PLANNING AND OPENING THE CAMPAIGN
The last day of February was clear, cloudless, and cold, the evening
serene and still. Winter's tempestuous course was run, its icy breath
apparently had ceased, and darkness closed on its quiet, pallid face.
"March came in like a lamb"--an ominous circumstance for the future
record of this month of most uncertain weather, according to the
traditions of the old weather-prophets. The sun rose clear and warm, the
snow sparkled and melted, the bluebirds rejoiced, and their soft notes of
mutual congratulation found many echoes among their human neighbors. By
noon the air was wonderfully soft and balmy, and Webb brought in a number
of sprays from peach-trees cut in different parts of the place, and
redeemed his promise to Amy, showing her the fruit germs, either green,
or rather of a delicate gold-color, or else blackened by frost. She was
astonished to find how perfect the embryo blossom appeared under the
microscope. It needed no glass, however, to reveal the blackened heart of
the bud, and Webb, having cut through a goodly number, remarked: "It
would now appear as if nature had performed a very important labor for
us, for I find about eight out of nine buds killed. It will save us
thinning the fruit next summer, for if one-ninth of the buds mature into
peaches they will not only bring more money, but will measure more by the
bushel."
"How can one peach measure more than eight peaches?"
"By being larger than the eight. If all these buds grew into peaches, and
were left on these slender boughs, the tree might be killed outright by
overbearing, and would assuredly be much injured and disfigured by broken
limbs and exhaustion, while the fruit itself would be so small and poor
as to be unsalable. Thousands of trees annually perish from this cause,
and millions of peaches are either not picked, or, if marketed, may bring
the grower into debt for freight and other expenses. A profitable crop of
peaches can only be grown by careful hand-thinning when they are as large
as marbles, unless the frost does the work for us by killing the greater
part of the buds. It is a dangerous ally, however, for our constant fear
is that it will destroy _all_ the buds. There are plenty left yet, and I
find that cherry, apple, plum, and pear buds are still safe. Indeed,
there is little fear for them as long as peach buds are not entirely
destroyed, for they are much hardier."
In the afternoon Burt, who had become expert in the use of crutches,
determined on an airing, and invited Amy to join him. "I now intend to
begin giving you driving lessons," he said. "You will soon acquire entire
confidence, for skill, far more than strength, is required. As long as
one keeps cool and shows no fear there is rarely danger. Horses often
catch their senseless panic from their drivers, and, even when frightened
with good cause, can usually be reassured by a few quiet words and a firm
rein."
Amy was delighted at the prospect of a lesson in driving, especially as
Bart, because of his lameness, did not venture to take his over-spirited
steed Thunder. She sincerely hoped, however, that he would confine his
thoughts and attentions to the ostensible object of the drive, for his
manner at times was embarrassingly ardent. Burt was sufficiently politic
to fulfil her hope, for he had many other drives in view, and had
discovered that attentions not fraternal were unwelcome to Amy. With a
self-restraint and prudence which he thought most praiseworthy and
sagacious, but which were ludicrous in their limitations, he resolved to
take a few weeks to make the impression which he had often succeeded in
producing in a few hours, judging from the relentings and favors received
in a rather extended career of gallantry, although it puzzled the young
fellow that he could have been so fascinated on former occasions. He
merely proposed that now she should enjoy the drive so thoroughly that
she would wish to go again, and his effort met with entire success.
During the first week of March there were many indications of the opening
campaign on the Clifford farm. There was the overhauling and furbishing
of weapons, otherwise tools, and the mending or strengthening of those in
a decrepit state. A list of such additional ones as were wanted was made
at this time, and an order sent for them at once. Amy also observed that
practical Leonard was conning several catalogues of implements. "Len is
always on the scent of some new patent hoe or cultivator," Burt remarked.
"My game pays better than yours," was the reply, "for the right kind of
tools about doubles the effectiveness of labor."
