SUCCESS OF THE YEAR.
The agricultural books all tell us that, at the close of the season, we
should look back and review the work that we have accomplished,
comparing it with previous results, or studying where improvements could
be effected. Our second year was certainly a great advance upon the
first, as the former might be said to have been rather a case for what
the merchants call profit and loss--all loss and no profit, so far as
actual production is concerned. The previous attempt had resulted in
raising absolutely nothing, whereas our subsequent one had raised a
great deal; we had much to show for it, although not always exactly what
we wanted. There was ample room for improvement, and there were abundant
errors manifestly requiring correction. We did not need an acre of
onions, that was perfectly clear, as the servants could consume but a
limited quantity, which fell off rapidly when they were told they could
have all they wanted, and the residue did not seem to have a positive
market value, Patrick vainly offering them at any price to every
market-man in Flushing; so it was evident that we should not require as
many the ensuing season.
Onions are rather a pretty vegetable, and grateful for the least care.
They grow readily; in fact, like the would-be “butcher boy,” they are
bound to do it. They come up so well that they come clear up above
ground in their effort, and show their luscious yellow or white bulbs
above the surface. When these first began to swell I proceeded to earth
them over, fearing lest their nakedness should expose them to injury;
but, as the plot devoted to their service was rather large, and Patrick
utterly refused to assist me, being invariably too busy whenever I
called upon him to help cover the onions, and insisting that “they
didn’t nade it at all, at all, and that it was ruinin’ them I was
intirely,” I finally abandoned the attempt. It was some time ere my
fears for the result were removed, and the discovery made that onions
could take care of themselves. It is a pity egg-plants do not grow as
obstinately as onions; they do not, however, nor do most other good
things.
Peas are a profitable crop--that is, if they are not dwarfs, or do not
go to leaf, as ours did; and there are many different kinds--so many
that the novice in gardening is somewhat puzzled to choose. Fortunately,
by Weeville’s advice, we had made an excellent selection, and by
changing the acre of onions into an acre of Daniel O’Rourkes we might
possibly have enough for the family. As I have mentioned before, the
O’Rourkes are not profuse bearers; it may be called a rather lucky
chance if they bear any thing but leaf, and consequently it is not in a
monetary sense that they are profitable; the benefit they confer is in
enabling one to crow over one’s city visitors. The dwarfs are not
desirable. They constituted our principal stock, and, useful as they
might be in the penance line, as edibles they compare unfavorably with
pebbles.
We had an immense quantity of beets, and had experimented in divers ways
of cooking them. We had them boiled, baked, stuffed, and roasted, hot,
cold, pickled in vinegar, and even fried, but through it all they were
“dead beets.” I had serious ideas of trying to extract sugar from them;
but when Patrick informed me that Dandy Jim approved of their flavor, I
gave them over to his care. Our pole-beans, which are good for pork and
beans--if any Christian eats that dish and lives--were also extremely
successful. The Limas bore a few pods, but that was after we returned
to the city; Patrick, however, said they were excellent. Our spinach was
so abundant that I should have turned Cushy into it if I could have
restricted her attentions to that alone. The cucumbers were very
numerous, our cabbages innumerable, and our cauliflowers nowhere.
It was clear that this must be changed. The Limas must be made to
emulate the pole-beans, the spinach, beets, and onions must be kept down
to proper limits, the cucumbers and cabbages must be eliminated, and the
cauliflowers encouraged. How to effect these changes, however, was not
entirely clear to my mind.
