210 FARMING IT 



their quarrels, to share their joys. In time of war 

 to "cry 'Havoc!' and let loose the dogs of war," 

 or to cry anything else that might be more in- 

 telligible to the modern dogs of war, or appro- 

 priate to the circumstances. In times of peace, 

 to raise white-winged pigeons as emblematic of 

 the idealistic conditions. And with such peace- 

 ful intentions I most certainly did not expect 

 trouble with any one. 



The Dragon's name was Cyrus Pettigrew. 

 Not a handsome name, and Cyrus looked his 

 name if any one ever did. He was old and gnarled 

 and dried and wrinkled and rusty. He was mean 

 and skimpy and avaricious and penurious and 

 grasping. He was harsh and sour and contrary 

 and selfish and grumpy. 



But I had no fear of trouble. I usually had no 

 trouble with any one. It may have been in a 

 measure due to my profession, for few men care 

 to pick a quarrel with a lawyer. It may have been 

 in a still greater measure due to my avocation, 

 for the men who will risk being embalmed in a 

 newspaper or magazine roast are still more rarely 

 found. Whatever may have been the cause the 

 fact was undisputed. I was a peaceable man and 

 lived a peaceful life. 



But the man never lived who could reside next 

 to old Pettigrew and not have trouble with him. 

 Poor old Cyrus, he is dead now, and, " De 



