200 HAPPY HOLLOW FARM 



scribable shade of tender green that isn't seen 

 anywhere outside a garden. On the last day 

 they'll grow like soap-bubbles ; between morn- 

 ing and evening, if you aren't watchful, they'll 

 reach the line of perfection, leap over it, and be 

 far on the downward road. If you want one at 

 its best, you'd better mark the leaf it lies under 

 and then go out every once in a while and take 

 a peep. When you catch one just right, let 

 me tell you you're a lucky man. Nobody on 

 earth will have anything on you at dinner that 

 night. 



It just does beat all what you can get out of 

 the warm, mellow earth if you'll only forget 

 the ignorant old notion that to work with the 

 soil is a bitter contest against tremendous odds. 

 If I felt like that, nothing could hire me to 

 strike another lick at farming. I'd be all 

 through, right now. But, feeling as I do, 

 nothing could make me quit it. In sober 

 truth, the ancient saying that men have been 

 taking so hard, "in the sweat of thy brow," is 

 a benediction instead of a curse. 



We found that out in our third year at 

 Happy Hollow. I think that was our critical 

 time. In that year all fear passed. Instead 

 of the grim will to make our farm succeed, we 



