O readers of this inventory,

Take warning by its graphic story;

For little any man expects,

Who wears good shirts with buttons in 'em,
Ever to put on cotton checks,

And only have brass pins to pin 'em.

'Tis, remember, little stitches

Keep the rent from growing great ;
When you can't tell beds from ditches,
Warning words will be too late.

-Alice Cary.

IN early times in California, military titles as handles to the name were very common. John Phoenix tells the story, that he was one day leaving San Francisco by the steamer. Everybody else was taking leave of friends -but he did not know a soul in the crowd. Ashamed of his loneliness, as the boat sheered off he called out in a loud voice, “Good by, Colonel!" and, to his great delight, every man on the wharf took off his hat and shouted, "Colonel, good-bye!"

ACCORDING to an article in Chambers' Journal, the number of young men who go in college seems to be greater in Scotland than in any other country; the proportion being one to every thousand of the population; while in the whole of Germany there is one to every two thousand six hundred; and in England one to every five thousand eight hundred.

WITH THE AUTHOR'S COMPLIMENTS.-Professor Aytoun, of Edinburgh, married the daughter of Professor Wilson, better known as "Christopher North," but was too bashful to ask for her. Miss Jane Emily told him, that, before she could give her absolute consent it would be necessary that he should obtain her father's approval. "You must speak for me," said the suitor, "for I could not summon courage to speak to the Professor on this subject." 'Papa is in the library," said the lady. "Then you had better go to him," said the suitor, "and I'll wait till you return." The lady proceeded to the library; and, taking her father affectionately by the hand, mentioned that Professor Aytoun had asked her in marriage. She added: "Shall I accept his offer, papa? He is so diffident that he won't speak to you about it himself." Then we must deal tenderly with his feelings," said the hearty Christopher North. "I'll write my reply on a slip of paper, and pin it to your back." Papa's answer is on the back of my dress,' said Miss Jane, as she entered the drawing-room. Turning round, the delighted suitor read these words: "With the author's compliments."

DR. CHALMERS was no exception to the saying that a prophet is not without honor save among his own countrymen. When he preached in London, his own brother, James, never went to hear him. One day, at the coffee house which he frequented, the brother was asked by one who was ignorant of the relationship, if he had heard this wonderful countryman and namesake of his?" Yes," said James, somewhat dryly, "I have heard him." "And what did you think of him?" "Very little, indeed!" was the reply. "Dear me! "exclaimed the inquirer, "when did you hear him? "About half an hour after he was born," was the cool answer of the brother. When he preached at his native place, so strong was the feeling of his father against attending any but his own parish church, or so feeble was the desire to hear his son, that although the churches of the two parishes of East and West Anstruther stood but a few hundred yards apart, the old man would not cross the separating brook to hear him.

THE GUARDIAN.

Vol. XXIV.

APRIL, 1873.

No. 4.

THE FRUIT-GROWERS IN COUNSEL.

BY THE EDITOR.

I own that I am sometimes distressed at the manner, in which, during these latter days, we are too prone to look upon our fruits. By this last appellation I would, of course, comprehend at present not all vegetable productions, but only those variously tinted, rounded, succulent, and in many cases, redolent esculents, which are dependent from our trees. The apple, considered as a nosegay merely, without any reference to its edible contents, every person, one would suppose, who had his senses in proper harmony, should acknowledge to be most delectable."-PROF. WILLIAM M. NEVIN.

On the 23d of a certain January I traveled between Terracina and Naples. The air was balmy; the apple and pear trees all along the road were in blossoms; the atmosphere was laden with pleasant odors, and the orange-groves looked charming. Among their dark-green leaves hung the large golden fruit. At Castallone de Gaeta I paused a few hours. Through Cicero's villa, I leisurely strolled, where the grand Roman orator had a country-seat. In rambling, I came to a large orange-grove. The luscious yellow fruit lay thickly strewn about under the trees, and hung still more thickly from their boughs. As many as I could eat, I was at full liberty to pick up. It was a sight as pleasant to behold as the fruit was sweet to the taste. As a great German poet has it:

"Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen blühen,
Im dunklen Laub die gold Orangen glühen?"
Knows't thou the land where the Citrons do grow,
Where, mid the dark leaves, golden Oranges glow?

Even to the famous Gardens of Hesperides, bearing the golden apples of June, is this region compared by the German Muse: "In Hesperius Gärten geht man hier ein, es ergreifet

Jubel den Geist; die Natur jubelt enzückt mit ihm."

In this fertile region, Nature seems to produce fruit spontaneously. In our more northern climate, the soil and the trees need careful nursing and training, to make them yield good fruit. Fruitgrowing with us has become one of the fine arts.

I was much interested in a Council of fruit-growers held in our city, a few months ago. It was the annual meeting of the Pennsylvania Fruit-growers' Society. I hold that the man, who makes a blade of grass grow where none could grow before, does not live in vain. And he who plants and rears a tree, is a benefactor to his fellow-men.

From fifty to seventy-five of these men were here in counsel. They were all practical fruit-growers. Nearly all men who planted their trees with their own hands, and eat the fruit of their own planting. Not a half-a-dozen of them were men of what is called a scientific education. Yet, they were scientific men, who have been questioning the laws of Nature these many years by actual experiments. Not without the help of books, to be sure, but using their fields and orchards as their chief books. And it was surprising what stores of knowledge these men possessed, and how accurately and clearly they expressed their views. Among these, men of large heads, large toil-marked hands, and not a few with large hearts; there was less useless speaking, less waste of words and wearying of hearers by men trying to speak who had nothing to say-less of all this than in any Convention of Church or State that I now remember to have attended. Each told what he knew, but no more.

