508 



NEW ENGLAND FARMER. 



Nov 



than ever before ; and we were thankful that this, [old chimney in the middle of the dwelling is almost 

 at least, was born like Pallas, in fullest beauty, and falling down. Old sheds, and a well-house, aiid 



The 



after 



and 



the other outbuildings, are in ruins. Little irregu- 

 lar enclosures divide the farm, especially near the 

 buildings, into ill shaped yards, and the old stone 

 walls are crooked and covered with moss. 



In that old house, you may be sure there lives an 

 old man, and those things so forbidding to us, are 



asked no waiting for to exhibit perfection. 



All things prospered under our hands, 

 trees grew while we were sleeping. Year 

 year, they awakened in the spring time, 

 stretched out their hands towards each other, near- 

 er and nearer. Shooting upwards, they have spread 

 a curtain across the sunlight, and while watching' his idols. He, in the days of his strength, built the 

 the Uttle birds in their nests on the branches, we | house, and according to the light he had, arranged 

 have almost forgotten the life-giving sunshine, and j his home. Here were his barns for his cattle, his 

 the glowing pictures which lie behind them. places for his swine and poultry, his calves and his 



The lawn, at length, is crowded with shrubs and j colts, and while his wife was spared, and his boys 



were at home, all was kept in order. But the 

 lights of his house, one by one, have gone out, 

 and alone he bides his time. His memory is his 

 vision. He sees by the "light of other days," and 

 will hear of no change, no innovation upon the 

 home of his youth and manhood. Let his monu- 

 ments of buried hopes and vanished pleasures be 

 sacred. 



Soon we may pass that way again, and thought- 

 lessly we exclaim, what an improvement has been 

 made. The old house has been recreated. New 

 doors and larger windows, porticos and verandahs, 

 with paint or stucco, have transformed the old man- 

 sion to a modern villa. The old walls are torn 

 down, the little yards have vanished with the little 

 decayed sheds which they surrounded, and modern 

 taste has profited by the work of near a century, 

 and brought the fine old oaks and elms into cen- 

 tres of beautiful lawns. The old man has died, and 

 his home has been sold, and now, while we bless 

 the new beauty that comes over his old home, let 



vines. The trees are striving upward for light, 

 with long and naked stems. The hemlock and 

 the larch have but dry sticks in place of their grace- 

 ful lower branches. The pine is thinking of utih- 

 ty, and trying to become a mast. The hedge is 

 dying of sheer mortification, that every other tree 

 should tower above it, and the beautiful green 

 grass, our first and early love, no longer cherished 

 with the dew and sunlight shed uj)on it, has well 

 nigh perished. 



What shall we do ? We are sure we cannot 

 save all, but Uke our pioneer in the story, we can- 

 not decide which shall perish, and usually, we re- 

 main undecided, and a worse than pristine wilder- 

 ness shrouds our dwelling. In the older villages 

 of New England, we as often see the want of thin- 

 ning out as the want of planting ; and the task of 

 destroying is far more difficult and more delicate 

 than that of creating. We see that our grounds 

 are crowded, and yearly becoming more tangled, 

 and disorderly. We cannot help suspecting that 



comfort and health, even, are affected by the damp- us drop a tear over his idols that are thus pitiless 



ness of too much shade ; but where shall we apply 

 the destroying axe ? 



Tliis tree was the gift of a friend who is far away; 

 another was brought from the woods with the help 



ly broken. The new is not so sacred as the old. 



Still, the work of thinning out must sometimes 

 be done. Often, we live on from year to year, and 

 the vegetation around us changes imperceptibly to 



of a brother, and together we placed it where it is us, and we vainly imagine that the grace and beau- 

 growing. That vine reminds us of one whose | ty which we sought so carefully, and for which we 



memory is sacred, for it was her favorite flower ; 

 and this shrub came from the old homestead, and 

 so has a peculiar value. Then there are the noble 

 elms and maples, too noble to be ruthlessly slain ; 

 and so, though we appreciate the necessity of the 

 sacrifice, our hands almost refuse the office of the 

 high priest. 



Great reverence is due to the objects of any man's 

 affection, be they human, or no more than inani- 

 mate. Lov.e makes all things sacred. The very 

 idols of the pagan should not be profaned, or treat- 

 ed with disrespect, even, could we not offer him a 

 more worthy object of adoration. Often as we 

 travel through the older portions of the Northern 

 States, we see some old farm-house and its sur- 

 roundings, an object almost of disgust, from its neg- 

 lected and dilapidated condition. The house is 

 unpainted and black ; the glass is small, and the 



grouped our trees, and arranged our walks, has 

 been attained, when, to a stranger's eye, our dwell- 

 ing is surrounded by a thicket as uninviting as an 

 alder swamp. 



The man who can live and not grow old, — and 

 there are some such — who can continue to cultivate 

 his taste, can sympathize with the young, and not 

 forget the aged, who can appreciate new beau- 

 ty, and still revere the old, may satisfy the de- 

 mands of public taste, wnile he preserves about his 

 home all that with him constitutes its identity. — 

 A rural home, even of ten year's growth, requires 

 often as much cutting away as transplanting. 

 Great improvement may at once be made in this 

 way by a judicious hand, without desecration. 



We have labored hard to induce men to plant 

 trees, and have no regrets for such teachings. The 

 bare suggestion that there is an extreme opposite 



