THE FRUIT GARDEN
_Raison d'etre_
Small fruits, to people who live in the country, are like
heaven--objects of universal desire and very general neglect. Indeed,
in a land so peculiarly adapted to their cultivation, it is difficult
to account for this neglect if you admit the premise that Americans are
civilized and intellectual. It is the trait of a savage and inferior
race to devour with immense gusto a delicious morsel, and then trust
to luck for another. People who would turn away from a dish of
"Monarch" strawberries, with their plump pink cheeks powdered with
sugar, or from a plate of melting raspberries and cream, would be
regarded as so eccentric as to suggest an asylum; but the number of
professedly intelligent and moral folk who ignore the simple means of
enjoying the ambrosial viands daily, for weeks together, is so large as
to shake one's confidence in human nature. A well-maintained fruit
garden is a comparatively rare adjunct of even stylish and pretentious
homes. In June, of all months, in sultry July and August, there arises
from innumerable country breakfast tables the pungent odor of a meat
into which the devils went but out of which there is no proof they ever
came. From the garden under the windows might have been gathered fruits
whose aroma would have tempted spirits of the air. The cabbage-patch
may be seen afar, but too often the strawberry-bed even if it exists is
hidden by weeds, and the later small fruits struggle for bare life in
some neglected corner. Indeed, an excursion into certain parts of Hew
England might suggest that many of its thrifty citizens would not have
been content in Eden until they had put its best land into onions and
tobacco. Through the superb scenery of Vermont there flows a river
whose name, one might think, would secure an unfailing tide from the
eyes of the inhabitants. The Alpine strawberry grows wild in all that
region, but the puritan smacked his lips over another gift of nature
and named the romantic stream in its honor. To account for certain
tastes or tendencies, mankind must certainly have fallen a little way,
or, if Mr. Darwin's view is correct, and we are on a slight up-grade, a
dreadful hitch and tendency to backslide has been apparent at a certain
point ever since the Hebrews sighed for the "leeks and onions of Egypt."
Of course, there is little hope for the rural soul that "loathes" the
light manna of small fruits. We must leave it to evolution for another
cycle or two. But, as already indicated, we believe that humanity in
the main has reached a point where its internal organs highly approve
of the delicious group of fruits that strayed out of Paradise, and have
not yet lost themselves among the "thorns and thistles." Indeed, modern
skill--the alchemy of our age--has wrought such wonders that Eden is
possible again to all who will take the trouble to form Eden-like
tastes and capacities.
The number who are doing this is increasing every year, The large
demand for literature relating to out-of-door life, horticultural
journals, like the fruits of which they treat, flourishing in regions
new and remote, are proof of this. The business of supplying
fruit-trees, plants, and even flowers, is becoming a vast industry. I
have been informed that one enterprising firm annually spends thousands
in advertising roses only.
But while we welcome the evidences that so many are ceasing to be
bucolic heathen, much observation has shown that the need of further
enlightenment is large indeed. It is depressing to think of the number
of homes about which fruits are conspicuous only by their
absence--homes of every class, from the laborer's cottage and pioneer's
cabin to the suburban palace. Living without books and pictures is only
a little worse than living in the country without fruits and flowers.
We must respect to some extent the old ascetics, who, in obedience to
mistaken ideas of duty, deprived themselves of the good things God
provided, even while we recognize the stupidity of such a course.
Little children are rarely so lacking in sense as to try to please
their father by contemptuously turning away from his best gifts, or by
treating them with indifference. Why do millions live in the country,
year after year, raising weeds and brambles, or a few coarse
vegetables, when the choicest fruits would grow almost as readily? They
can plead no perverted sense of duty.
It is a question hard to answer. Some, perhaps, have the delusion that
fine small fruits are as difficult to raise as orchids. They class them
with hot-house grapes. Others think they need so little attention that
they can stick a few plants in hard, poor ground and leave them to
their fate. One might as well try to raise canary-birds and kittens
together as strawberries and weeds. There is a large class who believe
in small fruits, and know their value. They enjoy them amazingly at a
friend's table, and even buy some when they are cheap., A little
greater outlay and a little intelligent effort would give them an
abundant supply from their own grounds. In a vague way they are aware
of this, and reproach themselves for their negligence, but time passes
and there is no change for the better. Why? I don't know. There are men
who rarely kiss their wives and children. For them the birds sing
unheeded and even unheard; flowers become mere objects, and sunsets
suggest only "quitting time." In theory they believe in all these
things. What can be said of them save that they simply jog on to-day as
they did yesterday, ever dimly hoping at some time or other "to live up
to their privileges"? But they usually go on from bad to worse, until,
like their neglected strawberry-beds, they are "turned under."
