Perhaps the most heavy and laborious work of the farm in the section of the State of which I write is fence-building.  But it is not unproductive labor, as in the South or West, for the fence is of stone, and the capacity of the soil for grass or grain is, of course, increased by its construction.  It is killing two birds with one stone:  a fence is had, the best in the world, while the available area of the field is enlarged.  In fact, if there are ever sermons in stones, it is when they are built into a stone wall,—­turning your hindrances into helps, shielding your crops behind the obstacles to your husbandry, making the enemies of the plow stand guard over its products.  This is the kind of farming worth imitating.  A stone wall with a good rock bottom will stand as long as a man lasts.  Its only enemy is the frost, and it works so gently that it is not till after many years that its effect is perceptible.  An old farmer will walk with you through his fields and say, “This wall I built at such and such a time, or the first year I came on the farm, or when I owned such and such a span of horses,” indicating a period thirty, forty, or fifty years back.  “This other, we built the summer so and so worked for me,” and he relates some incident, or mishap, or comical adventures that the memory calls up.  Every line of fence has a history; the mark of his plow or his crowbar is upon the stones; the sweat of his early manhood put them in place; in fact, the long black line covered with lichens and in places tottering to the fall revives long-gone scenes and events in the life of the farm.

The time for fence-building is usually between seed-time and harvest, May and June; or in the fall after the crops are gathered.  The work has its picturesque features,—­the prying of rocks; supple forms climbing or swinging from the end of the great levers; or the blasting of the rocks with powder, the hauling of them into position with oxen or horses, or with both; the picking of the stone from the greensward; the bending, athletic forms of the wall-layers; the snug new fence creeping slowly up the hill or across the field, absorbing the wind-row of loose stones; and, when the work is done, much ground reclaimed to the plow and the grass, and a strong barrier erected.

It is a common complaint that the farm and farm life are not appreciated by our people.  We long for the more elegant pursuits, or the ways and fashions of the town.  But the farmer has the most sane and natural occupation, and ought to find life sweeter, if less highly seasoned, than any other.  He alone, strictly speaking, has a home.  How can a man take root and thrive without land?  He writes his history upon his field.  How many ties, how many resources, he has,—­his friendships with his cattle, his team, his dog, his trees, the satisfaction in his growing crops, in his improved fields; his intimacy with nature, with bird and beast, and with the quickening elemental forces; his cooperations with the clouds, the sun, the seasons, heat, wind, rain, frost!  Nothing will take the various social distempers which the city and artificial life breed out of a man like farming, like direct and loving contact with the soil.  It draws out the poison.  It humbles him, teaches him patience and reverence, and restores the proper tone to his system.