To Dig One's Own Spade Into One's

Every Moment Of This Strange And Lovely Life From Dawn To Dusk, Is A Miracle. Somewhere, Always A Rose Is Opening Its Petals To The Dawn. Somewhere, Always, A Flower Is Fading In The Dusk.

Marriage Is A Book Of Which The First Chapter Is Written In Poetry And The Remaining Chapters In Prose.

Let Us Be Honest: Most Of Us Rather Like Our Cats To Have A Streak Of Wickedness. I Should Not Feel Quite Easy In The Company Of Any Cat That Walked Around The House With A Saintly Expression.

Most People, Early In November, Take Last Looks At Their Gardens, Are Are Then Prepared To Ignore Them Until The Spring. I Am Quite Sure That A Garden Doesn't Like To Be Ignored Like This. It Doesn't Like To Be Covered In Dust Sheets, As Though It Were An Old Room Which You Had Shut Up During The Winter. Especially Since A Garden Knows How Gay And Delightful It Can Be, Even In The Very Frozen Heart Of The Winter, If You Only Give It A Chance.

A Garden Without Cats, It Will Be Generally Agreed, Can Scarcely Deserve To Be Called A Garden At All...much Of The Magic Of The Heather Beds Would Vanish If, As We Bent Over Them, There Was No Chance That We Might Hear A Faint Rustle Among The Blossoms, And Find Ourselves Staring Into A Pair Of Sleepy Green Eyes.