THE DAILY LIFE OF OUR FARM. 261 



on just round the corner. There is no more undermining 

 — no more eating of the base. 



Already there are indications of a slimy deposit where 

 before the tale was of abstraction. 



It was the success of this plan, then, that I preferred 

 to watch yesterday to partridge-shooting. And there I 

 sat, so doing, with my gun beside me, on a sod for some 

 hours. For is not success sweet in all sorts and cases ? 

 Whether it come by demolition of the Irish Church, by 

 the looking into a loved one's eyes, or by the staving off 

 of a cantankerous, greedy river. There is no difference 

 in kind, as logicians say, only in degree. Quality the 

 same, sir, only a question of quantity as might be written 

 reflectively on comparison of a peasant's home-happi- 

 ness with that of the Baron banker. 



There is another matter in which I have been recently 

 interested, the results of which I will record, having had 

 several inquiries in consequence of my former statements 

 on the subject. I refer to the autumn planting of the 

 diseased potato tubers. Last year, through the way- 

 wardness of the man who had received the order, and 

 owing to my absence from home, the diseased tubers 

 thrown out of the crop on raising were left in a heap 

 uncovered through a slight frost. They moreover fer- 

 mented, and when planted were to a great extent half mud. 

 The consequence was that very few plants appeared 

 above the surface in the spring. Hoping on, I left them, 

 until fairly frightened by the gardener's remonstrances 

 that we should have no potatoes whatever for the use 

 of the house unless I did something quickly. It was 

 long after every one else had planted their spring crop 

 that I gave the reluctant order to plough up the ground, 

 and we planted the small round tubers reserved by the 



