For years it was the dream of our life--I should say our lives, since
my wife shared this vision with me--to own an abandoned farm. The idea
first came to us through reading articles that appeared in the various
magazines and newspapers telling of the sudden growth of what I may call
the aban-doned-farm industry.
It seemed that New England in general--and the state of Connecticut
in particular--was thickly speckled with delightful old places which,
through overcultivation or ill-treatment, had become for the time being
sterile and non-productive; so that the original owners had moved away
to the nearby manufacturing towns, leaving their ancestral homesteads
empty and their ancestral acres idle. As a result there were great
numbers of desirable places, any one of which might be had for a
song. That was the term most commonly used by the writers of these
articles--abandoned farms going for a song. Now, singing is not my
forte; still, I made up my mind that if such indeed was the case I would
sing a little, accompanying myself on my bank balance, and win me an
abandoned farm.
The formula as laid down by the authorities was simple in the extreme:
Taking almost any Connecticut town for a starting point, you merely
meandered along an elm-lined road until you came to a desirable
location, which you purchased for the price of the aforesaid song. This
formality being completed, you spent a trivial sum in restoring the
fences, and so on, and modernizing the interior of the house;
after which it was a comparatively easy task to restore the land to
productiveness by processes of intensive agriculture--details procurable
from any standard book on the subject or through easy lessons by mail.
And so presently, with scarcely any trouble or expense at all, you were
the possessor of a delightful country estate upon which to spend your
declining years. It made no difference whether you were one of those
persons who had never to date declined anything of value; there was no
telling when you might start in.
I could shut my eyes and see the whole delectable prospect: Upon a
gentle eminence crowned with ancient trees stood the rambling old manse,
filled with marvelous antique furniture, grandfather's clocks dating
back to the whaling days, spinning wheels, pottery that came over on
the _Mayflower_, and all those sorts of things. Round about were the
meadows, some under cultivation and some lying fallow, the latter being
dotted at appropriate intervals with fallow deer.
At one side of the house was the orchard, the old gnarly trees crooking
their bent limbs as though inviting one to come and pluck the sun-kissed
fruit from the burdened bough; at the other side a purling brook
wandering its way into a greenwood copse, where through all the golden
day sang the feathered warblers indigenous to the climate, including the
soft-billed Greenwich thrush, the Peabody bird the Pettingill bird,
the red worsted pulse-warmer, and others of the commoner varieties too
numerous to mention.
At the back were the abandoned cotes and byres, with an abandoned
rooster crowing lustily upon a henhouse, and an abandoned bull calf
disporting himself in the clover of the pasture. At the front was a
rolling vista undulating gently away to where above the tree-tops
there rose the spires of a typical New England village full of old line
Republicans and characters suitable for putting into short stories. On
beyond, past where a silver lake glinted in the sunshine, was a view
either of the distant Sound or the distant mountains. Personally I
intended that my establishment should be so placed as to command a view
of the Sound from the east windows and of the mountains from the west
windows. And all to be had for a song! Why, the mere thought of it was
enough to make a man start taking vocal culture right away.
Besides, I had been waiting impatiently for a long time for an
opportunity to work out several agricultural projects of my own. For
example, there was my notion in regard to the mulberry. The mulberry,
as all know, is one of our most abundant small fruits; but many
have objected to it on account of its woolly appearance and slightly
caterpillary taste. My idea was to cross the mulberry on the slippery
elm--pronounced, where I came from, ellum--producing a fruit which I
shall call the mulellum. This fruit would combine the health-giving
qualities of the mulberry with the agreeable smoothness of the slippery
elm; in fact, if my plans worked out I should have a berry that would
go down so slick the consumer could not taste it at all unless he should
eat too many of them and suffer from indigestion afterward.
Then there was my scheme for inducing the common chinch bug to make
chintz curtains. If the silk worms can make silk why should not the
chinch bug do something useful instead of wasting his energies in idle
pursuits? This is what I wished to know. And why should this man Luther
Burbank enjoy a practical monopoly of all these propositions? That was
the way I looked at it; and I figured that an abandoned farm would make
an ideal place for working out such experiments as might come to me from
time to time.
The trouble was that, though everybody wrote of the abandoned farms in a
broad, general, alluring way, nobody gave the exact location of any
of them. I subscribed for one of the monthly publications devoted to
country life along the Eastern seaboard and searched assiduously through
its columns for mention of abandoned farms. The owners of most of the
country places that were advertised for sale made mention of such
things as fourteen master's bedrooms and nine master's baths--showing
undoubtedly that the master would be expected to sleep oftener than he
bathed--sunken gardens and private hunting preserves, private golf links
and private yacht landings.
