INTRODUCTION 5 
themselves have grown. In thickly settled communities cus- 
tomers sometimes come to the garden to buy. 
We can bring no more convincing proof of how garden 
stuffs may be raised in a small plot for neighborhood sale 
than has been given in a certain vacant city lot in upper 
New York. At headquarters, consisting of a couple of tents, 
the young producers kept their tools, their three-foot library 
of garden books, and their account books. Here they trans- 
acted business, and part of the time — just for the lark of it 
— actually camped out. Neighbors came over daily for fresh 
vegetables. " Lettuce six cents, instead of eight at the store, 
and right out of the garden,” called out a little girl in answer 
to a visitor’s inquiry, as she sped homeward with an armful. 
Carlyle, as we have seen, begins with the question of profit, 
but he does not end there. The joy of production does not 
stop with the satisfaction derived from a dime or a boiled 
dinner. Some of us can match the feelings of a prominent 
New York business man who tells how he spent all his odd 
moments, during a whole summer, out in his garden raising 
squashes. These he stored in his roomy attic. Thanksgiving 
approached. We went with him to look them over. He 
stroked the shining surface of a special beauty and confided 
to us that he simply hated to have it eaten. 
Even those young barbarians, boys in their early teens, 
show unexpected streaks of sentiment. This surprised the 
teacher of what was probably the first school-gardening 
experiment carried on in the rush of a big eastern city. Here 
on an exposed corner lot forty boys of the hobbledehoy age, 
for the most part tenement born and bred, staked out their 
garden. The rougher the work the better it pleased them. 
For, like all young creatures, they loved to push and pulh 
and stretch. The mere exercise they enjoyed to the utmost. 
Perhaps the reason was that in spite of promises they did 
