deadly foe, an army of foes, hiding under these luxuriant festoons and
masses of cheerful flowers.

Isn't it strange and sad and pitiful, that it is the summer guest who
alone enjoys the delights of summering in the country? There is no time
for rest, for recreation, for flowers, for outdoor pleasures, for the
average farmer and his family. You seldom see any bright faces at the
windows, which are seldom opened--only a glimpse here and there of a
sad, haggard creature, peering out for curosity. Strange would it be to
hear peals of merry laughter; stranger still to see a family enjoying a
meal on the piazza or a game on the grass. As for flowers, they are
valued no more than weeds; the names of the most common are unknown. I
asked in vain a dozen people last summer, what that flower was called,
pointing to the ubiquitous Joe Rye weed or pink motherwort. At last I
asked one man, who affected to know everything--

"Oh, yes, I know it."

"What is it?" I persisted.

"Well, I know it just as well, but can't just now get the name out." A
pause, then, with great superiority: "I'd rather see a potato field in
full bloom, than all the flowers in the world."

Perhaps some of Tolstoi's disciples may yet solve the problem of New
England's abandoned farms. He believes that every able-bodied man should
labor with his own hands and in "the sweat of his brow" to produce his
own living direct from the soil. He dignifies agriculture above all
other means of earning a living, and would have artificial employments
given up. "Back to the land," he cries; and back he really goes, daily