MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



Of strawberries, 1 shall not speak as a com- 

 mitteeman, but as a simple lover of a luscious 

 dish. I am not learned in kinds; and have 

 even had the niaiserie in the presence of culti- 

 vators, to confound Crimson Cone with Bos- 

 ton-Pine; and have blushed to my eyelids, 

 when called upon to name the British-Queen 

 in a little collection of only four mammoth 

 varieties. With strawberries, as with people, 

 I believe in old friends. The early Scarlet, if 

 a little piquant, is good for the first pickings; 

 and the Hovey, with a neighbor bed of Pines, 

 or McAvoy, and Black Prince, if you please, 

 give good flavor, and a well-rounded dish. 

 The spicy Alpines should bring up the rear; 

 and as they send out but few runners, are ad- 

 mirably adapted for borders. The Wilson is 

 a great bearer, and a fine berry; but with the 

 tweak of its acidity in my mouth, I can give 

 its flavor no commendation. Supposing the 

 land to be in good vegetable-bearing condition, 

 and deeply dug, I know no dressing which will 

 so delight the strawberry, as a heavy coat of 

 dark forest-mould. They are the children of 

 the wilderness, force them as you will; and 

 their little fibrous rootlets never forget their 

 longing for the dark, unctuous odor of mould- 

 ering forest leaves. 



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