AN OLD-STYLE FARM 



they discuss the last Sunday's sermon : Enos 

 says, "I 've heerd that Hosea Wood is a 

 cortin' Malviny Smith." 



"Don't b'heve a word on 't, Enos. No 

 sich a thing. Did you put a baitin for the hoss 

 in the waggin, Enos?" 



"No, I vum! I forgot it," says Enos. 



"What a plaguey careless creeter you 're 

 a gittin' to be, Enos !" 



And so the good worthy couple jog on. In 

 town, the jug is filled; the stout matron 

 peers through her spectacles at tapes, thread, 

 needles, and a stout "caliker" gown (fast col- 

 ors) for Sally Ann. Pater-familias sees to 

 the filling of the flat jug, he makes a fair sale 

 of the two quarters of veal, he buys a few 

 "garding" seeds, a new rake, a scythe snathe, 

 and dickers for a grindstone — unavailingly. 

 Two hours before nightfall, the good couple 

 jog homeward again, with humdrum quietude. 



It is not such a scene of domesticity as I 

 ever forecast for my own enjoyment. I be- 

 lieved, and still believe, that the dead life upon 

 the back country New England farms, is capa- 

 ble of being stirred into a live life. Over and 

 over I forecast the day when the inequalities 

 should be smoothed, the swamps drained, the 

 woodlands cleared up, (leaving only here and 



23 



