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<h2> TWELFTH WEEK </h2>
<p>Mr. Horace Greeley, the introduction of whose name confers an honor upon
this page (although I ought to say that it is used entirely without his
consent), is my sole authority in agriculture. In politics I do not dare
to follow him; but in agriculture he is irresistible. When, therefore, I
find him advising Western farmers not to hill up their corn, I think that
his advice must be political. You must hill up your corn. People always
have hilled up their corn. It would take a constitutional amendment to
change the practice, that has pertained ever since maize was raised. “It
will stand the drought better,” says Mr. Greeley, “if the ground is left
level.” I have corn in my garden, ten and twelve feet high, strong and
lusty, standing the drought like a grenadier; and it is hilled. In
advising this radical change, Mr. Greeley evidently has a political
purpose. He might just as well say that you should not hill beans, when
everybody knows that a “hill of beans” is one of the most expressive
symbols of disparagement. When I become too lazy to hill my corn, I, too,
shall go into politics.</p>
<p>I am satisfied that it is useless to try to cultivate “pusley.” I set a
little of it one side, and gave it some extra care. It did not thrive as
well as that which I was fighting. The fact is, there is a spirit of moral
perversity in the plant, which makes it grow the more, the more it is
interfered with. I am satisfied of that. I doubt if any one has raised
more “pusley” this year than I have; and my warfare with it has been
continual. Neither of us has slept much. If you combat it, it will grow,
to use an expression that will be understood by many, like the devil. I
have a neighbor, a good Christian man, benevolent, and a person of good
judgment. He planted next to me an acre of turnips recently. A few days
after, he went to look at his crop; and he found the entire ground covered
with a thick and luxurious carpet of “pusley,” with a turnip-top worked in
here and there as an ornament. I have seldom seen so thrifty a field. I
advised my neighbor next time to sow “pusley” and then he might get a few
turnips. I wish there was more demand in our city markets for “pusley” as
a salad. I can recommend it.</p>
<p>It does not take a great man to soon discover that, in raising anything,
the greater part of the plants goes into stalk and leaf, and the fruit is
a most inconsiderable portion. I plant and hoe a hill of corn: it grows
green and stout, and waves its broad leaves high in the air, and is months
in perfecting itself, and then yields us not enough for a dinner. It grows
because it delights to do so,—to take the juices out of my ground,
to absorb my fertilizers, to wax luxuriant, and disport itself in the
summer air, and with very little thought of making any return to me. I
might go all through my garden and fruit trees with a similar result. I
have heard of places where there was very little land to the acre. It is
universally true that there is a great deal of vegetable show and fuss for
the result produced. I do not complain of this. One cannot expect
vegetables to be better than men: and they make a great deal of
ostentatious splurge; and many of them come to no result at last. Usually,
the more show of leaf and wood, the less fruit. This melancholy reflection
is thrown in here in order to make dog-days seem cheerful in comparison.</p>
<p>One of the minor pleasures of life is that of controlling vegetable
activity and aggressions with the pruning-knife. Vigorous and rapid growth
is, however, a necessity to the sport. To prune feeble plants and shrubs
is like acting the part of dry-nurse to a sickly orphan. You must feel the
blood of Nature bound under your hand, and get the thrill of its life in
your nerves. To control and culture a strong, thrifty plant in this way is
like steering a ship under full headway, or driving a locomotive with your
hand on the lever, or pulling the reins over a fast horse when his blood
and tail are up. I do not understand, by the way, the pleasure of the
jockey in setting up the tail of the horse artificially. If I had a horse
with a tail not able to sit up, I should feed the horse, and curry him
into good spirits, and let him set up his own tail. When I see a poor,
spiritless horse going by with an artificially set-up tail, it is only a
signal of distress. I desire to be surrounded only by healthy, vigorous
plants and trees, which require constant cutting-in and management. Merely
to cut away dead branches is like perpetual attendance at a funeral, and
puts one in low spirits. I want to have a garden and orchard rise up and
meet me every morning, with the request to “lay on, Macduff.” I respect
old age; but an old currant-bush, hoary with mossy bark, is a melancholy
spectacle.</p>
<p>I suppose the time has come when I am expected to say something about
fertilizers: all agriculturists do. When you plant, you think you cannot
fertilize too much: when you get the bills for the manure, you think you
cannot fertilize too little. Of course you do not expect to get the value
of the manure back in fruits and vegetables; but something is due to
science,—to chemistry in particular. You must have a knowledge of
soils, must have your soil analyzed, and then go into a course of
experiments to find what it needs. It needs analyzing,—that, I am
clear about: everything needs that. You had better have the soil analyzed
before you buy: if there is “pusley” in it, let it alone. See if it is a
soil that requires much hoeing, and how fine it will get if there is no
rain for two months. But when you come to fertilizing, if I understand the
agricultural authorities, you open a pit that will ultimately swallow you
up,—farm and all. It is the great subject of modern times, how to
fertilize without ruinous expense; how, in short, not to starve the earth
to death while we get our living out of it. Practically, the business is
hardly to the taste of a person of a poetic turn of mind. The details of
fertilizing are not agreeable. Michael Angelo, who tried every art, and
nearly every trade, never gave his mind to fertilizing. It is much
pleasanter and easier to fertilize with a pen, as the agricultural writers
do, than with a fork. And this leads me to say, that, in carrying on a
garden yourself, you must have a “consulting” gardener; that is, a man to
do the heavy and unpleasant work. To such a man, I say, in language used
by Demosthenes to the Athenians, and which is my advice to all gardeners,
“Fertilize, fertilize, fertilize!”</p>
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