MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



larger and grown more cheaply than his own; 

 this is sending a shot home. 



Let me illustrate, by a little talk, which I 

 think will have the twang of realism about it. 



A shrewd chemist, devoting himself to the 

 missionary work of building up farming by 

 the aid of his science, pays a parochial visit to 

 one of the backsliders whom he counts most 

 needful of reformation. The backslider, — I 

 will call him Nathan, — is breaking up a field, 

 and is applying the manure in an unfermented 

 and unctuous state; — the very act of sinning, 

 according to the particular theory of our 

 chemist, perhaps, who urges that manures 

 should be applied only after thorough fer- 

 mentation. 



He approaches our ploughing farmer with a 

 "Good morning." 



"Mornin'," returns Nathan (who never 

 wastes words in compliment). 



"I see you use your manure unfermented." 



"Waal, I d' n' know — guess it 's about right; 

 smells pooty good, doan't it?" 



"Yes, but don't you lose something in the 

 smell?" 



"Waal, d' n' know ;— kind o' hard to bottle 

 much of a smell, ain't it?" 



"But why don't you compost it; pack up 



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