We will therefore suppose that, as the simplest and most economical arrangement, he has adopted the plan of a walk six feet wide extending through the centre of his garden.  As was the case with the other paths, it will be greatly to his advantage to stake it out and remove about four inches of the surface-soil, piling it near the stable to be used for composting purposes or in the earth-closet.  The excavation thus made should be filled with small stones or cinders, and then covered with fine gravel.  A walk that shall be dry at all times is thus secured, and it will be almost wholly free from weeds.  In these advantages alone one is repaid for the extra first cost, and in addition the rich surface soil obtained will double the bulk and value of the fertilizers with which it is mixed.

Having made the walk, borders five feet wide can be laid out on each side of it, and the soil in these should be as rich and deep as any other parts of the garden.  What shall be planted in these borders will depend largely on the tastes of the gardener; but, as has been suggested, there will assuredly be one or more shadowy grape-arbors under which the proprietor can retire to provide horticultural strategy.  This brings us to that chef-d’oeuvre of Nature—­

The vine.  It climbs by its tendrils, and they appear to have clasped the heart of humanity.  Among the best of Heaven’s gifts, it has sustained the worst perversions.  But we will refrain from a temperance lecture; also from sacred and classical reminiscences.  The world is not composed of monks who thought to escape temptation—­and vainly too—­in stony cells.  To some the purple cluster suggests Bacchanal revelry; to others, sitting under one’s own vine and fig-tree—­in brief, a home.  The vine is like woman, the inspiration of the best and the worst.

It may well become one of the dreams of our life to own land, if for no other reason than that of obtaining the privilege of planting vines.  As they take root, so will we, and after we have eaten their delicious fruit, the very thought of leaving our acre will be repugnant.  The literature of the vine would fill a library; the literature of love would crowd many libraries.  It is not essential to read everything before we start a little vineyard or go a-courting.

It is said that about two thousand known and named varieties of grapes have been and are being grown in Europe; and all these are supposed to have been developed from one species (Vitis vinifera), which originally was the wild product of Nature, like those growing in our thickets and forests.  One can scarcely suppose this possible when contemplating a cluster of Tokay or some other highly developed variety of the hot-house.  Yet the native vine, which began to “yield fruit after his kind, the third day” (whatever may have been the length of that day), may have been, after all, a good starting-point in the process of development.  One can hardly believe