The garden was on an island two miles off the mainland. Like many another patch of ground it had to be cultivated from a distant place. It was an acre, or thereabouts, which had been “won from the wilderness” by the labour of several generations; and it was owned by eleven families. This was not a garden made by gathering soil and dumping it in a hollow, as most gardens are; it was a real “meadow.”
“Look at them potatoes, sir,” said the skipper. He radiated pride in the soil’s achievement as he waited for my outburst of congratulation.
The potatoes, owing to painstaking fertilization with small fish, had attained admirable size—in tops. But the hay!
“’Tis fine grass,” said the skipper. “Fine as ever you seed!”
It was thin, and nearer gray than yellow; and every stalk was weak in the knees. I do it more than justice when I write that it rose above my shoe tops.
“’Tis sizable hay,” said the skipper. “’Tis time I had un cut.”
On the way back the skipper caught sight of a skiff-load of hay, which old John Burns was sculling from Duck Island. He was careful to point it out as good evidence of the fertility of that part of the world. By and by we came to a whisp of hay which had fallen from the skiff. It was a mere handful floating on the quiet water.
“The wastefulness of that dunderhead!” exclaimed the skipper.
He took the boat towards the whisp of hay, puffing his wrath all the while.
“Pass the gaff, b’y,” he said.