THE GARDEN AND ITS ENEMIES.

BY C. D. WARNER.

The corn

I LEFT my garden for a week, just at the close of the dry spell. A season of rain immediately set in, and when I returned, the transformation was wonderful. In one week, every vegetable had fairly jumped forward. The tomatoes which I left slender plants, eaten of bugs and debating whether they would go backward or forward, had become stout and lusty, with thick stems and dark leaves, and some of them had blossomed. waved like that which grows so rank out of the French-English mixture at Waterloo. The squashes-I will not speak of the squashes! The most remarkable growth was the asparagus. There was not a spear above-ground when I went away; and now it had sprung up and gone to seed, and there were stalks higher than my head. I am entirely aware of the value of words, and of moral obligations. When I say that the asparagus had grown six feet in seven days, I expect and wish to be believed. I am a little particular about the statement, for, if there is any prize offered for asparagus at the next agricultural fair, I wish to compete-speed to govern. What I claim is the fastest asparagus. As for eating purposes, I have seen better. A neighbor of mine, who looked in at the growth of the bed, said, "Well, he'd be d- " but I told him there was no use of affirming now; he might keep his oath till I wanted it on the asparagus affidavit. In order to have this sort of asparagus, you want to manure heavily in the early spring, fork it in, and topdress (that sounds technical) with a thick layer of chloride of sodium: if you cannot get that, common salt will do, and the neighbors will never notice whether it is the orthodox Na. Cl. 58.5 or not.

I scarcely dare trust myself to speak of the weeds. They grow as if the devil was in them. I know a lady, a member of the Church and a very good sort of woman, considering the subject condition of that class, who says that the weeds work on her to that extent that, in going through her garden, she has the greatest difficulty in keeping the ten commandments in anything like an unfractured condition. I asked her which one? but she said

all of them: one felt like breaking the whole lot. The sort of weed which I most hate (if I can be said to hate anything which grows in my garden) is the "pusley," a fat, ground-clinging,

MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN.

spreading, greasy thing, and the most propagatious (it is not my fault if the word is not in the dictionary) plant I know. I saw a Chinaman who came over with a returned missionary, and pretended to be converted, boil a lot of it in a pot, stir in eggs,

and mix and eat it with relish-"Me likee he." It will be a good thing to keep the Chinamen on when they come to do our gardening. I only fear they will cultivate it at the expense of the strawberries and melons. Who can say that other weeds which we despise may not be the favorite food of some remote people or tribe. We ought to abate our conceit. It is possible that we destroy in our gardens that which is really of most value in some other place. Perhaps, in like manner, our faults and vices are virtues in some remote planet. I cannot see, however, that this thought is of the slightest value to us here, any more than weeds are.

There is another subject which is forced upon my notice. I like neighbors, and I like chickens; but I do not think they ought to be united near a garden. Neighbors' hens in your garden are an annoyance. Even if they did not scratch up the corn, and peck the strawberries, and eat the tomatoes, it is not pleasant to see them straddling about in their jerkey, high-stepping, speculative manner, picking inquisitively here and there. It is of no use to tell the neighbor that his hens eat your tomatoes: it makes no impression on him, for the tomatoes are not his. The best way is to casually remark to him that he has a fine lot of chickens, pretty well grown, and that you like spring chickens broiled. He will take them away at once. The neighbors' small children are also out of place in your garden in strawberry and currant time. I hope I appreciate the value of children. We should soon come to nothing without them, though the Shakers have the best gardens in the world. Without them the common school would languish. But the problem is, what to do with them in a garden. For they are not good to eat, and there is a law against making away with them. The law is not very well enforced, it is true; for people do thin them out with constant dosing, paregoric and soothing-syrups, and scanty clothing. But I, for one, feel that it would not be right, aside from the law, to take the life, even of the smallest child, for the sake of a little fruit, more or less, in the garden. I may be wrong; but these are my sentiments, and I am not ashamed of them. When we come, as Bryant says in his "Iliad," to leave the circus of this life and join that innumerable caravan which moves, it will be some satisfaction to us that we have never, in the way of gardening, disposed of even the humblest child unnecessarily. My plan would

be to put them into Sunday-schools more thoroughly, and to give the Sunday-schools an agricultural turn; teaching the children the sacredness of neighbors' vegetables. I think that our Sunday-schools do not sufficiently impress upon children the danger, from snakes and otherwise, of going into the neighbors' gardens.

THE HODJA MAKES UP HIS MIND TO MARRY.

BY S. S. COX.

WHEN the Hodja made up his mind to marry, his neighbors came to him and told him that if he married, his “wife would turn his house upside down."

Very well," says he, "I will take care of that."

A few days after, he began building his house. Instead of beginning at the foundation, he surprises his neighbors by preparing the tiles for the roof. The neighbors come again and inquire of the Hodja :

"What are you doing?"

"I am building my house," he responds.

"But," they reply, "you cannot build a house, starting from the roof."

"Yes," says the Hodja, " but did I not tell you I am going to marry?"

"What then?" say the anxious neighbors, fearing he had gone clean daft.

"What then? Did you not tell me that if I married, my wife would turn my house upside down? Now, I build it so that when she turns it upside down, it will be right-side up. If what you say to me be true, I advise you to follow my plan toward your wives. As they never agree with you, give them the opposite of what you wish, and you will always have your own will.” The moral whereof is that often by indirection and tacking, we bring the ship into port.

THE OLD SETTLER.

HIS REASONS FOR THINKING THERE IS NATURAL GAS IN DEEP ROCK GULLEY.

BY EDWARD HAROLD MOTT.

DWARD HAROLD MOTT is a native of Milford, Pike Co., Pa., and is a printer by trade and journalist by profession. He is a contributor to Puck, The Judge, and other comic papers. He was born January 17, 1845.

"I SEE by the papers, 'Squire," said the Old Settler, "that they're a finding signs o' coal ile an' nat'ral gas like sixty here an' thar in deestric's not so terrible fur from here, an' th't konsekently land they usety beg folks to come an' take offen their hands at any price at all is wuth a dollar now, jist for a peep over the stun wall at it. The minute a feller finds signs o' ile or natʼral gas on his plantation he needn't lug home his supplies in a quart jug no more, but kin roll 'em in by the bar'l, fer signs o' them kind is wuth more an inch th'n a sartin-per-sure grass an' 'tater farm is wuth an acre."

"Guess yer huggin' the truth pooty clus fer wunst, Major," replied the 'Squire, "but th' hain't none o' them signs ez likely to strike anywhar in our bailiwick ez lightnin' is to kill a crow roostin' on the North Pole. Thuz one thing I've alluz wanted to see," continued the 'Squire, "but natur' has ben agin me, an' I hain't never seen it, an' that thing is the h'istin' of a balloon. Th' can't be no balloon h'isted nowhar, I'm told, 'nless thuz gas to h'ist it with. I s'pose if we'd ha' had gas here, a good many fellers with balloons 'd ha' kim 'round this way an' showed us a balloon raisin' ev'ry now an' then. Them must be lucky deestric's that's got gas, an' I'd like to hev somebody strike it 'round here some❜rs, jist fer the sake o' havin' the chance to see a balloon h'istin' 'fore I turn my toes up. But that's 'bout es liable to happen ez it is fer me to go out an' find a silver dollar rollin' up hill, an' my name gouged in it."

"Don't ye be so consarned sure o' that, 'Squire," said the Old Settler, mysteriously, and with a knowing shake of his head. "Ive been a thinkin' a leetle sence readin' 'bout them signs o' gas, b'gosh! I hain't been only thinkin', but I've been a recol