At the office everybody was glad to see us. Even the Managing Editor was amiable. He said nothing about the hour we got in—he seemed to think it was very nice of us to come down at all. And then he sat on the corner of our desk and talked about the beauty of living in the country, and waking up in the morning with the calves bleating around you and the hens and all that, and walking out in the fields to see the fine, healthy farmer lads turning up the sod and reaping and harrowing and everything.
Of course, it was immediately obvious to us that the Managing Editor's idea of country life had been gained from the reading of sentimental verse. Unfortunately, we find it difficult to share this enthusiasm for rural life. You see, we worked on a few farms when we were a wild lad just out of college—we were seeking inspiration in the soil. So we know just how a farm looks and smells in the spring when they are enriching the ground. But we didn't disillusion the M.E.—we wanted everyone to be happy.
* * * * *
It is true that winter rose again Sunday morning. It is true that Monday was cold and blustery, that there was a thick covering of snow on the ground Tuesday morning, that we had to get out our woollens once more, that in the interval we caught a cold in the head. We knew it, but we heeded not. Our eyes had seen the glory of the coming of the spring.
MOVING DAY
Moving Day
It all depends on how much or how little you have to move—the much or little referring to the amount of impediment with which your habitat is furnished. At either end of the scale moving is a matter involving slight personal inconvenience. But midway toil and trouble lie.
If you live and move and have your meals in what reporters are fond of describing as a "palatial residence," and if it occurs to you to remove yourself and all that is yours to a still more palatial mansion, you have only to give orders. The work and worry you leave to the 'elp, while you and the family spend the interval gaily at Palm Beach or Monte Carlo. When you come back everything is in readiness. You can walk right in, chuck your grip to your valet, and jump into the new porcelain bath-tub. When you emerge, the bath-towel is waiting for you on the gold-plated rack to which you have always been accustomed.
And if, gentle reader, instead of a valet you should have a maid—even among the most modern women maids are still usual—it makes no difference in the general readiness of the new home. You trip joyously into your boudoir, she unhooks your gown, and you—but, of course, at this point visitors are always asked to wait in the library. But these details are irrelevant. The main thing is that all the work has been done for you. All the worry has been borne by someone else. It only remains for you to accustom yourself to your new surroundings.