292 THE FAT OF THE LAND 
and see how he measures. Some one will get it 
before long, and it might as well be you.” 
Jackson galloped off, and Kyrle and I sat on 
the porch and divided the widow’s 160-acre mite. 
It was a good strip of land, lying a fair mile on 
the south road and a quarter of a mile deep. 
The buildings were of no value, the fences were 
ragged to a degree, but I coveted the land. It 
was the vineyard of Naboth to me, and I planned 
its future with my friend and accessory sitting 
by. I destroyed the estimable old lady’s house 
and barns, ran my ploughshares through her gar- 
den and flower beds, and turned the home site 
into one great field of lusty corn, without so much 
as saying by your leave. Thus does the greed 
of land grow upon one. But in truth, I saw that 
I must have more land. My factory would re- 
quire more than ten thousand bushels of grain, 
with forage and green foods in proportion, to 
meet its full capacity, and I could not hope to 
get so much from the land then under cultiva- 
tion. Again, in a few years—a very few — the 
fifty acres of orchard would be no longer avail- 
able for crops, and this would still further reduce 
my tillable land. With the orchards out of use, 
I should have but 124 acres for all crops other 
than hay. If I could add this coveted 160, it 
would give me 250 acres of excellent land for 
intensive farming. 
“I should like it on this side of the road,” said 
I, “but I suppose that will have to do.” 
