Jonathan knew, and so did I, that there were still plenty of berry bushes left. Nevertheless, he was moved.
"Now, see here," he began seriously, "I don't want to spoil the farm for you. Only I don't know which things you like. If you'll just tell me the places you don't want touched, I'll speak to Hiram about them."
"Really?" I exclaimed. "Why, I'll tell you now, right away. There's the lane—you know, that mustn't be touched; and the ledges—but you couldn't do anything to those, of course, anyway."
"No, even the hobo wouldn't tackle them," said Jonathan grimly.
"And the birches, the ones that are left. You promised me those, you know. And the swamp, of course, and the cedar knoll where the high-bush blueberries grow, and then—oh, yes—that lovely hillside beyond the long meadow where the sumac is, and the dogwood, and everything. And, of course, the rest of the huckleberries—"
"The rest of the huckleberries!" said he. "That means all the farm. There isn't a spot as big as your hat where you can't show me some sort of a huckleberry bush."
"So much the better," I said contentedly.
"Oh, come now," he protested. "Be reasonable. Even your wonderful farmer that you tell about did a little mowing. He mowed around the butterfly-weed, but he mowed. You're making the farm into solid butterfly-weed, and there'll be no mowing at all."
"Why, Jonathan, I've left you the long meadow, and the corner meadow, and the hill orchard, and then there's the ten-acre lot for corn and potatoes—only I wish you wouldn't plant potatoes."
"What's the matter with potatoes?"