Mr. Horace Greeley, the introduction of whose name confers an honor upon
this page (although I ought to say that it is used entirely without his
consent), is my sole authority in agriculture. In politics I do not dare
to follow him; but in agriculture he is irresistible. When, therefore,
I find him advising Western farmers not to hill up their corn, I think
that his advice must be political. You must hill up your corn. People
always have hilled up their corn. It would take a constitutional
amendment to change the practice, that has pertained ever since maize
was raised. “It will stand the drought better,” says Mr. Greeley, “if
the ground is left level.” I have corn in my garden, ten and twelve feet
high, strong and lusty, standing the drought like a grenadier; and it
is hilled. In advising this radical change, Mr. Greeley evidently has
a political purpose. He might just as well say that you should not hill
beans, when everybody knows that a “hill of beans” is one of the most
expressive symbols of disparagement. When I become too lazy to hill my
corn, I, too, shall go into politics.
I am satisfied that it is useless to try to cultivate “pusley.” I set a
little of it one side, and gave it some extra care. It did not thrive
as well as that which I was fighting. The fact is, there is a spirit of
moral perversity in the plant, which makes it grow the more, the more
it is interfered with. I am satisfied of that. I doubt if any one has
raised more “pusley” this year than I have; and my warfare with it has
been continual. Neither of us has slept much. If you combat it, it will
grow, to use an expression that will be understood by many, like the
devil. I have a neighbor, a good Christian man, benevolent, and a person
of good judgment. He planted next to me an acre of turnips recently.
A few days after, he went to look at his crop; and he found the entire
ground covered with a thick and luxurious carpet of “pusley,” with a
turnip-top worked in here and there as an ornament. I have seldom seen
so thrifty a field. I advised my neighbor next time to sow “pusley” and
then he might get a few turnips. I wish there was more demand in our
city markets for “pusley” as a salad. I can recommend it.
It does not take a great man to soon discover that, in raising anything,
the greater part of the plants goes into stalk and leaf, and the fruit
is a most inconsiderable portion. I plant and hoe a hill of corn: it
grows green and stout, and waves its broad leaves high in the air, and
is months in perfecting itself, and then yields us not enough for a
dinner. It grows because it delights to do so,--to take the juices out
of my ground, to absorb my fertilizers, to wax luxuriant, and disport
itself in the summer air, and with very little thought of making any
return to me. I might go all through my garden and fruit trees with a
similar result. I have heard of places where there was very little
land to the acre. It is universally true that there is a great deal of
vegetable show and fuss for the result produced. I do not complain of
this. One cannot expect vegetables to be better than men: and they make
a great deal of ostentatious splurge; and many of them come to no result
at last. Usually, the more show of leaf and wood, the less fruit. This
melancholy reflection is thrown in here in order to make dog-days seem
cheerful in comparison.
One of the minor pleasures of life is that of controlling vegetable
activity and aggressions with the pruning-knife. Vigorous and rapid
growth is, however, a necessity to the sport. To prune feeble plants and
shrubs is like acting the part of dry-nurse to a sickly orphan. You must
feel the blood of Nature bound under your hand, and get the thrill of
its life in your nerves. To control and culture a strong, thrifty plant
in this way is like steering a ship under full headway, or driving a
locomotive with your hand on the lever, or pulling the reins over a fast
horse when his blood and tail are up. I do not understand, by the
way, the pleasure of the jockey in setting up the tail of the horse
artificially. If I had a horse with a tail not able to sit up, I should
feed the horse, and curry him into good spirits, and let him set up
his own tail. When I see a poor, spiritless horse going by with an
artificially set-up tail, it is only a signal of distress. I desire to
be surrounded only by healthy, vigorous plants and trees, which require
constant cutting-in and management. Merely to cut away dead branches is
like perpetual attendance at a funeral, and puts one in low spirits.
I want to have a garden and orchard rise up and meet me every morning,
with the request to “lay on, Macduff.” I respect old age; but an old
currant-bush, hoary with mossy bark, is a melancholy spectacle.
I suppose the time has come when I am expected to say something about
fertilizers: all agriculturists do. When you plant, you think you cannot
fertilize too much: when you get the bills for the manure, you think
you cannot fertilize too little. Of course you do not expect to get the
value of the manure back in fruits and vegetables; but something is due
to science,--to chemistry in particular. You must have a knowledge
of soils, must have your soil analyzed, and then go into a course of
experiments to find what it needs. It needs analyzing,--that, I am clear
about: everything needs that. You had better have the soil analyzed
before you buy: if there is “pusley” in it, let it alone. See if it is a
soil that requires much hoeing, and how fine it will get if there is no
rain for two months. But when you come to fertilizing, if I understand
the agricultural authorities, you open a pit that will ultimately
swallow you up,--farm and all. It is the great subject of modern times,
how to fertilize without ruinous expense; how, in short, not to starve
the earth to death while we get our living out of it. Practically, the
business is hardly to the taste of a person of a poetic turn of mind.
The details of fertilizing are not agreeable. Michael Angelo, who tried
every art, and nearly every trade, never gave his mind to fertilizing.
It is much pleasanter and easier to fertilize with a pen, as the
agricultural writers do, than with a fork. And this leads me to say,
that, in carrying on a garden yourself, you must have a “consulting”
gardener; that is, a man to do the heavy and unpleasant work. To such a
man, I say, in language used by Demosthenes to the Athenians, and which
is my advice to all gardeners, “Fertilize, fertilize, fertilize!”