272 MY FARM. 



astonish the neighborhood. You know he has no sci 

 ence, nitrogen is Greek to him ; sulphuric acid, for 

 all lie can tell, might lie in the juice of an apple ; he 

 knows nothing of fermentations nothing of physiol 

 ogy, yet his crops are monstrous. His tools are some 

 thing old, though firm and compact ; his team is al 

 ways in good order, although his barns may be some 

 what shaky. 



He could not himself explain to you his success ; 

 you perceive that he manures well, that he ploughs 

 thoroughly, that he plants good seed, that he hoes hi 

 season. This is all ; but all is so well timed by a native 

 sagacity by an instinctive sense (as would seem) of 

 the wants and habits of the crop, growing out of 

 close observation that the success is splendid. A 

 man sets up beside him, and buys guano and fish, and 

 the best tools, and employs a chemist to analyze his 

 soil but his crops do not compare with those of his 

 rude neighbor, who sneers at chemistry and fine 

 farming. Of course I do not mean to join him in his 

 sneers ; I only mean to illustrate how a large saga 

 city, guided by its own instincts, has very much to 

 do with good farming ; and in a way not clearly ex 

 plicable certainly not explicable by its possessor. 



Just so, you will sometimes find, far back in the 

 country, a shrewd old physician, utterly unread in the 

 new books, who laughs at the Gazette des Hopilaux 



