THE WORK AND THE VOTING. 
EARLY all the articles entered for competition 
under “ Why I Love the Farm ” recited the rea¬ 
sons which lie directly on the surface. Freedom, quiet, 
beauty, healthful physical and moral atmosphere, 
abundance of table comforts, the fact that the farm 
was home, etc., appealed to all. Hence it became 
necessary to look for the prize articles among the few 
that gave additional reasons, or to seek those who gave 
these reasons most forcibly and in the best style in every 
way. It does not detract from the interest of those given 
to note how well the “C” article illustrates a point made 
by “ D,” viz., that life contains for us precisely what 
we put into it. That one writer should make his work 
an object lesson to L. pirate the points of another was 
surely hardly to be expected. 
Voting bulks are the same as before : Limit of 
time for voting, two weeks from date of present issue; 
no vote counted unless on a postal card, and telling 
why the favorite article is chosen ; each reader to have 
but one vote ; each voter to give his name and address. 
WHY I LOVE THE FARM. 
A. 
ET S see. why do I ? I do, that’s certain, but it's 
not an easy matter to think of all the reasons. 
Probably the principal one is because I am a farmer’s 
daughter and my home has always been on the farm. 
Because it is the very pleasantest place in the world 
to live. Because in the ccfuntry all is peace and 
quiet. As a city boy said, “ It is just like Sunday all 
the time.” 
Does not our city friend, Dorothy Deane, go into 
raptures over the singing of a bird and the peace that 
reigns in the country ? She is so enthusiastic over it 
all that she will be sure to win the prize if she tries 
for it, and disappoint all of us country girxs. 
If some of us country people had to. endure the ever¬ 
lasting din and racket of a city for a while, I think we 
would learn to appreciate the farm better. As to the 
isolation of farm life, I think that nowadays most 
country people have plenty of friends and associates, 
as well as town people. Some people think life on a 
farm is monotonous and unendurable. Work done out 
in the open fields could not be as monotonous as much 
of the work done in cities must be. As to the women’s 
work, there is the inevitable flower garden to take them 
outdoors for a change ; and trips to the garden to see 
how the strawberries are coming on, or if the peaches 
or tomatoes are beginning to ripen, or to gather vege¬ 
tables : or a walk after nuts “late in mild October.” 
And a trip to the woods is best of all. Then there are 
always the calves to be named and petted, and the 
hens to be fed and fussed with. And what makes a 
nicer pet than a tame old hen with her brood of 
chickens ? Or a tame flying squirrel found in the 
woods by some student of Nature? Oh, we farmer 
folks don’t work every minute of our lives. There is 
always time in the winter for reading and any favorite 
study ; for the farmers to study the science and art of 
agriculture ; and for volumes of old Rurals to be 
brought out and re-read. 
□ As far as eatables are concerned, where can any oDe 
fare better than on the farm. Think of unlimited 
quantities of strawberries fresh from the garden with 
“real country cream,” and other “garden sass ” to 
correspond. One country boy, when asked why he 
loved the farm, said, “ Because strawberries grow 
on it.” 
Of course on a farm there is always lots of work to 
be done, and this is one of the greatest blessings of 
life. We are never out of work, like so many thou¬ 
sands in cities. Last, but not least, because of the 
beautiful and ever changing scenery that surrounds 
us. Who could ever tire of it ? The distant slopes 
broken by occasional fences and trees; a winding bit 
of country road ; yonder is a glimpse of the village ; 
now and then a farmhouse surrounded by blossoming 
orchards: a bit of woodland dressed in the gorgeous 
hues of autumn ; a field 'of golden grain waving in 
the wind. Does not any of these make a picture? 
Then there are the trees; every one of them has 
some beauty. Some morning in early winter you 
behold a scene of unrivaled beauty. It has snowed 
during the night, and everywhere the dull black and 
gray of trees, shrubs and fences form a pleasing con¬ 
trast to the pure white. Every season has its beau¬ 
ties. In summer, after sunset, “ when the night is 
beginning to lower ” and the gorgeous clouds are 
fading, what a peaceful scene greets you. If you 
pause a moment to look at it, you hear the distant 
tinkle of a cow-bell and the leist notes pf a yobip, 
When I look on a scene like this, a bit of poetry that 
I have read somew;here often comes to my mind : 
The city blings us close to man. 
