AN OLD-STYLE FARM. 19 



talk of the new " howsen " along the way ; they dis- 

 cuss the last Sunday's sermon : Enos says, " I've 

 heerd that Hosea Wood is a cortin' JYlalviny Smith." 



" Don't b'lieve a word on't, Enos. No sich a 

 thing. Did you put a baitin' for the hoss in the 

 waggin, Enos ? " 



" No, I vum ! I forgot it," says Enos. 



" What a plaguey careless creeter you're a gittin' 

 to be, Enos ! " 



And so the good worthy couple jog on. In town, 

 the jug is filled ; the stout matron peers through her 

 spectacles at tapes, thread, needles, and a stout " cal- 

 iker " gown (fast colors) for Sally Ann. Pater-fami- 

 lias sees to the filling of the flat jug, he makes a fair 

 sale of the two quarters of veal, he buys a few " gard- 

 ing " seeds, a new rake, a scythe snathe, and dickers 

 for a grindstone unavailingly. Two hours before 

 nightfall, the good couple jog homeward again, with 

 humdrum quietude. 



It is not such a scene of domesticity as I ever 

 forecast for my own enjoyment. I believed, and still 

 believe, that the dead life upon the back country 

 New England farms, is capable of being stirred into 

 a live life. Over and over I forecast the day when 

 the inequalities should be smoothed, the swamps 

 drained, the woodlands cleared up, (leaving only here 

 and there some clump of giant oaks or chestnuts 



