A KITCHEN GARDEN.
To the full enjoyment of a country house, there are few things more
conducive than a large, well-filled kitchen garden. The farmers
generally, with a wrong-headedness that is incomprehensible, neglect one
of the most important sources of supply for the table; they devote
themselves to the heavy crops--the staples of agriculture--that are
scattered through the fields, and overlook the vast additional amount of
food that may be concentrated in an acre. They condemn themselves to the
everlasting routine of bread, potatoes, and salt meat, forgetting that
the labor of a few hours occasionally of themselves or their children in
the garden would furnish an agreeable, healthy, and nutritive variety of
edibles. This, being a matter of dollars and cents as well as health,
merited the closest attention from so practical a person as myself, and
was taken in hand promptly, and the account of my success carries me
back a little in matter of time.
It was late in April when the contract was closed for the building of
the country house, and it was essential to prepare and plant the kitchen
garden immediately. My ideas on the subject were vague. I knew what I
wanted, but had not an accurate conception how those wants were to be
converted into realities. I must have a choice, yet ample supply. Fresh
asparagus is so delicate, fresh peas so tender, fresh lettuce so crisp,
cauliflower so immaculate, cabbages so rich, beets so racy, and every
other vegetable so much better when just pulled. There should be a
plenteous variety, from the humble radish up to the aristocratic
egg-plant--through all the range of carrots, turnips, celery, spinach,
and cucumbers--every thing that creeps, climbs, or stands--but, above
all, must there be a grand, deep, rich bed of asparagus, with heads as
big as your thumb. The fruits, too, should not be forgotten:
blackberries, gooseberries, raspberries, and especially strawberries;
pears, plums, and apples--dwarfs and standards; currants, grapes, and
quinces; the numberless productions of the earth that wise men eat
before breakfast or after dinner. With these numerous necessaries, it
was apparent that the planting must be done at once if it was to produce
a satisfactory result this year.
But, before striking a spade, it was necessary to lay out the ground,
and here, although the undertaking was different from planning a house,
my natural abilities stood me in good stead. After much study, the plot
was divided into beds of about five feet width, so that the plants could
be plucked without treading on them; I laid out broad walks at right
angles to one another, like grand avenues, to be shaded by the future
pear and apple trees, and in my mind determined to cover them with pure,
white, salt-water pebbles. I left a narrow border along the outer edge
for currant and raspberry bushes, marked places for the fruit-trees
every fifteen feet, and devoted one bed to strawberries, another to
tomatoes, a third to sweet corn, and so on. I noticed that there seemed
to be about as much walk as bed, but this I had been accustomed to in
flower gardens in the city, and thought produced a pleasing effect.
Before these dispositions were determined on, the grass had grown
considerably, the spring being early, and to get rid of it, as
“Bridgeman’s Assistant,” which, with “Ten Acres Enough,” was my constant
companion, contained no directions to meet the case, the advice of
Weeville was called for. He said the land must be plowed, harrowed, and
well dug over, and asked where the kitchen garden was to be placed. It
was with no little satisfaction that I produced my plans, anticipating
his surprise and pleasure, and laid them proudly before him. He gazed a
moment, and exclaimed, “What is all this?” Not a little amused with his
perplexity, I explained the design, and pointed out its advantages. He
kept his eyes on it in a dazed sort of way, and then blurted out, “You
have twice as much walk as you have bed.”
“Not quite--not quite,” I responded; “but still that is quite a feature;
they will be attractive, covered with white gravel.”
“White gravel! What is that for?” he exclaimed. “Nonsense; your walks
will be overrun with weeds, and you will have enough to do to keep them
out of your beds. I’ll fix your garden for you, now I know where you
want it.”
Before I could protest, he rushed away, taking my plans with him, as
though they were of no value whatever, with that wretched conceit which
characterizes your practical man, not even waiting to hear a full
explanation of my views, and evidently not appreciating them. He set his
men to work next day without so much as consulting me.
Leaving Weeville’s men hard at work with plow and harrow over the
practical portion of the undertaking, I set to work with “Bridgeman’s
Assistant,” and soon learned how to trench and make drills--which, to
my great astonishment, proved not to be holes--and became acquainted
with the uses of the various garden implements. The quality and nature
of the soil was quite a puzzle; but, as it had been ascertained by
sinking the well that the upper six feet was a stiff, clayey substance,
and beneath there was a pure stratum of sand, there could be little
doubt but it must be a loam, which is described as a mixture of clay and
sand. It was a fine, strong yellow, and my general impression was that
loam is dark; but of its depth there could be no question, as the
well-diggers went down forty-five feet before they reached water, and
encountered no rock whatever.
