392 MINNESOTA STATE HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY. 



turn to the left ihrough a gateway into the domain of our friend. 

 We see lights ahead far up in the darkness. Mr. Harris says he lives 

 in a pocket of the bluffs, and that describes the location well. But 

 we saw nothing of it that night as through the deep darkness we 

 pushed along and upwards till we were stayed by a cheery beam of 

 light across the roadway, showing the hospitable and welcome in- 

 terior of friend Harris' home — doubly welcome just then to a tired 

 and hungry trio. A hearty reception from his better half ushered 

 us into the large and comfortably homelike sitting room where the 

 writing desk, library and inviting easy chairs stamp the owner the 

 ease-loving literary horticulturist we all know him for. A hearty 

 supper, which in memory I am enjoying yet, put us in a mood to 

 overhaul a satchel full of apples which Mr. Elliot, the indefatigible, 

 had brought down from the two cities. Lake and Minnesota, to coun- 

 sel upon. I cannot tell you now what they were nor what they 

 did'nt know about them, but we soon talked ourselves tired, and the 

 simple habits that are keeping our horticulturists young, and the 

 necessity of being up at daylight to take a survey of the orchard 

 before a necessarily early departure, sent us to bed betimes, and 

 while the lightning played without and the thunder reverberated 

 somewhere far up the bluff sides I dropped into a dreamless 

 slumber. 



This proved to be a very short night and made shorter by the 

 voices which came through the open window with the first dawning 

 of light. The early risers in our crowd (that is, all but me) were 

 already astir and pushing around in the fog and dark, such is the 

 enthusiasm born of horticulture. A few moments later I was on the 

 doorstep. In the east was the brightness of early day, but the mist 

 hung thickly around. Following the sound of voices and climb- 

 ing the hill to the westward among the older orchard trees and 

 through a sea of wet grass, I presently came into an open pasture, 

 and emerging at the same time from the fog, a wonderful sight lay 

 spread before me. And this is the home of friend Harris! Behind 

 and to the right and left, almost within touch in this clear light, 

 and towering upwards two hundred feet, are the bluffs that enclose 

 this "pocket," their sides to a long distance down clothed in woody 

 verdure; in front is the sloping valley, at the left the homestead 

 showing white among the trees with vineyards mounting the slope 

 in the rear; in the near front and at the right the orchards, and 

 lower down the fruit and vegetable gardens. There may be thirty 

 acres along this sloping valley before it touches the highway, but 

 this is guesswork. At the left a mile away are other wooded bluffs 

 and in the distance some miles off, revealed through the thinning 

 mist and under the glow of the rising light, the city of La Crosse. 

 Mr. Harris has told you often what he has growing here, and I will 

 not tire you with the list. Far up the hillside on the south, he has 

 recently planted a young orchard of some acres, from which he 

 hopes much and we hope much, too. Gravitation will bring his crop 

 down from there with a rush. 



An early breakfast, and we are off by carriage road for La Crosse^ 

 where we are to take the train for New Salem, Wis., the home of A. 



