262 



THE SOUTHE 



RN PLANTER. 



should not be suffered to pass, by those who 

 are behind their neighbors in practical and 

 theoretical know]edge,withoutsupplying them- 

 selves with the beacon lights of lite, books and 

 newspapers! There can be no excuse for not 

 having them; the modes of transmission are 

 easy a"nd expeditious, and the prices of sub- 

 scription, in all conscience, low enough to suit 

 the most economical. Read and reflect! — 

 Weekly N. A. Farmer. 



THE PLOUGH. 



The following tribute to the Plough, is ex- 

 tracted from a report recently made to the 

 Berkshire County Agricultural Society, by 

 Oliver Wendall Holmes. 



Clear the brown path to meet his coulter's 

 gleam ! 



Lo, on he comes behind his smoking team, 

 With toil's bright dew-drop on his sunburnt 

 brow, 



The lord of earth, the hero of the plough ! 



First in the field before the reddening sun, 

 Last in the shadows when the day is done, 

 Line after line along the bursting sod 

 Marks the broad acres where his feet have 

 trod; 



Still where he treads the stubborn clods divide, 

 The smooth fresh furrow opens deep and wide; 

 Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves; 

 Mellow and dark the ridgey cornfield cleaves; 

 Up the steep hill-sides where the laboring train 

 Slants the long track that scores the level 

 plain; 



Thro' the moist valley clogged with oozing 

 clay, 



The patient convoy breaks its destined way; 

 At every turn the loosening chains resound, 

 The swinging ploughshare circles glist'ning 

 round, 



Till the wild field one billowy waste appears, 

 And wearied hands unbind the panting steers. 



These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings 

 The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings; 

 This is the page whose letters shall be seen 

 Changed by the sun to words of living green; 

 This is the scholar whose immortal pen 

 Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men; 

 These are the lines, O heaven commanded 

 Toil, 



That fill thy deed — the charter of the soil! 



O, gracious Mother, whose benignant breast 

 Wakes us to life and lulls us all to rest. 

 How sweet th} features, kind to every clime, 

 Mock with their smiles the wrinkled front of 

 Time! 



We stain thy flowers— they blossom o'er the 

 dead ; 



We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread; 



O'er the red field that trampling strife has torn, 

 Waves the green plumage of the tasselled 

 corn ; 



Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest plain, 

 Still thy soft answer is the growing grain. 

 Yet, O, our mother, while uncounted charms 

 Round the fresh clasp of thine embracing 

 arms, 



Let not our virtues in our love decay, 

 And thy fond weakness waste our strength 

 away. 



No! by these hills, whose banners now dis- 

 played, 



In blazing colors Autumn has arrayed; 

 By yon twin crest, amid the sinking sphere, 

 Last to dissolve, and first to re-appear; 

 By these fair plains the mountain circle screens 

 And feeds in silence from its dark ravines; 

 True to their homes these faithful arms shall 

 toil 



To crown with peace theirown untainted soil; 

 And true to God, to Freedom, to Mankind, 

 If her chained bandogs Faction shall unbind, 

 These stately forms, that bending even now, 

 Bowed their strong manhood to the humble 

 plough; 



Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land, 

 The same stern iron in the same right hand, 

 Till Greylock thunders to the parting sun 

 The sword has rescued what the ploughshare 

 won! 



A WORD ABOUT GARDENING. 



No one can be truly said to live, who 

 has not a garden. None but those who 

 have enjoyed it can appreciate the satis- 

 faction — the luxury — of sitting down to a 

 table spread with the fruits of one's own 

 planting and culture. A bunch of radish- 

 es — a lew heads of lettuce — taken from a 

 garden on a summer's morning for break- 

 fast; or a mess of green peas or sweet corn, 

 is quite a different affair from market in a 

 dying condition, to be put away in the cel- 

 lar for use. And a plate of strawberries 

 or raspberries lose none of their peculiar 

 flavor by passing directly from the border 

 to ihe cream, without being jolted about in 

 a basket until they have lost all form and 

 comeliness. And yet, how many in the 

 smaller cities and villages of our country, 

 possessing every facility for a good gar- 

 den, either through indolence or ignorance, 

 are deprived of Ihis source of comfort. — 

 And how many iarmers, with enough land 

 lying waste to furnish them with most of 

 the luxuries of life, are content to plod on 

 in the even tenor of their way, never rais- 

 ing their tastes above the "pork and beans" 

 of their fathers. 



