low prices, exposed to depressing
comparison and criticism? When endeavoring to sell, one of the visiting
butchers, in reply to my petition that he would buy some of my
vegetables, said: "Well now, Marm, you see just how it is; I've got
more'n I can sell now, and women keep offering more all the way along. I
tell 'em I can't buy 'em, but I'll <i>haul 'em off for ye</i> if ye want to
get rid of 'em!" So much for market gardening at a distance from city
demands.

But ducks! Sydney Smith, at the close of his life, said he "had but one
illusion left, and that was the Archbishop of Canterbury." I still
believe in Crankin and duck raising. Let me see: "One pair dressed
fourteen pounds, netted forty cents per pound." I'll order one of
Crankin's "Monarch" incubators and begin a poultry farm anew.

"<i>Dido et dux</i>," and so do Boston epicures. I'll sell at private sales,
not for hotels! I used to imagine myself supplying one of the large
hotels and saw on the <i>menu</i>:

"Tame duck and apple sauce (from the famous 'Breezy Meadows' farm)." But
I inquired of one of the proprietors what he would give, and "fifteen
cents per pound for poultry dressed and delivered" gave me a combined
attack of chills and hysterics.

Think of <i>my</i> chickens, from those prize hens (three dollars each)--<i>my</i>
chickens, fed on eggs hard boiled, milk, Indian meal, cracked corn,
sun-flower seed, oats, buckwheat, the best of bread, selling at fifteen
cents per pound, and I to pay express charges! Is there, is there any
"money in hens?"

To show how a child would revel in a little rational enjoyment on a
farm, read this dear little poem of James Whitcomb Riley's:

AT AUNTY'S HOUSE.

One time when we's at aunty's house--
'Way in the country--where
They's ist but woods and pigs and cows,
An' all's outdoors and air!
An orchurd swing; an' churry trees,
An' <i>churries</i> in 'em! Yes, an' these
Here red-head birds steal all they please
An' tech 'em if you dare!
W'y wunst, one time when we wuz there,
<i>We et out on the porch!</i>

Wite where the cellar door wuz shut
The table wuz; an' I
Let aunty set by me an' cut
My wittles up--an' pie.
Tuz awful funny! I could see
The red heads in the churry tree;
An' bee-hives, where you got to be
So keerful going by;
An' comp'ny there an' all! An' we--
<i>We et out on the porch!</i>

An'--I ist et <i>p'surves</i> an' things