In nearly every instance, also, the advertisement was accompanied by a
halftone picture of a structure greatly resembling the new county court
house they are going to have down at Paducah if the bond issue ever
passes. This seemed a suitable place for holding circuit court in, or
even fiscal court, but it was not exactly the kind of country home
that we had pictured for ourselves. As my wife said, just the detail of
washing all those windows would keep the girl busy fully half the
time. Nor did I care to invest in any sunken gardens. I had sufficient
experience in that direction when we lived in the suburbs and
permanently invested about half of what I made in our eight-by-ten
flower bed in an effort to make it produce the kind of flowers that the
florists' catalogues described. You could not tell us anything about
that subject--we knew where a sunken garden derives its name. We paid
good money to know.
None of the places advertised in the monthly seemed sufficiently
abandoned for our purposes, so for a little while we were in a quandary.
Then I had a bright thought. I said to myself that undoubtedly abandoned
farms were so cheap the owners did not expect to get any real money for
them; they would probably be willing to take something in exchange. So I
began buying the evening papers and looking through them in the hope of
running across some such item as this:
To Exchange--Abandoned farm, centrally located, with large farmhouse,
containing all antique furniture, barns, outbuildings, family
graveyard--planted--orchard, woodland, fields--unplanted--for a
collection of postage stamps in album, an amateur magician's outfit, a
guitar with book of instructions, a safety bicycle, or what have you?
Address Abandoned, South Squantum Center, Connecticut.
I found no such offers, however; and in view of what we had read this
seemed stranger still. Finally I decided that the only safe method would
be by first-hand investigation upon the spot. I would go by rail to
some small but accessible hamlet in the lower part of New England.
On arriving there I personally would examine a number of the more
attractive abandoned farms in the immediate vicinity and make a
discriminating selection. Having reached this conclusion I went to bed
and slept peacefully--or at least I went to bed and did so as soon as
my wife and I had settled one point that came up unexpectedly at this
juncture. It related to the smokehouse. I was in favor of turning the
smokehouse into a study or workroom for myself. She thought, though,
that by knocking the walls out and altering the roof and building a
pergola on to it, it would make an ideal summer house in which to serve
tea and from which to view the peaceful landscape of afternoons.
We argued this back and forth at some length, each conceding something
to the other's views; and finally we decided to knock out the walls and
alter the roof and have a summer house with a pergola in connection. It
was after we reached this compromise that I slept so peacefully, for now
the whole thing was as good as settled. I marveled at not having thought
of it sooner.
It was on a bright and peaceful morning that I alighted from the train
at North Newburybunkport.
Considering that it was supposed to be a typical New England village,
North Newbury-bunkport did not appear at first glance to answer to
the customary specifications, such as I had gleaned from my reading of
novels of New England life. I had expected that the platform would be
populated by picturesque natives in quaint clothes, with straws in their
mouths and all whittling; and that the depot agent would wear long chin
whiskers and say “I vum!” with much heartiness at frequent intervals.
Right here I wish to state that so far as my observations go the native
who speaks these words about every other line is no longer on the job.
Either I Vum the Terrible has died or else he has gone to England to
play the part of the typical American millionaire in American plays
written by Englishmen.
Instead of the loafers, several chauffeurs were idling about the station
and a string of automobiles was drawn up across the road. Just as I
disembarked there drove up a large red bus labeled: Sylvan Dale Summer
Hotel, European and American Plans. The station agent also proved in
the nature of a disappointment. He did not even say “I swan” or “I
cal'late!” or anything of that nature. He wore a pink in his buttonhole
and his hair was scalloped up off his forehead in what is known as the
lion tamer's roach. Approaching, I said to him:
“In what direction should I go to find some of the abandoned farms of
this vicinity? I would prefer to go where there is a good assortment to
pick from.”
He did not appear to understand, so I repeated the question, at the same
time offering him a cigar.
“Bo,” he said, “you've sure got me winging now. You'd better ask Tony
Magnito--he runs the garage three doors up the street from here on the
other side. Tony does a lot of driving round the country for suckers
that come up here, and he might help you.”
