Nursery Garden Quotes

A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.

I haven't much time to be fond of anything ... but when I have a moment's fondness to bestow, most times ... the roses get it. I began my life among them in my father's nursery garden, and I shall end my life among them, if I can. Yes. One of these days (please God) I shall retire from catching thieves, and try my hand at growing roses.

Mrs. Darling loved to have everything just so, and Mr. Darling had a passion for being exactly like his neighbours; so, of course, they had a nurse. As they were poor, owing to the amount of milk the children drank, this nurse was a prim Newfoundland dog, called Nana, who had belonged to no one in particular until the Darlings engaged her. She had always thought children important, however, and the Darlings had become acquainted with her in Kensington Gardens, where she spent most of her spare time peeping into perambulators, and was much hated by careless nursemaids, whom she followed to their homes and complained of to their mistresses. She proved to be quite a treasure of a nurse.

I call it Joy. 'Animal-Land' was not imaginative. But certain other experiences were... The first is itself the memory of a memory. As I stood beside a flowering currant bush on a summer day there suddenly arose in me without warning, and as if from a depth not of years but of centuries, the memory of that earlier morning at the Old House when my brother had brought his toy garden into the nursery. It is difficult or find words strong enough for the sensation which came over me; Milton's 'enormous bliss' of Eden (giving the full, ancient meaning to 'enormous') comes somewhere near it. It was a sensation, of course, of desire; but desire for what?...Before I knew what I desired, the desire itself was gone, the whole glimpse... withdrawn, the world turned commonplace again, or only stirred by a longing for the longing that had just ceased... In a sense the central story of my life is about nothing else... The quality common to the three experiences... is that of an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction. I call it Joy, which is here a technical term and must be sharply distinguished both from Happiness and Pleasure. Joy (in my sense) has indeed one characteristic, and one only, in common with them; the fact that anyone who has experienced it will want it again... I doubt whether anyone who has tasted it would ever, if both were in his power, exchange it for all the pleasures in the world. But then Joy is never in our power and Pleasure often is.

People often ask me what one thing I would recommend to restore relationship between land and people. My answer is almost always, “Plant a garden.” It’s good for the health of the earth and it’s good for the health of people. A garden is a nursery for nurturing connection, the soil for cultivation of practical reverence. And its power goes far beyond the garden gate—once you develop a relationship with a little patch of earth, it becomes a seed itself. Something essential happens in a vegetable garden. It’s a place where if you can’t say “I love you” out loud, you can say it in seeds. And the land will reciprocate, in beans.

Rock City begins as an ornamental garden on a mountain side: its visitors walk a path that takes them through rocks, over rocks, between rocks. They throw corn into a deer enclosure, cross a hanging bridge, and peer out through a-quarter-a-throw binoculars at a view that promises them seven states on the rare sunny days when the air is perfectly clear. And from there, like a drop into some strange hell, the path takes visitors, millions upon millions of them every year, down into caverns, where they stare at black-lit dolls arranged into nursery-rhyme and fairy-tale dioramas. When they leave, they leave bemused, uncertain of why they came, of what they have seen, of whether they had a good time or not.

Like the kaleidoscope in the nursery that had so delighted her when she first came to Blackhurst, one twist and the same pieces were rearranged to create a vastly different picture.

the color of Eliza’s world had changed. Like the kaleidoscope in the nursery that had so delighted her when she first came to Blackhurst, one twist and the same pieces were rearranged to create a vastly different picture.

A garden is a nursery for nurturing connection, the soil for cultivation of practical reverence. And its power goes far beyond the garden gate - once you develop a relationship with a little patch of earth, it becomes a seed itself.

All writing is by the grace of God. People do not deserve to have good writing, they are so pleased with bad. In these sentences that you show me, I can find no beauty, for I see death in every clause and every word. There is a fossil or a mummy character which pervades this book. The best sepulchers, the vastest catacombs, Thebes and Cairo, Pyramids, are sepulchers to me. I like gardens and nurseries. Give me initiative, spermatic, prophesying, man-making words.

