MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



thumb and forefinger in the pocket of his black 

 waistcoat, and the same sly twinkle in his eye. 



Every spring he has his "veals"— four, six, 

 ten, — as the case may be; and every spring 

 he higgles in much the same way with the 

 town butcher, in regard to age, to price, and 

 to fatness. Every summer I see him in black 

 hat and black dress coat, on his wagon box, 

 with butter firkins behind (the covers closed 

 on linen towels by the mistress at home), driv- 

 ing to the market. And if I trot behind him 

 on his return, I see that his exchange has pro- 

 cured him a two-gallon jug of molasses, a 

 savory bundle of dried codfish, a moisty paper 

 parcel of brown sugar, a tight little bag of 

 timothy seed, and a new hoe, or dung fork. 

 But he never allows his spendings to take up 

 the gross sum of his receipts; always there 

 goes home a modicum, which grows by slow 

 and gradual accretions into notes (secured by 

 mortgage), of some unthrifty neighbor, or an 

 entry upon the columns of his book at the 

 Savings. 



There is no amateur of them all, who re- 

 ceives as much into a third, for what he may 

 have to sell ; nor any one who spends as little, 

 by two-thirds, for what he may have to buy. 

 It is incredible what such a man will save in 



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