Band books

Fate had set no wolf to howl at our door.
In June we decided to take to the woods, or rather to the country, to
see what it had in store for us. The more we thought of it, the better I
liked the plan, and Polly was no less happy over it. We talked of it
morning, noon, and night, and my half-smothered instinct grew by what it
fed on. Countless schemes at length resolved themselves into a factory
farm, which should be a source of pleasure as well as of income. It was
of all sizes, shapes, industries, and limits of expenditure, as the
hours passed and enthusiasm waxed or waned. I finally compromised on
from two hundred to three hundred acres of land, with a total
expenditure of not more than $60,000 for the building of my factory. It
was to produce butter, eggs, pork, and apples, all of best quality, and
they were to be sold at best prices. I discoursed at some length on
farms and farmers to Polly, who slept through most of the harangue. She
afterward said that she enjoyed it, but I never knew whether she
referred to my lecture or to her nap.


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