AN OLD-STYLE FARM 



worth, wild ruins. Next morning I gave the 

 key of the corn-crib to the foreman, and bade 

 the farm-land adieu. 



Within a month I was strolling over the 

 fields of Lancashire, wondering at that or- 

 derly, systematic cultivation of which New 

 England had not dreamed— wondering at the 

 grand results of this liberal and generous cul- 

 ture, and more than ever disgusted at the 

 pinched and starveling way in which my coun- 

 trymen were cheating the land of its opulent 

 privilege of production. 



I have written this little descriptive episode 

 of a farm-life in New England to serve as 

 the background for certain illustrative hints 

 toward the amendment of rural life — whether 

 in matters of good husbandry, or of good 

 taste; I have furthermore ventured upon cer- 

 tain homeliness of detail in these opening 

 pages, to show that I may have privilege of 

 speech. 



There is no manner of work done upon a 

 New England farm to which some day I have 

 not put my hand — whether it be chopping 

 wood, laying wall, sodding a coal-pit, cradling 

 oats, weeding corn, shearing sheep, or sowing 

 turnips. Therefore, in any future references 

 which I may make in the course of these 



25 



