The winter mulch need not prevent this spring culture. Let the men begin on one side of a field, and rake inward until half a dozen rows are uncovered. Down through these the subsoil plow and the cultivator can pass. Then the hay can be raked back again as the summer mulch, and a new space cleared, until the whole field is cultivated and the mulch left as it was before.

Now, however, it is not a surface like hard-pan that is covered, but a mellow soil in which the roots can luxuriate.

Mr. Young uses fertilizers, especially those containing ammonia, only to a limited extent, believing that while they undoubtedly increase the size of the fruit, they also render it soft and unfit for long carriage, and promote an undue growth of vine. This theory is true, to a certain extent, but I think the compensating benefits of fertilizers of almost any kind far outweigh the disadvantages. At his distance from the market, firmness in the berry is essential, but I think he will find this quality is dependent more upon the weather and the variety than upon the fertilizer. Of course, over-stimulation by hot manures will always produce an unwholesome, perishable growth, but a good coat of well-rotted compost scattered down the rows, just before they receive their fall or spring culture, would be exceedingly beneficial in nine cases out of ten. I most heartily agree with him, however, that all fertilizers containing potash are peculiarly adapted to the strawberry.

Having considered his methods of planting and culture, we now return again to the culminating period in which the hopes and labors of the year are rewarded or disappointed. When we awoke the morning following our arrival, we found the landscape obscured by a dense fog. Through this, in dim, uncertain outline, throngs of pickers were streaming out from the city to Mr. Young's place and the strawberry farms beyond. The broad fields seemed all the more vast from the obscurity, and the stooping forms of the fruit-gatherers took on odd and fantastic shapes in the silvery mist.

But while we drank our coffee the sun sipped these morning vapors, and when we stepped out under the pines, the day was hourly growing brighter and warmer. The balmy, fragrant air, the meadow larks singing in the distance, the cheery voices of the pickers in an adjacent field, would tempt gloom itself to forget its care and stroll away through the sunlight. The pickers were beginning to take possession of a field containing thirty acres of Triomphe de Gands, and we followed them, and there lighted on one of the oddest characters on the plantation—"Sam Jubilee," the "row-man," black as night, short, stout, and profane. It is Sam's business to give each picker a row of berries, and he carries a brass-headed cane as the baton of authority. As we came up, he was whirling a glazed hat of portentous size in one hand and gesticulating so wildly with his cane that one might think he was in convulsions of rage, but we soon learned that this was "his way."

"Heah, you, dah!" he vociferated, to the slouching, leisurely pickers that were drifting after him, "what's de matter wid yer j'ints? Step along lively, or by—" and then came a volley of the most outlandish oaths ever uttered by a human tongue.

"Don't swear so, Sam," said Mr. Young.

"Can't help it, sah. Dey makes me swar. Feels as if I could bust inter ten thousand emptins, dey's so agerwatin. Heah, my sister, take dat row. You, gemlin" (to a white man), "take dat. Heah, chile, step in dar an' pick right smart, or I'll warm yer!"

Sam "brothers and sisters" the motley crowd he domineers like a colored preacher, but I fear he is not "in good and regular standing" in any church in Norfolk.

"He can give out rows more rapidly and systematically than any man I ever had," said Mr. Young; and we soon observed that wherever Jubilee led, with his stentorian voice and emphatic gestures, there was life and movement. Thus we learned that although there might be 1,500 people in the fields, there was no haphazard picking. Each one would be assigned a row, which could not be left until all the ripe berries on it were gathered.

Passing to and fro across the fields are the two chief overseers of the farm, Harrison and Peters, both apparently full-blooded negroes, but in the vernacular of the South, "right smart men." They have been with Mr. Young eight or ten years, and were promoted and maintain their position solely on the ground of ability and faithfulness. They go rapidly from one to another, noting whether they are picking the rows clean. They also take from each tray a basket at random, and empty it into another, thus discovering who are gathering green or imperfect berries. If the fruit falls much below the accepted standard, the baskets are confiscated and no tickets given for them, and if the picker continues careless he is sent out of the field.

Mr. Young says that he has never found any white overseers who could equal these men; and through the long year they drive on the work with tireless energy.

Indeed, Peters often has much ado to keep his energy under control. A powerful engine cannot always be safe, and Peters slipped his bands one day to his cost. A woman would not obey him, and he threatened her with a pistol. Instead of obeying, she started to run. He fired and wounded her twice, and then tried to get off on the lame excuse that he did not know the pistol was loaded. The trouble was that he was overloaded. But his offence resulted more from these characteristics than from innate ugliness of temper. To make the business of the huge farm go has become his controlling passion; and he chafes at an obstacle like an obstructed torrent.

Harrison, his associate overseer, unites more discretion with his force, and he gave us an example of this fact. As we were strolling about, we found, seated at the end of the strawberry rows, a group consisting of two young women and two children, with a colored man standing near. They had been picking in partnership, we were informed by one of the young women, who was smoking a pipe, and who replied to our questions, scarcely taking the trouble to look up. She was about half white, and her face was singularly expressive of sensuousness and indolent recklessness.

"This man is your husband?" I suggested.

"No, he's only my brudder. My ole man is pickin' on anoder farm," she drawled out, between the whiffs of her pipe.

"I should think you and your husband would work together," I ventured.

"We doesn't. He goes about his business and I goes about mine," she remarked, with languid complacency.

Here is a character, I thought, as we passed on—the very embodiment of a certain kind of wilfulness. She would not resist or chafe at authority, but, with an easy, good-natured, don't-care expression, would do as she pleased, "though the heavens fell." A little later there was a heavy rumble of thunder in the west, and we met again the young woman whose marital relations resembled those of many of her fashionable sisters at the North. She was leading her small band from the field. The prospective shower was her excuse for going, but laziness the undoubted cause. Harrison, like a vigilant watch-dog, spied them and blustered up, never for a moment doubting that she would yield to his authority.

But he had met his match. She merely looked at him with her slow, quiet, indolent smile, in which there was not the faintest trace of irresolution or fear, and he knew that the moment he stepped out of the way, she would pass on. His loud expostulations and threats soon ceased. What could he do with that laughing woman, who no doubt had been a slave, but was now emancipated a trifle too completely? He might as well try to stop a sluggish tide with his hands. It would ooze away from him inevitably. The instincts of this people are quick. Harrison knew he was defeated, and his only anxiety now was to retreat in a way that would save appearances.

"I'se a-gwine home, M's'r Harrison," she said quietly. "You don't catch us gittin' wet ag'in."

"Oh, well, if you is 'fraid ob gittin' wet, s'pose I'll habe to let you off jus' dis once," he began, pompously; and here, fortunately, he saw a man leaving the field in the distance. There was a subject with which he could deal, and a line of retreat open at the same time; and away he went, therefore, vociferating all the more loudly that he might cover his discomfiture. The woman smiled a little more complacently and went on, with her old easy, don't-care swing, as she undoubtedly will, whithersoever her inclinations lead, to the end of her life. To crystallize such wayward, human atoms into proper forms, and make them useful, is a problem that would puzzle wiser heads than that of the overseer.

I think, however, that not only Harrison and Peters, but all who have charge of working people, rely too much on driving, and too little on encouraging and coaxing. An incident which occurred may illustrate this truth. My companion, Mr. Drake, soon mastered one of the labors of a strawberry farm—the gathering of the fruit—and out of the plenitude of his benevolence essayed to teach a little sable how he could pick to better advantage.

"Put your basket down, sonny," he said. "Now you have two hands to work with instead of one—so, don't you see?"

"Dat's mighty good in you, Mas'r," said a woman near. "Lor bress you! de people 'ud jess jump over derselves tryin' to do the work if dey got sich good words, but de oberseer's so cross dat we gits 'umptuous and don't keer."

Still, to the majority, the strawberry season brings the halcyon days of the year. They look forward to it and enjoy it as a prolonged picnic, in which business and pleasure are equally combined. They are essentially gregarious, and this industry brings many together during the long bright days. The light work leaves their tongues free, and families and neighbors pick together with a ceaseless chatter, a running fire of rude, broad pleasantry, intermingled occasionally with a windy war of words in a jargon that becomes all the more uncouth from anger, but which rarely ends in blows.

We were continually impressed by their courage, buoyancy, animal spirits, or whatever it is that enables them to face their uncertain future so unconcernedly. Multitudes live like the birds, not knowing where their next year's nest will be, or how to-morrow's food will come. It has come, thus far, and this fact seems enough. In many instances, however, their humble fortunes are built on the very best foundations.

"What can you do after the berry season is over?" we asked a woman who had but one arm.

