MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



stroys all his confidence in the commentators 

 upon Burns. 



At night, more draggled and wilted than at 

 noon, he turns out his team, and if he means 

 systematic farm-work, will give the horses a 

 thorough rubbing-down ; afterward, if he cher- 

 ish cleanly prejudices, — the fine young fellow 

 will have need for a rubbing-down of himself. 

 This refreshes, and gives courage for the milk- 

 ing — which, with those pufTy fingers, is no way 

 amusing. Again the appetite is good — even 

 for a cut of salt-beef, and dish of cold greens. 

 Thereupon Pat, the Irish lad, sits upon the 

 doorstep and ruminates, — with a short, black 

 pipe in his mouth. Our draggled young friend 

 aims at something better; it is wearily done; 

 but at least the show shall be made. The can- 

 dle is lighted, and a book pulled down — pos- 

 sibly Prof. Johnson on Peats ; the millers dart 

 into the flame ; peats, and hydrates, and oxides, 

 and peats again, mix strangely ; a horned beetle 

 dashes at his forehead, and makes him wakeful 

 for a moment; there is a frog droning in the 

 near pond very drowsily — "peats — peats — 

 peats" ; the drift of the professor is lost ; Pat 

 ruminates on the step; a big miller flaps out 

 the flame of his candle;— it is no matter — our 

 fine young fellow is in a sound snooze. 



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