The country, near to God. 
B. 
H Y do I love the farm? Reasons so many come 
crowding for expression that I must discrim¬ 
inate or 800 words will be all too few. In the first 
place I do not love it—solely—for its cream and eggs. 
Incredible as it m«.y appear to town readers, the farm 
has other attractions beside its fresh fruits, vegetables, 
eggs and dairy products. Please do not understand 
that I undervalue these delicacies. My robust health 
and epicurean palate would rise up in reproach against 
such belittling. 1 protest simply against making them 
the sole point in favor of farm life. 
Neither do I underrate the benefits derived from 
pure, fresh country air—to breathe which is like an 
elixir; but pure air seems so entirely the farmer's 
heritage—so free a gift—that we sometimes forget to 
place it on our list of blessings. 
I am beginning, alas it “ was not always thus,” to 
love the farm for the wholesome discipline of health¬ 
ful work which gives to country boys and girls their 
glowing cheeks and developed muscles. A farmer’s 
leisure may be monotonous, if he makes it so, but his 
work is always varied and interesting. He has the 
gratification of knowing when night comes that he 
has done something during the day, something real, 
the effect of which will show in the future. How 
many other workers^ither with brain or hand, can 
be sure that their day’s work will produce aught that 
benefits? 
Farm life is not all work either. No tardy appreci¬ 
ation I offer for the invigorating rides and drivesln 
which city or town dwellers with like incomes cannot 
indulge. Then—though the purely practical minded 
may scoff at this —I love it for the sweet, dreamy, 
solemn evening stillness, with natural beauty all 
around, to foster whatever of poetry or art may be in 
one’s nature. 
The song of a bird is ever sweet, but when during 
a forest ramble one is greeted by a score, of tiny 
warblers, then there is music indeed. There is 
beauty, too, for woodland flowers are unrivaled in 
delicacy of form and color. I would forego far more 
exciting pastimes to enjoy an afternoon among forest 
trees. Perhaps this delight in nature is something 
for which to love the farm. 
feocial duties in the country are not numerous or 
exacting. I do not love isolation, still freedom—com¬ 
parative freedom—from social demands has gained me 
many a coveted hour for reading or study. 
Will the restriction of those 800 words allow just a 
mention of the “district school”—farm life naturally 
includes that institution—to be made ? My Alma 
Mater is a district school. I love it—and with reason. 
That this paper does not better exemplify its merits I 
regret; still they exist. Not the least of its virtues 
is that for which it is so often condemned—ungraded 
work. Such work makes it harder for the teacher, 
but, my bright boy or girl, you are the gainer. You 
escape the danger which threatens your city cousins, 
of being intellectually dwarfed by a system of over¬ 
grading. 
Finance ! Is this such an unhopeful subject for 
senti ment ? I have already confessed to some ajsthetic 
leanings, but I am, in truth, far too practical to love 
farm life if farming did not, and does not, pay—in 
dollars and cents. That I do love farm life is equiva¬ 
lent to saying, then, that farming—as far as my 
knowledge of it reaches—pays. The future, however, 
of this occupation, the “will pay,” is more to me than 
even its past or present. I believe that there are 
magnificent possibilities for the farmer—the farmer 
who will put heart and brain (the more of both he has 
the better) as well as bone and sinew into his work. 
I do not love the farm less for seeing thousands in its 
cultivation where our fathers only made hundreds. 
Beyond a doubt, “There is gold in the farm, boys, if you 
will but shovel it out ” And that gold can make the 
purchasable pleasures of this world as possible for you 
as if it represented the profits of loom or shop. I sup¬ 
pose there must be men and women for measuring off 
silks and ribbons, but let us country youths tlank 
God tbat circumstances have not forced us behind 
counters. Best and above all I love farm life for its 
comparative freedom from contaminating influences. 
To stand on life’s threshold with no evil habits to 
unform, no shattered nerves to rebuild, is something 
that even youth can value. Boys—and girls too— 
three cheers for farm life { I love it. 
c. 
HY Do I Love the Farm,” and “ The Eldest 
Daughter ? ” Well, I freely give my reasons 
for loving the farm, but, being naturally modest, I am 
somewhat reluctant in giving my reasons for my affec¬ 
tion for the eldest daughter. Therefore I will endeavor 
to name within 800 words some of the principahreasons 
for my endearment to the farm. 