The breakdown of the neighborhoods also meant the end of what was essentially an extended family....With the breakdown of the extended family, too much pressure was put on the single family. Mom had no one to stay with Granny, who couldn't be depended on to set the house on fire while Mom was off grocery shopping. The people in the neighborhood weren't there to keep an idle eye out for the fourteen-year-old kid who was the local idiot, and treated with affection as well as tormented....So we came up with the idea of putting everybody in separate places. We lock them up in prisons, mental hospitals, geriatric housing projects, old-age homes, nursery schools, cheap suburbs that keep women and the kids of f the streets, expensive suburbs where everybody has their own yard and a front lawn that is tended by a gardener so all the front lawns look alike and nobody uses them anyway....the faster we lock them up, the higher up goes the crime rate, the suicide rate, the rate of mental breakdown. The way it's going, there'll be more of them than us pretty soon. Then you'll have to start asking questions about the percentage of the population that's not locked up, those that claim that the other fifty-five per cent is crazy, criminal, or senile. WE have to find some other way....So I started imagining....Suppose we built houses in a circle, or a square, or whatever, connected houses of varying sizes, but beautiful, simple. And outside, behind the houses, all the space usually given over to front and back lawns, would be common too. And there could be vegetable gardens, and fields and woods for the kids to play in. There's be problems about somebody picking the tomatoes somebody else planted, or the roses, or the kids trampling through the pea patch, but the fifty groups or individuals who lived in the houses would have complete charge and complete responsibility for what went on in their little enclave. At the other side of the houses, facing the, would be a little community center. It would have a community laundry -- why does everybody have to own a washing machine?-- and some playrooms and a little cafe and a communal kitchen. The cafe would be an outdoor one, with sliding glass panels to close it in in winter, like the ones in Paris. This wouldn't be a full commune: everybody would have their own way of earning a living, everybody would retain their own income, and the dwellings would be priced according to size. Each would have a little kitchen, in case people wanted to eat alone, a good-sized living space, but not enormous, because the community center would be there. Maybe the community center would be beautiful, lush even. With playrooms for the kids and the adults, and sitting rooms with books. But everyone in the community, from the smallest walking child, would have a job in it.

Even when a prohibition in a fairy-story is guessed to be derived from some taboo once practised long ago, it has probably been preserved in the later stages of the tale's history because of the great mythical significance of prohibition. A sense of significance may indeed have lain behind some of the taboos themselves. Thou shalt not - or else thou shalt depart beggared into endless regret. The gentlest 'nursery-tales' know it. Even Peter Rabbit was forbidden a garden, lost his blue coat, and took sick. The Locked Door stands as an eternal Temptation.

Medlock said I was to carry tha' breakfast an' tea an' dinner into th' room next to this. It's been made into a nursery for thee. I'll help thee on with thy clothes if tha'll get out o' bed. If th' buttons are at th' back tha' cannot button them up tha'self." When Mary at last decided to get up, the clothes Martha took from the wardrobe were not the ones she had worn when she arrived the night before

Science has answered many questions, has given us many technological advances, but nevertheless there are some questions it cannot answer and will never be able to answer. Now to admit that will provoke squeals of protest from some quarters, accusations that one is abandoning reason. By why should that be so? I'm simply arguing for "science and" - science and the humanities; science and philosophy; science and art; science and history; science and theology. Why must some atheists act like an agoraphobic toddler who is terrified of stepping outside the confines of the nursery into the garden, preferring to play with her building blocks and dollies inside where it's safe and familiar? Why can't we throw open the shutters, fling wide the doors, and embrace a world of knowledge that is vastly bigger and more glorious than just the physical sciences?

