Now old Mr.Battershall grew parsley to make you proud.
At the Merchester Rural Gardening Show he regularly took first prize; his potting-shed, in the north-east angle of the wall, was papered with winning tickets from bench to roof.

At first when he saw Corona moving about the bed, lifting the parsley leaves, he had a mind to chide her away; for, as he put it, "Children and chicken be always a-pickin'-- the mischief's in their natur'." Finding, however, that she did no damage, yet harked back to the parsley again and again, he set her down for an unusually intelligent child, who somehow knew good gardening when she saw it.
"Glad to see you admirin' it, missie," he said one morning, coming up behind her unperceived.
Corona, in the act of upturning a leaf, started and drew back her hand.

Babies--she could not tell why--made their appearance in this world by stealth, and must be searched for furtively.
"A mort o' prizes I've took with that there parsley one time and another," pursued Mr.Battershall, not perceiving the flush of guilt on her face (for his eyesight was, in his own words, not so young as it used to be).

"Goodbody's Curly Mammoth is the strain, and I don't care who knows it, for the secret's not in the strain, but in the way o' raisin' it.

I grows for a succession, too.