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There is a little garden near us, which is the prettiest and most
plentiful little spot in all the neighborhood. The earliest radishes,
peas, strawberries, and tomatoes, grow there. It supplies the family
with vegetables, besides some for the market.
If anybody wants flowers, that garden is the place to go for the
sweetest roses, pinks and "all sorts," without number. The soil, we used
to think, was poor and rocky, besides being exposed to the north wind.
The owner is a busy man, yet he never hires.
"How do you make so much out of your little garden?"
"I give my mornings to it," answered the owner, "and I don't know which
is the most benefited by my work, my garden or myself."