130 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



perfectly domesticated chickens were 

 roaming over the ground/ gossiping in 

 the hot September sun, and picking up 

 any odd trifle that might be left. On 

 the whole, the garden could not have 

 been better seen to ; though it would 

 take a sharp eye to see the potato-vines 

 amid the rampant grass and weeds. 



The new strawberry-plants, for one 

 thing, had taken advantage of my ab 

 sence. Every one of them had sent out 

 as many scarlet runners as an Indian 

 tribe has. Some of them had blossomed ; 

 and a few had gone so far as to bear 

 ripe berries, long, pear-shaped fruit, 

 hanging like the ear-pendants of an 

 East-Indian bride. I could not bat 

 admire the persistence of these zealous 

 plants, which seemed determined to 

 propagate themselves both by seeds 

 and roots, and make sure of immortality 

 in some way. Even the Colfax variety 



