THE STORY OF A SEAMSTRESS WHO LAID DOWN HER NEEDLE AND BECAME A STRAWBERRY-GIRL.
WRITTEN BY HERSELF.
CHAPTER X.
CONCLUSION.
Although two thirds of our little patrimony had thus been devoted to the cultivation of fruit, yet the other third was far from being suffered to remain unproductive. We thoroughly understood the art of raising all the household vegetables, as we had been brought up to assist our father at intervals throughout the season. Then none of us were indifferent to flowers. There were little clumps and borders of them in numerous places. Nowhere did the crocus come gayly up into the soft atmosphere of early spring in advance of ours. The violets perfumed the air for us with the same rich profusion as in the carefully tended parterre of the wealthiest citizen. There were rows of flowering almonds, which were sought after by the bees as diligently as if holding up their delicate heads in the most patrician garden; and they flashed as gorgeously in the sun. The myrtle displayed its blue flowers in abundance, and the lilacs unfolded their paler clusters in a dozen places. Over a huge cedar in the fence-corner there clambered up a magnificent wistaria, whose great blue flowers, covering the entire tree, became a monument of floral beauty so striking, that the stranger, passing by the spot, would pause to wonder and admire. In the care of these flowers all of us united with a common fondness for the beautiful as well as the useful. It secured to us, from the advent of the earliest crocus to the departure of the last lingering rose that dropped its reluctant flowers only when the premonitory blasts of autumn swept across the garden, all that innocent enjoyment which comes of admiration for these bright creations of the Divine hand.
These little incidental recompenses of the most perfect domestic harmony were realized in everything we undertook. That harmony was the animating as well as sustaining power of my horticultural enterprise. Had there been wrangling, opposition, or ridicule, it is probable that I should never have ventured on the planting of a single strawberry. Success, situated as I was, was dependent on united effort, the coöperation of all. This coöperation of the entire family must be still more necessary in agricultural undertakings on a large scale. A wife, taken reluctantly from the city to a farm, with no taste for rural life, no love of flowers, no fondness for the garden, no appreciation of the mysteries of seed-time and harvest, no sensibility to fields of clover, to green meadows, to the grateful silence of the woods, or to the voices of birds, and who pines for the unforgotten charms of city life, may mar the otherwise assured happiness of the household. One refractory inmate in ours would have been especially calamitous.
The floral world is pervaded with miraculous sympathies. Another spring had opened on our garden, and flower after flower came out into gorgeous bloom. My strawberries, as if conscious of the display around them, and ambitious to increase it, opened their white blossoms toward the close of April. Those set the preceding autumn gave promise of an abundant yield, but not equal to that presented by the runners which crowded around the parent plants on the original half-acre. The winter had been unfriendly, sending no heavy covering of snow to shelter them; while the frost, in making its first escape from the earth, had loosened many plants, bringing some of them half-way out of the ground, while a few had been thrown entirely upon the surface, where they quickly perished.
I had read that accidents of this kind would sometimes happen, and that, when plants were thus partially dislodged by frost, the roller must be passed over them to crowd back the roots into their proper places. I had discovered this derangement immediately on the frost escaping, but we had neither roller nor substitute. As pressure alone was needed, I set Fred to walking over the entire acre, and with his heavy winter boots to trample down each plant in its old place. The operation was every way as beneficial as if the ground had been well rolled. When performed before the roots have been many days exposed to the air, it not only does no injury, but effectually repairs all damage committed by the frost.
Everything, this second season, was on a larger scale than before, requiring greater care and labor, but at the same time brightening my hopes and doubling my anticipations. I was compelled to hire a gardener occasionally to assist in keeping the ground clean and mellow, although among us we contrived to perform a large portion of the work ourselves. I found that constant watchfulness secured an immense economy of labor. It was far easier to cut off a weed when only an inch high than when grown up to the stature of a young tree. It was the same with the white clover or a grass-root. These two seem native to the soil, and will come in and take possession, smothering and routing out the strawberries, unless cut up as fast as they appear. When attacked early, before their rambling, but deeply penetrating roots obtain a strong hold, they are easily destroyed. I consider, therefore, that watchfulness may be made an effective substitute for labor, really preventing all necessity for hard work. This watchfulness we could generally exercise, though physically unable to perform much labor. Hence, when ladies undertake the management of an established strawberry-bed, a daily attention to it, with a light hoe, will be found as useful as a laborious clearing up by an able-bodied man, with the additional advantage of occasioning no injurious disturbance to the roots in removing great quantities of full-grown weeds.
The blossoms fell to the ground, the berries set in thick clusters, turning downward as they increased in size, and changing, as they enlarged, from a pale green to a delicate white, then becoming suffused with a slight blush, which gradually deepened into an intense red. It was a joyful time, when, with my mother and sister, I made the first picking. All of us were struck with the improved appearance of the fruit on the first half-acre. This was natural, as well as what is commonly observed. The plants had acquired strength with age. They had had another season in which to send out new and longer roots; and these, rambling into wider and deeper fountains of nourishment, had drawn from them supplies so copious, that the berries were not only much more numerous than the year before, but they were every way larger and finer. The contrast between the fruit on these and the new plants was very decided. Hence we had a generous gathering to begin with. It was all carefully assorted, as before; but the quantity was so large that additional baskets were required, and Fred was obliged to employ an assistant to carry it to market.
While engaged in making our second picking, carefully turning aside the luxuriant foliage to reach the berries which had ripened in concealment, with capacious sun-bonnets that shut out from observation all objects but those immediately before us, it was no wonder that a stranger could come directly up without being noticed. Thus intently occupied one afternoon, we were surprised at hearing a subdued and timid voice asking,—
"May I sell some strawberries for you?"
