MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



triumphs, and a more Christian amplitude of 

 life, could not be worth the following. Noth- 

 ing about it or in it seemed to have affinity 

 with the great springs of human progress 

 otherwheres; a lumpish, serf life, it seemed — 

 bound to the glebe, and cropping its nourish- 

 ment thence, like kine. 



Again, the extravagance of those who have 

 undertaken farming as a mere amusement, has 

 greatly damaged its character as a pursuit 

 worthy the enlistment of earnest workers. 

 Our friend, Mr. Tallweed, who, with his Wall- 

 street honors fresh upon him, comes to the 

 country to grow tomatoes at a cost of five 

 dollars the dozen, and who puts a sack of 

 superphosphate to a garden row of sweet corn, 

 may make monstrosities for the exhibition 

 tables, but he is not inviting emulation; he is 

 simply committing an Agricultural debauch. 

 And an Agricultural debauch pays no better 

 than any other. 



But between these extremes, there is room 

 for a sober business faculty, and for an array 

 of good sense. With these two united, success 

 may be counted on; not brilliant perhaps, for 

 in farming there are no opportunities for sud- 

 den or explosive success. The farmer digs 

 into no gold lead. He springs no trap, like 



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