150 Let Every Man orvn his Garden. 



be taken away the very food he has bought when he exhales it in his breath. 

 If nothing be sold off a place, the annual contributions of the atmosphere 

 to its fertility must go on increasing for an indefinite period. The poor 

 widow whose garden furnishes her vegetables, while her needlework buys 

 her phosphorus and nitrogen and defrays her other expenses, will find every 

 year adding to her resources. 



The gardener gives, then, a new meaning to the sarcastic epitaph of 

 Carlyle on the English squire, — 



'■'■ Si uionumentum quceris fimentum adspice!" 



If you seek his monument, look to the dung-hill. 



In a happy, quiet, well-ordered life, it is usual for a man to spend the 

 last thirty-three years, on an average, under one roof, and that his own. 

 The very sweepings of that time would make a vast pile, and it is put at 

 compound interest every year. The washings from one pair of honest 

 hands for a third of a century amount to no trifle. The opposite of this 

 picture is the unfortunate tenant who " lards the lean earth " for those who 

 succeed him, and leaves a trail like a snail over twenty door-yards or 

 wretched gardens, — a trail that might shine with real silver ; but he leaves 

 it dirt. 



In our argument, we start from the lowest possible ground, — the very 

 dung-hill. Even here we have found adequate cause for wealth and pov- 

 erty. But it is a small part only of the whole case. The tenant pays the 

 interest of the money invested in the house, its taxes, and a sum for repairs, 

 and contributes to a sinking-fund for rebuilding ; or else he wrongs the 

 owner. He pays for the privilege of abusing the premises, of neglect- 

 ing the one stitch that saves nine. But he who lives in his own house is 

 always improving something, — adding something to save labor, increase 

 comfort, or look better. But it is the garden that shows the greatest differ- 

 ence. Under the owner's hand, its growth is as sure as that of the willow 

 by the water-side, till the grandchild plays beneath the shade of the ances- 

 tral pear-tree. In the rented garden, the rhubarb and horse-radish are 

 perhaps the only perennials. Choice vines shelter the owner's head ; bur- 

 docks and beggar-ticks cling to the tenant's clothes. 



We are still on low ground. One's own house and garden are a savings 



