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

"Ah, Miss," he replied, resting the hoe upon his shoulder, taking off his hat, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead, "I sometimes think the weeds are immortal, but that the flowers are not. Some one has said that the earth is mother of the weeds, but only step-mother to the flowers. I think it is really so. We who cultivate the soil must maintain against them, as against sin, a perpetual warfare."

"This is hoeing made easy," said my sister, as Mr. Logan walked away toward the house for a glass of water. "A nice journeyman, Lizzie, eh? Don't seem as if he could ever be tired! Will you ask him to come again?"

"Why, Jane, you are foolish!" I replied.

But there was an arch smirk on her countenance, and she continued looking at me with so much latent meaning in the expression of her eye, that I was fairly compelled to turn away.

Noon came, that witching time with all who labor in the fields or woods, and not until then did Mr. Logan lay down his clumsy hoe. I half pitied his condition as we came out of the hot sun into the shelter of a trellis which ran along the side of the house, over which a dozen grape-vines were hanging so thickly as to exclude even the noonday glare. It was a sweltering day for a gentleman to work among the weeds in a strawberry-field, in coat and cravat. But he made very light of it, and declared that he would come the next morning and see us through the job, and even another, if we thought there would be room for him. After he had gone, Jane reminded me of these offers; adding,—

"I felt quite sure he would be down again, even without your inviting him. He seems to admire something else here besides strawberries. What do you think it can be?"

But I considered her inquiries too ridiculous to be worth replying to.

After dinner we gave up hoeing for the day, and went to our usual afternoon occupation of picking the next morning's supply for the widow. She not only sold readily all we could gather, and at excellent prices, but even called for more. It seemed that her customers were also increasing, as well as those of our neighbors. Indeed, her urgency for more fruit was such, during the entire season, that the question repeatedly crossed my mind, whether we could not appropriate more ground to strawberries by getting rid of some of the flowers. They were beautiful things, but then they paid no profit.

When one strikes a vein that happens to be profitable, he is apt to become impatient of doing well in a small way, and forthwith casts about for ways and means to increase its productiveness, as he thinks, by enlarging his operations. It was natural for me to conclude, that, if I were thus fortunate on one acre, I could do much better by cultivating more. I presume this hankering after additional acres must be a national weakness, as there were numerous disquisitions on the subject scattered through my agricultural papers, in many of which I noticed that there was great fault-finding because men in this country undertook the cultivation of twice as much land as they could properly manage. The propensity for going on and enlarging their possessions seemed a very general one. Thus even I, in my small way, was insensibly becoming a disciple of these deluded people. But there was this comfort in my case, that, while others were able to enlarge, even to their ruin, there was a limit to my expansion, as it was impossible for me to go beyond an acre and a half.

That afternoon we had just got well under way at picking, when a man came into the garden with a bundle of hoes and rakes on his shoulder, and coming up to us, took off his hat and bowed with the utmost deference, then drew from his pocket a letter, which, singularly enough, he handed to me, instead of giving it either to my mother or Jane. On opening it, I found it to be a note from Mr. Logan, in which he said he had noticed that our garden-tools were so heavy as to be entirely unfit for ladies' use, and he had therefore taken the liberty of sending me a variety of others that were made expressly for female gardeners, asking me to do him the great favor to accept them. Both my mother and Jane had stopped picking, as this unexpected donation was laid before us, so I read the note aloud to them, the messenger having previously taken his leave. I think, altogether, it was the greatest surprise we had ever had.

"The next thing, I suppose," said Jane, "you'll have him down here to show you how to use them"; and she laughed so heartily as quite to mortify me. I understood her meaning, but my mother did not appear to comprehend it, for she replied, with the utmost gravity,—

"No need of his coming to teach us; haven't we been hoeing all our lives?"

"Not us, mother," interrupted Jane, in her peculiarly provoking way, "but her; he won't come to teach us,—one will be enough. As to the need of his coming, it looks to me to be growing stronger and stronger."

She fairly screamed with laughter, as she said this. I was so provoked at her, that I was almost ready to cry; and as to answering her as she deserved, it seemed beyond my power. My mother could not understand what she meant; but while Jane was going on in this foolish way, she had untied the bundle and was examining the tools. There were three hoes, and as many rakes. Observing this, Jane again cried out,—

"What! all for you? Well, Lizzie, you are making a nice beginning! I suppose you will now have more conversational topics than ever, though there seemed to be plenty of them this morning!"

One would think that this was quite enough, but she went on with,—

"Don't you wish the weeds would last all summer? for what is to become of you when they are gone?"

