what's the good of having news an' ye must coop it? It's like cold veal pie upon the chest for supper, the same being over old, under done, and dry o' gravy.

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

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?

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.

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

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

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.