“Opening the green corn a little at the top to see if it is ready and then stripping it off and tearing away the moist white husks—”
“And picking tomatoes?” said Mrs. Clark. “And knuckling the watermelons to see if they are ripe? Oh, I tell you there are thousands of people in this country who'd like to be able to pick their dinner in the garden!”
“It's fine!” said Mrs. Clark with amused enthusiasm, “but I like best to hear 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.