in the potatoe field, whose is that?  Oh, Sir, that’s C. D’s. he was a considerable fore handed farmer, as any in our place, but he sot up for an Assembly-man, and opened a Store, and things went agin him some how, he had no luck arterwards.  I hear his place is mortgaged, and they’ve got him cited in chancery.  “The black knob” is on him, said I. The black what, Sir, says Blue Nose? nothin says I. But the next, who improves that house?  Why that’s E. F.’s he was the greatest farmer in these parts, another of the aristocracy, had a most a noble stock o’ cattle, and the matter of some hundreds out in jint notes; well he took the contract for beef with the troops; and he fell astarn so, I guess its a gone goose with him.  He’s heavy mortgaged.  “Too many irons” agin, said I. Who lives to the left there? that man has a most a special fine intervale, and a grand orchard too, he must be a good mark that.  Well he was once, Sir, a few years ago; but he built a fullin mill, and a cardin mill, and put up a lumber establishment, and speculated in the West Indy line, but the dam was carried away by the freshets, the lumber fell, and faith he fell too; he’s shot up, he hant been see’d these two years, his farm is a common, and fairly run out.  Oh, said I, I understand now, my man, these folks had too many irons in the fire you see, and some on ’em have got burnt.  I never heerd tell of it, says Blue Nose; they might, but not to my knowledge; and he scratched his head, and looked as if he would ask the meanin of it, but didn’t like too.  Arter that I axed no more questions; I knew a mortgaged farm as far as I could see it.  There was a strong family likeness in ’em all—­the same ugly featurs, the same cast o’ countenance.  The “black knob” was discernible—­there was no mistake—­barn doors broken off—­fences burnt up—­glass out of windows—­more white crops than green—­and both lookin poor and weedy—­no wood pile, no sarse garden, no compost, no stock—­moss in the mowin lands, thistles in the ploughed lands, and neglect every where—­skinnin had commenced—­takin all out and puttin nothin in—­gittin ready for a move, so as to have nothin behind.  Flittin time had come.  Fore gatherin, for foreclosin.  Preparin to curse and quit.  —­That beautiful river we came up to day, What superfine farms it has on both sides of it, hante it? its a sight to behold.  Our folks have no notion of such a country so far down east, beyond creation most, as Nova Scotia is.  If I was to draw up an account of it for the Slickville Gazette, I guess few would accept it as a bona fide draft, without some sponsible man to indorse it, that warnt given to flammin.  They’d say there was a land speculation to the bottom of it, or water privilege to put into the market, or a plaister rock to get off, or some such scheme.  They would, I snore.  But I hope I may never see daylight agin, if there’s sich a country in all our great nation, as the VI-cinity of Windsor.