Sow-and-Sow.

“Dreaming when Dawn's left hand was in the sky,” he waits for Creation to work its magic on his broccoli bed, cabbage cradle and cauliflower cot. What happens ? Ask yourself! If he has the luck of me and you, his cabbages are like green knob-kerries, you could use his carrots for boot-laces, the spring onions look “sprung,” the children play marbles with the pumpkins, the turnips don't turn up, the cucumbers miss their cue, the peas take one cross-eyed look out of the ground and turn back, and the baby uses the only marrow to cut his teeth on.

No doubt, as the seedsman says, he either put too much and/or too little cyanide of sassafras on them, or was too generous and/or too niggardly with the hydrated essence of ditherums. But, aren't we all? We fell down on the stimulants last spring; we'll come a crash next spring and all subsequent springs. But, so long as spouse, seedsman and catalogue conspire with spring to stir up the ambrosia of ambition—we'll keep on doing it.