Canada Thistles [pp. 721-731]

THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. VI., No. 36.-MARCH, I868.
CANADA THISTLES.
THE accident of a heavy snowstorm detained me, a little while
ago, at the house of a friend in the
country. It was certainly a pleasant
place to be cast away in. My friend
was a gentleman-farmer, who united
a strong taste for rustic pursuits with
an equally strong as well as an intelligent fondness for literature and
art. In the matter of books and
pictures, philosophy and religion, we
were in sympathy with each other;
but when he came to milch cows and
turnips, my city education got the
better of me. I could neither understand his conversation nor appreciate his enthusiasm. It was agreed,
therefore, that as soon as he put on
his long boots and set out for the
barnyard, I should retire into his
cheerful library, where a blazing fire
of hickory-logs, shelves well stored
with all that is best in literature, and
a great green-covered table, on which
papers, reviews, and magazines were
piled in pleasant confusion, kept me
in excellent spirits while he was attending to the daily duties of the farm.
How I enjoyed those idle hours!
Throwing myself back in a wide
arm-chair, I passed the winter mornings skimming over the pages of my
VOL. VI.-46
favorite authors, half reading them
and half dreaming; and when my
friend returned from his rounds, and
stretched himself in another chair on
the opposite side of the fire-place,
we used to chat over the various
subjects that had occupied my mind
since breakfast. After dinner, we
usually went back to the library with
our cigars. The evening we always
spent with the rest of the family in
the parlor.
My friend read a great deal, and
was also something of an author.
He contributed essays on agricultural subjects to one or two magazines.
He had even published a book or so
in the course of his life; and he still
amused himself by penning literary
criticisms, for a periodical printed in
New York. I was not surprised,
therefore, to find his table burdened
with a good many volumes, newspapers, and pamphlets, which I knew
he would never have been at the trouble of ordering.
"Yes," said he, when I made a
remark about the worthless character
of some of these publications; "there
is trash enough here to make a man
melancholy. People send me these
things for their own purposes, and I