There were many surprising statements in “Bridgeman’s Assistant.” It
would seem natural that seeds, especially of radishes, beets, or
carrots, should be planted at least a foot deep, so that the root might
be long; but the author insisted that they should be covered with only
two inches of earth. Unfortunately, however, as my investigations
proceeded, some pleasing illusions were dissipated; one vegetable after
another had to be given up, for the entire kingdom seemed to be governed
by the most absurd laws; and when it was ascertained that strawberries
would not bear the first season, and that asparagus might produce heads
in the course of three years, I was in despair. Weeville, however, who
confirmed these doleful discoveries, came to my rescue by inquiring in
an enthusiastic way whether I had ever eaten a Daniel O’Rourke pea. I
replied that doubtless I had, as I paid the highest price in market.
“Oh, pshaw!” he answered, “they are never sold in market; wait till you
eat a Daniel O’Rourke pea, and then you can say you know what peas are.
There are plenty of vegetables that you will be in time to plant; the
ground is plowed and harrowed, and the Irishman is digging out the sods.
A hard time he is having of it; the grass got up too high, and he has to
break them up and shake each one out with a pitchfork. No person should
live in the country without a garden; mine is the greatest comfort I
have, and saves nearly half the expense of living.”
So, it being clearly an economy, my investigations were pursued
diligently. A long list of the best vegetables still attainable was
selected, consisting of early Mohawk and Lima beans, blood turnip-rooted
beets, long orange carrots, long green cucumbers, sweet corn, large
green-head lettuce, silver-skinned onions, Dutch parsnips, and Daniel
O’Rourke peas, and purchased at the seed-store for the moderate sum of
four dollars and fifty cents, according to the particular entry made in
my memorandum-book at the time. The necessary tools, such as
wheel-barrows, spades, hoes, drills, cultivators, etc., were added, but
the charge for these seems to have been omitted; and when Weeville
reported that the first planting--two rows of Daniel O’Rourke peas--had
been completed, I invited a couple of friends to ride over on horseback
to see my country place, for I was still living in the city. The house
was then in its foundation state, but the garden would be well worth a
visit.
It is a beautiful ride to Flushing. An intelligent man, named Jackson,
has built an excellent turnpike--almost the only one in our
country--and, with justifiable pride, has called it after himself. The
scenery is diversified with hill and dale, with fertile fields and dense
woods, and, before reaching the village, the highway skirts the bay, and
presents a clear view for some distance up the Sound. We clattered along
past the bridge and through the village out to the five-acre plot. There
it lay, bare and charming, without a fence, almost without a tree; the
house scattered in every direction; the foundation going up and the well
going down; heaps of sand collected here and there, and a platform for
mixing mortar directly where the flowers ought to be; but where the
garden? We rode in every direction, and at last made out that a little
bare spot which we had been over, forward and back, several times, and
which was about twelve feet long by three wide, must be it. We did not
dismount, but, consoling ourselves with the idea that the earth had been
well stirred with our horses’ hoofs--for stirring the earth is essential
to a productive condition, as Bridgeman says--we returned to the city.
Next day Weeville went to oversee the Irishman, who was hard at work
struggling to subdue the sods on another twelve feet by three, and was
surprised to find many of the peas out of the ground. He took a hoe and
replanted them, treading them down so as to keep them under for the
future; and, having done this with a dozen or more, turned to Patrick,
and told him that he must be more careful hereafter, and must cover the
peas well with earth.
“Sure and I am sorely puzzled, sir,” replied Patrick; “I have been all
the morning poking the pays back under the earth. I’ve been thinking
there must have been somebody over it, for they were all out of the
ground intirely.”
Considering that three horses had been trampling back and forth over the
bed the night before, Patrick was about right. But he had other
difficulties to contend with more formidable than horses’ hoofs. The
sod was strong, not having been disturbed for years, and it was many
days before there was any thing resembling regular beds. In time,
however, the peas appeared above ground; egg-plants were transplanted;
beans crept up, and demanded poles to climb on; queer-looking, weedy
affairs, that Weeville designated cauliflowers or tomatoes, as he
pleased, made themselves conspicuous, and the success of the undertaking
seemed assured--when one morning Pat rushed up to Weeville’s place, and,
with staring eyes, announced that the cows had grazed off all the peas.
Any animal that entered that plot of ground appeared instinctively to
know where the garden was, although better-endowed creatures might have
trouble to find it, and either wanted to rest or pasture there, or at
least to run over it. But when they proceeded to graze on the peas, it
became serious, and upon Pat’s announcing, the following week, that they
had been at it again, Weeville called upon me to say that there must be
a fence round the lot, or he would not answer for the garden. Pat was
set to work at once building fence.
Since the days of the Tower of Babel, when the world was divided up into
tribes, the nations have been distinguished by peculiar aptitudes. The
English nation has a gift for building pirate ships, the French for
fashioning new dresses, the Chinese for growing pig-tails and cutting
off heads, the Russians for eating candles, the Turks for stealing
wives, the Americans for doing a little of every thing, and the Irish
for digging holes. Pat never could learn to use a saw or an axe, or even
to drive a nail without splitting the wood, but he could dig against the
world. He proceeded at once to make the holes for the posts of the
fence.
