48 MY FARM. 



nearer to your quarters by day ? In summer, if some 

 simple trellised pattern of paper cover the ceiling, you 

 enjoy the illusion of a low branching bower ; and of 

 a winter evening, the play of the fire-light on the 

 hearth flashes over it, with a kindly nearness. 



I know the outgoing parties found no pleasant 

 task in the leave-taking. I am sure the old lady who 

 was its mistress felt a pang that was but poorly con 

 cealed ; I have a recollection that on one of my fur 

 tive visits of observation, I unwittingly came upon 

 her at a stand-still over some bit of furniture that 

 was to be prepared for the cart, with her hand 

 kerchief fast to her eyes. It cannot be otherwise at 

 parting with even the lowliest homes, where we have 

 known of deaths, and births, and pleasures, and little 

 storms that have had their sweep and lull ; and 

 where slow-pacing age has declared itself in gray 

 hair, and the bent figure. It is tearing leaf on leaf 

 out of the thin book where our lives are written. 



Even the farmer s dog slipped around the angles 

 of the house, as the change was going forward, with 

 a fitful, frequent, uneasy trot, as if he were disposed 

 to make the most of the last privileges of his home. 

 The cat alone, of all the living occupants, took mat 

 ters composedly, and paced eagerly about from one 

 to another of her disturbed haunts in buttery and 

 kitchen, with a philosophic indifference. I should not 



