lawn, seems to get out of
order when we have tenants. No one likes tenants any more than we like
"Central." There is a prejudice against them. They do the things they
ought not to do and leave undone the things they ought to do, and there
is no health in them. I have more often been one than had one, and I
hate to think of the language that was probably used about us, though we
meant well.

I am not going to tell all I know about tenants after all. I have
changed my mind. I am also going to draw a veil over the adobe road
during the rains, because we really do like to rent the place to help
pay for the children's and the motor's shoes, and it wouldn't be
good business.

The village delivery system enrages and entertains me by turns. I was
frankly told by the leading grocery store that they did not expect to
deliver to people who had their own motors, and when I occasionally
insist on a few necessities being sent up to my house, they arrive
after dark conveyed by an ancient horse, as the grocery manager is
conservative. A horse doesn't get a puncture or break a vital part often
(if he does, you bury him and get another) and it is about a toss-up
between hay and gasoline.

Every now and then I am marooned on my hill, if the motor is "hors de
combat," and then I get my neighbour to let me join her in her morning
marketing trip, sometimes with disastrous results. One day the boys and
I sat down to dinner with fine sea-air appetites, to be confronted by a
small, crushed-looking fish. I sent out to ask the cook for more. She
said there was no more, and as no miracle was wrought in our behalf, we
filled up the void with mashed potatoes as best we could. Just as the
plates were being removed the telephone rang, and my neighbor's agitated
voice asked if I had her cat's dinner! Light flooded in on my
understanding. We had just eaten her cat's dinner. She went on to say
that the fish-man had picked out a little barracuda (our household fish
in California) from his scraps and made her a present of it. I faintly
asked if she thought it was a very old one, visions of ptomaine
poisoning rising vividly. Oh, no, she said, "it wasn't old at all, he
had merely stepped on it." My own perfectly good dinner was at her
house. I told her to take off a portion for her cat, and I would send
the boys for the rest. I heaved a sigh of relief--a fresh young fish,
even if crushed, would not have fatal results.

I will pass rapidly on to my last