To reach the garage I had to cross the road, dodging several automobiles
in transit, and then pass two old-fashioned New England houses fronting
close up to the sidewalk. One had the sign of a teahouse over the door,
and in the window of the other, picture postcards, birch-bark souvenirs
and standard varieties of candy were displayed for sale.
Despite his foreign-sounding name, Mr. Magnito spoke fair English--that
is, as fair English as any one speaks who employs the Manhattan accent
in so doing.
Even after he found out that I did not care to rent a touring car for
sightseeing purposes at five dollars an hour he was quite affable and
accommodating; but my opening question appeared to puzzle him just as in
the case of the depot agent.
“Mister,” he said frankly, “I'm sorry, but I don't seem to make you.
What's this thing you is looking for? Tell me over again slow.”
Really the ignorance of these villagers regarding one of their principal
products--a product lying, so to speak, at their very doors and written
about constantly in the public prints--was ludicrous. It would have been
laughable if it had not been deplorable. I saw that I could not indulge
in general trade terms. I must be painfully explicit and simple.
“What I am seeking”--I said it very slowly and very distinctly--“is
a farm that has been deserted, so to speak--one that has outlived its
usefulness as a farm proper, and everything like that!”
“Oh,” he says, “now I get you! Why didn't you say that in the first
place? The place you're looking for is the old Parham place, out here on
the post road about a mile. August'll take good care of you--that's his
specialty.”
“August?” I inquired. “August who?”
“August Weinstopper--the guy who runs it,” he explained. “You must have
known August if you lived long in New York. He used to be the steward at
that big hotel at Broadway and Forty-second; that was before he came up
here and opened up the old Parham place as an automobile roadhouse.
He's cleaning up about a thousand a month. Some class to that mantrap!
They've got an orchestra, and nothing but vintage goods on the wine
card, and dancing at all hours. Any night you'll see forty or fifty big
cars rolling up there, bringing swell dames and--”
I judge he saw by my expression that he was on a totally wrong tack,
because he stopped short.
“Say, mister,” he said, “I guess you'd better step into the post-office
here--next door--and tell your troubles to Miss Plummer. She knows
everything that's going on round here--and she ought to, too, seeing as
she gets first chance at all the circulars and postal cards that come
in. Besides, I gotter be changing that gasoline sign--gas has went up
two cents a gallon more.”
Miss Plummer was sorting mail when I appeared at her wicket. She was one
of those elderly, spinsterish-looking, kittenish females who seem in an
intense state of surprise all the time. Her eyebrows arched like croquet
wickets and her mouth made O's before she uttered them.
“Name, please?” she said twitteringly.
I told her.
“Ah,” she said in the thrilled tone of one who is watching a Fourth of
July skyrocket explode in midair. The news seemed to please her.
“And the initials, please?”
“The initials are of no consequence. I do not expect any mail,” I said.
“I want merely to ask you a question.”
“Indeed!” she said coyly. She said it as though I had just given her
a handsome remembrance, and she cocked her head on one side like a
bird--like a hen-bird.
“I hate to trouble you,” I went on, “but I have experienced some
difficulty in making your townspeople understand me. I am looking for a
certain kind of farm--a farm of an abandoned character.” At once I saw I
had made a mistake.
“You do not get my meaning,” I said hastily. “I refer to a farm that has
been deserted, closed up, shut down--in short, abandoned. I trust I make
myself plain.”
She was still suffering from shock, however. She gave me a wounded-fawn
glance and averted her burning face.
“The Prewitt property might suit your purposes--whatever they may be,”
she said coldly over her shoulder. “Mr. Jabez Pickerel, of Pickerel &
Pike, real-estate dealers, on the first corner above, will doubtless
give you the desired information. He has charge of the Prewitt
property.”
At last, I said to myself as I turned away, I was on the right track.
Mr. Pickerel rose as I entered his place of business. He was a short,
square man, with a brisk manner and a roving eye.
“I have been directed to you,” I began. He seized my hand and began
shaking it warmly. “I have been told,” I continued, “that you have
charge of the old Prewitt farm somewhere near here; and as I am in the
market for an aban-” I got no farther than that.
“In one minute,” he shouted explosively--“in just one minute!”
Still clutching me by the hand, he rushed me pell-mell out of the place.
