“Meg, let’s go and see it.”
“Why, Elsie, child, how is it possible?”
“This way. Maybe I’m visionary, but I’ve an idea that we can make enough money out of the place to pay the rent and keep us. See here: ‘only thirty minutes’ ride on dummy to city market.’ Now, three acres of ground, if good for anything, ought to raise potatoes.”
“Admitted. Go on with your proposition.”
“Potatoes with salt constitute a very fair living for a hungry man; without salt they keep starve to death away—ergo, let’s plant potatoes! To be serious—I’ve thought of this. It is now February, and we’ll need to make haste. We’ve raised our own potatoes in the parsonage garden for years, and good ones, too. Why not raise double the quantity somewhere else and sell the surplus? The small fruits advertised may be worth cultivating, too. You are a splendid amateur gardener—everybody says so; and there’s Gilbert—to be sure, only a boy; but a boy is good for some things sometimes—and I consider myself capable of being taught. Now, I’ve sketched the outlines of Eutopia, and you must fill in the shading.”
“Outlines are easily drawn; the skill lies in the filling in.”
“Therefore I left it for you. I feel as if we might dig our living out of the soil easier than out of the oftentimes ungracious favor of humanity. Suppose we look this place up to-morrow?”
“I cannot see my way clear yet. Where is all the money to come from to start us in this venture? It takes money for spades, you know.”
“I realize it. Can’t we sell something?”
“What—our old clothes?”