The Naturalizing of a City Man 
Editor’s Note:—The author of this narrative had refused to write the story of his experiences in going from 
business life to a farm. His objection was that the published account taken from his closely zvritten diary would 
contain nothing of the joy and inspiration he felt in getting close to Nature, and would be merely a matter-of- 
fact list of happenings with their message lost. He dually consented to write it in his oiun way, allowing memory 
and imagination to lend color to those days of struggle which are now cherished recollections. He preferred to 
hide his identity under the disguise of another person, but the essential facts are true and full of practical informa¬ 
tion. This number deals with the key to his reformation; subsequent installments ivill shoiv how he succeeded. 
M AMTELL climbed wearily up the stone steps of his house, 
and paused disconsolately to note the holly wreath with its 
satin ribbon behind the rich Cluny curtain. Irresolutely he fumbled 
with his bunch of keys, and slowly unlocked the heavy inside door. 
His wife stepped anxiously 
from an adjoining room to meet 
him. 
"You're late again, Henry,” 
she said, placing a sympathetic 
hand on his arm. “Are they still 
fighting? Can't you call a truce 
even for the holidays?” 
“Hush,” he answered, “we’ll 
talk upstairs. The children may 
be around.” He snapped on the 
light, drew down the shade, and 
locked the door. Then he stood 
facing his wife. 
"Helen,” he said, “you may 
as well know the worst at the 
outset. They’ve won. I’m 
ruined.” 
There was nothing theatrical 
about his manner. So low and 
even was his voice that the wom¬ 
an did not at first realize the im¬ 
portance of his words. Her 
brain struggled for a moment to 
reconcile his calmness with the 
gravity of the subject. 
“You’re tired, Chic,” she said 
finally. “You're blue. I know 
it's not so bad as all that. Try 
to forget it all for a few days, 
and when you go back things 
will look better.” 
They had proceeded to the 
room above and he drew the 
heavy curtain across the doorway 
after them. The woman sank 
down into the great chair by the 
center table, and the man went 
over to the gas log and stood 
with his hands behind him as one who would warm himself, al¬ 
though the room was at more than summer temperature. 
“I wish you were right, dear," he said slowly, “but there’s no 
use disguising matters. They have bought over Lawson and 
with him, of course, the new patents. Not content with that, 
the^ have brought pressure to bear in another vital matter; my 
credit is gone! I am helpless, absolutely helpless. They can put 
me into bankruptcy the minute they say the word — as easily as I 
could press that button for Annie.” 
There was a full minute’s silence. Muffled, dulled, far away, 
the harsh voices of the street leaked in upon them. Then Mr. 
Mantell laughed bitterly. “My business is the least of my troubles 
now. I don’t know which way I shall turn when I do- think of it 
again. But day after to-morrow’s Christmas, and the kids — ? 
“There,” he added, taking from his pocket and tossing over a 
very slim green roll, “there’s every cent we’ve got.” 
She came over to where he stood, lost in thought, and placed 
a white hand on each of the slightly stooped shoulders. “It’s not 
so bad,” she urged, “we were poor before.” 
"Yes," he answered, “yes, I know. But this is different, quite 
different. Then we had the fu¬ 
ture before us, wealth to be 
won, success to be attained. I 
worked for it; I earned it; I 
had achieved a substantial start 
—and now, poof!—like a child’s 
bubble, it bursts between my 
fingers—and through no fault 
of my own. I do not under¬ 
stand it. I give it up. And yet 
in a way it is all clear. I can 
see just how they’ve done me; 
how I had to lose. But it doesn’t 
seem fair somehow. It’s all out 
of line with what they used to 
teach us about life.” 
“Come,” said his wife, with 
assumed sternness, shaking him 
by the arm. “Come, you can 
philosophize better after a 
square meal. It’s spoiling now. 
Besides, I have a card up my 
sleeve.” (He laughed and 
pinched her smooth bare fore¬ 
arm.) “You remember Uncle 
Jay’s mysterious wedding gift 
—the big gold key and the little 
black box that was never to be 
opened until misfortune over¬ 
took us? Come on, dear, and 
after dinner we’ll open it.” And 
she led him from the room. 
Some time later they sat 
alone before the gas log, the 
mysterious box between them. 
“Uncle Jay was something of 
a miser as well as a little ‘off’,” 
said Mr. Mantell. “Who knows 
what tricks he was up to ? That 
key alone, as I remember it, that must be worth a good deal in 
itself. Let’s see how it has stood the years.” His wife tore open 
a faded envelope and extracted a large key. It glittered warmly 
in the firelight as she passed it over to him. Its shining was re¬ 
flected in her eyes. 
“By George,” said her husband, “I had forgotten how big it 
was.” He inspected the key carefully. “Looks like the real 
thing, too. It must weigh several ounces. At eighteen dollars 
an ounce it Won’t buy an automobile, but it will tide us over 
Christmas all right. What do you suppose the miser put in that 
box, it’s so thin and light? Seems like a fairy story to be opening 
it after all these years.” 
As Mr. Mantell passed back the key his wife’s fingers actually 
trembled a little and it dropped to the hearth. Not a dull, golden 
sound, nor even a metallic tinkle, but a clear, ringing clink struck 
their ears. 
To the accompaniment of cheery sleigh bells they sped past peaceful 
homesteads and snow-blanketed white hills contrasted with the 
dark fir trees 
(365) 
