Perhaps I have said enough to prove that life in a bucolic solitude may be something more varied than is generally—don’t let that old peddler come into the house, say we want nothing, and then tell the ladies I’ll be down directly—and, O Ellen, call Tom! Those ducks are devouring his new cabbage-plants and one of the calves has got over the stone wall and—what?
“He’s gone to Dog Corner for the cow-doctor.”
—Yes, more varied than is generally supposed!
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PROSE OF NEW ENGLAND FARM LIFE
A life whose parlors have always been closed.
IK MARVEL.
Sunshine is tabooed in the front room of the house. The “damp dignity” of the best-room has been well described: “Musty smells, stiffness, angles, absence of sunlight. What is there to talk about in a room dark as the Domdaniel, except where one crack in a reluctant shutter reveals a stand of wax flowers under glass, and a dimly descried hostess who evidently waits only your departure to extinguish that solitary ray?”
At a recent auction I obtained twenty-one volumes of State Agricultural Reports for seventeen cents; and what I read in them of the Advantages of Rural Pursuits, The Dignity of Labor, The Relation of Agriculture to Longevity and to Nations, and, above all, of the Golden Egg, seem decidedly florid, unpractical, misleading, and very little permanent popularity can be gained by such self-interested buncombe from these eloquent 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.