42 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



working away at the bed with a little hoe. 

 Whether women ought to have the ballot or 

 not (and I have a decided opinion on that 

 point, which I should here plainly give, did 

 I not fear that it would injure my agricul- 

 tural influence), I am compelled to say that 

 this was rather helpless hoeing. It was pa- 

 tient, conscientious, even pathetic hoeing ; 

 but it was neither effective nor finished. 

 When completed, the bed looked somewhat 

 as if a hen had scratched it ; there was that 

 touching unevenness about it. I think no 

 one could look at it and not be affected. To 

 be sure, Polly smoothed it off with a rake, 

 and asked me if it was n't nice ; and I said 

 it was. It was not a favorable time for me 

 to explain the difference between puttering 

 hoeing and the broad, free sweep of the in- 

 strument, which kills the weeds, spares the 

 plants, and loosens the soil without leaving 

 it in holes and hills. But, after all, as life 

 is constituted, I think more of Polly's honest 

 and anxious care of her plants than of the 

 most finished gardening in the world. 



