s. No wonder the men-folks die, or move
away like Justin Peabody; a place with such a mess o' women-folks ain't
healthy to live in, whatever Lobelia Brewster may say."

CHAPTER III

Justin Peabody had once faithfully struggled with the practical
difficulties of life in Edgewood, or so he had thought, in those old days
of which Nancy Wentworth was thinking as she wiped the paint of the
Peabody pew. Work in the mills did not attract him; he had no capital to
invest in a stock of goods for store-keeping; school-teaching offered him
only a pittance; there remained then only the farm, if he were to stay at
home and keep his mother company.

"Justin don't seem to take no holt of things," said the neighbours.

"Good Heavens!" It seemed to him that there were no things to take hold
of! That was his first thought; later he grew to think that the trouble
all lay in himself, and both thoughts bred weakness.

The farm had somehow supported the family in the old Deacon's time, but
Justin seemed unable to coax a competence from the soil. He could, and
did, rise early and work late; till the earth, sow crops; but he could
not make the rain fall nor the sun shine at the times he needed them, and
the elements, however much they might seem to favour his neighbours,
seldom smiled on his enterprises. The crows liked Justin's corn better
than any other in Edgewood. It had a richness peculiar to itself, a
quality that appealed to the most jaded palate, so that it was really
worth while to fly over a mile of intervening fields and pay it the
delicate compliment of preference.

Justin could explain the attitude of caterpillars, worms, grasshoppers,
and potato-bugs toward him only by assuming that he attracted them as the
magnet in the toy boxes attracts the miniature fishes.

"Land of liberty! look at 'em congregate!" ejaculated Jabe Slocum, when
he was called in for consultation. "Now if you'd gone in for breedin'
insecks, you could be as proud as Cuffy an' exhibit 'em at the County
Fair! They'd give yer prizes for size an' numbers an' speed, I guess!
Why, say, they're real crowded for room--the plants ain't give 'em enough
leaves to roost on! Have you tried 'Bug Death'?"

"It acts like a tonic on them," said Justin gloomily.

"Sho! you don't say so! Now mine can't abide the sight nor smell of it.
What 'bout Paris green?"

"They thrive on it; it's as good as an appetizer."

"Well," said Jabe Slocum, revolving th