A 1920s seed packet is a throwaway wrapper that has to sell and instruct at the same time. The face is one chromolithographed tomato or zinnia printed past the point of plausibility, with the variety name arched over it in wood type or copperplate script. The back is letterpress: planting depth, row spacing, thinning distance, days to germination, ruled into a table small enough that you hold it to the light.

Nothing here is precious. The stock is unbleached manila, the colours are flat overprints that drift a hair out of register, and the ornament is whatever rules and banners the job shop had in the case. This system keeps that split intact — a loud face, a dense back, and no empty margin pretending to be taste.