Sita closed her eyes and breathed into her cupped hands. Before she left, she had remembered to perfume her wrist with Muguet. The faint odor of that flower, so pure and close to the earth, was comforting. She had planted real lilies of the valley because she liked them so much as a perfume. Just last fall, before the hard freeze, when she was feeling back to normal, the pips had arrived in a little white box. Her order from a nursery company. She'd put on her deerskin gloves and, on her knees, using a hand trowel, dug a shallow trench along the border of her blue Dwarf iris. Then one by one she'd planted the pips. They looked like shelled acorns, only tinier. "To be planted points upward," said a leaflet in the directions. They came up early in the spring. The tiny spears of their leaves would be showing soon. Lying there, sleepless, she imaged their white venous roots, a mass of them fastening together, forming new shoots below the earth, unfurling their stiff leaves. She saw herself touching their tiny bells, waxed white, fluted, and breathing the ravishing fragrance they gave off because Louis had absently walked through her border again, dragging his shovel, crushing them with his big, careless feet. It seemed as though hours of imaginary gardening passed before Mrs. Waldvogel tiptoed in without turning on the light.

People often ask me what one thing I would recommend to restore relationship between land and people. My answer is almost always, “Plant a garden.” It’s good for the health of the earth and it’s good for the health of people. A garden is a nursery for nurturing connection, the soil for cultivation of practical reverence. And its power goes far beyond the garden gate—once you develop a relationship with a little patch of earth, it becomes a seed itself.

Great was the joy in the Greshamsbury nursery when the second change took place. Among the doctor’s attributes, not hitherto mentioned, was an aptitude for the society of children. He delighted to talk to children, and to play with them. He would carry them on his back, three or four at a time, roll with them on the ground, race with them in the garden, invent games for them, contrive amusements in circumstances which seemed quite adverse to all manner of delight; and, above all, his physic was not nearly so nasty as that which came from Silverbridge.

Humans interpret. Like fish swim and birds fly, we interpret. We have always done so. We were created as interpreters. We interpret God, gardens, snakes, light, darkness, Mom’s voice, Dad’s voice, colours, babysitters, nurseries, spinach, commandments, events, sacrifices, poems, songs, books, newspapers, the sports newscaster, soccer games, speeches, scenery, sunrises, sunsets, food, sermons, allegories, street lights, people, cursing, a kiss, the wink of an eye, cancer, and death (to name just a few). We are homo interpretum as much as we are homo sapiens.

You have given me a thing I could never have imagined, before I knew you. It's like I had the word 'book,' and you put one in my hands. I had the word 'game,' and you taught me how to play. I had the word 'life,' and then you came along and said 'Oh! You mean this.' Every year, as close to this day as we can, let's go to the nursery and find something for the yard. I don't know anything about plants. I don't know their names or how to care for them. I don't even know how to tell one blurry green thing from another. But I can learn, as I've had to re-learn everything - myself, my likes and dislikes, the width and height and depth of where I live - again, alongside you. Not everything we plant will take. Not every plant will thrive. But together we can watch the ones that do fill up our garden.

There is no sense of ease like the ease we felt in those scenes where we were born, where objects became dear to us before we had known the labour of choice, and where the outer world seemed only an extension of our own personality: we accepted and loved it as we accepted our own sense of existence and our own limbs. Very commonplace, even ugly, that furniture of our early home might look if it were put up to auction; an improved taste in upholstery scorns it; and is not the striving after something better and better in our surrounding, the grand characteristic that distinguishes man from the brute - or, to satisfy a scrupulous accuracy of definition, that distinguishes the British man from the foreign brute? But heaven knows where that striving might lead us, if our affections had not a trick of twining round those old inferior things - if the loves and sanctities of our life had no deep immovable roots in memory. One's delight in an elderberry bush overhanging the confused lea age of a hedgerow bank, as a more gladdening sight than the finest cistus or fuchsia spreading itself on the softest undulating turf, is an entirely unjustifiable preference to a nursery-gardener, or to any of those severely regulated minds who are free from the weakness of any attachment that does not rest on a demonstrable superiority of qualities. And there is no better reason for preferring this elderberry bush than that it stirs an early memory - that it is no novelty in my life, speaking to me merely through my present sensibilities to form and colour, but the long companion of my existence, that wove itself into my joys when joys were vivid.