"I kin do what any other woman kin do," she said, straightening herself up. "I kin bake, cook, wash, iron, scrub—"

"That will do," I cried. "You are better off than most of us, for the world will always need and pay for your accomplishments."

The story of her life was a simple one. She did not remember when she lost her arm, but only knew that it had been burned off. When scarcely more than an infant, she had been left alone in the little cabin by the slave mother, who probably was toiling in the tobacco field. There was a fire on the hearth—the rest can be imagined only too vividly. She is fighting out the battle of life, however, more successfully with her one hand than are multitudes of men with two. She is stout and cheery, and can "take keer of herself and children," she said.

Scattered here and there over the fields might be seen two heads that would keep in rather close juxtaposition up and down the long rows.

"Dey's pairin' off," was the explanation.

"You keep de tickets," said a buxom young woman to her mate, as he was about to take her tray, as well as his own, to the buyers.

"You are in partnership," I remarked.

"Yes, we is," she replied, with a conscious laugh.

"You are related, I suppose?"

"Well, not 'zackly—dat is—we's partners."

"How about this partnership business—does it not last sometimes after the strawberry season is over?"

"Oh, Lor' yes! Heaps on 'em gits fallen in love; den dey gits a- marryin' arter de pickin' time is done gone by."

"Now I see what your partnership means."

"Yah, yah, yah! You sees a heap more dan I's told you!" But her partner grinned most approvingly. We were afterward informed that there was no end to the love-making among the strawberry rows.

There are from fifty to one hundred and fifty pickers in a squad, and these are in charge of subordinate overseers, who are continually moving around among them, on the watch for delinquencies of all kinds. Some of these minor potentates are white and some black. As a rule, Mr. Young gives the blacks the preference and on strictly business principles, too. "The colored men have more snap, and can get more work out of their own people," he says. By means of these sub- overseers, large numbers can be transferred from one part of the farm to another without confusion.

Fortunes are never made in gathering strawberries, and yet there seems no dearth of pickers. The multitude of men, women, and children that streams out into the country every morning is surprisingly large. Five or six thousand bushels a day are often gathered in the vicinity of Norfolk, and the pickers rarely average over a bushel each. "Right smart hands," who have the good hap to be given full rows, will occasionally pick two bushels; but about thirty quarts per day is the usual amount, while not a few of the lazy and feeble bring in only eight or ten.

As has been already suggested, the pickers are followed by the buyers and packers, and to these men, at central points in the fields, the mule-carts bring empty crates. The pickers carry little trays containing six baskets, each holding a quart. As fast as they fill these, they flock in to the buyers. If a trayful, or six good quarts, are offered, the buyer gives the picker a yellow ticket, worth twelve cents. When less than six baskets are brought, each basket is paid for with a green ticket, worth two cents. These two tickets are eventually exchanged for a white fifty-cent ticket, which is cashed at the paying-booth after the day's work is over. The pickers, therefore, receive two cents for every quart of good, salable berries. If green, muddy, or decayed berries are brought in, they are thrown away or confiscated, and incorrigibly careless pickers are driven off the place. Every morning the buyers take out as many tickets of these three values as they think they can use, and are charged with the same by the book-keeper. Their voucher for all they pay out is another ticket, on which is printed "forty-five quarts," or just a crateful. Only Mr. Young and one other person have a right to give out the last- named tickets, and by night each buyer must have enough of them to balance the other tickets with which he was charged in the morning. Thus thousands of dollars change hands through the medium of four kinds of tickets not over an inch, square, and by means of them the financial part of gathering the crop is managed.

In previous years these tickets were received the same as money by any of the shops in the city, and on one occasion were counterfeited. Mr. Young now has his own printing-office, and gets them up in a way not easily imitated, nor does he issue them until just as the fruit begins to ripen. He has, moreover, given authority to one man only to cash these tickets. Thus there is little chance for rascality.

He also requires that no ticket shall be cashed until the fields have all been picked over. Were it not for this regulation, the lazy and the "bummers" would earn enough merely to buy a few drinks, then slink off. Now they must remain until all are through before they can get a cent. Peters and Harrison see to it that none are lying around in the shade, and thus, through the compulsion of system, many, no doubt, are surprised to find themselves at work for the greater part of the day.

And yet neither system nor Peters, with even his sanguinary reputation, is able alone to control the hordes employed. Of course the very dregs of the population are largely represented. Many go out on a "lark," not a few to steal, and some with the basest purposes. Walking continually back and forth through the fields, therefore, are two duly authorized constables and their presence only prevents a great deal of crime. Moreover, according to Virginian law, every landholder has the right to arrest thieves and trespassers. Up to the time of our visit, five persons had been arrested, and the fact that they were all white does not speak very well for our color. The law of the state requires that they shall be punished by so many lashes, according to the gravity of the offence, and by imprisonment. The whipping-post is one of the institutions, and man or woman, white or black, against whom the crime of stealing is proved, is stripped to the waist and lashed upon the bare back. Such ignominious punishment may prevent theft, but it must tend to destroy every vestige of self- respect and pride in criminals, and render them hopelessly reckless. Therefore, it should cease at once.

It must be admitted, however, that very little lawlessness was apparent. In no instance have I received a rude word while travelling in the South, while, on the other hand, the courtesy and kindness were almost unstinted.

The negroes about Norfolk certainly do not wear an intimidated or "bull-dozed" air.

"Git off my row, dar, or I'll bust yo' head open," shouted a tall, strapping colored girl to a white man, and he got off her row with alacrity.

Mr. Young says that the negro laborers are easily managed, and will endure a great deal of severity if you deal "squarely" with them; but if you wrong them out of even five cents, they will never forget it. What's more, every citizen of "Blackville" will be informed of the fact, for what one knows they all seem to know very soon.

We were not long in learning to regard the strawberry farm as a little world within itself. It would be difficult to make the reader understand its life and "go" at certain hours of the day. Scores are coming and going; hundreds dot the fields; carts piled up with crates are moving hither and thither. At the same time the regular toil of cultivation is maintained. Back and forth between the young plants mules are drawing cultivators, and following these come a score or two women with light, sharp hoes. From the great crate manufactory is heard the whir of machinery and the click of hammers; at intervals the smithy sends forth its metallic voice, while from one centre of toil and interest to another the proprietor whisks in his open buggy at a speed that often seems perilous.

After all, Mr. Young's most efficient aid in his business was his father (recently deceased). It gave me pleasure to note the frequency and deference with which the senior's judgment wa& consulted, and I also observed that wherever the old gentleman's umbrella was seen in the field, all went well.

At four or five in the afternoon, the whole area would be picked over. The fields would be left to meadow-larks and quails, whose liquid notes well replaced the songs and cries of the pickers. Here and there a mule-cart would come straggling in. By night, all signs of life were concentrated around the barns and paying booth; but even from these one after another would drift away to the city, till at last scarcely a vestige of the hurry and business of the day would be left. The deep hush and quiet that settled down on the scene was all the more delightful from contrast. To listen to the evening wind among the pines, to watch the sun drop below the spires of Norfolk, and see the long shadows creep toward us; to let our thoughts flit whither they would, like the birds about us, was all the occupation we craved at this hour. Were we younger and more romantic, we might select this witching time for a visit to an ancient grave in one of the strawberry fields.

A mossy, horizontal slab marks the spot, and beneath it reposes the dust of a young English officer. One bright June day—so the legend is told—one hundred and sixteen years ago, this man, in the early summer of his life, was killed in a duel.

Lingering here, through the twilight, until the landscape grows as obscure as this rash youth's history, what fancies some might weave. As the cause of the tragedy, one would scarcely fail to see among the shadows the dim form and features of some old-time belle, whose smiles had kindled the fierce passion that was here quenched, more than a century since. Did she marry the rival, of surer aim and cooler head and heart, or did she haunt this place with regretful tears? Did she become a stout, prosaic woman, and end her days in whist and all the ancient proprieties, or fade into a remorseful wraith that still haunts her unfortunate lover's grave? One shivers, and grows superstitious. The light twinkling from the windows of the cottage under the pines becomes very attractive. As we fall asleep after such a visit, we like to think of the meadow-larks singing on the mossy tombstone in the morning.

Daring a rainy day, when driven from the field, we found plenty to interest us in the printing-office, smithy, and especially in the huge crate manufactory. Here were piled up coils of baskets that suggested strawberries for a million supper-tables. Hour after hour the mule- power engine drove saws, with teeth sharper than those of time, through the pine boards that soon became crates for the round quart baskets. These crates were painted green, marked with Mr. Young's name, and piled to the lofty, cobwebbed ceiling.

