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THE GENTLEMAN FARMER.
He owned the farm—at least 'twas thought
He owned, since he lived upon it,—
And when he came there, with him brought
The men whom he had hired to run it.
He had been bred to city life
And had acquired a little money;
But, strange conceit, himself and wife
Thought farming must be something funny.
He did not work himself at all,
But spent his time in recreation—
In pitching quoits and playing ball,
And such mild forms of dissipation.
He kept his "rods" and trolling spoons,
His guns and dogs of various habits,—
While in the fall he hunted coons,
And in the winter skunks and rabbits.
His hired help were quick to learn
The liberties that might be taken,
And through the season scarce would earn
The salt it took to save their bacon.
He knew no more than child unborn,
One-half the time, what they were doing,—
Whether they stuck to hoeing corn,
Or had on hand some mischief brewing.
His crops, although they were but few,
With proper food were seldom nourished,
While cockle instead of barley grew,
And noxious weeds and thistles flourished.
His cows in spring looked more like rails
Set up on legs, than living cattle;
And when they switched their dried-up tails
The very bones in them would rattle.
At length the sheriff came along,
Who soon relieved him of his labors.
While he became the jest and song
Of his more enterprising neighbors.
Back to the place where life began,
Back to the home from whence he wandered,
A sadder, if not a wiser man,
He went with all his money squandered.
MORAL.
On any soil, be it loam or clay,
Mellow and light, or rough and stony,
Those men who best make farming pay
Find use for brains as well as money.
—Tribune and Farmer.
FRANK DOBB'S WIVES.
"The great trouble with my son," old Dobb observed to me once, "is that he is a genius."
And the old gentleman sighed and looked with melancholy eyes at the picture on the genius's easel. It was a clever picture, but everything Frank Dobb did was clever, from his painting to his banjo playing. Clever was the true name for it, for of substantial merit it possessed none. He had begun to paint without learning to draw, and he could pick a tune out of any musical instrument extant without ever having mastered the mysteries of notes. He talked the most graceful of airy nothings, and could not cover a page of note paper without his orthography going lame, and all the rest of his small acquirements and accomplishments were proportionately shallow and incomplete. Paternal partiality laid it to his being too gifted to study, but the cold logic, which no ties of consanguinity influenced, ascribed it to laziness.
Frank was, indeed, the idlest and best-natured fellow in the world. You never saw him busy, angry, or out of spirits. He painted a little, thrummed his guitar a little longer or rattled a tune off on his piano, smoked and read a great deal, and flirted still more, all in the same deliberate and easy-going way. Any excuse was sufficient to absolve him from serious work. So he lead a pleasant, useless life, with Dobb senior to pay the bills.