The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 96, October 1865

Ah! what a motley multitude,
Magnanimous and mean!"

NEEDLE AND GARDEN

THE STORY OF A SEAMSTRESS WHO LAID DOWN HER NEEDLE AND BECAME A STRAWBERRY-GIRL

WRITTEN BY HERSELF

CHAPTER X

CONCLUSION

Although two thirds of our little patrimony had thus been devoted to the cultivation of fruit, yet the other third was far from being suffered to remain unproductive. We thoroughly understood the art of raising all the household vegetables, as we had been brought up to assist our father at intervals throughout the season. Then none of us were indifferent to flowers. There were little clumps and borders of them in numerous places. Nowhere did the crocus come gayly up into the soft atmosphere of early spring in advance of ours. The violets perfumed the air for us with the same rich profusion as in the carefully tended parterre of the wealthiest citizen. There were rows of flowering almonds, which were sought after by the bees as diligently as if holding up their delicate heads in the most patrician garden; and they flashed as gorgeously in the sun. The myrtle displayed its blue flowers in abundance, and the lilacs unfolded their paler clusters in a dozen places. Over a huge cedar in the fence-corner there clambered up a magnificent wistaria, whose great blue flowers, covering the entire tree, became a monument of floral beauty so striking, that the stranger, passing by the spot, would pause to wonder and admire. In the care of these flowers all of us united with a common fondness for the beautiful as well as the useful. It secured to us, from the advent of the earliest crocus to the departure of the last lingering rose that dropped its reluctant flowers only when the premonitory blasts of autumn swept across the garden, all that innocent enjoyment which comes of admiration for these bright creations of the Divine hand.

These little incidental recompenses of the most perfect domestic harmony were realized in everything we undertook. That harmony was the animating as well as sustaining power of my horticultural enterprise. Had there been wrangling, opposition, or ridicule, it is probable that I should never have ventured on the planting of a single strawberry. Success, situated as I was, was dependent on united effort, the coöperation of all. This coöperation of the entire family must be still more necessary in agricultural undertakings on a large scale. A wife, taken reluctantly from the city to a farm, with no taste for rural life, no love of flowers, no fondness for the garden, no appreciation of the mysteries of seed-time and harvest, no sensibility to fields of clover, to green meadows, to the grateful silence of the woods, or to the voices of birds, and who pines for the unforgotten charms of city life, may mar the otherwise assured happiness of the household. One refractory inmate in ours would have been especially calamitous.

The floral world is pervaded with miraculous sympathies. Another spring had opened on our garden, and flower after flower came out into gorgeous bloom. My strawberries, as if conscious of the display around them, and ambitious to increase it, opened their white blossoms toward the close of April. Those set the preceding autumn gave promise of an abundant yield, but not equal to that presented by the runners which crowded around the parent plants on the original half-acre. The winter had been unfriendly, sending no heavy covering of snow to shelter them; while the frost, in making its first escape from the earth, had loosened many plants, bringing some of them half-way out of the ground, while a few had been thrown entirely upon the surface, where they quickly perished.

I had read that accidents of this kind would sometimes happen, and that, when plants were thus partially dislodged by frost, the roller must be passed over them to crowd back the roots into their proper places. I had discovered this derangement immediately on the frost escaping, but we had neither roller nor substitute. As pressure alone was needed, I set Fred to walking over the entire acre, and with his heavy winter boots to trample down each plant in its old place. The operation was every way as beneficial as if the ground had been well rolled. When performed before the roots have been many days exposed to the air, it not only does no injury, but effectually repairs all damage committed by the frost.

Everything, this second season, was on a larger scale than before, requiring greater care and labor, but at the same time brightening my hopes and doubling my anticipations. I was compelled to hire a gardener occasionally to assist in keeping the ground clean and mellow, although among us we contrived to perform a large portion of the work ourselves. I found that constant watchfulness secured an immense economy of labor. It was far easier to cut off a weed when only an inch high than when grown up to the stature of a young tree. It was the same with the white clover or a grass-root. These two seem native to the soil, and will come in and take possession, smothering and routing out the strawberries, unless cut up as fast as they appear. When attacked early, before their rambling, but deeply penetrating roots obtain a strong hold, they are easily destroyed. I consider, therefore, that watchfulness may be made an effective substitute for labor, really preventing all necessity for hard work. This watchfulness we could generally exercise, though physically unable to perform much labor. Hence, when ladies undertake the management of an established strawberry-bed, a daily attention to it, with a light hoe, will be found as useful as a laborious clearing up by an able-bodied man, with the additional advantage of occasioning no injurious disturbance to the roots in removing great quantities of full-grown weeds.

