HAPPY HOLLOW FARM 113 



Now, then, you take a shaving of that white 

 meat and a little slice off the thigh, piping hot, 

 and a brown roll with sweet butter and apple 

 jelly, and tell me if that isn't real chicken eat- 

 ing! Oh, man, dear! Some of these times I'm 

 going to write a cook-book, and there won't be 

 another thing in it but young chicken roasted 

 before a roaring open fire. 



We really lived at Happy Hollow in that 

 second winter. For my own part, I was find- 

 ing sheer delight in every least scrap of the 

 experience. It seemed to me that this life 

 was as clear of the rubbish of living as any on 

 earth could be. That suited me, down to the 

 ground. I had never been strong for the frills 

 and fixings. Simplicity was the thing not 

 the affected austerity of the ascetic who tor- 

 tures himself into that state of mind, but the 

 sort of plain living that lets a man keep his 

 time for the things he thinks essential for real 

 work or real leisure. We had kept our town 

 life with our friends down to that basis as well 

 as we could; but you know how the odds and 

 ends of trifling "obligations" will pile up on 

 you. We had always disliked wasting time on 

 empty formalities that did nobody any good, 

 but we hadn't been strong-minded enough to 