Still I made no reply, and Jane persisted in her jokes and laughter. But I think one can always tell when one is blushing. So I held down my head and concealed my face in my sun-bonnet, as I felt the blood rushing up into my cheeks, and was determined that she should not have the satisfaction of discovering it.

These garden-tools were the most beautiful I had ever seen, and there was evidently a hoe and a rake for each of us. They were made of polished steel, with slender handles, all rubbed so smooth as to make it a pleasure to take hold of them. The blades had been sharpened beyond anything that Fred had been able to achieve. Being semicircular in shape, they had points at the corners, adapted to reaching into out-of-the-way places,—as after a weed that had grown up in the middle of a strawberry-row, thinking, perhaps, that a shelter of that kind would preserve it from destruction. Then they were so light that even a child could ply them all day without their weight occasioning the least fatigue. The rakes were equally complete, with long and sharp teeth, which entered the ground with far greater facility than the old-time implements we had been using. Indeed, they were the very tools we had been promising ourselves out of the profits of our second year. My mother was especially pleased with them, as she was not of very robust constitution, and found the old heavy tools a great drag upon her strength. I think no small present I have ever received was so acceptable as this.

Whoever first manufactured and introduced these beautiful and appropriate garden-tools for ladies has probably done as much to make garden-work attractive to the sex as half the writers on fruits and flowers. It is vain to expect them to engage in horticulture, unless the most complete facilities are provided for them. Their physical strength is not equal to several hours' labor with implements made exclusively for the hands of strong men; and when garden-work, instead of proving a pleasant recreation, degenerates into drudgery, one is apt to become disgusted with it, and will thus give up an occupation truly feminine, invariably healthful, and in many cases highly profitable.

True to his promise of the preceding day, Mr. Logan came down next morning to help us through with our job of hoeing, but rather better prepared to operate under a broiling June sun. My mother, seeing his determination to assist us, invited him to take off his coat, and brought out Fred's straw hat for him to wear. He seemed truly grateful for these marks of consideration for his comfort, and in consequence there sprung up quite a cordiality between them. There was of course a profusion of thanks given to him for the handsome and appropriate present he had made, but he seemed to consider it a very small affair. Still, I think he appeared as much gratified at finding he had thus anticipated our wishes as we were ourselves. It is singular how far a little act of kindness, especially when its value is enhanced by its appropriateness and the delicacy with which it is performed, will go toward establishing a bond of sympathy between giver and receiver.

I may here say, that, the better we became acquainted with Mr. Logan, the more evident it was that his heart was made up of kindness. He seemed to consider himself as almost nothing, and his neighbor as everything. His spirit was of that character that wins its way through life, tincturing every action with good-will for others, and seeking to promote the happiness of all around him in preference to his own. He once remarked, that we must not look for happiness in the things of the world, but within ourselves, in our hearts, our tempers, and our dispositions. On another occasion he quoted to me something he had just been reading in an old author, who said that men's lives should be like the day, most beautiful at eventide,—or like the autumn rich with golden sheaves, where good works have ripened into an abundant harvest.

Of course, at that time, we knew nothing of who or what he was, beyond an assurance incidentally given by our pastor, that he was the worthiest young man of his acquaintance, and that he hoped we would entertain him in the best way we could, as his passion for the pursuits he discovered me to be engaged in, coupled with what he had learned of the great object I had in view, had so much interested him in my behalf that he thought it likely Mr. Logan would often come down to watch my progress, and very possibly in some way assist me. This recommendation was quite sufficient to make him a welcome visitor at our little homestead. But even without that, we all felt he would have no difficulty in winning his way wherever he might think it desirable to make a favorable impression. Though he was evidently highly educated, and had been brought up in a superior circle to ours, and, for aught we knew, might be very wealthy, yet his whole manner was so free from pretension to superiority of any kind, that we never felt the least constraint in his company.

