But I found him, one Sunday morning,--a day when it would not do to get
angry, tying his cow at the foot of the hill; the beast all the time
going on in that abominable voice. I told the man that I could not have
the cow in the grounds. He said, "All right, boss;" but he did not go
away. I asked him to clear out. The man, who is a French sympathizer
from the Republic of Ireland, kept his temper perfectly. He said he
wasn't doing anything, just feeding his cow a bit: he wouldn't make me
the least trouble in the world. I reminded him that he had been told
again and again not to come here; that he might have all the grass, but
he should not bring his cow upon the premises. The imperturbable man
assented to everything that I said, and kept on feeding his cow. Before
I got him to go to fresh scenes and pastures new, the Sabbath was almost
broken; but it was saved by one thing: it is difficult to be emphatic
when no one is emphatic on the other side. The man and his cow have
taught me a great lesson, which I shall recall when I keep a cow. I can
recommend this cow, if anybody wants one, as a steady boarder, whose
keeping will cost the owner little; but, if her milk is at all like her
voice, those who drink it are on the straight road to lunacy.
Moral Truth.--I have no doubt that grapes taste best in other people's
mouths. It is an old notion that it is easier to be generous than to be
stingy. I am convinced that the majority of people would be generous
from selfish motives, if they had the opportunity.
Philosophical Observation.--Nothing shows one who his friends are like
prosperity and ripe fruit. I had a good friend in the country, whom I
almost never visited except in cherry-time. By your fruits you shall
know them.
Pretending to reflect upon these things, but in reality watching the
blue-jays, who are pecking at the purple berries of the woodbine on the
south gable, I approach the house. Polly is picking up chestnuts on the
sward, regardless of the high wind which rattles them about her head and
upon the glass roof of her winter-garden. The garden, I see, is filled
with thrifty plants, which will make it always summer there. The callas
about the fountain will be in flower by Christmas: the plant appears to
keep that holiday in her secret heart all summer. I close the outer
windows as we go along, and congratulate myself that we are ready for
winter. For the winter-garden I have no responsibility: Polly has entire
charge of it. I am only required to keep it heated, and not too hot
either; to smoke it often for the death of the bugs; to water it once a
day; to move this and that into the sun and out of the sun pretty
constantly: but she does all the work. We never relinquish that theory.
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.
Nature is "awful smart." I intend to be complimentary in saying so. She
shows it in little things. I have mentioned my attempt to put in a few
modest turnips, near the close of the season. I sowed the seeds, by the
way, in the most liberal manner. Into three or four short rows I presume
I put enough to sow an acre; and they all came up,--came up as thick as
grass, as crowded and useless as babies in a Chinese village. Of course,
they had to be thinned out; that is, pretty much all pulled up; and it
took me a long time; for it takes a conscientious man some time to decide
which are the best and healthiest plants to spare. After all, I spared
too many. That is the great danger everywhere in this world (it may not
be in the next): things are too thick; we lose all in grasping for too
much. The Scotch say, that no man ought to thin out his own turnips,
because he will not sacrifice enough to leave room for the remainder to
grow: he should get his neighbor, who does not care for the plants, to do
it. But this is mere talk, and aside from the point: if there is
anything I desire to avoid in these agricultural papers, it is
digression. I did think that putting in these turnips so late in the
season, when general activity has ceased, and in a remote part of the
garden, they would pass unnoticed. But Nature never even winks, as I can
see. The tender blades were scarcely out of the ground when she sent a
small black fly, which seemed to have been born and held in reserve for
this purpose,--to cut the leaves. They speedily made lace-work of the
whole bed. Thus everything appears to have its special enemy,--except,
perhaps, p----y: nothing ever troubles that.
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