sic, and attended by some of the comforts I have named. These
things come so forcibly into my mind sometimes as I work, that perhaps,
when a wandering breeze lifts my straw hat or a bird lights on a near
currant-bush and shakes out a full-throated summer song, I almost expect
to find the cooling drink and the hospitable entertainment at the end
of the row. But I never do. There is nothing to be done but to turn
round and hoe back to the other end.

Speaking of those yellow squash-bugs, I think I disheartened them by
covering the plants so deep with soot and wood-ashes that they could not
find them; and I am in doubt if I shall ever see the plants again. But I
have heard of another defense against the bugs. Put a fine wire screen
over each hill, which will keep out the bugs and admit the rain. I
should say that these screens would not cost much more than the melons
you would be likely to get from the vines if you bought them; but then,
think of the moral satisfaction of watching the bugs hovering over the
screen, seeing but unable to reach the tender plants within. That is
worth paying for.

I left my own garden yesterday and went over to where Polly was getting
the weeds out of one of her flower-beds. She was working away at the bed
with a little hoe. Whether women ought to have the ballot or not (and I
have a decided opinion on that point, which I should here plainly give
did I not fear that it would injure my agricultural influence), I am
compelled to say that this was rather helpless hoeing. It was patient,
conscientious, even pathetic hoeing; but it was neither effective nor
finished. When completed, the bed looked somewhat as if a hen had
scratched it; there was that touching unevenness about it. I think no
one could look at it and not be affected. To be sure, Polly smoothed it
off with a rake and asked me if it wasn't nice; and I said it was. It
was not a favorable time for me to explain the difference between
puttering hoeing and the broad, free sweep of the instrument which kills
the weeds, spares the plants, and loosens the soil without leaving it in
holes and hills. But, after all, as life is constituted, I think more of
Polly's honest and anxious care of her plants than of the most finished
gardening in the world.

SIXTH WEEK

Somebody has sent me a new sort of hoe, with the wish that I should
speak favorably of it, if I can consistently. I willingly do so, but
with the understanding that I am to be at