A garden is an awful responsibility.  You never know what you may be aiding to grow in it.  I heard a sermon, not long ago, in which the preacher said that the Christian, at the moment of his becoming one, was as perfect a Christian as he would be if he grew to be an archangel; that is, that he would not change thereafter at all, but only develop.  I do not know whether this is good theology, or not; and I hesitate to support it by an illustration from my garden, especially as I do not want to run the risk of propagating error, and I do not care to give away these theological comparisons to clergymen who make me so little return in the way of labor.  But I find, in dissecting a pea-blossom, that hidden in the center of it is a perfect miniature pea-pod, with the peas all in it,—­as perfect a pea-pod as it will ever be, only it is as tiny as a chatelaine ornament.  Maize and some other things show the same precocity.  This confirmation of the theologic theory is startling, and sets me meditating upon the moral possibilities of my garden.  I may find in it yet the cosmic egg.

And, speaking of moral things, I am half determined to petition the Ecumenical Council to issue a bull of excommunication against “pusley.”  Of all the forms which “error” has taken in this world, I think that is about the worst.  In the Middle Ages the monks in St. Bernard’s ascetic community at Clairvaux excommunicated a vineyard which a less rigid monk had planted near, so that it bore nothing.  In 1120 a bishop of Laon excommunicated the caterpillars in his diocese; and, the following year, St. Bernard excommunicated the flies in the Monastery of Foigny; and in 1510 the ecclesiastical court pronounced the dread sentence against the rats of Autun, Macon, and Lyons.  These examples are sufficient precedents.  It will be well for the council, however, not to publish the bull either just before or just after a rain; for nothing can kill this pestilent heresy when the ground is wet.

It is the time of festivals.  Polly says we ought to have one,—­a strawberry-festival.  She says they are perfectly delightful:  it is so nice to get people together!—­this hot weather.  They create such a good feeling!  I myself am very fond of festivals.  I always go, —­when I can consistently.  Besides the strawberries, there are ice creams and cake and lemonade, and that sort of thing:  and one always feels so well the next day after such a diet!  But as social reunions, if there are good things to eat, nothing can be pleasanter; and they are very profitable, if you have a good object.  I agreed that we ought to have a festival; but I did not know what object to devote it to.  We are not in need of an organ, nor of any pulpit-cushions.  I do not know that they use pulpit-cushions now as much as they used to, when preachers had to have something soft to pound, so that they would not hurt their fists.  I suggested pocket handkerchiefs, and flannels for next winter.  But Polly says that will not do at all.  You must