The chief topic of discussion and form of industry at this time were the
pruning and cleansing of trees, and Amy often observed Webb from her
windows in what seemed to her most perilous positions in the tops of
apple and other trees, with saw and pruning shears or nippers--a light
little instrument with such a powerful leverage that a good-sized bough
could be lopped away by one slight pressure of the hand.
"It seems to me," remarked Leonard, one evening, "that there is much
diversity of opinion in regard to the time and method of trimming trees.
While the majority of our neighbors prune in March, some say fall or
winter is the best time. Others are in favor of June, and in some paper
I've read, 'Prune when your knife is sharp.' As for cleansing the bark of
the trees, very few take the trouble."
"Well," replied his father, "I've always performed these labors in March
with good results. I have often observed that taking off large limbs from
old and feeble trees is apt to injure them. A decay begins at the point
of amputation and extends down into the body of the tree. Sap-suckers and
other wood peckers, in making their nests, soon excavate this rotten wood
back into the trunk, to which the moisture of every storm is admitted,
and the life of the tree is shortened."
At this point Webb went out, and soon returned with something like
exultation blending with his usually grave expression.
"I think father's views are correct, and I have confirmation here in
autograph letters from three of the most eminent horticulturists in the
world--"
"Good gracious, Webb! don't take away our breath in that style,"
exclaimed Burt. "Have you autograph letters from several autocrats also?"
As usual Webb ignored his brother's nonsense, and resumed: "The first is
from the Hon. Marshall P. Wilder, President of the American Pomological
Society, and is as follows: 'I prune my trees early in March, as soon as
the heavy frosts are over, when the sap is dormant. If the branch is
large I do not cut quite close in, and recut close in June, when the
wound heals more readily. I do not approve of rigorous pruning of old
trees showing signs of feebleness. Such operations would increase
decline--only the dead wood should be removed, the loss of live wood
depriving old trees of the supply of sap which they need for support.
Grafting-wax is good to cover the wounds of trees, or a thick paint of
the color of the bark answers well. Trees also may be pruned in safety in
June after the first growth is made--then the wounds heal quickly.'
"The next letter is from Mr. Charles Downing, editor of 'The Fruits and
Fruit-Trees of America.' 'When the extreme cold weather is over,' he
says, 'say the last of February or first of March, begin to trim trees,
and finish as rapidly as convenient. Do not trim a tree too much at one
time, and cut no large limbs if possible, but thin out the small
branches. If the trees are old and bark-bound, scrape off the roughest
bark and wash the bodies and large limbs with whale-oil soap, or
soft-soap such as the farmers make, putting it on quite thick. Give the
ground plenty of compost manure, bone-dust, ashes, and salt. The best and
most convenient preparation for covering wounds is gum-shellac dissolved
in alcohol to the thickness of paint, and put on with a brush.' The last
is from Mr. Patrick Barry, of the eminent Rochester firm, and author of
'The Fruit Garden.' 'In our climate pruning may be done at convenience,
from the fall of the leaf until the 1st of April. In resuscitating old
neglected apple-trees, _rigorous_ pruning may be combined with plowing
and manuring of the ground. For covering wounds made in pruning, nothing
is better than common grafting wax laid on warm with a brush.' Hon P. T.
Quinn, in his work on 'Pear Culture,' writes: 'On our own place we begin
to prune our pear-trees from the 1st to the 15th of March, and go on with
the work through April. It is not best to do much cutting, except on very
young trees, while the foliage is coming out.'"
"Well," remarked Leonard, "I can go to work to-morrow with entire
content; and very pleasant work it is, too, especially on the young
trees, where by a little forethought and a few cuts one can regulate the
form and appearance of the future tree."
"How is that possible?" Amy asked.
"Well, you see there are plenty of buds on all the young branches, and we
can cut a branch just above the bud we wish to grow which will continue
to grow in the direction in which it points. Thus we can shape each
summer's growth in any direction we choose."
"How can you be sure to find a bud just where you want it?"
"I know we always do."
