So did the cow. She had been fooled with long enough, and she suddenly planted a hoof against Mr. Bowser with such vigor that he tumbled over in a confused heap. Between us we got him into the house, and the girl finished the milking. Mr. Bowser recovered from the shock after a while, and I felt it my duty to inquire:
"Mr. Bowser, don't you think a week of these pastoral scenes will be enough for us?"
"No, nor six weeks!" he growled. "Nothing would do but you must go into the country, and now I'll give you enough of it."
"Why, Mr. Bowser?"
"You needn't why Mr. Bowser me! You gave me no peace until I agreed to come, and now I'll remain here five straight years."
When the summer sun went down and the stars came out we were not as happy as we might have been. Mr. Bowser still held his hand on his stomach, the baby cried because the milk tasted of wild onions, and the girl lost the old oaken bucket in the thirty-foot well while getting a pail of fresh water. I asked Mr. Bowser when the kine would begin to low and the whippoorwills to sing, and he was so mad he wouldn't speak. However, if the kine didn't low, the pinchbugs and mosquitoes did. There wasn't a screen at door or window, and soon after sundown we were besieged.
That night seemed never ending. No one of us three slept a wink. The room was invaded with every insect known to country life, from a bat to a gnat.
When we got up in the morning the girl didn't know us. We were blotched and bitten until one would have suspected us of suffering with smallpox. Mr. Bowser knew himself, however, and before noon we were back in the city. He scarcely spoke to me all the way home, but once in the house he burst out with:
"Now, old lady, prepare for a settlement! You've nosed me round all you ever will. This has broken the camel's back. Which of us applies for a divorce?"
—Detroit Free Press.