Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1884-02-21
Who Wouldn't BE a Farmer?

1t is very refreshing 70 one that has
spent his life in the country, to read
the poetic illusions OF urban writer's
on the independence and delights of
rural life and scenery. As we have
spent useful and happy life amid rus
tic and picturesque scenery, we may
be par Toned if we attempt to give a
pencil portrait of the novel;st's ideal
home in the country. We may pos
sibly get the poetical and the practical
mixed, but we snail cling to the truth
like the old man of the mountain to
Sinbad the sailor.
How delightful in early springtime
to loiter beside the purling brooklet
and gather daises and forget-me-nots!
How pleasant to watch the playful
ambkins in the meadow, and have the
heaYing bosom of your trousers butted
up to the back of your neck by the
father-in-law of the lambkins! How
merrily the robin sings its matin, and
the whippoorwill echoes it's vespers in
the grove! How Joyful the shout of
the rosy-cheeked plowboy, as he sits
down to scratch his sore shin and nut
an umbrella cover on his nailleSs tOei
What ripping peals of laughter are
heard from the farmers daughter,
wnen her ham-colored beau falls over
a cow in attempting to kiss her under
her corn-silk bangs! How gently the
soft zephyrs move the tiny leaflets, as
if by angel hands, while the house dog
crowns the cat, as she explores the
contents of the cream jar!
The oriole MARBLES its happy songs
of praise, and the humming bird sips
natures nectar from the golden cups
of the honeysuckle! All earth and air
and sky are hushed and calm, and
there is no sound to disturb the farmer
as he hunts for a hot-headed humble
bee in the left leg of his trousersi
Happy indeed is he who possesses so
many noble animals! The great plow-
horse, in the majestic pride of his
strength, with his tail over the line,
and tramping down one row of corn
and blowing up another, is the farmer 5
pet; while the brindle bull in the or
chard, which gored the farmers wife
to death, still wears q corset on his
horns and her hoop-skirt on his shaggy
neck.
And then on the beautiful Sabbath
morning, the happy farmer, with piety
in his heart and dog-leg tobacco in his
pocket, starts to the quiet house of God
with his family in an old lumber wagon
to pour forth praise and tobacco-juice!
He sits on the spring seat and drives
like Jehu, while the boys sit flat down
in the wagon.
Yes, dear reader, the country is the
place for health and wealth. In the
country you will not find the kid-gIoved
dude in immaculate cuffs and sin-stain-
ed simpering soul! No, nothing but
innocence will be found. You will find
instead the sun-browned hero of the
poet S fancy, who wears No. 10 boots
beneath a No. hat, and fastens his
collar to his waistband to keep it from
jumping over his head when he sneezes.
He thinks he is dude when he gets
his yellow dogskin gloves slipped over
the warts on his hands. and they fit
like circus tent would fit camel He
is not a dude, but an aleck, and he
smells like lanyard stretched over q
clOthes-line.
Such are a few of the beauties of ag-
ricultural life! Who wouldn't be a
farmer?-Neo0moa III. J Independent.