MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



trees, have not come so promptly "to time." 

 The fertilizers and the cleaning process, which 

 have given rampant vigor to the Buff ums, have 

 scarce lent to the dwindled Seckels any appre- 

 ciable increase of size or of succulence. The 

 same is true, in a less degree, of certain old 

 stocks, grafted some fifteen years ago with 

 Bonne de Jersey, and since left to struggle 

 with choking mosses, and wild sod. 



It is unnecessary to enumerate all the varie- 

 ties which I found stifling in my orchard, — 

 from the bright little Harvest pear to the 

 crimson-cheeked Bon-Chretien. Here and 

 there I have religiously guarded some old 

 variety of Sugar-pear, or of Bergamot, — by 

 reason of the pleasant associations of their 

 names, and by reason of an old-fashioned re- 

 gard which I still entertain for their home- 

 liness of flavor. I sometimes have a visit from 

 a pear-fancier, who boasts of his fifty or hun- 

 dred varieties, — who confounds me with his 

 talk of a Beurre St. Nicholas, or a Beurre of 

 Waterloo, and a Doyenne Goubault, or a 

 Doyenne Robin; I try to listen, as if I appre- 

 ciated his learning; but I do not. My tastes 

 are simple in this direction ; and I feel a blush 

 of conscious humility when he comes upon one 

 of my old-time trees, staggering under a load 



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