The white wisteria wafts its scent across the veranda. I can smell it as I sit here writing with the French doors open. The pale purple blossoms of the melia tree, sometimes called the Persian lilac, are scenting the night air too, this tree being the nearest we can get to the real thing in this too temperate climate. Lilac is my favourite shrub, I keep meaning to order a root from afar – actually the South Island – and pile ice around it in winter to fool it into thinking it’s living in a cold climate. I miss not having any lilac.
The cabbage tree- not an attractive name – puts out long stems of blossom at this time of year covered with the sweetest smelling tiny flowers, which turn a creamy brown when dried, with black stems; like the melia tree the scent seems strongest in the evening. Sweet alyssum wafts its fragrance in sunshine, and best of all, my precious Reine de Violette rose in the pot by the front door is now blooming.
I’ve carried it in a big square terracotta pot from garden to garden, and its scent pervades the little courtyard by the door for the month that its deep pinky-purple tightly layered petalled heads bloom. So many petals – between 50 and 75 – according to the official description, and bred in France in 1860. Grown from a cutting given by a friend. Later in the summer, the blue petunias in pots will send their sweet smell through the garden, also strongest at night. My summer garden would be incomplete if I didn’t have masses of foaming pale blue petunias in pots – Cambridge blue is their description. And in midsummer we’ll have the strong, night scent of queen of the night, and the datura tree growing in the wilderness part of the garden which spreads its pervasive sweetness when the sun is going down.
In a few weeks fragrant star jasmine will be blooming, it’s crawling up the walls below the veranda, sprawling over the arch with pink Albertine roses and ivy, and growing outside the bathroom window. And I’ve topiary-ed it so it billows out of two big blue pots the same blue as the petunias, just outside the French doors. The scent will drift everywhere… I’d love to have the exquisite perfume of sweet peas in the garden, but alas, I’ve never been able to grow them successfully.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve whittled down the elements I want in my garden, and top of the list is fragrance, closely followed by white flowers which show up in the dusk. So apart from my blue petunias and pink roses, there are always plenty of white lilies, white geraniums, Shasta daisies, fragrant syringa, white Japanese anemones, marguerites, self-seeded valerian, white agapanthus as well as blue, and my favourite white climbing rose Alberic Barbier. That isn’t to say that there aren’t blue hydrangeas shimmering under the trees, a glorious pale gold rose called Crepuscule clambering up a telegraph pole out on the road,( see above) or pink beauties like Jean Ducher which bloom palely all the year. And then there’s Mutatibilis rose which looks like a bush covered in deep pink butterflies about to take flight.
There are two other requirements for my garden – masses of green – so ivy everywhere, box plants and acanthus, and I also ask my long-suffering plants to be undemanding and easy-care, though I contract to water them through the droughts. It’s not a tidy or orderly garden, but an exuberant, prolific little plot, with wilful self-seeded plants welcomed wherever they choose to settle, and every chosen flower and shrub scrambling into its neighbours, cosying up, sharing their space, flaunting their freedom.
Rampant growers like honeysuckle and ivy are allowed to enjoy themselves, instead of wilting under the criticism of real gardeners who despise them for being so invasive. Wandering flaming red and orange nasturtiums have even turned themselves into climbers and threaded themselves through the climbing rose up to the roof, and entangled themselves in an orgy of colour among the pinks and blues of ageratum and lavatera down below in the garden. If it grows, it’s welcome… so though I’m not a discriminating gardener, I am a grateful one!
I learned about flowers from our appropriately named gardener called Mr Appleby. I was nine, and we were living in a rambling Tudor house in Yorkshire while waiting to go to post-war Germany. It had been a monastery before Henry VIII’s Dissolution, and behind it stretched a high walled garden, built of weathered rose-coloured bricks. On either side of the lawn were deep herbaceous beds, the fashion of those times, and indeed, since Edwardian times. At the end, sheltered by the high wall was the vegetable garden, and after we had been to see Bertram Mills circus and I had fallen in love with the trapeze artist, Lady Elizabeth, I tried to practise my rudimentary trapeze skills on top of this wall, unseen from the house.
The end of the lawn was dominated by a big pear tree, where we sat in striped deckchairs in its shade having afternoon tea, and where my step-grandfather would sit on summer evenings reading the Times while he smoked a cigar, it’s rich aroma reaching my bedroom window as I peeped out.
