My prim little wildling…
Only the English can get away with this garden gush. I know they don’t write like this anymore, but part of me wishes they still could and would. This book was published in 1946, but looks and sounds even older. The primrose poem which opens Chapter XVI had no name under it, so must be from the author himself, George M. Taylor A.H.R.H.S. (Is that some title to do with the Royal Horticultural Society?)
