150 MY GROWING GARDEN 



rity. These grapes have been unexpectedly free 

 from insect and fungous troubles, the worst of 

 either being the visit, one year, of an agile and 

 determined steel-blue beetle — determined to 

 utterly destroy. He was immune to sprays, but 

 when I made a submarine of him by shaking him 

 into kerosene, he gave up. 



The chief fruit event of the month, however, is 

 the strawberry event. "Strawberries in Septem- 

 ber — ^you're joking!" someone remarks. Not just 

 exactly; those dehciously flavored, deep red ber- 

 ries I had for breakfast the morning after the 

 arrival from Eagles Mere were no joke! Nor was 

 the strawberry shortcake two days later a joke — 

 it was a cuUnary poem! I have been hinting in 

 earlier chapters at a strawberry story. Here it 

 is, for the strawberries are now ripe, and I can 

 pick and eat as the reader envies me — unless he 

 calls and participates, or by happy chance has 

 opportimity to pick and eat from his own "fall- 

 bearing" plants. 



I had heard of fall-bearing strawberries, and 

 several years ago had bought certain loudly 

 commended foreign sorts — ^the "French Fowc- 

 Seasons," and others. The Frenchman did pro- 

 duce some weedy Uttle fruits, red enough, but of 

 no importance as strawberries; and the other sorts 



