spoke for themselves, and Hiram had a retentive memory.

Mr. Strong, too, had been a great, reader--especially in the
winter when the farmer naturally has more time in-doors.

Yet he was a "twelve months farmer"; he knew that the winter,
despite the broken nature of the work, was quite as valuable to
the successful farmer as the other seasons of the year.

The elder Strong knew that men with more money, and more time
for experimenting than he had, were writing and publishing all
the time helps for the wise farmer. He subscribed for several
papers, and read and digested them carefully.

Hiram, even during his two years in the city, had continued his
subscription (although it was hard to find the money sometimes)
to two or three of those publications that his father had most
approved. And the boy had read them faithfully.

He was as up-to-date in farming lore now, if not in actual
practise, as he had been when he left the country to try his
fortune in Crawberry.

Beyond the place where the branch turned back upon itself and hid
its source in the thicker timber, Hiram saw that the fields were
open on both sides of this westerly line of the farm.

"Who's our neighbor over yonder, Henry?" he asked.

"Dickerson--Sam Dickerson," said Henry. "And he's got a boy,