This young orchard adjoined the Great Western Railway, and one day when pruning there I saw a remarkable sight, and I have never found any one with a similar experience.  The telegraph wires were magnified into stout ropes by a coating of white rime, and I could see a distinct series of waves approximating to the dots and dashes of the Morse code running along them.  The movement would run for a time up towards London, cease for a moment, and then run downwards towards Evesham, and so on almost continuously.  I thought it might be caused by the passage of electricity, but I cannot get a satisfactory explanation.  No trains were passing, there was no wind, the rime was not thawing or falling off, and apparently there was nothing to agitate either poles or wires.

This orchard was not a lucky one; it was too low, having only one flat meadow between it and the brook, and therefore very liable to spring frosts.  I have seen the trees well past the blossoming stage, with young plums as large as peas, which after two nights’ sharp frost turned black and fell off to such an extent that there was scarcely a plum left; but I had a few very good crops which gave employment to a number of additional hands besides my regular people.

A season came when the plum-trees in my new orchard were badly attacked by the caterpillars of the winter-moth, but the cuckoos soon found them out, and I could see half a dozen at once enjoying a bountiful feast.  When better plums are abundant the Pershore falls to very low prices; I have sold quantities at 1s. or 1s. 3d. per pot of 72 pounds, at which of course there was a loss; but it is needless to say that at such times the consumer never gets the benefit, 2d. a pound being about the lowest figure at which they are ever seen on offer in the shops.

The Victoria is a very superior plum to the Pershore, and a local plum called Jimmy Moore is also a favourite.  I believe this plum is very similar to, if not identical with, one sold as Emperor; both it and the Victoria nearly always made good prices and bore well.  The Victoria, especially, was so prolific that in some seasons, if not carefully propped, every branch would be broken off by, the weight of fruit, and the tree left a wreck.  Not discouraged, however, it would shoot out again and in a few years bear as well as ever.

My best plum was the greengage, rather a shy bearer but always in demand.  Living in a land of Goshen, like the Vale of Evesham, one gets quite hypercritical (or “picksome,” as the local expression is), and scarcely cares to taste a fruit from a tree in passing; but I used to visit my greengages at times when the pickers had done with them, for they have to be gathered somewhat unripe to ensure travelling undamaged.  I often found, on the south side of the tree, a few that had been overlooked which were fully ripe, beautifully mottled, full of sunshine, and perfect in melting texture and ambrosial flavour.