MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



only by most persistent watchfulness that I 

 have been able to prevent some bullet-headed 

 road-mender from digging into the turf -slopes 

 at my very door. 



Here and there I see, up and down the coun- 

 try, frequent attempts at what is counted orna- 

 mentation — fantastic trellises cut out of whit- 

 ened planks, cumbrous balustrades, with a 

 multitude of shapeless finials, or whimsical 

 pagodas — imitations of what cannot be imi- 

 tated, even if worthy;— but of the hundred 

 nameless graces, wrought of home material, 

 delighting you by their unexpectedness, piqu- 

 ing you by their simplicity, and winning upon 

 every passer-by, by their thorough agreement 

 with landscape, and surroundings, and the of- 

 fices of the farmer, I see far less. The only 

 idea of elegance and beauty which finds foot- 

 ing, is of something extraneous — outside his 

 life — not mating with his opportunities or 

 purposes — and only to be compassed, as a 

 special extravagance, upon which some town 

 joiner must lavish his "ogees," and which shall 

 serve as a blatant type of the farmer's "fore- 

 handedness." This is all very pitiful; it gives 

 no charm ; it educates to no sense of the tender 

 graces of those simple, honest adornments 

 which ought to refine the country-liver, and to 



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