The blossoms fell to the ground, the berries set in thick clusters, turning downward as they increased in size, and changing, as they enlarged, from a pale green to a delicate white, then becoming suffused with a slight blush, which gradually deepened into an intense red. It was a joyful time, when, with my mother and sister, I made the first picking. All of us were struck with the improved appearance of the fruit on the first half-acre. This was natural, as well as what is commonly observed. The plants had acquired strength with age. They had had another season in which to send out new and longer roots; and these, rambling into wider and deeper fountains of nourishment, had drawn from them supplies so copious, that the berries were not only much more numerous than the year before, but they were every way larger and finer. The contrast between the fruit on these and the new plants was very decided. Hence we had a generous gathering to begin with. It was all carefully assorted, as before; but the quantity was so large that additional baskets were required, and Fred was obliged to employ an assistant to carry it to market.

While engaged in making our second picking, carefully turning aside the luxuriant foliage to reach the berries which had ripened in concealment, with capacious sun-bonnets that shut out from observation all objects but those immediately before us, it was no wonder that a stranger could come directly up without being noticed. Thus intently occupied one afternoon, we were surprised at hearing a subdued and timid voice asking,—

"May I sell some strawberries for you?"

I looked round,—for the voice came from behind us,—and beheld a girl of some ten years old, having in her hand a basket, which she had probably found on the common, as, in place of the original bottom, a pasteboard substitute had been fitted into it. It was filled with little pasteboard boxes, stitched at the corners, but strong enough to hold fruit. I noticed, that, old as it was, it had been scoured up into absolute cleanness. The child's attire was in keeping with her basket. Though she had no shoes, and the merest apology for a bonnet, with a dress that was worn and faded, as well as frayed out into a ragged fringe about her feet, yet it was all scrupulously clean. Her features struck me as even beautiful, and her soft hazel eyes would command sympathy from all who might look into them. Her manner and appearance prepossessed me in her favor.

"But did you ever sell strawberries?" I inquired.

"No, Ma'am, but I can try," she answered.

"But it will never do to trust her," interrupted my mother. "We do not know who she is, and may never see her again."

"Oh, Ma'am, I will bring the money back to you. Dear lady, let me have some to sell," she entreated, with childish earnestness, her voice trembling and her eyes moistening with apprehension of refusal.

"Mother," said I, "this child is a beginner. Is it right for us to refuse so trifling an encouragement? Who knows to what useful ends it may lead? You remember how difficult it was for me to procure the plants, and how keenly you felt my trouble. Will you inflict a keener one on this child, whose heart seems bent on doing something for herself, and on whom disappointment will fall even more painfully than it did on me? Are we not all bound to do something for those who are more destitute than ourselves? and even if we lose what we let her have, it will never be missed."

The poor girl looked up imploringly into my face as I pleaded for her, her eyes brightened with returning hopefulness, and again she besought us,—

"Dear lady, let me have a few; my mother knows you."

"Tell me your name," I replied.

"Lucy Varick,—mother says she knows you," was the answer.

"Varick!" replied my mother, quickly, surprised as well as evidently pleased. "You shall have all you can sell."

She was the daughter of the miserable man whose terrible deathbed we had both witnessed, and my mother had no difficulty in trusting to her honesty. Her basket would contain but a few quarts, and these we had already gathered. I filled her little pasteboard boxes immediately, with the fruit just as picked from the vines. The poor child fairly capered with joy as she witnessed the operation. She saw her fortune in a few quarts of strawberries! I think that as she tripped nimbly through the gate, my gratification at seeing how cheerfully she thus began her life of toil was equal to all that she could have experienced herself.

Before the afternoon was half gone, Lucy surprised us by returning with an empty basket. She had found customers wherever she went, and wanted a fresh supply of fruit. This was promptly given to her, for she had obtained even better prices than the widow was getting for us in the market. That afternoon she made the first half-dollar she ever earned, and during the entire season she continued to find plenty of the best of customers at their own doors.

I had long since made up my mind that our pastor was entitled to some recognition of the substantial kindnesses he had extended to us at the time of our deep affliction. We had seen him regularly at the Sunday school, but he knew nothing of my conversion into a strawberry-girl. What else could we do, in remembrance of his friendship, but to make him a present of our choicest fruit? Never were strawberries more carefully selected than those with which I filled a new basket of ample size, as a gift for him. On my way to the factory the next morning, I delivered the basket at his door, with a little note expressive of our continued gratitude, and begging him to accept its contents as being fruit which I had myself raised. I knew it was but a trifle, but what else than trifles had I to offer even to the kindest friend we had ever known?

