Liebig, and all the rest, he sets down as mere theorists, and has far more respect for the contents of his barnyard than for all the guano deposits in the world.  Scientific farming, and gentleman farming, may do very well, he says, “to keep idle young fellows from the city out of mischief; but as for real, effective management, there’s nothing like the old stock of men, who ran barefoot until they were ten, and who count the hard winters by their frozen toes.”  And he is fond of quoting in this connection—­the only quotation, by the by, that the old gentleman ever makes—­that couplet of “Poor Richard,”—­

          “He, that by the plough would thrive,
          Himself must either hold or drive.”

The Squire has been in his day connected more or less intimately with turnpike enterprise, which the railroads of the day have thrown sadly into the background; and he reflects often in a melancholy way upon the good old times when a man could travel in his own carriage quietly across the country, without being frightened with the clatter of an engine, and when turnpike stock paid wholesome yearly dividends of six per cent.

An almost constant hanger-on about the premises, and a great favorite with the Squire, is a stout, middle-aged man, with a heavy-bearded face, to whom Frank introduces you as “Captain Dick”; and he tells you moreover that he is a better butcher, a better wall-layer, and cuts a broader “swathe,” than any man upon the farm.  Beside all which he has an immense deal of information.  He knows in the spring where all the crows’-nests are to be found; he tells Frank where the foxes burrow; he has even shot two or three raccoons in the swamps; he knows the best season to troll for pickerel; he has a thorough understanding of bee-hunting; he can tell the ownership of every stray heifer that appears upon the road:  indeed scarce an inquiry is made, or an opinion formed, on any of these subjects, or on such kindred ones as the weather, or potato crop, without previous consultation with “Captain Dick.”

You have an extraordinary respect for Captain Dick:  his gruff tones, dark beard, patched waistcoat, and cowhide boots, only add to it:  you can compare your regard for him only with the sentiments you entertain for those fabulous Roman heroes, led on by Horatius, who cut down the bridge across the Tiber, and then swam over to their wives and families!

A superannuated old greyhound lives about the premises, and stalks lazily around, thrusting his thin nose into your hands in a very affectionate manner.

Of course, in your way, you are a lion among the boys of the neighborhood:  a blue jacket that you wear, with bell buttons of white metal, is their especial wonderment.  You astonish them moreover with your stories of various parts of the world which they have never visited.  They tell you of the haunts of rabbits, and great snake stories, as you sit in the dusk after supper under the old oaks; and you delight them in turn with some marvellous tale of South-American reptiles out of Peter Parley’s books.