"
"You ought to be a real estate agent," I advised.
"Lived two hundred years too soon," disclaimed Dick. "What more
obvious? These are certainly ancestors."
"Family may die out," I suggested.
"It has a good start," said Dick sweetly. "There are eighty-seven in it
now."
"What!" I gasped.
"One great-grandfather, twelve grandparents, thirty-seven parents, and
thirty-seven children," tabulated Dick.
"I should like to see the great-grandfather," said I; "he must be very
old and feeble."
"He is eighty-five years old," said Dick, "and the last time I saw him
he was engaged with an axe in clearing trees off his farm."
All of these astonishing statements I found to be absolutely true.
We started out afoot soon after dinner, through a scattering growth of
popples that alternately drew the veil of coyness over the blue hills
and caught our breath with the delight of a momentary prospect. Deuce,
remembering autumn days, concluded partridges, and scurried away on the
expert diagonal, his hind legs tucked well under his flanks. The road
itself was a mere cutting through the miniature woods, winding to right
or left for the purpose of avoiding a log-end or a boulder, surmounting
little knolls with an idle disregard for the straight line, knobby with
big, round stones, and interestingly diversified by circular mud holes
a foot or so in diameter. After a mile and a half we came to the corner
of a snake fence. This, Dick informed me, marked the limits of the
"farm.
Pages:
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110