I didn’t go to school while we lived there, and had lessons in the afternoon. In the morning it was my job to arrange the flowers in every room throughout the beautiful old house, and keep them freshly topped up and watered. It was bliss. I had carte blanche to pick flowers! Mr Appleby tended to guard his glorious peonies from me, but let me have enough to keep the vases looking quite ravishing. He taught me the names of his precious plants, and became a great buddy. From his big saggy pockets, he would drag out for me giant gooseberries from his garden, pinkish with long soft hairs all over them, his biggest strawberries, juicy, golden William’s pears, yellow-fleshed purple Victoria plums and red russet apples. I used to hide in the pear tree so as not to have to share these treats.
He told me the names of the tall, smoky blue delphiniums, rosy hollyhocks, pink foxgloves, serried ranks of pastel coloured lupins, and golden rod. They were massed at the back of the borders. Then there were the middling sized flowers, lavender, peonies, pink and white and deep red, dahlias, (I didn’t pick them, too many earwigs crawling around inside) purple irises, stocks and phlox and larkspurs, day lilies in deep maroon, snapdragons massed in mixed jewel colours, delicate grannies bonnets, scented sweet Williams; in the front of the borders were clusters of cat-mint, the soft, furry sage-coloured leaves and pink flowers of lambs lugs,(the country term for ears), yellow cotton lavender and clumps of pinks, the fluffy ones with a gorgeous pepperminty smell.
Then there was purple ajuga and harebell-blue campanula, and snow-in-summer nestling in crevices among the stone flags of the terrace. The names felt like poetry. And smothering the trellis which hid the dustbins outside the kitchen door were pink Dorothy Perkins roses.
Mr Appleby was a weather-beaten, wiry little Yorkshire-man, who wore battered old trousers and an unbuttoned jacket which in novels would be called rusty black, with a grubby white shirt with no collar – in those days you changed the collar, not the shirt, using collar studs, front and back. On his head he wore a flat cap, and he had bright, beady black eyes. He spoke with a broad Yorkshire accent that was hard to understand. Sometimes he took me on walks around the countryside where I learned the North country lingo of becks and scars and fells, which I later learned were the ancient Viking words for stream and cliff and moor. Once he showed me a tiny field mouse peeping out of its miniature nest which was a round grass ball, slung between the top of the stems of two cornstalks growing amidst a forest of other golden stalks, blue cornflowers and red poppies.
Those things I learned from Mr Appleby one summer nearly sixty five years ago have never been forgotten. Who knows what we ourselves unwittingly leave in the memory of the children we encounter? What words, what thoughts, unconscious sharing of experience, spontaneous gifts given without intent, moments that lingered down the years… what imperishable knowledge that helped to lighten ignorance and enlarge understanding, what fragments of fact that sparked a child’s consciousness ? To be the person behind those memories … that must be a very special sort of immortality.
Food for threadbare gourmets
This is a filling meal I make for my husband when I can’t think of anything to give him! Dr de Pomiane, the French-Polish food writer adapted it from a French peasant dish, and this recipe is a much dollied up version of his solid peasant dish. Remove the skin and pips from a medium sized tomato (soaking the tomato in boiling water loosens the skin).
Toast two thick slices of sour dough bread on one side. Spread the untoasted sides with Dijon mustard, grate two ounces of cheese – Gruyere is recommended for purists – I usually use cheddar which is in the fridge – and pile the cheese mixed with the tomato on the mustard side of the bread. Grill until the cheese goes golden, then lay a couple of rashers of streaky bacon on the cheese mixture. Grill until the bacon starts to brown, and serve with black pepper. (De Pomiane didn’t use bacon or tomato – instead when thick slices of cheese had been grilled, he put butter ON the melted cheese!)
Food for thought
“The characteristics of the English are largely unsensational, and since they do not readily fire the imagination they easily slip the memory, but they are nevertheless fundamental and formidable. A love of law and order and a respect for government by consent. A belief in honest administration. A dislike of hurting people and if a hurt be done a great effort to put it right. A tolerant people, offering a hand to victims of intolerance. Skill in devising ways of improving the lot of mankind but a dreadful inability to follow those ideas through. A sweet countryside, but appalling ways of cooking what that countryside produces.”
President Truman describing the English, on being honoured with an honorary degree at Oxford after his retirement. Dreadfully honest, I suppose you could call this somewhat measured and restrained tribute !
54 responses to “A perfumed garden and an old gardener”
You made me feel quite homesick for the English countryside reading about your Mr Appleby and all that he taught you Love Liz
What can I say ?… I felt the same as I wrote it !!!
