"Mrs. Bowser, the event of our life is about to happen."
"What is it?"
"You know Gregg? Well, Gregg owns a little farm out here about twelve miles. There's a good house on it, and he says we can occupy it for the summer. We will have a cow and a horse, pigs, poultry and other stock, and we'll go out there and tan up and get fat and have the best time in the world."
"I don't think much of the idea, Mr. Bowser."
"You don't. You don't want cool breezes—fresh eggs—fresh berries—rich milk—songs of birds—lowing of the kine and rest from care!"
"You will be disappointed if you expect any such thing."
"I will, eh? Perhaps I don't know what the country is. You are always ready to throw cold water on any of my plans. I shall go, anyhow."
That was the beginning, and at the end of three days I yielded, womanlike.
One Monday morning we took the train and started, having engaged a farmer's daughter to take charge of the kitchen, and at the nearest railroad station we were met by a farmer and his lumber wagon. The sun poured down its hottest, the dust had covered grass and bushes, and as we jogged and jolted along the farmer queried of Mr. Bowser:
"Come out for your health, I suppose?"