A treat has come for all of us amateur gardeners this month in the publication of a long looked-for gardening book by Miss Jekyll, charmingly illustrated from photographs of her own. But, good as are these reproductions, in my opinion they can never compare with woodcuts or steel engravings, and they give but a faint idea of the unusual charm and beauty of her self-created garden. Her book is most truly called 'Wood and Garden,' and is a never-ending lesson of how to lay out a piece of ground by using its natural advantages instead of hopelessly destroying them by clearing the ground to make a garden. In this case there can be no imitation, as, without the copse-covered piece of ground which she selected, no one could produce the same sort of garden. Nature must have had her way first. But the charm of the combination of Nature and Art as carried out by Miss Jekyll is very great. We always open these books at the month we are in, and she says: 'There is always in February some one day at least when one smells the yet distant, coming summer.' Such a day has been ours to-day, and I enjoyed it doubly in consequence of having so lately returned from London. And the forwardness of the spring - it really is more forward even than last year - makes one enjoy it more. Though everything is growing so fast, it is quite agitating for the gardener, giving the feeling that all the work is behindhand. I am told that in my first book many thought I recommended that things should be done too soon; but in my experience human nature rather tends to reversing the proverb, and acts on the principle of 'Never do to-day what can be done to-morrow.' And in all things about a garden, except when Jack Frost is to be feared, it is best to be early rather than late.

My January-sown Green Peas are coming up very well, but they would not survive except for the pea-wire coverings, as the sparrows would nip out the hearts. The black cotton strung about the Prunus pissardi has answered. I have far more bloom than I have ever had before.

As I rush about the garden, and see how the Daffies grow an inch each day in such weather, in spite of very cold nights, and though I have the usual endless 'Martharish' bothers of life inside the house, I can indeed say with Thomson:

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny;

You cannot rob me of free nature's grace; You cannot shut the windows of the sky,

Through which Aurora shows her bright'ning face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace

The woods and lawns by living stream at eve. Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,

And I their toys to the great children leave.

Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.

To appreciate Miss Jekyll's book in a way to profit by it, one must read and re-read it. One more quotation I must make. In 'May' she says: 'The blooming of the Cowslip is the signal for a search for the Morel, one of the best of the edible fungi. It grows in open woods, or where the undergrowth has not yet grown high, and frequently in old parks and pastures, near or under Elms. It is quite unlike any other fungus, shaped like a tall egg, with the pointed end upwards, on a short, hollow stalk, and looking something like a sponge. It has a delicate and excellent flavour, and is perfectly wholesome.' I have, alas! spent nearly all my life, and I have never searched for the Morel! Have you, dear reader?