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

even as human vitality is at its lowest ebb in the early morning, so it is with plant life in the early spring.

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.

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.

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