Pleasant Talk About Fruits, Flowers and Farming — Themes and Context

gh, and a sly kiss or two,—but never enough,—and lunch enough, and appetite enough. The silver brook on the hillside carried down, on its murmuring current, the golden leaves which the trees, with every puff of wind, sent shimmering down through the air. Barefooted, as we were all summer long, the prickly chestnut burs were too sharp for our little tough feet, and we were glad to pick our way cautiously under the trees.

Long live the chestnut-tree, and the chestnut woods on the mountain-side, and the boys and girls who frolic under their boughs! And long live the winter nights, with the homely fare of apples and nuts, and no stronger drink than cider; and a merry crowd of boys and girls, with here and there the spectacled old folks; all before a roaring hickory fire, in an old-fashioned fireplace, big as the western horizon with the sun going down in it, and with a roguish stick of chestnut wood in it, which opens such a fusillade of snaps and cracks as sets the girls to screaming, and throws out such mischievous coals upon the calico dresses, as obliges every humane boy to run to the relief of his sweetheart all on fire!

No doubt many an old gentleman will read this article with a face growing more and more full of smiles, and taking off his spectacles at the end, and, looking kindly over at his aged dame, will say, “Do you remember, Polly, when we were at Squire Judson’s—” “Well, well, father, you are too old to be talking about such youthful follies.” Nevertheless, she smiles and looks kindly over at the old rogue who kissed her that night, proposed on the way home, and was married before Christmas.

What a comfort is the consciousness of usefulness! One may dig on his farm or delve in his library for weeks, with nothing to show for it, and with no murmuring applause. But let him once spread the table, put the pot to boiling, and set forth a meal; and the praise of housekeepers begins to ascend, sweet as frankincense or new-made apple-pies. But we are praise-proof in culinary matters. There are others around here that are liable to the puffing-up of vanity, if their domestic performances are loudly applauded. But we, of the stronger sex, can hear our beefsteak commended without a wrinkle upon our tranquil humility. We can have our coffee criticised without a flush of indignation. Even our method of cooking vegetables may be undervalued, without exciting us to controversy; so tranquil is our soul, when once under the inspiration of the _cuisine_. But some there are who mingle praise with suggestion—a cup of criticism with sugar in it. Thus:—

“We heartily thank him for his descriptions in ’summer Dinners,’ and would mildly suggest, if he would add a pint of nice, thick cream to a quart of peas, taken from milk that has stood just six hours in a cool, airy, and clean cellar—said milk must be milk, to start with; none of your blue, watery stuff, such as some cows are said to give, but rich, golden milk, caught in bright tin pails, so polished that they reflect the happy faces of all who wish to take a peep at them:—with such a dish, I think we could tempt—well, Henry Ward, to dine with us; couldn’t we? especially if we add an apple-pie made after a receipt you gave in the _Ledger_ several years ago.

“Yours, very respectfully, “Twenty-year-old DOT.”

If one wishes a new and composite dish, let the peas be smothered in cream. But, if one wishes _peas_, pure and simple, in their own flavor,—a flavor chosen out of the whole vegetable realm, and not repeated in any other growing thing,—let him not, let her not, audaciously introduce any rival flavor. Peas are good; cream is good; peas and cream are good,—each in its own severalty. But let each one stand in its own name. Do not call peas and cream, peas. One’s tenderest culinary susceptibility is touched, to be asked if he will take some green peas, and then to find himself eating peas and cream!

The English receipts recommend a sprig or two of mint to be thrown in while green peas are cooking. We do not challenge their right to do it. They may put in anise and cummin too, if they choose. But we do protest, in the name of kitchen literature, against calling such experimental compounds by the ever-dear name of “green peas.”

All smooth peas are tasteless compared with the wrinkled peas. It is proper that wrinkles should bring sweetness. The smooth-faced varieties are fairer to look upon. But they are not inwardly rich. That these should be flavored, enriched, and spiced with herbs, is not altogether against nature or analogy.

