It Is No Good My

Prose Is A Poor Thing, A Poor Inadequate Thing, Compared With Poetry Which Says So Much More In Shorter Time.

Gardening Is A Luxury Occupation: An Ornament, Not A Necessity, Of Life.... Fortunate Gardener, Who May Preoccupy Himself Solely With Beauty In These Difficult And Ugly Days! He Is One Of The Few People Left In This Distressful World To Carry On The Tradition Of Elegance And Charm. A Useless Member Of Society, Considered In Terms Of Economics, He Must Not Be Denied His Rightful Place. He Deserves To Share It, However Humbly, With The Painter And Poet.

Travel Is In Sad Case. It Is Uncomfortable, It Is Expensive; It Is A Source Of Annoyance To Our Friends, And Of Loneliness To Ourselves.

It Is Necessary To Write, If The Days Are Not To Slip Emptily By. How Else, Indeed, To Clap The Net Over The Butterfly Of The Moment? For The Moment Passes, It Is Forgotten; The Mood Is Gone; Life Itself Is Gone. That Is Where The Writer Scores Over His Fellows: He Catches The Changes Of His Mind On The Hop.

It Always Seemed To Me That The Herbaceous Peony Is The Very Epitome Of June. Larger Than Any Rose, It Has Something Of The Cabbage Rose's Voluminous Quality; And When It Finally Drops From The Vase, It Sheds Its Petticoats With A Bump On The Table, All In An Intact Heap, Much As A Rose Will Suddenly Fall, Making Us Look Up From Our Book Or Conversation, To Notice For One Moment The Death Of What Had Still Appeared To Be A Living Beauty.