FARMERS' CLUBS. 55 



to live in the kitchen, where the associations of his daily toil 

 are never removed. Nothing but stern necessity should force the 

 family to live in the same room where the cooking and domestic 

 work of the family are done. There should be a living-room away 

 from the steam of pots and kettles, and consecrated to rest, to 

 social enjoyment and mental cultivation. The ruin of many a 

 youth begins in the want of such a room in the farmer's home, or 

 in the fact that it is seldom used. Children have social natures, and 

 if they are not provided for at home, they will seek them abroad. 



It was once a common practice for the farmer to return to the 

 kitchen fireside at night, and after eating a hearty supper, sit the 

 long winter evening with the same boots, hat and coat on, which 

 he had worn through the day, dozing and sleeping at intervals, 

 without much thought, reading or conversation. Such was the 

 example. No wonder that children strayed away from home. 



All progress in our art and in mental culture, must spring from 

 labor; from a judicious employment of both head and hands. 

 Labor is a scriptural injunction. According to Paul, " We are 

 laborers together with God;" and that if any would not work, 

 neither should they eat. All honor and distinction to the laborer ; 

 to the worker, who, with head or hands, causes a single blade of 

 grass to grow, or flower to bloom in fragrant beauty ; as well as 

 to him or her who transfer the toil of many hands to a single 

 machine, or discovers new planets moving in their sublime 

 courses. If I were called upon to give a toast at the Mechanics' 

 Association or Farmers' Club, it should be to practical, pi'ofitable 

 labor. 



" Here's to the man with horny hand. 



Who tugs at the breathing bellows ; 

 Where anvils ring in every land, 



He's loved by all good fellows. 



And here's to him who goes afield. 



And through the glebe is plowing, 

 Or, with stout arms the axe doth wield, 



While ancient oaks are bowing. 



Here's to the delver in the mine, 



The sailor on the ocean. 

 With those of every craft and line, 



Who work with true devotion. 



Our love for her who toils in gloom, 



Where cranks and wheels are clanking ; 

 Bereft is she of nature's bloom, 



Yet God in patience thanking. 



