price of the latter rose to one dollar. Everywhere, the wheat crop
had been abundant, and almost everywhere the potato crop promised to
be light.

Mr. Ashburn was sadly disappointed at this result.

"I shall be ruined," he said at home, and carried a long face while
abroad. When his wife and daughters asked for money with which to
get their fall and winter clothing, he grumbled sadly, gave them
half what they wanted, and said they must retrench. A day or two
afterwards, the collector of the "Post" came along and presented his
bill.

Ashburn paid it in a slow, reluctant manner, and then said--

"I wish you to have the paper stopped, Mr. Collector."

"Oh, no, don't say that, Mr. Ashburn. You are one of our old
subscribers, and we can't think of parting with you."

"Sorry to give up the paper. But must do it," returned the farmer.

"Isn't it as good as ever? You used to say you'd rather give up a
dinner a week than the 'Post.'"

"Oh, yes, it's as good as ever, and sometimes I think much better
than it was. It's a great pleasure to read it. But I must retrench
at every point, and then I don't see how I'm to get along. Wheat's
down to ninety cents, and falling daily."