Our corn grew remarkably well. Fresh sweet corn is a dish of which I am
particularly fond; it is luscious, healthful, and appetizing; it
contains much milk--the human being’s natural nourishment; it is
excellent boiled or roasted on the cob, stewed in milk, or mixed with
beans into succotash; even corn juice is good occasionally--but that
requires age. Patrick had planted a goodly lot of it. I watched the
stalks rise and the broad leaves spread out with infinite pleasure. The
ears formed with their long silky tops, and swelled, as they reached
maturity, like a budding maiden. It was with great anticipations that we
awaited our first meal of new corn. This was admirably cooked, and came
on the table smoking hot, each cob enveloped in its steaming green
cuticle, but somehow the taste did not prove so agreeable as we had
expected. Thinking that it might be too young, I told Patrick not to
pick any more for a day or two. The next trial was even more
unsatisfactory--it had absolutely no flavor whatever. Feeling there must
be something wrong, with sinking heart I cross-questioned Patrick, and
discovered that he did not know there was any difference between sweet
corn and the common kind, and had planted a quantity of that which he
was using for the horses. I never ascertained what became of it, but we
did not try it again on the table.
Our asparagus was gone without redemption. The few spears that struggled
up into existence reached a partial state of forwardness; but
association with Patrick’s planting of turnips appeared to disgust them,
and they lay down and died with hardly an effort. Our trees succeeded
excellently; they were unusually large, and had cost an extra price, as
the nurseryman, when I bought them, assured me that they would bear
fruit the first year. They stood the blasts of winter bravely. In spring
they put out their leaves, and even burst into occasional flower, but
they did not go so far as bearing fruit. They appeared to have some
misunderstanding of the principal object of their existence, and did
not come up to the promise made for them on their purchase, and by them
afterward. As shade-trees they did not amount to much, and even as
ornaments they were rather thin; but as fruit-bearers they were a total
failure.
Our strawberries had rather surpassed expectation. The first lot, it is
true, had died out, but those planted in the spring seemed to feel
called upon to redeem the good name of the race. They grew admirably,
and not only covered themselves with blossoms, but actually bore
fruit--not very luxuriantly, but much more abundantly than I had any
reason to anticipate. We had quite a bowlful of them--the red, firm,
ripe berries being a delicious contrast to the soft, faded, stale things
that are sold to us in the city. When these were picked, the vines were
still covered with green fruit, and I expected to have many a dessert
from them. I am a great admirer of strawberries--and so are chickens--in
spite of the crisp little seeds that somewhat injure them. They have
just the proper amount of acidity to render them piquant when compounded
with sufficient sugar. Raspberries are too sweet, and blackberries have
not sufficient delicacy of flavor, so that I prefer strawberries. But,
unfortunately, as I remarked above, so do chickens.
After our first taste I visited the garden hopefully every morning, but
was much surprised to find none of the green berries become ripe. They
disappeared gradually, and I was greatly at a loss to understand the
reason. I knew that Gran was fond of strawberries, but he was an honest
dog. You might trust him with untold strawberries, and he would not
touch one without permission. He might howl for them until he would
drive his master crazy, but, although his howlings were ineffectual, he
would not steal. Sher was less trustworthy, but he did not like the acid
berries. The pigs could not get out, nor Cushy get in; so that the
diminution was a mystery to me, until, happening to rise one morning
quite early, I discovered our entire flock of chickens busy in the
strawberry-patch, and, driving them out, I noticed the remains of
several fine ripe berries. This explained the difficulty. There was no
place where we could cage the chickens; in fact, as the berries were
mostly consumed, to do so would be rather late, and I had nothing for it
but to see my favorite fruit “grow small by degrees and beautifully
less,” amid the early “clucks” of delight that thereafter suggestively
broke in upon my morning slumbers, until the entire plot was bare.
From this adventure two deductions were to be drawn: one, that I must
plant more of these energetic vines; the other, that I must build a
chicken-coop. The latter would cost heavily, probably more than many
years’ supply of both berries and chickens; and, to save the expense of
applying to the nurseries for the former, I must encourage our own vines
to run and propagate. To effect this, when July drew toward a close, and
they put out suckers in every direction, I pinned these down with small
forked sticks, so as to compel them to take root. This was an original
idea of my own, of which I was particularly proud. Weeville ridiculed
it, saying that there would be young plants enough without that trouble;
but I determined to help Nature--which the doctors have lately
ascertained is the true principle in encouraging human plants to grow
and discouraging them from dying. The work kept me quite busy, for it
was astounding how many runners started off and how fast they ran. They
took root finely, and soon made the entire patch a mass of flourishing
plants. They grew and grew, and interlaced and twined round one another,
and, unfortunately, the weeds grew with them, till, when I undertook to
transplant them in the fall, I could not tell the old plants from the
young. This was rather unlucky; for, unless the old stools, as they are
called, were preserved, there would be but a slim crop the following
year. Nevertheless, I tried in vain to distinguish the parents from
their healthy children, and at last had to direct Patrick to dig out as
many as he wanted indiscriminately, and then to cut paths through the
residue at regular intervals, regardless of what might be in the way.
