Gazetteer announced
that "a well-known Boston poetess had purchased the Britton Farm, and
was fitting up the old homestead for city boarders!" I couldn't import a
few hens, invest in a new dog, or order a lawn mower, but a full account
would grace the next issue of all the weeklies. I sympathized with the
old woman who exclaimed in desperation:

"Great Jerusalem, ca'nt I stir,
Without a-raisin' some feller's fur?"

At last I suspected the itinerant butcher of doing double duty as a
reporter, and found that he "was engaged by several editors to pick up
bits of news for the press" as he went his daily rounds. "But this," I
exclaimed, "is just what I don't want and can't allow. Now if you should
drive in here some day and discover me dead, reclining against yonder
noble elm, or stark at its base, surrounded by my various pets, don't
allude to it in the most indirect way. I prefer the funeral to be
strictly private. Moreover, if I notice another 'item' about me, I'll
buy of your rival." And the trouble ceased.

But the horses! Still they came and went. I used to pay my friend the
rubicund surgeon to test some of these highly recommended animals in a
short drive with me.

One pronounced absolutely unrivaled was discovered by my wise mentor to
be "watch-eyed," "rat-tailed," with a swollen gland on the neck, would
shy at a stone, stand on hind legs for a train, with various other minor
defects. I grew fainthearted, discouraged, cynical, bitter. Was there no
horse for me? I became town-talk as "a drefful fussy old maid who
didn't know her own mind, and couldn't be suited <i>no</i> way."

I remember one horse brought by a butcher from West Bungtown. It was, in
the vernacular, a buck-skin. Hide-bound, with ribs so prominent they
suggested a wash-board. The two fore legs were well bent out at the
knees; both hind legs were swelled near the hoofs. His ears nearly as
large as a donkey's; one eye covered with a cataract, the other deeply
sunken. A Roman nose, accentuated by a wide stripe, aided the pensive
expression of his drooping under lip. He leaned against the shafts as if
he were tired.

"There, Marm," said the owner, eying my face as an amused expression
stole over it; "ef you don't care for <i>style</i>, ef ye want a good, steddy
critter, and a critter that can <i>go</i>, and a critter that <i>any</i> lady can
drive, <i>there's</i> the critter for ye!"

I did buy at last, for life had become a burden. An <i>intere