My Melia is just blossoming here too Valerie ( I am in Porirua). It is the loveliest tree and I have blogged about it in the past. Did you know that the beads are used, once dried, for rosary beads? I call it my spiritual tree now. I did not know that it was known as a Persian Lilac but the scent is lovely as you describe.
Do you know about the NZ Native Lilac, Hebe Hulkeana……it might like your garden being a native….http://www.hebesoc.org/hebes/hebes_h/hebe_hulkeana/hebe_hulkeana.htm
I admire two at the moment as I drive down our street. IF I had space in the garden here I would have one or maybe two – they are lovely.
As for cabbage tree flowers this season! Every single tree here is simply laden with the abundant heads. Their Maori name Ti Kouka is a prettier name than cabbage.
Thank you for the scented garden tour!
Thank you so much for all that lovely information.. Ti Kouka is so much more attractive, I agree – and yes, aren’t they flowering amazingly this year.
What you said about the melia tree was so interesting… it’s such a lovely tree, and many people seem to know nothing of it.
I shall be investigating hebe hulkeana…
So good to hear from you, your blog seemed ot have slipped off my list, so I can catch up again now…so glad you enjoyed the scented garden…
Valerie, your garden is so much more advanced than mine down here in the South; yours is what I look forward to but on a smaller scale. I adore Cambridge Blue petunias and, like you, love to have white in the garden to catch the light of the long summer evenings. I don’t have lilac but wish that I did. I rarely see it in anyone’s garden, these days. I discovered the other day that the ceoanthus is known as Californian lilac but I don’t think it has a perfume. For any age, fragrance in a garden is lovely but perhaps it is particularly important to have more scent as we age since there is a connection between brain cell renewal and the nose 🙂 Your gardening with Mr Appleby made me think of The Secret Garden 🙂 And guess what I am having for tea!!!!!!
The thing is, Gallivanta, that your garden will still be blooming when mine is over its first flush… but lots of things have bloomed early this year…
What you can see in the photo is the council land outsde the garden that I’ve moved in on, planted liquid ambers and generally treated as mine !! My actual garden is tiny…
How interesting that brain cell renewal is linked with smell – I should be doing pretty well, as evey time I pass the roses, I stop to breath in their deep fragrance.!
Hope you enjoy the peasant food !!!!..
The peasant food is being prepared at this very moment 🙂 Smells good.
I am sure your brain is well nourished by the sights and sounds and scents of your garden.
With all these silly wessiteb, such a great page keeps my internet hope alive.
You paint a storybook picture of your friendship with Mr. Appleby. I can imagine the delicate watercolor illustrations of the nine-year-old girl wandering around the grounds with the weather-beaten man in his battered trousers. How sweet it must have been to learn the names of plants and flowers with him! Best of all, you were tasked with picking flowers and making bouquets for all the rooms. I can’t think of anything better for a nine-year-old girl.
What a poetic beautiful comment…I love water-colours, their softness, sweetness, nostalgic feel… your words paint such a beautiful picture too…
Yes, it was a wonderful few months… nothing was ever like it again… going from there to the bleakness of war-torn Europe and living at terrible Belsen
Sixty five years ago and you recall that summer with Mr Appleby – yes, we never know how we touch people and especially children.
I retain fond memories of a garbage collector whom people shunned because of his job and the smell that hung around him. But he always had a kind word and smle for me. I so looked forward to seeing him hop off the truck, throw in the garbage and lope after the truck as it turned the corner.
Lovely to hear from you Eric…. yes, the memories of those times are so vivid… your garbage collector could never have visualised being preserved in your mind and heart all those years ago… it’s always magic to me, the way we hold sweet memories of those who think they’re just passing through!
Thank you for letting me walk beside you through the garden of your mind and heart and home. Mr Appleby lives on now in my mine and your reader’s minds. His love of nature augmented your natural desire to bloom in tune with it as a young girl and now, in far off New Zealand, it still grows freely, thriving even as your garden does. Oh, to be a plant in your care. Never lonely, always loved, in the company of friends aware on a level we humans can only barely comprehend that they are in a good place.
I so love to read your posts for they are so much more than the usual fare enthusiastically promulgated all through the blogosphere. It was a lucky day for me when I was found by you.
Dr. de Pomiane’s concoction sounds good. I’m off the mountain for a few days and hungry for real food. Will give it a try.
