152 , MY FARM. 



Bon-Chretien. Here and there I have religiously 

 guarded some old variety of Sugar-pear, or of Berga- 

 mot, by reason of the pleasant associations of their 

 names, and by reason of an old fashioned regard 

 which I still entertain for their homeliness of flavor. 

 I sometimes have a visit from a pear-fancier, who 

 boasts of his fifty or hundred varieties, who con- 

 founds me with his talk of a Beurre St. Nicholas, or 

 a Beurre of Waterloo, and a Doyenne Goubault, or a 

 Doyenne Robin ; I try to listen, as if I appreciated 

 his learning ; but I do not. My tastes are simple 

 in this direction; and I feel a blush of conscious 

 humility when he comes upon one of my old-time 

 trees, staggering under a load of fruit which are 

 not in the books. It is very much as if a gentleman 

 of the Universities, full of his book lore, were to 

 stroll into my library, talking of his Dibdins, and 

 Elzevirs, and Brunets ; with what a blush I should 

 see his eye fall upon certain thumb-worn copies of 

 Tom Jones, or the Vicar of Wakefield, or Defoe ! 



Yet these gentlemen of the special knowledges 

 have their uses the pear-mongers with the rest. 

 Not a season passes, but they discover and label for 

 us a host of worthless varieties. I only object to the 

 Bcornful way in which they ignore a great many 

 established favorites, which people will persist in 

 buying and eating. I remember that I once had the 



