What small potatoes we all are, compared with what we might be!

potatoes

Life has few such moments.

I have been digging my potatoes, if anybody cares to know it. I planted them in what are called “Early Rose,”—the rows a little less than three feet apart; but the vines came to an early close in the drought. Digging potatoes is a pleasant, soothing occupation, but not poetical. It is good for the mind, unless they are too small (as many of mine are), when it begets a want of gratitude to the bountiful earth. What small potatoes we all are, compared with what we might be! We don’t plow deep enough, any of us, for one thing. I shall put in the plow next year, and give the tubers room enough. I think they felt the lack of it this year: many of them seemed ashamed to come out so small. There is great pleasure in turning out the brown-jacketed fellows into the sunshine of a royal September day, and seeing them glisten as they lie thickly strewn on the warm soil. Life has few such moments. But then they must be picked up. The picking-up, in this world, is always the unpleasant part of it.

by Charles Dudley Warner (Sept. 12, 1829 – Oct. 20, 1900)
from My Summer in a Garden (1870), Fifteenth Week
image – The Ewan

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