You would have thought that she owned all the vegetables, and had
raised them all from their earliest years. Such quiet, vegetable airs!
Such gracious appropriation!
At length I said,--
"Polly, do you know who planted that squash, or those squashes?"
"James, I suppose."
"Well, yes, perhaps James did plant them to a certain extent. But who
hoed them?"
"We did."
"_We_ did!" I said in the most sarcastic manner. "And I suppose _we_ put
on the sackcloth and ashes, when the striped bug came at four o'clock,
A.M., and we watched the tender leaves, and watered night and
morning the feeble plants. I tell you, Polly," said I, uncorking the
Bordeaux raspberry vinegar, "there is not a pea here that does not
represent a drop of moisture wrung from my brow, not a beet that does
not stand for a backache, not a squash that has not caused me untold
anxiety, and I did hope--but I will say no more."
_Observation._--In this sort of family discussion, "I will say no more"
is the most effective thing you can close up with.
I am not an alarmist. I hope I am as cool as anybody this hot summer.
But I am quite ready to say to Polly or any other woman, "You can have
the ballot; only leave me the vegetables, or, what is more important,
the consciousness of power in vegetables." I see how it is. Woman is now
supreme in the house. She already stretches out her hand to grasp the
garden. She will gradually control everything. Woman is one of the
ablest and most cunning creatures who have ever mingled in human
affairs.
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