Then, many persons fully appreciate the beauty and the scent of flowers, and enjoy selecting and arranging them for a room, who can't abide to handle a fork or meddle with mother earth.
Others again, amongst whom I number myself, love not only the lore of flowers, and the sight of them, and the fragrance of them, and the growing of them, and the picking of them, and the arranging of them, but also inherit from Father Adam a natural relish for tilling the ground from whence they were taken and to which they shall return.
With little persons in little gardens, having also little strength and little leisure, this husbandry may not exceed the small uses of fork and trowel, but the earth-love is there, all the same.

I remember once, coming among some family papers upon an old letter from my grandmother to my grandfather.

She was a clever girl (she did not outlive youth), and the letter was natural and full of energy and point.

My grandfather seems to have apologized to his bride for the disorderly state of the garden to which she was about to-go home, and in reply she quaintly and vehemently congratulates herself upon this unpromising fact.

For--"I do so dearly love _grubbing_." This touches another point.