But Saturday is the culminating period of the week. The huge plantation has been gone over closely and carefully, for the morrow is Sunday, on which day the birds are the only pickers. Around the office, crate manufactory, and paying booth were gathered over a thousand people—a motley and variegated crowd, that the South only can produce. The odd and often coarse jargon, the infinite variety in appearance and character, suggested again that humanity is a very tangled problem. The shrewdness and accuracy, however, with which the most ignorant count their tickets and reckon their dues on their fingers, is a trait characteristic of all, and, having received the few shillings, which mean a luxurious Sunday, they trudge off to town, chattering volubly, whether any one listens or not.

But many can not resist the rollicking music back of the paying booth. Three sable musicians form the orchestra, and from a bass viol, fiddle and fife they extract melody that, with all its short-coming, would make a deacon wish to dance. Any one, white or black, can purchase the privilege of keeping step to the music for two cents, or one strawberry ticket. Business was superb, and every shade of color and character was represented. In the vernacular of the farm, the mulatto girls are called "strawberry blondes," and one that would have attracted attention anywhere was led out by a droll, full-blooded negro, who would have made the fortune of a minstrel troupe. She was tall and willowy. A profusion of dark hair curled about an oval face, not too dark to prevent a faint color of the strawberry from glowing in her cheeks. She wore neither hat nor shoes, but was as unembarrassed, apparently, in her one close-fitting garment, as could be any ballroom belle dressed in the latest mode. Another blonde, who sported torn slippers and white stockings, was in danger of being spoiled by much attention. As a rule, however, bare feet were nothing against a "lady" in the estimation of the young men. At any rate, all who could spare a berry ticket speedily found a partner, and, as we rode away from the farm, the last sounds were those of music and merriment, and our last glimpse was of the throng of dancers on the green.

The confused uproar and rush of business around the Old Dominion steamship made a marked contrast. To the ample wharves every species of vehicle had been coming all day, while all kinds of craft, from a skiff to a large two-masted schooner, waiting their turn to discharge their freight of berry crates and garden produce, reached half across the Elizabeth river. The rumble of the trucks was almost like the roar of thunder, as scores of negroes hustled crates, barrels and boxes aboard. Most of the time they were on a good round trot, and one had to pick his way with care; for, apparently, the truck was as thoughtful as the trundler.

As the long twilight fades utterly into night, the last crate is aboard. The dusky forms of the stevedores are seen in an old pontoon- shaped boat on their way to Portsmouth, but their outlines, and the melody of their rude song, are soon lost in the distance. The ship, that has become like a huge section of Washington Market, casts off her lines, and away we steam, diffusing on the night air the fragrance of a thousand acres, more or less, of strawberries.

It was late in the night that followed the next day before we reached New York, but on the great covered wharf, to which was given a noonday glare by electric light, there was no suggestion of the darkness and rain without. Various numbers, prominent on the sides of the building, indicated the lines of transit and the commission houses to which the immense, indiscriminate cargo was assigned. With a heavy jar and rumble that would not cease till the ship was empty, a throng of white laborers wheel each package to its proper place. Mr. Young's crates soon grew into what seemed, in the distance, a good-sized mound. The number above them stood for Eldridge & Carpenter, West Washington Market. Thither we followed them the next morning, but found that the most of them had already been scattered throughout the city, and realized that the berries we had seen a few hours before on the strawberry farm were even then on uptown breakfast-tables.



CHAPTER XVII

FORCING STRAWBERRIES UNDER GLASS

Trained gardeners need no instruction from me on this topic. There may be those, however, who have never given the subject attention, and who would be glad to learn some of the first principles of success in forcing this fruit for market; while a still larger number, having small conservatories and warm south windows, would be pleased to see a few strawberries blossoming and ripening, as an earnest of the coming June. There are no greater difficulties in the way than in having flowers, for it is merely a question of doing the right thing at the right time. I do not believe in a system of minute, arbitrary directions, so much as in the clear statement of a few general principles that will suggest what ought to be done. The strawberry plant has the same character indoors as out, and this fact alone, in view of what has been written, should suggest moisture, coolness, light, and air. I shall endeavor to present, however, each successive step.

First, prepare a compost of thoroughly rotted sods and the cleanings of the cow-stable, in the proportion of three parts sod-mould to one of manure. In the place of sods, decayed leaves, muck, sweetened by a year's exposure to air and frost, or any good, rich loam will answer. With this compost, made fine and clean by passing it through a coarse sieve, fill in June, and not later than July, as many three-inch pots as you desire; then sink them to their rims along the sides of the rows from which you propose to obtain winter-bearing plants. Varieties best adapted for forcing are those of a low, stocky growth, bearing perfect flowers and sweet or high-flavored berries. I should say the Triomphe de Gand was the best, and I observe that it and the La Constante, which it closely resembles, are highly recommended abroad. The bush Alpines are said to do finely, and I should think the Black Defiance would answer well. Mr. Henderson speaks highly of the Champion, which, however, must be grown with a perfect-flowered kind, since it is a pistillate. From the parent row, guide the first runners so that they will take root in the pots. Let each runner form but a single, strong plant, which it will do in about two weeks, filling the pot with roots. Then these plants, with their accompanying balls of earth interlaced with roots, are ready to be shifted into pots of from six to eight inches in diameter, which also should be filled with the compost already described.

These larger pots should have three or four pieces of broken pottery in the bottom for drainage. One plant to each pot is sufficient, and the soil should be pressed firmly about the roots. The methods of growers now differ somewhat, but all agree in seeking to promote a continuous and healthy growth. It may be necessary to place the pots in a half-shady position for a few days, till the effects of shifting are over, and the roots have taken hold of the new soil. Then they should stand in an open, airy position, close together, where they can receive daily attention. Some recommend that they stand on boards, flagging, or bricks, or a layer of coal ashes, since earth-worms are thus kept out; others sink them in cold frames, where they can be protected somewhat from excessive heat and drenching storms; while others, still, sink the pots in the open ground, where it is convenient to care for and water them. It is obvious that moisture must be steadily and continuously maintained, and the plants be made to do their best until about the first of October. After this, they should be watered very sparingly—barely kept moist—since it is now our aim to ripen the foliage and roots and induce a season of rest. At the same time, they should not be permitted to dry out. About the first of November, an old hot-bed pit can be filled with dry leaves and the pots plunged in them, close together, up to their rims, and, as the season grows colder, the tops can be covered, so as to prevent the earth in the pots from freezing. The top of the pit can be covered with boards to keep out the wet, but not so tightly as to exclude the air. Our aim is to keep the plants dormant, and yet a little above freezing, and barely moist enough to prevent the slightest shrivelling. Since it requires from ten to fourteen weeks to mature the fruit under glass, it would be well to subject some of the plants to heat early in October, so as to have ripe berries at the holidays. They can thereafter be taken from the storage place every two or three weeks, so as to secure a succession. By this course, also, if a mishap befalls one lot of plants, there still remain several chances for winter fruit.

In the forcing process, follow nature. The plants do not start suddenly in spring, but gradually awaken into life. The weather, also, is comparatively cool when they are blossoming. If these hints are not taken in the green-house, there may be much promise but little fruit. If the heat is turned on too rapidly when the plants begin to bloom, the calyx and corolla will probably develop properly, but the stamens will be destitute of pollen, while the pistils, the most complicated part of the flower, and that which requires the longest time for perfect formation, become "a mere tuft of abortions, incapable of quickening, and shrivelling into pitch-black threads as soon as fully in contact with the air." Let the conditions within-doors accord as far as possible with those under the open sky. The roots require coolness, continuous and evenly maintained moisture. One check from over-dryness may cause serious and lasting injury. The foliage needs air and light in abundance. Therefore the pots should be on shelves close to the glass; otherwise the leaf and fruit stalks will be drawn and spindling. If the pot can be shaded while the plant is in full light, all the better. When first introduced, the temperature should not exceed 45 degrees or 50 degrees. Air must be freely admitted at all times, though much less will suffice, of course, in cold than in warm weather. Watch the foliage, and if it begins to grow long and without substance, give more air and less heat. An average of 55 degrees to 70 degrees by day may be allowed, and from 45 degrees to 50 degrees by night.

When the flower buds begin to open, the forcing must be conducted more slowly and evenly, so as to give the delicate organs time to perfect; but after the fruit is set, the heat can be increased till it occasionally reaches 75 degrees at midday. After the fruit begins to color, give less water—barely sufficient to prevent any check in growth, and the fruit will be sweeter and ripen faster. The upper blossoms may be pinched off, so as to throw the whole strength of the plant into the lower berries. Keep off all runners; syringe the plants if infested with the red spider, and if the aphis appears, fumigate him with tobacco.

The plants that have fruited need not be thrown away as useless. If they are turned out of the pots into rich, moist soil, in April, and the runners are kept off all summer, they will make large, bushy stools, which will give a fine crop in autumn.