That very afternoon, while my mother and I were at our usual occupation of picking, I heard the gate open at the other end of the garden, and, looking up, saw two gentlemen approaching us. They advanced slowly around the strawberry-beds, apparently examining the plants and fruit, frequently stooping to turn over the great clusters on a portion of the ground which we had not yet picked. I saw that one of them was our pastor, but the other was a stranger. As they drew nearer, we rose to receive them. No words can describe the confusion which overcame me as I recognized in the stranger the same gentleman whom I had encountered, the preceding summer, as the first customer for my strawberries, at the widow's stand in the market-house. I had never forgotten his face. Mr. Seeley introduced him as his friend Mr. Logan. Somehow I felt certain that he also recognized me. I was confused enough at being thus taken by surprise. It is true that my sun-bonnet, though of prodigious size, was neatly cut and handsomely fashioned, even becoming, as I supposed, and that I was fortunately habited in a plain, but entirely new dress, that was more than nice enough for the work I was performing. But the hot sun, in spite of my bonnet, had already turned my face brown. My hands, exposed to its fiercest rays, were even more tanned, while the stain of fruit was visible on my fingers. I was in no condition to receive company of this unexpected description.

But the gentlemen were affable, and I soon became at ease with them. Mr. Seeley had received my basket, and had come to thank me for it. Mr. Logan had been dining with him, and was enthusiastic over the quality of my strawberries. He had never seen them equalled, though devoting all his leisure to horticulture; and learning that they were raised by a lady, insisted on coming down, not only to look into her mode of culture, but to see the lady herself. It was pleasant thus to meet our friend the pastor, and I did my utmost to render the visit agreeable to him and his companion. My mother gave up the care of their entertainment to me; so, dropping my basket in the unfinished strawberry-row, I left her to continue the afternoon picking alone.

The gentlemen seemed in no haste to leave us. I was surprised that they could find so much to interest them in a spot which I had supposed could be interesting only to ourselves. Mr. Seeley was pleased with all that he saw, but Mr. Logan was polite enough to be much more demonstrative in his admiration. I think the visit of the former would have been much briefer but for the presence of the latter, who seemed in no hurry to depart. He was generous in praise of my flowers, and was inquisitive about my strawberries. He had many of the most celebrated varieties, and was kind enough to offer me such as I might desire. He thought that I could teach him lessons in horticulture more valuable than any he had yet picked up, either in books or in his own garden, and asked permission to come down often during the fruit season, to see and learn. I was surprised that he should think it possible for a young strawberry-girl like myself to teach anything to one who was evidently so much better informed. Then I told him that what he saw was the result of an endeavor to determine whether there was not some better dependence for a woman than the needle, that I had accomplished all this by my own zeal and perseverance, and that this season promised complete success.

"I cannot give you too much praise," he observed. "Your tastes harmonize admirably with my own. I have long believed that women are confined to too small a circle of useful occupations. They too seldom teach themselves, and are too little taught by others whose duty it is to enlarge their sphere of action. All my sisters have learned what you may call trades,—that is, to support themselves, if ever required to do so, by employments particularly adapted to their talents. You have chosen the garden, and you seem in a fair way to succeed. I must know how much your strawberry-crop will yield you."

On thus discovering the object I had in view, and that this was my own experiment, his interest in all that he saw appeared to increase. The very tones of his voice became softer and kinder. There was nothing patronizing in his manner; it was deferential, and so sympathetic as to impress me very strongly. I felt that he understood the train of thought that had been running through my mind, and that he heartily entered into and approved of my plans.

My first false shame at being known as a strawberry-girl now gave place to a feeling of pride and emulation. Here was one who could appreciate as well as encourage. Hence my explanations were as full as it was proper to set before a stranger. Our pastor listened to them with surprise, as most of them were new even to him, nor did he fail to unite with his companion in encouragement and congratulation. Long acquaintance gave him the privilege to be familiar and inquisitive. It is possible that in place of being abashed and humble, I may now have been confident and boastful.

Our visitors left us with promises to repeat their call; and with a lighter heart than ever, I went again to assist in picking.

The fruit continued to turn out well, and our widow in the market-house proved true to the promises she had made,—there was no difficulty in finding a sale for it, and somehow it yielded even better prices than the year before. She said that others were complaining of a drought, and that the fruit in consequence was generally inferior in size, so that those who, like myself, had been lucky enough, or painstaking enough, to secure a full crop, were doing better than ever. Then our little strawberry-peddler, Lucy Varick, was doing a thriving business. She established a list of customers among the great ladies in the city, who bought large daily supplies from her, paying her the highest prices. Her young heart seemed overflowing with joyfulness at her unexpected success. It enabled her to take home many a dollar to her mother. Alas! she seemed to think—if, indeed, she thought at all upon the subject—that the strawberry season would be a perpetual harvest.

