Working in the garden . . . gives me a profound feeling of inner peace. Nothing here is in a hurry. There is no rush toward accomplishment, no blowing of trumpets. Here is the great mystery of life and growth. Everything is changing, growing, aiming at something, but silently, unboastfully, taking its time.

Working in the garden gives me something beyond the enjoyment of the senses. It gives me a profound feeling of inner peace.

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

Only in the winter, in the country, can you have longer quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself.

Farmers are philosophical; they have learned that it is less wearing to shrug than to beat their breasts. But there is another angle to their attitude. Things happen rapidly in the country; something new always comes along to divert them and it isn't necessarily another calamity.

To the Memory of those faithful brown slave-men of the plantations throughout the South, Daddy's contemporaries all, who during the war while their masters were away fighting in a cause opposed to their emancipation, brought their blankets and slept outside their mistresses' doors, thus keeping night-watch over otherwise unprotected women and children -- a faithful guardianship of which the annals of those troublous times record no instance of betrayal.

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