It began as "a farm," but even before the catalogues arrived it was "the
farm." Now we call it "our farm," although the land is still in Spain
abutting on the castle. Chiefly, the place is for Michael. The backyard
is much too small for him, and too formal. He regards the house with
affection, no doubt, but with none of that respect which he has for the
backyard. He is, as you might say, thoroughly yard-broken. When he puts
his paws against the front door and barks for freedom he would be a
harsh person indeed who would refuse to plan a plantation, a large one,
for him. Of course, there was H. 3rd to consider, also, but he seemed
less restive. Things beyond the borders of a pram are so foreign.
By eliminating Maine, Ohio and all farms priced at more than twenty
thousand dollars, we succeeded at length in narrowing the field of
selection to three. One, which has the attractive name of Farm No. 97,
is in Connecticut. It has "good American neighbors on all sides." It is
only half a mile to some village, not specified. Four of the ten acres
are tillable and the rest in timber. Since there are at least 250 cords
of wood bringing five to six dollars per cord, the author of the
catalogue is entirely justified in the use of the phrase "ridiculously
low" regarding the price of $1,500. The author of the catalogue goes on
to say that "the owner is an aged widow," and we have gathered the
impression that the author means to intimate that she is not quite
competent. This would explain the ridiculously low price.
However, we wish to defend our motives in favoring Farm No. 97. It was
not the opportunity to swindle a widow out of her homestead which
tempted us, nor even the cordwood, but a single sentence almost at the
bottom of the description. It read, "Aged owner, for quick sale, will
include good mare that has paced a mile in 2:20." This would bring the
village half a mile away within one minute and ten seconds, while the
good American neighbors would be only seconds away.
E---- was the devil's advocate. "The description doesn't tell enough,"
she complained. "The 2:20 doesn't mean anything unless it says 'track
fast, start good, won driving,' or something like that. And I'd like to
know who held the watch. I think we ought to know what year it was that
she made that mile in 2:20. Doesn't it say that the woman is an aged
widow? Doesn't it stand to reason that she must have bought that fast
mare some time in her forties, at least? Anyway, 2:20 isn't so very fast
for a pacer. Dan Patch did it in less than two minutes."
In default of more definite information about the pacing mare, we
turned to a farm called "Coin Money on a Bargain." This is an oyster
farm, as it borders two thousand feet on the Patuxent River. The
tillage, as the author says, "is loamy and fine for trucking." It is
well fruited to apples and grapes. I drew, as I thought, a rather
attractive picture of a scene before the big open fireplace in the
modern four-room bungalow of "Coin Money on a Bargain." I pictured the
group telling stories and roasting apples and stewing grapes and frying
oysters over the embers. R---- interrupted to say that, without doubt,
just as soon as H. 3rd began to crawl, he would fall into the river with
the oysters.
"Yes," said E----, "and Michael would try and eat shells, and they'd
disagree with him, like that coal he got hold of last night."
I mentioned the fact that oysters cost from thirty to fifty cents for a
half dozen portion, and spoke of the manner in which the shellfish could
be crowded along a 2,000-foot front.
"Yes," said E----, aggressively, "but how are you going to get them to
market?"
There I had her. "You have forgotten the description," I remarked. "It
says the farm is fine for trucking."
But eventually it was a place called Only Nine Hundred Dollars Down to
which we turned our attention. It lay up north along the Hudson and a
man named George F. Sweetser promised to show it off to purchasers.
In the newspaper advertisement it merely said "George F. Sweetser, Real
Estate Agent." Only after his letter came did we realize the sort of man
with whom we had to deal. The letter was much more communicative than
the advertisement.
The left-hand half of the envelope read: "George F. Sweetser, Storm King
on the Hudson, New York. Legalized expert judge of horses, cattle,
poultry, fruits, etc.--pomologist and botanist--private scoring and
mating poultry--starting judge of races--originator of Buff
Brahmas--breeder of prize winning, standard bred poultry, cattle,
etc.--superintendent of farm produce and grain at New York State Fair."
I was careful, therefore, to explain my business at the beginning. "I
want to see a farm," I said.
"I'm certainly glad to see you coming out this way," said the
pomologist. "We want new blood. We want active, hard-working young
fellows around here. We got too many amateurs and old fogies. Would you
believe it, a lot of fellows around here won't use green fertilizer,
even when I tell them about it."
"No?" I said.
"They just want to stick in the old rut and do things the way their
grandfathers did before there was a war, Do you know what it is makes
things grow?"
"Rain," I suggested, after a long pause.
"Yes, rain, of course," said the originator of Buff Brahmas, "but
nitrogen, too. And where do we get nitrogen?"
"It comes from Chile, or Honduras, or some place down that way, doesn't
it?" I hazarded.
"No, sir," said the starting judge of races. "Up here in Putnam County
we get it right out of the air. That's what green fertilizer does--just
brings it right out of the air."
And he reached up and clutched something, as if he was going to bring
some down himself and show it to me. Instead, he let the gas drift away
and pointed to a farm just across the road from the post-office.
"Do you see that farm over there?"