At the curbing stood a long, low, rakish racing-model roadster, looking
something like a high-powered projectile and something like an enlarged
tailor's goose. Leaping into this machine at one bound, he dragged me
up into the seat beside him and threw on the power. Instantly we were
streaking away at a perfectly appalling rate of speed--fully forty-five
to fifty-five miles an hour I should say. You never saw anything so
sudden in your life. It was exactly like a kidnaping. It was only by the
exercise of great self-control that I restrained myself from screaming
for help. I had the feeling that I was being abducted--for what purpose
I knew not.
As we spun round a corner on two wheels, spraying up a long furrow of
dust, the same as shown in pictures of the chariot race in Ben-Hur,
a man with a watch in his hand and wearing a badge--a constable, I
think--ran out of a house that had a magistrate's sign over it and threw
up his hand authoritatively, as though to stop us; but my companion
yelled something the purport of which I could not distinguish and
the constable fell back. Glancing rearward over my shoulder I saw him
halting another car bearing a New York license that did not appear to be
going half so fast as we were.
In another second we were out of town, tearing along a country highway.
Evidently sensing the alarm expressed by my tense face and strained
posture, this man Pickerel began saying something in what was evidently
intended to be a reassuring tone; but such was the roaring of the car
that I could distinguish only broken fragments of his speech. I caught
the words “unparalleled opportunity,” repeated several times--the term
appeared to be a favorite of his--and “marvelous proposition.” Possibly
I was not listening very closely anyhow, my mind being otherwise
engaged. For one thing I was surmising in a general sort of way upon
the old theory of the result when the irresistible force encounters the
immovable object. I was wondering how long it would be before we hit
something solid and whether it would be possible afterward to tell us
apart. His straw hat also made me wonder. I had mine clutched in both
hands and even then it fluttered against my bosom like a captive bird,
but his stayed put. I think yet he must have had threads cut in his head
to match the convolutions of the straw and screwed his hat on, like a
nut on an axle.
I have a confused recollection of rushing with the speed of the tornado
through rows of trees; of leaping from the crest of one small hill to
the crest of the next small hill; of passing a truck patch with such
velocity that the lettuce and tomatoes and other things all seemed to
merge together in a manner suggestive of a well-mixed vegetable salad.
Then we swung off the main road in between the huge brick columns of an
ornate gateway that stood alone, with no fence in connection. We bumpily
traversed a rutted stretch of cleared land; and then with a jar and
a jolt we came to a pause in what appeared to be a wide and barren
expanse.
As my heart began to throb with slightly less violence I looked about me
for the abandoned farmhouse. I had conceived that it would be white with
green blinds and that it would stand among trees. It was not in sight;
neither were the trees. The entire landscape presented an aspect that
was indeed remarkable. Small numbered stakes, planted in double lines at
regular intervals, so as to form aisles, stretched away from us in every
direction. Also there were twin rows of slender sticks planted in the
earth in a sort of geometric pattern. Some were the size of switches.
Others were almost as large as umbrella handles and had sprouted
slightly. A short distance away an Italian was steering a dirtscraper
attached to a languid mule along a sort of dim roadway. There were no
other living creatures in sight. Right at my feet were two painted and
lettered boards affixed at cross angles to a wooden upright. The legend
on one of these boards was: Grand Concourse. The inscription on the
other read: Nineteenth Avenue West. Repressing a gasp, I opened my mouth
to speak.
“Ahem!” I said. “There has been some mistake--”
“There can be no mistake!” he shouted enthusiastically. “The only
mistake possible is not to take advantage of this magnificent
opportunity while it is yet possible to do so. Just observe that view!”
He waved his arm in the general direction of the horizon from northwest
to southeast. “Breathe this air! As a personal favor to me just breathe
a little of this air!” He inhaled deeply himself as though to show me
how, and I followed suit, because after that ride I needed to catch up
with my regular breathing.
“Thank you!” I said gratefully when I had finished breathing. “But how
about----”
“Quite right!” he cried, beaming upon me admiringly. “Quite right! I
don't blame you. You have a right to know all the details. As a business
man you should ask that question. You were about to say: But how about
the train service? Ah, there spoke the true business man, the careful
investor! Twenty fast trains a day each way--twenty, sir! Remember! And
as for accessibility--well, accessibility is simply no name for it! Only
two or three minutes from the station. You saw how long it took us to
get here to-day? Well, then, what more could you ask? Right here,” he
went on, pointing, “is the country club--a magnificent thing!”
I looked, but I didn't see anything except a hole in the ground about
fifty feet from us.
“Where?” I asked. “I don't see it.”