Love and Aloha to you always,
As always you share such a poetic response to my stories. It is such a delight, as you would well know…
I love what you say about the delicate existence of flowers,the intuition and the knowing of other forms of life… layers of being and loving…
Hope you enjoy good times, as well as real food off the mountain…I shall think of you
With love, Valerie
Thank you for sharing your sentsasions and allowing me to follow along.
Thank you so much for commenting – glad you enjoyed the story….
ah I felt as if I was sitting with you in the garden so familar to me, loved it as usual x
Is this you my friend? come and sit in it soon XXX
Bless the Mr. Appleby’s of our world for they give meaning to our existence. I have been giving a great deal of thought to gardens in general, for it seems that when we are connected to the land, we are connected to our souls…
having trouble with the computer, so if you got a message that wasnt for you, apologies!
Yes, I think there;’s something profound about our connection to the soil and how soothed and refreshed we feel when we’ve been working in the garden…. d’you remember that old rhyme on so many embroidered samplers:
With the kiss of the sun for pardon
and the song of the birds for mirth,
we are nearer God’s heart in a garden
than anywhere else on earth!
Valerie, Mr. Appleby has been an awesome and life long teacher to you. I wish all children are blessed with a Mr. Appleby. May he come as a gardener, a teacher, a painter, a cook or just somebody who reads aloud or tells stories. If every child has one Mr. Appleby to instil a lifelong passion and love for learning, or enjoying (an aspect of) live; the world will be a happier place.
And lets vice versa this too. Mr. Appleby must have been enchanted by you. I can picture this lovely girl eager listening to him. He doesn’t think much of himself, but this young girl becomes his apprentice. How unexpected and joyful! He isn’t even sure he is really teaching or hoping your love for gardening will last, but he gives it a change. You return day after day, week after week and, as a result, you both grow happy. You have been a gift to him, as much as he to you.
Paula, thank you so much for your long thoughtful comment – I agree, we and the world all need Mr Appleby’s! I loved your comments about the other side of the exchange, which I had never thought of, but you’re so right, after all, life is always an exchange of energy… Lovely to hear from you…
I love all these snippets of reminiscence and information. Things one didn’t realise one needed to know more about until you clarify them, like beck, fell and scar.
Truman displayed the American brashness which equates sensationalism with creating something memorable. The old English custom of boiling everything to a mush is, however, a valid failing.
Thank you, lovely to know you noticed those words! ‘Yes, to Truman… and yes to that( I hope) dying habit of overcooking the vegetables!What a waste of power!
My parents were enlightened, so it was only at school that I suffered from them !!!
Thank you for sharing your joy of gardening and sweet memory with Mr. Appleby. Love the photo of your garden.
Thank you Amy, lovely to hear from you.. glad you liked the pic – the telegraph pole on the road – I garden all the council land!!
What a glorious memory, he must have loved to have you visiting his garden. I also like white flowers and scented flowers but nowhere else in the world have I seen a better example of the gardens i wold love that in england. I visited every one i could get to on my free weekends when i was a Nanny in the UK. I loved this ramble with you… c
Oh Celi, lovely to see your smiling face! I expect you’re having a lovely time with your family…
I know what you mean about English gardens… I took them for granted when I lived there,but now devour magazines like Country Living.. I also love the window boxes and hanging baskets on town houses and pubs, even in London…so glad you enjoyed the story…
Oh, I miss lilacs terribly! The last time I saw lilacs which were not cut branches was when I was in Banff Canada and spent an afternoon running around like a fool with a videocamera following magpies on the lilacs. Just glorious!
It seems that there are a lot of us lilac fans around ! I can see a Society for the dissemination of lilacs forming in Blogland !!!
I wish it came with a permanent subscription to the scent and the texture.
I loved the title of this post and the post itself was just as rewarding – luscious, sensual and evocative. Your descriptions of the garden were beautiful enough, but I loved the addition of Mr Appleby, who was memorably described and the thought of what we leave in the minds of children was a wonderful thought.
Thank you so much for your thoughtful perceptive comments – so much appreciated, from your noticing the title, to the thought about what we leave in childrens’ minds and hearts – thank you again…
As a child growing up in the mid-western part of the United States, we had two lilac bushes. Eventually, one was sacrificed to a widening driveway and the other shriveled and died. The scent of lilacs always transports me to a happy time of huge bouquets that filled the house or schoolroom with delicate fragrance. I’m filled with longing every spring but as yet have been denied another lilac bush. Perhaps this will be the year I’ll push the issue.
Another fond childhood memory is Frances Hodgson Burnette’s “The Secret Garden” which I read repeatedly until I had whole passages memorized. Walking with you through your magical garden took me back to the happy times I spent with Mary Lennox.
