"Not on this farm: that's a clear case, Deacon," replied Mr. March; "but it's too long a story to enter on now. After supper I'll tell you my plans."
The Deacon took out his red silk handkerchief, and rubbed his forehead.
"Oh, Lord!" said he to himself; "what's that blessed man been and done now? He ain't noways fit to go off by himself. I'll bet he's been took in worse 'n ever."
After supper Mr. March told his story. He had bought a farm in the Wet Mountain Valley, and he proposed that they should all move down there immediately. The place had more than equalled all Long Billy's descriptions of it; and Mr. March's enthusiasm was unbounded. Deacon Plummer listened to all his statements with a perplexed and incredulous face.
"Did you see that medder grass's high's a man's knee?" he asked.
"Waded in it, Deacon," replied Mr. March; "but that isn't all: I've got a wisp of it in my pocket."
Long Billy chuckled, as Mr. March drew the crumpled green wisp out of his pocket, and handed it to the Deacon.
"'Twas I put him up to bringin' that," said Billy. "Sez I, 'there ain't nothin' so good for folks's seein' with their own eyes.' I kind o' misgave that the old man wouldn't be for believin' it all."
The Deacon unfolded the grass; back and forth, back and forth, he bent it, and straightened it out across his knees. He looked at it in silence for a minute; then he said:—
"Well, that beats me! Acres like this, you say?"