"Oh, yes. Have lived there all my life, though I do long to spend the rest of my days in the country, away from all bustle and confusion, and live the quiet life."
"To pile drift-wood and do sich jobs, I s'pose?"
"Yes, that would be a pleasure. Good for the appetite."
"Think ye'd make enough to eat on this place?" Abner asked.
"I'm sure I could. Why, all you farmers have to do is to go into the garden, for your supplies, and to the shore for your fuel, while we in the city have to pay for such things."
Abner felt like kicking this fellow and telling him in no uncertain language what a fool he was. But he thought of his peaceful ancestors and so changed his mind.
"Yes, ye'r quite right, Mister," he drawled. "We do have a great time here in the bush. Lots to eat in the summer time fer nuthin'. An' in the winter it's jist the same. We eat icicles fer breakfast, warmed-up snow fer dinner, an' fer supper we have a slice off one of them cedar blocks there. Ye see, them sticks have been floatin' so long in the river that they have a fishy smell, an' when a piece is fried in molasses, why, ye couldn't tell it from the finest lake trout. Did ye ever try one?"
"I certainly never did," the stranger smilingly replied. "It must be rather hard to digest, isn't it?"
"Oh, we don't use our digesters in the winter time. We lay 'em away in the cellar until spring. It's great how they work then, after a good long rest."
"I see you're quite a humorist, Mr. Andrews," and again the visitor smiled. "Life in the country is conducive to humor, I suppose?"