ent orators.

The idealized farmer, as he is depicted by these white-handed
rhetoricians who, like John Paul, "would never lay hand to a plow,
unless said plow should actually pursue him to a second story, and then
lay hands on it only to throw it out of the window," and the phlegmatic,
overworked, horny-handed tillers of the soil are no more alike than
Fenimore Cooper's handsome, romantic, noble, and impressive red man of
the forest and the actual Sioux or Apache, as regarded by the cowboy of
the West.

It's all work, with no play and no proper pay, for Western competition
now prevents all chance of decent profits. Little can be laid up for old
age, except by the most painful economy and daily scrimping; and how
can the children consent to stay on, starving body and soul? <i>That</i>
explains the 3,318 abandoned farms in Maine at present. And the farmers'
wives! what monotonous, treadmill lives! Constant toil with no wages, no
allowance, no pocket money, no vacations, no pleasure trips to the city
nearest them, little of the pleasures of correspondence; no time to
write, unless a near relative is dead or dying. Some one says that their
only chance for social life is in going to some insane asylum! There
have been four cases of suicide in farmers' families near me within
eighteen months.

This does not apply to the fortunate farmer who inherited money and is
shrewd enough to keep and increase it. Nor to the market gardener, who
raises vegetables under glass; nor to the owners of large nurseries.
These do make a good living, and are also able to save something.

In general, it is all one steady rush of work from March to November;
unceasing, uncomplaining activity for the barest support, followed by
three months of hibernation and caring for the cattle. Horace Greeley
said: "If our most energetic farmers would abstract ten hours each per
week from their incessant drudgery and devote them to reading and
reflection in regard to their noble calling, they would live to a better
purpose and bequeath better examples to their children."

It may have been true long years ago that no shares, factory, bank, or
railroad paid better dividends than the plowshare, but it is the veriest
nonsense now.

Think of the New England climate in summer. Rufus Choate describes it
eloquently: "Take the climate of New England in summer, hot to-day, cold
to-morrow, mercury at eighty degrees in the shade in the morning, with a
sultry wind sou