immigrant might find himself settled in a locality inconveniently distant from church and priest, and where he and his family would be separated from Catholic associations.

Bearing this in mind, the religious welfare of those coming to our colonies, was one of the main features to which Bishop Ireland devoted his attention when organizing the Catholic Colonization Bureau. Before the arrival of any of our immigrants, the rule was established that whenever we opened a colony and invited our people to it, the resident priest and church should go in with our first settlers, be their number small or large. To this good rule we attribute, to a great extent, not alone our success in bringing settlers to our colonies, but likewise their general contentment in their new homes and brave cheerfulness in meeting the trials, hardships, and set-backs, which are incident to new settlements.

No question is so frequently asked by our correspondents as, "How near can I get land to a Catholic Church?" In no portion of any of the Catholic Colonies of Minnesota, established by the Catholic Bureau, under the auspices of the Right Rev. Bishop Ireland, shall a settler find himself beyond the easy reach of church and priest.

AGRICULTURAL LIFE.

ADVANTAGES OF AGRICULTURAL LIFE OVER CITY LIFE, TO THE MAN WHO MAKES HIS LIVING BY THE SWEAT OF HIS BROW.

INDEPENDENCE ON THE LAND.

GENERAL PROSPERITY OF CATHOLIC SETTLEMENTS IN MINNESOTA.—INDIVIDUAL PROSPERITY.

WHAT OUR EARLY SETTLERS HAD TO GO THROUGH—HOW THEY GOT THROUGH IT AND CAME OUT AT THE TOP OF THE HEAP.

THEIR BRAVE BATTLE FOR INDEPENDENCE—THEIR BOUNTIFUL REWARD.

"It's na' to hide it in a hedge;
It's na' for train attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent."

Thus sung Robert Burns long ago in praise of independence. This is one of the rewards which the land holds out to the honest, hard-working, persevering settler; and never does it break its promise to industry and perseverance.

In the city, dangers surround the poor laboring man; temptations arise on every side to drag him down; insurmountable barriers oppose his advancement.

Well, he may avoid the dangers—we wish to give the best view of the case, and, thank God, there are thousands of instances to sustain it—spurn the temptations, and even surmount some of the outward barriers to his advancement. He may be respectably housed and clothed; he may have a good boss. Ah, there is the rub, good or bad—

HE HAS A BOSS,

a man at whose nod he must come and go. He may have money in a savings bank honestly managed; but if a spell of sickness prostrates him, how much of his hard-earned savings will be left when he rises from his sick bed? And suppose he feels that he has his death sickness, can you, by going into sorrow's counting-house, attempt to estimate the agony of the poor Catholic parent when he thinks of the fate which may await his children, left fatherless in a sinful city?

There are other pictures of a poor man's city life, which we care not to draw. But we will take this prosperous workingman, with a good boss, from the city, and place him in his first rude house on his own land. He misses many things, many comforts. He misses the society of friends who used to come round from time to time—the milkman's bell, the butcher's cart: everything was so handy in the city.

He is lonely: a feeling of desolation comes over him as he stands at the door of his new home, and looks around at the unimproved land. The land is rich and good, and the scene is fair to look at; but the reality is so different from the mental picture he made before setting out for the West, that he feels sad and disappointed. Then as he looks around him at his own,

HE MISSES THE BOSS.

At the thought, the spirit of independence which has led this man thousands of miles, perhaps, to seek a new home, and which sadness and disappointment—the first effects of a great change—for awhile subdued, leaps in his heart, and sends the red blood surging through his veins.

NO BOSS.

His eyes grow bright with pride as he looks out upon the land, a wide circle of which he calls his own.

THE BOSS HAS DISAPPEARED,

And the man, the owner of a wide stretch of real estate, conscious of a great awaking of self-respect in his being, stands erect at the door of his own house, on his own property, and feels that no one better than he is, shall pass him by all day.

How the consciousness of independence, the feeling of self-respect, will sustain this man through many hardships, disappointments and trials!

In a short time one or two cows take the place of the dingy cans of the milkman, and some young grunters in the hog pen represent the meat-market.

After some years are past we visit the scene again. There is no loneliness here now, for it is harvest time, and the farmer and his sons are busy in the fields, his wife and eldest daughters busy in the house preparing for the keen appetites the men will bring in with them. The first rude shanty has given place to a nice two-story frame house, well sheltered from sun and wind by the healthy young trees the farmer planted with his own hands, and in the rear are the snug barn and granary.

Where once the wild prairie grass waved, comes the cheery clatter of the harvester, and swath after swath of the golden grain falls down before it.

By and by the younger children return from school, rosy and hungry, and a small skirmisher is thrown out and enters the pantry; he is repulsed and falls back on the main body; then, taking advantage of the "good woman," being obliged to run to the oven to keep the bread from burning, the whole force advance, a pie is spiked and carried off in triumph.

As the shades of evening fall, a herd of cattle march lazily into the farm yard, and then from the field come the farmer and his sons. Lonely, indeed! Why the noise of Babel is renewed here. Dipping his hot face in a basin of cool water, the farmer splutters out his directions; seizing a jack towel, he scrubs his face, and continues to halloo to Mike, and Tom, and Patrick. Why, the boss has come back. Ay, but

THE MAN HIMSELF IS THE BOSS NOW.

All things come to an end, so does the farmer's supper; and as we sit with him on the porch outside we say,

"You have a splendid place here."

"It will do," he answers quite carelessly; but he can't fool us. We know that he is proud of his success.

"I had to work hard for it," he continues, "but God has been very good to us."

We are not romancing. We have drawn a picture from the original, which can be duplicated a thousand fold in this State.

It is not individual success alone we can point to, but likewise the success of whole farming communities, where the people commenced poor—many of them, perhaps the majority, with scarcely any means at all—under disadvantages that would now appear to us, with railroads and markets on every side, almost insurmountable, and where to-day we cannot find one exceptional case of failure without an exceptional cause for it.

Thoroughly acquainted with the Catholic settlements in Minnesota, we cannot call to mind a case where a hard-working, industrious, sober man failed to make a comfortable home for his family. We know of many cases where such a man met with reverses, lost his crop, his cattle, his horses; but never a case where a man met his reverses with a brave heart and trust in God, that he did not overcome them, and come out of the battle a better and prouder man.

Let a poor