“Well,” he said, “this is where it is going to be. You automatically
become a member of the country club; in fact, you are as good as a
member now! And right up there at the corner of Lincoln Boulevard and
Washington Parkway, where that scraper is, is the public library--the
site for it! You'll be crazy about the public library! When we get back
I'll let you run over the plans for the public library while I'm fixing
up the papers. Oh, 'my friend, how glad I am you came while there was
yet time!”
I breasted the roaring torrent of his pouring language.
“One minute,” I begged of him--“One minute, if you please! I am obliged
to you for the interest you take in me, a mere stranger to you; but
there has been a misunderstanding. I wanted to see the Prewitt place.”
“This is the Prewitt place,” he said.
“Yes,” I said; “but where is the house? And why all this--why all
these-” I indicated by a wave of my hand what I meant.
“Naturally,” he explained, “the house is no longer here. We tore it
away--it was old; whereas everything here will be new, modern and
up-to-date. This is--or was--the Prewitt place, now better known as
Homecrest Heights, the Development Ideal!” Having begun to capitalize
his words, he continued to do so. “The Perfect Addition! The Suburb
Superb! Away From the City's Dust and Heat! Away From Its Glamor and
Clamor! Into the Open! Into the Great Out-of-Doors! Back to the Soil!
Villa Plots on Easy Terms! You Furnish the Birds, We Furnish the Nest!
The Place For a Business Man to Rear His Family! You Are Married? You
Have a Wife? You Have Little Ones?”
“Yes,” I said, “one of each--one wife and one little one.”
“Ah!” he cried gladly. “One Little One--How Sweet! You Love Your Little
One--Ah, Yes! Yes! You Desire to Give Your Little One a Chance? You
Would Give Her Congenial Surroundings--Refined Surroundings? You Would
Inculcate in Her While Young the Love of Nature?” He put an entire
sentence into capitals now: “Give Your Little One a Chance! That is All
I Ask of You!”
He had me by both lapels. I thought he was going to kneel to me in
pleading. I feared he might kiss me. I raised him to his feet. Then his
manner changed--it became domineering, hectoring, almost threatening.
I will pass briefly over the events of the succeeding hour, including
our return to his lair or office. Accounts of battles where all the
losses fall upon one side are rarely interesting to read about anyway.
Suffice it to say that at the last minute I was saved. It was a
desperate struggle though. I had offered the utmost resistance at first,
but he would surely have had his way with me--only that a train pulled
in bound for the city just as he was showing me, as party of the first
part, where I was to sign my name on the dotted line A. Even then,
weakened and worn as I was, I should probably not have succeeded in
beating him off if he had not been hampered by having a fountain pen in
one hand and the documents in the other. At the door he intercepted me;
but I tackled him low about the body and broke through and fled like a
hunted roebuck, catching the last car just as the relief train pulled
out of the station. It was a close squeeze, but I made it. The thwarted
Mr. Pickerel wrote me regularly for some months thereafter, making
mention of My Little One in every letter; but after a while I took to
sending the letters back to him unopened, and eventually he quit.
I reached home along toward evening. I was tired, but I was not
discouraged. I reported progress on the part of the committee on a
permanent site, but told my wife that in order to find exactly what we
wanted it would be necessary for us to leave the main-traveled paths.
It was now quite apparent to me that the abandoned farm-seeker who stuck
too closely to the railroad lines was bound to be thrown constantly in
contact with those false and feverish metropolitan influences which,
radiating from the city, have spread over the country like the spokes of
a wheel or an upas tree, or a jauga-naut, or something of that nature.
The thing to do was to get into an automobile and go away from the
principal routes of travel, into districts where the abandoned farms
would naturally be more numerous.
This solved one phase of the situation--we now knew definitely where
to go. The next problem was to decide upon some friend owning an
automobile. We fixed upon the Winsells. They are charming people! We are
devoted to the Winsells. They were very good friends of ours when they
had their small four-passenger car; but since they sold the old one and
bought a new forty-horse, seven-passenger car, they are so popular that
it is hard to get hold of them for holidays and week-ends.
Every Saturday--nearly--some one of their list of acquaintances is
calling them up to tell of a lovely spot he has just heard about, with
good roads all the way, both coming and going; but after a couple of
disappointments we caught them when they had an open date. Over the
telephone Winsell objected that he did not know anything about the
roads up in Connecticut, but I was able to reassure him promptly on that
score. I told him he need not worry about that--that I would buy the
road map myself. So on a fair Saturday morning we started.
