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It is fortunate that each generation does not comprehend its own ignorance. We are thus enabled to call our ancestors barbarous.
What a man needs in gardening is a cast-iron back, with a hinge in it.
To own a bit of ground, to scratch it with a hoe, to plant seeds, and watch the renewal of life - this is the commonest delight of the race, the most satisfactory thing a man can do.
The man who has planted a garden feels that he has done something for the good of the world.
The love of dirt is among the earliest of passions, as it is the latest. Mud-pies gratify one of our first and best instincts. So long as we are dirty, we are pure. Fondness for the ground comes back to a man after he has run the round of pleasure and business, eaten dirt, and sown wild oats, drifted about the world, and taken the wind of all its moods. The love of digging in the ground (or of looking on while he pays another to dig) is as sure to come back to him, as he is sure, at last, to go under the ground, and stay there.
No man but feels more of a man in the world if he have a bit of ground that he can call his own. However small it is on the surface, it is four thousand miles deep; and that is a very handsome property.
Lettuce is like conversation: it must be fresh and crisp, and so sparkling that you scarcely notice the bitter in it.
Hoeing in the garden on a bright, soft May day, when you are not obligated to, is nearly equal to the delight of going trouting.
Hoe while it is spring, and enjoy the best anticipations. It is not much matter if things do not turn out well.
Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.
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