46 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



had scratched it : there was that touching un- 

 evenness about it. I think no one could look at it 

 and not be affected. To be sure, Polly smoothed 

 it off with a rake, and asked me if it was n't nice ; 

 and I said it was. It was not a favorable time 

 for me to explain the difference between putter- 

 ing hoeing, and the broad, free sweep of the 

 instrument, which kills the weeds, spares the 

 plants, and loosens the soil without leaving it 

 in holes and hills. But, after all, as life is con^ 

 stituted, I think more of Polly's honest and 

 anxious care of her plants than of the most 

 finished gardening in the world. 