The next year will show the result, for which I was prepared to wait
with due patience.
The second season of my life in the country having closed, and the new
year, with relaxation from agricultural pursuits, being upon us, I
proceeded to make up my annual exhibit of the result. The investments of
my previous year had not turned out well; the asparagus and strawberries
failed utterly, and my garden had been a virgin soil when it was
attacked in the spring. But this season there was every reason to be
satisfied with the result; the productions, although not exactly such as
a gourmand would prefer, were abundant; the flowers had been a grand
success, some of them far surpassing the wildest anticipations; and the
vegetables did no discredit to the soil, although they did not reflect
much honor on Patrick’s judgment. The fact had been clearly established
that there was only needed the eye and mind of the master to produce a
highly creditable result. It could not be questioned that a place which
would grow such wonderful pumpkins, and such vast expanse of onion, and
such early and abundant squashes, would also, if properly managed, be as
fertile of egg-plants, cauliflowers, and the other higher classes of
vegetables. There was no probability of my again visiting the Old World,
and I should be able to devote undivided attention to my horticultural
pursuits.
As with the previous year, it is not an easy matter to make out the
accounts satisfactorily; there were items that were of questionable
relationship toward investment or yearly expenditure; there were kinds
of profit difficult of estimation, and, as usual, there were sundry
matters altogether forgotten. If there is any one point more important
than another in recording the experiences of an individual in any
pursuit, when these experiences are to be the guide of others, it is
absolute exactness in figures and calculations. I have, therefore, been
exceedingly careful, and devoted much consideration to every item ere it
was inserted, and I flatter myself that the following statement may be
relied upon confidently:
INVESTMENT ACCOUNT.--DEBIT.
Cost of premises $15,000
Three hundred loads of fertilizer 180
Strawberry plants 3
New teeth 50
Dandy Jim 450
-------
Total $15,683
INVESTMENT ACCOUNT.--CREDIT.
Value of premises $16,000
Dandy Jim 50
New teeth 100
Strawberry bed 50
-------
Total $16,200
YEARLY EXPENSES.--DEBIT.
Asparagus $ 6 00
Seeds 10 50
Subscription to Skating-pond 10 00
Damage to wagon 50 00
-------
Total $ 76 50
YEARLY RECEIPTS.--CREDIT.
One quart of strawberries $ 50
One hundred bushels (estimated) of onions 50 00
Ten egg-plants 2 50
One peck Daniel O’Rourke peas 2 00
One thousand squashes 100 00
Five hundred cucumbers 20 00
One hundred pumpkins 25 00
Five cauliflowers 2 50
Fifty bushels of tomatoes 25 00
Beets, beans, turnips, etc. 50 00
-------
Total $277 50
There are some items in the foregoing accounts that require explanation.
The manure was included in permanent capital, because it went into the
ground, became incorporated with it, and added just so much additional
value to it. The strawberries, having now proved successful, ceased to
be a current expense, but entered into the total cost. The new teeth
referred to are not for the rakes, as might be supposed, but for myself.
