"Oh, no," I said, "that's the point. There would be a barn, and
you haven't any idea how dangerous barns are. They are the curse
of country life, barns are."

"Well, then, John, why did you buy the cow?" she inquired, and I
went up and punched a hole in the plaster.

Why did I buy the cow? Was there a cow? Had Bunch ever mentioned
a cow to me? Come to think of it he hadn't and there I was cooking
trouble over a slow fire.

When I came to she was saying quietly, "Besides, I think I'd rather
have a milkman than a cow. Milkmen swear a lot and cheat sometimes
but as a rule they are more trustworthy than cows, and they very
seldom chase anybody. Couldn't you turn the barn into a gymnasium
or something?"

"Dearie," I said, trying my level best to get a mist over my lamps
so as to give her the teardrop gaze, "something keeps whispering to
me, 'Sidestep that cave in the wilderness!' Something keeps
telling me that a month on the farm will put a crimp in our
happiness, and that the moment we move into a home in the tall
grass ill luck will get up and put the boots to our wedded bliss."

Then I gave an imitation of a choking sob which sounded for all the
world like the last dying shriek of a bathtub when the water is
busy leaving it.

"Nonsense, John!" laughed Clara J.; "it's only natural that you
regret leaving our first home, but after one day in the country