“O,” said she, merrily, “do take me there to-day; it would be so romantic to live in a log cabin.”
So, their host’s team being chartered, they went to look at the “rent.” It was a funny wee loggery, hastily put up for pre-emption purpose, standing in a small, enclosed field near the river, two miles from town, the nearest neighbor being Mr. Jones, who lived a mile and a half farther down the stream.
Mr. Palmer, in anticipation of the visit, had been there before them, and put in a whole glass window, laid the rough boards, that constituted the floor, more closely, and put up some shelves for a cupboard in a corner.
“This is elegance itself!” exclaimed the little 131 woman, laughing heartily: “get a few chairs, and a stove, husband, and we’ll move right in; and see,” she added, looking out of the door; “there are potatoes here that have not been dug–quite a crop: perhaps you can buy the right to use them.”
“O, yes,” replied her husband; “brother Palmer says we can have the use of the cabin free, and all there is about it.”
“The fish in the river, too, I suppose,” said she, stepping to the fence, and peering over the river brink.
“I reckon you won’t get fish enough to get sick on them,” said a voice near; and, Mr. Jones emerged from a clump of bushes, his gun on his shoulder.
“This is our neighbor,” said the minister; “my wife, Mr. Jones.”
“Looking up a cage to put your bird in?” asked the squatter.
The minister replied affirmatively.