I looked round,—for the voice came from behind us,—and beheld a girl of some ten years old, having in her hand a basket, which she had probably found on the common, as, in place of the original bottom, a pasteboard substitute had been fitted into it. It was filled with little pasteboard boxes, stitched at the corners, but strong enough to hold fruit. I noticed, that, old as it was, it had been scoured up into absolute cleanness. The child's attire was in keeping with her basket. Though she had no shoes, and the merest apology for a bonnet, with a dress that was worn and faded, as well as frayed out into a ragged fringe about her feet, yet it was all scrupulously clean. Her features struck me as even beautiful, and her soft hazel eyes would command sympathy from all who might look into them. Her manner and appearance prepossessed me in her favor.
"But did you ever sell strawberries?" I inquired.
"No, Ma'am, but I can try," she answered.
"But it will never do to trust her," interrupted my mother. "We do not know who she is, and may never see her again."
"Oh, Ma'am, I will bring the money back to you. Dear lady, let me have some to sell," she entreated, with childish earnestness, her voice trembling and her eyes moistening with apprehension of refusal.
"Mother," said I, "this child is a beginner. Is it right for us to refuse so trifling an encouragement? Who knows to what useful ends it may lead? You remember how difficult it was for me to procure the plants, and how keenly you felt my trouble. Will you inflict a keener one on this child, whose heart seems bent on doing something for herself, and on whom disappointment will fall even more painfully than it did on me? Are we not all bound to do something for those who are more destitute than ourselves? and even if we lose what we let her have, it will never be missed."
The poor girl looked up imploringly into my face as I pleaded for her, her eyes brightened with returning hopefulness, and again she besought us,—
"Dear lady, let me have a few; my mother knows you."
"Tell me your name," I replied.
"Lucy Varick,—mother says she knows you," was the answer.
"Varick!" replied my mother, quickly, surprised as well as evidently pleased. "You shall have all you can sell."
She was the daughter of the miserable man whose terrible deathbed we had both witnessed, and my mother had no difficulty in trusting to her honesty. Her basket would contain but a few quarts, and these we had already gathered. I filled her little pasteboard boxes immediately, with the fruit just as picked from the vines. The poor child fairly capered with joy as she witnessed the operation. She saw her fortune in a few quarts of strawberries! I think that as she tripped nimbly through the gate, my gratification at seeing how cheerfully she thus began her life of toil was equal to all that she could have experienced herself.
Before the afternoon was half gone, Lucy surprised us by returning with an empty basket. She had found customers wherever she went, and wanted a fresh supply of fruit. This was promptly given to her, for she had obtained even better prices than the widow was getting for us in the market. That afternoon she made the first half-dollar she ever earned, and during the entire season she continued to find plenty of the best of customers at their own doors.
I had long since made up my mind that our pastor was entitled to some recognition of the substantial kindnesses he had extended to us at the time of our deep affliction. We had seen him regularly at the Sunday school, but he knew nothing of my conversion into a strawberry-girl. What else could we do, in remembrance of his friendship, but to make him a present of our choicest fruit? Never were strawberries more carefully selected than those with which I filled a new basket of ample size, as a gift for him. On my way to the factory the next morning, I delivered the basket at his door, with a little note expressive of our continued gratitude, and begging him to accept its contents as being fruit which I had myself raised. I knew it was but a trifle, but what else than trifles had I to offer even to the kindest friend we had ever known?
That very afternoon, while my mother and I were at our usual occupation of picking, I heard the gate open at the other end of the garden, and, looking up, saw two gentlemen approaching us. They advanced slowly around the strawberry-beds, apparently examining the plants and fruit, frequently stooping to turn over the great clusters on a portion of the ground which we had not yet picked. I saw that one of them was our pastor, but the other was a stranger. As they drew nearer, we rose to receive them. No words can describe the confusion which overcame me as I recognized in the stranger the same gentleman whom I had encountered, the preceding summer, as the first customer for my strawberries, at the widow's stand in the market-house. I had never forgotten his face. Mr. Seeley introduced him as his friend Mr. Logan. Somehow I felt certain that he also recognized me. I was confused enough at being thus taken by surprise. It is true that my sun-bonnet, though of prodigious size, was neatly cut and handsomely fashioned, even becoming, as I supposed, and that I was fortunately habited in a plain, but entirely new dress, that was more than nice enough for the work I was performing. But the hot sun, in spite of my bonnet, had already turned my face brown. My hands, exposed to its fiercest rays, were even more tanned, while the stain of fruit was visible on my fingers. I was in no condition to receive company of this unexpected description.
But the gentlemen were affable, and I soon became at ease with them. Mr. Seeley had received my basket, and had come to thank me for it. Mr. Logan had been dining with him, and was enthusiastic over the quality of my strawberries. He had never seen them equalled, though devoting all his leisure to horticulture; and learning that they were raised by a lady, insisted on coming down, not only to look into her mode of culture, but to see the lady herself. It was pleasant thus to meet our friend the pastor, and I did my utmost to render the visit agreeable to him and his companion. My mother gave up the care of their entertainment to me; so, dropping my basket in the unfinished strawberry-row, I left her to continue the afternoon picking alone.
The gentlemen seemed in no haste to leave us. I was surprised that they could find so much to interest them in a spot which I had supposed could be interesting only to ourselves. Mr. Seeley was pleased with all that he saw, but Mr. Logan was polite enough to be much more demonstrative in his admiration. I think the visit of the former would have been much briefer but for the presence of the latter, who seemed in no hurry to depart. He was generous in praise of my flowers, and was inquisitive about my strawberries. He had many of the most celebrated varieties, and was kind enough to offer me such as I might desire. He thought that I could teach him lessons in horticulture more valuable than any he had yet picked up, either in books or in his own garden, and asked permission to come down often during the fruit season, to see and learn. I was surprised that he should think it possible for a young strawberry-girl like myself to teach anything to one who was evidently so much better informed. Then I told him that what he saw was the result of an endeavor to determine whether there was not some better dependence for a woman than the needle, that I had accomplished all this by my own zeal and perseverance, and that this season promised complete success.
