50 



THE GENESEE FARMER. 



Feb. 



CabicB' JDcpartmmt. 



JAUE AND JOHN, OF FA RMBESVILI.E. 



BY JAMES MAPLtTO>. 



Jake Grove was a pretty girl, or at least, most of 

 the young folks used to think so in Farmersville, 

 where she was " born and brought up ;" with the 

 exception of a jealous rival or two, who would 

 acknowledge the fact with a but. Jane, however, 

 unlike many ^r-(;<i^ gir'-s, was a girl o{ pretty good 

 sense. She was not spoiled by flattery, yet it was 

 nothing but her good sense that prevented it. 



Jane had many admirers among the young men of 

 the neighborhood, though all, for some cause or other, 

 seemed to be kept at rather a respectful distance — 

 too much so, for tlie liking of some of them it was 

 very currently reported, I recollect at the time, not 

 to mention some little experience I liad on the subject. 



At last, by some unforseen and altogether unac- 

 countable circumstance or other, John Elmlv seemed 

 to get the start of all the rest. He came out clear 

 ahead, and no one even thought that he was trying 

 at all. John was only a farmer's son. He was 

 working a small farm — some thought he rented it, 

 others that he worked it on shares, and still others, 

 that he had bought it — though the prospect was that 

 he never would pay for it. Hovever, we all con- 

 cluded that he Iiad no ambition above raising corn and 

 popatoes, while the rest of us where aiming to 

 become clerks and merchants, and lawyers and states- 

 men. We unanimously acknowledgedthat John was 

 a pretty good sort of a boy, and nobody's fool at that. 

 And after a while we made up our minds that the only 

 reason John was more successful than the rest of us, 

 was that none of the rest of us had ever tried. 



The old maxim that " the course of true love never 

 runs smooth," did not prove true in this case, for 

 before we expected it, or before any of the rest 

 of us could have " raised the wind" to build a decent 

 hen-co'ip, John had a nice little cottage built, and 

 him and Jane were declared " o»is." None of us 

 exactly liked his taste in building his cottage, — 

 though we thought it good enough, — and strangers 

 expressed their delight at its neat and pretty 

 appearance. 



Jane no sooner got " at home" in the cottage than 

 she commenced her work. Every day she might bo 

 seen early in the morning, and in the evening, in her 

 garden — making flower beds, and planting seed. 

 She did n't stand with her gloves on, and direct a 

 gardener, but went at it herself, with the spade and 

 the hoe. To-be-sure, John did the hardest of the 

 work, but Jane was the gardener. 



"That is just as I expected- — I knew he would 

 make a slave of her" — said one. " He will have her 

 out in the field digging potatoes soon," said another. 



But, Jane's sparkling eyes, that had smitten us in 

 other days, spoke of any thing but slavery — her 

 rosy cheek and joyous laugh, told not of unwilling 

 toil. 



" She will soon be burned as brown as a squaw," 

 said Miss Si'ruck, who could n't go into a room with 

 the curtains up, without a sun-bonnet on. 



Though Jane might be a little tanned, yet it was far 

 better than that sallow, billions look, that calls for the 

 frequent application of chalks and powders. 



" I should like to know what kind of a house- 

 keeper she is," said Miss Jealous. "I guess she 

 isn't very neat — she spends too much of her time 

 oat doors, to keep things tidy in the house." 



It is true Jane wasn't so very neat as to make 

 her husband pull off" his boots and leave them under 

 the fence as soon as he comes in sight of the house, 

 but the old ladies who called on Jank said she was 

 an "excellent house-keeper, and she and her cottage 

 was a pattern for all the young folks of the place." 



" Well, I do n't believe," said Miss Snifflin, 

 " that she ever cooks any thing. She spends so 

 much of her time fixing posies, and pulling up 

 weeds, that I guess there is rather poor fare at the 

 cottage. She never was much of a cook.'" 



But I can assert from experience that a dinner at 

 the cottage was no fast; for, after I got reconciled to 

 the matter a little, I often called, and had good reason 

 to know. Indeed, the elderly ladies of the place often 

 took tea with Jane, and I have it on their authority, 

 that Jane made "a good cup of tea," and always had 

 "two kinds of cake on the table"' — which I believe 

 is considered the ne plus ultra. 



But these stories soon began to prove old, — envy 

 and jealousy wore itself out — and now I believe it is 

 acknowledged that John has the prottiest wife — 

 Jane the best husband — and both together, the best 

 farm, the neatest garden, the prettiest cottage, and 

 the prettiest children in all Farmersville. 



Let ladies avoid the young man who does not 

 behave with respect and honor towards his mother, 

 and who is not courteous and kind to his own 

 sisters. 



OUR HOMESTEAD. 



Otir old brown homestead reared ita walls, 



From the wayside dust aloof. 

 Where the apple boughs eould almost cast 



Their fruitage on its roof: 

 And the cherry-tree so near it grew, 



Thnt when awake I've lain, 

 In the lonesome nights I've licard the limbs, 



As they rreaked against the pane: 

 And those orchard trees, oh, those orchard trees! 



I've seen my little brothers rocked 

 In their tops by the summer breeze. 



The sweet-brier under the window sill, 



Which the early birds made glad. 

 And the damask rose by the garden fenco. 



Were all tho (lowers we had. 

 I've looked at many a flower since then. 



Exotics rich and rare. 

 That to other eyes were lovelier, 



But not to me so fair: 

 For those roses bright, oil, those roses bright I 

 I have twined them with my sister's lock-s, 

 That are laid in the dust from sight! 



Wc had a well, a deep old well. 



Where the spring was never dry. 

 And the cool drops down from tho mossy stones 



Were fallmg constantly: 

 And there never was water half so sweet 



As that in my little cup. 

 Drawn up to the curb by tlio rude old sweep. 



Which my father's hand set up; 

 And that deep old well, oh. thaldeepold well! 



I remember yet the plashing sound 

 Ofthe bucket as it fell. 



Our homestead had an ample hearth, 



Where Ht night we loved to meet, 

 There my mother's voice was always sweet. 



And tliero I've sat on my fathers'« kneo, 

 And wutcheil his thoughtful brow, 



Witli my childish hand in his raven hair- 

 That hair is silver now! 

 But that broad heartli's light, oh, that broad hearth's light ! 



And my father's look, and my mother's smile, 

 Tbey are in my heart to-night. 



