I grew to take a fiendish delight in watching the conflict, and the fierce desperation which marked its violence.  On the one side were the forces of fusion, a reluctant stomach, an unwilling oesophagus, a loathing palate; on the other, the stern, unconquerable will.  A natural philosopher would have gathered new proofs of the unlimited capacity of the human race to adapt itself to circumstances, from the debris that strewed our premises after each fresh departure.  Cherries were chucked under the sofa, into the table-drawers, behind the books, under the lamp-mats, into the vases, in any and every place where a dexterous hand could dispose of them without detection.  Yet their number seemed to suffer no abatement.  Like Tityus’s liver, they were constantly renewed, though constantly consumed.  The small boys seemed to be suffering from a fit of conscience.  In vain we closed the blinds and shut ourselves up in the house to give them a fair field.  Not a cherry was taken.  In vain we went ostentatiously to church all day on Sunday.  Not a twig was touched.  Finally I dropped all the curtains on that side of the house, and avoided that part of the garden in my walks.  The cherries may be hanging there to this day, for aught I know.

But why do I thus linger over the sad recital? "Ab uno disce omnes." (A quotation from Virgil:  means, “All of a piece.”) There may have been, there probably was, an abundance of sweet-corn, but the broomstick that had marked the spot was lost, and I could in no wise recall either spot or stick.  Nor did I ever see or hear of the peas,—­or the beans.  If our chickens could be brought to the witness-box, they might throw light on the subject.  As it is, I drop a natural tear, and pass on to

THE FLOWER-GARDEN.—­It appeared very much behind time,—­chiefly Roman wormwood.  I was grateful even for that.  Then two rows of four-o’clocks became visible to the naked eye.  They are cryptogamous, it seems.  Botanists have hitherto classed them among the Phaenogamia.  A sweet-pea and a china-aster dawdled up just in time to get frost-bitten. "Et praeterea nihil." (Virgil:  means, “That’s all.”) I am sure it was no fault of mine.  I tended my seeds with assiduous care.  My devotion was unwearied.  I was a very slave to their caprices.  I planted them just beneath the surface in the first place, so that they might have an easy passage.  In two or three days they all seemed to be lying round loose on the top, and I planted them an inch deep.  Then I didn’t see them at all for so long that I took them up again, and planted them half-way between.  It was of no use.  You cannot suit people or plants that are determined not to be suited.