The first is itself the memory of a memory. As I stood beside a flowering currant bush on a summer day there suddenly arose in me without warning, and as if from a depth not of years but of centuries, the memory of that earlier morning at the Old House when my brother had brought his toy garden into the nursery. It is difficult to find words strong enough for the sensation which came over me; Milton’s “enormous bliss” of Eden (giving the full, ancient meaning to “enormous”) comes somewhere near it. It was a sensation, of course, of desire; but desire for what? not, certainly, for a biscuit tin filled with moss, nor even (though that came into it) for my own past. ’Ioῦλíανπoθῶ2—and before I knew what I desired, the desire itself was gone, the whole glimpse withdrawn, the world turned commonplace again, or only stirred by a longing for the longing that had just ceased. It had taken only a moment of time; and in a certain sense everything else that had ever happened to me was insignificant in comparison. The

I suppose that an American's approach to English literature must always be oblique. We share a language but not a landscape. In order to understand the English classics as adults, we must build up a sort of visual vocabulary from the books we read as children.... I contend that a child brought up on the nursery rhymes and Jacobs' English Fairy Tales can better understand Shakespeare; that a child who has pored over Beatrix Potter can better respond to Wordsworth. Of course it is best if one can find for himself a bank where the wild thyme grows, or discover daffodils growing wild. Failing that, the American child must feed the "inward eye" with the images in the books he reads when young so that he can enter a larger realm when he is older. I am sure I enjoyed the Bronte novels more for having read The Secret Garden first. As I stood on those moors, looking out over that wind-swept landscape I realized that it was Mrs. Burnett who taught me what "wuthering" meant long before I ever got around to reading Wuthering Heights. Epiphany comes at the moment of recognition.

There is no sense of ease like the ease we felt in those scenes where we were born, where objects became dear to us before we had known the labor of choice, and where the outer world seemed only an extension of our own personality; we accepted and loved it as we accepted our own sense of existence and our own limbs. Very commonplace, even ugly, that furniture of our early home might look if it were put up to auction; an improved taste in upholstery scorns it; and is not the striving after something better and better in our surroundings the grand characteristic that distinguishes man from the brute, or, to satisfy a scrupulous accuracy of definition, that distinguishes the British man from the foreign brute? But heaven knows where that striving might lead us, if our affections had not a trick of twining round those old inferior things; if the loves and sanctities of our life had no deep immovable roots in memory. One's delight in an elderberry bush overhanging the confused leafage of a hedgerow bank, as a more gladdening sight than the finest cistus or fuchsia spreading itself on the softest undulating turf, is an entirely unjustifiable preference to a nursery-gardener, or to any of those regulated minds who are free from the weakness of any attachment that does not rest on a demonstrable superiority of qualities. And there is no better reason for preferring this elderberry bush than that it stirs an early memory; that it is no novelty in my life, speaking to me merely through my present sensibilities to form and color, but the long companion of my existence, that wove itself into my joys when joys were vivid.

One finds oneself surprisingly supplied with information. Outside the undifferentiated forces roar; inside we are very private, very explicit, have a sense indeed, that it is here, in this little room, that we make whatever day of the week it may be. Friday or Saturday. A shell forms upon the soft soul, nacreous, shiny, upon which sensations tap their beaks in vain. On me it formed earlier than on most. Soon I could carve my pear when other people had done dessert. I could bring my sentence to a close in a hush of complete silence. It is at that season too that perfection has a lure. One can learn Spanish, one thinks, by tying a string to the right toe and waking early. One fills up the little compartments of one’s engagement book with dinner at eight; luncheon at one-thirty. One has shirts, socks, ties laid out on one’s bed. But it is a mistake, this extreme precision, this orderly and military progress; a convenience, a lie. There is always deep below it, even when we arrive punctually at the appointed time with our white waistcoats and polite formalities, a rushing stream of broken dreams, nursery rhymes, street cries, half-finished sentences and sights—elm trees, willow trees, gardeners sweeping, women writing—that rise and sink even as we hand a lady down to dinner. While one straightens the fork so precisely on the table-cloth, a thousand faces mop and mow. There is nothing one can fish up in a spoon; nothing one can call an event. Yet it is alive too and deep, this stream. Immersed in it I would stop between one mouthful and the next, and look intently at a vase, perhaps with one red flower, while a reason struck me, a sudden revelation.

