This sort of weather is hard upon
the blithe suburbanite who has to cover up his shoots at sundown every night.
Who has to move his garden in beside the furnace fire, or stop and clothe each
shoot in winter’s warm attire. It’s hard enough, good Heaven knows, to get a mess of
sass when all the days and all the nights are hard enough to pass, but O, what
can a farmer do who spends his times and means by putting wool pajamas on each
hill of corn and beans!
c.
June 9, ‘09
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