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NOT many years ago, a farmer who lived a hundred or two miles from the seaboard, became impressed with the idea that unless he adopted a close-cutting system of retrenchment, he would certainly go to the wall. Wheat, during the preceding season, had been at a high price; but, unluckily for him, he had only a small portion of his land in wheat. Of corn and potatoes he had raised more than the usual quantity; but the price of corn was down, and potatoes were low. This year he had sown double the wheat he had ever sown before, and, instead of raising a thousand bushels of potatoes, as he had generally done, only planted about an acre in that vegetable, the product of which was about one hundred and fifty bushels.

Unluckily for Mr. Ashburn, his calculations did not turn out well. After his wheat was harvested, and his potatoes nearly ready to dig, the price of the former fell to ninety cents per bushel, and the price of the latter rose to one dollar. Everywhere, the wheat crop had been abundant, and almost everywhere the potato crop promised to be light.

Mr. Ashburn was sadly disappointed at this result.

“I shall be ruined,” he said at home, and carried a long face while abroad. When his wife and daughters asked for money with which to get their fall and winter clothing, he grumbled sadly, gave them half what they wanted, and said they must retrench. A day or two afterwards, the collector of the “Post” came along and presented his bill.

Ashburn paid it in a slow, reluctant manner, and then said–

“I wish you to have the paper stopped, Mr. Collector.”

“Oh, no, don’t say that, Mr. Ashburn. You are one of our old subscribers, and we can’t think of parting with you.”

“Sorry to give up the paper. But must do it,” returned the farmer.

“Isn’t it as good as ever? You used to say you’d rather give up a dinner a week than the ‘Post.'”

“Oh, yes, it’s as good as ever, and sometimes I think much better than it was. It’s a great pleasure to read it. But I must retrench at every point, and then I don’t see how I’m to get along. Wheat’s down to ninety cents, and falling daily.”

“But the paper is only two dollars a year, Mr. Ashburn.”

“I know. But two dollars are two dollars. However, it’s no use to talk, Mr. Collector; the ‘Post’ must be stopped. If I have better luck next year, I will subscribe for it again.”

This left the collector nothing to urge, and he withdrew. In his next letter to the publishers, he ordered the paper to be discontinued, which was accordingly done.

Of this little act of retrenchment, Jane, Margaret, and Phoebe knew nothing at the time, and the farmer was rather loathe to tell them. When the fact did become known, as it must soon, he expected a buzzing in the hive, and the anticipation of this made him half repent of what he had done, and almost wish that the collector would forget to notify the office of his wish to have the paper stopped. But, the collector was a prompt man. On the second Saturday morning, Ashburn went to the post-office as usual. The postmaster handed him a letter, saying, as he did so–

“I (sic) cant’t find any paper for you, to-day. They have made a mistake in not mailing it this week.”

“No,” replied Ashburn. “I have stopped it.”

“Indeed! The Post is an excellent paper. What other one do you intend to take?”

“I shall not take any newspaper this year,” replied Ashburn.

“Not take a newspaper, Mr. Ashburn!” said the postmaster, with a look and in a tone of surprise.

“No. I must retrench. I must cut off all superfluous expenses. And I believe I can do without a newspaper as well as any thing else. It’s a mere luxury; though a very pleasant one, I own, but still dispensable.”