ABSTRACT
Newman Flower [...] We were walking near the little village of Bockhampton, a couple of miles from Dorchester, where he had been born in that lovely thatched cottage which is now a monument to his memory. The country about it was riotous with wild flowers. In the little cottage garden I used to have a cup of tea with his old mother, who wore a sunbonnet, and, as T.H. said, was like Whistler’s portrait of his mother. He told me as we walked, ‘I used to wonder, when I was a boy walking up this road, what sort of a world I was going into. The thoughts of a boy are pieces of life: it is life that fashions them as the sun shapes the odd things that grow in our gardens. There are a lot of things I thought and queried in those days which I could not explain even now, although more than seventy years have passed over me’.
