MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



appeared from the stage. He has become the 

 father of a race that is hewing its way in 

 Oregon, or he is a dignitary in Wisconsin, or 

 thwacking terribly among the foremost fight- 

 ers of the war (1862). 



Here and there remains an aged representa- 

 tive of the class, with all his nasal twang and 

 his aptitude for a score of different services; 

 but the chances are, if he has failed of placing 

 himself in the legislative chambers of the 

 West, or of holding ownership of some rough 

 farm of his own, that he has some moral ob- 

 liquity which makes him an outcast. 



Certain it is, that very few native Americans 

 of activity and of energy are to be decoyed 

 into the traces of farm labor, unless they can 

 assume the full direction. American blood is 

 fast, and fast blood is impatient with a hoe 

 among small carrots. It is well, perhaps, that 

 blood is so fast, and hopes so tall. These tell 

 grandly in certain directions, but they are not 

 available for working over a heap of compost. 

 The American eagle is a fine bird, but he does 

 not consume grasshoppers like a turkey. 



In view of the fact that dexterous labor is 

 not now available, there is a satisfaction in 

 knowing that the necessity for it is year by 

 year diminishing. Under the old system of 



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