Circumstances connected with the hour at which I rose this morning ordained that I should write this article in a dressing-gown.  I shall now put on a collar.  I hope it will squeak.

Daffodils

The confession-book, I suppose, has disappeared.  It is twenty years since I have seen one.  As a boy I told some inquisitive owner what was my favourite food (porridge, I fancy), my favourite hero in real life and in fiction, my favourite virtue in woman, and so forth.  I was a boy, and it didn’t really matter what were my likes and dislikes then, for I was bound to outgrow them.  But Heaven help the journalist of those days who had to sign his name to opinions so definite!  For when a writer has said in print (as I am going to say directly) that the daffodil is his favourite flower, simply because, looking round his room for inspiration, he has seen a bowl of daffodils on his table and thought it beautiful, it would be hard on him if some confession-album-owner were to expose him in the following issue as already committed on oath to the violet.  Imaginative art would become impossible.  Fortunately I have no commitments, and I may affirm that the daffodil is, and always has been, my favourite flower.  Many people will put their money on the rose, but it is impossible that the rose can give them the pleasure which the daffodil gives them, just as it is impossible that a thousand pounds can give Rockefeller the pleasure which it gives you or me.  For the daffodil comes, not only before the swallow comes—­ which is a matter of indifference, as nobody thinks any the worse of the swallow in consequence—­but before all the many flowers of summer; it comes on the heels of a flowerless winter.  Whereby it is as superior to the rose as an oasis in the Sahara is to champagne at a wedding.

Yes, a favourite flower must be a spring flower—­there is no doubt about that.  You have your choice, then, of the daffodil, the violet, the primrose, and the crocus.  The bluebell comes too late, the cowslip is but an indifferent primrose; camelias and anemones and all the others which occur to you come into a different class.  Well, then, will you choose the violet or the crocus?  Or will you follow the legendary Disraeli and have primroses on your statue?

I write as one who spends most of his life in London, and for me the violet, the primrose, and the crocus are lacking in the same necessary quality—­they pick badly.  My favourite flower must adorn my house; to show itself off to the best advantage within doors it must have a long stalk.  A crocus, least of all, is a flower to be plucked.  I admit its charm as the first hint of spring that is vouchsafed to us in the parks, but I want it nearer home than that.  You cannot pick a crocus and put it in water; nor can you be so cruel as to spoil the primrose and the violet by taking them from their natural setting; but the daffodil cries aloud to be picked.  It is what it is waiting for.