Having heretofore mentioned some of Dandy Jim’s peculiarities, I omitted
an explanation of our last association and final separation. I was not
fond of driving the gallant steed--so gallant that he usually danced
twenty feet to one side, and stood on his hind legs whenever he saw the
dress of a woman--but I was occasionally forced to make use of his
services. The train happening to give out, and being pressed to attend
to some business in town, I had him harnessed, and, with some
misgivings, commenced my journey toward the city. By great care and
discretion, I managed to make my way through the village, which he
cleared at full run, in consequence of a sudden whistle from a
locomotive attached to a dirt train; over the bridge, where he shied
from one side to the other, grazing both the wheels against the heavy
plank balustrade; along Jackson’s Avenue, where he bounced up and down
on passing every market-wagon or hay-cart; on board the ferry-boat, to
which he was only constrained by violent abuse and the physical
strength of several of the hands of the boat, and where he amused
himself by pawing steadily, and occasionally backing on the horse
directly behind, and thus causing much excitement, bad temper, and
coarse language during the entire trip; and fairly on the stone
pavements of the city streets.
By this time I had lost all fear, having resigned myself to perfect
recklessness, like the man who, after being exposed a thousand times to
death, no longer dreads it; and I drove up Thirty-fourth Street, across
the tunnel at Fourth Avenue, and into Fifth Avenue, as though there was
no such thing as peril in my path. Down our fashionable thoroughfare I
proceeded, assuming rather a jaunty and professional air; I squared my
elbows, held my whip in my hand, taking great care not to touch Dandy
Jim, however, and looked round at the foot-passengers, as much as to
say, “I am not afraid to drive this wild animal; I do it every day.”
Unfortunately for the triumph of my assumptions, there was a piece of
paper lying directly in our path.
Now Dandy Jim has an objection to paper, why I never could discover; but
paper, white or brown, newspaper or blank paper, leaves or letters, is
to him a thing of horror--his very soul revolts at it. It certainly
never could have done him any injury--it is, except as a vehicle of
slander, so perfectly harmless--but he seemed to hold it in abject
terror. This idiosyncracy was well known to me, but, unfortunately, my
mind was so occupied with the effect I was producing that I did not
notice the exciting cause. To aggravate the difficulty, just as we
approached the objectionable article, and when my peculiar animal might
have consented to pass by with a reasonable amount of self-restraint, a
sudden gust blew it directly under his feet. If paper was his
detestation, moving paper was a monstrosity magnified fifty fold; he
reared up on his hind legs, made one bound sideways full thirty feet,
and then, stopping suddenly, slipped on the pavement, and fell flat on
his side.
Exactly what happened to me I never could determine. I seemed to be
flying; next I beheld a splendid coruscation of fire-works; and then I
awoke to find myself stretched at full length in the street, with a
bloody nose and a scarcity of front teeth. Dandy Jim regained his feet
more quickly than myself, ran away, smashed the wagon, as was his wont,
and wound up by getting shut in by stages and carts, when he was
ignominiously led away captive by a stalwart policeman. I gathered
myself up as well as I could, and went home in a dilapidated state.
This led to my selling Dandy Jim and buying a set of false front teeth;
the former brought precisely what it cost to pay for the latter.
[Illustration]
Thus it was that I overcame a prejudice that had long beset me against
the artificial productions of manufacturing dentistry. This objection
exists in the minds of many persons, although nothing can be more
unfounded. If there is any thing that is an utterly miserable failure,
it is the natural set of teeth. From almost the hour when we come into
the world, until the time when we quit it, or so long as a stump or root
remains, our teeth are a source of annoyance to us. They have to be cut,
and then pulled out, that they may “cut and come again.” As babies, we
are “never ourselves” for the cutting of our teeth; when we grow older
we wish we were any body else, from the misery they cause us. They ache,
and decay, and break; they come out when they should stay in, and stay
in when they should come out; they torture and torment us till we only
get rid of them with life itself.
On the other hand, the artificial teeth never pain the possessor, rarely
break, and, if broken, are easily replaced; are readily cleaned, do not
fall out, but can be removed at pleasure. They are infinitely handsomer
than their ugly, irregular, uneven, discolored, and dirty prototypes.
