For millions of city gardeners, this was the best time of year. They sent the children to bed early, switched off the radio, plugged the telephone bell and settled down for an evening with their dreams. They opened the new seed catalogues with trembling fingers, drank in the intoxicating colors of beet and carrot, rolled the poetry over on their tongues. While winter winds whistled outside, they luxuriated in a gentle world where all tomatoes grow to unblemished perfection, where eight-inch cucumbers are midgets, where every brussels sprout is a sonnet and...
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