In these golden latter August days, Nature has come to a serene
equilibrium. Having flowered and fruited, she is enjoying herself. I can
see how things are going: it is a down-hill business after this; but,
for the time being, it is like swinging in a hammock,--such a delicious
air, such a graceful repose! I take off my hat as I stroll into the
garden and look about; and it does seem as if Nature had sounded a
truce. I did n't ask for it. I went out with a hoe; but the serene
sweetness disarms me. Thrice is he armed who has a long-handled hoe,
with a double blade. Yet to-day I am almost ashamed to appear in such a
belligerent fashion, with this terrible mitrailleuse of gardening.
The tomatoes are getting tired of ripening, and are beginning to go into
a worthless condition,--green. The cucumbers cumber the ground,--great
yellow, over-ripe objects, no more to be compared to the crisp beauty
of their youth than is the fat swine of the sty to the clean little pig.
The nutmeg-melons, having covered themselves with delicate lace-work,
are now ready to leave the vine. I know they are ripe if they come
easily off the stem.
Moral Observations.--You can tell when people are ripe by their
willingness to let go. Richness and ripeness are not exactly the same.
The rich are apt to hang to the stem with tenacity. I have nothing
against the rich. If I were not virtuous, I should like to be rich.
But we cannot have everything, as the man said when he was down with
small-pox and cholera, and the yellow fever came into the neighborhood.
Now, the grapes, soaked in this liquid gold, called air, begin to turn,
mindful of the injunction, “to turn or burn.” The clusters under the
leaves are getting quite purple, but look better than they taste. I
think there is no danger but they will be gathered as soon as they are
ripe. One of the blessings of having an open garden is, that I do not
have to watch my fruit: a dozen youngsters do that, and let it waste
no time after it matures. I wish it were possible to grow a variety of
grape like the explosive bullets, that should explode in the stomach:
the vine would make such a nice border for the garden,--a masked battery
of grape. The pears, too, are getting russet and heavy; and here and
there amid the shining leaves one gleams as ruddy as the cheek of the
Nutbrown Maid. The Flemish Beauties come off readily from the stem, if I
take them in my hand: they say all kinds of beauty come off by handling.
The garden is peace as much as if it were an empire. Even the man's cow
lies down under the tree where the man has tied her, with such an air of
contentment, that I have small desire to disturb her. She is chewing my
cud as if it were hers. Well, eat on and chew on, melancholy brute. I
have not the heart to tell the man to take you away: and it would do no
good if I had; he wouldn't do it. The man has not a taking way. Munch
on, ruminant creature.
The frost will soon come; the grass will be brown. I will be charitable
while this blessed lull continues: for our benevolences must soon be
turned to other and more distant objects,--the amelioration of the
condition of the Jews, the education of theological young men in the
West, and the like.
I do not know that these appearances are deceitful; but I sufficiently
know that this is a wicked world, to be glad that I have taken it on
shares. In fact, I could not pick the pears alone, not to speak of
eating them. When I climb the trees, and throw down the dusky fruit,
Polly catches it in her apron; nearly always, however, letting go when
it drops, the fall is so sudden. The sun gets in her face; and, every
time a pear comes down it is a surprise, like having a tooth out, she
says.
“If I could n't hold an apron better than that!”
But the sentence is not finished: it is useless to finish that sort of a
sentence in this delicious weather. Besides, conversation is dangerous.
As, for instance, towards evening I am preparing a bed for a sowing of
turnips,--not that I like turnips in the least; but this is the season
to sow them. Polly comes out, and extemporizes her usual seat to
“consult me” about matters while I work. I well know that something is
coming.
“This is a rotation of crops, is n't it?”
“Yes: I have rotated the gone-to-seed lettuce off, and expect to rotate
the turnips in; it is a political fashion.”
“Is n't it a shame that the tomatoes are all getting ripe at once? What
a lot of squashes! I wish we had an oyster-bed. Do you want me to help
you any more than I am helping?”
“No, I thank you.” (I wonder what all this is about?)
“Don't you think we could sell some strawberries next year?”
“By all means, sell anything. We shall no doubt get rich out of this
acre.”
“Don't be foolish.”
And now!
“Don't you think it would be nice to have a?”....
And Polly unfolds a small scheme of benevolence, which is not quite
enough to break me, and is really to be executed in an economical
manner. “Would n't that be nice?”
“Oh, yes! And where is the money to come from?”
“I thought we had agreed to sell the strawberries.”
“Certainly. But I think we would make more money if we sold the plants
now.”
“Well,” said Polly, concluding the whole matter, “I am going to do
it.” And, having thus “consulted” me, Polly goes away; and I put in the
turnip-seeds quite thick, determined to raise enough to sell. But not
even this mercenary thought can ruffle my mind as I rake off the loamy
bed. I notice, however, that the spring smell has gone out of the dirt.
That went into the first crop.
In this peaceful unison with yielding nature, I was a little taken
aback to find that a new enemy had turned up. The celery had just rubbed
through the fiery scorching of the drought, and stood a faint chance
to grow; when I noticed on the green leaves a big green-and-black worm,
called, I believe, the celery-worm: but I don't know who called him; I
am sure I did not. It was almost ludicrous that he should turn up here,
just at the end of the season, when I supposed that my war with the
living animals was over. Yet he was, no doubt, predestinated; for he
went to work as cheerfully as if he had arrived in June, when everything
was fresh and vigorous. It beats me--Nature does. I doubt not, that,
if I were to leave my garden now for a week, it would n't know me on my
return. The patch I scratched over for the turnips, and left as clean as
earth, is already full of ambitious “pusley,” which grows with all the
confidence of youth and the skill of old age. It beats the serpent as an
emblem of immortality. While all the others of us in the garden rest and
sit in comfort a moment, upon the summit of the summer, it is as rampant
and vicious as ever. It accepts no armistice.