“True, true,” Mike replied, meditatively. “But what be yer runnin’ the place for, Mr. Upton? Is it a real farmer ye’d be?”
“A real farmer,” I answered. “Why?”
“Well, I didn’t know. Onct I worked fer one o’ them literary fellers that married rich, and he was always fer makin’ me try new-fangled things in the ground instead o’ good old cow manure. Begorra, he nigh drove the life out o’ me with his talk o’ bac-bac-bac somethin’–some kind of bugs, if ye can beat that–that he said made nitrogen. I’ve heard say yer wuz a literary feller, too, Mr. Upton, and I have me doubts.”
“Well, I am a sort of a literary feller,” I confessed, “but I never married a rich wife.”
“Sure, ye’re not so old to be past hopin’,” Mike replied.
I shook my head, and added, “But it’s you I want to be the real literary feller, Mike. You must write me a poem in potatoes.”
Mike put back his head and roared. “It’s a pome yer want, is it?” he cried. “Sure, it’s an oration I’ll give ye. I’ll grow ye the real home rule pertaters.”
“Well,” said I, rising, “do you begin to-morrow morning, and will your son help for a few weeks?”
“The mornin’ it is,” said Mike, “and Joe along.”
I paused by the side of the girl. “All Gaul is divided into three parts,” I laughed.