The amateur, with a small conservatory or south window, by approximating as far as possible to the conditions named, can achieve a fair success. I have had plants do moderately well by merely digging them from the beds late in the fall, with considerable rich earth clinging to their roots, and then potting with more rich soil, and forcing them at once. Of course, fine results cannot be expected from such careless work, but some strawberries can be raised with very little trouble. If one, however, wished to go into the business on a large and scientific scale, I would recommend a straw berry- house, designed by Mr. William Ingram, gardener at Belvoir Castle. A figure of the structure may be seen on page 74 in Mr. Fuller's valuable work, "The Small Fruit Culturist." On the same principles that we have been describing, the ripening of strawberries can be hastened by the use of hot beds, cold frames, and ordinary sash.

During the Christmas holidays strawberries sell readily at from $4 to $8 per quart, and handsome fruit brings high prices till March; but the profit of raising them under glass threatens to diminish in future years, since Florida berries begin to arrive freely even in February. There are those who now seem to be doing well in the business of forcing, if we may judge from the jealousy with which they guard the open secrets of their calling from their neighbors.

A rough and ready method of forcing is to dig up clumps of plants during a mild spell in winter or early spring, put them in boxes or pots of rich earth, and take them into the green-house. Considerable fruit is sometimes ripened in this way.

An English writer says: "We find forced strawberries mentioned as being served at an installation dinner, April 23d, 1667; but the idea had already occurred to the great Lord Bacon, who writes, 'As we have housed the exotics of hot countries, so we may house our natives to forward them, and thus have violets, strawberries, and pease all winter.'"



CHAPTER XVIII

ORIGINATING NEW VARIETIES—HYBRIDIZATION

This chapter introduces us to great diversities of opinion, and to still greater differences in experience; and I fear that I shall leave the subject as indefinite as I find it. The scientist best versed in botany and the laws of heredity can here find a field that would tax his best skill for a lifetime, and yet a child may amuse himself with raising new kinds; and it would not be impossible that, through some lucky combination of nature, the latter might produce a variety that would surpass the results of the learned man's labor. As in most other activities of life, however, the probabilities are on the side of skill and continuous effort.

We have already shown that all the seeds of the F. Virginiana and F. Chilensis may produce a new variety. These seedlings often closely resemble the parent or parents, and sometimes are practically identical with one of them; more often they present distinct differences. It is wholly impossible to predict the character of seedlings as they usually are produced. If we could obtain pure specimens of the two great species, and cross them, the element of chance would not enter into the result so largely as must be the case when seed is gathered in our gardens. The pedigrees of but few varieties are known, and in many instances the two great races are so mingled that we can only guess which element predominates, by the behavior and appearance of the plants. The kinds with which we start are hybrids, and, as Mr. A. S. Fuller sagaciously remarks, "Hybridizing, or crossing hybrids, is only mixing together two compounds, the exact proportions of neither being known." Therefore, the inevitable element of chance. Disagreeable traits and shiftless ways of strawberry grandparents and great-grandparents may develop themselves in a seedling produced by the union of two first-class varieties. At the same time it is possible that fine ancestral qualities may also assert themselves. The chance seedling, which comes up in a garden where good varieties have been raised, may prove a prize. The Forest Rose was found growing in a vineyard. If we propose to raise seedlings, however, we will, of course, select seeds from the best fruit of fine varieties, even in our first and most rudimental efforts. Before making any serious or prolonged attempt to originate new varieties, it would be well to familiarize ourselves with certain principles, and gather experience from the successes and failures of others. We have seen that the F. Virginiana is the native species of the eastern section of our continent, and that its vigor and hardiness best adapt it to our extremes of climate. It were best to start, therefore, with the most vigorous strains and varieties of this hardy species. It is true that fine results can be obtained from crossing varieties of the F. Chilensis with our native species—the President Wilder proves this—but few of such products are adapted to the country at large, and they will be almost sure to falter on light soils. We will achieve our best success in developing our native species. By observation, careful reading of the horticultural journals, and by correspondence, the propagator can learn what varieties show vigor and productiveness throughout a wide range of country, and in great diversities of soil and climate. These sturdy kinds, that seem bent on doing well everywhere, should be the robust forefathers of the strawberries of the future. Starting with these, we are already well on the way toward the excellence we hope to attain. The pith of our difficulty now is to make any further advance. How can we surpass that superb group of berries that prove their excellence year after year?

As Mr. Durand well puts it, new varieties, to be of value, should produce berries that "measure from four to eight inches in circumference, of good form, color and flavor; very large specimens are not expected to be perfect in form, yet those of medium size should always be. The calyx should never be imbedded in the flesh, which should be sufficiently firm to carry well, and withstand all changes of our variable climate. The texture should be fine, flesh rich, with a moderate amount of acid—no more than just sufficient to make it palatable with sugar as a table berry. The plant should be hardy, vigorous, large, and strong; of great endurance as to climatic change, and able to stand any amount of manure of the right kind. It should be a prolific bearer, with stalks of sufficient length to keep the fruit out of the dirt, and bear its berries of nearly uniform size to the end. Any serious departure from such necessary qualities would be fatal to any new variety."

What is the use of spending time on varieties that do not possess these good qualities, or many of them, so pre-eminently that they supersede those already in our gardens? Shall I root out the Charles Downing, Seth Boyden, and Monarch, and replace them with inferior kinds because they are new? That is what we have been doing too extensively. But if, in very truth, varieties can be originated that do surpass the best we now have, then both common-sense and self- interest should lead to their general cultivation. I believe that honest and intelligent effort can secure a continued advance in excellence which will probably be slow, but may be sure.

The public, however, will suffer many disappointments, and every year will buy thousands of some extravagantly praised and high-priced new variety, in hope of obtaining the ideal strawberry; and they so often get a good thing among the blanks that they seem disposed to continue indefinitely this mild form of speculation. In the final result merit asserts itself, and there is a survival of the fittest. The process of winnowing the wheat from the chaff is a costly one to many, however, I have paid hundreds of dollars for varieties that I now regard as little better than weeds. From thorough knowledge of the best kinds already in cultivation, the propagator should not impose any second- rate kind on the public. And yet the public, or the law which the public sustains, renders this duty difficult. If a man invents a peculiar nutmeg-grater, his patent protects him; but if he discovers, or originates, a fruit that enriches the world, any one who can get it, by fair means or foul, may propagate and sell to all. To reap any advantages, the originator must put his seedling, which may have cost him years of effort, into the market before it is fully and widely tested. If he sends it for trial to other localities, there is much danger of its falling into improper hands. The variety may do splendidly in its native garden, and yet not be adapted to general cultivation. This fact, which might have been learned by trial throughout the country before being sent out, if there was protective law, is learned afterward, to the cost of the majority who buy. In view of the above considerations, it is doubtful whether the pecuniary reward will often repay for the time, trouble, and expense which is usually required to produce a variety worthy of general introduction. Other motives than money must actuate. As Mr. Durand once said, when so perplexed by the difficulties and complications of his labor, and so disheartened by the results that he was inclined to throw down the burden, "There is a fascination that binds me still." In other words, he was engaged in one of the divinest forms of alchemy.

Having procured the vigorous stock from which we hope to obtain still stronger and more productive varieties, we may go to work several ways. We may plant our choice varieties in close proximity, and let the bees and summer gales do the hybridizing. It will be remembered that the organs of procreation in the perfect strawberry blossom are the pistils on the convex receptacle and the encircling stamens. The anthers of the latter produce a golden powder, so light that it will float on a summer breeze, and so fine that insects dust themselves with it and carry it long distances. When this dust, which is called pollen, comes in contact with the stigma of a pistil, it imparts the power of development both to the seed and that which sustains it—the receptacle which is eventually transformed into the juicy pulp. If the pistils are not fertilized, there will be no strawberries, as well as no seeds. Perfect-flowering varieties, therefore, are self- fertilizing. There are stamens and pistils in the same flower, and the pollen from the former impregnates the latter. In view of this fact, the probabilities are all against success in obtaining an improved variety. While the pollen may pass from one perfect-flowering kind to another, and produce a seed which will give a new combination, the chances of self-fertilization, and that, in consequence, the seeds will produce degenerate and somewhat varying counterparts of the parent, are so great that it is a waste of time to plant them. There is little to be hoped, therefore, from the seed of perfect-flowering kinds left to nature's influences.

