Io6 MY FARM. 



worth cultivating, is worth cultivating well ; and 

 that nothing is worth harvesting, that is not worth 

 harvesting with care. 



My Garden. 



I ENTER upon my garden by a little, crazy, 

 rustic wicket, over which a Virginia creeper has 

 tossed itself into* a careless tangle of festoons. The 

 entrance is overshadowed by a cherry-tree, which 

 must be nearly half a century old, and which, as it 

 filches easily very much of the fertilizing material 

 that is bestowed upon the garden, makes a weightier 

 'show of fruit than can be boasted by any of the 

 orchard company. 



A broad walk leads down the middle of the gar 

 den, bordered on either side by a range of stout 

 box, and interrupted midway of its length by a box- 

 edged circle, that is filled and crowned with one cone- 

 shaped N"or way-Spruce. These lines, and this circlet 

 of idle green, are its only ornamentation. Easterly 

 of the walk is a sudden terrace slope, stocked with 

 currants, raspberries, and all the lesser fruits, in a 

 maze of lines and curves. Westward is a level 

 open space, devoted to long parallel lines of garden 

 vegetables. The slope, by reason of its surface 

 and its crops, is subject only to fork-culture ; the 