These exquisite productions of art are made of a delicate, pearly shade
of white; they form a perfect row of well-proportioned beauty,
undistinguishable from the genuine article, their very gums matching and
closely fitting the natural flesh beneath them; they never inflict a
torturing tooth-ache, driving man crazy with pain, and keeping him
sleepless the long, dreary nights; they require no filling--an operation
that the unfortunate possessor of living teeth dreads only less than
the rack itself; and they do not have to be pulled out, with an agony
comparable to the effect of drawing the entire brain out through the
hole at the roots.
From my experience before and since my accident, I should certainly
advise my fellow-creatures to have as little to do with real teeth as
possible, and to substitute the imitation as soon as they can. There may
be a certain amount of suffering in having teeth, and especially sound
ones, extracted, but the satisfaction of being finally rid of the
troublesome things more than pays for the temporary annoyance. A natural
set will become dirty in spite of endless scrubbing with the
tooth-brush; some are invariably longer than others; there are
projections and depressions; wherever they lap, tartar settles; inside
it is impossible to get at them at all, and they compel a half-yearly
interview with the dentist, from which one comes away greatly unnerved.
Their substitutes are a great improvement to one’s personal appearance,
and never cause the slightest inconvenience, besides saving hours in
cleaning, that, in a long life, amount to an aggregate of years. The new
teeth were so far superior to those that they replaced, that they are
valued on the credit side of the account at a hundred dollars, showing a
clear profit of one hundred per cent. In fact, I regard this discovery
as one of the most valuable, if not the very most valuable, of the
results of my country experience.
The premises are set down at an increase of one thousand dollars, and,
if my readers had seen the difference between a bare tract of land and a
garden blooming with beauty, odorous with fragrance, and smiling with
abundance, they would have felt that the improvement was stated at too
low a rate. The strawberries are also put at a large advance upon the
prime cost; but a thriving bed of this excellent fruit, bidding fair to
supply the wants of the entire household, to gratify friends, and to
supply the place of costlier desserts, was well worth a round sum of
money. It certainly cost me much care and anxiety; it had failed once,
and threatened at first to give out the second time, but finally had
proved an absolute success, and was already becoming the parent of other
plantations.
Among the items of yearly expense will be found included a charge for
entrance-fee to the skating-pond. This may at first seem to be more of a
luxury than an actual necessity, but, as it was clear that I should not
have incurred it if I had not been in Flushing, I put it down. My yearly
receipts do not represent so much income actually received, for, as has
been stated previously, there did not appear to be a market for garden
produce in Flushing, but are given as the amount I should have had to
pay if I had bought the various articles at retail prices. This is
clearly proper; for, if we had wanted them to eat, had purchased them at
the stalls, and had paid the current charges, there would have been just
so much additional outlay; that we did not eat them is no answer, for we
could have done so had we wished.
This exhibit was certainly entirely satisfactory; the account had
steadily improved, and bade fair soon to show a large income. I have
even gone so far as to leave out of question rent saved, dissipation at
Saratoga avoided, health improved, digestion invigorated, pure air
enjoyed, and a thousand other matters for which we pay so dearly; I
merely take the hard, dry figures--the positive profit and loss in
dollars and cents--and they give a clear net profit of nearly eight
hundred dollars. Nothing could be asked more promising than this; if it
went on improving at this rate, there was no telling where it would
stop. Farming had evidently proved itself a source of vast wealth. We
were nowhere near the limit of the productiveness of my five acres, and,
with additional attention, we might reasonably anticipate increased
returns. The result was so encouraging, the life at Flushing so
charming, the access to the city so easy, that I resolved to move there
permanently. There was much to be done besides sleigh-riding and
skating, even in the winter months; roots had to be stored from frost,
bulbs required attention, potatoes and turnips demanded care,
chicken-coops had to be built, forcing-frames dug, and a green-house
erected. Taking all these things into consideration, I resolved to
abandon the city, and, in spite of frozen ground, deep snows, piercing
winds, and muddy roads, to devote myself to agricultural pursuits.
[Illustration]