siness. He never loses hope, or his
temper. It was he that originally found us "The Sabine Farm." He let us
live there in peace till we were rested, for which we are eternally
grateful, and then he began to throw out unsettling remarks. The boys
ought to have a place to call home where they could grow up with
associations. Wasn't it foolish to pay rent when we might be applying
that money toward the purchase of a house? Of course it told on us in
time and we began to look about. "The Sabine Farm" would not do, as it
was too far from J----'s business, and the lotus-flower existence of our
first two years was ours no longer. Every lot we looked at had
irresistible attractions, and insurmountable objections. At last,
however, we settled on a piece of land looking toward the mountains,
with orange trees on either hand, paid a part of the price, and supposed
it was ours for better or worse. Just then the war darkened and we felt
panicky, but heaven helped us, for there was a flaw in the title, and
our money came trotting back to us, wagging its tail. It was after this
that we stumbled on the arbored bungalow, and bought it in fifteen
minutes. I asked Mr. W---- if he liked bass fishing, and whether he'd
ever found one gamier to land than our family. He will probably let us
live quietly for a little while, and then he will undoubtedly tell us
that this place is too small for us. I know him!

In case of death or bankruptcy the situation is much more intense. Every
mouse hole has its alert whiskered watcher, and after a delay of a few
days for decency, such pressure is brought to bear that surviving
relatives rarely have the courage to stand pat. Probably a change of
surroundings _is_ good for them.

If people can't be induced to sell, often they will rent. There is an
eccentric old woman in town who owns a most lovely lot, beautifully
planted, that is the hope and snare of every real-estate man, but,
though poor, she will not part with it. She has a house, however, that
she rents in the season. One day some Eastern people were looking at it,
and timidly said that one bath-room seemed rather scant for so large a
house.

"Oh, do you think so?" said Mrs. Riddle. "It is enough for us. Mr.
Riddle and I aren't what you'd call bathers. In fact, Mr. Riddle doesn't
bathe at all; I sponge!"

Real estate isn't the only interest of the West. We all read the
advertising page of the local paper just as eagerly as we do the foreign
news.