In this country, we have pistillate varieties, or those that are wholly destitute of stamens. Mr. Fuller says that, for some reason, they do not originate abroad. It is obvious that, with these pistillates, we can attain a direct cross with some staminate or perfect-flowering variety; but if our pistillates grow openly in the garden, near several staminates, the seeds sown may have been fertilized by the poorest of them, or by pollen from wild strawberries, brought by the wind or insects. It is all haphazard work, and we can only guess at the parentage of the seedlings. There is no skilful combination of good qualities, such as the stock farmer makes when he mingles good blood. Gathering the seed, therefore, in our gardens, even under the most favorable auspices, is the veriest game of hazard, with nearly all the chances against us; and yet superb varieties are occasionally procured in this way. Indeed, as we have seen, they sometimes come up themselves, and assert their merit wholly unaided. By such methods, however, the propagator has not one chance in thousands, as much experience shows.

We are, therefore, led to isolate our plants, and to seek intelligently and definitely to unite the good qualities of two distinct varieties. If they have no pistillate plants abroad, they must remove all the stamens from some perfect flower before they are sufficiently developed to shed their pollen, and then fertilize the pistils with the stamens of the other variety whose qualities they wish to enter into the combination. There is no need of our doing this, for it involves much trouble and care at best, and then we are always haunted by the fear that the stamens were not removed in time, or so completely as to prevent self-fertilization. With such pistillate varieties as the Golden Defiance, Champion, Spring-dale, and Crescent, we have as robust motherhood as we require.

In order to present to the reader the most approved systems of hybridization, I will give the methods of two gentlemen who are among the best known in relation to this subject.

The late Mr. Seth Boyden won world-wide celebrity by his success, and the berry named after him will perpetuate his memory for many years to come. When grown under the proper conditions, it presents a type of excellence still unsurpassed.

Mr. Boyden's neighbor, Mr. Ogden Brown, of Hilton, N. J., writes to me as follows:

"My method of raising seedlings is the one practiced by Mr. Boyden. In August I set the plants from which I wish to secure new combinations in a plot of ground the size of my glass frame, and in early spring set the frame over them, so that the plants may blossom before any others. Thus, no mixture from the pollen of outside plants can take place, for none are in bloom save those in the frame. The plants within the frame are two or three pistillate plants, all of one good variety like the Champion; and three or four superior, perfect- flowering kinds, any one of which, I think, will make a good combination with the pistillate variety. The seeds from the pistillate only are used, and when the fruit is ripened, these seeds are slightly dried and placed between two pieces of ice for about two weeks. I then put them in pure sand, wrapped up in a wet rag, and keep them sufficiently near the fire to preserve constant warmth until the germs are ready to burst forth. I then sow the seeds in a bed of finely riddled rich earth, and cover with boards about six inches from the soil. This is to prevent the sun from drying the ground. Plants thus raised will be sufficiently large to set in the fruiting-bed in September. In the fifteen years that I was acquainted with Mr. Boyden, I never knew him to fail in raising fruit from these plants the following summer. I do not know that Mr. Boyden's method has been improved upon."

Mr. J. M. Merrick, Jr., recommends this same isolation of the pistillate plant under glass.

It should be distinctly understood that while several perfect- flowering plants may be placed under the sash with a pistillate, the pollen of only one of these can fertilize a pistil. Mixing pollen from different kinds will never produce in a seedling the qualities of three or more varieties. The seedling is the product of two kinds only. Inclosing the plants in a frame ensures that all the pistils are fertilized by one or the other of the perfect-flowered varieties that are so fine as to promise a better combination of excellence than yet exists. The appearance of the seedling will probably show which of the kinds formed the combination, but often there would be uncertainty on this point, I think.

Mr. E. W. Durand, who sent out the Black Defiance, Great American, Beauty, Pioneer, and several others, claims that the "true method is to propagate by pairs, each parent possessing certain distinctive features." "My course," he writes, in a paper read before the N. J. State Horticultural Society, "is to select my pistillates after years of trial, subject them to severe tests, and place alongside of each such a staminate as I think will harmonize and produce a certain desired effect. Another pistillate plant, of the same variety, is placed far away from the last, with a different staminate, and so on, till I exhaust the staminates or perfect-flowering kinds that I wish to test with that pistillate variety. Of late years, I have used but two or three kinds of pistillate plants, and they are a combination of excellence. I never show them to my most intimate friends, and the public know nothing about them. The years of trial and experiment necessary to produce such plants must necessarily discourage a beginner; yet it is the only course that will lead to success."

I think that Mr. Durand takes too gloomy a view of the subject, and I can see no reason why any one starting with such pistillates as the Golden Defiance, Champion, and others, may not originate a variety superior to any now in existence. At the same time, I must caution against over-sanguine hopes. Mr. Durand states the interesting fact that he generally produces 3,000 new varieties annually, and including the year 1876, he had already originated about 50,000 seedlings. While some of these have already secured great celebrity, like the Great American, I do not know of one that promises to maintain a continued and national popularity. I regard his old Black Defiance and the later Pioneer as his best seedlings, so far as I have seen them. Very many others do not have even his success. We may have to experiment for years before we obtain a seedling worth preserving; nevertheless, in the heart of each propagator lurks the hope that he may draw the prize of prizes.

I will close this chapter with a few simple and practical suggestions. It is not necessary to place the seeds in ice. They may be sown in July, in rich soil, rendered fine and mellow, and in a half-shady position; and the surface should be kept moist by watering, and a sprinkling of a little very fine compost, that will prevent the ground from baking. Some of the seeds will germinate that season, more will come up the following spring. Or, they may be started in a cold frame under glass, and hastened in their growth so that good-sized plants are ready for the fruiting-bed by September. Mr. Durand plants his seed in the spring, and the seedlings bear the following year. The plants should be set eighteen inches apart each way in the fruiting- bed. When they blossom, note and mark all the pistillates as such. Those that grow feebly, and whose foliage scalds or burns in the sun, root out at once. The Spartan law of death to the feeble and deformed should be rigorously enforced in the fruit garden. The first year of fruiting will satisfy you that the majority of seedlings are to be thrown away. Those that give special promise should be lifted with a large ball of earth, and planted where they may be kept pure from mixture, and given further trial. Remember that a seedling may do better the first year than ever after, and that only a continued and varied trial can prove its worth. All runners should be kept off, unless the ground is infested with grubs, and there is danger of losing a promising variety of which we have but one specimen. If so fortunate as to raise superior seedlings, test them side by side, and under the same conditions with the best kinds in existence, before calling to them public attention. Try them, also, in light and heavy soils; and, if possible, send them to trusted friends who will subject them to varied climates in widely separated localities. If, however, you find them vigorous and productive on the light, poor soil of your own place, you may hope much for them elsewhere. No berry will be generally popular that requires much petting. I only state this as a fact. In my opinion, some varieties are so superb in size and flavor that they deserve high culture, and well repay it.

It is a question whether, except for the purposes of propagation, pistillate varieties should be preserved and sent out. Mr. Fuller and others take ground against them, and their views are entitled to great respect, but with such kinds as the Golden Defiance and Champion in my garden, I am not prepared to condemn them. One objection urged against them is that many purchase a single variety, and, should it prove a pistillate, they would have no fruit. They would not deserve any, if they gave the subject so little attention. Every fruit catalogue states which are pistillates, and their need of a perfect-flowering kind near them. Again, it is urged that this necessary proximity of two kinds leads to mixtures. It need not, and, with the plant grower, can only result from gross carelessness. The different beds may be yards apart. In order to secure thorough fertilization, it is not at all necessary to plant so near that the two kinds can run together. In a large field of pistillates, every tenth row should be of a staminate, blossoming at the same time with the pistillate. The Kentucky seedling is a first-class staminate, but it should not be used to fertilize the Crescent, since the latter would almost be out of bloom before the former began to blossom. Plant early pistillates with early staminates, and late with late.

Many ask me: "Do strawberries mix by being planted near each other?" They mix only by running together, so that you can scarcely distinguish the two kinds; but a Wilson plant will produce Wilson runners to the end of time; and were one plant surrounded by a million other varieties, it would still maintain the Wilson characteristics. It is through the seeds, and seeds only, that one variety has any appreciable effect upon another. Many have confused ideas on this point.

A man brought to the Centennial Exhibition, at Philadelphia, a pot of strawberries that attracted great attention, for the fruit was magnificent. I suggested to him that it resembled the Jucunda, and he said that it was a cross between that berry and the Seth Boyden. This was a combination that promised so well that I went twenty miles, on a very hot day, to see his bed, and found that the crossing was simply the interlacing of the runners of the two distinct varieties, and that I could tell the intermingled Jucunda and Boyden plants apart at a glance. Such crossing would make no marked change in varieties if continued for centuries.

The enemies and diseases of the strawberry will be grouped in a general chapter on these subjects.



CHAPTER XIX

RASPBERRIES—SPECIES, HISTORY, PROPAGATION, ETC.

