ything else in the garden than
muskmelons--of the nutmeg variety. They are the most graceful things we
have on the table." So there it was. There was no compromise; it was
melons or no melons, and somebody offended in any case. I half resolved
to plant them a little late, so that they would, and they wouldn't. But
I had the same difficulty about string-beans (which I detest), and
squash (which I tolerate), and parsnips, and the whole round of green
things.

I have pretty much come to the conclusion that you have got to put your
foot down in gardening. If I had actually taken counsel of my friends, I
should not have had a thing growing in the garden to-day but weeds. And
besides, while you are waiting, Nature does not wait. Her mind is made
up. She knows just what she will raise; and she has an infinite variety
of early and late. The most humiliating thing to me about a garden is
the lesson it teaches of the inferiority of man. Nature is prompt,
decided, inexhaustible. She thrusts up her plants with a vigor and
freedom that I admire; and the more worthless the plant, the more rapid
and splendid its growth. She is at it early and late, and all night;
never tiring, nor showing the least sign of exhaustion.

"Eternal gardening is the price of liberty" is a motto that I should put
over the gateway of my garden, if I had a gate. And yet it is not wholly
true; for there is no liberty in gardening. The man who undertakes a
garden is relentlessly pursued. He felicitates himself that, when he
gets it once planted, he will have a season of rest and of enjoyment in
the sprouting and growing of his seeds. It is a keen anticipation. He
has planted a seed that will keep him awake nights, drive rest from his
bones, and sleep from his pillow. Hardly is the garden planted, when he
must begin to hoe it. The weeds have sprung up all over it in a night.
They shine and wave in redundant life. The docks have almost gone to
seed; and their roots go deeper than conscience. Talk about the London
docks!--the roots of these are like the sources of the Aryan race. And
the weeds are not all. I awake in the morning (and a thriving garden
will wake a person up two hours before he ought to be out of bed) and
think of the tomato-plants--the leaves like fine lace-work, owing to
black bugs that skip around and can't be caught. Somebody ought to get
up before the dew is off (why don't the dew stay on till after a
reasonable breakfast?) and sprinkle soot o