THE GARDEN OF ENGLAND 



" Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you," said the 

 voice. 



I turned round and saw a man standing behind me, 

 a man without a cap, with curly brown hair, and a face 

 coloured deep brown by the sun. He was dressed in a 

 faded suit of greenish tweed, wore a blue flannel shirt, 

 carried a thick stick in his hand, and had a worn- 

 looking box slung over his shoulders by a stained 

 leather strap. 



I suppose my surprise showed in my face in some comic 

 way, for he laughed heartily, showing a set of strong 

 white teeth. 



" No, I'm not Pan," he said laughing, " or a keeper, 

 or a vision. I'm a gardener." 



His admirable assurance and pleasant address were 

 very captivating. 



I asked him what he did there, and he immediately 

 sat down by me, pulled out a black clay pipe, and lit 

 up before replying. He extended the honours of his 

 match to my cigarette and I noticed that his hands 

 were well formed, and that he wore a silver ring on the 

 little finger of his right hand. 



When he had arranged himself to his comfort, propping 

 his back against a tree and crossing his legs, he told me 

 he was a gardener on a very large scale. 



I wished him joy of his garden, at which he smiled 

 broadly, and informed me in the most matter-of-fact 

 way that he gardened the whole of Great Britain. 



For a moment I wondered if I had fallen in with an 

 amiable lunatic, but a closer inspection of his face 

 showed me he was sane, uncommonly healthy, and, I 

 judged, a clever man. 



" A vast garden ? " I said. 



Without exactly replying to my remark, which was put 

 half in the manner of a question, he said, partly to 



13 



