or a wainscoting--made from
these long-seasoned, long-tried, richly toned timbers of the old
barn. But the smart-painted, natty barn that follows the humbler
structure, with its glazed windows, its ornamented ventilator and
gilded weather vane,--who cares to contemplate it? The wise human
eye loves modesty and humility; loves plain, simple structures;
loves the unpainted barn that took no thought of itself, or the
dwelling that looks inward and not outward; is offended when the
farm-buildings get above their business and aspire to be something
on their own account, suggesting, not cattle and crops and plain
living, but the vanities of the town and the pride of dress and
equipage.

Indeed, the picturesque in human affairs and occupations is always
born of love and humility, as it is in art or literature; and it
quickly takes to itself wings and flies away at the advent of pride,
or any selfish or unworthy motive. The more directly the farm savors
of the farmer, the more the fields and buildings are redolent of
human care and toil, without any thought of the passer-by, the more
we delight in the contemplation of it.

It is unquestionably true that farm life and farm scenes in this
country are less picturesque than they were fifty or one hundred
years ago. This is owing partly to the advent of machinery, which
enables the farmer to do so much of his work by proxy, and hence
removes him farther from the soil, and partly to the growing
distaste for the occupation among our people. The old settlers--our
fathers and grandfathers--loved the farm, and had no thoughts above
it; but the later generations are looking to the town and its
fashions, and only waiting for a chance to flee thither. Then
pioneer life is always more or less picturesque; there is no room
for vain and foolish thoughts; it is a hard battle, and the people
have no time to think about appearances. When my grandfather and
grandmother came into the country where they reared their family and
passed their days, they cut a road through the woods and brought
all their worldly gear on a sled drawn by a yoke of oxen. Their
neighbors helped them build a house of logs, with a roof of
black-ash bark and a floor of hewn white-ash plank. A great stone
chimney and fireplace--the mortar of red clay--gave light and
warmth, and cooked the meat and baked the bread, when there was any
to cook or to bake. Here they lived and reared their family, and
found life sweet. Their unw