The trip up through the extreme lower end of the state of New York was
delightful, being marred by only one or two small mishaps. There was
the trifling incident of a puncture, which delayed us slightly; but
fortunately the accident occurred at a point where there was a wonderful
view of the Croton Lakes, and while Winsell was taking off the old tire
and adjusting a new one we sat very comfortably in the car, enjoying
Nature's panorama.
It was a little later on when we hit a dog. It seemed to me that this
dog merely sailed, yowling, up into the air in a sort of long curve, but
Winsell insisted that the dog described a parabola. I am very glad that
in accidents of this character it is always the victims that describe
the parabola. I know I should be at a complete loss to describe one
myself. Unless it is something like the boomerang of the Australian
aborigines I do not even know what a parabola is. Nor did I dream until
then that Winsell understood the dog language. However, those are but
technical details.
After we crossed the state line we got lost several times; this was
because the country seemed to have a number of roads the road map
omitted, and the road map had many roads the country had left out.
Eventually, though, we came to a district of gently rolling hills,
dotted at intervals with those neat white-painted villages in which
New England excels; and between the villages at frequent intervals were
farmhouses. Abandoned ones, however, were rarer than we had been led
to expect. Not only were these farms visibly populated by persons who
appeared to be permanently attached to their respective localities, but
at many of them things were offered for sale--such as home-made pastry,
souvenirs, fresh poultry, antique furniture, brass door-knockers, milk
and eggs, hand-painted crockery, table board, garden truck, molasses
taffy, laundry soap and livestock.
At length, though, when our necks were quite sore from craning this way
and that on the watch for an abandoned farm that would suit us, we
came to a very attractive-looking place facing a lawn and flanked by an
orchard. There was a sign fastened to an elm tree alongside the fence.
The sign read: For Information Concerning This Property Inquire Within.
To Winsell I said:
“Stop here--this is without doubt the place we have been looking for!”
Filled--my wife and I--with little thrills of anticipation, we all got
out. I opened the gate and entered the yard, followed by Winsell, my
wife and his wife. I was about halfway up the walk when a large dog
sprang into view, at the same time showing his teeth in rather an
intimidating way. To prevent an encounter with an animal that might be
hostile, I stepped nimbly behind the nearest tree. As I came round on
the other side of the tree there, to my surprise, was this dog face to
face with me. Still desiring to avoid a collision with him, I stepped
back the other way. Again I met the dog, which was now growling. The
situation was rapidly becoming embarrassing when a gentleman came out
upon the porch and called sharply to the dog. The dog, with apparent
reluctance, retired under the house and the gentleman invited us inside
and asked us to be seated. Glancing about his living room I noted that
the furniture appeared to be a trifle modern for our purposes; but, as
I whispered to my wife, you cannot expect to have everything to suit you
at first. With the sweet you must ever take the bitter--that I believe
is true, though not an original saying.
In opening the conversation with the strange gentleman I went in a
businesslike way direct to the point.
“You are the owner of these premises?” I asked. He bowed. “I take it,” I
then said, “that you are about to abandon this farm?”
“I beg your pardon?” he said, as though confused.
“I presume,” I explained, “that this is practically an abandoned farm.”
“Not exactly,” he said. “I'm here.”
“Yes, yes; quite so,” I said, speaking perhaps a trifle impatiently.
“But you are thinking of going away from it, aren't you?”
“Yes,” he admitted; “I am.”
“Now,” I said, “we are getting round to the real situation. What are you
asking for this place?”
“Eighteen hundred,” he stated. “There are ninety acres of land that go
with the house and the house itself is in very good order.”
I considered for a moment. None of the abandoned farms I had ever read
about sold for so much as eighteen hundred dollars. Still, I reflected,
there might have been a recent bull movement; there had certainly been
much publicity upon the subject. Before committing myself, I glanced at
my wife. Her expression betokened acquiescence.
“That figure,” I said diplomatically, “was somewhat in excess of what I
was originally prepared to pay; still, the house seems roomy and, as you
were saying, there are ninety acres. The furniture and equipment go with
the place, I presume?”
“Naturally,” he answered. “That is the customary arrangement.”
“And would you be prepared to give possession immediately?”
“Immediately,” he responded.
I began to feel enthusiasm. By the look on my wife's face I could tell
that she was enthused, too.