"I cannot give you too much praise," he observed. "Your tastes harmonize admirably with my own. I have long believed that women are confined to too small a circle of useful occupations. They too seldom teach themselves, and are too little taught by others whose duty it is to enlarge their sphere of action. All my sisters have learned what you may call trades,—that is, to support themselves, if ever required to do so, by employments particularly adapted to their talents. You have chosen the garden, and you seem in a fair way to succeed. I must know how much your strawberry-crop will yield you."
On thus discovering the object I had in view, and that this was my own experiment, his interest in all that he saw appeared to increase. The very tones of his voice became softer and kinder. There was nothing patronizing in his manner; it was deferential, and so sympathetic as to impress me very strongly. I felt that he understood the train of thought that had been running through my mind, and that he heartily entered into and approved of my plans.
My first false shame at being known as a strawberry-girl now gave place to a feeling of pride and emulation. Here was one who could appreciate as well as encourage. Hence my explanations were as full as it was proper to set before a stranger. Our pastor listened to them with surprise, as most of them were new even to him, nor did he fail to unite with his companion in encouragement and congratulation. Long acquaintance gave him the privilege to be familiar and inquisitive. It is possible that in place of being abashed and humble, I may now have been confident and boastful.
Our visitors left us with promises to repeat their call; and with a lighter heart than ever, I went again to assist in picking.
The fruit continued to turn out well, and our widow in the market-house proved true to the promises she had made,—there was no difficulty in finding a sale for it, and somehow it yielded even better prices than the year before. She said that others were complaining of a drought, and that the fruit in consequence was generally inferior in size, so that those who, like myself, had been lucky enough, or painstaking enough, to secure a full crop, were doing better than ever. Then our little strawberry-peddler, Lucy Varick, was doing a thriving business. She established a list of customers among the great ladies in the city, who bought large daily supplies from her, paying her the highest prices. Her young heart seemed overflowing with joyfulness at her unexpected success. It enabled her to take home many a dollar to her mother. Alas! she seemed to think—if, indeed, she thought at all upon the subject—that the strawberry season would be a perpetual harvest.
We throve so satisfactorily that my mother seemed to have given up her cherished longing for a strawberry-garden. Now that we had a new class of visitors who were likely to be frequent in their calls, I think she felt a kind of pride in abandoning the project. There was a sort of dignity in the production of fruit, but something humiliating in the idea of keeping an eating-house. She even went so far as to decline all applications from transient callers who had mistaken our premises for those of our neighbors, thus leaving the latter in undisturbed possession of their long trains of customers. They were not slow in discovering that we had ceased to be rivals in this branch of their business; and finding themselves mistaken in supposing that my strawberry-crop would come into ruinous competition with theirs, they seemed disposed to be a little friendly toward us. Indeed, on one or two occasions, Mrs. Tetchy herself came to us for a large basketful of fruit, declaring that their own supply was not equal to the demand. She was unusually pleasant on those occasions, but at the same time insisted on having the fruit at less than we were getting for it. My mother could not contend with such a woman, and so submitted to her exactions. I feel satisfied, however, that her visits were to be attributed quite as much to a desire to gratify her curiosity as to any want of strawberries; for I noticed that she never came on these errands without impudently walking all over our garden, scrutinizing whatever we were doing, how the beds were arranged, and particularly inspecting and even handling the fruit. Of course we had nothing to be ashamed of; but though everything about the garden was much neater than hers, she never dropped a word of commendation.
Only a day or two after the gentlemen had been down to see us, we found it necessary to resume the task of weeding between the rows. The drought at the beginning of the season had been succeeded by copious rains, with warm southerly winds, under which the weeds were making an alarming growth, notwithstanding the trampling which they received from the pickers. I confess that our heavy hoes made this so laborious an operation that I rather dreaded its necessity; but a hot sun was now shining, which would be sure to kill the weeds, if we cut them off, so all hands were turned in to accomplish the work. While thus busily occupied, whom should I see coming into the gate but Mr. Logan?
"Capital exercise, Miss, and a fine day for it!" he exclaimed, as he came up to me. "No successful gardening where the weeds are permitted to grow! I have the same pests to contend against, but I apply the same remedy. There is nothing like a sharp hoe."
"Nothing indeed, if one only knew how to make it so," I replied.
As he spoke, his eye glanced at the uncouth implement I was using, and reaching forth his hand he took it from me. Examining it carefully, a smile came over his handsome face, and he shook his head, as if thinking that would never do. It was one of the old tools my father had used, heavy and tiresome for a woman's hand, with a blade absurdly large for working among strawberries, and so dull as to hack off instead of cutting up a weed at one stroke. Fred had undertaken to keep our hoes sharp for us, but this season he had somehow neglected to put them in order.
"This will never do, Miss," he observed. "Your hoe is heavy enough to break you down. This is not exercise such as a lady should take, but downright hard work. I must get you such as my sisters use; and now I mean to do your day's work for you."
Then, taking my place, he proceeded during the entire morning to act as my substitute. We were surprised at his affability, as well as at his industry. It was evident that grubbing up weeds was no greater novelty to him than to us. All the time he had something pleasant to say, and thus conversation and work went on together: for, not thinking it polite to leave him to labor alone, I procured a rake, and contrived to keep him company in turning up the weeds to the sun, the more effectually to kill them.
Now I had never been able to learn the botanical names of any of these pests of the garden, nor whether any of them were useful to man, nor how it was that the earth was so crowded with them. Neither did I know the annuals from the perennials, nor why one variety was invariably found flourishing in moist ground, while another preferred a drier situation. If I had had a desire to learn these interesting particulars of things that were my daily acquaintances, I had neither books to consult nor time to devote to them.
But it was evident from Mr. Logan's conversation that he was not only a horticulturist, but an accomplished botanist. Both my mother and myself were surprised at the new light which he threw upon the subject. I was tugging with my fingers at a great dandelion which had come up directly between two strawberry-plants, trying to pull it up, when its brittle leaves broke off in my hand, leaving the root in the ground. Mr. Logan, seeing the operation, observed,—
"No use in cutting it off; the root must come out, or it will grow thicker and stronger, and plague you every season"; and plying the corner of his hoe all round the neck of the dandelion, so as to loosen the earth a considerable depth, he thrust his fingers down, seized the root, and drew forth a thick white fibre at least a foot long.
