PARSNIPS.—­They ran the race with an indescribable vehemence that fairly threw the beets into the shade.  They trod so delicately at first that I was quite unprepared for such enthusiasm.  Lacking the red veining, I could not distinguish them even from the weeds with any certainty, and was forced to let both grow together till the harvest.  So both grew together, a perfect jungle.  But the parsnips got ahead, and rushed up gloriously, magnificently, bacchanalianly,—­as the winds come when forests are rended,—­as the waves come when navies are stranded.  I am, indeed, troubled with a suspicion that their vitality has all run to leaves, and that, when I go down into the depths of the earth for the parsnips, I shall find only bread of emptiness.  It is a pleasing reflection that parsnips cannot be eaten till the second year.  I am told that they must lie in the ground during the winter.  Consequently it cannot be decided whether there are any or not till next spring.  I shall in the mean time assume and assert without hesitation or qualification that there are as many tubers below the surface as there are leaves above it.  I shall thereby enjoy a pleasant consciousness, and the respect of all, for the winter; and if disappointment awaits me in the spring, time will have blunted its keenness for me, and other people will have forgotten the whole subject.  You may be sure I shall not remind them of it.

CUCUMBERS.—­The cucumbers came up so far and stuck.  It must have been innate depravity, for there was no shadow of reason why they should not keep on as they began.  They did not.  They stopped growing in the prime of life.  Only three cucumbers developed, and they hid under the vines so that I did not see them till they were become ripe, yellow, soft, and worthless.  They are an unwholesome fruit at best, and I bore their loss with great fortitude.

TOMATOES.—­Both dead.  I had been instructed to protect them from the frost by night and from the sun by day.  I intended to do so ultimately, but I did not suppose there was any emergency.  A frost came the first night and killed them, and a hot sun the next day burned up all there was left.  When they were both thoroughly dead, I took great pains to cover them every night and noon.  No symptoms of revival appearing to reward my efforts, I left them to shift for themselves.  I did not think there was any need of their dying, in the first place; and if they would be so absurd as to die without provocation, I did not see the necessity of going into a decline about it.  Besides, I never did value plants or animals that have to be nursed, and petted, and coaxed to live.  If things want to die, I think they’d better die.  Provoked by my indifference, one of the tomatoes flared up and took a new start,—­put forth leaves, shot out vines, and covered himself with fruit and glory.  The chickens picked out the heart of all the tomatoes as soon as they ripened, which was of no consequence, however, as they had wasted so much time in the beginning that the autumn frosts came upon them unawares, and there wouldn’t have been fruit enough ripe to be of any account, if no chicken had ever broken a shell.