Well, as I was saying, Mr. Logan came down to assist me in my weeding. Jane had gone to the factory, telling me that I should have help enough to do her share of the hoeing. I was really not sorry for her absence, as she seemed to have taken up some very strange notions, which led her into remarks that annoyed me. Besides, she was sometimes so impetuous in giving utterance to these notions, that I was afraid she might thoughtlessly break out where he would overhear. I might have had other reasons, not worth while to allude to, for not regretting her absence; but this dangerous propensity was quite sufficient. Hence that was a most agreeable morning. It is true that my mother was a good deal absent, having something extra to do within doors, thus leaving Mr. Logan and myself sole tenants of the garden for probably an hour at a time. But it did not occur to me that her presence would have made the time pass away any more quickly, or that any remarks from her would have made our interchange of ideas more interesting. There was abundance of conversation between us, as he seemed at no fault for either words or topics. Then there were long pauses in the work, when we would rest upon the handles of our hoes, and discuss some point that one of us had started. On these occasions I was struck with the extreme politeness and deference of his manner toward me. The very tones of his voice were different from any I had ever heard. How different, indeed, from those of the coarse and mercenary creatures it had been my fortune to encounter elsewhere! It was impossible to overlook the contrast. What wonder, then, that the softness with which they were modulated, when conversing with me, should fall with grateful impressiveness on my heart?

But this pleasant acquaintance occasioned no interruption of my labors in harvesting my strawberry-crop. It was picked regularly every afternoon, and I went with Fred every morning by daylight to see it safely delivered to the widow. The sale kept up as briskly as ever, though the price gradually declined as the season advanced,—not, as the widow informed me, because the people had become tired of strawberries, but because the crops from distant fields were now crowding into market. Then, too, she said, as other delicacies came forward, buyers were disposed to change a little for something different.

It was a striking feature of the business, that, however abundant the strawberries might be, selected fruit always commanded a higher price than that which went to market in a jumble just as it came from the vines. This is a matter which it is important for all cultivators to keep in remembrance, as attention to it is a source of considerable profit. We all know that the large berries are no better or sweeter than the smaller ones; but then we are the growers, not the consumers, and the public have set their hearts on having the largest that can be produced. In fruits, as in other things, it seems that "the world is still deceived by ornament." Moreover, people are willing to pay liberal prices for it, and thus the producer is sure of being rewarded for a choice article. I never discovered that a pumpkin or a turnip possessed any superior flavor because it had been stimulated to mammoth size. But such being the public craving for vegetable monsters, the shrewd cultivator is constantly on the alert to minister to it, knowing that it pays.

Fred kept his usual tally of the number of baskets we took to market, and how much money each lot produced. His ridiculous miscalculation, the previous year, of what our profits would be, had so moderated his enthusiasm, that during all this season his anticipations were confined within very modest bounds. But as his column of figures lengthened, and he ciphered out for us the average price for each day's sales, it was remarkable how much higher it stood than that of most of the fruit I saw in the market. It was evident that our care in assorting our berries was giving a good account of itself. Besides, I saw that the widow had the jumbled-up berries of others on her stand, and heard her complain that they remained on hand some hours after all mine had been sold. Then, was it not the superiority of mine that had drawn forth such strong commendation from my first customer, Mr. Logan? and had he not continued to admire all that I did in the strawberry way? Setting aside the high prices, I sometimes thought that this alone was worth all the pains we had taken.

The season lasted about three weeks, during all which time our pastor was a frequent visitor at our garden. As both he and Mr. Logan had been made acquainted with my general object and plans, so from generals they were at last taken into confidence as to particulars. I showed them Fred's tally, and it appeared to me they entered into the study of it with almost as much interest as we did ourselves. Though in many respects a very small affair, yet it involved great results for me, and our visitors both thought it might be turned to the advantage of others also.

"I am astonished," said Mr. Seeley, one day, after examining Fred's tally, and expressing himself in terms of admiration at the success of our enterprise,—"I am astonished at the wasteful lives which so many of our women are living. They seem utterly destitute of purpose. They make no effort to give them shape or plan, or to set up a goal in the distance, to be reached by some kind of industrious application. They drift along listlessly and mechanically, in the old well-worn tracks, trusting to accident to give them a new direction. It is a sad thing, this waste of human existence!"

"But consider, Sir," I replied, "how limited are our opportunities, how circumscribed the circle in which we are compelled to move, and with how much jealousy the world stands guard upon its boundaries, as if it were determined we should not overstep them. When women succeed, is it not solely by accident, or, if there be such a thing, by luck?"

"Accident, Miss," replied Mr. Logan, "undoubtedly has something to do with it. But observation, energy, and tact are much more important elements of success. More than sixty years ago a young New-England girl fell desperately in love with an imported straw bonnet which she accidentally met with in a shop. The price was too large for her slender purse, so she determined to make one for herself. With no guide but recollection of the charming novelty she had seen, no other pattern to work by, no opportunity of unbraiding it to see how it was made, no instruction whatever, she persevered until she had produced a bonnet that filled the hearts of her female friends with envy, as well as with ambition to copy it. This was the origin of the once famous Dunstable bonnet. From this accidental beginning there sprung up a manufacture which now employs ten thousand persons, most of whom are women, and the product of which, in Massachusetts alone, amounts to six millions of hats and bonnets annually. This girl thus became a public benefactor. She opened a new and profitable employment to women, and at the same time enriched herself."

