And, to his credit, so far he's listened better than most wizards his age would. His practical knowledge of mundane plants is considerable, and he clearly loves his work.

Now, however, he's gaping. And tripping a little as he tries to avoid stepping on even the smallest plant as he gapes. The word 'sheltered' comes to mind, though it'd be nice if he stopped doing this every time he's taken out somewhere a little more wild than a vegetable garden.

At Helga's call, he jumps a little and clutches his own basket to his chest. "Sorry, coming!"