and a bit over, you must get your implements of husbandry.

The spade is the first thing, but the average ironmonger will show you
an unwieldy weapon only meant to be used by navvies. Don't buy it.
Get a small spade, about half-size -- it is nice and light and doesn't
tire the wrist, and with it you can make a good display of enthusiasm,
and earn the hypocritical admiration of your wife. After digging
for half-an-hour or so, get her to rub your back with any
of the backache cures. From that moment you will have no further need
for the spade.

A barrow is about the only other thing needed; anyhow,
it is almost a necessity for wheeling cases of whisky up to the house.
A rake is useful when your terrier dog has bailed up a cat,
and will not attack it until the cat is made to run.

Talking of terrier dogs, an acquaintance of ours has a dog that does all
his gardening. The dog is a small elderly terrier with a failing memory.
As soon as the terrier has planted a bone in the garden
the owner slips over, digs it up and takes it away. When that terrier
goes back and finds the bone gone, he distrusts his memory,
and begins to think that perhaps he has made a mistake,
and has dug in the wrong place; so he sets to work, and digs patiently
all over the garden, turning over acres of soil in the course of
his search. This saves his master a lot of backache.

The sensible amateur gardener, then, will not attempt to fight with Nature
but will fall in with her views. What more pleasant than to get out of bed
at 11.30 on a Sunday morning; to look out of your window at a lawn
waving with the feathery plumes of Parramatta grass, and to see beyond it