MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



I think, will bring it to perfection. I know 

 not how many ventures I have made with 

 "Roaring-Lion," "Brown Bob," "Conquer- 

 ors," and other stupendous varieties ; but with- 

 out infinite care, after the first crop— the mil- 

 dew will catch and taint them. Our native 

 varieties, — such, for instance, as theHoughton- 

 seedling, make a better show, and with ordi- 

 nary care, can be fruited well for a succession 

 of seasons. But it is not, after all, the stanch 

 old English berry, which pants for the fat 

 English gardens, for the scent of hawthorn, 

 and for the lowering fog-banks of Lancashire. 



Garden associations (with those who enter- 

 tain them) inevitably have English coloring. 

 Is it strange — when so many old gardens are 

 blooming through so many old books we know ? 



No fruit is so thoroughly English in its asso- 

 ciations; and I never see a plump Roaring- 

 Lion, but I think of a burly John Bull, with 

 waistcoat strained over him like the bursting 

 skin of his gooseberry, and muttering defiance 

 to all the world. There is, too, another point 

 of resemblance; the fruit is liable to take the 

 mildew when removed from British soil, just 

 as John gets the blues, and wraps himself in 

 a veil of his own foggy humors, whenever he 

 goes abroad. My experience suggests that 



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