While he was thus occupied, however, the garden was neglected, and as he
could not by any possibility keep the holes in a line, and consequently
wasted much time, the weeds grew apace. It requires a great many boards
to reach round five acres, and the holes for the posts had to be very
numerous. The cows, having discovered the superior qualities of Daniel
O’Rourke peas, paid them regular visits, and kept them well cropped, so
that the garden fared badly. Pat dug so many holes, in consequence of
making them either out of line or at an improper distance, that he might
almost be said to have trenched the lot; and by the time he was through,
and before the posts were all up, or the fence more than half finished,
it was time to cut the grass.
This was a season of scarcity of labor. The high prices had satisfied
the working-men that their time was too valuable to waste on every
menial kind of drudgery, and they were particular, not only in selecting
their masters, but their employment; so that Pat had to be the main
reliance, with the occasional aid of a half-grown boy, to take hold of
all the “odd jobs” required by a country place. He not only planted the
garden, and built the fence, and helped in the house, and dug in the
well, but he must mow the grass and milk the cow. In fact, if there was
any thing that nobody else could or would do, Pat was called upon.
The grass was very fine. A handsome flower, with rich yellow centre,
surrounded by a single white row of radiating petals, called a
daisy--the lovely flower celebrated so frequently in English poetry, and
the apt simile for all that is virtuous and innocent--had grown to great
luxuriance, proving the uncommon richness of the soil. Its stalk was a
foot long, and the pretty floweret topped the grass, and by its vast
numbers lent a uniform tone of color to the entire lot. There seemed to
be almost as much daisy as there was grass, which was what the natives
called “switch grass,” and they were both knee-high. This crop was
especially thick and heavy on the upper portion of the plot, as the
carts and wagons had been in the habit, entirely regardless of the
enormous damages they occasioned, of driving over the lower end, and the
cattle of the neighborhood had grazed it pretty thoroughly. There was,
consequently, only about an acre and a half left to mow, and Pat, with
the aid of the boy, had that done in a day or two.
In my youthful days, often “of a summer day” I had “raked the meadow,
sweet with hay,” and consequently had learned the importance of sun in
hay-making. Unfortunately, no sooner was the hay cut and scattered about
than there came on the heaviest rain of the season; it was a veritable
northeaster, and lasted four or five days. The barn, which was expected
to hold the crop, existed as yet only in anticipation; and when the hay
did finally dry, it had to be collected in a pile, which Weeville called
a stack, and left to the mercy of the elements. However, the labor cost
only about seven dollars, and I was offered seventeen dollars for the
stack, so that there was a clear profit of ten dollars. This was so
encouraging that I felt almost inclined to lay down the entire five
acres in grass, until I remembered that if an acre and a half produced
ten dollars, five acres would only yield about thirty-five
dollars--hardly sufficient interest on property valued at ten thousand
dollars.
When the hay was stacked, and one board nailed on the fence so that the
cattle could no longer wander wheresoever they listed, a careful
examination of the garden gave the following result: Weeds profuse and
luxuriant; vegetables scarce and sickly; peas about six inches high,
well cropped, without flowers or pods; tomato-plants small, and well
shaded by the surrounding weeds; egg-plants entirely invisible, having
probably gone back into the egg in disgust; bean-poles tall and
vigorous, beans about one foot high, being nearly up with the
neighboring grass, and apparently unable to climb any higher. The other
garden-truck was not to be found, and it required great discernment to
distinguish the garden from the residue of the five acres. Weeville said
it was no matter, after all, as he could supply me with whatever I
wanted from his garden, and that it was always cheaper to buy vegetables
than to raise them!
My glorious anticipations had dwindled; asparagus, cabbages, beets,
strawberries, raspberries, pears, and plums had been given up; and now
the hope of peas, beans, tomatoes, lettuce, and egg-plants was to be
destroyed. That garden on which I counted so greatly--which was to have
furnished not merely cheap food for my family, but subject for
exultation over city friends--had proved a failure. Daniel O’Rourke peas
were not to be; crisp lettuce could not be dressed in that style of art
upon which I pride myself, and handed exultingly round to friends after
the woodcock and claret, as so much superior to the stale, insipid stuff
purchased in the markets. Egg-plants, richest of vegetables, were not to
be pressed upon the surfeited guest as coming from my garden. Beans had
proved a delusion, and tomato-vines a snare. All my study of
horticultural works was to be thrown away.
It is true, we had raised an egg-plant, but it was small--so small that
we thought of sending it to the agricultural fair as a rare production:
it measured one inch and a half in circumference. We also raised one
tomato, but a careless wretch trod on it, and crushed it and our hopes
together. There was a fine lot of wild radish, which my friends
pronounced to be weeds, although I had hopes for a time that a few of
them would become tame. I was disappointed, however: they covered the
new beds, as fast as these were cleared and dug, with a luxuriant
clothing of bright green, and their leaves were pretty and graceful, but
their roots never would come to any thing worth mentioning. It is deeply
to be regretted that Nature has so constituted plants and weeds
respectively, that the former won’t grow and the latter will. I did not
eat a Daniel O’Rourke pea after all.