#first daffodils

On Sundays, as many of Algy's friends may recall, Algy likes to relax with one of his books of poetry… if conditions permit.

And on this particular Sunday in late February, it looked as though conditions might permit for just a brief period in the morning, as the day was being washed clean in preparation for the coming spring by plenty of fast-moving showers, some of them surprisingly heavy.

But at times there was a lull, so when Algy felt reasonably confident that the rain would pause for a wee while, he picked up a book of verse and flew over to the garden's earliest patch of daffodils. Of course he knew that he could have found a drier perch elsewhere, but he particularly wanted to be beside those first golden trumpets, and decided to put up with the resulting dampness in his tail feathers.

Opening his book, with the garden birds twittering and singing in the bushes behind him, Algy happened upon an apposite poem, and as he read it out loud for the benefit of his feathered friends, he thought what a pity it was that despite the fact that it had been written over two centuries ago, so many human beings had not yet caught up with the wisdom of the nightingale and the glow-worm 🕊️

A Nightingale that all day long Had cheer'd the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when even tide was ended, Began to feel as well he might The keen demands of appetite; When looking eagerly around, He spied far off upon the ground, A something shining in the dark, And knew the glow-worm by his spark, So stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop; The worm aware of his intent, Harangu'd him thus right eloquent. Did you admire my lamp, quoth he, As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song, For 'twas the self-same power divine, Taught you to sing, and me to shine, That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night. The songster heard his short oration, And warbling out his approbation, Releas'd him as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else. Hence jarring sectaries may learn, Their real int'rest to discern: That brother should not war with brother, And worry and devour each other, But sing and shine by sweet consent, 'Till life's poor transient night is spent, Respecting in each other's case The gifts of nature and of grace. Those christians best deserve the name Who studiously make peace their aim; Peace, both the duty and the prize Of him that creeps and him that flies.

There was great excitement at Sunnyside, in the tiny and remote Scottish hamlet of Sunnyville (formerly known as Achmothogair), for although it was only the beginning of February, the first full-sized daffodils had started to flower, several weeks earlier than in previous years. The residents could hardly believe their eyes, for they had not thought the winter unusually mild, but the evidence was there before them, and even the ducks seemed to be surprised, although they were perhaps more interested in helping the gentleman of the house weed his snowdrop beds.

The weather in the wild west Highlands of Scotland is nothing if not capricious, and when Algy opened his eyes on Tuesday morning he was dazzled by brilliant sunlight – and surprised to find that instead of being wet and windy it was now calm and frosty again, with a distinct layer of ice covering the garden ponds and bird baths.

The sun was getting stronger as the year began to advance, however, and the frost did not linger in the brighter areas, even though the air remained remarkably cold. So Algy fluttered happily around the garden in the sunshine until he suddenly stopped, and dropped down to the ground in a hurry, for there among the rough grass was the very first daffodil of the year, in the process of opening before his very eyes.

The following day was very much brighter, with some strong February sunshine, but also a stiff breeze. In fact the whole world seemed to be in motion, although this may have had something to do with the absence of a tripod 😀

And as Algy fluttered around the garden, he was surprised to see the very first daffodil flowers of the coming spring, for these were not the early, miniature daffodils which quite often flowered at the beginning of February, but full-sized varieties which did not normally appear until many weeks later in the year.

Perching happily on the grass to watch the beautiful nodding heads glowing in the sunshine, he was reminded of a poem written "to an early daffodil", for these were indeed certainly exceptionally early, but instead of spring being laggard, and the flowers catching the gold of an April sun, they were playing in the chilly wind of a bright early February day…

Thou yellow trumpeter of laggard Spring! Thou herald of rich Summer’s myriad flowers! The climbing sun with new recovered powers Does warm thee into being, through the ring Of rich, brown earth he woos thee, makes thee fling Thy green shoots up, inheriting the dowers Till ripe and blossoming thou art a thing To fill the lonely with a joy untold; Nodding at every gust of wind to-day, To-morrow jewelled with raindrops. Always bold To stand erect, full in the dazzling play Of April's sun, for thou hast caught his gold.