The next Saturday there were fifteen of them
planting potatoes. The rest were busy. The week after
that there was one man hoeing weeds. After that silence
fell upon the deserted garden, broken only by the cry of
the chick-a-dee and the choo-choo feeding on the waving
heads of the thistles.
But I have indicated only two or three of the ways of
failing at food production. There are ever so many more.
What amazes me, in returning to the city, is to find the
enormous quantities of produce of all sorts offered for
sale in the markets. It is an odd thing that last spring,
by a queer oversight, we never thought, any of us, of
this process of increasing the supply. If every patriotic
man would simply take a large basket and go to the market
every day and buy all that he could carry away there need
be no further fear of a food famine.
And, meantime, my own vegetables are on their way. They
are in a soap box with bars across the top, coming by
freight. They weigh forty-six pounds, including the box.
They represent the result of four months' arduous toil
in sun, wind, and storm. Yet it is pleasant to think that
I shall be able to feed with them some poor family of
refugees during the rigour of the winter.
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