We throve so satisfactorily that my mother seemed to have given up her cherished longing for a strawberry-garden. Now that we had a new class of visitors who were likely to be frequent in their calls, I think she felt a kind of pride in abandoning the project. There was a sort of dignity in the production of fruit, but something humiliating in the idea of keeping an eating-house. She even went so far as to decline all applications from transient callers who had mistaken our premises for those of our neighbors, thus leaving the latter in undisturbed possession of their long trains of customers. They were not slow in discovering that we had ceased to be rivals in this branch of their business; and finding themselves mistaken in supposing that my strawberry-crop would come into ruinous competition with theirs, they seemed disposed to be a little friendly toward us. Indeed, on one or two occasions, Mrs. Tetchy herself came to us for a large basketful of fruit, declaring that their own supply was not equal to the demand. She was unusually pleasant on those occasions, but at the same time insisted on having the fruit at less than we were getting for it. My mother could not contend with such a woman, and so submitted to her exactions. I feel satisfied, however, that her visits were to be attributed quite as much to a desire to gratify her curiosity as to any want of strawberries; for I noticed that she never came on these errands without impudently walking all over our garden, scrutinizing whatever we were doing, how the beds were arranged, and particularly inspecting and even handling the fruit. Of course we had nothing to be ashamed of; but though everything about the garden was much neater than hers, she never dropped a word of commendation.

Only a day or two after the gentlemen had been down to see us, we found it necessary to resume the task of weeding between the rows. The drought at the beginning of the season had been succeeded by copious rains, with warm southerly winds, under which the weeds were making an alarming growth, notwithstanding the trampling which they received from the pickers. I confess that our heavy hoes made this so laborious an operation that I rather dreaded its necessity; but a hot sun was now shining, which would be sure to kill the weeds, if we cut them off, so all hands were turned in to accomplish the work. While thus busily occupied, whom should I see coming into the gate but Mr. Logan?

"Capital exercise, Miss, and a fine day for it!" he exclaimed, as he came up to me. "No successful gardening where the weeds are permitted to grow! I have the same pests to contend against, but I apply the same remedy. There is nothing like a sharp hoe."

"Nothing indeed, if one only knew how to make it so," I replied.

As he spoke, his eye glanced at the uncouth implement I was using, and reaching forth his hand he took it from me. Examining it carefully, a smile came over his handsome face, and he shook his head, as if thinking that would never do. It was one of the old tools my father had used, heavy and tiresome for a woman's hand, with a blade absurdly large for working among strawberries, and so dull as to hack off instead of cutting up a weed at one stroke. Fred had undertaken to keep our hoes sharp for us, but this season he had somehow neglected to put them in order.

"This will never do, Miss," he observed. "Your hoe is heavy enough to break you down. This is not exercise such as a lady should take, but downright hard work. I must get you such as my sisters use; and now I mean to do your day's work for you."

Then, taking my place, he proceeded during the entire morning to act as my substitute. We were surprised at his affability, as well as at his industry. It was evident that grubbing up weeds was no greater novelty to him than to us. All the time he had something pleasant to say, and thus conversation and work went on together: for, not thinking it polite to leave him to labor alone, I procured a rake, and contrived to keep him company in turning up the weeds to the sun, the more effectually to kill them.

Now I had never been able to learn the botanical names of any of these pests of the garden, nor whether any of them were useful to man, nor how it was that the earth was so crowded with them. Neither did I know the annuals from the perennials, nor why one variety was invariably found flourishing in moist ground, while another preferred a drier situation. If I had had a desire to learn these interesting particulars of things that were my daily acquaintances, I had neither books to consult nor time to devote to them.

But it was evident from Mr. Logan's conversation that he was not only a horticulturist, but an accomplished botanist. Both my mother and myself were surprised at the new light which he threw upon the subject. I was tugging with my fingers at a great dandelion which had come up directly between two strawberry-plants, trying to pull it up, when its brittle leaves broke off in my hand, leaving the root in the ground. Mr. Logan, seeing the operation, observed,—

"No use in cutting it off; the root must come out, or it will grow thicker and stronger, and plague you every season"; and plying the corner of his hoe all round the neck of the dandelion, so as to loosen the earth a considerable depth, he thrust his fingers down, seized the root, and drew forth a thick white fibre at least a foot long.

"That fellow must be three years old," said he, holding it up for me to examine. "Very likely you have cut off the top every season, supposing you were killing it. But the dandelion can be exterminated only by destroying the root.

"Then," he continued, "there is the dock, more prolific of seeds than the dandelion, and the red-sorrel, worse than either, because its roots travel under ground in all directions, throwing up suckers at every inch, while its tops are hung with myriads of seeds,—the hoe will never exterminate these pests. You must get rid of the roots; throw them out to such a sun as this, and then you may hope to be somewhat clear of them."

All this was entirely new to me, as well as the botanical names, with which he seemed to be as familiar as with the alphabet. I had often wondered how it was that the dandelions in our garden never diminished in number, though not one had usually been allowed to go to seed. I now saw, that, instead of destroying the plant itself, we had only been removing the tops.

"But how is it, Mr. Logan," I inquired, "that the weeds are everywhere more numerous than the flowers?"