One day, at table, I offered some radishes to a friend from the other side of the Atlantic, who refused them with the remark that he never ate radishes in this country. Now, my friend is a liberal man, although he is a Scotchman, and therefore I felt that it could not be altogether prejudice that influenced him, so the ready question rose to my lips - Why?

"Your summers are too hot and bright to grow good radishes," was his answer. "Fight against it as you may, your radishes will elaborate in too great abundance their peculiar flavoring matter, and instead of being mild and delicate, will become hot and high flavored. At least, after having been in your country for more than a dozen years, and having tasted the best samples to be found on the tables of your hotels and in many private families, such has been the conclusion at which I have arrived. You can not equal Scotch oats or radishes."

I suspect my Scotch friend is more than half right, and am inclined to believe we do not consider sufficiently the influence which climate and culture have upon the flavor and other qualities of our fruits and vegetables.

The vast differences produced by these agencies are well known to botanists. Thus the Turkey rhubarb when transplanted to England flourishes with a most luxuriant growth; but the peculiar constituent which confers its medicinal value upon rhubarb is not secreted in anything like the proportions in which it is-produced in the East.

So, too, the plant which produces the famous hasheesh is believed by all botanists to be identical with our common hemp, and yet hasheesh is not produced in Europe. Even very narrow limits sometimes circumscribe a locality within which plants present marked differences from plants grown outside of these boundaries. Thus Dr. Christison tells us that the poisonous hemlock loses nearly all its virulence when grown in the neighborhood of Edinburgh.

With these special facts before us, and in view of others of a more general nature which are better known, it is impossible to doubt the wondrous influence of soil and climate upon the flavor and chemical constitution of vegetable productions.

How far can art modify and change ihese influences?

We know that pine-apples grown under the murky skies of England by the aid of glass and artificial heat have a flavor fully equal to that of the native productions of the tropics. The Catawba grapes grown under glass in New England successfully rival clusters from the vine-clad banks of the Ohio; and if the profit would counterbalance the cost, we doubt not but hasheesh could be grown in England.

The great agents which influence the production of flavor and of those organic compounds which confer upon plants their chemical and medicinal peculiarities are light, heat, and moisture.

The general influence of light upon plants is too well known to require elab-orater discussion. We all know that it is the light falling upon the tender leaves, and aiding by its chemical powers the vital forces of the plant, that builds up every vegetable structure. The leaves of the forest flutter in the breeze and drink in from the air the material of their growth; but the sun is the true alchemist, working wonders more strange than those of Geber and all his tribe, and converting this crude material into heart of oak to battle with ocean storms, or into costly and odoriferous woods to adorn the habitation of man. And in few countries does this, magician exert greater power than in our own. He descends into the ateliers of our photographers, and their productions eclipse those of the world beside; we leave our peach-trees exposed to all the vicissitudes of a severe climate, and yet he confers upon their fruit a flavor equal to the highly nurtured trees of less favored countries. And when in our ignorance we build long rows of vineries and green-houses, and expose the plants therein to his unobstructed rays, we learn that while in England all the sunlight that is obtainable is scarcely too much, in our country we must carefully guard against giving him full sway.

Now the tendency of light is to heighten the flavor of all fruit borne by the plant upon which it acts, and further to promote the secretion of any essential oil which gives flavor to the plant itself. Take, for example, the plant in which all this is most commonly illustrated - celery. The flavor of the etiolated portion of a well-blanched plant of celery is exceedingly delicate, but I am not aware that it is owing to the presence of any substance different from that which gives flavor to the ranker leaves. Indeed, it is well known to cooks, that for flavoring soups, the tops of celery are quite as good and far more efficient than the blanched stalks. So, too, when turnip bulbs in a growing state are exposed to the light, their surface becomes green and leaf-like, and in this condition it is well known by stock feeders that they are exceedingly irritant to the digestive organs of cattle, and have frequently produced serious difficulty. All this is no doubt familiar to our readers, and I have collected these things, not as examples of "things not generally known," but as mere illustrations tending to place the best methods of practice in a clear light.