"Of course we do," said Webb, "for buds are arranged spirally on trees
in mathematical order. On most trees it is termed-the 'five-ranked
arrangement,' and every bud is just two-fifths of the circumference of the
stem from the next. This will bring every sixth bud or leaf over the first,
or the one we start with. Thus in the length of stem occupied by five buds
you have buds facing in five different directions--plenty of choice for
all pruning purposes."
"Oh, nonsense, Webb; you are too everlastingly scientific. Buds and
leaves are scattered at haphazard all over the branches."
"That shows you observe at haphazard. Wait, and I'll prove I'm right;"
and he seized his hat and went out. Returning after a few minutes with
long, slender shoots of peach, apple, and pear trees, he said: "Now put
your finger on any bud, and count. See if the sixth bud does not stand
invariably over the one you start from, and if the intervening buds do
not wind spirally twice around the stem, each facing in a different
direction."
The result proved Webb to be right. He laughed, and said: "There, Len,
you've seen buds and branches for over forty years, and never noticed
this. Here, Alf, you begin right, and learn to see things just as they
are. There's no telling how often accurate knowledge may be useful."
"But, Webb, all plants have not the five-ranked arrangement, as you term
it," his mother protested.
"Oh, no. There is the two-ranked, in which the third leaf stands over the
first; the three-ranked, in which the fourth leaf stands over the first.
Then we also find the eighth and thirteenth ranked arrangements,
according to the construction of various species of plants or trees. But
having once observed an arrangement of buds or leaves in a species, you
will find it maintained with absolute symmetry and accuracy, although the
spaces between the buds lengthwise upon the stem may vary very much.
Nature, with all her seeming carelessness and _abandon_, works on strict
mathematical principles."
"Well," said Alf, "I'm going to see if you are right tomorrow. I don't
half believe you are." And on the following day he tried his best to
prove Webb wrong, but failed.
Before the week was over there was a decided return of winter. The sky
lost its spring-like blue. Cold, ragged clouds were driven wildly by a
northeast gale, which, penetrating the heaviest wraps, caused a shivering
sense of discomfort. Only by the most vigorous exercise could one cope
with the raw, icy wind, and yet the effort to do so brought a rich return
in warm, purified blood. All outdoor labor, except such as required
strong, rapid action, came to an end, for it was the very season and
opportunity for pneumonia to seize upon its chilled victim. To a family
constituted like the Cliffords such weather brought no _ennui_. They
had time for more music and reading aloud than usual. The pets in the
flower-room needed extra care and watching, for the bitter wind searched
out every crevice and cranny. Entering the dining-room on one occasion,
Amy found the brothers poring over a map spread out on the table.
"What! studying geography?" she said. "It certainly is a severe stress of
weather that has brought you all to that. What countries are you
exploring?"
"These are our Western Territories," Burt promptly responded. "This
prominent point here is Fort Totem, and these indications of adjacent
buildings are for the storage of furs, bear-meat, and the accommodation
of Indian hunters." Burt tried to look serious, but Webb's and Leonard's
laughter betrayed him. Amy turned inquiringly to Webb, as she ever did
when perplexed.
"Don't mind Burt's chaff," he said. "This is merely a map of the farm,
and we are doing a little planning for our spring work--deciding what
crop we shall put on that field and how treat this one, etc. You can see,
Amy, that each field is numbered, and here in this book are corresponding
numbers, with a record of the crops grown upon each field for a good many
years back, to what extent and how often they have been enriched, and the
kind of fertilizers used. Of course such a book of manuscript would be
the dreariest prose in the world to you, but it is exceedingly interesting
to us; and what's more, these past records are the best possible guides for
future action."
"Oh, I know all about your book now," she said, with an air of entire
confidence, "for I've heard papa say that land and crop records have been
kept in England for generations. I don't think I will sit up nights to
read your manuscript, however. If Burt's version had been true, it might
have been quite exciting."
