4o6 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
tool that will take the place of the plow and scratch over a 
wide surface of ground with the same power that would 
be required to haul the plow. The harrow spoken of here 
is made on a plan similar to that of the disk harrows, but, 
instead of disks, there are two blades of steel set at right 
angles to each other, forming four narrow spades, which 
are sharp and bent backwards and sideways, so that in 
working they operate about like 100 spades, (there being 48 
of these steel blades,) all working at one time, and thor¬ 
oughly pulverizing the soil. It is said that the ground is 
not thrown into ridges as by a disk harrow, but left level, 
and simply loosened up, and made fine as if by a spade. 
The angle of the rods on which the spades are fixed can be 
changed so as to adapt the tool to the nature of the soil in 
which it is working. 
Zimmerman Fruit Evaporators.— These implements 
are made by the Blymer Iron Works Company of Cincin¬ 
nati, Ohio, an old, standard house of excellent reputation. 
The evaporation of vegetables promises to be quite an im¬ 
portant business hereafter. There ought to be a good de¬ 
mand for evaporated corn this vear. 
MARKET GARDENING ON CITY LOTS. 
The market gardens on New York’s vacant lots, which 
we described on page 295, have changed considerably in 
appearance since then. The earlier crops have all been 
marketed, and, while there are still some lettuces, beets 
and radishes, other crops predominate. Large quanti¬ 
ties of celery are now flourishing, and the rich soil and 
abundant supply of water will hasten the crop forward to 
an early and perfect maturity. As the earlier celery brings 
good prices and the plants are set very closely, this crop 
alone will bring a large revenue besides leaving the soil in 
the best possible condition for succeeding crops. Another 
vegetable which now flourishes is the cauliflower. The 
conditions of fertility and moisture are very favorable to its 
rapid and complete development. As early cauliflowers 
are generally sold for high prices, this crop is also likely 
to prove very remunerative. There are some cabbages 
planted, but the soil is usually occupied with more profit¬ 
able crops. A few potatoes are seen. There are many 
onions sown in rows very close together. Here and there 
a small patch of peas varies the usual assortment. A patch 
of beans closely planted with corn growing between the hills 
furnishes an example of two crops growing upon the same 
ground at the same time, and both flourishing. The beans 
will be removed before the corn requires all the ground, 
and as the soil has been so heavily manured, there is no 
trouble about starving either crop. A successful farmer, 
years ago, declared that the only use for soil in growing 
crops was to hold the roots and the manure, a sort of go- 
between as it were. The amount of manure the soil in 
these gardens is made to contain is only less astonishing 
than the amount of produce grown. As the conditions are 
all so favorable for a rapid growth, the quality of the 
vegetables grown is of the best. There are many cheap 
but effective greenhouses here and there, generally on 
rocky or otherwise unavailable spots, in which cut flowers 
are grown for the winter trade. On account of the inse¬ 
cure holding these tenants have, no very expensive or per¬ 
manent improvements are made, but they have the 
knack, which many farmers should learn, of working the 
soil to its full capacity. 
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA. 
A HAPPY VALLEY. 
This title carries me away back to a time when I was 
eight years old. I am standing on tip toe, on a high chair, 
peering into a witching old cupboard over one of those 
lovely old red brick fire-places. My aunt has the toothache, 
and there is some laudanum or something in there which 
she has sent me to get. While I am looking for the vial, 
half my eyes are scanning the titles of some old books 
piled away in orderly fashion, as having passed their day. 
Never was a gold-hunter picking up occasional nuggets so 
fascinated as I in those days with a chance at picking over 
books; so, just as I lingeringly placed my hand on the 
little red glass, my eye caught the title, “ Rasselas; or the 
Happy Valley.” Charming! A volume of enchantment! 
I am sure my dear auntie never knew how much pleasure 
she gave—a pleasure that lives in memory forever—when 
she allowed me to take the book down and read it. Curled 
up in corners, or sitting on the door-stone, the story went 
on, and the veil of enchantment spread over the world, 
and the old “gulf,” with its half-burnt logs and black¬ 
berry bushes, where I went with my little pail for spring 
water, grew strangely full of hidden caves and mysteri¬ 
ous foot-paths. 
The nameless fascination of these memories was over 
me as I wandered not long ago through the mazes of this 
Southern California Happy Valley. My eyes had been 
hungry for the sight of Nature’s own woods and wild 
tangles, and water tinkling came along because it could 
not help it, among the rocks and dappled shadows. There 
they were, as though summoned by the wave of the ma¬ 
gician’s wand—the old scenes of childhood—and I listened 
for the voices of brothers and sisters, and then for the 
voices of my own children, but the voices came only as an 
echo of memory. But there were the veritable woods, and 
the clear, sweet water, and the chances for making mill- 
dams ; and the stepping-stones, with the chances for slip¬ 
ping in, and the mossy old logs by the side of the stream, 
and I could catch and recognize the sources of the sweet 
day-dreams of old, which were not born of earth, and will 
only find their realization in the land of the immortals. 
