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  IX

  "I've just been reading a book," began the Idiot.

  "I thought you looked rather pale," said the School-master.

  "Yes," returned the Idiot, cheerfully, "it made me feel pale. It wasabout the pleasures of country life; and when I contrasted ruralblessedness as it was there depicted with urban life as we live it, Ifelt as if my youth were being thrown away. I still feel as if I werewasting my sweetness on the desert air."

  "Why don't you move?" queried the Bibliomaniac, suggestively.

  "If I were purely selfish I should do so at once, but I am, like my goodfriend Mr. Whitechoker, a slave to duty. I deem it my duty to stay hereto keep the School-master fully informed in the various branches ofknowledge which are day by day opened up, many of which seem to be sofar beyond the reach of one of his conservative habits; to assist Mr.Whitechoker in his crusades against vice at this table and elsewhere; togive the Bibliomaniac the benefit of my advice in regard to thoseprecious little tomes he no longer buys--to make life worth the livingfor all of you, to say nothing of enabling Mrs. Smithers to keep up theextraordinarily high standard of this house by means of the hard-earnedstipend I pay to her every Monday morning."

  "Every Monday?" queried the School-master.

  "Every Monday," returned the Idiot. "That is, of course, every Mondaythat I pay. The things one gets to eat in the country, the air onebreathes, the utter freedom from restraint, the thousand and more thingsone enjoys in the suburbs that are not attainable here--it is these thatmake my heart yearn for the open."

  "'A LITTLE GARDEN OF MY OWN, WHERE I COULD RAISE ANOCCASIONAL CAN OF TOMATOES'"]

  "Well, it's all rot," said the School-master, impatiently. "Country lifeis ideal only in books. Books do not tell of running for trains throughblinding snowstorms; writers do not expatiate on the delights ofwaking on cold winter nights and finding your piano and parlor furnitureafloat because of bursted pipes, with the plumber, like Sheridan atWinchester, twenty miles away. They are dumb on the subject of theecstasy one feels when pushing a twenty-pound lawn-mower up and down aweed patch at the end of a wearisome hot summer's day. They aresilent--"

  "Don't get excited, Mr. Pedagog, please," interrupted the Idiot. "I amnot contemplating leaving you and Mrs. Smithers, but I do pine for alittle garden of my own, where I could raise an occasional can oftomatoes. I dream sometimes of getting milk fresh from the pump, insteadof twenty-four hours after it has been drawn, as we do here. In mymusings it seems to me to be almost idyllic to have known a springchicken in his infancy; to have watched a hind-quarter of lambgambolling about its native heath before its muscles became adamant, andbefore chopped-up celery tops steeped in vinegar were poured upon it inthe hope of hypnotizing boarders into the belief that spring lamb andmint-sauce lay before them. What care I how hard it is to rise everymorning before six in winter to thaw out the boiler, so long as thenight coming finds me seated in the genial glow of the gas log! What manis he that would complain of having to bale out his cellar every week,if, on the other hand, that cellar gains thereby a fertility that keepsits floor sheeny, soft, and green--an interior tennis-court--from springto spring, causing the gladsome click of the lawn-mower to be heardwithin its walls all through the still watches of the winter day? Itell you, sir, it is the life to lead, that of our rural brother. I donot believe that in this whole vast city there is a cellar like that--anin-door garden-patch, as it were."

  "'A HIND-QUARTER OF LAMB GAMBOLLING ABOUT ITS NATIVE HEATH'"]

  "No," returned the Doctor; "and it is a good thing there isn't. There isenough sickness in the world without bringing any of your _rus_ ideas_in urbe_. I've lived in the country, sir, and I assure you it is notwhat it is written up to be. Country life is misery, melancholy, andmalaria."

  "You must have struck a profitable section, Doctor," returned the Idiot,taking possession of three steaming buckwheat cakes to the dismay of Mr.Whitechoker, who was about to reach out for them himself. "And I shouldhave supposed that your good business sense would have restrained youfrom leaving."

  "Then the countryman is poor--always poor," continued the Doctor,ignoring the Idiot's sarcastic comments.

  "Ah! that accounts for it," observed the Idiot. "I see why you did notstay; for what shall it profit a man to save a patient if practice, likevirtue, is to be its own reward?"

  "Your suggestion, sir," retorted the Doctor, "betrays an unhealthy frameof mind."

  "That's all right, Doctor," returned the Idiot; "but please do notdiagnose the case any further. I can't afford an expert opinion as to mymental condition. But to return to our subject: you two gentlemen appearto have had unhappy experiences in country life--quite different fromthose of a friend of mine who owns a farm. He doesn't have to run fortrains; he is independent of plumbers, because the only pipes in hishouse are for smoking purposes. The farm produces corn enough to keephis family supplied all the year round and to sell a balance at aprofit. Oats and wheat are harvested to an extent which keeps the cattleand declares dividends besides. He never suffers from the cold or heat.He is never afraid of losing his house or barns by fire, because thewhole fire department of the neighboring village is, to a man, in lovewith the house-keeper's daughter, and is always on hand in force. Thechickens are the envy and pride of the county, and there are so many ofthem that they have to take turns in going to roost. The pigs are themost intelligent of their kind, and are so happy they never grunt. Infact, everything is lovely and cheap, the only thing that hangs highbeing the goose."

  "'THE GLADSOME CLICK OF THE LAWN-MOWER'"]

  "Quite an ideal, no doubt," put in the School-master, scornfully. "Isuppose his is one of those model farms with steam-pipes under the walksto melt the snow in winter, and of course there is a vein of coalgrowing right up into his furnace ready to be lit."

  "Yes," observed the Bibliomaniac; "and no doubt the chickens lay eggs inevery style--poached, fried, scrambled, and boiled. The weeds in thegarden grow so fast, I suppose, that they pull themselves up by theroots; and if there is anything left undone at the end of the day Ipresume tramps in dress suits, and courtly in manner, spring out of theground and finish up for him."

  "I'll bet he's not on good terms with his neighbors if he has everythingyou speak of in such perfection. These farmers get frightfully jealousof each other," asserted the Doctor, with a positiveness that seemed tobe born of experience.

  "He never quarrelled with one of them in his life," returned the Idiot."He doesn't know them well enough to quarrel with them; in fact, I doubtif he ever sees them at all. He's very exclusive."

  "Of course he is a born farmer to get everything the way he has it,"suggested Mrs. Smithers.

  "No, he isn't. He's a broker," said the Idiot, "and a very successfulone. I see him on the street every day."

  "Does he employ a man to run the farm?" asked the Clergyman.

  "No," returned the Idiot, "he has too much sense and too few dollars todo any such foolish thing as that."

  "It must be one of those self-winding stock farms," put in theSchool-master, scornfully. "But I don't see how he can be a successfulbroker and make money off his farm at the same time. Your statements donot agree, either. You said he never had to run for trains."

  "Well, he never has," returned the Idiot, calmly. "He never goes nearhis farm. He doesn't have to. It's leased to the husband of thehouse-keeper whose daughter has a crush on the fire department. He takeshis pay in produce, and gets more than if he took it in cash on thebasis of the New York vegetable market."

  "Then you have got us into an argument about country life that ends--"began the School-master, indignantly.

  "That ends where it leaves off," retorted the Idiot, departing with asmile on his lips.

  "He's an Idiot from Idaho," asserted the Bibliomaniac.

  "Yes; but I'm afraid idiocy is a little contagious," observed theDoctor, with a grin and sidelong glance at the School-master.