them to join me in a row, would declare a preference for surf
and salt water, or, if pressed, would murmur in the meanest way
something about having a bath-tub at home.

It is now nearly a year since that little adventure, but it is still a
subject of mirth, even in other towns. A friend calling yesterday told
me the version he had just heard at Gillford, ten miles away!

"You bet they have comical goings-on at that woman's farm by the
Gooseville depot! She got a regular menagerie, fust off--everything she
see or could hear of. Got sick o' the circus bizness, and went into
potatoes deep. They say she was actually up and outdoors by day-break,
working and worrying over the tater bugs!

"She's a red-headed, fleshy woman, and some of our folks going by in the
cars would tell of seeing her tramping up and down the long furrows,
with half a dozen boys hired to help her. Soon as she'd killed most of
her own, a million more just traveled over from the field opposite where
they had had their own way and cleaned out most everything. Then, what
the bugs spared, the long rains rotted. So I hear she's giv' up
potatoes.

"Then she got sot on scooping out a seven by nine mud hole to make a
pond, and had a boat built to match.

"Well, by darn, she took a stout woman in with her, and, as I heerd it,
that boat just giv' one groan, and sunk right down!"

As to the potatoes, I might never have escaped from that terrific
thralldom, if a city friend, after hearing my woful experience, had not
inquired quietly:

"Why have potatoes? It's much cheaper to buy all you need!"

I had been laboring under a strange spell--supposed I <i>must</i> plant
potatoes; the relief is unspeakable.

Jennie June once said, "The great art of life is to <i>eliminate</i>." I
admired the condensed wisdom of this, but, like experience, it only
serves to illume the path over which I have passed.

One little incident occurred this spring which is too funny to withhold.
Among the groceries ordered from Boston was a piece of extra fine
cheese. A connoisseur in cheese had advised me to try it. It recommended
itself so strongly that I placed it carefully under glass, in a place
all by itself. It <i>was</i> strong--strong enough to sew buttons on, strong
as Sampson, strong enough to walk away alone. One warm morning it
seemed to have gained during the night. Its penetrating, permeating
power was something, almost supernatural. I carried it from one place to
ano