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<h2> SEVENTEENTH WEEK </h2>
<p>I like to go into the garden these warm latter days, and muse. To muse is
to sit in the sun, and not think of anything. I am not sure but goodness
comes out of people who bask in the sun, as it does out of a sweet apple
roasted before the fire. The late September and October sun of this
latitude is something like the sun of extreme Lower Italy: you can stand a
good deal of it, and apparently soak a winter supply into the system. If
one only could take in his winter fuel in this way! The next great
discovery will, very likely, be the conservation of sunlight. In the
correlation of forces, I look to see the day when the superfluous sunshine
will be utilized; as, for instance, that which has burned up my celery
this year will be converted into a force to work the garden.</p>
<p>This sitting in the sun amid the evidences of a ripe year is the easiest
part of gardening I have experienced. But what a combat has gone on here!
What vegetable passions have run the whole gamut of ambition, selfishness,
greed of place, fruition, satiety, and now rest here in the truce of
exhaustion! What a battle-field, if one may look upon it so! The corn has
lost its ammunition, and stacked arms in a slovenly, militia sort of
style. The ground vines are torn, trampled, and withered; and the
ungathered cucumbers, worthless melons, and golden squashes lie about like
the spent bombs and exploded shells of a battle-field. So the cannon-balls
lay on the sandy plain before Fort Fisher after the capture. So the great
grassy meadow at Munich, any morning during the October Fest, is strewn
with empty beermugs. History constantly repeats itself. There is a large
crop of moral reflections in my garden, which anybody is at liberty to
gather who passes this way.</p>
<p>I have tried to get in anything that offered temptation to sin. There
would be no thieves if there was nothing to steal; and I suppose, in the
thieves' catechism, the provider is as bad as the thief; and, probably, I
am to blame for leaving out a few winter pears, which some predatory boy
carried off on Sunday. At first I was angry, and said I should like to
have caught the urchin in the act; but, on second thought, I was glad I
did not. The interview could not have been pleasant: I shouldn't have
known what to do with him. The chances are, that he would have escaped
away with his pockets full, and jibed at me from a safe distance. And, if
I had got my hands on him, I should have been still more embarrassed. If I
had flogged him, he would have got over it a good deal sooner than I
should. That sort of boy does not mind castigation any more than he does
tearing his trousers in the briers. If I had treated him with kindness,
and conciliated him with grapes, showing him the enormity of his offense,
I suppose he would have come the next night, and taken the remainder of
the grapes. The truth is, that the public morality is lax on the subject
of fruit. If anybody puts arsenic or gunpowder into his watermelons, he is
universally denounced as a stingy old murderer by the community. A great
many people regard growing fruit as lawful prey, who would not think of
breaking into your cellar to take it. I found a man once in my
raspberry-bushes, early in the season, when we were waiting for a dishful
to ripen. Upon inquiring what he was about, he said he was only eating
some; and the operation seemed to be so natural and simple, that I
disliked to disturb him. And I am not very sure that one has a right to
the whole of an abundant crop of fruit until he has gathered it. At least,
in a city garden, one might as well conform his theory to the practice of
the community.</p>
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<p>As for children (and it sometimes looks as if the chief products of my
garden were small boys and hens), it is admitted that they are barbarians.
There is no exception among them to this condition of barbarism. This is
not to say that they are not attractive; for they have the virtues as well
as the vices of a primitive people. It is held by some naturalists that
the child is only a zoophyte, with a stomach, and feelers radiating from
it in search of something to fill it. It is true that a child is always
hungry all over: but he is also curious all over; and his curiosity is
excited about as early as his hunger. He immediately begins to put out his
moral feelers into the unknown and the infinite to discover what sort of
an existence this is into which he has come. His imagination is quite as
hungry as his stomach. And again and again it is stronger than his other
appetites. You can easily engage his imagination in a story which will
make him forget his dinner. He is credulous and superstitious, and open to
all wonder. In this, he is exactly like the savage races. Both gorge
themselves on the marvelous; and all the unknown is marvelous to them. I
know the general impression is that children must be governed through
their stomachs. I think they can be controlled quite as well through their
curiosity; that being the more craving and imperious of the two. I have
seen children follow about a person who told them stories, and interested
them with his charming talk, as greedily as if his pockets had been full
of bon-bons.</p>
<p>Perhaps this fact has no practical relation to gardening; but it occurs to
me that, if I should paper the outside of my high board fence with the
leaves of “The Arabian Nights,” it would afford me a good deal of
protection,—more, in fact, than spikes in the top, which tear
trousers and encourage profanity, but do not save much fruit. A spiked
fence is a challenge to any boy of spirit. But if the fence were papered
with fairy-tales, would he not stop to read them until it was too late for
him to climb into the garden? I don't know. Human nature is vicious. The
boy might regard the picture of the garden of the Hesperides only as an
advertisement of what was over the fence. I begin to find that the problem
of raising fruit is nothing to that of getting it after it has matured. So
long as the law, just in many respects, is in force against shooting birds
and small boys, the gardener may sow in tears and reap in vain.</p>
<p>The power of a boy is, to me, something fearful. Consider what he can do.
You buy and set out a choice pear-tree; you enrich the earth for it; you
train and trim it, and vanquish the borer, and watch its slow growth. At
length it rewards your care by producing two or three pears, which you cut
up and divide in the family, declaring the flavor of the bit you eat to be
something extraordinary. The next year, the little tree blossoms full, and
sets well; and in the autumn has on its slender, drooping limbs half a
bushel of fruit, daily growing more delicious in the sun. You show it to
your friends, reading to them the French name, which you can never
remember, on the label; and you take an honest pride in the successful
fruit of long care. That night your pears shall be required of you by a
boy! Along comes an irresponsible urchin, who has not been growing much
longer than the tree, with not twenty-five cents worth of clothing on him,
and in five minutes takes off every pear, and retires into safe obscurity.
In five minutes the remorseless boy has undone your work of years, and
with the easy nonchalance, I doubt not, of any agent of fate, in whose
path nothing is sacred or safe.</p>
<p>And it is not of much consequence. The boy goes on his way,—to
Congress, or to State Prison: in either place he will be accused of
stealing, perhaps wrongfully. You learn, in time, that it is better to
have had pears and lost them than not to have had pears at all. You come
to know that the least (and rarest) part of the pleasure of raising fruit
is the vulgar eating it. You recall your delight in conversing with the
nurseryman, and looking at his illustrated catalogues, where all the pears
are drawn perfect in form, and of extra size, and at that exact moment
between ripeness and decay which it is so impossible to hit in practice.
Fruit cannot be raised on this earth to taste as you imagine those pears
would taste. For years you have this pleasure, unalloyed by any
disenchanting reality. How you watch the tender twigs in spring, and the
freshly forming bark, hovering about the healthy growing tree with your
pruning-knife many a sunny morning! That is happiness. Then, if you know
it, you are drinking the very wine of life; and when the sweet juices of
the earth mount the limbs, and flow down the tender stem, ripening and
reddening the pendent fruit, you feel that you somehow stand at the source
of things, and have no unimportant share in the processes of Nature. Enter
at this moment boy the destroyer, whose office is that of preserver as
well; for, though he removes the fruit from your sight, it remains in your
memory immortally ripe and desirable. The gardener needs all these
consolations of a high philosophy.</p>
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