As winter approaches in my part of the world I think I will come back and for a visit to your garden, if I may. And perhaps I’ll linger and listen to young Valerie and her friend/teacher, Mr. Appleby.
Dear Rachel, what a lovely evocative comment… there seem to be a lot of us lilac fans out there… amazing…I do think you should treat yourself to a lilac if they grow where you are – smelling the flowers is one of those permitted pleasures!
How lovely that my story should have reminded you of The Secret Garden… one of those enchanting evergreen children’s classics…
Come and walk on my garden whenever you wish, but wouldn’t it be lovely if you really could ! Valerie XXX
Hey, you guys really DO have summer when we are beginning to freeze!
Drat you all! (-:
Valerie, your garden reminds me of your kitchen, and your plants remind me of your dishes: everything so carefully noted, specifically known and cherished, named and invested with memory and meaning.
I love the way in which the details of your everyday life honor and celebrate Life in its largest sense. I try to do that, but I just have not gotten the hang of it – yet.
Mr. APPLEBY! A brick-walled garden! It is exactly how I pictured the Secret Garden as a child. Now that I think of it, I read a great deal of books for and about English children when I was a kid. I can’t recall all their names, but I think I was more of an Anglophile than I had remembered: I had a jumbled image of everyone going for walks to the Victoria and Albert on rainy days, wearing galoshes and complaining about having to look at some huge dollhouse (I forget) yet again. Then they’d walk home along the High Street to high tea, including potted meat, three kinds of biscuits, clotted cream, and several sorts of jam, with their nurses/governesses/nannies in schoolrooms that used to be their nurseries. They’d play Authors and board games after tea and argue about whose school uniform was the most beastly, but, because they all seemed to be feeling a big financial pinch, they were secretly glad that the problem of new school clothes had been settled.
Oh well – enough about you. Let’s talk about me!
Signing off ~
A Yankee who loves you
Dear Yankee Lover,
Great to hear from you.
What simply beautiful things you say about my house and garden… I shall re-read them and treasure them…
The Secret Garden never entered my consciousness like it seems to have done with so many commenters… I didn’t read it until I was in my twenties, and then out of curiosity.
As for over-dosing on all those Edwardian childrens’ stories – how I laughed – nothing like that in my shattered spartan childhood, gosh – several sorts of jam – not unless you had smuggled extra food points, and as for clotted cream – the stuff of dreams during the war. and after.. !!!!.
Anyway, I was far too busy then reading The Last of the Mohicans, Tanglewood Tales by Nathanial Hawthorn, Hiawatha, and of course, Little Women –
So I know all about you too !!!!
With love XXX
Hmm…almost all these kids were 20th century – 1940s and 50s, actually – odd, because there were many references to people getting on their feet after the war. Are you familiar with English children’s author Noel Streatfeild – Dancing Shoes, Theater Shoes, Skating Shoes, Travelling Shoes, etc.? Just curious.
BTW, I never thought that my readings told me anything about YOU – I was making fun of myself, and looking back with a certain fondness at the world view children can get from reading. Or, at least the one I got. How disappointed I was to learn, for example, that biscuits are just cookies…
The Old Yank
To the Young Yank: Mmmm, I think their writers may have been writing nostalgically… sort of twenties and thirties memories… the war turned everything upside down – especially as women under forty were conscripted unless they could prove they had pressing reasons like young children to look after – so few nannies, cooks etc left …. museums closed and their exhibits hidden in safe places … nothing was normal in those days…just enough coupons to buy school uniforms and and nothing else…and hardly any biscuits, and no sweets ( candy to you) Yes, I do remember the name Noel Streatfield, but I don’t think I read any of her books- my parents rarely bought me books – except Heidi and Little Women for Christmas and birthday – I managed on what was around the house, and also the sixpenny second hand books my father would pick up on a bookstall on his way home on Friday night – Lord Lytton’s Harold, Charles KIngsley’s Hypatia, Lytton’s Last Days of Pompei, Pickwick Papers, Westward Ho … strange reading for a ten year old, but my earlier reading had been even stranger! I tried to borrow other people’s books like ” Rupert the Bear”, but that was verboten, as was Enid Blyton who I used to try to get hold of secretly… No I didn’t take you seriously in your wonderful potted memories of Anglophile reading – but I did think it was rather funny that while you were reading them, I was reading all the stuff on America! Yes, I used to wonder what cookies were – and candy ! Love from an antipodean bibliophile!