In cities not a hundred miles from my farm there are abodes of wealth
with spacious grounds, where, in many instances, scarcely any place is
found for small fruits. "It is cheaper and easier to buy them," it is
said. This is a sorry proof of civilization. There is no economy in the
barbaric splendor of brass buttons and livery, but merely a little
trouble (I doubt about money) is saved on the choicest luxuries of the
year. The idea of going out of their rural paradises to buy half-stale
fruit! But this class is largely at the mercy of the "hired man," or
his more disagreeable development, the pretentious smatterer, who, so
far from possessing the knowledge that the English, Scotch, or German
gardeners acquire in their long, thorough training, is a compound of
ignorance and prejudice. To hide his barrenness of mind he gives his
soul to rare plants, clipped lawns, but stints the family in all things
save his impudence. If he tells his obsequious employers that it is
easier and cheaper to buy their fruit than to raise it, of course there
is naught to do but go to the market and pick up what they can; and yet
Dr. Thurber says, with a vast deal of force, that "the unfortunate
people who buy their fruit do not know what a strawberry is."
In all truth and soberness it is a marvel and a shame that so many sane
people who profess to have passed beyond the habits of the wilderness
will not give the attention required by these unexacting fruits. The
man who has learned to write his name can learn to raise them
successfully. The ladies who know how to keep their homes neat through
the labors of their "intelligent help," could also learn to manage a
fruit garden even though employing the stupidest oaf that ever
blundered through life. The method is this: First learn how yourself,
and then let your laborer thoroughly understand that he gets no wages
unless he does as he is told. In the complicated details of a plant
farm there is much that needs constant supervision, but the work of an
ordinary fruit garden is, in the main, straightforward and simple. The
expenditure of a little time, money, and, above all things, of
seasonable labor, is so abundantly repaid that one would think that
bare self-interest would solve invariably the simple problem of supply.
As mere articles of food, these fruits are exceedingly valuable. They
are capable of sustaining severe and continued labor. For months
together we might become almost independent of butcher and doctor if we
made our places produce all that nature permits. Purple grapes will
hide unsightly buildings; currants, raspberries, and blackberries will
grow along the fences and in the corners that are left to burdocks and
brambles. I have known invalids to improve from the first day that
berries were brought to the table, and thousands would exchange their
sallow complexions, sick headaches, and general ennui for a breezy
interest in life and its abounding pleasures, if they would only take
nature's palpable hint, and enjoy the seasonable food she provides.
Belles can find better cosmetics in the fruit garden than on their
toilet tables, and she who paints her cheeks with the pure, healthful
blood that is made from nature's choicest gifts, and the exercise of
gathering them, can give her lover a kiss that will make him wish for
another.
The famous Dr. Hosack, of New York City, who attended Alexander
Hamilton after he received his fatal wound from Burr, was an enthusiast
on the subject of fruits. It was his custom to terminate his spring
course of lectures with a strawberry festival. "I must let the class
see," he said, "that we are practical as well as theoretical. Linnaeus
cured his gout and protracted his life by eating strawberries."
"They are a dear article," a friend remarked, "to gratify the appetites
of so many."
"Yes, indeed," replied the doctor, "but from our present mode of
culture they will become cheap."
It is hard to realize how scarce this fruit was sixty or seventy years
ago, but the prediction of the sagacious physician has been verified
even beyond his imagination. Strawberries are raised almost as
abundantly as potatoes, and for a month or more can be eaten as a cheap
and wholesome food by all classes, even the poorest. By a proper
selection of varieties we, in our home, feast upon them six weeks
together, and so might the majority of those whose happy lot is cast in
the country. The small area of a city yard planted with a few choice
kinds will often yield surprising returns under sensible culture.
If we cultivate these beautiful and delicious fruits we always have the
power of giving pleasure to others, and he's a churl and she a pale
reflection of Xantippe who does not covet this power. The faces of our
guests brighten as they snuff from afar the delicate aroma. Our vines
can furnish gifts that our friends will ever welcome; and by means of
their products we can pay homage to genius that will be far more
grateful than commonplace compliments. I have seen a letter from the
Hon. Wm. C. Bryant, which is a rich return for the few strawberries
that were sent to him, and the thought that they gave him pleasure
gives the donor far more. They are a gift that one can bestow and
another take without involving any compromise on either side, since
they belong to the same category as smiles, kind words, and the
universal freemasonry of friendship. Faces grow radiant over a basket
of fruit or flowers that would darken with anger at other gifts.