I have given the greater part of this volume to the subject of strawberries, not only because it is the most popular fruit, but also for the reason that the principles of thorough preparation of the soil, drainage, culture, etc., apply equally to the other small fruits. Those who have followed me carefully thus far can soon master the conditions of success which apply to the fruits still to be treated. I shall now consider a fruit which is only second in value, and, by many, even preferred to all the others.

Like the strawberry, the raspberry is well connected, since it, also, belongs to the Rose family. It has a perennial root, producing biennial woody stems that reach a height of from three to six feet. Varieties, however, differ greatly in this respect. Usually, the stems or canes do not bear until the second year, and that season ends their life, their place being taken by a new growth from the root. The flowers are white or red, very unobtrusive, and rich in sweetness. The discriminating bees forsake most other flowers while the raspberry blossoms last. The pistils on the convex receptacle mature into a collection of small drupes, or stone fruits, of the same character as the cherry, plum, etc., and the seeds within the drupes are miniature pits. These drupes adhere together, forming round or conical caps, which will drop from the receptacle when over-ripe. I have seen the ground covered with the fruit of certain varieties, when picking has been delayed.

All peoples seem to have had a feeling sense of the spines, or thorns of this plant, as may be gathered from its name in different languages; the Italian term is Raspo, the Scotch Raspis, and the German Kratsberre, or Scratchberry.

The Greeks traced the raspberry to Mount Ida, and the original bush may have grown in the shadowy glade where the "Shepherd Alexandre," alias Paris, son of Priam, King of Troy, gave his fateful decision in favor of Venus. Juno and Minerva undoubtedly beguiled the time, while the favored goddess presented her claims, by eating the fruit, and perhaps enhanced their competitive beauty by touching their cheeks with an occasional berry. At any rate, the raspberry of the ancients is Rubus Idoeus.

The elder Pliny, who wrote not far from 45 A.D., states that the Greeks distinguished the raspberry bramble by the term "Idoea," and, like so many other Grecian ideas, it has found increasing favor ever since. Mr. A. S. Fuller, one of the best-read authorities on these subjects, writes that "Paladius, a Roman agricultural author who flourished in the fourth century, mentions the raspberry as one of the cultivated fruits of his time." It thus appears that it was promoted to the garden long before the strawberry was so honored.

While it is true that the raspberry in various forms is found wild throughout the continent, and that the ancient gardeners in most instances obtained their supply of plants in the adjacent fields or forests, the late Mr. A. J. Downing is of the opinion that the large- fruited varieties are descendants of the "Mount Ida Bramble," and from that locality were introduced into the gardens of southern Europe.

In America, two well-known and distinct species are enriching our gardens and gracing our tables with their healthful fruit. We will first name R. Strigosus, or the wild red raspberry, almost as dear to our memory as the wild strawberry. It grows best along the edge of woodlands and in half-shadowy places that seem equally adapted to lovers' rambles.

Nature, too, in a kindly mood, seems to have scattered the seeds of this fruit along the roadside, thus fringing the highway in dusty, hot July with ambrosial food. Professor Gray thus describes the native red species: "R. Strigosus, Wild Bed E. Common, especially North; from two to three feet high; the upright stems, stalks, etc., beset with copious bristles, and some of them becoming weak prickles, also glandular; leaflets oblong-ovate, pointed, cut-serrate, white- downy beneath, the lateral ones (either one or two pairs) not stalked; petals as long as the sepals; fruit light-red, tender and watery, but high flavored, ripening all summer."

The second great American species, R. Occidentals, will be described hereafter. Since this book is not designed to teach botany, I shall not refer to the other species—R. Triflorus, R. Odoratus, R. Nutkanno, etc.—which are of no practical value, and, for the present, will confine myself to the propagation and cultivation of R. Idoeus and R. Strigosus, and their seedlings.

PROPAGATION

Usually, varieties of these two species throw up suckers from the roots in sufficient abundance for all practical purposes, and these young canes from between the hills or rows are, in most instances, the plants of commerce, and the means of extending our plantations. But where a variety is scarce, or the purpose is to increase it rapidly, we can dig out the many interlacing roots that fill the soil between the hills, cut them into two-inch pieces, and each may be developed within a year into a good plant. Fall is the best season for making root cuttings, and it can be continued as late as the frost permits. My method is to store the roots in a cellar, and cut them from time to time, after out-of-door work is over. I have holes bored in the bottom of a box to ensure drainage, spread over it two inches of moist (not wet) earth, then an inch layer of the root cuttings, a thin layer of earth again, then cuttings until the box is full. If the cellar is cool and free from frost, the cuttings may be kept there until spring; or the boxes containing them can be buried so deeply on a dry knoll in a garden as to be below frost. Leaves piled above them ensure safety. Make sure that the boxes are buried where no water can collect either on or beneath the surface. Before new roots can be made by a cutting, a whitish excrescence appears at both its ends, called the callus, and from this the rootlets start out. This essential process goes on throughout the winter, and therefore the advantage of making cuttings in the fall. Occasionally, in the fall, we may obtain a variety that we are anxious to increase, in which case some of the roots may be taken off for cuttings before setting out the plants.

These little root-slips may be sown, as one would sow peas, early in the spring as soon as the ground is dry enough to work. A plot of rich, moist land should be chosen, and the soil made mellow and fine, as if for seed; drills should then be opened eighteen inches apart, two inches deep on heavy land, and three inches deep on light. The cuttings must now be dropped three inches from each other in the little furrows, the ground levelled over them and firmed, which is best done by walking on a board laid on the covered drill, or else by the use of a garden roller. If the entire cutting-bed were well sprinkled with fine compost, and then covered so lightly—from one quarter to half an inch—with a mulch of straw that the shoots could come through it without hindrance, scarcely a cutting would fail. Unfailing moisture, without wetness, is what a cutting requires.

Roots may be divided into half-inch bits, if forced under glass, and in this way nurserymen often speedily provide themselves with large stocks of very scarce varieties. The cuttings are placed in boxes of sand until the callus forms, and little buds appear on the surface of the roots, for which processes about five weeks are required. They are then sown in shallow boxes containing about three inches of soil, formed of equal parts of sand and decayed leaves, and subjected to the heat of the green-house. When they have formed plants from three to five inches high, they may be potted, if very valuable; or, if the weather is warm enough, they can be transplanted at once into the open nursery-bed, as one would a strawberry plant. I have set out many thousands in this way, only aiming to keep a little earth clinging to the roots as I took them from the shallow box. Plants grown from cuttings are usually regarded as the best; but if a sucker plant is taken up with fibrous roots, 1 should regard it as equally good.

If we wish to try our fortune in originating new varieties, we gather the largest and earliest berries, dry them, and plant the seeds the following spring; or we may separate the seeds from the pulp by expressing it and mixing them with dry sand, until they are in a condition to be sown evenly in a sheltered place at once. As with strawberries, they should be raked lightly into moist, rich soil, the surface of which should not be allowed to become dry and hard. The probabilities are that they will germinate early in the spring and produce canes strong enough to bear the second year. If the seed is from a kind that can not endure frost, the young plant should receive thorough winter protection. There is nothing better than a covering of earth. In the spring of the second year, cut the young plant down to the ground, and it will send up a strong, vigorous cane, whose appearance and fruit will give a fair suggestion of its value the third year. Do not be sure of a prize, even though the berries are superb and the new variety starts off most vigorously. Let me give a bit of experience. In a fine old garden, located in the centre of the city of Newburgh, N. Y., my attention was attracted by the fruit of a raspberry bush whose roots were so interlaced with those of a grapevine that they could not be separated. It scarcely seemed to have a fair chance to live at all, and yet it was loaded with the largest and most delicious red raspberries that I had then ever seen. It was evidently a chance, and very distinct seedling. I obtained from Mr. T. H. Roe, the proprietor of the garden, permission to propagate the variety, and in the autumn removed a number of the canes to my place at Cornwall. My first object was to learn whether it was hardy, and therefore not the slightest protection was given the canes at Newburgh, nor even to those removed to my own place, some of which were left four feet high for the sake of this test. The winter that followed was one of the severest known; the mercury sank to 30 degrees below zero, but not a plant at either locality was injured; and in the old garden a cane fourteen feet long, that rested on the grape-arbor, was alive to the tip, and in July was loaded with the most beautiful fruit I had ever seen. It was un-injured by the test of another winter, and all who saw and tasted the fruit were enthusiastic in its praise. The Massachusetts Horticultural Society awarded it their first premium, and Mr. Charles Downing said it was the finest red raspberry he had ever seen. The veteran horticulturist, Mr. Wm. Parry, who has had between forty and fifty years of experience in small fruits, visited my place that summer. The bushes he saw had never received any protection, and had already been three weeks in bearing, but they were still full of fruit. After picking several berries that measured plump three inches in circumference, he said, quietly, "Put me down for 500 plants." In no other way could he have stated his favorable opinion more emphatically. It was as delicious as it was large and beautiful, and surely I was reasonable in expecting for it a brilliant future. In my faith I planted it largely myself, expecting to make it my main dependence as a market berry. But in August of that year many of the canes lost their foliage. Those that thus suffered were not entirely hardy the following winter. It was eventually made clear that it belonged to the tender Rubus Idoeua class, and, therefore, was not adapted to general cultivation, especially on light soils, and under sunny skies. As I have shown, its start was so full of vigor and promise that it won the favor and confidence of the horticultural veterans; but it suddenly manifested lack of stamina and sturdy persistence in well-doing. And this is just the trouble which every experienced propagator dreads. Only after years of test and trial in many localities can he be assured that his seedling may become a standard variety.

