An' all the time the wind blowed there
An' I could feel it in my hair,
An' ist smell clover ever'where!
An' a old red head flew
Purt' nigh wite over my high chair,
When we et out on the porch!




CHAPTER IX.

THE PASSING OF THE PEACOCKS.


I would rather look at a peacock than eat him. The feathers of an
angel and the voice of a devil.

The story of this farm would not be complete without a brief rehearsal
of my experiences, exciting, varied, and tragic, resulting from the
purchase of a magnificent pair of peacocks.

My honest intention on leasing my forty-dollars-a-year paradise was
simply to occupy the quaint old house for a season or two as a relief
from the usual summer wanderings. I would plant nothing but a few hardy
flowers of the old-fashioned kind--an economical and prolonged picnic.
In this way I could easily save in three years sufficient funds to make
a grand tour du monde.

That was my plan!