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  •     And you be wise, alert for inconsistencies and tolerant of them and of all other caprices of growth, you will find that the garden at its core is inexhaustible and sparks off by day and by night curious independent tangents, little trills and flourishes that are boundless in their possibilities and endless in their ability to woo, cajole, and astonish. The sunflower on the southeast corner of the Inner (formerly Secret) Garden, for example. I didn’t plant it.

  • In that era the game of Halt! was played in which one froze at the word in whatever posture one was in and I do not remember the rest of it.
  • The recent rave is the tropical look for our gardens, get out and get under the continent, go south, enthuse the pundits, quite forgetting that the gardener up north has always enjoyed the tender and the cosseted.
  • If I had to do it all over again (and I just might — why should Hindus have all the fun?) I would come back as a...
  • I thought she would not stay nor last, part of last month and this one, in hospital watching foul weather settle over a Southampton neighborhood painted over and over by...
  • Who plants a tree is generous, they say, but it can be a selfish act, a smug one, one that is a plea for praise, an act of no little tyranny to put in place a monster, an enormous caster of shade, a green monument not unlike a great temple or a hall devoted to...
  • <p> One snipped here and there by way of saying goodbye and voted, knowing a great change was in the nation and went to bed early, not wanting to know, not just yet.</p>