A Neighbor Of Mine In The Village Likes To Tell How One Spring When She Was A Girl On The Farm, She Did A Childlike Thing. One Day She Asked Her Father To Give Her A Garden Plot To Plant And Tend And Reap Herself, And He Said, "Why Not?" In Casting About For A Corner He Thought Of An Idle Bit Of Walled-Off Ground Where A Shop Had Stood, And He Said, "Just It." And He Said, "That Ought To Make You An Ideal One-Girl Farm, And Give You A Chance To Put Some Strength On Your Slim-Jim Arm." It Was Not Enough Of A Garden Her Father Said, To Plow; So She Had To Work It All By Hand, But She Don't Mind Now. She Wheeled The Dung In A Wheelbarrow Along A Stretch Of Road; But She Always Ran Away And Left Her Not-Nice Load, And Hid From Anyone Passing. And Then She Begged The Seed. She Says She Thinks She Planted One Of All Things But Weed. A Hill Each Of Potatoes, Radishes, Lettuce, Peas, Tomatoes, Beets, Beans, Pumpkins, Corn, And Even Fruit Trees. And Yes, She Has Long Mistrusted That A Cider-Apple In Bearing There Today Is Hers, Or At Least May Be. Her Crop Was A Miscellany When All Was Said And Done, A Little Bit Of Everything, A Great Deal Of None. Now When She Sees In The Village How Village Things Go, Just When It Seems To Come In Right, She Says, "I Know! "It's As When I Was A Farmer..." Oh Never By Way Of Advice! And She Never Sins By Telling The Tale To The Same Person Twice.