"Every choice has its inconveniences, undoubtedly," responds Rus, "but
I concluded that I preferred fresh air for my children to the
atmosphere of sewers and gas factories, and I have a prejudice for
breakfasting by sunlight rather than by gas. Then my wife enjoys the
singing of birds in the morning more than the cry of the milkman, and
the silence at night secures a sweeter sleep than the rattle of the
horse-cars. It is true that we have no brick block opposite, and no
windows of houses behind commanding our own. But to set off such
deprivations there are pleasant hills and wooded slopes and gardens.
They are not sidewalks, to be sure, but they satisfy us."

"Yes, yes; I see," says Urbs. "We are more to be pitied than I
thought. If we must go out in the evening, we don't have the advantage
of stumbling over hummocks and sinking in the mud or dust in the dark;
we can only go dry-shod upon clean flagging abundantly lighted. Then
we have nothing but Thomas's orchestra and the opera and the bright
little theatre to console us for the loss of the frog and tree-toad
concert and the tent-circus. Instead of plodding everywhere upon our
own feet, which is so pleasant after running round upon them all day
in town, we have nothing but cars and stages at hand to carry us to
our own doors. I see clearly there are great disadvantages in city
life. If a friend and his wife drop in suddenly in the evening or to
dine, it is monstrously inconvenient to have an oyster-shop round the
corner whence to improvise a supper or a dinner. It would be so much
better to have nothing but the village grocery a mile or two away. The
advantages are conspicuous. I wonder the entire population of the city
doesn't go out to live in Frogtown."

Rus always feels in secret that he is at a disadvantage so long as he
must go to town every day to attend to his business. He reasons