Harry Roberts, The Book of Old-Fashioned Flowers
“ Such is the fate of the man who would be a gardener. He must wage constant battle with flowers whose beauty he can but acknowledge. He must be full of zeal for the murder of plants he is bound to love and admire. It is a little like hitting a woman; and, when one sees [106] the weed, which has been violently hurled from bed and border, patiently trying to live its humble life on wall or rubbish-heap, smiling as sweetly as it may on the "owner" of the soil, one is reminded of that pathetic—even if fictitious—story of the vivisector's dog. ”
