"Oh, they have thousands of baby fish and they ladle 'em out like so much fine gold," said Richard. "And we saw them net a pond once for carp—I wish I had more time to play around. Perhaps when Warren and I get our own farm we can carry out a few ideas of ours."
"What's that you're going to do when you get your own farm, Richard?" asked Mrs. Hildreth, coming out on the porch, looking warm and tired. "I declare, every summer I say I'll have the baker stop here," she added. "I get so sick of baking my own bread when it's warm."
She did not sit down, but stood poised on the top step. Jack who had risen with the rest, kept one hand stiffly away from his body.
"What were you saying, Richard?" asked Mrs. Hildreth again.
"Oh, I was day-dreaming I guess," Richard answered. "I said that when Warren and I have our own farm, perhaps we'll have time to do some of the things we have always wanted to do."
Mrs. Hildreth mopped her flushed face with a handkerchief of generous size.
"Well, you won't," she prophesied. "I never knew anyone who lived on a farm to have a minute's time for anything but the hardest kind of work. Even in winter when the crops are in, there's wood to get out and cut and the animals to be fed and bedded down and the fires to look after and paths to be opened and the milking to be done. It's one thing after another, all the year round."
Richard put one arm around the porch pillar.
"It could be different," he insisted. "For instance, you could buy bread—you just said so. That would save you some time."
"Which I should feel duty-bound to use in canning more fruit," countered Mrs. Hildreth promptly. "I'm not so keen on work, but the way I'm made, I feel guilty if I waste a half hour."