“If we come to terms,” I said, “and everything proves satisfactory, I
suppose you could arrange to have the deed made out at once?”
“The deed?” he said blankly. “You mean the lease?”
“The lease?” I said blankly. “You mean the deed?”
“The deed?” he said blankly. “You mean the lease?”
“The lease, indeed,” said my wife. “You mean----”
I broke in here. Apparently we were all getting the habit.
“Let us be perfectly frank in this matter,” I said. “Let us dispense
with these evasive and dilatory tactics. You want eighteen hundred
dollars for this place, furnished?”
“Exactly,” he responded. “Eighteen hundred dollars for it from June
to October.” Then, noting the expressions of our faces, he continued
hurriedly: “A remarkably small figure considering what summer rentals
are in this section. Besides, this house is new. It costs a lot to
reproduce these old Colonial designs!”
I saw at once that we were but wasting our time in this person's
company. He had not the faintest conception of what we wanted. We came
away. Besides, as I remarked to the others after we were back in the car
and on our way again, this house-farm would never have suited us; the
view from it was nothing extra. I told Winsell to go deeper into the
country until we really struck the abandoned farm belt.
So we went farther and farther. After a while it was late afternoon and
we seemed to be lost again. My wife and Winsell's wife were tired; so
we dropped them at the next teahouse we passed. I believe it was the
eighteenth teahouse for the day. Winsell and I then continued on the
quest alone. Women know so little about business anyway that it is
better, I think, whenever possible, to conduct important matters without
their presence. It takes a masculine intellect to wrestle with these
intricate problems; and for some reason or other this problem was
becoming more and more complicated and intricate all the time.
On a long, deserted stretch of road, as the shadows were lengthening,
we overtook a native of a rural aspect plodding along alone. Just as we
passed him I was taken with an idea and I told Winsell to stop. I was
tired of trafficking with stupid villagers and avaricious land-grabbers.
I would deal with the peasantry direct. I would sound the yeoman
heart--which is honest and true and ever beats in accord with the best
dictates of human nature.
“My friend,” I said to him, “I am seeking an abandoned farm. Do you know
of many such in this vicinity?”
“How?” he asked.
I never got so tired of repeating a question in my life; nevertheless,
for this yokel's limited understanding, I repeated it again.
“Well,” he said at length, “whut with all these city fellers moving in
here to do gentleman-farming--whatsoever that may mean--farm property
has gone up until now it's wuth considerable more'n town property, as
a rule. I could scursely say I know of any of the kind of farms you
mention as laying round loose--no, wait a minute; I do recollect
a place. It's that shack up back of the country poor farm that the
supervisors used for a pest house the time the smallpox broke out. That
there place is consider'bly abandoned. You might try--”
In a stern tone of voice I bade Winsell to drive on and turn in at the
next farmhouse he came to. The time for trifling had passed. My mind was
fixed. My jaw was also set. I know, because I set it myself. And I have
no doubt there was a determined glint in my eye; in fact, I could feel
the glint reflected upon my cheek.
At the next farm Winsell turned in. We passed through a stone gateway
and rolled up a well-kept road toward a house we could see in glimpses
through the intervening trees. We skirted several rather neat flower
beds, curved round a greenhouse and came out on a stretch of lawn. I
at once decided that this place would do undoubtedly. There might
be alterations to make, but in the main the establishment would be
satisfactory even though the house, on closer inspection, proved to be
larger than it had seemed when seen from a distance.
On a signal from me Winsell halted at the front porch. Without a word
I stepped out. He followed. I mounted the steps, treading with great
firmness and decision, and rang the doorbell hard. A middle-aged person
dressed in black, with a high collar, opened the door.
“Are you the proprietor of this place?” I demanded without any preamble.
My patience was exhausted; I may have spoken sharply.
“Oh, no, sir,” he said, and I could tell by his accent he was English;
“the marster is out, sir.”
“I wish to see him,” I said, “on particular business--at once! At once,
you understand--it is important!”
“Perhaps you'd better come in, sir,” he said humbly. It was evident my
manner, which was, I may say, almost haughty, had impressed him deeply.
“If you will wait, sir, I'll have the marster called, sir. He's not far
away, sir.”
“Very good,” I replied. “Do so!”
He showed us into a large library and fussed about, offering drinks
and cigars and what-not. Winsell seemed somewhat perturbed by these
attentions, but I bade him remain perfectly calm and collected, adding
that I would do all the talking.