For all the sweet deliciousness of this coast climate, we 
who love the wild woods and have been used to rambling 
by the side of tumbling water-falls, miss them more than 
we like to own, if we have come here to stay; and I was so 
glad to know of this lovely valley, set down so near us, 
with perennial verdure and streams that flow over their 
rocky beds all summer long. It seems that we cannot have 
all the good things in one place; but this valley is so near 
—only 50 miles north of San Diego and 12 from the sea— 
and one can step on the cars here, and in due time step off 
at the entrance of the valley. This is an easy way of 
going, but, of course, quite common-place; and now I will 
tell you how I went: 
We—the two heads of this family—set out with horse 
and phaeton at five o’clock of a September morning. We 
wanted to get over the mountains before the sun was hot. 
Were it not for one group of rocks reaching out into the 
sea, called La Jolla (pronounced La Hoya), we might, by 
starting when the tide began to ebb, drive more than 30 
miles on the beach to Oceanside, where the road leaves the 
coast. As it is, we have to climb a mountain, and then 
striking down to the sea and minding the tide-table, we 
can have a cool, lovely ride for miles on the hard, wet 
sand, so hard that the wheels barely leave their imprint. 
On the left, spreads the blue, restless sea; on the right, 
tower the high rocky walls that guard the land. You 
don’t see the country, of course, but you see the sea, and 
the lovely shells and pearly stones, which the last wave 
left, and you want to get out and linger, and pick them 
up. The country above is very fine all along this drive; 
the roads are smooth, and it would be hard to choose 
whether you should avail yourself of Neptune’s courtesy 
and take the beach or the road high and dry on land, 
were it not for one thing. Every few miles, the deep bed 
of a river coming in to the sea, makes it necessary to wind 
away down, and then away up again, and this does not 
help along on a long drive. We pass several fine towns, 
with fine hotels, some of which grew up on the outskirts 
of the late “ boom,” but finer to look upon than the hotels 
are the homes—tasteful cottages embowered in trees and 
flowers, all grown up within so short a time, all so lovely 
that it seems hard to choose between them. 
We had expected to speud the night at Oceanside, 18 
miles from our valley ; but it was only four o’clock when 
we reached there; the horse was in good trim, and we 
drove on over the hill to San Luis Rey, an old mission, in 
a beautiful valley running down to the sea. There we 
found a place where there were rooms for travelers; got 
our supper, took a walk up to the old church—adobe, as 
usual, fast crumbling down ; had a good sleep in a clean 
room, and started about five the next morning to climb 
over another range of hills into the Santa Margarita 
Valley. Here is another vast estate of thousands of acres, 
originally a Spanish grant, like that of San Luis Rey. 
Each of these ranches has a strong fence running all 
around it, with gates which the traveler must open and 
shut. Multitudes of fine cattle range from year to year 
over these princely estates, and that is pretty much all 
that is done with them. I noticed great stacks of hay 
piled up against the necessities of a drought. The Santa 
Margarita is a lovely valley, especially toward the upper 
part, where our valley branches off. The water still runs 
in little rivers through the great river bed. The banks are 
green with grass and shaded by oak and sycamore, and 
how many beautiful homes it would make; but as it is, 
for miles and miles, there is just the one great “ ranch 
house,” and no women are living there; that is, it is not a 
home. 
After a drive of eight or 10 miles , we stopped and ate break¬ 
fast under the shade of the trees, and then wenton, reaching 
our destination—the Hot Sulphur Springs in our valley—a 
little before noon. These springs are quite famous in the 
neighborhood for their curative properties, but as it is not 
for these I am writing, I will say no more of them now. 
This was one of the hottest days of the season, and we 
speedily made arrangements for staying at the farm-house 
and then betook ourselves to the deep, cool shadows of the 
woods. We spread our blankets down on the soft grass, 
and leaned against a fallen tree, where the running water 
cooled the air, and we ate our noon lunch and then I took 
my work, some muslin aprons I was embroidering for 
Christmas, and my husband read aloud. I always want 
something good to read in such a wild place, anywhere. 
The scenery is made wilder or grander, the book is better, 
and altogether they make delicious memories. For two 
years I had been on the coast, and it seemed as though I 
had lost the picture of the old forest trees, with their lap¬ 
ping folds of light and shade, and now I took my boards 
and colors and toned up. 
In the old days, in the far-away East, my father used to 
come in from his mowing, tired and faint, and say : “Here, 
little girl, take the jug and get me a good drink from the 
cold spring;” and off I would run, down into the deep 
woods to the spring under the roots of the maple, and how 
sweet the water was. But I thought, as I sat here day 
after day, and worked and read, and dipped up water in 
my hands and drank ; I thought the water here among 
these California mountains was just as sweet. 
It is wonderful that this valley should have come into 
the hands of real settlers instead of falling into the 
clutches of speculators, or being absorbed into those 
“Spanish grants.” There is one of these grants lying 
north, and another south; and a Government survey, a 
few years ago, left these few miles of valley between them, 
so it was speedily taken up by homesteaders. There are 
about 15 families, and none of them wants to sell. The 
main valley is broken up by little hills and benches, cov¬ 
ered with oak orchards, with creeks running around 
their bases, affording fine opportunities for picturesque 
homes. Everything grows well they say, and there is 
always plenty of rain, and there is no malaria; yet I sup¬ 
pose the people here have their troubles, the same as else¬ 
where. This is an uncommonly fine place for a home, but, 
for myself, I love so much the glorious view from Point 
Loma, of dreaming mountains and ocean and bay, with 
the busy world on land and sea, that it would be hard to 
leave it, even for a home in this Happy Valley. P. v. 
