184 FAEMERS' INSTITUTES. 



In December, 1875, I attended a meeting of the State Pomological Society 

 at Jackson, and among the many interesting and instructive questions con- 

 sidered, was one on pears. The facts were these: A Mr. Brown and a Mr. 

 Kobinson joined farms, their houses were but a little way from the line fence 

 that divided them, and they decided to plant their orchards between the 

 line fence and their houses. They sent together for the same kinds of trees, 

 divided them, and assisted each other in planting them out. They took 

 good care of these trees, but with Mr. Eobinson they were a complete failure, 

 while with Mr. Brown they were all that could be desired. Finally Mr. 

 Brown undertook the management of Mr. Eobinson's pear trees, determined 

 to make them come to time or know the reason, but had to give them up, as 

 thoroughly nonplussed as his neighbor. 



Here the thought comes in — and I leave it for you to elaborate — Man is in 

 the same boat with the rest of the organic creation. Christian civilization 

 and culture are lifting him up; something in his nature rebels, and has a 

 downward tendency. A restoring power and influence outside of himself 

 keeps him from sinking down. The Indians have it all in a nutshell; they 

 say: "It's easy to make an Indian out of a white man, but it's pretty hard 

 work to make a white man out of an Indian." 



Mr. lire: Is there as much difference in beets inside as outside? 



Dr. Kedzie: Tl)ey vary very much. Sugar makers refuse to take extra large 

 beets. They are less saccharine — more water and wood. 



Mr. Ure: Then small beets are better feed for cattle? 



Dr. Kedzie: Better than extra big ones. 



Mr. Geddes: Sugar makers prefer, too, beets that grow as much underground 

 as may be. 



LET THE SECEET OUT. 



BY MRS. L. E. CANKON, WASHINGTON, MICH. 



[Read at the Rochester Institute, Feb. 4, 1886.] 



Then love and joy and hope should smile 

 In the farmer's household all the while. 

 Let the farmer's wife receive her share 

 Of loving thought and tender care. 

 Tell her you love her; many a weary wife 

 Would find the heart-ache lifted from her life 

 If the dear husband — loving her — no doubt — 

 Would only sometimes let the secret out. 

 You think she knows it, that's enough, you say, 

 And Where's the good of telling her each day 

 Those simple words. " I love you," when you said 

 Them o'er and o'er again the day you wed 

 But do you never think that women's hearts 

 Are like the tender plant or grass that starts 

 So fresh and full of life ? Suppose the rain 

 Should deluge them in spring time, then refrain. 

 Suppose the blessed dew, that falls each night 

 And sinks into their hearts with morning light. 

 Should say, " I'm svich a little, trifling thing 

 That after all the rain they had in spring, 

 Thep hardly need my httle offering." 

 How would we find the tiny, fragile flower 



