VII 



The Grooming of the Farm 



THERE is a story about an artist who espied 

 a picturesque old man and wished to paint 

 him. At the time appointed the model ar 

 rived new-shaven, new-washed, freshly 

 attired, with all the delicious and incommun 

 icable flavor of the years irretrievably lost! 

 Doubtless there are many such stories; doubt 

 less the thing has happened many, many times. 

 And I am sorrier for the artist now than I 

 used to be, because it is happening to me. 



Only it is not an old man it is the farm, 

 the blessed old farm, unkempt, unshorn, out 

 at the elbows. In spite of itself, in spite of me, 

 in spite of everybody, the farm is being 

 groomed. 



It is nobody s fault, of course. Like most 

 hopelessly disastrous things, it has all been 

 done with the best possible intentions, per 

 haps it has even been necessary, but it is none 

 the less deplorable. 



