strong I'd be strong. I wonder? One summer, lying in bed in a hospital
where the heat was terrific, I found myself repeating over and over:

"Sabrina fair,
Listen where thou art sitting,
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,"

and finding it far more cooling than iced orange juice. Was not I
proving Banksleigh's contention? I was thinking cool and I was cool. In
his own case New Thought seemed to work. He always looked ready to give
up forever, and yet he never did.

California is full of people with queer quirks and they aren't confined
to gardeners. I haven't had a hair-dresser who wasn't occult or psychic
or something, from the Colonial Dame with premonitions to the last one,
who had both inspirations and vibrations, and my hair keeps right on
coming out.

I don't quite understand why gardeners should be queer. They say that
cooks invariably become affected in time by so much bending over a hot
stove, and that is easy to understand, but bending over nature ought to
have quite the opposite effect, but it doesn't always. The lady gardener
who laid out the garden that finally replaced our wild-flower tangle,
proved that. She had a voice that would be wonderful in a shipyard, a
firmness and determination that would be an asset to Congress and a very
kind heart, also much taste and infinite knowledge of the preferences
and peculiarites of California plants. Her right-hand man, "Will," was
also odd. Unfortunately, his ideas were almost the opposite of hers.
Before they arrived at our gate sounds of altercation were only too
plain. She liked curves in the walks, he preferred corners; she liked