He then shode me the remains of a young orchird; said he:  “The borers got into the roots of them trees, which trees cost me, within the last two yeer, about $5,000.00.  I tried all sorts of ways to get rid of them.  I even set my hired man to readin artikles on ‘What I know of farmin’ to ’em.  This put the grubs to sleep ’long at first, but they finally stopt their ears up with clay, and wouldent listen.  So that dodge was plade out.  I then bought a lot of ile of vitril and poured it about the roots of them trees, and I tell you, friend GREEN,” said he, as tickled as a boy with his first pair of new boots, “it would have made you laff to see them borers moosey.”

“But,” said I, “it killed them trees deader’n a smelt.”

“Which don’t amount to shucks, so long as the cause of sientific farmin is benifitted, by showin bugs that the superior critter man is too many meesles for the animile kingdom,” was his reply.

“Them trees over there,” said this distingished farmer, “was a present to me.  They come marked pine trees.  It is over three yeers since they was sot out, and not a solitary pine apple have they yielded yet.  I reckon it takes time for them to bear fruit,” said he in his simplisity.

“Not only time,” said I, somewhat surprised, “but if you live through all etarnity, you won’t see a darned apple on them trees.”

“But, Squire GREEN,” said he, with a downcast air, “H.  WARD BEECHER says pine apples grows on pine trees, and as long as brother B. spends all his salary in edicatin hisself for a farmer, he orter know.”

“Brother fiddlesticks,” said I, a little riled at hearin him cote H.W.B. as a farmist.  “HANK is a 4 hoss team at raisin food for the sowl; but when you come to depend on sich chaps to raise grub and other vegetables for the stomack, excoose me for sayin it, it haint H. WARD’S fort, no more’n it is mine to outsing NILLSON for the beer.”

We entered his poultry yard.

“You’re old peaches on raisin fouls, I’ve been told,” said I.

“Ker-r-rect,” said he, “chickens is my best holt.  Last spring I had a favorite speckled hen—­she was the specklest biped which ever wore feathers.  One day, I sot her on 300 eggs.  That fowl done her level best and spread evry feather, but she hadent enuff elasticity to cover so much territory at one settin.”

“Well, sir,” said he, straitenin his form, up to its full hite, “Sients come to my ade.  I got a feather bed, and with a glue pot bilt out that hen’s spread.”

“What,” I says, “the hen dident hatch all them eggs?”

“Not exsactly,” was his reply; “she would have hatched every egg, but—­but—­but—­,” and he broke down and bust into teers.

“But—­why?” I asked, soothin his perturbed spirrit.

“She had a great deal of pride that hen did.  She was terribly stuck up.  Just as she got settled down for a good square old-fashioned set, she was so proud of her position, that somehow or other, it struck in and killed her.”