Still, if on some bright summer day, soon after the twelve musical strokes on the village bell, we shall find ourselves the guest of the sprightly “Dot,” we shall lay aside all pre-conceived notions and all prejudices; and if it prove to be that peas absorb cream into their bosoms without losing their peahood—nay, if this wedding shall prove, as all true weddings should, that individuality is developed and established—we shall gladly repent, confess, and recant our foregoing protest.

Another fair heart has suffered itself to fall into shocking doubts.

“DEAR SIR: It is with great pleasure that I read your weekly articles in the _Ledger_, and I have especially relished your ’summer Dinner,’ which was got up in such good style. But—and this is what is very important—did you have to ask your wife the different names of the vegetables, and how to cook them? Or do you believe in _Men’s Rights_, and so know how to do your own cooking, seasoning, and eating?”

The family should be sacred! This attempt to pry into its secrets must not succeed. This question answered, the next one would be, whether we wrote our own articles for the _Ledger_, or whether some one dictated them to us? And then would come questions as to who wrote the sermons? Then, when once the stream had broken over the bounds of proper privacy, it would rush through kitchen and pantry, closet and cupboard, cellar and attic, until the slime of curiosity would lie thick on all the sacred places of the household.

“Ask our wife,” forsooth! We asked her once for all, some years ago, and the answer lasts, full and strong, until this day.

The day is bright and windy. The sky has sunk back to the uttermost, and the arch seems wonderfully deep above your head. Little cloud-ships go sailing about in the heavens as busily as if they carried freight to long-expectant owners. It is a day for the country. The city palls on the jaded nerve. I long to hear the hens cackle. There are lively times now in barn and barn-yard, I’ll warrant you. If I were lying on the east veranda of a cottage that I wot of, I should see flocks of pure white Leghorns, wind-blown, shining in the sunlight, searching for a morsel in and out of the shrubbery, and hear the cocks crowing, and the hens crooning. The Leghorn, of true blood, leads the race of fowls for continuous eggs, in season and out of season; eggs large enough, of fine quality, and sprung from hens that never think of chickens. For a true Leghorn seldom wants to sit. They believe in division of labor. They provide eggs; others must hatch them. Other fowls may surpass them on the spit or gridiron, but, as egg-layers, they easily take the lead. They are hardy, handsome, and immensely productive. As it is just as easy to keep good fowls as poor ones, thrifty housekeepers should secure a good laying breed. Not every pure white fowl is a Leghorn. There are many White Spanish sold as Leghorns. They may be known by their gray or pearl-colored legs. The pure Leghorn has a yellow leg, a single comb, quite long and usually lapping down. This breed is well known about New York, but no description of it can be found in English poultry-books. Indeed, we are informed that Tegetmayer, the standard authority, but recently knew anything about them, and then from a coop sent from New York.

The Brahmas and Cochins have good qualities. They are large, even huge. They are peaceable, and the Cochins do not _scratch_,—an important fact to all who have a garden, and who yet desire to let their poultry run at large. They are good layers, admirable mothers, and yield a fine carcass for the table, but the meat is not fine, though fairly good. But a more ungainly thing than buff Cochins the eye never saw. A flock of Leghorns is a delight to the eye. One is never tired of watching them. Their forms are symmetrical, and every motion is graceful. But the huge poddy Cochins waddle before you like over-fat buffoons. They are grotesque, good-natured, clumsy, useful creatures; but they have a great love of sitting. Every Cochin hen would love to bring out two broods in a season; while the white Leghorns fill their nests with eggs, and then think their whole duty done. We keep Cochin hens to sit on Leghorn eggs. Better mothers cannot be.

