for he was forcing some tulips, and they have all shrivelled up
and died, and he says he cannot imagine why. Besides, he is in love
with the cook, and is going to marry her after Christmas, and refuses
to enter into any of my plans with the enthusiasm they deserve,
but sits with vacant eye dreamily chopping wood from morning till
night to keep the beloved one's kitchen fire well supplied.
I cannot understand any one preferring cooks to marigolds;
those future marigolds, shadowy as they are, and whose seeds are
still sleeping at the seedsman's, have shone through my winter days
like golden lamps.

I wish with all my heart I were a man, for of course the first
thing I should do would be to buy a spade and go and garden, and then I
should have the delight of doing everything for my flowers with my own hands
and need not waste time explaining what I want done to somebody else.
It is dull work giving orders and trying to describe the bright
visions of one's brain to a person who has no visions and no brain,
and who thinks a yellow bed should be calceolarias edged with blue.

I have taken care in choosing my yellow plants to put down only
those humble ones that are easily pleased and grateful for little,
for my soil is by no means all that it might be, and to most
plants the climate is rather trying. I feel really grateful
to any flower that is sturdy and willing enough to flourish here.
Pansies seem to like the place and so do sweet-peas; pinks don't,
and after much coaxing gave hardly any flowers last summer.
Nearly all the roses were a success, in spite of the sandy soil,
except the tea-rose Adam, which was covered with buds ready
to open, when they suddenly turned brown and died, and three
standard Dr. Grills which stood in a row and simply sulked.