them, each individual plant becomes an object of separate interest.
My garden, that skirted the avenue of the Manse, was of precisely the
right extent. An hour or two of morning labor was all that it
required. But I used to visit and revisit it a dozen times a day, and
stand in deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny with a love that
nobody could share or conceive of who had never taken part in the
process of creation. It was one of the most bewitching sights in the
world to observe a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a row of
early peas just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate
green. Later in the season the humming-birds were attracted by the
blossoms of a peculiar variety of bean; and they were a joy to me,
those little spiritual visitants, for deigning to sip airy food out of
my nectar-cups. Multitudes of bees used to bury themselves in the
yellow blossoms of the summer-squashes. This, too, was a deep
satisfaction; although, when they had laden themselves with sweets,
they flew away to some unknown hive, which would give back nothing in
requital of what my garden had contributed. But I was glad thus to
fling a benefaction upon the passing breeze with the certainty that
somebody must profit by it and that there would be a little more honey
in the world to allay the sourness and bitterness which mankind is
always complaining of. Yes, indeed; my life was the sweeter for that
honey.

Speaking of summer-squashes, I must say a word of their beautiful and
varied forms. They presented an endless diversity of urns and vases,
shallow or deep, scalloped or plain, moulded in patterns which a
sculptor would do well to copy, since Art has never invented anything
more graceful. A hundred squashes in the garden were worth, in my
eyes at least, of being rendered indestructible in marble. If ever
Providence (but I know it never will) should assign me a superfluity