"Yes," added Mr. Seeley, "and there are many other employments for female skill and labor that may yet be opened up. This that you are toiling in, Lizzie, may turn out something useful. I presume that even bonnets cannot be more popular than strawberries."

"I should think so," interrupted Fred, "It is the women only who wear the one, but it looks to me as if the whole world wanted the other."

Well, when our little crop had all been sold, I found that it amounted to nearly twelve hundred quarts, and that it produced three hundred and eighty dollars clear of expenses. This was quite as much as we expected; besides, it was enough to enable me to quit the factory altogether, and stay at home with my mother. And there was a fair prospect of this release being a permanent one, as it was very certain I now understood the whole art and mystery of cultivating strawberries. There was another encouraging incident connected with this season's operations. It appeared that our pastor had mentioned me and my labors to a number of his friends, among whom was one who wanted to set out a large field with plants, all of which he purchased of me, amounting to sixty dollars. This was a most unexpected addition to our income.

But my sister Jane did not seem at all anxious to give up the factory. I had, a good while before, let in an idea that there was some other attraction about the establishment besides the sewing-machine. I noticed, that, now we had so considerably increased our means, she was more dressy than ever, and spent a great deal more time at her toilet before leaving for the factory, as if there were some one there to whom she wanted to appear more captivating than usual. Poor girl! I know it was very natural for her to do so. Indeed, I must confess to some little weakness of the same description myself. We had drawn to us quite a new set of visitors, and it was natural that I should endeavor to make our house as attractive to them as possible. As all our previous earnings had gone into a common purse, from which my mother made distribution among us, so the new accession from the garden went into the same repository. Jane was much more set up with this flourishing condition of our finances than myself. In addition to beautiful new bonnets and very gay shawls which we bought, she began to tease my mother for a silk dress, an article which had never been seen in our house. But as the latter prudently insisted on treating us with equal indulgence, and as I thought my time for such finery had not come, I was unwilling to go to that expense, so Jane was obliged to do without it. But I was now to have a sewing-machine.

Time passed more pleasantly than I had ever known. It was a great happiness to be able to devote an hour or two to reading every day, and leisure prompted me to some little enterprises for the improvement of the surroundings of the old homestead. It seemed to me the easiest thing in the world to invest even the rudest exterior with true elegance, and I found that the indulgence of a little taste in this way could be had for a very small outlay. A silk dress, in my opinion, was not to be compared with such an object.

I scarcely know how it happened, but, instead of the end of the strawberry-season being the termination of Mr. Logan's visits, they continued full as frequent as when there was really pressing work for him to assist in. It could not have been because his curiosity to see how my crop would turn out was still ungratified, as he knew all about it, how much we had sold, and what money it produced. But he seemed to have quite fallen in love with the garden; and, indeed, he one day observed, that "there would ever be something in that garden to interest him." Then in my little improvements about the house, in fixing up some of our old trellises, in planting new vines and flowers, and in transplanting trees and shrubs, he insisted on helping me nearly half the week. He really performed far more work of this kind than Fred had ever done, and appeared to be perfectly familiar with such matters. Moreover, he approved so generally of my plans that I at last felt it would be difficult to do without him. But I could not help considering it strange that he should so frequently give up the higher society to which he was accustomed in the city, and spend so much of his time at our humble cottage.

Thus the season went on until August came in, when the strawberry-ground was becoming thickly covered with runners, especially from the newly planted half-acre. I had intended bestowing no particular care on these, except to keep down the weeds so that the runners could take root. But when Mr. Logan learned this, he said it would never do. Besides, he said, the ground looked to him as if it were not rich enough. So, if he could have his own way, he would show me how the thing should be managed. Well, as by this time he really appeared to have as much to say about the garden as any of us, what could I do but consent? First, then, with my assistance, he turned back the runners into the rows, and then had the spaces between covered with a thick coat of fine old compost, which he probably bought somewhere in the neighborhood,—but how much it cost we could never get him to say. Then he brought in a man with a plough, who broke up the ground, turning the manure thoroughly in, and then harrowing it until the surface was as finely pulverized as if done with a rake. Then we spread out the runners again, and he showed me how to fasten them by letting them down into the soft earth with the point of my hoe. I told him I never should have thought of taking so much trouble; but he said there was no other way by which the runners could be converted into robust plants, certain to produce a heavy crop the next season. They must have a freshly loosened soil to run over, and in which to form strong roots; and as to enriching the ground, it was absolutely indispensable. To be sure, I could produce fruit without it, but it would be of very inferior quality.

