" 'T is stillness all. No rustic sound 

 Disturbs the air's repose profound ; 

 Unless the due repeated flail, 

 Or quick brush of the winnowing sail, 

 Give sign that toil is busy now ; 

 Though high above the buried plough 

 Lies the piled heap ; nor from the stall, 

 Obsequious to the herdman's call, 

 Go forth the kine and crowded sheep : 

 More pleased the well-stored crib to keep, 

 And homestead, than to hunt their feed, 

 Precarious through the snow-clad mead." 



SUCH is the wholesome activity of the farmer's life, that 

 there is not a day in the year which need t>3 spent iu 

 idleness. In the most dreary seasons, when storms of 

 wind and rain, or heavy falls of snow, put a stop to all 

 o2 



