When I subsequently mentioned my intentions to Patrick, he made incoherent remarks about “its being too hot intirely, and that the sun would burn them all up.” But he had not studied the habits of mushrooms and their demand for light; so we picked out “the droppings,” as we were ordered from day to day, and turned and flattened them, and laid layers of earth between layers of them, in the most approved manner. The middle of August arrived before we were through, and the place was so hot I fairly gasped as I worked in it; but when it was completed, I broke the cakes of mushroom spawn into pieces, and deposited them under a few inches of soil, and covering the whole with a deep mass of straw, awaited developments. It was some time before any results made their appearance; then there was a motion in the earth, which, at first I supposed was the activity of the seeds and the bursting forth of the fruitful fungi. Nothing of that sort came of it. Instead, the motion extended itself till it resembled a gentle movement of the entire bed. At this my suspicions were aroused, and I proceeded quietly and cautiously to investigate. I lifted off the straw from one corner, and stirred the earth and dug down into it; then the truth came upon me. There was a motion—a motion through the entire conglomeration of earth and droppings; but it was not of the bursting fungi, nor even vegetable in its origin; it was entirely vermicular: the bed was one wriggling, moving, turning, twisting mass of worms. They might have been a new development of the worm family—a sort of mushroom worm produced by spontaneous generation; but I had not the heart to investigate them, under the knowledge that all our efforts to produce a bed of mushrooms were to end in the production of a crop of worms.
I said nothing to Patrick, but carried out the straw, and let in the chickens once more. They had got a fresh growth of feathers from running about the grounds, and had accumulated a healthy appetite, and the way they scratched and dug and dusted in that mushroom-bed showed the extent of our misdirected results, and assured me that if we ever wanted to raise chickens all we had to do was to establish a mushroom-bed on the most approved principles, and in a light and sunny exposure.
Hardly, however, had the painful admission of our failure been forced upon us, when a special Providence, as it might be called, or an agricultural equipoise, came to our assistance. I had laid out a portion of the garden for a plot of fall spinach, and told Patrick to give it what is politely termed a “good dressing”—a ball costume, or regular wedding outfit of manure. This had been planted, but gave no signs of coming to fruition; at least Patrick assured me that he had “put lashings of seeds into it,” although doubts began to arise whether he had not forgotten that important step in successful agriculture. The plants certainly did not show up, although we were now passing well into the autumn, and I was wondering how I could turn that “dressing” to account. One morning, as I was studying the problem, I noticed that there had been a movement in the soil, such as I had at first hoped from my mushroom-bed. Little mounds had erected themselves here and there, as though the tiniest of gnomes were at work, or the spinach had collected itself in spots for one tremendous and united effort to break through the stubborn soil. I instantly suspected more worms, and thought of turning the chickens from the hothouse into the garden, but before doing so resolved to investigate. To my equal surprise and delight I found, on uncovering one of these mounds, that they were the mud-homes of the precious fungi, and that the mushrooms which were vainly sought in the light of science, were the mound-builders, and had surreptitiously transferred themselves to the garden. There are many surprises in horticulture, and especially in mushroom propagation. Having produced a bed of vermicular life when I was in pursuit of fungi, a reward of fungi had equalized matters by usurping the place of a plot of spinach. I watched those succulent eccentricities with the attention they merited. I lifted the earth off their tender heads lest they should be pressed back into the ground. I gloated over their creamy consistency, so superior to the dull discoloration of the vapid and faded objects purchased in the markets. At last my well-earned triumph was to come, and Weeville was to be taught that, although I might not succeed precisely as I had planned, intelligence and study were sure to be crowned in the end. The weather was growing cooler, the season being early, and I felt that no time was to be lost.
I proceeded promptly to make a collection of the luscious edibles as soon as they were sufficiently matured and abundant, determined to use them as a surprise to my friends in the city, including Weeville, who was not to escape from my triumph now. There was no depending on the uncertain future, for the grounds of glory were in the basket. I telegraphed an invitation to a supper at the Manhattan Club, merely saying I would bring a dish from my farm that I thought would astonish my friends, and teach them that there was something in home-farming after all. It was a big basket and well filled, that there might be no stint, and weighed so heavily when packed that I put it on the piazza out of the sun till Patrick should bring up the horse. The horse was rather restive; horses always are restive till you get in, and seem to be in a terrible hurry, and there is no end to their anxiety to be under way till they are, when they generally become more moderate. Our horse was peculiarly unsteady on this occasion, and Patrick had all he could do to control him as I climbed over the wheels, for years of hard toil in the field have made me stiff in my limbs, and slow in climbing. So we started in some confusion and trepidation. It was only when the train had reached Jamaica that I found that I had forgotten all about my basket of mushrooms, and had left it calmly resting in the shadiest part of the piazza.
The little party went off very pleasantly at the club, and I left the guests mystified as to which special dish it was that had come from the farm, although Weeville in his blunt fashion blurted out that he believed “I had made another failure of it.”
That night there came a severe frost, and not only were all the mushrooms that had been picked shrivelled up, but those in the garden were killed. I kept that spot sacred next season, hoping that the treasure of the earth would again present itself: but the little genii never favored me thereafter; nothing but weeds grew the ensuing summer, and after that we converted it to the raising of corn and cucumbers. This was a disappointment, but I had the satisfaction of feeling that I had raised the finest mushrooms that ever were seen, and could raise them again, provided they took into their heads to appear as unexpectedly as in this remarkable instance. It is a permanent pleasure to dwell on the thought of how good they would have been, if only we had had a chance to try them, and had not forgotten that basket, and I never can pass that portion of the garden without a reawakening of such sentiments, and if any visitors happen to be with me taking occasion to point out to them my mushroom-bed.
