at least to an American eye unaccustomed to heather and 
its relatives outside of pots, it seemed too good to be true. Mr. 
Robinson loves Pear trees and grows them most beautifully, both 
on the orchard wall and in the orchard and hundreds of them 
were in bloom, a most lovely sight. The lake-side, one might 
say, has recently been "bobbed" to make way for planting that 
will better suit the fastidious eye of that perfect gardener, Mr. 
Robinson. I shall go again to see him I hope, when the roses are 
in bloom and the water is overhung with green. June, he says, 
is the best time, but snov\^ April is good enough. (There is a 
charming inn, the Dorset Arms, at East Grinstead, for lunch or 
tea ; but if you go by train you get out at Kingscote, L. B. & S. C. 
Railroad.) 
A great day was the one on which I took tea with Miss Jekyll. 
She had been ill all winter and was really too ill to see me, but 
since she seemed to want me to come I pocketed my scruples and 
went. Her entrancing house which she built herself not many 
years ago is as interesting as Mr. Robinson's, if quite different, 
and has all sorts of delightful things, including Miss Jekyll, in it. 
She could not take me to the garden herself, but a little maid who 
helped in the garden during the war showed me about. The 
famous i\Iunstead Primroses were just coming to their prime, but 
the borders had been replanted in a sort of after-the-war rehabil- 
itation and none were in bloom. The place is not large and the 
gardens themselves are small, but there are beautiful trees and 
great variety of interest. It made me sad that Miss Jekyll had 
not been in her garden for many months, for every bit of it 
looked like an only-child-of-a-garden that didn't — exactly — need, 
but that expected-a-mother's-care. Munstead Wood is in Godal- 
ming, Surrey, a picturesque hilly country about thirty miles 
from London. 
Another day I took tea with the Reverend Mr. AVilkes at 
Shirley, where the Poppies come from. Mr. Wilkes has retired 
from the secretaryship of the Royal Horticultural Society and 
now is having a good time just gardening. With him lives Mr. 
John Rendle, as eager a gardener as himself, and though two 
"hired men" work in the vegetable garden, no other hands than 
those of Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Rendle touch the treasures scattered 
through the woodland and little meadow. It is a small place 
with no sort of formal gardening and only a tiny stretch of 
border and lawn, but it is full of interesting grooving things that 
require care and patience and a great deal of Horticultural 
knowledge. The ordinary wandering gardener feels humble after 
a visit with Mr. Wilkes, not because he is condescended to, but 
because it is assumed that all the little plants are as familiar to 
him as to their adopted father. For they are Mr. Wilkes 
children and both he and they know it. 
j\Ir. E. A. Bowles let me spend an afternoon in his garden, 
14 
