Back when I was a kid, everyone had patches of white clover on their lawns. This was before today’s monotonous manicured lawns of green turf. The white clover blooms on the lawn would attract butterflies and honey bees. As a kid I would catch bees in a fruit jar and would sit on the lawn combing through the green plants looking for that special lucky four-leaf clover. When the lawn would be mowed, the sweet smell of fresh-cut green clover would sift through the humid summer air creating a fragrant treat for the senses. And of course there’s nothing better than walking barefoot through a field of cool damp clover on a hot Mississippi summer’s day.
White clover has been around these parts for quite awhile. During 1794 a visitor to America wrote: “In every part of America, from New Hampshire to Carolina, from the sea to the mountains, the land … whether wet or dry, whether worn out or retaining its original fertility, from the summit of the Alleghany ridge to the sandy plains of Virginia, is spontaneously covered with white clover, growing frequently with a luxuriance and perfection that art can rarely equal in Europe1.”
For hundreds of years, white clover has been cherished throughout the countryside. During 1892 Cora Randall Fabbri wrote a poem called White Clover. One verse of the little poem reads:
The thought comes of a Long Ago.
And for a little while I know
I am a little child again.2
1Charles V. Piper, Forage Plants and Their Culture, The MacMillan Company, New York, 1916, 411.
2Cora Randall Fabbri, Lyrics, Harper and Brothers, New York, 1892, 133.