"That fellow must be three years old," said he, holding it up for me to examine. "Very likely you have cut off the top every season, supposing you were killing it. But the dandelion can be exterminated only by destroying the root.
"Then," he continued, "there is the dock, more prolific of seeds than the dandelion, and the red-sorrel, worse than either, because its roots travel under ground in all directions, throwing up suckers at every inch, while its tops are hung with myriads of seeds,—the hoe will never exterminate these pests. You must get rid of the roots; throw them out to such a sun as this, and then you may hope to be somewhat clear of them."
All this was entirely new to me, as well as the botanical names, with which he seemed to be as familiar as with the alphabet. I had often wondered how it was that the dandelions in our garden never diminished in number, though not one had usually been allowed to go to seed. I now saw, that, instead of destroying the plant itself, we had only been removing the tops.
"But how is it, Mr. Logan," I inquired, "that the weeds are everywhere more numerous than the flowers?"
"Ah, Miss," he replied, resting the hoe upon his shoulder, taking off his hat, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead, "I sometimes think the weeds are immortal, but that the flowers are not. Some one has said that the earth is mother of the weeds, but only step-mother to the flowers. I think it is really so. We who cultivate the soil must maintain against them, as against sin, a perpetual warfare."
"This is hoeing made easy," said my sister, as Mr. Logan walked away toward the house for a glass of water. "A nice journeyman, Lizzie, eh? Don't seem as if he could ever be tired! Will you ask him to come again?"
"Why, Jane, you are foolish!" I replied.
But there was an arch smirk on her countenance, and she continued looking at me with so much latent meaning in the expression of her eye, that I was fairly compelled to turn away.
Noon came, that witching time with all who labor in the fields or woods, and not until then did Mr. Logan lay down his clumsy hoe. I half pitied his condition as we came out of the hot sun into the shelter of a trellis which ran along the side of the house, over which a dozen grape-vines were hanging so thickly as to exclude even the noonday glare. It was a sweltering day for a gentleman to work among the weeds in a strawberry-field, in coat and cravat. But he made very light of it, and declared that he would come the next morning and see us through the job, and even another, if we thought there would be room for him. After he had gone, Jane reminded me of these offers; adding,—
"I felt quite sure he would be down again, even without your inviting him. He seems to admire something else here besides strawberries. What do you think it can be?"
But I considered her inquiries too ridiculous to be worth replying to.
After dinner we gave up hoeing for the day, and went to our usual afternoon occupation of picking the next morning's supply for the widow. She not only sold readily all we could gather, and at excellent prices, but even called for more. It seemed that her customers were also increasing, as well as those of our neighbors. Indeed, her urgency for more fruit was such, during the entire season, that the question repeatedly crossed my mind, whether we could not appropriate more ground to strawberries by getting rid of some of the flowers. They were beautiful things, but then they paid no profit.
When one strikes a vein that happens to be profitable, he is apt to become impatient of doing well in a small way, and forthwith casts about for ways and means to increase its productiveness, as he thinks, by enlarging his operations. It was natural for me to conclude, that, if I were thus fortunate on one acre, I could do much better by cultivating more. I presume this hankering after additional acres must be a national weakness, as there were numerous disquisitions on the subject scattered through my agricultural papers, in many of which I noticed that there was great fault-finding because men in this country undertook the cultivation of twice as much land as they could properly manage. The propensity for going on and enlarging their possessions seemed a very general one. Thus even I, in my small way, was insensibly becoming a disciple of these deluded people. But there was this comfort in my case, that, while others were able to enlarge, even to their ruin, there was a limit to my expansion, as it was impossible for me to go beyond an acre and a half.
That afternoon we had just got well under way at picking, when a man came into the garden with a bundle of hoes and rakes on his shoulder, and coming up to us, took off his hat and bowed with the utmost deference, then drew from his pocket a letter, which, singularly enough, he handed to me, instead of giving it either to my mother or Jane. On opening it, I found it to be a note from Mr. Logan, in which he said he had noticed that our garden-tools were so heavy as to be entirely unfit for ladies' use, and he had therefore taken the liberty of sending me a variety of others that were made expressly for female gardeners, asking me to do him the great favor to accept them. Both my mother and Jane had stopped picking, as this unexpected donation was laid before us, so I read the note aloud to them, the messenger having previously taken his leave. I think, altogether, it was the greatest surprise we had ever had.
"The next thing, I suppose," said Jane, "you'll have him down here to show you how to use them"; and she laughed so heartily as quite to mortify me. I understood her meaning, but my mother did not appear to comprehend it, for she replied, with the utmost gravity,—
"No need of his coming to teach us; haven't we been hoeing all our lives?"
"Not us, mother," interrupted Jane, in her peculiarly provoking way, "but her; he won't come to teach us,—one will be enough. As to the need of his coming, it looks to me to be growing stronger and stronger."
She fairly screamed with laughter, as she said this. I was so provoked at her, that I was almost ready to cry; and as to answering her as she deserved, it seemed beyond my power. My mother could not understand what she meant; but while Jane was going on in this foolish way, she had untied the bundle and was examining the tools. There were three hoes, and as many rakes. Observing this, Jane again cried out,—
"What! all for you? Well, Lizzie, you are making a nice beginning! I suppose you will now have more conversational topics than ever, though there seemed to be plenty of them this morning!"
One would think that this was quite enough, but she went on with,—
"Don't you wish the weeds would last all summer? for what is to become of you when they are gone?"
Still I made no reply, and Jane persisted in her jokes and laughter. But I think one can always tell when one is blushing. So I held down my head and concealed my face in my sun-bonnet, as I felt the blood rushing up into my cheeks, and was determined that she should not have the satisfaction of discovering it.
