still some, and every little helps. Hours: get up at 4.45. Grind mower-knives, fetch in water, light fire, etc. Breakfast at six; 6.30 to twelve, ordinary routine of field-work, viz., toss and cock hay, hoe potatoes and turnips, or cut thistles, dinner 12; one to six ditto, draw in hay, 6.30 tea. If there is anything to be done after tea, such as cock hay, we do it. Bed nine sharp. It is a 270-acre farm, and two other boys and myself get in, and put all the hay in the lofts. The boss has got the reputation of being the best farmer, and raising the best crops, and treating his men best for thirty miles round. He is a good-natured old Scotchman of the labourer type. He just mows the hay with the machine, and horse-rakes with the sulky rake, as he is getting old. He has undertaken to put more solid farming into me in two months than I should learn at Eastwood in two years. Mr. Smith said I should never be able to stand the life, and upon my honour I

winced when I saw where I should have to sleep, in the same room as the two farm boys. The boss is not married, but keeps a housekeeper. This is an experiment to me whether I can really stand hard work, and I must own it is harder than I bargained for. Getting in the hay, hitching, and getting it into the lofts, is a tremendous strain, since I have to keep up with the other two, who are three years older than I am, and used to it all their lives. The farm is three-quarters of a mile from Woodstock, and five and a half from Eastwood, so when we do not work too late, I shall take the train to Eastwood, and sleep there Saturday night. My friend will drive me back on Sunday night, so I shall not get too rustic. I am sure you will excuse my going against your orders. But if I can stand two months without running I shall know myself, and be able to rely on my determination, and the power to back it up. Thank you very much for the £10. It came

You

just in time to pay off all arrears, and I have something over for the next two months. may always think of me as being happy. My letters may be downhearted sometimes, and that is partly the reason I did not write last week. I was in the dumps, and I was afraid my letter might make you think I was unhappy. I am quite happy in this little house, with plain labourers, and bacon and potatoes for every meal; and of course I am learning far more here, because I have to do my share or leave. Old Andrew says it is no use trying to learn farming if you only do the easy jobs.

He is a kind old man, and teaches me to the best of his powers, and that is saying a good deal, because of course he has to leave off his own work to show me. I will write and tell you more early next week, but it is 9.30, and I must be up at 4.45 to-morrow. Don't be uneasy about me dear mother; if I find the work too hard, I shall go back to Eastwood, since Mr.

Smith says he shall be glad to see me whenever I choose to come. He only has friends up on Sunday, so I shall see all the rank and wealth anyhow. Love to all.

TO HIS MOTHER.

Woodstock, July 12, 1881.-I am learning farming practically now, there can be no mistake about that. I cannot exactly explain my reasons for leaving Eastwood for the two months. I think it arose more from feeling that I was wasting time and not doing as much as I ought to be doing. You tell me to let you know my ups and downs, and never hide anything from you: I certainly never shall. I keep my diary for my own use, and reference, but I am going to send it to you at the end of the year, knowing you will make a full allowance for any little things you may not exactly like. I want to say a good deal, but I can't put it into words; but one thing I must

say, and that is-tell Frank from me, to strain every nerve, to work for what he is trying for; that if emigration is the alternative, it is better to live in England with almost nothing than farm in Canada and be rich (if rich he ever can be). Tell him from me, to give up every amusement till he has reached the goal he wishes to arrive at. Ask him which is best off-he, lying under a shady tree, reading his book quietly, with something definite to look forward to, and almost certain, if he chooses to strain every nerve for it,—he, who will always then be living among civilized people, with somebody pleasant to talk to, and his parents within a day's journey,-or myself, getting up at 4.45, working hard all day in the broiling sun, the perspiration streaming through my clothes, and towards evening tired to death; and latterly having to turn out and get up hay till 9.30, with nothing to eat but a little bit of bacon and potatoes, and bread and butter: an