AT THE FARM 



105 



found a more charming retreat wherein to spend 

 my first winter. There stands on the bank of a 

 small river a mill, with a little farm attached to it. 

 The mill is run by a kindly old man called John, 

 with the help of a water-wheel, of course, and his 

 equally good-natured wife is mainly responsible for 

 the management of the farm. She was always 

 called Mrs. or Missus. I suppose that they each had 

 another name, according to your wasteful custom, 

 but I never heard it used. Behind the farm build- 

 ings was a pretty orchard, through which I made 

 my cautious approach one windy night. It was the 

 first time that I had ever drawn near to the abodes 

 of man — the seats of the mighty, so to speak — and 

 you may be sure that my heart was in my mouth, 

 and that I stepped warily, with every sense on the 

 alert. I wonder that my nose did not lengthen 

 into an elephant's trunk in its anxiety to reach 

 out and catch all smells before they became 

 dangerous. 



The wind had blown down a few apples which 

 had escaped notice when the trees were picked, and 

 I thought them delicious. I had eaten corn till I 

 was tired of the taste of it during those days of 

 plenty in the harvest field, and I vowed to myself 

 that I would often sally forth into that orchard for 



