The restless wind had rushed through the tall spruces all night, and by the morning it had swept the drenching Scotch mist far, far away… for the moment, at least…
And, much to Algy's astonishment – for the weather birds had told him that it would remain misty and wet all week in the wild west Highlands of Scotland – the sun was beginning to shine. However, the rather-too-brisk south-westerly was ruffling his feathers in a way that was considerably less than pleasant in the cool January air, so, like many of his smaller feathered friends, Algy decided to seek cover in a dense, evergreen bush.
He knew that some of them favoured the handsome bay tree which grew in a sheltered spot in his assistants' garden, so he decided to try it for himself. Settling down on its dense branches, Algy found that it did indeed afford a great deal of protection from the wind, and the invigorating aroma of its leaves, which continued to glow bright green, even in the depths of winter, lifted his winter-weary spirits. Relaxing happily in the arms of the welcoming bush, Algy began to recite, for the benefit of any smaller birds nearby who might not have the advantage of a good literary education:
How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their uncessant labours see
Crown’d from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all flow’rs and all trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose.
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men;
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow.
Society is all but rude,
To this delicious solitude.
No white nor red was ever seen
So am’rous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress’ name;
Little, alas, they know or heed
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.
[Algy is reciting the first three verses of the poem The Garden by the 17th century English metaphysical poet and politician Andrew Marvell.]
