g made it somewhat
doubtful if he should be able to carry out the policy of adjustment
to the extreme of schooling himself to bear with equal mind the daily
contact with the dirt and disorder which held so large a place in
the domestic economy of the Haley household. One thing he was firmly
resolved upon, he would henceforth perform his toilet in his own room,
and thereby save himself the horror of the family roller towel and the
family comb.

Breakfast over, the men stood waiting orders for the day.

"We'll have to crowd them turnips through, Tim," said his father, who
seemed to avoid as far as possible giving direct orders to his men.
"Next week we'll have to git at the hay." So to the turnip field they
went.

It is one of the many limitations of a city-bred boy that he knows
nothing of the life history and the culture of the things that grow upon
a farm. Apples and potatoes he recognises when they appear as articles
of diet upon the table; oats and wheat he vaguely associates in some
mysterious and remote way with porridge and bread, but whether potatoes
grow on trees or oats in pods he has no certain knowledge. Blessed is
the country boy for many reasons, but for none more than this, that the
world of living and growing things, animate and inanimate, is one which
he has explored and which he intimately knows; and blessed is the city
boy for whom his wise parents provide means of acquaintance with this
wonder workshop of old mother Nature, God's own open country.

Turnip-hoeing is an art, a fine art, demanding all the talents of high
genius, a true eye, a sure hand, a sensitive conscience, industry,
courage, endurance, and pride in achievement. These and other gifts
are necessary to high success. Not to every man is it given to become a
turnip-hoer in the truest sense of that word. The art is achieved only
after long and patient devotion, and, indeed, many never attain high
excellence. Of course, therefore, there are grades of artists in this as
in other departments. There are turnip-hoers and turnip-hoers, just as
there are painters and painters. It was Tim's ambition to be the first
turnip-hoer of his district, and toward this end he had striven both
last season and this with a devotion that deserved, if it did not
achieve, success. Quietly he had been patterning himself upon that
master artist, Perkins, who for some years had easily held the
championship for the district. Keenly Tim had been observing Perkins'