F O R E W O R D 



but over and over. Naturally, the place has 

 grown on me, until I love it hardly less than 

 its pastors and masters. I have been made free 

 of it, to range the field-sides, roam the woods, 

 even let know, on the side as it were, that if I 

 hooked a trout surreptitiously nobody would 

 look very cross. I am even permitted to catch 

 teeny, weeny chicks. A stretch of grace that, 

 which would, I fear, be beyond me, were the 

 chicks my very own. 



There is but one thing better than the farm 

 proper namely, the indwelling soul and spirit 

 of it. There is no over- doing, everything 

 indeed hits the Irishman's "middle extreme," 

 the fine line betwixt too much and not enough. 

 This spirit runs from least to greatest, from 

 the big boss, Mr. Elijah W. Sells himself, 

 through Dorothy, she-who-must-be-obeyed, 

 pet Marjorie, who ought to be "fed on the 

 roses, and laid in the lilies of life," Patricia 

 Salome, the dachshund, who beheads little 

 chickens instead of John the Baptist, to Mrs. 

 Mabel Sells the elect lady by whose good 

 leave I, too, catch chickens. 



[10 



