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The sixty-acre wood-lot that stretched from the fields up to the foot of Hedgehog Ledge had been cleaned and cleared of undergrowth until you could drive a team from end to end of it, among the three hundred or more immense old sugar maples and yellow birches. That wood-lot, indeed, had been the old farmer's special pride.
When, by reason of a confusion of tongues, work was knocked off on the Tower of Babel, if then all hands had turned to outdoor sports, the resultant scene would have been, I imagine, much like the picture that is presented on most Saturdays on the sixty-acre stretch of turf known as Indian Field, up in Van Cortlandt Park.
"I never thought much of the farm," was the reply, "it lies cold; the sixty-acre field is well enough, but the land on the hill is as poor as death." Now this idea, which Merton gave out as his, had dropped into him from Meadows three weeks before. "Farmer," said Meadows, in an undertone, "they are thrashing out new wheat for the rent." "You don't say so? Why I didn't hear the flail going."
Since father sold the sixty-acre farm to the First National Bank we thought we'd improve the remaining hundred and forty by putting up a wire fence on concrete posts." "You'd have to put up a shed and get some moulds and all that sort of thing," said Bob. "Why not let us sell you posts?" "Will you sell us some?" asked Alex. "Surely," said Bob.
You can't feed 'em on coal, because their teeth are not strong enough to chew it; and you can't feed 'em on hay, because they'd set fire to it the minute they breathed on it; and you can't put 'em out to pasture because they'd wither up a sixty-acre lot in ten minutes. It's an actual fact that we have to send for Jason three times a day to come here and feed them.
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