WHAT SMITH KNEW ABOUT FARMING

There was n't two purtier farms in the state

Than the couple of which I'm about to relate;—

Jinin’ each other — belongin’ to Brown,

And jest at the edge of a flourishin’ town.

Brown was a man, as I understand,

That allus had handled a good‘ eal o’ land,

And was sharp as a tack in drivin’ a trade —

For that's the way most of his money was made.

And all the grounds and the orchards about

His two pet farms was all tricked out

With poppies and posies

And sweet-smellin’ rosies;

And hundreds o’ kinds

Of all sorts o’ vines,

To tickle the most horticultural minds

And little dwarf trees not as thick as your wrist

With ripe apples on‘ em as big as your fist:

And peaches,— Siberian crabs and pears,

And quinces — Well! ANY fruit ANY tree bears;

And th purtiest stream — jest a-swimmin’ with fish,

And — JEST O'MOST EVERYTHING HEART COULD WISH!

The purtiest orch'rds — I wish you could see

How purty they was, fer I know it‘ ud be

A regular treat!— but I'll go ahead with

My story! A man by the name o’ Smith —

( A bad name to rhyme,

But I reckon that I'm

Not goin’ back on a Smith! nary time! )

‘ At had n't a soul of kin nor kith,

And more money than he knowed what to do with,—

So he comes a-ridin’ along one day,

And HE says to Brown, in his offhand way —

Who was trainin’ some newfangled vines round a bay-

Winder — “Howdy-do — look-a-here — say:

What'll you take fer this property here?—

I'm talkin’ o’ leavin’ the city this year,

And I want to be

Where the air is free,

And I'll BUY this place, if it ai n't too dear!” —

Well — they grumbled and jawed aroun’ —

“I do n't like to part with the place,” says Brown;

“Well,” says Smith, a-jerkin’ his head,

“That house yonder — bricks painted red —

Jest like this'n — a PURTIER VIEW —

Who is it owns it?” “That's mine too,”

Says Brown, as he winked at a hole in his shoe,

“But I'll tell you right here jest what I KIN do:—

If you'll pay the figgers I'll sell IT to you.,”

Smith went over and looked at the place —

Badgered with Brown, and argied the case —

Thought that Brown's figgers was rather too tall,

But, findin’ that Brown was n't goin’ to fall,

In final agreed,

So they drawed up the deed

Fer the farm and the fixtures — the live stock an’ all.

And so Smith moved from the city as soon

As he possibly could — But “the man in the moon”

Knowed more'n Smith o’ farmin’ pursuits,

And jest to convince you, and have no disputes,

How little he knowed,

I'll tell you his “mode,”

As he called it, o’ raisin’ “the best that growed,”

In the way o’ potatoes —

Cucumbers — tomatoes,

And squashes as lengthy as young alligators.

‘ Twas allus a curious thing to me

How big a fool a feller kin be

When he gits on a farm after leavin’ a town!—

Expectin’ to raise himself up to renown,

And reap fer himself agricultural fame,

By growin’ of squashes — WITHOUT ANY SHAME —

As useless and long as a technical name.

To make the soil pure,

And certainly sure,

He plastered the ground with patent manure.

He had cultivators, and double-hoss plows,

And patent machines fer milkin’ his cows;

And patent hay-forks — patent measures and weights,

And new patent back-action hinges fer gates,

And barn locks and latches, and such little dribs,

And patents to keep the rats out o’ the cribs —

Reapers and mowers,

And patent grain sowers;

And drillers

And tillers

And cucumber hillers,

And horries;— and had patent rollers and scrapers,

And took about ten agricultural papers.

So you can imagine how matters turned out:

But BROWN did n't have not a shadder o’ doubt

That Smith did n't know what he was about

When he said that “the OLD way to farm was played out.”

But Smith worked ahead,

And when any one said

That the OLD way o’ workin’ was better instead

O’ his “modern idees,” he allus turned red,

And wanted to know

What made people so

INFERNALLY anxious to hear theirselves crow?

And guessed that he'd manage to hoe his own row.

Brown he come onc't and leant over the fence,

And told Smith that he could n't see any sense

In goin’ to such a tremendous expense

Fer the sake o’ such no-account experiments

“That'll never make corn!

As shore's you're born

It'll come out the leetlest end of the horn!”

Says Brown, as he pulled off a big roastin’ -ear

From a stalk of his own

That had tribble outgrown

Smith's poor yaller shoots, and says he, “Looky here!

THIS corn was raised in the old-fashioned way,

And I rather imagine that THIS corn'll pay

Expenses fer RAISIN’ it!— What do you say?”

Brown got him then to look over his crop.—

HIS luck that season had been tip-top!

And you may surmise

Smith opened his eyes

And let out a look o’ the wildest surprise

When Brown showed him punkins as big as the lies

He was stuffin’ him with — about offers he's had

Fer his farm: “I do n't want to sell very bad,”

He says, but says he,

“Mr. Smith, you kin see

Fer yourself how matters is standin’ with me,

I UNDERSTAND FARMIN’ and I'd better stay,

You know, on my farm;— I'm a-makin’ it pay —

I ought n't to grumble!— I reckon I'll clear

Away over four thousand dollars this year.”

And that was the reason, he made it appear,

Why he did n't care about sellin’ his farm,

And hinted at his havin’ done himself harm

In sellin’ the other, and wanted to know

If Smith would n't sell back ag'in to him.— So

Smith took the bait, and says he, “Mr. Brown,

I would n't SELL out but we might swap aroun’ —

How'll you trade your place fer mine?”

( Purty sharp way o’ comin’ the shine

Over Smith! Was n't it? ) Well, sir, this Brown

Played out his hand and brought Smithy down —

Traded with him an’, workin’ it cute,

Raked in two thousand dollars to boot

As slick as a whistle, an’ that was n't all,—

He managed to trade back ag'in the next fall,—

And the next — and the next — as long as Smith stayed

He reaped with his harvests an annual trade.—

Why, I reckon that Brown must‘ a’ easily made —

On an AVERAGE — nearly two thousand a year —

Together he made over seven thousand — clear.—

Till Mr. Smith found he was losin’ his health

In as big a proportion, almost, as his wealth;

So at last he concluded to move back to town,

And sold back his farm to this same Mr. Brown

At very low figgers, by gittin’ it down.

Further'n this I have nothin’ to say

Than merely advisin’ the Smiths fer to stay

In their grocery stores in flourishin’ towns

And leave agriculture alone — and the Browns.