From the top of the ladder, he produced trees like a conjuror. One, a three-foot ash, sturdy and with a massive weave of fine roots; then three oaks, spindly enough but, again, with good root systems; probably two years old; one of them about two slim feet. Then one sycamore. But who wants sycamore? It had to be admitted that its leaves were handsome and shiny. And where did our friend produce these specimens from? From a gutter at the corner of the boiler-room of a house, where a rose and a clematis, especially the rose, had been encouraged to flourish and spread and luxuriate. Which they had both done handsomely. And because the area had not been noticed to flood (and maybe the roots of the trees absorbed much wetness), nothing as expected. But when had someone gone up to see? Well, disaster had been averted down the years and a lesson had been learned. Just how long the acorns, the ash keys, as their seed is known, and the propellor-like sycamore blades had lain before reaching for the sky, no one could venture to guess. But it's a reminder to all. Clear your gutters regularly. At least once a year, anyway. A few roots driving up into the tile could do a lot of damage.
It came at a time when another surprise had presented itself. A stone jar which had contained the debris of acorns collected in autumn 1977 and had been raided for a few specimens to plant in 1998 when a sudden frost descended and blasted every flower on the tree, leading to an absolutely acornless year; anyway, this jar which a few months back was a thick stodge of matter, resembling leaves rotting on a compost heap, suddenly shows a rich green top. About forty little oaks, leaves gleaming, are demanding to be planted out. Their future as pedunculate oaks you can envisage. They are the oaks which throw out huge horizontal branches, which shoot along, horizontally, then with a quick twist, suddenly turn up at right angles. After about six feet of growth, for no reason that we can understand, resume their former course parallel to the ground. And here are something like forty little seedlings demanding that they be not frustrated in their destiny. (You have to be a sentimentalist in this game of planting trees solely for pleasure.) Dryden's famous lines haven't been quoted here for long: The monarch oak, the patriarch of trees,/Shoots, rising up and spreads by slow degrees./Three centuries he grows,/Three more he stays/Supreme in state, and in three more decays.