She did enjoy aiding Mr. and Mrs. Clifford in overhauling the seed-chest,
however. This was a wooden box, all tinned over to keep out the mice, and
was divided into many little compartments, in which were paper bags of
seeds, with the date on which they were gathered or purchased. Some of
the seeds were condemned because too old; others, like those of melons
and cucumbers, improved with a moderate degree of age, she was told. Mrs.
Clifford brought out from her part of the chest a rich store of flower
seeds, and the young girl looked with much curiosity on the odd-appearing
little grains and scale-like objects in which, in miniature, was wrapped
some beautiful and fragrant plant. "Queer little promises, ain't they?"
said the old lady; "for every seed is a promise to me."
"I tell you what it is, Amy," the old gentleman remarked, "this chest
contains the assurance of many a good dinner and many a beautiful
bouquet. Now, like a good girl, help us make an inventory. We will first
have a list of what we may consider trustworthy seeds on hand, and then,
with the aid of these catalogues, we can make out another list of what we
shall buy. Seed catalogues, with their long list of novelties, never lose
their fascination for me. I know that most of the new things are not half
so good as the old tried sorts, but still I like to try some every year.
It's a harmless sort of gambling, you see, and now and then I draw a
genuine prize. Mother has the gambling mania far worse than I, as is
evident from the way she goes into the flower novelties."
"I own up to it," said Mrs. Clifford, "and I do love to see the almost
endless diversity in beauty which one species of plants will exhibit.
Why, do you know, Amy, I grew from seeds one summer fifty distinct
varieties of the dianthus. Suppose we take asters this year, and see how
many distinct kinds we can grow. Here, in this catalogue, is a long list
of named varieties, and, in addition, there are packages of mixed seeds
from which we may get something distinct from all the others."
"How full of zest life becomes in the country," cried Amy, "if one only
goes to work in the right way!" Life was growing fuller and richer to her
every day in the varied and abounding interests of the family with which
she was now entirely identified.
"Webb," his mother asked at dinner, "how do you explain the varying
vitality of seeds? Some we can keep six or eight years, and others only
two."
"That's a question I am unable to answer. It cannot be the amount of
material stored up in the cotyledons, or embryo seed leaves, for small
seeds like the beet and cucumber will retain their vitality ten years,
and lettuce, turnip, and tomato seed five or more years, while I do not
care to plant large, fleshy seeds like pease and beans that are over
three years old, and much prefer those gathered the previous season. The
whole question of the germinating of seeds is a curious one. Wheat taken
from the wrappings of an Egyptian mummy has grown. Many seeds appear to
have a certain instinct when to grow, and will lie dormant in the ground
for indefinite periods waiting for favorable conditions. For instance,
sow wood-ashes copiously and you speedily have a crop of white clover.
Again, when one kind of timber is cut from land, another and diverse kind
will spring up, as if the soil were full of seeds that had been biding
their time. For all practical purposes the duration of vitality is known,
and is usually given in seed catalogues, I think, or ought to be."
"Some say that certain fertilizers or conditions will produce certain
kinds of vegetation without the aid of seeds--just develop them, you
know," Leonard remarked.
"Develop them from what?"
"That's the question."
"Well, I think the sensible answer is that all vegetation is developed
from seeds, spores, or whatever was designed to continue the chain of
being from one plant to another. For the life of me I can't see how mere
organic or inorganic matter can produce life. It can only sustain and
nourish the life which exists in it or is placed in it, and which by a
law of nature develops when the conditions are favorable. I am quite sure
that there is not an instance on record of the spontaneous production of
life, even down to the smallest animalcule in liquids, or the minutest
plant life that is propagated by invisible spores. That the microscope
does not reveal these spores or germs proves nothing, for the strongest
microscope in the world has not begun to reach the final atom of which
matter is composed. Indeed, it would seem to be as limited in its power
to explore the infinitely little and near as the telescope to reveal the
infinitely distant and great. Up to this time science has discovered
nothing to contravene the assurance that God, or some one, 'created every
living creature that moveth, and every herb yielding seed after his
kind.' After a series of most careful and accurate experiments, Professor
Tyndall could find no proof of the spontaneous production of even
microscopic life, and found much proof to the contrary. How far original
creations are changed or modified by evolution, natural selection, is a
question that is to be settled neither by dogmatism on the one hand, nor
by baseless theories on the other, but by facts, and plenty of them."
