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

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.

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.

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

the various earth odors all have a separate tale to tell, and the leaf mold of the woods bears a wholly different fragrance from that of the soil under pasture turf, or the breath that the garden gives off in great sighs of relief when it is relaxed and refreshed by a summer shower.

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!

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