racks for wheat
and hay, and cribs for corn, on the left. There is already a fine
meadow of timothy, with white-ash shade trees, waving on the north; a
pasture beyond the garden on the east, and a wheat-field on the south.
Then a cornfield greets you west, and your eyes enjoy the scene.

Around this lovely spot, the distance of a field on either side of the
house, the woods still wave their crowns of majesty, and hide the
Owasco, and most of the Cayuga from view.

As master of this little rural domain, you behold Matthew Fabens, now
grown to ample manhood; and he would make a fine bust for Powers to cut
in marble. He stands six feet one without his shoes; he is straight as
the white-ash shade tree that honors the north meadow; and his body,
and arms, and legs, are round, and hard, and clean. He has a fine
turned head, deficient most in caution; high in benevolence,
veneration, and conscientiousness; and full in the regions that show he
can construct his own implements and comforts; arrange his farm with
order and taste; estimate values at a glance, and cast up accounts
without a slate and pencil. He has a fine turned Roman nose of the
cleanest and fairest skin; he has a well-shaped ear, rounded, and
separate at the bottom from the head; he has brown hair, and dark gray
eyes; he has a noble face and brilliant countenance; he has teeth
standing straight, and square and separate, and though they never were
brushed, they glisten with the cleanest and smoothest ivory polish; he
has a good-sized mouth, not too compressed, like a skin-flint's, nor
too open or lax like a fool's. He has a chin, throat, and chest,
showing energy of soul and body combined; and if twenty years older, he
would do fine honors to a president's chair.

Yonder, in the garden, arranging beds for winter vegetables, and
tending a few simple flowers, you behold Julia Fabens, and she has
quite outgrown the bend in her good form, which hard work brought on at
Mason's, and looks more mature, and hardy; and she is diligent as a
parent robin, and rosy and glad as the sweet summer morn.

Wiping the sweat from their frank foreheads and faces, there in the
cool, fresh current of air, sit Major Fabens and his venerable wife,
come on to this new country to draw freer breath, taste fairer fruit,
see greener thrift, and make a good son happy; and they are just
returned from a ramble by the lake.

Out near the well curb, toward the green maple on the right, pl