are many different kinds-so many that the novice in gardening is somewhat puzzled to choose. Fortunately, by Weeville's advice, we had made an excellent selection, and by changing the acre of onions into an acre of Daniel O'Rourkes we might possibly have enough for the family. As I have mentioned before, the O'Rourkes are not profuse bearers; it may be called a rather lucky chance if they bear any thing but leaf, and consequently it is not in a monetary sense that they are profitable; the benefit they confer is in enabling one to crow over one's city visitors. The dwarfs are not desirable. They constituted our principal stock, and, useful as they might be in the penance line, as edibles they compare unfavorably with pebbles.

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We had an immense quantity of beets, and had experimented in divers ways of cooking them. We had them boiled, baked, stuffed, and roasted, hot, cold, pickled in vinegar, and even fried, but through it all they were "dead beets." I had serious ideas of trying to extract sugar from them; but when Patrick informed me that Dandy Jim approved of their flavor, I gave them over to his care. Our pole-beans, which are good for pork and beans-if any Christian eats that dish and lives-were also extremely successful. The Limas bore a few pods, but that was after we re

turned to the city; Patrick, however, said they were excellent. Our spinach was so abundant that I should have turned Cushy into it if I could have restricted her attentions to that alone. The cucumbers were very numerous, our cabbages innumerable, and our cauliflowers nowhere.

It was clear that this must be changed. The Limas must be made to emulate the pole-beans, the spinach, beets, and onions must be kept down to proper limits, the cucumbers and cabbages must be eliminated, and the cauliflowers encouraged. How to effect these changes, however, was not entirely clear to my mind.

Our corn grew remarkably well. Fresh sweet corn is a dish of which I am particularly fond; it is luscious, healthful, and appetizing; it contains much milk-the human being's natural nourishment; it is excellent boiled or roasted on the cob, stewed in milk, or mixed with beans into succotash; even corn juice is good occasionally-but that requires age. Patrick had planted a goodly lot of it. I watched the stalks rise and the broad leaves spread out with infinite pleasure. The ears formed with their long silky tops, and swelled, as they reached maturity, like a budding maiden. It was with great anticipations that we awaited our first meal of new corn. This was admirably cooked, and came on the table smoking

hot, each cob enveloped in its steaming green cuticle, but somehow the taste did not prove so agreeable as we had expected. Thinking that it might be too young, I told Patrick not to pick any more for a day or two. The next trial was even more unsatisfactory —it had absolutely no flavor whatever. Feeling there must be something wrong, with sinking heart I crossquestioned Patrick, and discovered that he did not know there was any difference between sweet corn and the common kind, and had planted a quantity of that which he was using for the horses. I never ascertained what became of it, but we did not try it again on the table.

Our asparagus was gone without redemption. The few spears that struggled up into existence reached a partial state of forwardness; but association with Patrick's planting of turnips appeared to disgust them, and they lay down and died with hardly an effort. Our trees succeeded excellently; they were unusually large, and had cost an extra price, as the nurseryman, when I bought them, assured me that they would bear fruit the first year. They stood the blasts of winter bravely. In spring they put out their leaves, and even burst into occasional flower, but they did not go so far as bearing fruit. They appeared to have some misunderstanding of the prin

cipal object of their existence, and did not come up to the promise made for them on their purchase, and by them afterward. As shade-trees they did not amount to much, and even as ornaments they were rather thin; but as fruit-bearers they were a total failure.

Our strawberries had rather surpassed expectation. The first lot, it is true, had died out, but those planted in the spring seemed to feel called upon to redeem the good name of the race. They grew admirably, and not only covered themselves with blossoms, but actually bore fruit-not very luxuriantly, but much more abundantly than I had any reason to anticipate. We had quite a bowlful of them—the red, firm, ripe berries being a delicious contrast to the soft, faded, stale things that are sold to us in the city. When these were picked, the vines were still covered with green fruit, and I expected to have many a dessert from them. I am a great admirer of strawberries-and so are chickens-in spite of the crisp little seeds that somewhat injure them. They have just the proper amount of acidity to render them piquant when compounded with sufficient sugar. Raspberries are too sweet, and blackberries have not sufficient delicacy of flavor, so that I prefer strawberries. But, unfortunately, as I remarked above, so do chickens.

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After our first taste I visited the garden hopefully every morning, but was much surprised to find none of the green berries become ripe. They disappeared gradually, and I was greatly at a loss to understand the reason. I knew that Gran was fond of strawberries, but he was an honest dog. You might trust him with untold strawberries, and he would not touch one without permission. He might howl for them until he would drive his master crazy, but, although his howlings were ineffectual, he would not steal. Sher was less trustworthy, but he did not like the acid berries. The pigs could not get out, nor Cushy get in; so that the diminution was a mystery to me, until, happening to rise one morning quite early, I discovered our entire flock of chickens busy in the strawberry-patch, and, driving them out, I noticed the remains of several fine ripe berries. This explained the difficulty. There was no place where we could cage the chickens; in fact, as the berries were mostly consumed, to do so would be rather late, and I had nothing for it but to see my favorite fruit "grow small by degrees and beautifully less," amid the early "clucks" of delight that thereafter suggestively broke in upon my morning slumbers, until the entire plot was bare.

From this adventure two deductions were to be