AN OLD-STYLE FARM 



SOME twenty odd years ago — more or less 

 — I chanced to be the owner of a wild, 

 unkempt, slatternly farm, of three or 

 four hundred acres in extent, amid the rocky 

 fastnesses of eastern Connecticut. The town- 

 ship in which it lay was a scattered wilder- 

 ness of a settlement, lying along the Hartford 

 and New London turnpike. There was a 

 toll-gate (I remember that) ; and I have a 

 fancy that the toll-gatherer was a sallow- 

 faced shoemaker with club-feet, who some- 

 times made his appearance with a waxed-end 

 in his mouth, and a flat-headed hammer in 

 his hand. He hardly wields the hammer any 

 more; and his last waxed-end must long ago 

 have been drawn tight, and clipped away. 



There was a wild common over which the 

 November winds swept with a pestilent force, 

 with nothing to break them, except a pair of 

 twin churches. One of these was Congrega- 

 tional — severely doric, with square-headed 

 windows, painted columns, and a cupola for 



