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

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!

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

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

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.

Nature, when undisturbed, is never monotonous, you know. Even when using green, the most frequent color on her palette, she throws in contrasting tints by way of expression, and you will seldom see two sides of a leaf of the same hue, and the leaf stem frequently gives a good dash of bronze or purple.

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