You know that this attempt to tell the truth about one of the most fascinating occupations in the world has not been without its dangers.  I have received anonymous letters.  Some of them were murderously spelled; others were missives in such elegant phrase and dress, that danger was only to be apprehended in them by one skilled in the mysteries of medieval poisoning, when death flew on the wings of a perfume.  One lady, whose entreaty that I should pause had something of command in it, wrote that my strictures on “pusley” had so inflamed her husband’s zeal, that, in her absence in the country, he had rooted up all her beds of portulaca (a sort of cousin of the fat weed), and utterly cast it out.  It is, however, to be expected, that retributive justice would visit the innocent as well as the guilty of an offending family.  This is only another proof of the wide sweep of moral forces.  I suppose that it is as necessary in the vegetable world as it is elsewhere to avoid the appearance of evil.

In offering you the fruit of my garden, which has been gathered from week to week, without much reference to the progress of the crops or the drought, I desire to acknowledge an influence which has lent half the charm to my labor.  If I were in a court of justice, or injustice, under oath, I should not like to say, that, either in the wooing days of spring, or under the suns of the summer solstice, you had been, either with hoe, rake, or miniature spade, of the least use in the garden; but your suggestions have been invaluable, and, whenever used, have been paid for.  Your horticultural inquiries have been of a nature to astonish the vegetable world, if it listened, and were a constant inspiration to research.  There was almost nothing that you did not wish to know; and this, added to what I wished to know, made a boundless field for discovery.  What might have become of the garden, if your advice had been followed, a good Providence only knows; but I never worked there without a consciousness that you might at any moment come down the walk, under the grape-arbor, bestowing glances of approval, that were none the worse for not being critical; exercising a sort of superintendence that elevated gardening into a fine art; expressing a wonder that was as complimentary to me as it was to Nature; bringing an atmosphere which made the garden a region of romance, the soil of which was set apart for fruits native to climes unseen.  It was this bright presence that filled the garden, as it did the summer, with light, and now leaves upon it that tender play of color and bloom which is called among the Alps the after-glow.

Nook farm, Hartford, October, 1870

C. D. W.

PRELIMINARY