THE DAILY LIFE OF OUE FARM. 93 



the region of musty books. My wife comes, however, 

 and throws up a window (she is very fond of throwing 

 a light upon the subject ; I often expect that, in an 

 excess of misplaced energy, she may some day, inad- 

 vertently, of course, make me see a multitude of 

 dancing stars) ; whereupon immediately out comes the 

 imprisoned delicious sweetness. This is a return for a 

 dodge I taught her, which if you promise to be grate- 

 ful, gentle reader, I don't mind telling you. It is that 

 you can preserve a bouquet for a long time in its fresh- 

 ness, if you cut off daily the stalk ends and put some 

 camphor in the water. Talking of water, the dissolving 

 snow has carried away cartloads of the surface of one 

 of our sideland fields sown with oats, tearing up extem- 

 pore channels with reckless force. I hope the oat-seed 

 may prove acceptable to the cray fish in the brook at 

 the bottom. 



Another botheration for which we have to thank our 

 light sandy soil is that it works up into the ewes' claws, 

 eating right into the quick with an effect as irritating as 

 unsolicited advice. 



Having just strolled around the premises, I have 

 been greeted more than once with a half-playful "If 

 you please, sir, you were before me this morning ; 

 but you'll not be again." I reply, "How is it that 

 whenever I do make one of these forays, I invariably 

 am before you ? " Be it confessed, sub rosd, that I do 

 not often make them, preferring, as a rule, to read late 

 into the small hours. An occasional upset of this sort, 

 however, acts medicinally on the men for some time 

 to come. 



This lovely April morning the bees are busy amidst 

 flowers in the greenhouse, into which they travel by the 



