MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



washings of sinks are wasting; the palings of 

 a poultry-yard— all these are positions, where, 

 with small temptation, the mantling-vine will 

 "creep luxuriant." 



I have not alluded to the Delaware, because, 

 thus far, my plants have been poor ones, and 

 my experience unsuccessful. At best, how- 

 ever, the vine is of a more delicate temper than 

 those named, and requires larger care and 

 richer dressing. Under these conditions, I be- 

 lieve the grape to be all, which its friends claim 

 — of a delicate and highly aromatic flavor, — 

 so early as to be secure against frosts, and 

 giving a better promise than any other, of a 

 really good domestic wine. 



I am surprised to find in the course of my 

 drives back in the country, how many of our 

 old-time farmers are applying themselves, in a 

 modest and somewhat furtive way, to wine- 

 making. It is true that they bring under con- 

 tribution a great many foxy swamp varieties, 

 and are not over-careful in regard to ripe- 

 ness; but faults of acidity they correct by a 

 heavy sugaring, which gives an innocent and 

 bouncing percentage of alcohol. 



The practice is not, I fear, entered upon with 

 a purely horticultural love, and I suspect they 

 bring a more lively stomachic fondness to it, 



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