what is life worth if one has nothing to give away? This lack, it seems to me, must be the sharpest pang of poverty.

Surely there is no greater garden for human-nature study than the flotsam and jetsam of the hospital.

Mother love is invariably held sacred, as it should be, but why has father love never had its due?

Why has no one written a November rhapsody with plenty of lilt and swing? The poets who are moved at all by this month seem only stirred to lamentation, giving us year end and 'melancholy days' remarks, thereby showing that theory is stronger than observation among the rhyming brotherhood, or else that they have chronic indigestion and no gardens to stimulate them.

That is the stimulus of nature; it is never, never old, and always developing. Even the scarred, wrinkled earth herself is a mere infant among the old ladies and gentlemen that tread foot-paths in the sky.

Why is it that so many people think that charity consists in giving away merely what they cannot use instead of the article the recipient needs?

Neither a garden nor a gardener can be made in one year, nor in one generation even.