And when I described the simplest things about my barn, and the
cattle and pigs, and the bees--and the good things we have to
eat--I had every one of them leaning forward and hanging on my
words.
Harriet sometimes laughs at me for the way I celebrate farm life.
She says all my apples are the size of Hubbard squashes, my eggs
all double-yolked, and my cornfields tropical jungles. Practical
Harriet! My apples may not ALL be the size of Hubbard squashes,
but they are good, sizable apples, and as for flavour--all the
spices of Arcady--! And I believe, I KNOW, from my own experience
that these fields and hills are capable of healing men's souls.
And when I see people wandering around a lonesome city like
Kilburn, with never a soft bit of soil to put their heels into,
nor a green thing to cultivate, nor any corn or apples or honey
to harvest, I feel--well, that they are wasting their time.
(It's a fact, Harriet!)
Indeed I had the most curious experience with my friend the
wit--his name I soon learned was Healy--a jolly, round,
red-nosed, outdoor chap with fists that looked like small-sized
hams, and a rich, warm Irish voice. At first he was inclined to
use me as the ready butt of his lively mind, but presently he
became so much interested in what I was saying that he sat
squarely in front of me with both his jolly eyes and his smiling
mouth wide open.
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