Father.—It is almost time, I must confess. Mulberry-trees are in general from Asia; they have, I presume, been cultivated more for the sake of their leaves, on which silkworms feed, than for their fruit: however, it cannot be denied that the juicy berry of the dark-coloured mulberry-tree merits to be held in some estimation, and the white-coloured, whose fruit is small and indifferent, contributes to the production of the finest silk. The quince-tribe must have taken its name from the town of Cydonia in the isle of Crete; the Romans called them pyrus Cydonæ. On the quince-tree may be most successfully grafted pear-trees designed to be afterwards planted as espaliers.
Fritz.—But why is it thought right to stunt the growth of a fine tree, and force it to remain diminutive?
Father.—This, in several respects, is useful; wall-trees, being sheltered on one side, bear earlier and more choice fruits; it is easier to defend them from insects; their fruits are more conveniently gathered. The tree, giving less shade, is not so injurious to the culinary plants that are near it.—Are not these substantial reasons?
Jack.—Then I must ask, why are not all trees set in this way?
That would not be a judicious plan by any means; an espalier takes up too much ground; besides, trees with high stems produce more fruit, they form orchards; a crop of hay too may be raised under them, whereas espaliers serve in general as fences or boundaries in gardens.
This is a compendium of our morning’s conversation, in the course of which we finished our work in the completest manner. Towards noon, a keen appetite hastened our return to Falcon’s Stream, where we found an excellent and plentiful dinner prepared by our good and patient steward, of which the palm-tree cabbage was the chief dish. We all agreed that to eat of a better or more delicate food was impossible; and Ernest, who had procured it, received the thanks of all the board.
When the sharpness of hunger was appeased, a new subject was introduced which I and my wife had been seriously revolving for some time; she found it difficult and even dangerous to ascend and descend our tree with a rope ladder: we never went there but on going to-bed, and each time felt an apprehension that one of the children, who scrambled up like cats, might make a false step and perhaps be lamed for ever. Bad weather might come on and compel us for a long time together to seek an asylum in our aërial apartment, and consequently to ascend and descend oftener.
My wife addressed me constantly on the subject, incessantly asking whether my inventive genius could not suggest some easier and less perilous mode of getting to our dwelling. I smiled at her implicit confidence that I could accomplish wonders: I assured her that if I were an enchanter or magician no desire of hers should remain ungratified, and that with a single touch of my wand I would instantly produce for her a commodious firm stair-case of perfect workmanship; but that not being the case, I acknowledged myself at a loss for the means to effect such an accommodation for her: still her reiterated appeals and my own anxiety had often made me reflect if the thing were really possible? A stair-case on the outside was not to be thought of, the considerable height of the tree rendered that impracticable, as I had nothing to rest it on, and should be at a loss to find beams to sustain it; but I had for some time formed the idea of constructing winding stairs within the immense trunk of the tree, if it should happen to be hollow, or I could contrive to make it so: Francis had excited this idea in speaking of the bees.
Did you not tell me, dear wife, said I, that there is a hole in the trunk of this enormous tree of ours, in which a swarm of bees is lodged?
Without doubt, answered she; it was there little Francis was so severely stung in attempting to thrust in a stick; look at it yourself, you will see the bees go in and come out in throngs.