I do not know the names of all the weeds and plants, I have to do as Adam did in his garden... name things as I find them.

Nothing shows one who his friends are like prosperity and ripe fruit.

Politics make strange bedfellows.

People always overdo the matter when they attempt deception.

The world so quickly adjusts itself after any loss, that the return of the departed would nearly always throw it, even the circle most interested, into confusion.

What a man needs in gardening is a cast-iron back, with a hinge in it.

The love of dirt is among the earliest of passions, as it is the latest. Mud-pies gratify one of our first and best instincts. So long as we are dirty, we are pure. Fondness for the ground comes back to a man after he has run the round of pleasure and business, eaten dirt, and sown wild oats, drifted about the world, and taken the wind of all its moods. The love of digging in the ground (or of looking on while he pays another to dig) is as sure to come back to him, as he is sure, at last, to go under the ground, and stay there.