with boats moored here and there, which
anybody might take to go anywhere, and
stay as long as they liked, and nobody care:
a sort of general property, used in a
primitive way.

The house was one of those square, compact,
two–storey frame edifices, which, rare
in England, are found at every turn in
the rural districts of the older American
states. It had its little plot of open lawn
in front, with here and there a clump of
elms, surrounded by a neat little trellis
fence, and adorned by a pretty porch with
shrubs about it.

This was to be our pleasant summer
home. We received a hearty welcome from
the farmer and his family, and were speedily
settled in the airy "best bedroom," first
floor front, from which a short passage, or
closet, led to a smaller apartment, also
designed for our party. The room had the
freshest, cleanest smell in the world. How
thoroughly the bare wooden floor had been
scrubbed, how stiffly starched were the
curtains, how perfectly pure the not too
coarse cotton sheets! The good farmer's
mother stared out, not uncheerfully, upon
us from the wall; to be sure, she looked as
if she were on the point of tumbling forth on
the washingstand, but as the danger did not
seem to disturb her, it need not disturb us.
The walls were plainly white–washed, the
furniture was uncertain: you ran some peril
if you sat down in a chair, without testing
the capabilities of its legs beforehand.
A few books, a novel by James, Watts's
hymns, Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy,
and a very, very ancient "Keepsake," were
primly arranged on the table.

We were called down betimes to have
a "snack o' vittles;" Farmer Standish
"'sposed we must be 'tuckered out'
by our journey, and hungry as a wood–
chuck." To the fare we did full justice,
blessing the fortune which led us to
so groaning a table of healthy, substantial,
and really enjoyable, dishes. We
adjourned to the "best sittin' room:" in
truth a somewhat dreary, sombre, and musty
apartment, full of strange daguerrotypes
and prints, and stiff chairs, and fancy needle–
work framed and hung. But here was a
piano; and Farmer Standish had promised
that "our Nance," as he styled his eldest
daughter, should regale us with some music.
And she gave us a treat; for she sang a
pretty ballad with a sweet voice, and real
feeling.

Before we retired, we made known to
our host a heroic resolution with which we
had left town. In a sudden zeal of muscular
Christianity, we had determined to do some
amateur farming; to rise with the lark, and
till the earth with our own hands. The
squire laughed when we stated our resolve,
and said, "All right; but you'll not stick to
it, I'll be bound!" He promised, nevertheless
to have us called and give us a "chore
or two" in the morning.

We had hardly, as it seemed, got snugly
cuddled up in bed, when "thump! thump!"
came at our door, and Pat's rich Irish
brogue broke rudely in upon our slumbers.
In the city we were accustomed to nine
o'clock ablutions and ten o'clock breakfasts;
but now, as we lifted our exceedingly
heavy heads, the grey dawn was but
just reddening the furthest east. "Surrs,
misther says ye were to be called; breakfasht
is all ridy and shmokin'." There was nothing
for it but to slip on our clothes, descend
to the floor below, and eat what we could of
the substantial fare there awaiting us. At
all events, we saw the beginning of the
farmer's day; the early bustle in the barnyard,
where Tom was yoking the oxen, and
the good dame was attending to the cows;
where the cocks and hens were just scattering
over the grassplot, and the farm "hands"
were sharpening the scythes. As we were
getting ready to follow the farmer fieldward,
the sun rose; but friend Wilkins, who had
never seen the sun rise before, yawningly
declared that it was "a most disgusting
sight."

I will not relate in detail the experiences
of that toilsome day. We were set to hoeing
potatoes, but threw up our hoes just as
the squire had got well to work; then we
had a lesson at mowing, but Wilkins ripped
his fanciest summer trousers, and his
rebellion thereupon infected his companions;
next we went to the more humble work
of gathering currants from the garden
for the dame's winter jellies, but, of a
sudden, found ourselves lying at full length
among the bushes, converting the fruit, as
lawyers say, "to our own use;" and then
Wilkins pulled out his pipe, and the other
two of us, ours, and that was the last of our
boasted usefulness for that day. What a
useless thing, to be sure, is your town hand
in the country! Before we knew where we
were, the farmer, his sons, and his labourers,
came straggling home from all directions
to dinner; and Nancy came to fetch us
from our ignominious retreat to the midday
meal. The New England farmers dine
at high noon; and all hands came in hot
and hungry excepting the "city folks" who