AN OLD-STYLE FARM 



a very dreamy indolence, which, I must con- 

 fess, was somehow vastly enjoyable. 



Nothing to see? Lo, the play of light and 

 shade over the distant hills, or the wind, mak- 

 ing tossed and streaming wavelets on the rye. 

 Nothing to hear? Wait a moment and you 

 shall listen to the bursting melodious rounde- 

 lay of the merriest singer upon earth— the 

 black and white coated Bob-o'-Lincoln, as he 

 rises on easy wing, floats in the sunshine, and 

 overflows with song, then sinks, as if ex- 

 hausted by his brilliant solo, to some swaying 

 twig of the alder bushes. Nothing to hope? 

 The maize leaves through all their close ser- 

 ried ranks are rustling with the promise of 

 golden corn. Nothing to conquer? There 

 are the brambles, the roughnesses, the ine- 

 qualities, the chill damp earth, the whole 

 teeming swamp-land. 



I have tried to outline the surroundings and 

 appointments of many a back country farmer 

 of New England to-day. I am sure the draw- 

 ing is true, because it is from the life. I seem 

 to see such an one now on one of those May 

 mornings an hour before sunrise. It is his 

 market day, and the old sorrel mare is har- 

 nessed, and tied to the hitch-post. The wagon 

 is of antique shape, bulging out in front and 



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