MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



with mediocrity and homely duties;— yearn- 

 ing for what is not to be hers, she is the ready 

 victim of illnesses against which she has neither 

 the vigor nor the wish to struggle. 



"So, Dorothy is gone! Squire," says the 

 country parson; "Let us pray to God for his 

 blessing." 



The darkened parlors are opened now; the 

 farmer's daughter is a bride, and death is the 

 groom. 



The gilt-backed books are dusted; the cob- 

 webs swept away; the black dress-suit re- 

 brushed; the twinkle of the eye is temporarily 

 banished; the neighbors are gathered; the 

 warning spoken; the procession moves; and 

 the grave closes it all. 



The Artemisias bloom on, and the purple 

 tufts of Hydrangea ;— poor Dorothy's flowers ! 



It is a little picture from the life of certain 

 money-making farmers, who pinch — to save. 

 There is a jingling resonance of money at the 

 end, but it is not tempting; it has come upon 

 a barren life, without glow or reach — a life 

 whose parlors have been always closed. 



DOES FARMING PAY? 



And now let us preciser the whole matter, and 

 232 