These garden-tools were the most beautiful I had ever seen, and there was evidently a hoe and a rake for each of us. They were made of polished steel, with slender handles, all rubbed so smooth as to make it a pleasure to take hold of them. The blades had been sharpened beyond anything that Fred had been able to achieve. Being semicircular in shape, they had points at the corners, adapted to reaching into out-of-the-way places,—as after a weed that had grown up in the middle of a strawberry-row, thinking, perhaps, that a shelter of that kind would preserve it from destruction. Then they were so light that even a child could ply them all day without their weight occasioning the least fatigue. The rakes were equally complete, with long and sharp teeth, which entered the ground with far greater facility than the old-time implements we had been using. Indeed, they were the very tools we had been promising ourselves out of the profits of our second year. My mother was especially pleased with them, as she was not of very robust constitution, and found the old heavy tools a great drag upon her strength. I think no small present I have ever received was so acceptable as this.
Whoever first manufactured and introduced these beautiful and appropriate garden-tools for ladies has probably done as much to make garden-work attractive to the sex as half the writers on fruits and flowers. It is vain to expect them to engage in horticulture, unless the most complete facilities are provided for them. Their physical strength is not equal to several hours' labor with implements made exclusively for the hands of strong men; and when garden-work, instead of proving a pleasant recreation, degenerates into drudgery, one is apt to become disgusted with it, and will thus give up an occupation truly feminine, invariably healthful, and in many cases highly profitable.
True to his promise of the preceding day, Mr. Logan came down next morning to help us through with our job of hoeing, but rather better prepared to operate under a broiling June sun. My mother, seeing his determination to assist us, invited him to take off his coat, and brought out Fred's straw hat for him to wear. He seemed truly grateful for these marks of consideration for his comfort, and in consequence there sprung up quite a cordiality between them. There was of course a profusion of thanks given to him for the handsome and appropriate present he had made, but he seemed to consider it a very small affair. Still, I think he appeared as much gratified at finding he had thus anticipated our wishes as we were ourselves. It is singular how far a little act of kindness, especially when its value is enhanced by its appropriateness and the delicacy with which it is performed, will go toward establishing a bond of sympathy between giver and receiver.
I may here say, that, the better we became acquainted with Mr. Logan, the more evident it was that his heart was made up of kindness. He seemed to consider himself as almost nothing, and his neighbor as everything. His spirit was of that character that wins its way through life, tincturing every action with good-will for others, and seeking to promote the happiness of all around him in preference to his own. He once remarked, that we must not look for happiness in the things of the world, but within ourselves, in our hearts, our tempers, and our dispositions. On another occasion he quoted to me something he had just been reading in an old author, who said that men's lives should be like the day, most beautiful at eventide,—or like the autumn rich with golden sheaves, where good works have ripened into an abundant harvest.
Of course, at that time, we knew nothing of who or what he was, beyond an assurance incidentally given by our pastor, that he was the worthiest young man of his acquaintance, and that he hoped we would entertain him in the best way we could, as his passion for the pursuits he discovered me to be engaged in, coupled with what he had learned of the great object I had in view, had so much interested him in my behalf that he thought it likely Mr. Logan would often come down to watch my progress, and very possibly in some way assist me. This recommendation was quite sufficient to make him a welcome visitor at our little homestead. But even without that, we all felt he would have no difficulty in winning his way wherever he might think it desirable to make a favorable impression. Though he was evidently highly educated, and had been brought up in a superior circle to ours, and, for aught we knew, might be very wealthy, yet his whole manner was so free from pretension to superiority of any kind, that we never felt the least constraint in his company.
Well, as I was saying, Mr. Logan came down to assist me in my weeding. Jane had gone to the factory, telling me that I should have help enough to do her share of the hoeing. I was really not sorry for her absence, as she seemed to have taken up some very strange notions, which led her into remarks that annoyed me. Besides, she was sometimes so impetuous in giving utterance to these notions, that I was afraid she might thoughtlessly break out where he would overhear. I might have had other reasons, not worth while to allude to, for not regretting her absence; but this dangerous propensity was quite sufficient. Hence that was a most agreeable morning. It is true that my mother was a good deal absent, having something extra to do within doors, thus leaving Mr. Logan and myself sole tenants of the garden for probably an hour at a time. But it did not occur to me that her presence would have made the time pass away any more quickly, or that any remarks from her would have made our interchange of ideas more interesting. There was abundance of conversation between us, as he seemed at no fault for either words or topics. Then there were long pauses in the work, when we would rest upon the handles of our hoes, and discuss some point that one of us had started. On these occasions I was struck with the extreme politeness and deference of his manner toward me. The very tones of his voice were different from any I had ever heard. How different, indeed, from those of the coarse and mercenary creatures it had been my fortune to encounter elsewhere! It was impossible to overlook the contrast. What wonder, then, that the softness with which they were modulated, when conversing with me, should fall with grateful impressiveness on my heart?
But this pleasant acquaintance occasioned no interruption of my labors in harvesting my strawberry-crop. It was picked regularly every afternoon, and I went with Fred every morning by daylight to see it safely delivered to the widow. The sale kept up as briskly as ever, though the price gradually declined as the season advanced,—not, as the widow informed me, because the people had become tired of strawberries, but because the crops from distant fields were now crowding into market. Then, too, she said, as other delicacies came forward, buyers were disposed to change a little for something different.
It was a striking feature of the business, that, however abundant the strawberries might be, selected fruit always commanded a higher price than that which went to market in a jumble just as it came from the vines. This is a matter which it is important for all cultivators to keep in remembrance, as attention to it is a source of considerable profit. We all know that the large berries are no better or sweeter than the smaller ones; but then we are the growers, not the consumers, and the public have set their hearts on having the largest that can be produced. In fruits, as in other things, it seems that "the world is still deceived by ornament." Moreover, people are willing to pay liberal prices for it, and thus the producer is sure of being rewarded for a choice article. I never discovered that a pumpkin or a turnip possessed any superior flavor because it had been stimulated to mammoth size. But such being the public craving for vegetable monsters, the shrewd cultivator is constantly on the alert to minister to it, knowing that it pays.