TUNE 21 
IVoman s Work. 
CHAT BY THE WAY. 
OMET1MES, I verily believe a woman with a large in¬ 
come will show more actual economy in her expendi¬ 
tures than her sister with a small one. Narrow expenses 
are not always frugally managed; it depends entirely on 
the controlling spirit. I have heard of a Canadian farmer 
who brought up a family of 16 with but one paper of pins 
and one catechism—and sold the catechism afterwards!—but 
one can hardly say whether his frugality was the best kind 
of economy. One of the first principles of economy is the 
prevention of waste, and this surely applies quite as much 
to talents or opportunities as to food and clothes. The 
niggardliness which would deny means of education for 
the sake of hoarding could never De called economical. 
» 
♦ * 
It is the little leaks that sink the ship, and it is little 
acts of extravagance that injure the household. The 
French system of purveying for a meal—supplying a suf¬ 
ficient portion for each person, but nothing over—looks 
really mean to American ideas; but it is the right plan. 
My own idea in marketing is never to have any left-overs, 
except things which can be used again. Of course, very 
many things can be used again, and in even more appetiz¬ 
ing forms than at their first appearance, if one knows 
how—it is amazing to notice all the capabilities of left¬ 
overs. But it is certainly very silly to furnish too large a 
quantity of any article which cannot be served up again. 
I have often seen a housekeeper throw away the scraps of 
suet sent with a beefsteak or roast—certainly “willful 
waste.” If not sufficient in quantity or quality to be chop¬ 
ped up for a pudding, such scraps will certainly melt into 
useful dripping, preferable in many instances to lard. 
Housekeepers in the habit of melting all their scraps of 
fat would be surprised to learn how many offend economy 
in this respect. Similarly, there is frequent waste in the 
neglect to use bones and other scraps which would form a 
desirable base for soups. Remembering that good meat 
stock forms the first requisite for almost all soups, it may 
be seen at once that thought in this direction will result 
in a desirable variation of the family bill-of-fare. And a 
very bountiful household, where every portion of the 
liberal bill-of-fare is utilized, is surely more economical 
than the skimpy kitchen with many little wastes. 
* * 
* * 
Another thing which is by Inference wasteful, is the 
neglect of garden products which tend to make the family 
fare more appetizing. How many farm gardens, for ex¬ 
ample, show an abundant herb bed, with thyme, parsley, 
sweet marjoram, savory, tarragon, etc.? How many have 
just common thyme and parsley only without anything 
else ? Few, indeed, are the households where there is any 
proper supply of such things, and it is not strange if the 
family cook finds her soups and stews and sauces some¬ 
what flavorless. Such things cost but little, apart from 
the work, and they are a wonderful convenience. Parsley 
especially is not only desirable as a pot herb, but it makes 
a pretty garnish, and is one of the things I never want to 
be without. A pot or box of parsley, taken up in the 
fall, is about the best kitchen window-plant one can have, 
for it will thrive well and keep one supplied with fresh 
leaves. 
* 
* ♦ 
Every one does not regard all these little notions as eco¬ 
nomical ; but I think that the employment of everything 
that adds to the comfort of a household, without materi¬ 
ally increasing the expense, is certainly an economy. We 
might as well have all the pleasure possible as we go 
along, even if it takes the very material form of a deli¬ 
cately flavored soup or succulent stew. I am not an 
anchorite myself, and I like my food to be nicely prepared, 
even if of the simplest quality. 
* 
* * 
The question of an herb bed brings to mind another de¬ 
ficiency often to be noted, and that is, the very scanty 
variety of vegetables grown by many who have ample 
room to do otherwise. It is often the case on a farm, 
though certainly there is one very solid excuse—the neces¬ 
sity for getting in the regular crops at a certain time is 
apt to interfere with the home garden. But it is a real trial, 
especially to the housekeeper; she cannot provide a 
varied bill-of-fare without materials, and these are often 
lacking. A good supply of fresh fruit and vegetables, 
especially at this season, is certainly a needed economy. 
Speaking of fruit, a good many people will find that the 
small fruits—raspberries, blackberries and so on—are those 
they can dispense with most readily. To some constitu¬ 
tions they are really injurious, the seeds being extremely 
irritating to digestion, and they are frequently quite objec¬ 
tionable for children on the same ground. 
EMILY LOUISE TAPL1N. 
Pi.5SrcUancou.s: ^(Ucrtisiing. 
In writing to advertisers, please mentiou the R. N.-Y. 
When Ha by wait sick, we nave her Ciutlorlu, 
W hen she wa* a Child, she cried for CaKtorla. 
W hen she became SI Iks, *he clung to Caatorlh, 
'’hen <ihe had Children, she gave them Cantor ia. 
