dudes; old bachelors, fluttering around the fair human flower like
September butterflies; fancy work, fancy work, like Penelope's web,
never finished; pug dogs of the aged and asthmatic variety. Everything
there but MEN--they are wise enough to keep far away.

Before leaving this haven of rest, I heard that the old-fashioned
farm-house just opposite was for sale. And, as purchasers of real estate
were infrequent at Gooseville, it would be rented for forty dollars a
year to any responsible tenant who would "keep it up."

After examining the house from garret to cellar and looking over the
fields with a critical eye, I telegraphed to the owner, fearful of
losing such a prize, that I would take it for three years. For it
captivated me. The cosy "settin'-room," with a "pie closet" and an upper
tiny cupboard known as a "rum closet" and its pretty fire place--bricked
up, but capable of being rescued from such prosaic "desuetude"; a large
sunny dining-room, with a brick oven, an oven suggestive of brown bread
and baked beans--yes, the baked beans of my childhood, that adorned the
breakfast table on a Sunday morning, cooked with just a little molasses
and a square piece of crisp salt pork in center, a dish to tempt a dying
anchorite.

There wore two broad landings on the stairs, the lower one just the
place for an old clock to tick out its impressive
"Forever--Never--Never--Forever" à la Longfellow. Then the long "shed
chamber" with a wide swinging door opening to the west, framing a
sunset gorgeous enough to inspire a mummy. And the attic, with its
possible treasures.

There was also a queer little room, dark and mysterious, in the center