I’m thinking, wife, of neighbor Jones, the man with the stalwart arm He lives in peace and plenty on a fortyacre farm ; When men are all around us with hearts and hands a-scro, Who own two hundred acres, and still are wanting more.
He has a pretty little farm, a pretty little house : He has a loving wife within, as quiet as a mouse ; His children play around the door, their father’s heart to charm, Looking just as neat and tidy as the tidy little farm.
No weeds are in the cornfield, no thistles in the oats ; The hoi-ses show good keeping by their fine and glossy coats ; Tho cows within the meadow, resting ’noath the bccchen shade, Learn all their gentle manners from a gentle milking maid. Within the field on Saturday ho leaves no cradled grain To be gathered on the morrow for fear of coming rain ; He lives in joy and gladness, and happy are his days ; He keeps the Sabbath holy ; his children learn his ways. He never had a lawsuit to take him to the town, For the very simple reason that there are no fences down ; The bar-room in the village for him has not a charm ; I can always find my neighbor on his forty-acre farm.
His acres are so few that he ploughs them very deep ; ’Tis his own hands that turn the sod, ’tis his own hands that reap ; He has a place for everything, and everything in its place ; The sunshine smiles upon his fields, contentment on his face.
May we not learn a lesson, wife, from prudent neighbor Jones, And not sigh for what we haven’t got—give vent to sighs and groans ? The rich arn’t always happy, nor free from life’s alarms, But blest be those who live content, though small may be their farms. —Atalanta Constitution,
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NEIGHBOR JONES., Ashburton Guardian, Volume 1, Issue 94, 1 May 1880
NEIGHBOR JONES. Ashburton Guardian, Volume 1, Issue 94, 1 May 1880
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