Fred kept his usual tally of the number of baskets we took to market, and how much money each lot produced. His ridiculous miscalculation, the previous year, of what our profits would be, had so moderated his enthusiasm, that during all this season his anticipations were confined within very modest bounds. But as his column of figures lengthened, and he ciphered out for us the average price for each day's sales, it was remarkable how much higher it stood than that of most of the fruit I saw in the market. It was evident that our care in assorting our berries was giving a good account of itself. Besides, I saw that the widow had the jumbled-up berries of others on her stand, and heard her complain that they remained on hand some hours after all mine had been sold. Then, was it not the superiority of mine that had drawn forth such strong commendation from my first customer, Mr. Logan? and had he not continued to admire all that I did in the strawberry way? Setting aside the high prices, I sometimes thought that this alone was worth all the pains we had taken.
The season lasted about three weeks, during all which time our pastor was a frequent visitor at our garden. As both he and Mr. Logan had been made acquainted with my general object and plans, so from generals they were at last taken into confidence as to particulars. I showed them Fred's tally, and it appeared to me they entered into the study of it with almost as much interest as we did ourselves. Though in many respects a very small affair, yet it involved great results for me, and our visitors both thought it might be turned to the advantage of others also.
"I am astonished," said Mr. Seeley, one day, after examining Fred's tally, and expressing himself in terms of admiration at the success of our enterprise,—"I am astonished at the wasteful lives which so many of our women are living. They seem utterly destitute of purpose. They make no effort to give them shape or plan, or to set up a goal in the distance, to be reached by some kind of industrious application. They drift along listlessly and mechanically, in the old well-worn tracks, trusting to accident to give them a new direction. It is a sad thing, this waste of human existence!"
"But consider, Sir," I replied, "how limited are our opportunities, how circumscribed the circle in which we are compelled to move, and with how much jealousy the world stands guard upon its boundaries, as if it were determined we should not overstep them. When women succeed, is it not solely by accident, or, if there be such a thing, by luck?"
"Accident, Miss," replied Mr. Logan, "undoubtedly has something to do with it. But observation, energy, and tact are much more important elements of success. More than sixty years ago a young New-England girl fell desperately in love with an imported straw bonnet which she accidentally met with in a shop. The price was too large for her slender purse, so she determined to make one for herself. With no guide but recollection of the charming novelty she had seen, no other pattern to work by, no opportunity of unbraiding it to see how it was made, no instruction whatever, she persevered until she had produced a bonnet that filled the hearts of her female friends with envy, as well as with ambition to copy it. This was the origin of the once famous Dunstable bonnet. From this accidental beginning there sprung up a manufacture which now employs ten thousand persons, most of whom are women, and the product of which, in Massachusetts alone, amounts to six millions of hats and bonnets annually. This girl thus became a public benefactor. She opened a new and profitable employment to women, and at the same time enriched herself."
"Yes," added Mr. Seeley, "and there are many other employments for female skill and labor that may yet be opened up. This that you are toiling in, Lizzie, may turn out something useful. I presume that even bonnets cannot be more popular than strawberries."
"I should think so," interrupted Fred, "It is the women only who wear the one, but it looks to me as if the whole world wanted the other."
Well, when our little crop had all been sold, I found that it amounted to nearly twelve hundred quarts, and that it produced three hundred and eighty dollars clear of expenses. This was quite as much as we expected; besides, it was enough to enable me to quit the factory altogether, and stay at home with my mother. And there was a fair prospect of this release being a permanent one, as it was very certain I now understood the whole art and mystery of cultivating strawberries. There was another encouraging incident connected with this season's operations. It appeared that our pastor had mentioned me and my labors to a number of his friends, among whom was one who wanted to set out a large field with plants, all of which he purchased of me, amounting to sixty dollars. This was a most unexpected addition to our income.
But my sister Jane did not seem at all anxious to give up the factory. I had, a good while before, let in an idea that there was some other attraction about the establishment besides the sewing-machine. I noticed, that, now we had so considerably increased our means, she was more dressy than ever, and spent a great deal more time at her toilet before leaving for the factory, as if there were some one there to whom she wanted to appear more captivating than usual. Poor girl! I know it was very natural for her to do so. Indeed, I must confess to some little weakness of the same description myself. We had drawn to us quite a new set of visitors, and it was natural that I should endeavor to make our house as attractive to them as possible. As all our previous earnings had gone into a common purse, from which my mother made distribution among us, so the new accession from the garden went into the same repository. Jane was much more set up with this flourishing condition of our finances than myself. In addition to beautiful new bonnets and very gay shawls which we bought, she began to tease my mother for a silk dress, an article which had never been seen in our house. But as the latter prudently insisted on treating us with equal indulgence, and as I thought my time for such finery had not come, I was unwilling to go to that expense, so Jane was obliged to do without it. But I was now to have a sewing-machine.
Time passed more pleasantly than I had ever known. It was a great happiness to be able to devote an hour or two to reading every day, and leisure prompted me to some little enterprises for the improvement of the surroundings of the old homestead. It seemed to me the easiest thing in the world to invest even the rudest exterior with true elegance, and I found that the indulgence of a little taste in this way could be had for a very small outlay. A silk dress, in my opinion, was not to be compared with such an object.
I scarcely know how it happened, but, instead of the end of the strawberry-season being the termination of Mr. Logan's visits, they continued full as frequent as when there was really pressing work for him to assist in. It could not have been because his curiosity to see how my crop would turn out was still ungratified, as he knew all about it, how much we had sold, and what money it produced. But he seemed to have quite fallen in love with the garden; and, indeed, he one day observed, that "there would ever be something in that garden to interest him." Then in my little improvements about the house, in fixing up some of our old trellises, in planting new vines and flowers, and in transplanting trees and shrubs, he insisted on helping me nearly half the week. He really performed far more work of this kind than Fred had ever done, and appeared to be perfectly familiar with such matters. Moreover, he approved so generally of my plans that I at last felt it would be difficult to do without him. But I could not help considering it strange that he should so frequently give up the higher society to which he was accustomed in the city, and spend so much of his time at our humble cottage.
