Mr.Andrewes was a first-rate gardener and a fair farmer.

That neatness, without which the brightest flowers will not "show themselves" (as gardeners say), did full justice to every luxuriant shrub, and set off the pale, delicately-beautiful border of snowdrops and crocuses which edged the road, and the clumps of daffodil, polyanthus, and primrose flowers dotted hither and thither.

I was not surprised to hear the chorus of birds above my head, for it was one of the parson's "oddities" that he would have no birds shot on his premises.
When I came into the flower-garden, there was more exquisite neatness, and more bright spring flowers, thinly scattered in comparison with summer blossoms, but shining brightly against the rich dark mould.

And on the turf were lying gardening-tools, and busy among the tools and flower-beds were two men--the Rev.Reginald Andrewes and his gardener.
It took me several seconds to distinguish master from man.

They were both in straw hats and shirt sleeves, but I recognised the parson by his trousers.