I do not know that these appearances are deceitful; but Isufficiently 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.
