His delight was to go into the garden early, and leave it late. I think he knew every crumb of soil. Very plainly he was a gardener, from green fingers to green feet. (The way he stepped in a garden had a husbanding air about it. You felt plants might grow where he trod.) I remember him anguishing over asters, enormously uneasy about pinks: and made happy beyond words by chrysanthemums, obeying some subtle law of their existence. They had, mysteriously, no more,no less than the right number of buds.