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April I commence to scratch and dig in my garden.

To-day, as I was raking off my strawberry bed, Georgiana, whom I have not seen since the night when she satirized me, called from the window:

“What are you going to plant this year?”

“Oh, a little of everything,” I answered, under my hat. “What are you going to plant this year?”

“Are you going to have many strawberries?”

“It’s too soon to tell: they haven't bloomed yet. It’s too soon to tell when they do bloom. Sometimes strawberries are like