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 
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 