If, in the circle of our acquaintance, there are those shut up to the
weariness and heavy atmosphere of a sick-room, in no way can we send a
ray of sunlight athwart their pallid faces more effectually than by
placing a basket of fragrant fruit on the table beside them. Even
though the physician may render it "forbidden fruit," their eyes will
feast upon it, and the aroma will teach them that the world is not
passing on, unheeding and uncaring whether they live or die.
The Fruit and Flower Mission of New York is engaged in a beautiful and
most useful charity. Into tenement-houses and the hot close wards of
city hospitals, true sisters of mercy of the one Catholic church of
love and kindness carry the fragrant emblems of an Eden that was lost,
but may be regained even by those who have wandered farthest from its
beauty and purity. Men and women, with faces seemingly hardened and
grown rigid under the impress of vice, that but too correctly reveal
the coarse and brutal nature within, often become wistful and tender
over some simple flower or luscious fruit that recalls earlier and
happier days. These are gifts which offend no prejudices, and
inevitably suggest that which is good, sweet, wholesome and pure. For a
moment, at least, and perhaps forever, they may lead stained and
debased creatures to turn their faces heavenward. There are little
suffering children also in the hospitals; there are exiles from country
homes and country life in the city who have been swept down not by evil
but the dark tides of disaster, poverty, and disease, and to such it is
a privilege as well as a pleasure to send gifts that will tend to
revive hope and courage. That we may often avail ourselves of these
gracious opportunities of giving the equivalent of a "cup of cold
water," we should plant fruits and flowers in abundance.
One of the sad features of our time is the tendency of young people to
leave their country homes. And too often one does not need to look far
for the reason. Life at the farm-house sinks into deep ruts, and
becomes weary plodding. There are too many "one-ideaed" farmers and
farms. It is corn, potatoes, wheat, butter, or milk. The staple
production absorbs all thought and everything else is neglected. Nature
demands that young people should have variety, and furnishes it in
abundance. The stolid farmer too often ignores nature and the cravings
of youth, and insists on the heavy monotonous work of his specialty,
early and late, the year around, and then wonders why in his declining
years there are no strong young hands to lighten his toil. The boy who
might have lived a sturdy, healthful, independent life among his native
hills is a bleached and sallow youth measuring ribbons and calicoes
behind a city counter. The girl who might have been the mistress of a
tree-shadowed country house disappears under much darker shadows in
town. But for their early home life, so meagre and devoid of interest,
they might have breathed pure air all their days.
Not the least among the means of making a home attractive would be a
well-maintained fruit garden. The heart and the stomach have been found
nearer together by the metaphysicians than the physiologists, and if
the "house-mother," as the Germans say, beamed often at her children
over a great dish of berries flanked by a pitcher of unskimmed milk,
not only good blood and good feeling would be developed, but something
that the poets call "early ties."
There is one form of gambling or speculation that, within proper
limits, is entirely innocent and healthful--the raising of new seedling
fruits and the testing of new varieties. In these pursuits the elements
of chance, skill, and judgment enter so evenly that they are an
unfailing source of pleasurable excitement. The catalogues of plant,
tree, and seed dealers abound in novelties. The majority of them cannot
endure the test of being grown by the side of our well-known standard
kinds, but now and then an exceedingly valuable variety, remarkable for
certain qualities or peculiarly adapted to special localities and uses,
is developed. There is not only an unfailing pleasure in making these
discoveries, but often a large profit. If, three or four years ago, a
country boy had bought a dozen Sharpless strawberry plants, and
propagated from them, he might now obtain several hundred dollars from
their increased numbers. Time only can show whether this novelty will
become a standard variety, but at present the plants are in great
demand.
The young people of a country home may become deeply interested in
originating new seedlings. A thousand strawberry seeds will produce a
thousand new kinds, and, although the prospects are that none of them
will equal those now in favor, something very fine and superior may be
obtained. Be this as it may, if these simple natural interests prevent
boys and girls from being drawn into the maelstrom of city life until
character is formed, each plant will have a value beyond silver or gold.
One of the supreme rewards of human endeavor is a true home, and surely
it is as stupid as it is wrong to neglect some of the simplest and yet
most effectual means of securing this crown of earthly life. A home is
the product of many and varied causes, but I have yet to see the man
who will deny that delicious small fruits for eight months of the year,
and the richer pleasure even of cultivating and gathering them, may
become one of the chief contributions to this result. I use the words
"eight months" advisedly, for even now, January 29, we are enjoying
grapes that were buried in the ground last October. I suppose my
children are very material and unlike the good little people who do not
live long, but they place a white mark against the days on which we
unearth a jar of grapes.