Consider it a Solstice and birthday present in one.' He gestured to the house, the gardens, the grounds that flowed to the river's edge. With a perfect view of the Rainbow at night, thanks to the land's curve. 'It's yours. Ours. I purchased it on Solstice Eve. Workers are coming in two days to begin clearing the rubble and knock down the rest of the house.' I blinked again, long and slow. 'You bought me an estate?' 'Technically, it will be our estate, but the house is yours. Build it to your heart's content. Everything you want, everything you need- build it.' The cost alone, the sheer size of this gift had to astronomical. 'Rhys.' He paced a few steps, running his hands through his blue-black hair, his wings tucked in tight. 'We have no space at the town house. You and I can barely fit everything in the bedroom. And no one wants to be at the House of Wind.' He again gestured to the magnificent estate around us. 'So build a house for us, Feyre. Dream as wildly as you want. It's yours.' I didn't have words for it. What cascaded through me. 'It- the cost-' 'Don't worry about the cost.' 'But...' I gaped at the sleeping, tangled land, the ruined house. Pictured what I might want there. My knees wobbled. 'Rhys- it's too much.' His face became deadly serious. 'Not for you. Never for you.' He slid his arms around my waist, kissing my temple. 'Build a house with a painting studio.' He kissed my other temple. 'Build a house with an office for you, and one for me. Build a house with a bathtub big enough for two- and for wings.' Another kiss, this time to my cheek. 'Build a house with a garden for Elain, a training ring for the Illyrian babies, a library for Amren, and an enormous dressing room for Mor.' I choked on a laugh at that. But Rhys silenced it with a kiss to my mouth, lingering and sweet. 'Build a house with a nursery, Feyre.' My heart tightened to the point of pain, and I kissed him back. Kissed him again and again, the property wide and clear around us. 'I will,' I promised.

Those who live according to the sinful nature have their minds set on what that nature desires; but those who live in accordance with the Spirit have their minds set on what the Spirit desires.—Romans 8:5 What is a butterfly garden? It is first a flower garden. But it is also a garden where all the plants are selected to attract and support butterflies. How do you plant a butterfly garden? You begin with a list of the flowers and shrubs that will attract certain butterflies. One thing you will discover on your first visit to the plant nursery is that some really beautiful flowers aren’t on the list. And some others, which aren’t as spectacular to the human eye, are butterfly magnets. If you just want flowers, plant whatever you wish. But if you want to attract butterflies, the butterflies make the rules. To sit on your porch and look out at a garden is a wonderful thing. That same garden with yellow, black, orange, and blue butterflies flitting and hovering among the flowers is another thing entirely. It is a firsthand witness to the joyous partnership between two of God’s most beautiful creations. For those who don’t understand, the Christian life can also look like a list—a list of rights and wrongs, rules and prohibitions. However, like my butterfly list, the point is not limitation but life. In the garden of the Christian, life is nurtured as the Holy Spirit freely moves without hindrance, guiding us

