As to the potatoes, I might never have escaped from that terrific
thralldom, if a city friend, after hearing my woful experience, had not
inquired quietly:

"Why have potatoes? It's much cheaper to buy all you need!"

I had been laboring under a strange spell--supposed I must plant
potatoes; the relief is unspeakable.

Jennie June once said, "The great art of life is to eliminate." I
admired the condensed wisdom of this, but, like experience, it only
serves to illume the path over which I have passed.

One little incident occurred this spring which is too funny to withhold.
Among the groceries ordered from Boston was a piece of extra fine
cheese. A connoisseur in cheese had advised me to try it. It recommended
itself so strongly that I placed it carefully under glass, in a place
all by itself. It was strong--strong enough to sew buttons on, strong
as Sampson, strong enough to walk away alone. One warm morning it
seemed to have gained during the night. Its penetrating, permeating
power was something, almost supernatural. I carried it from one place to
another, each time more remote. It would not be lonely if segregrated,
doubtless it had ample social facilities within itself! At last I became
desperate. "Ellen," I exclaimed, "just bring in that cheese and burn it.
It comes high, too high. I can not endure it." She opened the top of the
range and, as the cremation was going on, I continued my comments. "Why,
in all my life, I never knew anything like it; wherever I put it--in
pantry, swing cupboard, on the cellar stairs, in a tin box, on top of
the refrigerator--way out on that--" Just then Tom opened the door and