty pump- draped and festooned and piled knee-high with ruffles and flounces of strawberries, with blackbirds picking over the fruit, and the scent like all of summer. Ferns, and violets, and gorse, paths all lined with soft green moss. Let them stay, and in a month, your beds will be nothing but strawberries.” Those strawberries will creep, Reynaud, said Narcisse's voice in my mind. That is, if the birds do not steal them first. And besides, in summer, there may be enough of the tiny red berries to put on a tart, or flavor a glassful of sweet white wine. Though more or less worthless in terms of fruit, the little white flowers and pretty leaves make excellent ground count cover, keeping the thistles and ragwort at bay without suppressing my daffodils. Wild strawberries are invasive not quite as invasive as dandelions, but those little heart-shaped leaves conceal a powerful hunger for conquest, sending their runners everywhere, each one an outpost preparing itself for a future invasion.Īnd yet I cannot bring myself, père, to curb their cheery exuberance. Wild ones, seeded from God knows where, poking their pale little fingers among the tulips and crocuses. “There are strawberries growing among my bulbs. ![]()
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