172 A GARDEN DIARY 



which I hope some of them respond to, for they 

 thrive fairly. Others are exceedingly difficult 

 to establish, and rarely look anything but 

 starved and homesick. Amongst these are 



O 



the butterworts. Why the translation should so 

 particularly affect them I have yet to learn, 

 but the fact is unmistakable. Not all the 

 water of all our taps, not all the peat of all 

 our hillsides will persuade them to be contented. 

 In vain I have wooed them with the wettest 

 spots I could find ; in vain erected poor sem- 

 blances of tussocks for their benefit ; have puddled 

 the peat till it seemed impossible that any 

 creature unprovided with eyes could distinguish 

 it from a bit of real bog. No, die they will, 

 and die they hitherto always have. 



The sundews, on the other hand, are much 

 less hard to please. Indeed, considering that 

 at least one species grows wild within a few 

 miles of us, it would be the height of affectation 

 were they to refuse to tolerate us. I find myself 

 falling into the habit of thinking that I am inhabit- 

 ing here a region of eternal thirstiness, devoid of 

 the materials of sustaining any vegetable more 

 requiring in the matter of water than a gaillardia. 

 Yet, when one considers the matter seriously, 

 England is not precisely the Great Sahara ! 

 There are brown streams, purling brooks, drip- 

 ping wells, rushy meadows, even puddles and 

 bog-holes, to be found a good deal nearer to 



