118 GARDENING WITH BRAINS '^ 



the scorching desert, and to protect from the withering 

 sun, enough moisture to make them nearly as juicy as 

 watermelons. 



Here are the sagebrush, with a bitterness as irritant, 

 almost, as the sting of a bee; the euphorbia, as poisonous 

 as a snake; the cactus, as well armored as a porcupine — 

 and for the same reasons that the bees have stings, that 

 snakes have fangs, that porcupines have arrowlike spines 

 — for self-protection from some stronger enemy which 

 seeks to destroy. 



One of Burbank's supreme achievements has 

 been to pit his brains against the intelligence of 

 these desert plants, to eliminate their hurt- 

 fulness and make them subservient to mankind. 

 But let us return to the garden. 



Gregory wrote a book on squashes in which 

 he called attention to a trait of these plants 

 which I have repeatedly tested. As they want 

 always to look their best and dread being 

 mutilated by the wind, they produce tendrils 

 with which to cling to grass or anything avail- 

 able. If there is no grass and you put a stick 

 in the ground, the vine will steer toward it. 

 Then, when it has almost reached the stick, if 

 you move it right or left, the vine changes its 

 course and again makes a bee line for it. How 

 does it do that? Darned if I know. It's one 

 of the daily miracles in the garden. 



Underground, the roots are led by a similar 

 instinct (or whatever you choose to call it) to 

 hunt around for manure and water. In quest 

 of these things potato roots go down from three 



