MY VINEYARD. 143 



wrong notion that farm labor is not compatible with re- 

 finement ; the dirty boots and coarse blouse in which you 

 drive your team afield, do not militate against the finest 

 slippers and most spotless linen when you repair to the 

 drawing-room. But is there room for mental culture ? In 

 no employment is there more, except it be a purely profes- 

 sional one. Or perhaps I should say, might there be more. 

 At present, farmers work too much, more than is needful 

 or profitable. From sun to sun is too long for any man 

 to work. But we are making progress ; books, and pa- 

 jjers, and magazines, are everywhere, bringing with them 

 thought and refinement. On how many tables among my 

 neighbors would you expect to find the Atlantic f You 

 would be surprised that the number is so great. The 

 truth is, there is already more of social refinement among 

 people who work — actually work with their own hands — 

 than you of the city seem to suppose. 



For my part, I believe in farming. Should you con- 

 clude to try your hand at it, I hope you may meet with 

 no serious disappointments, which you will not, if you 

 love, as I do, to go out and work " among sweet dews and 

 flowers." * * * 



