Adopting an Abandoned Farm

rlors have alwa

MAR

ngles, absence of sunlight. What is there to talk about in a room dark as the Domdaniel, except where one crack in a reluctant shutter revea

Rural Pursuits, The Dignity of Labor, The Relation of Agriculture to Longevity and to Nations, and, above all, of the Golden Egg, seem decidedly

rsue him to a second story, and then lay hands on it only to throw it out of the window," and the phlegmatic, overworked, horny-handed tillers of the soil are no mo

and soul? That explains the 3,318 abandoned farms in Maine at present. And the farmers' wives! what monotonous, treadmill lives! Constant toil with no wages, no allowance, no pocket money, no vacations, no pleasure trips to the city nearest them, little of the p

and increase it. Nor to the market gardener, who raises vegetables under glass; nor to the

bernation and caring for the cattle. Horace Greeley said: "If our most energetic farmers would abstract ten hours each per week from their incessant drudgery

factory, bank, or railroad paid better dividends th

dry as to kill all the beans in New Hampshire, then floods carrying off all the dams and bridges on the Penobscot and Androscoggin. Snow in Portsmouth in July, and the next day a man and a yoke of oxen killed by lightning in Rhode Island. You would think the world was coming to an end. But we go along. Seed time and harvest never fail. We have the early and the

of the country. At any rate, her antipathy to me was something intense and personal. That mysterious stepm

thers to devour every leaf, insects to attack every flower, drought or d

ghbor's fields, once actually fording my lakelet to get to my precious potato patch. The number and variety of devouring pests connected with each

," "speckled," "variegated," "wavy," "striped," "harlequin," "im

u must either try a season of farming or peruse octavo vol

flies and slugs," "boring caterpillars," "horn-tailed wood wasps," etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.-a never-ending lis

on said of

e wolf on the fold, and stopped up all the stomata and ate up all the parenchyma, till my squash-leaves looked as if they had grown

moment they touched the water they all spread unseen wings and flew away. I should not have been much mor

s the aphidavit of another noted helminthologist. I might have imagined Nature had a special grudge against me if I had not recalled Emerson's experience. He says: "With brow bent, with firm intent, I go

when flying. I admired them most

ine writing last year in regard to the sin and shame of cutting down the pretty, wild growth of shrubs, vines, and flowers along the wayside, so picturesque to the summer tourist. The tangle of wild grape, clematis, and woodbine is certainly pretty, but underneath is sure to be found a l

s at the windows, which are seldom opened-only a glimpse here and there of a sad, haggard creature, peering out for curosity. Strange would it be to hear peals of merry laughter; stranger still to see a family enjoying a meal on the piazza or a game on the grass. As for fl

s, I kn

it?" I

out." A pause, then, with great superiority: "I'd rather see a

own living direct from the soil. He dignifies agriculture above all other means of earning a living, and would have artificial employments given up. "Back to the land," he cries; and back he really goes, daily wor

age occupy them and support themselves by raising poultry. Men are making handsome incomes from this business-women can do the same. The language of the poultry magazines, by the way, is equally sentimental and efflorescent with that of the speeches at agricultural fairs, sufficiently so to sicken one who has once accepted it as r

: This cla

with pleasure." One poultry crank insists that each hen must be so carefully studied that she can be under

civilization and makes us feel that we are home and can rest and play and grow young once more. How many men an

and hill, when the frost tingles in sparkling beads from every t

turned over on their backs and flopped helplessly unto the end; or, surviving that critical period, were found in the drinking trough, "drowned, dead, because they couldn't keep their heads

ressed fourteen pounds." Isn't that better than selling milk at two and a half cents per quart? And no money can be made on vegetables unless they are raised under glass in advance of the season. I know, for did I not begin with "pie plant," with which every market was glutted, at one cent per pound, and try the entire list, with disgustingly low prices, exposed to depressing comparison and critic

hop of Canterbury." I still believe in Crankin and duck raising. Let me see: "One pair dressed fourteen pounds,

private sales, not for hotels! I used to imagine myself

ed of one of the proprietors what he would give, and "fifteen cents per pound for

led, milk, Indian meal, cracked corn, sun-flower seed, oats, buckwheat, the best of bread, selling

e rational enjoyment on a farm, read this

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