IN THE FRONT YARD. 3 



large farm well stocked — not a carpet on the floor — not 

 a rocking chair in the house — no books, magazines 

 or pictures — not a tree in the yard — not a shrub or 

 flower. It was grind, grind, grind for dollars from 

 early morning till late at night. The three daughters 

 who might have been ornaments to society were lured 

 away to lives of shame. The five boys ran away and 

 all but one became vagabonds. You do not want to 

 raise a family of boors — awkward and ill at ease in 

 society. You want them to be educated and refined. 

 Surround them with refining influences ; let them asso- 

 ciate with beautiful things. Grive them a taste of the 

 real luxuries and entertainments of life. Make the 

 home so attractive that it will be the dearest spot on 

 earth. 



My thoughts revert to the home of my friend, T. C. 

 Thurlow, of West :N'ewbury, Mass. His grandson is 

 the tenth generation born on the old place. Every 

 tree has a history. One Fourth of July we took din- 

 ner under a fine old elm his grandfather planted. 

 Back of the house is an artificial grove of spruce. The 

 rows are like columns in some grand cathedral. The 

 tops have woven a canopy of green that shuts out the 

 sun. The family are troubled with weak lungs. A 

 few years ago he planted some little white pines and 

 they are now a forest filling the air with healing. In 

 front of the house are thousands of the finest of 

 paeonies, and yonder such a field of glorious phloxes. 

 There are silver robed trees from the Kockies. Ever- 