It was on the morning of the first day at my school after the long summer break this year that I noticed something stunning as I was about to enter my school through the rock garden gate. As usual, I was so much eager to have a first glimpse of my favourite red brick house from a distance, but instead something even redder captured my eyes. It was an elegant tree full bloomed with red coloured flowers in the morning sun waiting to welcome me back to school after the break, which immediately lifted little remaining home sickness. The guard uncle told that the majestic tree is called Krishnachura. Again I was awed by the beauty of the name. I have seen this tree a plenty in my locality at Salt Lake, but they never ever drew my attention the way this tree did at the school gate at the backdrop of the red building that summer morning. After returning home, I immediately searched for more details of the Krishnachura and found that the tree originally belongs to the islands of the Madagascar. In other parts of India, this tree is known as the Gulmohar. They are also fondly called “Flames of forest”, which somebody rightly resembled them to the flames of the bushfires in hot dry summer. I also found that in many countries, e.g. in Japan, every school must plant at least few flowering cherry trees in their premises. These cherry blossoms have influenced the Japanese society and its art and culture tremendously. Similarly, the Krishnachura has also influenced many poets and appears in the Indian literature and music. However, in our country, they are not mandatorily planted in our school. I am so fortunate to have these trees in my school. I again realized the visions of the founders and subsequent nurturers of my school. I have been seeing this tree since my nursery days, but probably, I was too little to be conscious about its beauty. I told about this to my father, but he further astonished me when he told me that even he looks forward every year for the blossom. Probably, me too will be waiting every year henceforth for the Krishnachura to bloom, but the trail of the sight of the tree of my school that very morning of June with remain with me forever.

The nursery reminded me uncomfortably of a pre-Rising thriller that Maggie had forced me to watch while we were staying at the Agora in Seattle: a dinosaur adventure called Jurassic Park, in which scientists with more brains than sense cloned enormous prehistoric predators just because they could. Maybe that’s an oversimplification of the movie’s premise, but really, who looks at a three-ton thunder lizard and thinks, “I should get one of those for the back garden”?

The questions raised by Lucretia [Mott]'s life are "How are you called into action?" and "Are you faithful to that call?" Your actions might be public or so quiet that they are never notices, which Emily [Dickinson] would have applauded. Your act of courage might be taking the time and developing the spirit to reconcile a relationship. Or it might be simply getting out of bed if you suffer from depression or going to that first A.A. meeting. You might be quietly writing letters to political prisoners through Amnesty International or sending anonymous donation to help the orphans in South Africa. You might take time each week to go to the hospital nursery to rock the neglected babies with AIDS. You may have a strong desire to cultivate your own garden and participate in growing the food you eat, allowing time for your inner spirit to grow and be nurtured as well. You may be protecting and valuing time as a parent. It is not important whether our actions are considered large or small; it is important that they stem from the center of our being. When we learn to live from our own authenticity, we activate our still inner voice. Although Lucretia [Mott] was a lead singer on the world stage, she would have been perfectly happy singing backup for someone else -- as long as the music was right and all the people were included in the dancing.

Each of those visionary leaders created a brilliant loonshot nursery; they achieved Bush-Vail rule #1: phase separation. But they remained judge and jury of new ideas. Unlike Bush and Vail, who saw their role as gardeners tending to the touch and balance between loonshots and franchises, encouraging transfer and exchange, those three master P-type innovators saw themselves as Moses, raising their staffs, anointing the chosen loonshot.

Consider growing an eco-friendly lawn, instead of the conventional, perfect lawn, to keep your hens and soil their healthiest. Ecological seed mixes, which you can get at your local retail nursery or feed store, contain a variety of plant types, many of which might be considered weeds to a gardener who prefers a perfect monocrop of grass blades, but are an excellent, diverse source of greens for chickens to forage. An eco-lawn requires less maintenance such as mowing, and requires fewer resources like water and fertilizers. Clover, one of the most important plants found in eco-seed mixes, fixes nitrogen naturally in the soil and eliminates the need for fertilizers.

