I love spring anywhere, but if I could choose I would always greet in a garden.

The unmulched garden looks to me like some naked thing which for one reason or another would be better off with a few clothes on.

It’s a fair-sized job to write a book that people can be bothered just to read; when they begin to steal copies, you are really getting some place.

Farmers are philosophical. They have learned that it is less wearing to shrug than to beat their breasts.

Why do people who like to get up early look with disdain on those who like to lie in bed late? And why do people who like to work feel superior to those who prefer to dream?

the bliss that comes from ignorance should seldom be encouraged for it is likely to do one out of a more satisfying bliss.

If 'heartache' sounds exaggerated then surely you have never gone to your garden one rare morning in June to find that the frost, without any perceptible motive, any hope of personal gain, has quietly killed your strawberry blossoms, tomatoes, lima and green beans, corn, squash, cucumbers. A brilliant sun is now smiling at this disaster with an insenstive cheerfulness as out of place as a funny story would be if someone you loved had just died.