A gleam of the afternoon sun—­as the clouds part awhile—­attracts one naturally to the window.  The thickness of the wall in which it is placed must be some two or three feet, so that there is a recess on which to put your arms, if you do not mind the dust, and look out.  The window is half open, and the sounds of the street come up, ‘baaing’ and bellowing and squeaking, the roll of wheels, the tramp of feet, and, more distant, the shouting of an auctioneer in the market-place, whose stentorian tones come round the corner as he puts up rickcloths for sale.  Noise of man and animal below; above, here in the chamber of science, vacancy and silence.  Looking upwards, a narrow streak of blue sky can be seen above the ancient house across the way.

After awhile there comes the mellow sound of bells from the church which is near by, though out of sight; bells with a soft, old-world tone; bells that chime slowly and succeed each other without haste, ringing forth a holy melody composed centuries ago.  It is as well to pause a minute and listen to their voice, even in this railroad age of hurry.  Over the busy market-place the notes go forth, and presently the hum comes back and dwells in the recess of the window.  It is a full hour after the time fixed, and now at last, as the carillon finishes, there are sounds of heavy boots upon the staircase.  Three or four farmers gather on the landing; they converse together just outside.  The secretary’s clerk comes, and walks to the table; more farmers, who, now they have company, boldly enter and take seats; still more farmers; the secretary arrives; finally the president appears, and with him the lecturer.  There is a hum of greeting; the minutes are read; the president introduces the professor, and the latter stands forth to read his paper—­’Science, the Remedy for Agricultural Depression.’

Farmers, he pointed out, had themselves only to blame for the present period of distress.  For many years past science had been like the voice crying in the wilderness, and few, a very few only, had listened.  Men had, indeed, come to the clubs; but they had gone away home again, and, as the swine of the proverb, returned to their wallowing in the mire.  One blade of grass still grew where two or even three might be grown; he questioned whether farmers had any real desire to grow the extra blades.  If they did, they had merely to employ the means provided for them.  Everything had been literally put into their hands; but what was the result?  Why, nothing—­in point of fact, nothing.  The country at large was still undrained.  The very A B C of progress had been neglected.  He should be afraid to say what proportion of the land was yet undrained, for he should be contradicted, called ill names, and cried down.  But if they would look around them they could see for themselves.  They would see meadows full of rank, coarse grass in the furrows, which neither horse nor cattle would touch.  They would see in the wheat-fields patches of the crop sickly, weak, feeble, and altogether poor; that was where the water had stood and destroyed the natural power of the seed.  The same cause gave origin to that mass of weeds which was the standing disgrace of arable districts.