It was difficult to push one's way through these thickets, and
one was always in dread of treading on a snake. At another spot fennel
flourished by itself, as if it had some mysterious power, perhaps its
peculiar smell, of keeping other plants at a proper distance. It
formed quite a thicket, and grew to a height of ten or twelve feet.
This spot was a favourite haunt of mine, as it was in a waste place at
the furthest point from the house, a wild solitary spot where I could
spend long hours by myself watching the birds. But I also loved the
fennel for itself, its beautiful green feathery foliage and the smell
of it, also the taste, so that whenever I visited that secluded spot I
would rub the crushed leaves in my palms and chew the small twigs for
their peculiar fennel flavour.
Winter made a great change in the plantation, since it not only
stripped the trees of their leaves but swept away all that rank
herbage, the fennel included, allowing the grass to grow again. The
large luxuriantly-growing annuals also disappeared from the garden and
all about the house, the big four-o'clock bushes with deep red stems
and wealth of crimson blossoms, and the morning-glory convolvulus with
its great blue trumpets, climbing over and covering every available
place with its hop-like mass of leaves and abundant blooms.
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