a strong, thrifty plant
in this way is like steering a ship under full headway, or driving a
locomotive with your hand on the lever, or pulling the reins over a fast
horse when his blood and tail are up. I do not understand, by the
way, the pleasure of the jockey in setting up the tail of the horse
artificially. If I had a horse with a tail not able to sit up, I should
feed the horse, and curry him into good spirits, and let him set up
his own tail. When I see a poor, spiritless horse going by with an
artificially set-up tail, it is only a signal of distress. I desire to
be surrounded only by healthy, vigorous plants and trees, which require
constant cutting-in and management. Merely to cut away dead branches is
like perpetual attendance at a funeral, and puts one in low spirits.
I want to have a garden and orchard rise up and meet me every morning,
with the request to "lay on, Macduff." I respect old age; but an old
currant-bush, hoary with mossy bark, is a melancholy spectacle.

I suppose the time has come when I am expected to say something about
fertilizers: all agriculturists do. When you plant, you think you cannot
fertilize too much: when you get the bills for the manure, you think
you cannot fertilize too little. Of course you do not expect to get the
value of the manure back in fruits and vegetables; but something is due
to science,--to chemistry in particular. You must have a knowledge
of soils, must have your soil analyzed, and then go into a course of
experiments to find what it needs. It needs analyzing,--that, I am clear
about: everything needs that. You had better have the soil analyzed
before you buy: if there is "pusley" in it, let it alone. See if it is a
soil that requires much hoeing, and how fine it will get if there is no
rain for two months. But when you come to fertilizing, if I understand
the agricultural authorities, you open a pit that will ultimately
swallow you up,--farm and all. It is the great subject of modern times,
how to fertilize without ruinous expense; how, in short, not to starve
the earth to death while we get our living out of it. Practically, the
business is hardly to the taste of a person of a poetic turn of mind.
The details of fertilizing are not agreeable. Michael Angelo, who tried
every art, and nearly every trade, never gave his mind to fertilizing.
It is much pleasanter and easier to fertilize with a pen, as the
agricultural writers do, than with a fork. And this leads me