One may well suppose that this intimate association, this almost daily companionship, this grateful interchange of thoughts and feelings that seemed to flow in one harmonious current from a common fountain, should have exerted a powerful influence over me. Such intercourse with one so singularly gifted with the faculty of winning favor from all who knew him gave birth to emotions within me such as I had never experienced. Am I to blame for being thus affected, or in confessing that every long October evening was doubly pleasant when it brought him down to see us? Indeed, I had insensibly begun to expect him. There was an indescribable something in his manner, especially when we happened to be alone, that I thought it impossible to misunderstand. Once, when strolling round the garden, I directed his attention to a group of charming autumn flowers. But, instead of noticing them, he looked at me, and replied,—

"Ah, Miss Lizzie, I long since discovered that this garden contains a sweeter flower than any of these!"

I turned away from him, abashed and silent, for I was confused and frightened by the idea that he was alluding to me, and it was a long time before I could venture to raise my eyes to his. I thought of what he had said, and of the studied tenderness of voice with which he had spoken, all through our lengthened walk, and until I rested upon my pillow; and the strange sensations it awakened came over my spirit in repeated dreams.

Thus forewarned, as I thought, I was not slow in afterwards detecting fresh manifestations of a tenderer interest for me than I had supposed it possible for him to entertain.

One evening in November, when the moon was shining with her softest lustre through the deep haze peculiar to our Indian summer, he came as usual to our little homestead. Somehow, I can scarcely tell why, I had been expecting him. He had dropped something the previous evening which had awakened in my mind the deepest feeling, and I was half sure that he would come. I felt that there were quicker pulses dancing through my veins, a flutter in my heart such as no previous experience had brought, a doubt, a fear, an expectation, as well as an alarm, which no reflection could analyze, no language could describe, all contending within me for ascendancy. Who that has human sympathies, who that is young as I was, diffident of herself, and comparatively alone and friendless, will wonder that I should be thus overcome, or reproach me for giving way to impulses which I felt it impossible to control? There was a terror of the future, which even recollection of the happy past was powerless to dissipate. Society, even books, became irksome, and I went out into the garden alone, there to have uninterrupted communion with myself.

There was an old arbor in a by-place of the garden, covered with creeper and honeysuckle, and though rudely built, yet there was a quiet retirement about it that I felt would be grateful to my spirit. Its rustic fittings, its heavy old seats, its gravelled floor, had been the scene of a thousand childish gambols with my brother and sister. Old memories clung to it with a loving fondness. Even when the sports of childhood gave place to graver thoughts and occupations, the cool retirement of this rustic solitude had never failed to possess the strongest attractions for me. The songbirds built their little nests within the overhanging foliage, and swarms of bees gave melodious voices to the summer air as they hovered over its honey-yielding flowers. The past united with the present to direct my steps toward this favorite spot I entered, and, seating myself on one of the old low branches that encircled it, was looking up through the straggling vines that festooned the entrance, admiring the soft haze through, which the cloudless moon was shedding a peculiar brilliancy on all around, when I heard a step approaching from the house.

I stopped the song which I had been humming, and listened. It is said that there are steps which have music in them. I am sure, the cadences of that music which the poet has so immortalized sounded distinctly in my listening ear. It was the melody of recognition. I knew instinctively the approaching step, and in a moment Mr. Logan stood before me.

"What!" said he, extending his hand as I rose, and pressing mine with a warmth that was unusual, even retaining it until we were seated,—"ever happy! There must be a perpetual sunshine in your heart!"

"Oh, no!" I replied. "Happiness is a creation of the fireside. One does not find it in his neighbor's garden, and many times not even in his own."

"For once, dear Lizzie, I only half agree with you," he replied, again taking my hand, and pressing it in both of his.

I sought in vain to withdraw it, but he held it with an embarrassing tenacity. He had never spoken such words before, never used my name even, without the usual prefix which politeness exacts. I was glad that the moonlight found but feeble entrance into the arbor, as the blood mounted from my heart into my face, and I felt that I must be a spectacle of confusion. I cannot now remember how long this indescribable embarrassment kept possession of me, but I did summon strength to say,—

"Your language surprises me, Mr. Logan."