_Bragwell._ But my girls are too smart to make mops of, that is the truth. Though ours is a lonely village, it is wonderful to see how soon they get the fashions. What with the descriptions in the magazines, and the pictures in the pocket-books, they have them in a twinkling and out-do their patterns all to nothing. I used to take in the _Country Journal_, because it was useful enough to see how oats went, the time of high water, and the price of stocks. But when my ladies came home, forsooth, I was soon wheedled out of that, and forced to take a London paper, that tells a deal about the caps and feathers, and all the trumpery of the quality, and the French dress, and the French undress. When I want to know what hops are a bag, they are snatching the paper to see what violet soap is a pound. And as to the dairy, they never care how cow's milk goes, as long as they can get some stuff which they call milk of roses. Seeing them disputing violently the other day about cream and butter, I thought it a sign they were beginning to care for the farm, till I found it was cold cream for the hands, and jessamine butter for the hair. _Worthy._ But do your daughters never read? _Bragwell._ Read! I believe they do too. Why our Jack, the plow-boy, spends half his time in going to a shop in our market town, where they let out books to read, with marble covers. And they sell paper with all manner of colors on the edges, and gim-cracks, and powder-puffs, and wash-balls, and cards without any pips, and every thing in the world that's genteel and of no use. 'Twas but the other day I met Jack with a basket full of these books; so having some time to spare, I sat down to see a little what they were about. _Worthy._ Well, I hope you there found what was likely to improve your daughters, and teach them the true use of time.