It is a nipping, eager air; the signs of Fall are everywhere. The coal
man smiles, the ice man grieves; the trees have shed their summer
leaves; the cockleburs and other flowers that brighten all the summer
hours, are lying dead; the birds have flown to lands where blizzards
are unknown.
The farmer sits around indoors, when he has done his evening chores,
and finished all the daily grind, and talks of plans he has in mind.
“Amanda Jane,” he tells his wife, the faithful partner of his life,
“the time has come when we can build; the strongbox is with rubles
filled. It hasn’t been the best of years, but I have sold a bunch of
steers, and, too, a galaxy of swine, and quite a wad of dough is mine.
We’ll build the house we long have planned, with modern things on every
hand, with weather strips and folding doors, and walnut stairs and
rosewood floors.”
“Now, Hiram, you are safe and sane,” remarks the glad Amanda Jane.
“For twenty weary years, alack, we’ve lived in this old dingy shack;
we’ve built fine shelter for the cows, and sheds palatial for the sows,
and gorgeous stables for the mules, and lived in this old shack, like
fools. Now let us have a dwelling fine, and not a dugout twelve by
nine. And, Hiram, bear this thought in mind: When buying, do not go
it blind. I’ve talked with women who have homes which are for beauty
simply pomes, and they have told me many a time, that cheap john
woodwork is a crime. With it your house will be a frost, regardless of
the roll it cost.”
“Don’t worry, wife,” old Hiram sighs; “methinks you’ll find your
husband wise; I’ve had that matter long in mind, and I shall buy the
Curtis kind.”