Thus the season went on until August came in, when the strawberry-ground was becoming thickly covered with runners, especially from the newly planted half-acre. I had intended bestowing no particular care on these, except to keep down the weeds so that the runners could take root. But when Mr. Logan learned this, he said it would never do. Besides, he said, the ground looked to him as if it were not rich enough. So, if he could have his own way, he would show me how the thing should be managed. Well, as by this time he really appeared to have as much to say about the garden as any of us, what could I do but consent? First, then, with my assistance, he turned back the runners into the rows, and then had the spaces between covered with a thick coat of fine old compost, which he probably bought somewhere in the neighborhood,—but how much it cost we could never get him to say. Then he brought in a man with a plough, who broke up the ground, turning the manure thoroughly in, and then harrowing it until the surface was as finely pulverized as if done with a rake. Then we spread out the runners again, and he showed me how to fasten them by letting them down into the soft earth with the point of my hoe. I told him I never should have thought of taking so much trouble; but he said there was no other way by which the runners could be converted into robust plants, certain to produce a heavy crop the next season. They must have a freshly loosened soil to run over, and in which to form strong roots; and as to enriching the ground, it was absolutely indispensable. To be sure, I could produce fruit without it, but it would be of very inferior quality.
One may well suppose that this intimate association, this almost daily companionship, this grateful interchange of thoughts and feelings that seemed to flow in one harmonious current from a common fountain, should have exerted a powerful influence over me. Such intercourse with one so singularly gifted with the faculty of winning favor from all who knew him gave birth to emotions within me such as I had never experienced. Am I to blame for being thus affected, or in confessing that every long October evening was doubly pleasant when it brought him down to see us? Indeed, I had insensibly begun to expect him. There was an indescribable something in his manner, especially when we happened to be alone, that I thought it impossible to misunderstand. Once, when strolling round the garden, I directed his attention to a group of charming autumn flowers. But, instead of noticing them, he looked at me, and replied,—
"Ah, Miss Lizzie, I long since discovered that this garden contains a sweeter flower than any of these!"
I turned away from him, abashed and silent, for I was confused and frightened by the idea that he was alluding to me, and it was a long time before I could venture to raise my eyes to his. I thought of what he had said, and of the studied tenderness of voice with which he had spoken, all through our lengthened walk, and until I rested upon my pillow; and the strange sensations it awakened came over my spirit in repeated dreams.
Thus forewarned, as I thought, I was not slow in afterwards detecting fresh manifestations of a tenderer interest for me than I had supposed it possible for him to entertain.
One evening in November, when the moon was shining with her softest lustre through the deep haze peculiar to our Indian summer, he came as usual to our little homestead. Somehow, I can scarcely tell why, I had been expecting him. He had dropped something the previous evening which had awakened in my mind the deepest feeling, and I was half sure that he would come. I felt that there were quicker pulses dancing through my veins, a flutter in my heart such as no previous experience had brought, a doubt, a fear, an expectation, as well as an alarm, which no reflection could analyze, no language could describe, all contending within me for ascendancy. Who that has human sympathies, who that is young as I was, diffident of herself, and comparatively alone and friendless, will wonder that I should be thus overcome, or reproach me for giving way to impulses which I felt it impossible to control? There was a terror of the future, which even recollection of the happy past was powerless to dissipate. Society, even books, became irksome, and I went out into the garden alone, there to have uninterrupted communion with myself.
There was an old arbor in a by-place of the garden, covered with creeper and honeysuckle, and though rudely built, yet there was a quiet retirement about it that I felt would be grateful to my spirit. Its rustic fittings, its heavy old seats, its gravelled floor, had been the scene of a thousand childish gambols with my brother and sister. Old memories clung to it with a loving fondness. Even when the sports of childhood gave place to graver thoughts and occupations, the cool retirement of this rustic solitude had never failed to possess the strongest attractions for me. The songbirds built their little nests within the overhanging foliage, and swarms of bees gave melodious voices to the summer air as they hovered over its honey-yielding flowers. The past united with the present to direct my steps toward this favorite spot I entered, and, seating myself on one of the old low branches that encircled it, was looking up through the straggling vines that festooned the entrance, admiring the soft haze through, which the cloudless moon was shedding a peculiar brilliancy on all around, when I heard a step approaching from the house.
I stopped the song which I had been humming, and listened. It is said that there are steps which have music in them. I am sure, the cadences of that music which the poet has so immortalized sounded distinctly in my listening ear. It was the melody of recognition. I knew instinctively the approaching step, and in a moment Mr. Logan stood before me.
"What!" said he, extending his hand as I rose, and pressing mine with a warmth that was unusual, even retaining it until we were seated,—"ever happy! There must be a perpetual sunshine in your heart!"
"Oh, no!" I replied. "Happiness is a creation of the fireside. One does not find it in his neighbor's garden, and many times not even in his own."
"For once, dear Lizzie, I only half agree with you," he replied, again taking my hand, and pressing it in both of his.
I sought in vain to withdraw it, but he held it with an embarrassing tenacity. He had never spoken such words before, never used my name even, without the usual prefix which politeness exacts. I was glad that the moonlight found but feeble entrance into the arbor, as the blood mounted from my heart into my face, and I felt that I must be a spectacle of confusion. I cannot now remember how long this indescribable embarrassment kept possession of me, but I did summon strength to say,—
"Your language surprises me, Mr. Logan."
"But, dear Lizzie," he rejoined, "my deportment toward you ought to lessen that surprise, and become the apology for my words. Others may find no happiness in their neighbor's garden, but I have discovered that mine is concentrated in yours. You, dear Lizzie, are its fairest, choicest flower, which I seek to transplant into my own, there to flourish in the warmth of an affection such as I have felt for no one but yourself. Never has woman been so loved as you. Let me add fresh blessings to the day on which I first met you here, by claiming you as my wife."