If this chance seedling, the Pride of the Hudson, is given a moist soil in some half-shady location, it will yield fruit that will delight the amateur's heart, but, like Brinkle's Orange, which it resembles in flavor, only amateurs will give it the petting it requires.

As suggested when treating the strawberry, so in seeking to originate new varieties of raspberries, our aim should be to develop our hardy native species, the R. Strigosus, and if we employ the R. Idoeus class for parentage on one side, seek its most vigorous representatives, such as the Belle de Fontenay and Franconia.

CHOICE OF LAND—ITS PREPARATION—PLANTING

All that has been said about the thorough preparation of the soil for strawberries, by drainage, deep plowing, trenching, etc., applies to raspberries, but differences should be noted in respect to fertilizers. Land can scarcely be made too rich for any variety of strawberries, but certain strong-growing raspberries, like the Cuthbert, Herstine, and Turner, should not be over-fertilized. Some kinds demand good, clean culture, rather than a richness that would cause too great a growth of cane and foliage. In contrast, the feebler growing kinds, like the Brandywine, and most of the foreign varieties, require abundance of manure. Muck, sweetened by lime and frost is one of the simplest and best; but anything will answer that is not too full of heat and ferment. Like the strawberry, the raspberry needs cool manures that have "staying" qualities. Unlike the former fruit, however, the raspberry does well in partial shade, such as that furnished by the northern side of a fence, hedge, etc., by a pear or even apple orchard, if the trees still permit wide intervals of open sky. The red varieties, especially those of the foreign types much prefer moist, heavy soils; but the black-caps do quite as well on light ground, if moisture can be maintained. The latter, also, can be grown farther south than any other species, but below the latitude of New York, those containing foreign elements begin to fail rapidly, until, at last, a point is reached where even the most vigorous native red varieties refuse to live. If the climate, however, is tempered by height above the sea, as in the mountains of Georgia, they will thrive abundantly.



I prefer fall planting for raspberries, especially in southern latitudes, for these reasons: At the points where the roots branch (see Fig. A) are buds which make the future stems or canes. In the fall, these are dormant, small, and not easily broken off, as in Fig. B; but they start early in spring, and if planting is delayed, these become so long and brittle that the utmost care can scarcely save them, If rubbed off, the development of good bearing canes is often deferred a year, although the plants may live and fill the ground with roots. The more growth a raspberry plant has made when set out in spring, the greater the probability that it will receive a check, from which it will never recover.



I have often planted in May and June, successfully, by taking up the young suckers when from six inches to a foot high, and setting them where they are to grow. Immediately on taking them up, I cut them back so that only one or two laches of the green cane is left, and thus the roots are not taxed to sustain wood and foliage beyond their power. This can often be done to advantage, when the plants are on one's own place, and in moist, cloudy weather. My preference, however, is to plant the latter part of October and through November, in well- prepared and enriched land. The holes are made quite deep and large, and the bottom filled with good surface soil. If possible, before planting, plow and cross-plow deeply, and have a subsoiler follow in each furrow. It should be remembered that we are preparing for a crop which may occupy the land for ten or fifteen years, and plants will suffer from every drought if set immediately on a hard subsoil. On heavy land, I set the plants one inch deeper than they were before; on light soils two or three inches deeper. I cut the canes off six inches above the surface (see Fig. C); for leaving long canes is often ruinous, and a plant is frequently two or three years in recovering from the strain of trying to produce fruit the first year. The whole strength of the roots should go toward producing bearing canes for the season following; and to stimulate such growth, I throw directly on the hill one or two shovelfuls of finely rotted compost and then mound the earth over the hill until the cane is wholly covered (as in Fig. D). This prevents all injury from the winter's cold. When severe frosts are over, the mound is levelled down again. Under this system, I rarely lose plants, and usually find that double growth is made compared with those set late in spring. I have always succeeded well, however, in early spring planting; and well to the north, this is, perhaps, the safer season. With the exception of mounding the earth over the hill, plant in March or April as I have already directed.

CULTIVATION

In cultivation, keep the ground level; do not let it become banked up against the hills, as is often the case, especially with those tender varieties that are covered with earth every winter. Keep the surface clean and mellow by the use of the cultivator and hoe. With the exception of from four to six canes in the hill, treat all suckers as weeds, cutting them down while they are little, before they have sucked half the life out of the bearing hill. Put a shovelful or two of good compost—any fertilizer is better than none—around the hills or along the rows, late in the fall, and work it lightly in with a fork if there is time. The autumn and winter rains will carry it down to the roots, giving almost double vigor and fruitfulness the following season. If the top-dressing is neglected in the autumn, be sure to give it as early in the spring as possible, and work it down toward the roots. Bone-dust, ashes, poudrette, barnyard manure, and muck with lime can be used alternate years, so as to give variety of plant food, and a plantation thus sustained can be kept twenty years or more; but under the usual culture, vigor begins to fail after the eighth or tenth season. The first tendency of most varieties of newly set red raspberries is to sucker immoderately; but this gradually declines, even with the most rampant, and under good culture the fruiting qualities improve.

In dry weather the fork should not be used during the growing or bearing season. The turning down of a stratum of dry, hot soil next to the roots must cause a sudden check and injury from which only a soaking rain can bring full relief. But in moist weather, and periods preceding and following the blossoming and fruiting season, I have often used the fork to advantage, especially if there is a sod of short, succulent weeds to be turned under as a green crop. If the ground between the hills was stirred frequently with an iron garden- rake, the weeds would not have a chance to start. This is by far the best and cheapest way of maintaining our part in the unceasing conflict with vegetable evil. An Irish bull hits the truth exactly: the best way to fight weeds is to have none to fight; and raking the ground over on a sunny day, about once a week, destroys them when they are as yet but germinating seeds. At the same time it opens the pores of the earth, as a physiologist might express himself. Unfailing moisture is maintained, air, light, and heat are introduced to the roots in accordance with Nature's taste, and the whole strength of the mellow soil goes to produce only that which is useful. But this teaching is like the familiar and sound advice, "Form no bad habits." We do form them; the weeds do get the start of us; and therefore, as a practical fact, the old moral and physical struggle must go on until the end of time.



CHAPTER XX

RASPBERRIES—PRUNING—STAKING—MULCHING—WINTER PROTECTION, ETC.

Usually, there is no pruning either in the field or the garden beyond the cutting out of the old canes and the shortening in of the new growth. There is a difference of opinion as to whether the old canes should be cut out immediately after fruiting, or left to natural decay, and removed the following fall or spring. I prefer the former course. It certainly is neater, and I think I have seen increased growth in the young canes, for which more room is made, and to whose support the roots can give their whole strength. The new growth can make foliage fast enough to develop the roots; still, I have not experimented carefully, and so cannot speak accurately. We see summer pruning often advocated on paper, but I have rarely met it in practice. If carefully done at the proper season, however, much can be accomplished by it in the way of making strong, stocky plants, capable of standing alone—plants full of lateral branches, like little trees, that will be loaded with fruit. But this summer pinching back must be commenced early, while the new, succulent growth is under full headway, and continued through the busiest season, when strawberries are ripe and harvest is beginning. It should not be done after the cane has practically made its growth, or else the buds that ought to remain dormant until the following season are started into a late and feeble growth that does not ripen before the advent of early frosts. Few have time for pruning in May or June. If they have, let them try it by all means, especially on the black-cap species. It does not require so much time as it does prompt action at the proper period of growth. In the garden, summer pinching can transform a raspberry bush into an ornamental shrub as beautiful as useful. It is much better adapted to the hardier varieties than to those that must be bent down and covered with earth. With the R. Occidentalis species, summer pinching would always pay well. The best I can do, usually, with the red varieties, is to prune in November and March; it should be done before the buds develop. Unless early fruit is wanted, I believe in cutting back heroically. Nature once gave me a very useful hint. One very cold winter, a row of Clarke raspberries was left unprotected. The canes were four or five feet high, but were killed down to the snow-level, or within eighteen inches of the ground; but from what was left uninjured, we had as many and far finer berries than were gathered from other rows where the canes had been left their full length and protected by a covering of earth. The fruit was later, however. I would remind careful observers of the raspberry how often buds on canes that have been broken off or cut away back develop into long sprays, enormously fruitful of the largest berries. I have counted fifty, and even eighty, berries on a branch that had grown from a single bud within one or two feet of the ground. These lower buds often do not start at all when the canes are left their full, or nearly their full length. In the latter case the fruit ripens much earlier and more together; and since an early crop, though inferior in quality and quantity, may be more valuable than a late one, the fruit grower often objects to pruning. But in the garden, while the canes of some early kinds are left their full length, I would recommend that others, especially those of the later varieties, be cut back one-half. Even for market purposes I believe that the superb fruit resulting from such pruning would bring more money in most instances. At any rate, the season of bearing would be greatly prolonged.