We took cigars--very good cigars they were. As they were not banded
I assumed they were home grown. I had always heard that Connecticut
tobacco was strong, but these specimens were very mild and pleasant. I
had about decided I should put in tobacco for private consumption and
grow my own cigars and cigarettes when the door opened, and a stout
elderly man with side whiskers entered the room. He was in golfing
costume and was breathing hard.
“As soon as I got your message I hurried over as fast as I could,” he
said.
“You need not apologize,” I replied; “we have not been kept waiting very
long.”
“I presume you come in regard to the traction matter?” he ventured.
“No,” I said, “not exactly. You own this place, I believe?”
“I do,” he said, staring at me.
“So far, so good,” I said. “Now, then, kindly tell me when you expect to
abandon it.”
He backed away from me a few feet, gaping. He opened his mouth and for a
few moments absent-mindedly left it in that condition.
“When do I expect to do what?” he inquired. “When,” I said, “do you
expect to abandon it?” He shook his head as though he had some marbles
inside of it and liked the rattling sound.
“I don't understand yet,” he said, puzzled.
“I will explain,” I said very patiently. “I wish to acquire by purchase
or otherwise one of the abandoned farms of this state. Not having been
able to find one that was already abandoned, though I believe them to
be very numerous, I am looking for one that is about to be abandoned. I
wish, you understand, to have the first call on it. Winsell”--I said
in an aside--“quit pulling at my coat-tail! Therefore,” I resumed,
readdressing the man with the side whiskers, “I ask you a plain
question, to wit: When do you expect to abandon this one? I expect a
plain answer.”
He edged a few feet nearer an electric push button which was set in the
wall. He seemed flustered and distraught; in fact, almost apprehensive.
“May I inquire,” he said nervously, “how you got in here?”
“Your servant admitted us,” I said, with dignity. “Yes,” he said in a
soothing tone; “but did you come afoot--or how?”
“I drove here in a car,” I told him, though I couldn't see what
difference that made.
“Merciful Heavens!” he muttered. “They do not trust you--I mean you do
not drive the car yourself, do you?”
Here Winsell cut in.
“I drove the car,” he said. “I--I did not want to come, but
he”--pointing to me--“he insisted.” Winsell is by nature a groveling
soul. His tone was almost cringing.
“I see,” said the gentleman, wagging his head, “I see. Sad case--very
sad case! Young, too!” Then he faced me. “You will excuse me now,” he
said. “I wish to speak to my butler. I have just thought of several
things I wish to say to him. Now in regard to abandoning this place:
I do not expect to abandon this place just yet--probably not for some
weeks or possibly months. In case I should decide to abandon it sooner,
if you will leave your address with me I will communicate with you by
letter at the institution where you may chance to be stopping at the
time. I trust this will be satisfactory.”
He turned again to Winsell.
“Does your--ahem--friend care for flowers?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Winsell. “I think so.”
“Perhaps you might show him my flower gardens as you go away,” said the
side-whiskered man. “I have heard somewhere that flowers have a very
soothing effect sometimes in such cases--or it may have been music. I
have spent thirty thousand dollars beautifying these grounds and I am
really very proud of them. Show him the flowers by all means--you might
even let him pick a few if it will humor him.”
I started to speak, but he was gone. In the distance somewhere I heard a
door slam.
Under the circumstances there was nothing for us to do except to
come away. Originally I did not intend to make public mention of this
incident, preferring to dismiss the entire thing from my mind; but,
inasmuch as Winsell has seen fit to circulate a perverted and needlessly
exaggerated version of it among our circle of friends, I feel that the
exact circumstances should be properly set forth.
It was a late hour when we rejoined our wives. This was due to Winsel's
stupidity in forgetting the route we had traversed after parting from
them; in fact, it was nearly midnight before he found his way back to
the teahouse where we left them. The teahouse had been closed for some
hours then and our wives were sitting in the dark on the teahouse porch
waiting for us. Really, I could not blame them for scolding Winsell; but
they displayed an unwarranted peevishness toward me. My wife's display
of temper was really the last straw. It was that, taken in connection
with certain other circumstances, which clinched my growing resolution
to let the whole project slide into oblivion. I woke her up and in so
many words told her so on the way home. We arrived there shortly after
daylight of the following morning.
So, as I said at the outset, we gave up our purpose of buying an
abandoned farm and moved into a flat on the upper west side.