is sent to the spring for a pitcher of water, and the family are waiting at the dinner-table, he is absent so long; for he stops to poke the frog that sits on the stone, or, if there is a penstock, to put his hand over the spout and squirt the water a little while.  He is the one who spreads the grass when the men have cut it; he mows it away in the barn; he rides the horse to cultivate the corn, up and down the hot, weary rows; he picks up the potatoes when they are dug; he drives the cows night and morning; he brings wood and water and splits kindling; he gets up the horse and puts out the horse; whether he is in the house or out of it, there is always something for him to do.  Just before school in winter he shovels paths; in summer he turns the grindstone.  He knows where there are lots of winter-greens and sweet flag-root, but instead of going for them, he is to stay in-doors and pare apples and stone raisins and pound something in a mortar.  And yet, with his mind full of schemes of what he would like to do, and his hands full of occupations, he is an idle boy who has nothing to busy himself with but school and chores!  He would gladly do all the work if somebody else would do the chores, he thinks, and yet I doubt if any boy ever amounted to anything in the world, or was of much use as a man, who did not enjoy the advantages of a liberal education in the way of chores.

A boy on a farm is nothing without his pets; at least a dog, and probably rabbits, chickens, ducks, and guinea-hens.  A guinea-hen suits a boy.  It is entirely useless, and makes a more disagreeable noise than a Chinese gong.  I once domesticated a young fox which a neighbor had caught.  It is a mistake to suppose the fox cannot be tamed.  Jacko was a very clever little animal, and behaved, in all respects, with propriety.  He kept Sunday as well as any day, and all the ten commandments that he could understand.  He was a very graceful playfellow, and seemed to have an affection for me.  He lived in a wood-pile in the dooryard, and when I lay down at the entrance to his house and called him, he would come out and sit on his tail and lick my face just like a grown person.  I taught him a great many tricks and all the virtues.  That year I had a large number of hens, and Jacko went about among them with the most perfect indifference, never looking on them to lust after them, as I could see, and never touching an egg or a feather.  So excellent was his reputation that I would have trusted him in the hen-roost in the dark without counting the hens.  In short, he was domesticated, and I was fond of him and very proud of him, exhibiting him to all our visitors as an example of what affectionate treatment would do in subduing the brute instincts.  I preferred him to my dog, whom I had, with much patience, taught to go up a long hill alone and surround the cows, and drive them home from the remote pasture.  He liked the fun of it at first, but by and by he seemed to get the notion that it was a “chore,”