AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
71 
Waites' $taartnuttj 
JOURNAL OF A FARMER’S WIFE.—NO. 3. 
Monday , October 3d .—Rain last night; cleared 
off this morning with a cold blustering wind 
from the north-west. A little fire felt comfort¬ 
able for the first time this season. Am not 
sorry for the change, as it rids us of flies and 
musquitoes. Ordinarily we are little troubled 
with the latter; but for the past two months 
they have been quite annoying after sunset. I 
suppose it is the wet season and very hot wea¬ 
ther combined, which have caused so many to 
favor us with their tuneful company this year. 
I prefer the bluster of a cold wind to their music 
any time, especially when accompanied with 
punctures from their sharp bills. 
In the afternoon, my husband went down to 
the railroad depot at the village, for a favorite 
cousin of mine, Clarissa Greenwood, whom 
we are expecting from one of the river towns 
of my own native State—good old Massachusetts 
I hope he will find the Agriculturist at the post- 
office, for I am all impatience to see whether 
the editor has accepted the first stray leaves 
from my journal. Usually we get the Agricul¬ 
turist Saturday after publication, but I suppose 
some careless postmaster, or perhaps a more 
careless clerk in the publishing office, has been 
negligent of his duty, just at this time, when I 
want to see it quickest; and here am I tantalized 
two whole days by its non-arrival: ’tis really 
provoking. 
Went into the kitchen to see how Biddy was 
getting along. The sponge-cake was done 
beautifully; but before putting in the biscuit, 
she had heated the stove too hot, and there it 
was, burnt as black as a coal! Strange she can 
never exercise a nice judgment in such matters 
However, come to inspect it more critically, I 
found the dough had not risen well, so they 
would have been heavy at best. No great dis¬ 
appointment to my husband, for he is always 
opposed to warm bread or biscuit being set on 
the table; says they are positively unhealthy, and 
that stale bread is much to be preferred. I’ll 
make a little toast out of the latter, which, with 
the large luscious baked pears and apples, will 
do us excellently well for tea. I am not at all 
afraid of my cousin being dissatisfied, for I re¬ 
collect, though she was much my junior, that 
she always cared more for her books than for 
what she had to eat or wear—a matter not so 
common now-a-days with young ladies. 
I had scarcely arranged things, when my 
husband drove up with dear Clarra, as we call 
her. I ran out overjoyed to see her, for we had 
not met since she was nineteen, and that was 
eight years ago. I found her just as blooming 
as ever, with the same bewitching expression— 
bright, speaking hazel eye, and dark glossy 
hair, crowning a forehead which is superb even 
in a woman. The only change I can see is, she 
has grown a little stouter in person, and seems 
a thought more sedate. But delighted as I was 
by her presence once more, I could not but 
think of the paper; and just as soon as de¬ 
cency permitted, I stole off to our little sitting- 
room, and turning over the bundle my husband 
had laid oil the table, I found the Agriculturist. 
How my heart beat as I took it up, and trem¬ 
blingly tore open its leaves to learn my fate! 
Oh, what a good man you are, Mr. Editor ! 
There, to my great delight, I found the first 
part of my journal, every word of it exactly as 
I wrote it down. How nicely it is printed; how 
beautifully it looks 1 I declare I could not help 
pressing it to my heart. Excuse my raptures, 
Mr. Editor, for it is the first time I ever saw 
effusion of mine in print. You may count now 
on our subscription for life. 
But to conclude the story, I hid the paper 
away immediately after perusing my part of it, 
determined that no one should see it that night. 
However, the fates determined differently; for 
after tea, sitting in the parlor talking quietly 
about old times with Cousin Clarra, while my 
husband was deeply absorbed with his weekly 
political paper, to my utter dismay, in rushed 
Johnny, the Agriculturist wide open in his 
hand, with— 
“ Oh, ma, Willy says we’re all here in the 
paper, and he’s sure no one but you could put 
us there.” 
“What is that?” asked my husband, some¬ 
what sternly, and greatly surprised. 
“ Nothing at all of any consequence,” I re¬ 
plied, my face at the same time coloring to the 
deepest scarlet, and I felt as if I should sink to 
the earth. 
“Let me see,” said my husband; and snatching 
the paper from Johnny, he quickly ran his eye 
down the first column. I watched him intently. 
He had scarcely reached the bottom of it, before 
his fixed expression began to relax; then he 
smiled and went on to the next column. In a 
few minutes he finished the article; then looking 
approvingly up, he continued, “Very well, 
Bessy ; very well indeed for a first performance. 
But why didn’t you show it to me before send¬ 
ing it to the printer ? You are unaccustomed to 
writing, and might have made some great mis¬ 
take, which, poor a critic as I am, I could pos¬ 
sibly have corrected. But, didn’t I surprise 
you with the washer, and Biddy too ? I thought 
she would look upon it as pretty ‘ quare .’” 