Mulching on a large scale would not pay in most localities. In regions where salt hay, flags, etc., can be cut in abundance, or where straw is so plenty as to be of little value, it no doubt could be applied profitably. On Staten Island I have seen large patches mulched with salt hay. The canes were unstaked, and many of them bent over on the clean hay with their burden of fruit. When there are no stakes or other support used, the berries certainly should be kept from contact with the soil. The chief advantage of the mulch, however, is in the preservation of moisture. When it is given freely, all the fruit perfects, and in a much longer succession. The weeds and suckers are kept down, and the patch has a neat appearance. Moreover, mulching prevents the foliage from burning, and enables the gardener to grow successfully the finer varieties further to the south and on light soils. In keeping down the weeds through the long summer, a mulch of leaves, straw, or any coarse litter, is often far less costly than would be the labor required.

Staking raspberries is undoubtedly the best, simplest, and cheapest method of supporting the canes of most varieties and in most localities. I agree with the view taken by Mr. A. S. Fuller. "Chestnut stakes," he writes, "five feet long and two or three inches in diameter, made from large trees, cost me less than two cents each, and my location is within twenty miles of New York City, where timber of all kinds commands a large price. I can not afford to grow raspberries without staking, because every stake will save on an average ten cents' worth of fruit, and, in many instances, three times that amount." Of course, split chestnut stakes look the neatest and last the longest; but a raspberry bush is not fastidious, and I utilize old bean-poles, limbs of trees—anything that keeps the canes from sprawling in the dirt with their delicate fruit. Thus, in many instances, the stakes will cost little more than a boy's labor in preparing them, and they can be of various lengths, according to the height of our canes. As they become too much decayed for further use, they make a cheery blaze on the hearth during the early autumn evenings. There are stocky growing varieties, like the Cuthbert, Turner, Herstine and others, that by summer pruning or vigorous cutting back would be self-supporting, if not too much exposed to high winds. The question is a very practical one, and should be decided largely by experience and the grower's locality. There are fields and regions in which gales, and especially thunder-gusts, would prostrate into the dirt the stoutest bushes that could be formed by summer pruning, breaking down canes heavy with green and ripe fruit. In saving a penny stake, a bit of string, and the moment required for tying, one might be made to feel, after a July storm, that he had been too thrifty. As far as my experience and observation go, I would either stake all my bushes that stood separately and singly, or else would grow them in a loose, continuous, bushy row, and keep the fruit clean by some kind of mulch. Splashed, muddy berries are not fit either to eat or to sell.



In many localities, however, stakes are dispensed with. In the garden, wires, fastened to posts, are occasionally stretched along the rows, and the canes tied to these. The method in this section, however, is to insert stakes firmly in the hill, by means of a pointed crowbar, and the canes are tied to them as early in spring as possible. Unless watched, the boys who do the tying persist in leaving the upper cords of the canes loose. These unsupported ends, when weighted with fruit and foliage, break, of course. The canes should be snugly tied their whole length. If bushes made stocky by summer pruning are supported, let the stake be inserted on the side opposite that from which heavy winds are expected.

WINTER PROTECTION—TAKING UP PLANTS FOR SPRING USE—STORING THEM

Nearly all foreign varieties and their seedlings need winter protection, or are the better for it, north of the latitude of New York City. Many of the hardier kinds, like the Herstine and Clarke, will usually survive if bent over and kept close to the earth by the weight of poles or a shovelful or two of soil; but all of the Antwerp class need to be entirely covered.

To many, this winter covering is a great bugbear, even when only a small patch in the garden is involved. There is a constant demand for "perfectly hardy" varieties. It should be remembered that many of the best kinds are not hardy at all, and that perhaps none are "perfectly hardy." The Turner has never been injured on my place, and the Cuthbert is rarely hurt; but occasionally they are partially killed, more by alternations of freezing and thawing than by steady cold. What are termed "open winters" are often the most destructive. I find that it pays to cover all those kinds that are liable to injury, and, as the varieties are described, this need will be distinctly stated. The difficulties of covering are chiefly imaginary, and it can be done by the acre at comparatively slight cost The vast crops of the Hudson River Antwerp were raised from fields covered every fall. In the garden, I do not consider the labor worth naming in comparison with the advantages secured. Those who find time to carefully cover their cabbages and gather turnips should not talk of the trouble of protecting a row of delicious Herstine raspberries. Still, Nature is very indulgent to the lazy, and has given us as fine a raspberry as the Cuthbert, which thus far, with but few exceptions, has endured our Northern winters. In November, I have the labor of covering performed in the following simple way: B is a hill with canes untrimmed. C, the canes have been shortened one-third—my rule in pruning. After trimming, the canes are ready to be laid down, and they should all be bent one way. To turn them sharply over and cover them with earth would cause many of the stronger ones to break just above the root; so I have a shovelful of soil thrown on one side of the hill, as in Fig. C, and the canes bent over this little mound. They thus describe a curve, instead of lying at right angles on the surface, with a weight of earth upon them. A boy holds the cane down, while a, man on either side of the row rapidly shovels the earth upon them. If the work is to be done on a large scale, one or two shovelfuls will pin the canes to the earth, and then, by throwing a furrow over them on both sides with a plow, the labor is soon accomplished. It will be necessary to follow the plow with a shovel, and increase the covering here and there. In spring, as soon as hard frosts are over—the first week in April, in our latitude, usually—begin at the end of the row toward which the canes were bent, and with a fork throw and push the earth aside and gently lift the canes out of the soil, taking pains to level the ground thoroughly, and not leave it heaped up against the hills. This should not be done when the earth is wet and sticky. Keep off the ground at such times, unless the season is growing so late that there is danger of the canes decaying if not exposed to the air. The sooner they are staked and tied up after uncovering, the better.



For market or other purposes, we may wish a number of young plants, in which case there is much room for good sense in taking them up. Many lay hold upon the canes and pull so hastily that little save sticks comes out. A gardener wants fibrous roots rather than top; therefore, send the spade down under the roots and pry them out. Suckers and root-cutting plants can be dug in October, after the wood has fairly ripened, but be careful to leave no foliage on the canes that are taken up before the leaves fall, for they rapidly drain the vitality of the plants. It is best to cut the canes down to within a foot of the surface before digging. I prefer taking up all plants for sale or use in the latter part of October and November, and those not set out or disposed of are stored closely in trenches, with the roots a foot or more below the surface. By thus burying them deeply and by leaving on them a heavy covering of leaves, they are kept in a dormant state quite late in spring, and so can be handled without breaking off the buds which make the future canes. But, as we have already said, the earlier they are planted after the frost is out, the better.



CHAPTER XXI

RASPBERRIES—VARIETIES OF THE FOREIGN AND NATIVE SPECIES

This chapter will treat first of the imported kinds, which usually are more or less tender, and then, by way of contrast, of the hardy varieties of our native R. Strigosus.

I shall speak of those only that are now in general cultivation, naming a few, also, whose popularity in the past has been so great as to entitle them to mention.

As was true of strawberries, so also varieties of raspberries that won name and fame abroad were imported, and a few of them have adapted themselves so well to American soil and climate as to have become standards of excellence. Among the best-known of these formerly was the Red Antwerp of England. Few old-fashioned gardens were without it at one time, but it is fast giving way to newer and more popular varieties. The canes are vigorous, stocky, and tall; spines light-red, numerous, and rather strong. Winter protection is always needed. The berries are large and very obtuse, conical, dark-red, large-grained, and covered with a thick bloom, very juicy, and exceedingly soft—too much so for market purposes. They made a dainty dish for home use, however, and our grandmothers, when maidens, gathered them in the lengthening summer shadows.