all lay in himself, and both thoughts bred weakness.

The farm had somehow supported the family in the old Deacon's time, but
Justin seemed unable to coax a competence from the soil. He could, and
did, rise early and work late; till the earth, sow crops; but he could
not make the rain fall nor the sun shine at the times he needed them, and
the elements, however much they might seem to favour his neighbours,
seldom smiled on his enterprises. The crows liked Justin's corn better
than any other in Edgewood. It had a richness peculiar to itself, a
quality that appealed to the most jaded palate, so that it was really
worth while to fly over a mile of intervening fields and pay it the
delicate compliment of preference.

Justin could explain the attitude of caterpillars, worms, grasshoppers,
and potato-bugs toward him only by assuming that he attracted them as the
magnet in the toy boxes attracts the miniature fishes.

"Land of liberty! look at 'em congregate!" ejaculated Jabe Slocum, when
he was called in for consultation. "Now if you'd gone in for breedin'
insecks, you could be as proud as Cuffy an' exhibit 'em at the County
Fair! They'd give yer prizes for size an' numbers an' speed, I guess!
Why, say, they're real crowded for room--the plants ain't give 'em enough
leaves to roost on! Have you tried 'Bug Death'?"

"It acts like a tonic on them," said Justin gloomily.

"Sho! you don't say so! Now mine can't abide the sight nor smell of it.
What 'bout Paris green?"

"They thrive on it; it's as good as an appetizer."