Mabel Osgood Wright Quotes
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what's the good of having news an' ye must coop it? It's like cold veal pie upon the chest for supper, the same being over old, under done, and dry o' gravy.
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what is life worth if one has nothing to give away? This lack, it seems to me, must be the sharpest pang of poverty.
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the various earth odors all have a separate tale to tell, and the leaf mold of the woods bears a wholly different fragrance from that of the soil under pasture turf, or the breath that the garden gives off in great sighs of relief when it is relaxed and refreshed by a summer shower.
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Even as human vitality is at its lowest ebb in the early morning, so it is with plant life in the early spring.
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Mother love is invariably held sacred, as it should be, but why has father love never had its due?
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Nature, when undisturbed, is never monotonous, you know. Even when using green, the most frequent color on her palette, she throws in contrasting tints by way of expression, and you will seldom see two sides of a leaf of the same hue, and the leaf stem frequently gives a good dash of bronze or purple.
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Why is it that so many people think that charity consists in giving away merely what they cannot use instead of the article the recipient needs?
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Imagine how terrifying it would be if we had to decide the beginnings of things for ourselves: as to what race we should belong, what sex, and all that, instead of placidly coming out of unconsciousness to find it all arranged!
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it is really astonishing how few colors are inharmonious when they are profusely massed and have green for a background.
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Neither a garden nor a gardener can be made in one year, nor in one generation even.
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Surely there is no greater garden for human-nature study than the flotsam and jetsam of the hospital.
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in the city at best one lives the life of others, the life of the shop, the street, the crowd, while in the country one must live one's own life.
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I have always noticed that when people consider others eccentric, it is because they are reveling in some form of enjoyment that their critics can neither compass nor share.
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Let everyone who makes garden plans frequently insert the letters C.P. in them as a reminder, the same standing for climate permitting.
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That is the stimulus of nature; it is never, never old, and always developing. Even the scarred, wrinkled earth herself is a mere infant among the old ladies and gentlemen that tread foot-paths in the sky.
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It doesn't so much matter what one loves. To love is the transfiguring thing.