Much as the din and the feeling of being an unwilling insect carrier wore on my nerves, I still loved the Brood V hatch experience, the way I love big surf, thunderstorms, and oversized rat snakes. They're all reminders that nature is bigger, far bigger, and more powerful than we usually care to admit. Just as the hatch was starting, I stood in line at my favorite garden center behind a young man who was buying two gallons of a deadly liquid insecticide. He was hoping to stop the cicada hatch, to save his trees from what he was sure would be the death of them. The nursery manager rang up the sale, and his eyes met mine as the young man handed over his money. We shook our heads and smiled. I went home to watch the celebration.

Then suddenly one day, for he had been too busy for weeks to give a thought to his adventures, he remembered the gift of Galadriel. He brought the box out and showed it to the other Travellers (for so they were now called by everyone), and asked their advice. ‘I wondered when you would think of it,’ said Frodo. ‘Open it!’ Inside it was filled with a grey dust, soft and fine, in the middle of which was a seed, like a small nut with a silver shale. ‘What can I do with this?’ said Sam. ‘Throw it in the air on a breezy day and let it do its work!’ said Pippin. ‘On what?’ said Sam. ‘Choose one spot as a nursery, and see what happens to the plants there,’ said Merry. ‘But I’m sure the Lady would not like me to keep it all for my own garden, now so many folk have suffered,’ said Sam. ‘Use all the wits and knowledge you have of your own, Sam,’ said Frodo, ‘and then use the gift to help your work and better it. And use it sparingly. There is not much here, and I expect every grain has a value.

Sorrel always thought herself happy in the little village by the sea. She was content among her flowers and specimen trees, the extraordinary roses and lilacs, sweet peas and hydrangeas that bloomed- somehow simultaneously and for months beyond reason- in the Nursery. She found great pleasure in picking the pears, cherries, and apples for Nettie's tarts, the tender young peas and beans, the lettuce so green it glowed, and the nasturtiums and violas that her sister used in her salads. She was grateful for Patience's remedies on the rare occasion when she felt ill. But Sorrel's hands were happiest deep in the soil and curled around the stems of the flowers she grew and arranged.

Like their mother, Honor Sparrow, dead now for twenty-some years- gone on the very day her youngest daughter, Impatiens, arrived- the sisters had all green thumbs. It was ordained, really. They had each been named after a botanical, mostly flowers, and as their mother kept producing girls, the names became slightly ridiculous. But Honor was a keen gardener and in darkest winter, calling her daughter's names reminded her that spring would come again. For months after her death the older girls hated their names and all they recalled for them. By the time they founded the Sparrow Sisters Nursery, though, each thoroughly embraced their names as the sign they were.

It was as Frank said: the Sparrow Sisters Nursery had quite a reputation. Sally told Henry about the Nursery that was now a landmark in the town. The plants that grew in tidy rows, the orchids that swayed delicately in the beautiful glass greenhouses, and the herbs and vegetables sown in knot gardens around the land were much in demand. Sorrel had planted a dense little Shakespeare garden as a tribute to her reading habits. The lavender, rosemary, roses and honeysuckle, clematis and pansies, creeping thyme and sage were not for sale in that garden, but Sorrel would re-create versions of it for clients whose big houses on the water needed the stamp of culture, even if their owners had little idea what their lovely gardens meant.

She left the highway, drove straight on, turned off into the street that ran by the plant nurseries, passed the fancy villas with their big gardens, and went around the corner. There, up in the sky, she noticed for the first time a gigantic mounded cloud, as large and elaborately moulded as a baroque opera house and lit from below and at the sides by pink and creamy hues. It sailed beyond her, improbable and romantic, following in the blue sky the course she was taking down below. It seemed to her that it must be a good omen.

Brandt stood at the gate as a garden club arrived at his nursery. One of the women reached over the fence and picked a rhododendron flower. Brandt immediately closed the gate and told the group to go home.

that voles seem to be repelled by members of the spurge family (Euphorbiaceae). I dashed out, bought all the donkey tail spurge (Euphorbia myrsinites) I could find at the nursery, and surrounded the yarrow with them.

