I carried the clipping in my pocket, and a day or two later, when calling on my friend I showed it to him. He, like myself, is an enthusiastic lover of the country. We talked it all over, and as I was leaving him, he said: "I don't know but I might help you in the matter of that farm."
I do not think I grasped all that remark meant. Certainly I had no idea then, that within a few months I should be writing this chapter in my "Den" at "Chestnut Ridge."
I went to Washington, looked at the property, and after looking at sixty-two other farms in Maryland and Virginia, returned to New York and was authorized by my friend to make an offer for the place.
[Illustration: "Chestnut Ridge"—Library]
Before making the offer I wanted my wife to see the farm. When she did so, she was delighted.
The day we spent in roaming over the broad acres, with the happy thought in our hearts that this was to be our home, will ever be a red-letter day in our calendar of life.
After a few day's negotiations the purchase was closed, and when the necessary repairs to buildings had been completed and the farm equipped we took possession.
[Footnote: To the author, it seems unnatural to close this chapter without any expression of the one all-absorbing feeling that almost overpowered us as we realized we again had a home and yet he cannot ignore the wishes of his friend.]