It is only to the gardener that time is a friend, giving each year more than he steals.

Do you ever find yourself bursting into a sort of lunatic laughter at the sheer prettiness of things?

A garden is a place for shaping a little world of your own according to your heart's desire.

A garden without cats, it will be generally agreed, can scarcely deserve to be called a garden at all...much of the magic of the heather beds would vanish if, as we bent over them, there was no chance that we might hear a faint rustle among the blossoms, and find ourselves staring into a pair of sleepy green eyes.

Well, I love geraniums, and anybody who does not love geraniums must obviously be a depraved and loathsome person.

The Oldfields of the future are beyond hearing; they are shut up in the factories and the workshops, leading a rackety and mechanical existence, to the damage of their bodies and the peril of their souls, for the sake of an extra pound or so a week, which they promptly spend on mental or physical narcotics.

A gardener is never shut out from his garden, wherever he may be. Its comfort never fails. Though the city may close about him, and the grime and soot descend upon him, he can still wander in his garden, does he but close his eyes.