"The fact is," I said, "no literal-minded man should be trusted with
Downing."

"Any more than with the Holy Scriptures," exclaimed the woman.

"Exactly!" I responded with the greatest enthusiasm; "exactly! We go to
him for inspiration, for fundamental teachings, for the great literature
and poetry of the art. Do you remember," I asked, "that passage in
which Downing quotes from some old Chinaman upon the true secret of the
pleasures of a garden--?"

"Do we?" exclaimed the man, jumping up instantly; "do we? Just let me
get the book--"

With that he went into the house and came back immediately bringing a
lamp in one hand--for it had grown pretty dark--and a familiar, portly,
blue-bound book in the other. While he was gone the woman said:

"You have touched Mr. Vedder in his weakest spot."

"I know of no combination in this world," said I, "so certain to produce
a happy heart as good books and a farm or garden."

Mr. Vedder, having returned, slipped on his spectacles, sat forward on
the edge of his rocking-chair, and opened the book with pious hands.

"I'll find it," he said. "I can put my finger right on it."

"You'll find it," said Mrs. Vedder, "in the chapter on 'Hedges.'"

"You are wrong, my dear," he responded, "it is in 'Mistakes of Citizens
in Country Life.'"

He turned the leaves eagerly.

"No," he said, "here it is in 'Rural Taste.' Let me read you the
passage, Mr.--"

"Grayson."

"--Mr. Grayson. The Chinaman's name was Lieu-tscheu. 'What is it,' asks
this old Chinaman, 'that we seek in the pleasure of a garden? It has
always been agreed that these plantations should make men amends
for living at a distance from what would be their more congenial
and agreeable dwelling-place--in the midst of nature, free and
unrestrained.'"

"That's it," I exclaimed, "and the old Chinaman was right! A garden
excuses civilization."

"It's what brought us here," said Mrs. Vedder.

With that we fell into the liveliest discussion of gardening and farming
and country life in all their phases, resolving that while there were
bugs and blights, and droughts and floods, yet upon the whole there was
no life so completely satisfying as life in which one may watch daily
the unfolding of natural life.

A hundred things we talked about freely that had often risen dimly in
my own mind almost to the point--but not quite--of spilling over into
articulate form. The marvellous thing about good conversation is that
it