Your garden and your memories of learning about gardens are both delicious. I think I could enjoy my coffee in your garden with the lovely smells and brilliant pinks and whites. Thank you.
Me? I have Lavender growing large in the backyard it withstands our Texas heat and blooms throughout the summer.
Yes, you are very welcome to come and drink your coffee in the my garden, Val… but I am a little surprised that you only have lavender growing in your garden – no yellow rose of Texas???
I do not have a green thumb and I am not home enough to care for anything. Terrible I know. So my wonderful lavender and one Texas Hibiscus (the leaves look like marijuana) in honor of my most beloved step-mother. Both grow with no care.
I was only joking Val, I just love that song !!!
Your lovely post is a welcomed breath of fresh Spring air to me as I sit here in New Jersey and look at the orange and brown leaves falling from the trees.
Thank you Shirley.. it’s our turn, having survived the winter! But I do love autumn too – my favourite season actually – sounds as though your autumn is as beautiful as ever….
I closed my eyes and I was there…walking with you in your garden and following you through the wonderful lush old house. It is cold here and starting to become bleak…I will book mark this post and read it at least once a month until our spring comes again!
Hoo ray for spring for you!
Thank you for your generous wish about our spring, LInda! – I just hope that winter is not too long for you all…
What precious memories…and how well you remember, Valerie! Mr Appleby would be gratified, I’m sure.
Oh how I love the smell of jasmine! It struggles in my garden, but fortunately I’m able to have gardenias, my other favorite garden perfume, even if we have to bring it indoors to protect it from the harsh winter. Your garden looks so lovely, Valerie.
Letizia, so good to hear from you, glad you liked my garden…
Yes, jasmine is gorgeous, but gardenias are a ravishing substitute!
I had forgotten about gardenias, and must get one… I’ve just acquired a daphne, – their scent in spring knocks my socks off!!!
You have a beautiful garden Valerie and thanks for visiting my blog and the ‘likes’. Best wishes.
ရ သ လ … က ဇ တင တယ န … အန ကပ အရ က ခ ခ င ရင ခ ထ က က တင စ ရင ပ င ပ ပ … ))အမည မ ဖ လ သ စ ဖတ သ န ည မ ရ မ မ … ပက ဒ န ထ တ ဖ အ ပ တ က ဇ … အ က က ခ င တ နတ လင ဒ ပ န ပန ပန … အ ဒ ဒစ ပန လ… လ တယ .. က ယ လ အ ဒ ပ က က က တယ …ခမမ… လ ခ အရ က ခ ခ င တယ ဆ သခ ပ က ရ က ပ မယ … ဘ န ရ က ပ ရမလ … စ တလက မ လ ခ င လ စ ပတ လည လ ခ င လ … :-Pမ ယ န ခ သင … က က တ ပ ခ င တ နတယ ပ … လ တယ လ ပ ကလ ပ နတယ မ ယ ည မ လ ခ င တ ပ ယ သ ပ …Hmoo… Thanks. Sometimes people have to stand alone to prove that they can still stand… Be stnorg..!!! ဒ ဆ … တခ တ လ တ လ … ))မ န … က ယ တ င က ရ က ခ င နသ ပ … မ ဒယ အလ ရ ပ တယ … ) ပ က … တ တ ပ .. အ ဒ လ နရ မ တ က တခ လ က အတ တ သ ပ ရ က ကတ ပ …သ တ … န မည လ တ က ခ စ စရ … စဥ စ ပ တ က ဇ န စ အသစ ရ ပ အ … )ခ စ ကည … အ တ တစန တပ င ပန လ တ က တမင ရ ရ က ခ တ .. သ ငယ ခ င တ တ က ယ တ မ တ အ တ န ဆင တယ … )ကလ သစ … စ က ပ ခ ဝယ ပ ပ လ အခ င အမ သတင ရတယ ကလ သစ ရ က ထ တ ပန ပ တ ပပ … ဒ ပ … က… လ မယ .. လ မယ … အပ င ထ ပ စ မ ရ ခ င ရင ဓ တ ပ တ တင ဖ က စည ထ ပ သ … ))မခ … ဝယ လ… တ တ ရ က ကမယ … ( မ က န ဆည ဆ တ မရ က ဘ န …) မ င မ … ပ ပ က က က လ က တ … တကယ ဆရ က တ က ရင အ ရယ နပ အ မယ … တ တ ဟ… အ ပ သ ကသ မ င မ တ ခ က မ အတ က က ဇ တင ပ တယ …
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