"Do you think there is anything atheistical in evolution?" his mother
asked, and with some solicitude in her large eyes, for, like all trained
in the old beliefs, she felt that the new philosophies led away into a
realm of vague negations. Webb understood her anxiety lest the faith she
had taught him should become unsettled, and he reassured her in a
characteristic way.
"No, mother," he said. "If evolution is the true explanation of the world,
as it now appears to us, it is no more atheistical than some theologies I
have heard preached, which contained plenty of doctrines and attributes,
but no God. If God with his infinite leisure chooses to evolve his
universe, why shouldn't he? In any case a creative, intelligent power is
equally essential. It would be just as easy for me to believe that all
the watches and jewelry at Tiffany's were the result of fortuitous causes
as to believe that the world as we find it has no mind back of it."
Mother smiled with satisfaction, for she saw that he still stood just
where she did, only his horizon had widened.
"Well," said his father, contentedly, "I read much in the papers and
magazines of theories and isms of which I never heard when I was young,
but eighty years of experience have convinced me that the Lord reigns."
They all laughed at this customary settlement of knotty problems, on the
part of the old gentleman, and Burt, rising from the table, looked out,
with the remark that the prospects were that "the Lord would rain heavily
that afternoon." The oldest and most infallible weather-prophet in the
region--Storm King--was certainly giving portentous indications of a
storm of no ordinary dimensions. The vapor was pouring over its summit in
Niagara-like volume, and the wind, no longer rushing with its recent
boisterous roar, was moaning and sighing as if nature was in pain and
trouble. The barometer, which had been low for two days, sank lower; the
temperature rose as the gale veered to the eastward. This fact, and the
moisture laden atmosphere, indicated that it came from the Gulf Stream
region of the Atlantic. The rain, which began with a fine drizzle,
increased fast, and soon fell in blinding sheets. The day grew dusky
early, and the twilight was brief and obscure; then followed a long night
of Egyptian darkness, through which the storm rushed, warred, and
splashed with increasing vehemence. Before the evening was over, the
sound of tumultuously flowing water became an appreciable element in the
uproar without, and Webb, opening a window on the sheltered side of the
house, called Amy to hear the torrents pouring down the sides of Storm
King.
"What tremendous alternations of mood Nature indulges in!" she said, as
she came shivering back to the fire. "Contrast such a night with a sunny
June day."
"It would seem as if 'mild, ethereal spring' had got her back up," Burt
remarked, "and regarding the return of winter as a trespass, had taken
him by the throat, determined to have it out once for all. Something will
give way before morning, probably half our bridges."
"Well, that _is_ a way of explaining the jar among the elements that I
had not thought of," she said, laughing.
"You needn't think Webb can do all the explaining. I have my theories
also--sounder than his, too, most of 'em."
"There is surely no lack of sound accompanying your theory to-night.
Indeed, it is not all 'sound and fury!'"
"It's all the more impressive, then. What's the use of your delicate,
weak-backed theories that require a score of centuries to substantiate
them?"
"Your theory about the bridges will soon be settled," remarked Leonard,
ominously, "and I fear it will prove correct. At this rate the town will
have to pay for half a dozen new ones--bridges, I mean."
"Well amended," added Webb.
"Just hear the rain!" said Leonard, ruefully. There was a heavy body of
snow still in the mountains and on northern slopes, and much ice on the
streams and ponds. "There certainly will be no little trouble if this
continues."
"Don't worry, children," said Mr. Clifford, quietly. "I have generally
found everything standing after the storms were over."