ear the hens cackling in the barnyard in the morning after they've
laid, and to go and bring in the eggs."

"Just like a daily present!" I said.

"Ye-es," responded the soundly practical Mrs. Clark, thinking, no doubt,
that there were other aspects of the garden and chicken problem.

"I'll tell you another thing I like about a farmer's life," said I,
"that's the smell in the house in the summer when there are preserves,
or sweet pickles, or jam, or whatever it is, simmering on the stove. No
matter where you are, up in the garret or down cellar, it's cinnamon,
and allspice, and cloves, and every sort of sugary odour. Now, that gets
me where I live!"

"It IS good!" said Mrs. Clark with a laugh that could certainly be
called nothing if not girlish.

All this time I had been keeping one eye on Mr. Clark. It was amusing
to see him struggling against a cheerful view of life. He now broke into
the conversation.

"Well, but--" he began.

Instantly I headed him off.

"And think," said I, "of living a life in which you are beholden to
no man. It's a free life, the farmer's life. No one can discharge you
because you are sick, or tired, or old, or because you are a Democrat or
a Baptist!"

"Well, but--"

"And think of having to pay no rent, nor of having to live upstairs in a
tenement!"

"Well, but--"

"Or getting run over by a street-car, or having the children play in the
gutters."

"I never did like to think of what my children would do if we went to
town," said Mrs. Clark.

"I guess not!" I exclaimed.

The fact is, most people don't think half enough of themselves and of
their jobs; but before we went to bed that night I had the forlorn T. N.
Clark talking about the virtues of his farm in quite a surprising way.

I even saw him eying me two or three times with a shrewd look in his
eyes (your American is an irrepressible trader) as though I might
possibly be some would-be purchaser in disguise.

(I shall write some time a dissertation on the advantages, of wearing
shabby clothing.)

The farm really had many good points. One of them was a shaggy old
orchard of good and thriving but utterly neglected apple-trees.

"Man alive," I said, when we went out to see it in the morning, "you've
got a gold mine here!" And I told him how in our neighbourhood we were
renovating the old orchards, pruning them back, spraying, and bringing
them into bearing again.

He had never, since he owned the place, had a salabl