I know that many of our old friends were really shocked when we told
them, laughingly, of our new pursuits, and that the butter they so
much praised, and the apricot-cheese they ate with so much gust, were
manufactured by our own hands. We were "poor-thinged" to our faces in
a very pitying manner, but we always laughed at these compassionate
people, and endeavored to convince them we spoke the truth in sober
earnest, when we assured them we found great amusement in our new
pursuits. They shook their heads and sighed in such a manner, that we
knew perfectly well that, as soon as we were out of ear-shot, they
would say, "Poor things! It is very sad, but they are quite right to
try and make the best of it." I believe some of them thought that it
was impossible we could have "souls above butter;" for a lady who
called one day, taking up one of Mudie's volumes from the table,
said,--

"It is possible you care to subscribe to Mudies's?"

"And why should we not care to do so?" replied H.

"Why," was the answer, "I do not see any connection between a love of
reading and a love of butter-making."

Now I do not think that either of us had any love of butter-making;
and if we could have afforded to give $100 a year to a dairymaid, no
doubt we should have left all to her management; but as it was we were
obliged to buy it--and very bad it was in our town--or make it
ourselves: nor do either my sister or myself regret our resolution to
do so.