Very pleasant was it to notice the kindly spirit pervading the discussion. There were no pet theories to be fought for; no horticultural heretics to be beheaded. Every one treated the opposing opinions of his brother with gentlemanly courtesy. Not the most glib tongued talkers, but the most successful fruit-growers were oftenest called on for a speech. The man, who raised the finest specimens of fruit, had the hardest work to tell what he knew, because, as he said, he had not the proper language to express himself. But when the presiding officer said, "Mr. Y. has the finest collection of fruit I have ever seen," he made the old man's work speak, according to a good, old rule: "By their fruits ye shall know them." It re

A very fine pear was handed around in the Convention. sembled so closely a number of varieties of pears, that the most intelligent fruit-growers differed as to its proper classification.

"Mr. Y., please come forward and tell us what kind of a pear this is."

He took it in his hand a moment, and promptly answered: "A Bartlett, sir."

"Gentlemen, this is a Bartlett pear; "the president announced. That ended the controversy. It was a fine compliment paid by men of marked book intelligence to one, who mainly derived this accurate knowledge from actual experiment, who practiced the right principles without being able theoretically to define them.

How to plant a tree, was a topic of discussion. The great secret lies in knowing how to take it up, in the first place, in order to planting, was one reply. Where to plant an orchard? On high ground; a ridge, if you have one. If you have none, make one. Subsoil the earth, some said. As in spiritual planting, the seed or tree must have depth of root. They did not say so, but so I thought at the time. All good fruit-bearing trees, run their roots deep in the earth. Those rooting only over the surface, are easily blown down.

Mr. M., of Mercersburg, Pa., said he had planted an orchard on a rocky surface, where there was scarcely soil enough to cover the roots. He had to lay stones on the top to keep them at their place. The trees thrive marvellously, extorting nourishment out of the rocks, and running their roots into the crevices.

Perfectly natural, remarked another. All soils are composed of disintegrated rock. Yes, thought I, but it is strange that a tree should have power to suck nourishment out of the hard rock, before it has crumbled into earth. On such kind of rocky soil we find the most thriving fig orchards in Judea. I was pleased to notice how tenderly these fruit-growers handle and regard fruit. Not in the vulgar way so common among fruit-eaters, who see no beauty or use in fruit, beyond chewing and tasting it by actual eating. These men of the orchard handle a nice pear or apple, as daintily as if it were the most delicate and finely finished work of art; or as a loving mother handles her tender babe. And when they speak of the delicious taste or flavor of fruit, their language smacks of its very essence, of the pleasant odor of the fruit itself. They will describe its symmetrical shape, its blushing colors; its juice-bearing cells; its graceful pending from the branches. To them it is a thing of beauty, no less than a thing of pleasant taste.

Should we not combine fruit-growing with horticulture? it was asked. Plant smaller plants among the trees, and beautify our farms with flowers? Mr. M., of Mercersburg, replied: "Some years ago, I planted one or more rose-bushes at each corner of every plot, on my fruit farm. I selected the color of the roses to correspond with the color and tinge of the fruit, which the plots bore. Red, blushing apples have red roses; yellow pears have yellow roses to correspond." Our friend M., would perhaps not be able to define the technical meaning of Esthetics, or of an Esthetical taste. Yet, by this arrangement, he shows one of the

most pleasing instances of a fine perception of the Beautiful, that I have ever met with in farmer, philosopher or poet.

And his roses paid him well. "One day," he said, "a Canadian gentleman came along."

"How came you to this charming arrangement of the rosebushes, adapting their color to that of the fruit ?" he asked. "Will you sell me part of this farm?"

Certainly, if you pay my price for it."

He bought a part, paid me well for it; gave me money enough to pay all my debts. And the rose-bushes did it. Beauty pays. Good taste is of great price, even when estimated by money.

Said a fruit-growing friend to me not long since: "Do you know, that all fruit-growers catch a certain inspiration from the tree-life, which they cultivate? A spirit which animates them all with a common kindly feeling of fraternal fellowship? When I am introduced to a fruit-grower, I feel a pleasing attraction and he feels it. An unusual chain of friendship binds them together. They find pleasure in the most unselfish way, to exchange rare varieties of fruit, and enjoy their neighbor's success almost as much as their

own.

As a proof of the kindly, unselfish spirit of one of these men, I will tell a story. This fruit-farm is near Mercersburg, Pa. Two years ago, he proposed to plant an orchard for the Orphans' Home at Womelsdorf, Pa. He selected the ground, gave us some 300 Apple and Peach trees, planted them, and continues to train them once a year-all without charging a penny. The trees are thriving under his beneficent direction. This work promises to produce a fruitful orchard. For many years to come, it will be a monument prettier than brass or marble could make, to tell of the kind heart and skillful hands of him who planted them. And as the fatherless will pluck and eat their luscious fruits, they will bless the memory of Tobias Martin. He remarked to us not long since: "That orchard pleases me better than any I have ever planted."

Walter Scott used to say, that, of all his compositions, he was the most proud of those, which made trees to grow. When Dr. Lyman Beecher was in the prime of his busy, hard-working life, he planted apple trees with his own hands. He says, when, after an absence, he returned to his family, the first impulse after the usual greetings, was "to go out and examine each tree in his orchard, from root to top.'

An apple, peach, pear, plum-any and all of this class of fruit are among the most beautiful specimens of all the pretty works of dame Nature. An apple or peach is but a ripened flower. Examine it microscopically, and you discover the heart petals—indeed all the parts of the blossom. Very much larger and heavier than