108 HAPPY HOLLOW FARM 



with thin sausage cakes, cooked to the perfec- 

 tion of a deep brown turn, and a dish of golden 

 corn-cakes to dip the brown gravy over. Ple- 

 beian? Fudge! Why, the great gods in their 

 most divine longings couldn't beat it. There 

 ought to be a poetry of sausage; plain prose 

 has such pesky limitations. 



Not a little of the sub-conscious satisfaction 

 of eating such food lies in your having been 

 intimately acquainted with the pig that pro- 

 duced it. Butcher shop eating, the best you 

 can make of it, is a sort of catch-as-catch-can 

 business. It's a lot better if you have it in the 

 back of your head that your pig was brought 

 up as a gentleman a very Chesterfield of the 

 pig family, fed on clean pastures and skim 

 milk and sweet grain. There's a Fifth Avenue 

 as well as a slumdom in pig life. If you're 

 running the pig nursery yourself, you can be 

 comfortably sure that you're not eating a Billy 

 the Dip. You'd rather like that, wouldn't 

 you? 



We weren't living on pig alone. There were 

 the chickens, too. We had fancied we knew 

 something about chicken-eating before we came 

 to Happy Hollow. We had eaten chicken 

 clear across the continent, from Boston to San 



