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XIV
In 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
