the
Finn, sometimes accompanied these excursions and went quite mad with the
delight of them, racing about and digging up flowers and shrubs to plant
in the door-yard, fairly whooping it up in joyful Finnish and such
English words as she had acquired. I believe the aspect of our woods
reminded her of Finland.

Lena was a good soul, that is certain, and measurably instructive. We
learned from her how priceless is the gift of good nature, which was the
chief thing that kept her with us; also, to eat a number of dishes quite
new to us, and that an apple-tree--or perhaps it was an apple, baked or
in dumpling--was, in her speech, an "ominy poo." She was not strong on
desserts, but she could always fall back on the ominy poo--meaning in a
general way the big sweet-apple tree that grew by the barn and was
loaded to the breaking-point with delicious fruit. Any baked apple is
good, but a big, cold, baked sweet-apple--"punkin sweets," Westbury
called them--with cold cream, plenty of it, and a sprinkle of sugar, is
about the most blithesome thing in the world. Hurrah for the ominy poo!
whether it be the tree, or the fruit, baked or in dumplings. When the
strawberry passed and was not, the ominy poo reigned gloriously. I don't
know what Lena called certain other dishes that from time to time she
tried to substitute--some other kind of poo, maybe--I know we gradually
persuaded her away from them into a better way of life.

Sometimes we joined our picnics with the Westburys'--loaded our baskets
into a little hand-express wagon, or into the surrey behind Lord
Beaconsfield--and these were quite elaborate affairs that required a
good deal of preparation and meant a general holiday. More than once we
spread long tables on the green of Westbury's shaded lawn that sloped
down to the river and the mill, and was a picture-place, if ever there
was one. Other days we went over the hills for huckleberries--and came
home with pails of the best fruit that grows for pies, bar none. Happy
days--days of peace--a true golden age, as it seems now. Will the world,
I wonder, ever be so happy and golden again?

* * * * *

We had no intention of embarking in chickens when we settled in Brook
Ridge. Neither of us had any love for chickens on foot, and we had no
illusions about the fortunes that, according to certain books, could be
made from a setting of eggs and a tin hen--an incubator, I mean. Also,
our experiment with