In thinking over the reasons why I admire the farm, 
there is none that strikes me more forcibly than its 
freedom. Then the pleasant surroundings which lend 
a charm to any place. Though having but a humble 
home, I endeavor to supplement the efforts of mother 
and sisters on the interior by keeping the exterior, 
home and lawn, trees and shrubs, in a well-ordered 
condition. The noble old shade trees about the farm 
and dwelling, telling of past ages, while so comfort¬ 
able and refreshing to man and beast on a glowing 
summer day, and so beautiful in spring as they bud 
and bloom, the fruit trees yielding an abundance for 
man’s benefit, then all assuming the brilliant golden 
hues of autumn ; the abundant harvests after well- 
directed labor, following the springtime plowing, 
planting and culture, together with a well cared for 
orchard and fruit garden, constitute a principal de¬ 
light of the farm and rural life. 
There is hardly a thing that has aided more in mak¬ 
ing the farm dear to me than my sheep. How quickly 
they respond to a kind word or gentle caress. The 
sheep and lambs seem the very embodiment of inno¬ 
cence and affection. Their praises have been sung in 
pastoral poems and set forth by the inspired writer. 
There is no animal so noted for cleanliness, some of 
the ewes being veritable ladies, dainty in food and 
cultured in manner. It is a pleasure to form an ac¬ 
quaintance with each sheep, to note the difference in 
form and habit. There seem to be no two faces alike; 
each has its own individuality, its characteristic color, 
shape, size and appearance of intelligence, and I have 
named many of them from some peculiar feature. 
The sire is Major Domo. Then there is Madame 
Bangs with a forelock, Deacon with burnsides, Goggle 
Eyes with rings of darker wool about her eyes, and 
Woodchuck, a dark-faced, wide-awake, plump little 
fellow ; Lincoln, having eyes that seem almost human 
in intelligence, and Lincoln’s Sister ; Lady Somerset, 
remarkable for her beauty : Pepper Nose, Dame Skin¬ 
ner, that persists in rubbing the wool from her neck 
while eating, and Muckle Chops, a sleepy-looking, 
large-faced sheep One of my ambitions as a boy is to 
some dav own a sheep ranch of a few thousand acres 
of my native hills and mountains. 
There is on the farm a woodland finely located, 
through which we have cut roads, intending to make 
driveways. We are cutting the underbrush and less 
valuable timber, leaving the maples both large and 
small, ash, butternuts, hickories, etc. We named the 
woods “Sherwood Forest,” after that place of his¬ 
toric renown in England, famous as the rendezvous 
of Robin Hood, whence our ancestors came to this 
country in 1650. Near the center of these woods 
is a simple, inexpensive summer house, yet rustic and 
inviting. Not being able to spend the time or money 
to go to the sea-shore, here near at home, we can 
have a week’s genuine comfort and recreation and 
know that all is well on the farm. In these same 
woods at the approach of spring maple trees are 
tapped, the sap collected and evaporated in the sum- 
•’merhouse into that most delicious of sweets, maple 
sugar and syrup; and evaporating the sap by moon¬ 
light, as the light is flashed and reflected from tree to 
tree, the silence broken only by the cry of a distant 
screech owl, makes a sight and a sound weird to the 
timid mortal; yet the “ sugaring off,” as it is called, 
with a social company, is an occasion to be longed 
for by those who have never enjoyed such a pleasure. 
A natural pond on the place, by cleaning out and 
impounding the water, supplied by a small stream, 
affords a fine place for the angler, boating and bath¬ 
ing, furnishing the table with fresh fish during a large 
portion of the year. There are nut trees on the place, 
and many is the fine crack during long winter even¬ 
ings furnished by these trees. This is such a pleasant 
feature that I have planted walnuts, butternuts, hick¬ 
ory-nuts and chestnuts, which I hope to raise into 
trees. These are some of the reasons why I love the 
farm and which have rendered it dear to me, indeed. 
When Baby was sick, we gave her Castorla, 
When she was a Child, she orled for Castorla 
When she became Miss, she dung to Castorla 
When she had Children, she gave them Castorla, 
