Then we went back to the farm for dinner and had a sample of the farm-fare. It was a simple repast of seven or eight courses. One of the farm-hands, a butler, waited on table. Most of the food was of the sort that we try to conceal on the menu-card from a lady, in case she should order it and we would have to leave our watch with the waiter.
In the midst of the meal there was a solemn pause. We felt dimly that some marvel of the culinary art was about to appear. In came the butler with an air of importance and a silver dish containing six or seven anæmic radishes.
"Grown on the place!" said our host in the tone of a man who expects to astonish. He glanced with pride at his wife and she glanced back in affectionate joy at him. Theirs was the delight with which young parents exhibit their first-born.
We nibbled a little piece out of one, while they leaned back and waited confidently for our words of almost incredulous admiration. We are a bad liar as a rule—persistent, that is, but unsuccessful—but we would have cut off our right hand rather than disappoint that good man and that dear lady, so charming both of them in their simple faith. It had taken fifty or sixty thousand dollars and several years of thought and labor to produce those poor runts of radishes. So we forgot all the lessons of truthfulness that we had learned at our mother's knee—perhaps we should say, while laid across our mother's knee—and swore that they were the finest radishes we had ever tasted, and that no joy in life was equal to eating the vegetables grown on one's own door-step, so to speak.
"You're right, my boy, you're right," beamed our host. "The only truly happy and independent man on earth is the farmer."
The next day they showed us over the farm. We saw the aristocratic cows, whose ancestry went back as far as that of the kings of Ireland. Their milk, at a low estimate, must have cost about as much as a vintage wine.
We were particularly interested in the hens. They all belonged to the royal families of hendom. Most of them had been exhibited and had won ribbons or medals or whatever it is they give hens. They certainly were beautiful in a poultry way, but they seemed cold and proud. Our host said they didn't lay very well. We suggested it might be for the same reason as prevents people in the smart set from having any children.
"No, I don't think it's that," said our host very earnestly. "I believe it's because they haven't enough to interest them. I read in a poultry book the other day that hens must be kept bright and cheerful."
We recommended comic selections on a gramaphone. We also asked him if he had ever tried reading our articles to these haughty fowl. We felt that might draw a cluck or two of amusement out of them. But he treated our remarks with the silent contempt they no doubt deserved. We would like to tell a lot about life on that farm—about the trip in our host's big motor-boat, and the dance in the evening, and the horse-back rides on high-stepping horses that chinned themselves at every step and were always going up when we were coming down. We would like to tell also about the tennis and the billiards and the canoeing.
We would like to do all this, but we haven't the heart. Some real farmer might read this article, and go right out to his barn, and fasten a bit of rope between his neck and a beam, and kick the box over. Our only hope is that if one should happen to see this, he will merely grunt to "maw" that we are another of "them dern slick liars in the city," and refuse to believe a word of it. We don't wish to spoil his life.