134 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



you like it. In a certain sense, it is a sort 

 of profanation to consider if my garden 

 pays, or to set a money-value upon my de- 

 light in it. I fear that you could not put 

 it in money. Job had the right idea in his 

 mind when he asked, " Is there any taste in 

 the white of an egg?" Suppose there is 

 not ! What ! shall I set a price upon the 

 tender asparagus or the crisp lettuce, which 

 made the sweet spring a reality? Shall I 

 turn into merchandise the red strawberry, 

 the pale green pea, the high-flavored rasp- 

 berry, the sanguinary beet, that love-plant 

 the tomato, and the corn which did not waste 

 its sweetness on the desert air, but, after 

 flowing in a sweet rill through all our sum- 

 mer life, mingled at last with the engaging 

 bean in a pool of succotash ? Shall I com- 

 pute in figures what daily freshness and 

 health and delight the garden yields, let 

 alone the large crop of anticipation I gath- 

 ered as soon as the first seeds got above 

 ground? I appeal to any gardening man 

 of sound mind, if that which pays him best 



