I think I have discovered the way to keep peas from the birds. I tried
the scarecrow plan, in a way which I thought would outwit the shrewdest
bird. The brain of the bird is not large; but it is all concentrated
on one object, and that is the attempt to elude the devices of modern
civilization which injure his chances of food. I knew that, if I put up
a complete stuffed man, the bird would detect the imitation at once:
the perfection of the thing would show him that it was a trick. People
always overdo the matter when they attempt deception. I therefore hung
some loose garments, of a bright color, upon a rake-head, and set them
up among the vines. The supposition was, that the bird would think there
was an effort to trap him, that there was a man behind, holding up these
garments, and would sing, as he kept at a distance, “You can't catch
me with any such double device.” The bird would know, or think he knew,
that I would not hang up such a scare, in the expectation that it would
pass for a man, and deceive a bird; and he would therefore look for
a deeper plot. I expected to outwit the bird by a duplicity that was
simplicity itself I may have over-calculated the sagacity and reasoning
power of the bird. At any rate, I did over-calculate the amount of peas
I should gather.
But my game was only half played. In another part of the garden were
other peas, growing and blowing. To-these I took good care not to
attract the attention of the bird by any scarecrow whatever! I left the
old scarecrow conspicuously flaunting above the old vines; and by this
means I hope to keep the attention of the birds confined to that side of
the garden. I am convinced that this is the true use of a scarecrow:
it is a lure, and not a warning. If you wish to save men from any
particular vice, set up a tremendous cry of warning about some other;
and they will all give their special efforts to the one to which
attention is called. This profound truth is about the only thing I have
yet realized out of my pea-vines.
However, the garden does begin to yield. I know of nothing that
makes one feel more complacent, in these July days, than to have his
vegetables from his own garden. What an effect it has on the market-man
and the butcher! It is a kind of declaration of independence. The
market-man shows me his peas and beets and tomatoes, and supposes
he shall send me out some with the meat. “No, I thank you,” I say
carelessly; “I am raising my own this year.” Whereas I have been wont to
remark, “Your vegetables look a little wilted this weather,” I now say,
“What a fine lot of vegetables you've got!” When a man is not going to
buy, he can afford to be generous. To raise his own vegetables makes a
person feel, somehow, more liberal. I think the butcher is touched by
the influence, and cuts off a better roast for me, The butcher is my
friend when he sees that I am not wholly dependent on him.
It is at home, however, that the effect is most marked, though sometimes
in a way that I had not expected. I have never read of any Roman
supper that seemed to me equal to a dinner of my own vegetables; when
everything on the table is the product of my own labor, except the
clams, which I have not been able to raise yet, and the chickens, which
have withdrawn from the garden just when they were most attractive. It
is strange what a taste you suddenly have for things you never liked
before. The squash has always been to me a dish of contempt; but I eat
it now as if it were my best friend. I never cared for the beet or
the bean; but I fancy now that I could eat them all, tops and all, so
completely have they been transformed by the soil in which they grew. I
think the squash is less squashy, and the beet has a deeper hue of rose,
for my care of them.
I had begun to nurse a good deal of pride in presiding over a table
whereon was the fruit of my honest industry. But woman!--John Stuart
Mill is right when he says that we do not know anything about women. Six
thousand years is as one day with them. I thought I had something to do
with those vegetables. But when I saw Polly seated at her side of the
table, presiding over the new and susceptible vegetables, flanked by
the squash and the beans, and smiling upon the green corn and the new
potatoes, as cool as the cucumbers which lay sliced in ice before her,
and when she began to dispense the fresh dishes, I saw at once that the
day of my destiny was over. You would have thought that she owned all
the vegetables, and had raised them all from their earliest years. Such
quiet, vegetable airs! Such gracious appropriation! At length I said,--
“Polly, do you know who planted that squash, or those squashes?”
“James, I suppose.”
“Well, yes, perhaps James did plant them, to a certain extent. But who
hoed them?”
“We did.”
“We did!” I said, in the most sarcastic manner.
And I suppose we put on the sackcloth and ashes, when the striped bug
came at four o'clock A.M., and we watched the tender leaves, and watered
night and morning the feeble plants. “I tell you, Polly,” said I,
uncorking the Bordeaux raspberry vinegar, “there is not a pea here that
does not represent a drop of moisture wrung from my brow, not a beet
that does not stand for a back-ache, not a squash that has not caused me
untold anxiety; and I did hope--but I will say no more.”
Observation.--In this sort of family discussion, “I will say no more” is
the most effective thing you can close up with.
I am not an alarmist. I hope I am as cool as anybody this hot summer.
But I am quite ready to say to Polly, or any other woman, “You can have
the ballot; only leave me the vegetables, or, what is more important,
the consciousness of power in vegetables.” I see how it is. Woman is now
supreme in the house. She already stretches out her hand to grasp the
garden. She will gradually control everything. Woman is one of the
ablest and most cunning creatures who have ever mingled in human
affairs. I understand those women who say they don't want the ballot.
They purpose to hold the real power while we go through the mockery of
making laws. They want the power without the responsibility. (Suppose my
squash had not come up, or my beans--as they threatened at one time--had
gone the wrong way: where would I have been?) We are to be held to
all the responsibilities. Woman takes the lead in all the departments,
leaving us politics only. And what is politics? Let me raise the
vegetables of a nation, says Polly, and I care not who makes its
politics. Here I sat at the table, armed with the ballot, but really
powerless among my own vegetables. While we are being amused by the
ballot, woman is quietly taking things into her own hands.