I hear my hens cackle! These bright spring days are passing, and the concert of the barn-yard is in full play, but I am tied up to the pen! Currant-bushes are pushing out their blossom-buds; rhubarb is showing its red knuckles above the ground; willows are pushing out their silky catkins; birds have come—everything has come but me! I cannot sprout yet. Patience! I shall be green enough in a few weeks. The city shall not always prevail. In due season I shall go to grass. Already I smell it. The odor of new grass can be perceived but for a few days only in spring. It should be noticed then, for it is unlike any other perfume, and will be perceived no more until another year. How happy are they that dwell among open fields,—or how happy they might be if they but knew their privileges!

If one wishes to make money out of the soil, upon an Eastern farm, he must live upon it, study it, watch it, calk and groove it so that no leak shall be possible, economize rigidly, work fearfully, sell the best, use the unsalable,—in short, he must be a drudge or a genius. Not a genius in literature or art, but in money-making. Only think how some old-fashioned New England ministers lived on a salary of four hundred dollars; educated seven or eight children; worked their farm during the week, and preached on Sunday; and died rich, that is, worth anywhere from fifty to a hundred thousand dollars, which, fifty years ago, was as much as two hundred and fifty thousand dollars are now; for the purchasing power of gold and silver is steadily declining, and of course more of it is required for the same purposes.

But only now and then did such a man and minister turn up; and the general impression, even in his case, was, that the farm was better tilled than the parish.

But the small farmers in the old States north of the Delaware have a hard life. If they get on, it is by vigorous economy following excessive industry. There is a good deal of sentiment wasted on the delights of farming. But in New England, we suspect that for every farmer who lives in abundance or comparative ease, there are five, and perhaps ten, that fare coarsely, and are not half as well clothed and housed as the average mechanic. First-rate farmers are few; third and fourth rate farmers are many, and a hard time they have. But as one goes westward, to better soil, larger farms, and more congenial climate, things change. Farmers are prosperous without such exacting toil. Their dwellings grow better, particularly in the northern parts of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and the great Northwest. If one has money and leisure, he may carry on a farm in the Eastern States with great enjoyment. That is as pleasant a way to spend money as can well be devised, not even excepting the management of fast horses and fast yachts; for both of these deteriorate in the using, and some go under, while the farm steadily rises in value and force. But with the exception of the owners of uncommonly good land here and there, not much money is to be made at farming in the East. The farm is an institution designed to promote health and comfort in the expenditure of money. Money is the one manure which the farm greedily covets.

We say these things, not to discourage farming, but to dissuade the annual host from going out to make their fortunes on a farm, who, in five years, will come back stripped bare of everything but disgust—not of that. No man would think of going from the law, or from a store, into a mechanical trade without having served an apprenticeship, or having become in some way familiar with it. Lawyers do not set up at cabinet-making, nor go into steel works, nor set up for builders or painters. But when business is dull, and health delicate, many a professional man, many a clerk or unsuccessful merchant, concludes to buy a “snug farm,” and retire from the cares of the town or city, to lead the joyous life of a farmer. He has no knowledge of farming; but it requires none! Farming is simple. You rise with the dewy morn; you go forth to your prodigal acres; you rest under the trees bending with fruit; you eat from your bountiful table the food that sprung from your own soil,—and ever so much more romance of the same sort.

Prosperous farming requires knowledge, tact at managing men, skill in laying out work, incessant industry, very close calculations, good judgment in buying, and a good capacity of selling. In short, the qualities which go to make up a good merchant, a good manufacturer, and a good scientist ought to be combined in a first-class farmer. There are more passable orators born every year than there are first-class farmers. If any one doubts the truth of these views, let him try a farm for a few years!

GARDENING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

It is not every one who can toss off his provocations with so good a grace as our correspondent, whose letter we insert:—

NEW YORK, _April 19th_.

DEAR MR. BEECHER: Suppose you were fond of flowers and shrubs, and that the plat of Mother Earth allotted you was at the back of your city house, say about seventeen feet square,—the most of it occupied by the space for drying clothes; the rest a hard clayey soil, baked by the sun so quickly that you wish the Israelites might have had it to make brick, and one that no amount of foreign admixture improves.

