276 MY FARM. 



more economically bestowed, than when subject to 

 no order in their application. 



From time to time I observe that some venerable 

 old gentleman in my neighborhood is overtaken by 

 one of those sporadic fevers of improvement, which 

 will sometimes, and very strangely, attack the most 

 tranquil and self-satisfied of men. The attack is a 

 slight one, of the orchard type. He consults far and 

 near in regard to the best sorts of fruit. He devotes 

 to the experiment one of his best lots, reserving the 

 very best for his next year s patch of potatoes. The 

 land he reckons in good heart, since he has just 

 taken off a heavy crop of corn. He digs his holes, 

 after an elaborate system of garden measurement and 

 stake-driving, which, to his poor, fagged brain, seems 

 the very climax of geometric endeavor. The young 

 trees are carefully staked, and for a year or two show 

 a thrifty look. But the spring temptation to put a 

 crop between the roots is irresistible ; the ploughing 

 oxen browse a few knock over a few break off a 

 few. This maddens our friend into a laying-down 

 of the orchard to grass ; he half promises himself, in 

 deed, that he will give hand-cultivation to the trees, 

 but he does not ; his fever is abating, and so is his 

 orcharding. The mosses fasten on the young trees, 

 the borers play havoc, the caterpillars strip them, the 

 rank grass strangles them. 