Rhys—it’s too much.” His face became deadly serious. “Not for you. Never for you.” He slid his arms around my waist, kissing my temple. “Build a house with a painting studio.” He kissed my other temple. “Build a house with an office for you, and one for me. Build a house with a bathtub big enough for two—and for wings.” Another kiss, this time to my cheek. “Build a house with rooms for all our family.” He kissed my other cheek. “Build a house with a garden for Elain, a training ring for the Illyrian babies, a library for Amren, and an enormous dressing room for Mor.” I choked on a laugh at that. But Rhys silenced it with a kiss to my mouth, lingering and sweet. “Build a house with a nursery, Feyre.

The garden The garden, garden of everything, Where her glamour grows on everything, It is a vogue of feelings all, And how I love being with these feelings all, Her feelings, growing everywhere in this garden, Where she is my only beautiful imagination in this beauty’s own garden, Her thoughts grow as buds of joy everywhere, That wait to blossom as feelings not just here or there, but everywhere, And when these feelings bloom, I feel surrounded by her sensations and within them now my feelings bloom, Opening as petals of feelings representing a range of emotions, Her imaginations, her thoughts, and love’s all emotions, Then this garden smells like a nursery of all hopes, wishes and desires, And as her sensations fuse with my desires, The garden closes like a morning glory, And within it lie all my feelings submerged in her beauty’s glory, As I lie there in this blossom of bliss and garden of her beauty, The garden reveals its true splendour, its original beauty, And I see her standing there, and nothing else, Now she is the garden, she is an assimilation of all my desires and everything else, Then the universe does not exist, the world disappears; and just the garden remains, And in it she as its chief beauty grows, and there is what now remains, all that remains, Of me and my desires, and my all hopes, Because with her in the garden I feel no need for wishes and no need for hopes!

Suppose I am God," said the voice, "and suppose I made the world in idleness. Suppose the stars, that you think eternal, are only the idiot fireworks of an everlasting schoolboy. Suppose the sun and the moon, to which you sing alternately, are only the two eyes of one vast and sneering giant, opened alternately in a never-ending wink. Suppose the trees, in my eyes, are as foolish as enormous toad-stools. Suppose Socrates and Charlemagne are only to me beasts, made funnier by walking on their hind legs. Suppose I am God, and having made things, laugh at them." "And suppose I am man," answered the other, " And suppose that I give the answer that shatters even a laugh. Suppose I do not laugh back at you, do not blaspheme you, do not curse you. But suppose, standing up straight under the sky, with every power of my being, thank you for the fools' paradise you have made. Suppose I praise you, with a literal pain of ecstasy, for the jest that has brought me so terrible a joy. If we have taken the child's games, and given them the seriousness of a crusade, if we have drenched your grotesque Dutch garden with the blood of martyrs, we have turned a nursery into a temple. I ask you, in the name of heaven, who wins?

You know I know next to zip about gardening, right? It's easy. You buy the pretty pots from the nursery, you stick them in the ground. If they die, you buy more. If not, you brag like there's no tomorrow.

A gardener is asked to plant five rows of cherry trees with four trees in each row. His employer gives him exactly enough money to buy twenty trees from the local nursery, and jokingly tells him that he can keep whatever change there is. On the way to the nursery, the gardener realizes that it if he buys just ten trees, it will still be possible to plant five rows with four trees in each, and he can keep half the money he has been given. How does he plan to plant the trees?

All of this debris combines to produce a very dark comb, laden with things your brand-new bees don’t need to be exposed to and that surely add a level of stress to your colony. Replace older, dark combs routinely to keep the nursery area as clean as possible and to avoid this stress. Every three years, in the spring when most combs are empty, is a good recommendation, but it certainly should occur whenever the comb becomes so dark that when held up to the sun, no light passes through.

father died, to help her adjust to her new reality. He was making the best of his current life—working at the nursery, teaching Community Ed gardening classes, and playing around with