Bourron, half an hour from Moret on the Bourbonnais line, on arriving
hardly less disconcerted than Mrs. Primrose by the gross of green
spectacles. No trim, green verandahed villa, no inviting vine-trellised
walk, no luxuriant vegetable garden or brilliant flower beds greeted my
eyes; instead, dilapidated walls, abutting on these a peasant's cottage,
and in front an acre or two of bare dusty field! My friends had indeed
become the owners of a dismantled bakery and its appurtenances, to the
uninitiated as unpromising a domain as could well be imagined. But I
discovered that the purchasers were wiser in their generation than
myself. Noticing my crestfallen look they had said:--

"Only wait till next year, and you will see what a bargain we have made.
You will find us admirably housed and feasting on peaches and grapes."

True enough, twelve months later, I found a wonderful transformation.
That a substantial dwelling now occupied the site of the dismantled
bakery was no matter for surprise, the change out of doors seemed
magical. Nothing could have looked more unpromising than that stretch of
field, a mere bit of waste, your feet sinking into the sand as if you
were crossing the desert. Now, the longed-for _tonnelle_ or vine-covered
way offered shade, petunias made a splendid show, choice roses scented
the air, whilst the fruit and vegetables would have done credit to a
market-gardener. Peaches and grapes ripened on the wall, big turnips and
tomatoes brilliant as vermilion took care of themselves. It was not only
a case of the wilderness made to blossom as the rose, but of the horn of
plenty filled to overflowing, prize flowers, fruit and vegetables
everywhere. For the soil hereabouts, if indeed soil it can be called,
and the climate of Bourron, possess very rare and specific qualities. On
this light, dry sand, or dust covering a substratum of rock, vegetation
springs up all but unbidden, and when once above ground literally takes