1862, 



NEW ENGLAND FARMER, 



27 



Fcr the New England Farmer. 

 CONTKASTS IN" FAKMING. 



ISIr, Editor : — A trlj) over what used to be tlio 

 main thoroughfare for travel between Northern 

 Vermont and New Ilampshii-e to Boston, in the 

 latter jiart of October, enaliled me to sec some- 

 tliing of tlie farmers and tk-ir farms 5 and, as I 

 have notliing better to do just now, I will venture 

 to write down a lew observations alx)ut tliem. 



Witliiu -a few j.ears, the ^enerai a])i)eara3ice of 

 the forms, in those -seetions of NewIIampybire and 

 Massachusetts through wlich I passed, has im- 

 proved very mucli. Neatly ])ainted houses, and 

 substantial, wcU finished barns, have taken the 

 places in many instances of those much Jess so : 

 and unmistakably prove tliat farming is not tiiways 

 "a losing business.*' But, O, tlie fences ! 



In speaking of houses, why do not more of our 

 farmers, who are about to build new ones, avail 

 themselves of the modern improvements in house 

 architecture ? Neat, tasteful and convenient 

 houses, like some of those designed for the Farm- 

 er, can be built at about the saine cost as the 

 square, old-fasliioned stnictures of a former age. 

 There is still in this enlightened age, and in our 

 owu New England, a great prejudice against "book 

 fai'raing," and, in passing along, one need not 

 greatly err in guessing where farmers of this stamp 

 live. The out-of-door as well as in-door indica- 

 tions that they don't afford to take agricultural pa- 

 pers, 37X5 too apjxirent to be mistaken. Look r4 

 exhausted fields, and the scanty yield of grain and 

 grass, and near by, immense deposits of muck un- 

 touched. Look at the rich swamp lands which 

 only need thorough drainage to make them equal 

 the prairies of the West. Look at the thousands 

 of brooks and rivulets, whose babblimg waters 

 might be made to irrigate tens of thousands of 

 acres, now paixhed and withered by every sum- 

 mer's sun, wliich, with a little knowledge and a 

 little labor, might be made to yield ten-fold. 



The scarcity of public houses upon the road 

 made it necessary to make the acquaintance of one 

 of this class of farmers, Avhere we sto])ped to get 

 oats for our horse. The great "barny" house M'as 

 situated close to the road, and, after an unwelcome 

 salutation from a great surly dog, and a "get out" 

 from Ills surly master, we ventured within. Our 

 '•^first impressions" of the dog and his master, and 

 their home, were not very favorable. Although he 

 treated us kindly, "get out" was written all over 

 his hard, solid face. His liistory of "hard times, 

 poor crops, liired man gone to the wars, sons to 

 California," was in perfect keeping with the out- 

 door embellishments of broken carts, plows, &c., 

 which lay scattered about. An almanac, an old ac- 

 count-book, and a newspaper of doubtful loyalty, 

 were the only evidences of a library, or of reading, 

 we could discern. Not a slii'ub, not a tree was vis- 

 ible to look upon, or break off the glare of the 

 noon-day's sun from his cheerless home. A beau- 

 tiful maple, spared by the woodman of another age, 

 he had cut down because "the plaguy birds built 

 their nests in its branches, and it prevented him 

 from seeing the cows when they got into the corn." 

 From youth to manhood and old age, here is no 

 improvement, and no more hopes of any than in a 

 Bedouin Arab. AVith another growl from the dog, 

 and another "get out" from the master, (which our 

 self-respect, and respect for human nature, makes 



us think was intended for the dog, and not for us,) 

 we bade liim good-ljye. 



Li striking contrast with this were the home 

 and character of another farmer. The neat and 

 tasteliil cottage situated mcU back from the road, 

 the beautiful lawn, the Avell-kept walks and drive- 

 ways, the well-built and convenient barn, the 

 flourishing orchard, the garden, with fruits and 

 fioAvers, and the work-sho]:i and library, were the 

 outward tokens of an intelligent farmer. The sin- 

 gle expression, "I cannot bear to be idle," explains 

 it all. The stranger, visitors, friends and kindred 

 find within neatness, order, elegance and refine- 

 ment, with true politeness M-hich springs only from 

 a kind and genial spirit. The birds find in him a 

 fnend, and build their nests close up to his very 

 door, and childhood, mute as to words, expresses 

 its consciousness of being loved, in the outbursts 

 of a joyous nature. Here is everything, thought I, 

 to make life happy, but, ah, not everything. That 

 priceless blessing, sound, robust health, has been 

 denied him. 



An educated, working farmer, with the moral 

 and social qualities duly cultivated, is the noblest 

 type of manhood. Such a man writes his history 

 on everything about him, and its bright pages will 

 be read long after he has passed away from the 

 living. North or South, such men are never big- 

 ots nor traitors ; and their example is much safer 

 and worthier of imitation than his whose footsteps 

 are followed by the tramp of armies. 



Farmers, "take the papers." Read, study and 

 experiment. "Let us improve the mind and the 

 soil," and the world will be the better for our hav- 

 ing Jived in it. s. 



Haverhill, N. K, Nov., 1861. 



"WHAT 'TIOIJGHING IT" MEANS. 



"Roughing it" has various meanings, and the 

 phrase is oftentimes ludicrously mistaken by many 

 individuals. A friend with whom we once trav- 

 elled, thought he was rougliing it daily for the 

 space of three weeks, because he was obliged to 

 lunch on cold chicken and uniced Champagne, and 

 when it rained, he was forced to seek shelter in- 

 side very inelegant hotels on the road. To rough 

 it, in the best sense of that term, is to lie down 

 every night with the ground for a mattrass, a bun- 

 dle of fagots for a pillow, and the stars for a cover- 

 let. To sleep in a tent is semi-luxury, and tainted 

 with too much effeminacy to suit the ardor of a 

 fu-st-rate "Rough." Pai'kyns, Taylor, Cumming, 

 Fremont and Kane have told us how much supe- 

 rior are two trunks of trees, rolled together for a 

 bed, under the open sky, to that soft, heating ap- 

 paratus, called a bed, in the best chamber. Every 

 man to his taste — of course, but there come occa- 

 sions in life when a man must look about him and 

 arrange for himself, somehow. The traveller wlio 

 has never slept in the woods, has missed an enjoy- 

 able sensation. A clump of trees makes a fine, 

 leafy post-bedstead, and to awake in the morning 

 amid a grove of sheltering, nodding oaks, is lung- 

 inspiring. It was the good thought of a wanderer 

 to say, "the forest is the poor man's jacket." Napo- 

 leon had a high opinion of the bivouac style of life, 

 and on the score of health, gave it the preference 

 over tent-sleeping. Free circulation is a great 

 blessing, albeit mc tliink its eulogy rather strongly 



