Each, no matter how ill kept, is set off by an ornamental border,
zinnias, begonias, roses and petunias as obviously showing signs of care
and science. Oddly enough the finest display of flowers often adorns the
least tidy premises. And oddly enough, rather perhaps as we should
expect it, in not one, but in every respect, this French village is the
exact opposite of its English counterpart. In England every tenant of a
cottage pays rent, there, not an inhabitant, however poor, but sits
under his own vine and his own fig-tree. In England the farm-house faces
the road and the premises lie behind. Here manure-heap, granary and pig
styes open on the highway, the dwellings being at the back. In England a
man's home, called his castle, is no more defended than the Bedouin's
tent. Here at nightfall the small peasant proprietor is as securely
entrenched within walls as a feudal baron in his moated chateau. In
England ninety-nine householders out of a hundred are perpetually
changing their domicile. Here folks live and die under the paternal roof
that has sheltered generations. Nor does diversity end with
circumstances and surroundings. As will be seen in another chapter,
habits of life, modes of thought and standards of duty show contrasts
equally marked.

Bourron possesses twelve hundred and odd souls, most of whom are
peasants who make a living out of their small patrimony. Destined
perhaps one day to rival its neighbour Marlotte in popularity--even to
become a second Barbizon--it is as yet the sleepiest, most rustic
retreat imaginable. The climate would appear to be not only
anti-asthmatic but anti-everything in the shape of malady. Anyhow, if
folks fall ill they have to send elsewhere for a doctor. Minor
complaints--cuts, bruises and snake bites--are attended to by a
Fontainebleau chemist. Every day we hear the horn of his messenger who
cycles through the village calling for prescriptions and leaving drugs