Oh, how can I write all this? But memory covers every incident of the past with flowers. What I said in reply to that overwhelming declaration has all gone from me. I may have been silent,—I think I must have been,—under the crowd of conflicting sensations,—amazement, modesty, a happiness unspeakable,—which came thronging over my heart I cannot remember all, but I covered my face, and the tears came into my eyes. Still keeping my hand, he placed his arm around me, drew me yet closer to him,—my head fell upon his breast,—I think he must have kissed me.
If other evenings fled on hasty wings, how rapid was the flight of what remained of this! I cannot repeat the thoughts we uttered to each other, the confidences we exchanged, the glimpses of the happy future that broke upon me. Joy seemed to fill my cup even to overflowing; happiness danced before my bewildered mind; the longing of my womanly nature was satisfied with the knowledge that my affection was returned. Out of all the world in which he had to choose, he had preferred me.
That night was made restless by the very fulness of my happiness. At breakfast the next morning, Jane questioned me on my somewhat haggard looks, and was inquisitive to know if anything had happened. Somehow she was unusually pertinacious; but I parried her inquiries. I was unwilling that others, as yet, should become sharers of my joy. But when she left upon her usual duties, I put on my best attire, with all the little novelties in dress which we had recently been able to purchase, making my appearance as genteel as possible. For the first time in my life I did think that silk would be becoming, and was vexed with myself for being without it. I was now anxious to be found agreeable. But it really made no difference.
Presently a knock was heard at the front door; and on my mother's opening it, Mr. Logan entered, with a young lady whom he introduced as his sister. The room was so indifferently lighted that I could not at first distinguish her features, but, on her throwing up her veil, I instantly recognized in her my fellow-pupil at the sewing-school,—my "guide, philosopher, and friend," Miss Effie Logan!
"Two years, dear Lizzie, since we met!" she exclaimed, "and what a meeting now! You see I know it all. Henry has told me everything. I am half as happy as yourself!"
She took me in her arms, embraced me, kissed me with passionate tenderness, and called me "sister." What a recognition it was for me! Her beautiful face, lighted up with a new animation, appeared more lovely than ever. There was the same open-hearted manner of other days, now made doubly engaging by the warmest manifestation of genuine affection. I had never dreamed that Mr. Logan was the brother of whom this loving girl had so often spoken to me at the sewing-school, nor that the inexpressible happiness of calling her my sister was in store for me. But now I could readily discover resemblances which it was no wonder I had heretofore overlooked. If he, in sweetness of disposition, were to prove the counterpart of herself, what more could woman ask? It was not possible for a recognition to be more joyful than this.
My mother stood by, witnessing these incomprehensible proceedings, silent, yet anxious as to their meaning. Effie took her into the adjoining room,—she was far readier of speech than myself,—and there explained to her the mystery of my new position with Mr. Logan. She told me that my mother was overcome with surprise, for, dearly as she loved her children, she had been strangely dull in her apprehension of what had been so long enacting within her own domestic circle. But why should I amplify these homely details? They are daily incidents the world over, varied, it is true, by circumstances; for everywhere the human heart is substantially the same mysterious fountain of emotion.
A secret of this sort, once known, even to one's mother only, travels with miraculous rapidity, until the whole gaping neighborhood becomes confidentially intrusted with its keeping. It seems that ours had been more observant and suspicious than even my dear mother. But such eager care-takers of other people's affairs exist wherever human beings may chance to congregate. Humble life secured us no exemption.
Our pastor was one of the first to hear of the interesting event. It may be that Mr. Logan had given him some inkling of it beforehand, for he was early in his congratulations. Jane, as might be expected, declared that it was no surprise to her, and was sure that my mother would not think of having the wedding without indulging her in her long-coveted silk. Fred took to Mr. Logan with almost as much kindliness as even myself. Throughout the neighborhood the affair created an immense sensation, as it was currently believed that Mr. Logan was exceedingly rich, and that now I was likely to become a lady. While poor, I was only a strawberry-girl; but rich, I would be a lady! Who is to account for these false estimates of human life? Who is mighty enough to correct them?
Nothing had ever so melted down the rude stiffness of the Tetchy family as this wonderful revolution in my domestic prospects. They became amusingly disposed to sociability, as well as to inquisitiveness. But I was glad to see my mother stiffen up in proportion to their sudden condescension, for she would have nothing to do with them.
Who, among casuists, can account for the contagious sympathy that seems to govern the affections? I had often heard it said that one wedding generally leads the way to another. Not a fortnight after these important events, Jane gave a new surprise to the household by introducing to us a lover of her own. It appeared that everything had been arranged between them before we knew a word about it. The happy young man in this case was a junior partner in the factory; and this, as I had long suspected, was the great secret of her attraction there. How my mother could have been so blind to the signs of coming events, such as were developing around her, I could not understand. But both affairs were real surprises to her. If we had depended on her genius as a matchmaker, I fear that both Jane and myself would have had a very discouraging experience!
Thus the services of our pastor were likely to be in great request, for Jane insisted that he should officiate at her wedding, and Mr. Logan would think of no other for his own; and for myself, I thought it best, as this was the first time, not to let it be said that I had volunteered to make a difficulty by being contrary on such a point! Effie offered to be my bridesmaid, and Mr. Logan declared that Fred should be his first groomsman. It was a hazardous venture, Fred being as much a novice at such performances as myself,—who had never officiated even as bride! With a little tutoring, however, he turned out a surprising success. Lucy, no longer a little barefoot fruit-peddler, was promoted to be my waiting-maid.
The new year came, bringing with it silks and jewels, and the double wedding. If I write that I am married, I must add that I am still without a sewing-machine. To me the garden has been better than the needle.
There is a moral to be drawn from all that I have written, wherein it may be seen that the field of my choice is wide enough for many others. If I retire from market as a strawberry-girl, it must not be inferred that it is because the business has been overdone.