106 FARMING IT 



Time passed. The haying season arrived, 

 waxed, and waned. Green corn, astrachan apples, 

 Sanford's Jamaica Ginger, and allopathic phy- 

 sicians battled for the lives of our dear ones; 

 Colorado beetles cut my potato-tops to the ground, 

 rose-bugs in flying swarms devastated my " jacks." 

 In short, from morning to night the whole house- 

 hold was engaged in a hand-to-hand struggle to 

 rescue our feeble crops from their many enemies. 

 Constant occupation is good for grief and dis- 

 appointment. 



In due time my cheerfulness returned. Old 

 Tom conceived a violent passion for a diminu- 

 tive bantam hen, and the memory of his erring 

 or unfortunate mate faded. 



September came with its early crops, but I had 

 no crops. October with its later harvests, but I 

 gathered none. November merged into Decem- 

 ber; December into January. Old Tom began 

 with the lengthening days to develop a savage 

 temper. An early February storm had made 

 ponds of our garden, and sharp weather had 

 converted it into a fine rink, where my daughter 

 spent her leisure hours. 



Shortly after the noon hour I was in my room, 

 disrobed. I had just finished caring for my stable 

 animals. Suddenly a series of loud screams star- 

 tled me. I rushed to the window, pulled up the 

 shade, and looked. Penned into a corner cowered 