Here he burst out into a hearty laugh, and then 
added, “But, Bessy, you make me a little too 
obstinate in arguing with Willy, I think.” 
“ Not at all,” replied Clarra, who in the mean¬ 
while had got hold of the Agriculturist , and 
dashed through my lucubration; “if you had 
not been one of the most obstinate of men, or 
at least very persevering, you would not have 
robbed us of our gentle cousin Elizabeth here, 
as you did some fifteen years ago, when I was 
quite a child, and have kept her to yourself so 
much, that we have only seen her thrice at our 
house since she was married.” 
“All her own fault, then, for I have offered to 
take her to Massachusetts every year since we 
were married; and then how often have I im¬ 
plored you to come and spend as long a time as 
you could endure with us; and yet, after years 
of importuning, this is the first you have set 
foot upon our threshold.” 
“Well, never mind; now, lam here, I will 
stay till you get tired of me, depend on it. 
And now let me tell you this is a good article, 
if Cousin Elizabeth did write it ; and as to the 
next, if she wants any of my poor assistance, 
she shall have it.” 
“And mine too,” added Willy, “although I 
have only just begun chemistry.” 
“What do you say to all that, Mr. Practical?” 
asked Cousin Clarra of my husband; “won’t 
you volunteer also?” 
“ No, indeed; I’ll not disturb so wise and hap¬ 
pily combined a trio; I’ll only claim the privi¬ 
lege of olstimtely arguing,” said he, winking 
slily at Clarra, and strongly emphasizing the 
last but one word. 
“Agreed, then,” she rejoined, “and be as ob¬ 
stinate as you please; we’ll report you faith 
fully, and I’ll venture to say you will find us 
rather too many for you before we get through.” 
Tuesday , 4 th. —The wind went down with 
the sun last evening, and a slight frost fell dur¬ 
ing the night, the first we have had this season. 
I have been out in the garden, and find it 
has done but trifling injury. Some of the most 
tender vines and plants are a little wilted, now 
the sun has been out several hours; but the 
dahlias, and all the other flowers I most value, 
are unharmed. In the afternoon, warm again, 
and one of the sweetest of October’s delightful 
days. Took a long ramble with my cousin and 
the children, through our romantic woods, and 
over the fields. What a fund of knowledge she 
possesses—it really surprises me. Every wild 
flower she knew instantly, and could name and 
describe it botanically; and what I most admired, 
poetically also. She gathered in our ramble no 
less than fourteen different kinds of grasses, 
growing in our fields, the half of which I never 
observed before; every plant and weed was 
familiar to her; and as to the shrubs and trees j 
she had them and their uses at her fingers’ end. 
The birds, she seemed to know half as well as 
a Wilson or Audubon ; and what was most 
amusing to us, she beguiled the goldfinches (or 
rather yellow-birds, as we call them) with her 
chirping; mimicked the cat-bird and blue jay; 
tapped with a stick against a tall, dead tree, 
like an over-busy woodpecker; sang a plaintive 
air in accord with the blue-bird; and finished 
off by chasing butterflies with my little daugh¬ 
ter Susy ; and then, seizing Willy’s hammer he 
had carried out with him, knocked off pieces 
from half the stones in our path, and talked as 
learnedly as Doctor Particular could of geology, 
chemistry, and I don’t know what else. And 
all this was mingled with so much fun and 
sprightliness, that she amused and at the same 
time interested us all beyond measure. 
Wcdncsnay , 5th. —Blossoms have been coming 
out on our plum trees for a week past. One of 
them is almost entirely denuded of leaves, and 
presents a singular appearance with its snow- 
white petals peeping out at the ends of the 
branches. My cousin came in from a long walk 
with a bunch of wild strawberry blossoms. 
These, I believe, are not uncommon at this sea¬ 
son of the year; but fruit-tree blossoms are. 
What do they denote, a mild or severe winter ? 
Saturday , 8th. — As nothing particularly 
worth noting has transpired for the past two 
days, I skip them over, which I shall continue 
to do hereafter without comment. Weather 
warm in the afternoon, and a little hazy. I 
wonder if it be the commencement of Indian 
summer? I hope not, as I prefer it coming 
later in the season. 
-- 
Drinking water neither makes a man sick, nor 
in debt, nor his w T ife a widow. 
A Cure for the Troublesome. —A well-known 
physician in a certain town was very much an¬ 
noyed by an old lady who was always sure to 
accost him in the street for the purpose of tell¬ 
ing over her ailments. Once she met him in 
Broadway, as he was in a very great hurry. 
“Ah! I see you are quite feeble,” said the doctor; 
“shut your eyes and show me your tongue;” 
and the doctor, quietly moving off, left her stand¬ 
ing there for some time in this ridiculous posi¬ 
tion, to the infinite amusement of all who wit¬ 
nessed the scene. 
