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

it is really astonishing how few colors are inharmonious when they are profusely massed and have green for a background.

Let everyone who makes garden plans frequently insert the letters C.P. in them as a reminder, the same standing for climate permitting.

in the city at best one lives the life of others, the life of the shop, the street, the crowd, while in the country one must live one's own life.

Imagine how terrifying it would be if we had to decide the beginnings of things for ourselves: as to what race we should belong, what sex, and all that, instead of placidly coming out of unconsciousness to find it all arranged!

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.

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