Now, the grapes, soaked in this liquid gold, called air, begin to turn, mindful of the injunction, “to turn or burn.”  The clusters under the leaves are getting quite purple, but look better than they taste.  I think there is no danger but they will be gathered as soon as they are ripe.  One of the blessings of having an open garden is, that I do not have to watch my fruit:  a dozen youngsters do that, and let it waste no time after it matures.  I wish it were possible to grow a variety of grape like the explosive bullets, that should explode in the stomach:  the vine would make such a nice border for the garden,—­a masked battery of grape.  The pears, too, are getting russet and heavy; and here and there amid the shining leaves one gleams as ruddy as the cheek of the Nutbrown Maid.  The Flemish Beauties come off readily from the stem, if I take them in my hand:  they say all kinds of beauty come off by handling.

The garden is peace as much as if it were an empire.  Even the man’s cow lies down under the tree where the man has tied her, with such an air of contentment, that I have small desire to disturb her.  She is chewing my cud as if it were hers.  Well, eat on and chew on, melancholy brute.  I have not the heart to tell the man to take you away:  and it would do no good if I had; he wouldn’t do it.  The man has not a taking way.  Munch on, ruminant creature.

The frost will soon come; the grass will be brown.  I will be charitable while this blessed lull continues:  for our benevolences must soon be turned to other and more distant objects,—­the amelioration of the condition of the Jews, the education of theological young men in the West, and the like.

I do not know that these appearances are deceitful; but I sufficiently know that this is a wicked world, to be glad that I have taken it on shares.  In fact, I could not pick the pears alone, not to speak of eating them.  When I climb the trees, and throw down the dusky fruit, Polly catches it in her apron; nearly always, however, letting go when it drops, the fall is so sudden.  The sun gets in her face; and, every time a pear comes down it is a surprise, like having a tooth out, she says.

“If I could n’t hold an apron better than that!”

But the sentence is not finished:  it is useless to finish that sort of a sentence in this delicious weather.  Besides, conversation is dangerous.  As, for instance, towards evening I am preparing a bed for a sowing of turnips,—­not that I like turnips in the least; but this is the season to sow them.  Polly comes out, and extemporizes her usual seat to “consult me” about matters while I work.  I well know that something is coming.

“This is a rotation of crops, is n’t it?”

“Yes:  I have rotated the gone-to-seed lettuce off, and expect to rotate the turnips in; it is a political fashion.”

“Is n’t it a shame that the tomatoes are all getting ripe at once?  What a lot of squashes!  I wish we had an oyster-bed.  Do you want me to help you any more than I am helping?”