Suppose the florist came every spring, hoed and raked, and distributed roses, verbenas, geraniums, and the like, at regular intervals, also sticks, bare evidence of the burial-place of various cherished bulbs that never come up, but seem, like your carnations, to disappear with the wheelbarrow.

Suppose the occupants of the tenement-house close to your rear fence,—who always, _in all the stories_ of the day, nurse a geranium in a cracked pot,—instead of thanking you for the pleasant sight under their windows, garnished your bed with egg-shells, old paper collars, rags, bones, empty spools, and other _débris_ handy for the purpose.

Suppose the nine thousand and ninety cats and their families roosted on the fence in the twilight, and tried their claws on your shrubs, and the softness of your soil generally, in the small hours of the night.

Suppose, with the first green leaves, the worms came also, and the green lice, and the ants, and made your bushes a sorrow and a vexation.

Suppose the hoop of the laundress was over it all, so to speak, and the hose always burst when the weather was dry, and your watering-pot held about a teacupful.

What would _you_ do, Mr. Beecher? Would you give over the space to old shoes and ugliness, or would you fly in the face of _manifest destiny_ and cultivate?

Dejectedly yours, BREEZE.

The very first thing to be done with a tenacious and obstinate clay soil is to have it dug out and carted away bodily, and its place supplied with good fresh loam. This would be a serious job if there were several acres. But when there is but a plat of seventeen feet square, and the larger part of that reserved for laundry purposes, only borders being used for flowers, the amount to be removed would be comparatively small, and the satisfaction would be ample repayment. Any one with a cart can carry off the clay, but not every one can get good soil. An honest florist or garden jobber could put you in the way of that.

If you will have a garden, it is best to be your own gardener. Adam and Eve set the example.

The cats may be managed in various ways. A black-and-tan terrier kept in the back yard has a wonderful influence on cats, arousing in them a strong local prejudice. If the boys in the neighborhood knew that a premium were offered for cat scalps, it would be found greatly to interest the cats. At any rate, their number would grow less.

As to worms and aphides, no one is fit to own flowers who, in so small a space as seventeen feet square, cannot exterminate them,—worms by hand picking, and aphides by whale-oil soapsuds. A vigorous fidelity will in a short time put the last worm _hors de combat_. The whale-oil soap may be had at any large seed-store,—directions for use accompanying the little jar. A tin garden syringe may be had at the same place, costing but little, lasting, with care, twenty years, and carrying the soapsuds like spray over every leaf and twig.

We, too, in Brooklyn have _lawn dresses_ with equatorial hoops, and yet manage to have many a charming patch of flowers. But, of all things in this world, a garden needs the presence of its owner. If you do not love it enough to care for it as you would for a baby, better let it alone. Flowers know who love them. They will not be put off with arm’s-length cordiality. But, if you love them, you will easily overcome a hundred obstacles, and rejoice in your flowers all the more because they are the trophies of your patience and industry.

We have artists who give themselves to specialties. One delights to know fruits. Another loves architecture, or landscape, or figures, or animals, or grasses and flowers. Now it has always seemed strange that the noblest of all grasses, maize, or Indian corn, has never found an enthusiastic lover. It has been painted often, but never yet interpreted. No one has done by it what has been done by the lily, the rose, the convolvulus.

And yet, where shall we find any union of strength and grace more perfect among herbaceous plants? The jointed stem, robust and stiff, gives off at each articulation the most gracefully curved sword-leaves, which diminish in length as the plant goes up to its fimbriated top, forming a symmetrical whole not to be equalled among field plants.

If one will wander along the edges of a cornfield, he will often see an exquisite picture, such as Nature loves to make. The wild convolvulus, which often fills the fence corners, has crept out of the grass into the furrow and twined around the corn, climbing to its very top, and, having power yet to grow, returns upon itself and fashions festoons of exquisite leaves and white blossoms, which hang down in every negligent form of beauty. Other vines too, besides the convolvulus, try their arts, and none fail; but none succeed so charmingly as this queen of twining vines.