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Updated: May 29, 2025
"No matter," said Emily, kindly; "'twas made out of a gone-to-seed poppy. Don't you know what a paw is? Why, it's a paw" In spite of this clear explanation, Dotty did not understand any better than before. "It was the man that married my maw, only maw died, and then there was another one, and she scolded and shook me." "O, I s'pose you mean a father 'n mother; now I know."
She had not been outside the castle walls, literally, in more than five weeks, and the colour leaped back into her cheeks with a rush that delighted me. I may mention in passing that I paid particular attention to her suggestion concerning my dilapidated, gone-to-seed garden, although I had been bored to extinction by Jasper, Jr. when he undertook to enlighten me horticulturally.
The luxurious mansion was, in truth, a sharp contrast to the unkempt, gone-to-seed yellow farmhouse, although Oliver wondered whether, originally, the old stone dwelling had not been the more attractive of the two. He leaned forward to see plainer, made an unwise move, and attracted the attention of the man on the step.
"Yes: I have rotated the gone-to-seed lettuce off, and expect to rotate the turnips in; it is a political fashion." "Is n't it a shame that the tomatoes are all getting ripe at once? What a lot of squashes! I wish we had an oyster-bed. Do you want me to help you any more than I am helping?" "No, I thank you." "Don't you think we could sell some strawberries next year?"
"Yes: I have rotated the gone-to-seed lettuce off, and expect to rotate the turnips in; it is a political fashion." "Is n't it a shame that the tomatoes are all getting ripe at once? What a lot of squashes! I wish we had an oyster-bed. Do you want me to help you any more than I am helping?" "No, I thank you." "Don't you think we could sell some strawberries next year?"
"Yes: I have rotated the gone-to-seed lettuce off, and expect to rotate the turnips in; it is a political fashion." "Is n't it a shame that the tomatoes are all getting ripe at once? What a lot of squashes! I wish we had an oyster-bed. Do you want me to help you any more than I am helping?" "No, I thank you." "Don't you think we could sell some strawberries next year?"
"It's a term applied to most of the town of Partridgeville in the northern part of the county an inaccessible district back in the mountains peopled with gone-to-seed stock and half-civilized illiterates who only get into the news when they load up with squirrel whisky and start a programme of progressive hell. Ruggam was the local blacksmith." "What's a kitchen-dance?"
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