I think I have discovered the way to keep peas from the birds.Itried the scarecrow plan, in a way which I thought would outwit the shrewdest bird.The brain of the bird is not large; but it is all concentrated on one object, and that is the attempt to elude the devices of modern civilization which injure his chances of food.Iknew that, if I put up a complete stuffed man, the bird would detect the imitation at once: the perfection of the thing would show him that it was a trick.People always overdo the matter when they attempt deception.I therefore hung some loose garments, of a bright color, upon a rake-head, and set them up among the vines.The supposition was, that the bird would think there was an effort to trap him, that there was a man behind, holding up these garments, and would sing, as he kept at a distance, "You can't catch me with any such double device." The bird would know, or think he knew, that Iwould not hang up such a scare, in the expectation that it would pass for a man, and deceive a bird; and he would therefore look for a deeper plot.I expected to outwit the bird by a duplicity that was simplicity itself I may have over-calculated the sagacity and reasoning power of the bird.At any rate, I did over-calculate the amount of peas I should gather.
But my game was only half played.In another part of the garden were other peas, growing and blowing.To-these I took good care not to attract the attention of the bird by any scarecrow whatever! I left the old scarecrow conspicuously flaunting above the old vines; and by this means I hope to keep the attention of the birds confined to that side of the garden.I am convinced that this is the true use of a scarecrow: it is a lure, and not a warning.If you wish to save men from any particular vice, set up a tremendous cry of warning about some other; and they will all give their special efforts to the one to which attention is called.This profound truth is about the only thing I have yet realized out of my pea-vines.
However, the garden does begin to yield.I know of nothing that makes one feel more complacent, in these July days, than to have his vegetables from his own garden.What an effect it has on the market-man and the butcher! It is a kind of declaration of independence.The market-man shows me his peas and beets and tomatoes, and supposes he shall send me out some with the meat."No, I thank you," I say carelessly; "I am raising my own this year."Whereas I have been wont to remark, "Your vegetables look a little wilted this weather," I now say, "What a fine lot of vegetables you've got!" When a man is not going to buy, he can afford to be generous.To raise his own vegetables makes a person feel, somehow, more liberal.I think the butcher is touched by the influence, and cuts off a better roast for me, The butcher is my friend when he sees that I am not wholly dependent on him.