of making sensible
human beings of you, and so you might as well go on acting like a couple
of ninny-hammers."

"Do ninny-hammers marry and settle on the property adjoining yours,
sir?" I asked.

"Yes, I suppose they do," he said. "And when the aboriginal ice-house,
or whatever the ridiculous thing is that they have discovered, gives
out, I suppose that they can come to a reasonable man and ask him for a
little money to buy bread and butter."

Two years have passed, and Agnes and the glacier are still mine; great
blocks of ice now flow in almost a continuous stream from the mine to
the railroad station, and in a smaller but quite as continuous stream
an income flows in upon Agnes and me; and from one of the experimental
excavations made by Tom Burton on the bluff comes a stream of ice-cold
water running in a sparkling brook a-down my dell. On fine mornings
before I am up, I am credibly informed that Aaron Boyce may generally be
found, in season and out of season, endeavoring to catch the trout with
which I am trying to stock that ice-cold stream. The diploma case,
which I caused to be carefully removed from the ice-barrier which had
imprisoned me, now hangs in my study and holds our marriage certificate.

Near the line-fence which separates his property from mine, Mr. Havelot
has sunk a wide shaft. "If the glacier spur under your land was a
quarter of a mile wide," he says to me, "it was probably at least a half
a mile long; and if that were the case, the upper end of it extends into
my place, and I may be able to strike it." He has a good deal of money,
this worthy Mr. Havelot, but he would be very glad to increase his
riches, whether they are based upon sound reason or ridiculous facts. As
for Agnes and myself, no facts or any reason could make us happier than
our ardent love and our frigid fortune.

End of Project Gutenberg's My Terminal Moraine, by Frank E. Stockton

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