The agency of heat is not so well understood as that of light. It is yet a question how far heat may be substituted for light in the production of flavor. The results occasionally obtained under glass would lead us to believe that well-regulated heat can often affect the results usually obtained by the action of light. Of course, in ordinary culture, heat and light are practically synonymous, as they are almost always coexistent; a hot summer is always a bright one.

Moisture, when accompanied with heat, always promotes a rapid development of cellular tissue. Now the rapid growth of cellular tissue does not necessarily imply a correspondingly rapid increase of the other constituents of the plant. Indeed, cellular tissue is often found to be largely developed under circumstances most unfavorable to general growth, as in the case of potatoes sprouting in a dark cellar. To enable a plant to make a healthy growth, light also is necessary.

Let us now consider what will be the effect of increasing or diminishing the action of any one of these agents.

We have seen that the great agents in the developement of cellular tissue, that is to say size, are heat and moisture. This is well understood by the Lancashire gooseberry-growers, who "suckle" their gooseberries to make them attain enormous size. The process of "suckling" consists in supporting a saucer under each berry, the saucer being so far filled with water that about one fourth of the berry is covered. At the same time very rich soil and abundance of liquid manure are used, and the plants are somewhat shaded from the light to prevent the tissues of the fruit from hardening, and consequently ceasing to grow. In this way berries weighing nearly two ounces avoirdupois have been obtained. But such fruit is almost destitute of flavor; and although large prizes have been awarded to such berries, they can only be regarded as monstrosities.

On the other hand, we find that the highest-flavored grapes in the world are grown on dry and rocky hillsides, where the soil is scant and the growth of the plant comparatively slow. In such cases the berries are small, but the proportion of flavoring matter to the other components of the fruit is large.

The presence of light and heat produce high flavor; heat and moisture produce large size with deficient flavor.

In the light of these facts and laws it will not be difficult so to regulate our practice as to attain a measurable degree of success in modifying soil and climate and securing such flavor as we desire. Do we require high flavor and abundant sweetness in our fruits ? We must see that our soil is thoroughly drained and rendered open and porous. We must eschew all rank manures, and we will prune judiciously, that is, neither to weaken on the one hand, nor to force into luxuriance on the other. Our fruit will not then be of the monstrous size we sometimes see at fruit shows, but it will more than make up in quality what it lacks in quantity. It is true that some will always be found to prefer the large fruit, and so we presume some will always be found who prefer a Concord grape to a Delaware, and a Bart-lett pear to a Seckel. There are men who prefer pork and beans to canvas-back ducks.

But in some of the productions of the garden, flavor may be too high, or, rather, perhaps we should say, too strong. Ever since the day our Scotch friend refused our radishes, we have adopted what Downing has well called "that practice founded on principle which has been most beneficially introduced into our horticulture" - mulching. A couple of inches of clean mulch (such as straw or coarse hay) not only blanches the upper portion of the stem, but keeps the ground constantly moist, open, and porous. Moreover, the leaf-stems are etiolated, and the whole plant forced into delicate succulence.

The operation should be performed at the time the plants begin to swell. If performed earlier, they are apt to draw up and become spindling; if deferred too long, the required effect is not produced. Others, however, besides my Scotch friend, have objected to radishes as ordinarily grown. That close observer and skillful gardener, McMahon, in his "American Gardener's Calendar," directs us to be very careful about our radishes, and recommends very frequent waterings, lest the plants should "grow hot and sticky." Moreover, he tells us " a thin sprinkling of radish-seed may be sown among other general crops, which will grow freely, and being detached will form large, crisp roots." The "general crops" prevented the free access of light, and served the same purpose as our mulching.

Other applications of this principle will occur to the reader, and although he*, no doubt, knew it all before, perhaps we have not lost our time if we have succeeded in causing him to think of it. Viticola.