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"The soul of wit" was in John Jones's letter. There was also a downright directness which hit the mark, and I wrote that I would go to Maizeville in the course of the following week. The almanac had announced spring; nature appeared quite unaware of the fact, but, so far as we were concerned, the almanac was right.
But in the morning we rose with the dawn, from our shakedowns on the floor, to begin eagerly and hopefully our final preparations for departure. In response to my letters John Jones had promised to meet us at the Maizeville Landing with his strong covered rockaway, and to have a fire in the old farmhouse. Load after load was despatched to the boat, for I preferred to deal with one trusty truckman.
The next day, according to appointment, I went to Maizeville. John Jones met me at the station, and drove me in his box-sleigh to see the farm he had written of in his laconic note. I looked at him curiously as we jogged along over the melting snow. The day was unclouded for a wonder, and the sun proved its increasing power by turning the sleigh-tracks in the road into gleaming rills.
You've given me your hand, and I'll show yer how that goes furder with me than all the blood-and-thunder talk in Maizeville," said Bagley, with some feeling. "Then you'll show that you can be a man like the rest of us," I said, as I hastened to our early dinner. My wife beamed and nodded at me. "I'm not going to say anything to set you up too much," she said.
Jones, with Junior, dined with us in great state, and we had our first four-course dinner since arriving in Maizeville, and at the fashionable hour of six in the evening. I had protested against my wife's purpose of staying at home in the morning, saying we would "browse around during the day and get up appetites, while in the afternoon we could all turn cooks and help her."
"A crop of boys and girls. You may think that my mind is chiefly on corn and potatoes. Not at all. It is chiefly on you; and for your sakes mamma and I decided to go to the country." At last, in reply to my inquiries and my answers to advertisements, I received the following letter: Maizeville, N.Y. March 1st, '83 Robert Durham, Esq. Dear Sir I have a place that will suit you I think.
In the cool of the afternoon, these were placed in the wagon, and with my wife and the three younger children, I drove to the Maizeville Landing with our first shipment to Mr. Bogart. "We are 'p'oducers, at last, as Bobsey said," I cried, joyously.
"Now you talk sense. I was a-hankerin' myself. I take stock right off in a man or a critter with an appetite. They're always improvin'. Yes, sir; Maizeville is the place to grow an appetite, and what's more we can grow plenty to satisfy it." Mrs.
Then we went to the captain and laughingly told him we were emigrants to Maizeville, and hoped before long to send a good deal of produce by his boat. We therefore wished him to "lump" us, goods, children, and all, and deliver us safely at the Maizeville wharf for as small a sum as possible.
In the comparative leisure which the children enjoyed during August, they felt amply repaid for the toil of the previous months. We also managed to secure two great gala-days. The first was spent in a trip to the seashore; and this was a momentous event, marred by only one slight drawback. The "Mary Powell," a swift steamer, touched every morning at the Maizeville Landing.
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