Our next crop was squashes. We had the earliest squashes in all Flushing. Their broad leaves covered the ground and reached up like hands toward heaven; their insinuating runners spread in every direction; large yellow flowers, into which bumblebees retired for honey till they were out of sight, appeared innumerably, and at last the creamy, delicate fruit shone through the thick foliage. It was with no little exultation that I handed a fine large ripe one to Weeville, whose vines were not nearly so forward. I anticipated his surprise, and watched for its manifestation with interest. He, however, thanked me kindly, but said he never ate squashes. This was simply the effect of envy. He was indignant that his scholar should have been ahead of him, and pretended he was merely raising a few for the servants. The excuse was a palpable evasion, and I did not allow it to depress me, although I must confess that I do not eat squashes myself. Peas are fine, especially Daniel O'Rourkes, and except dwarfs; but squashes are a miserably watery vegetable, fit only to feed cattle, who will hardly eat them-except always when one raises them one's self, and has the earliest in the neighborhood, then they must be eaten with a relish, and I did my best to keep up appearances.

Our cucumbers were a marvel of success. The

water and musk melons did not do so well, although the squashes were placed on one side of them and the cucumbers on the other. Unfortunately, I do not eat cucumbers either. The onions succeeded admirably-almost too much so, for Patrick, as I had dreaded, had planted about an acre of them. I should have eaten these, but there is a popular prejudice against them, and I observed that after indulging in them, if I paid a visit, my lady friends did not care to hear me whisper sweet nothings into their ears. Our turnips and cabbages were immense, but it was never expected that any one but the servants and cattle would touch them. The cauliflowers and egg-plants did not do so well. Patrick made an effort to sell our surplus vegetables, but the market seemed to be supplied, or the price turned out very different from what we were in the habit of paying when we purchased. They mostly went to Cushy, Dandy Jim-who rather turned up his nose at them -and the pigs, of which Patrick had purchased an entire litter.

I am a great admirer of cauliflowers, with their creamy consistency and delicate flavor, and when July arrived, as ours evinced no desire to hold up their heads and "blossom like the rose," it was clear

66

something must be done, and that shortly."

Fresh application was made to the books, but the information there contained was not quite so full and satisfactory as had been expected. Much was said about cold frames, and housing young plants for the winter, but very little that seemed to meet the case in point. My plants did not want any housing over winter; they were to be eaten at once, if they would only come to the edible point. The sole difficulty was that they presented to the eye nothing that in the least resembled what one finds in market under the name of cauliflower-a delicious concentration of vegetable cream. There were leaves and stalks, but no flower, and what precisely the former were good for except to feed the cow, neither Patrick nor myself could exactly tell. He had a very vague idea of the cause of the difficulty, and all that the books seemed to suggest was a return to that most useful nourishment, the liquid fertilizer.

Our kitchen sink having been exhausted on the strawberries, this had to be manufactured from the refuse of the chicken coop. It was not a refined idea to pour such a filthy compound over so absorbent a substance-in fact, over any substance that was to be eaten and the necessity of success alone forced me to it. But the plants were themselves evidently disgusted with such treatment, and only

spread out their leaves like umbrellas to shield them-
selves from the offensive showers. We had a few
heads, or what passed for heads; but they were leafy
and rather tough-quite different from the white
full heads sold in market-and we fancied tasted of
their nourishment.

There seemed to be a spell on the garden; what-
ever we wanted failed, and had to be purchased in
the village, and whatever was useless grew magnifi-
cently. One of our cucumbers measured two feet in
length by one in circumference, and took the prize—
a certificate merely-at the county fair; but, gener-
ally, our success was not in exact accordance with our
taste.

This, of course, was due to my unfortunate absence early in the season. It never does to leave such important matters to unlettered ignorance. How Adam ever made out to earn his bread in early days, without the aid of "Ten Acres Enough," and "Bridgeman's Assistant," is a puzzle. Science is our only salvation, and it was a matter of congratulation that I returned in time to apply it to the flower garden, if I was somewhat late for the coarser

vegetables.

།་

I

CHAPTER XIII.

SCIENCE.

HAD a high appreciation of the superiority of learning in cultivating the earth. Beside the dazzling statements of the brilliant writers on agriculture, the humdrum notions of the plodding workers were little less than disgusting. What is the few bushels of potatoes which an acre yields under common management when compared with the hundreds of barrels which it should give by scientific appliances? Under such manipulation the compost heapbecomes a mountain of wealth, and morass a mine of gold. Of course, I discussed these points with Weeville, and impressed upon him frequently the great value of science. Inspired by this feeling, it is not surprising that none of my failures had in the least disheartened me. I was still a firm believer in high art, and studied out every new suggestion that could be made applicable to the restricted area of five acres. I had read all the latest books on the farm, the garden, trees, vegetables, plants, berries, fruits,