"Well, what do you like in them?"

"Berries, preferably."

"Oh, I thought perhaps you preferred cinders or dried briers."

Jonathan looked up inquiringly, then a light broke. "Oh, you mean those blackberry bushes. Didn't I tell you about that? That was a mistake."

"So I thought," I said, unappeased.

"I mean, I didn't mean them to be cut. It was that fool hobo I gave work to last week. I told him to cut the brush in the lane. Idiot! I thought he knew a blackberry bush!"

"With the fruit on it, too," I added, relenting toward Jonathan a little. Then I stiffened again. "How about the huckleberry patch? Was that a mistake, too?"

Jonathan looked guilty, but held himself as a man should.

"Why, no," he said; "that is, Hiram thought we needed more ground to plough up next year, and that's as good a piece as there is--no big rocks or trees, you know. And we must have crops, you know."

"Bless the rocks!" I burst out. "I wish there were more of them! If it weren't for the rocks the farm would be _all_ crops!"

Jonathan laughed, then we both laughed.

"You talk as though that would be a misfortune," he said.

"It would be simply unendurable," I replied.

"Jonathan," I added, "I am afraid you have not a proper subordination of values. I have heard of one farmer--just one--who had."

"What is it?--and who was he?" said Jonathan, submissively.

I think he was relieved that the huckleberry question was not being followed up.

"I believe he was your great-uncle by marriage. They say that there was a certain field that was full of b.u.t.terfly-weed--you know, gorgeous orange stuff--"

"I know," said he. "What about it?"

"Well, there was a meadow that was full of it, just in its glory when the gra.s.s was ready to cut. Jonathan, what would you have done?"

"Go on," said Jonathan.

"Well, he always mowed that field himself, and when he came to a clump of b.u.t.terfly-weed, he always _mowed around_ it."

"Very pretty," said Jonathan, in an impersonal way.

"And that," I added, "is what I call having a proper subordination of values."

"I see," said he.

"And now," I went on, with almost too ostentatious sweetness, "if you will tell me where to find a huckleberry patch that is not already reduced to cinders, I will go out to-morrow and get some for pies."

Jonathan knew, and so did I, that there were still plenty of berry bushes left. Nevertheless, he was moved.

"Now, see here," he began seriously, "I don't want to spoil the farm for you. Only I don't know which things you like. If you'll just tell me the places you don't want touched, I'll speak to Hiram about them."

"Really?" I exclaimed. "Why, I'll tell you now, right away. There's the lane--you know, that mustn't be touched; and the ledges--but you couldn't do anything to those, of course, anyway."

"No, even the hobo wouldn't tackle them," said Jonathan grimly.

"And the birches, the ones that are left. You promised me those, you know. And the swamp, of course, and the cedar knoll where the high-bush blueberries grow, and then--oh, yes--that lovely hillside beyond the long meadow where the sumac is, and the dogwood, and everything. And, of course, the rest of the huckleberries--"

"The rest of the huckleberries!" said he. "That means all the farm.

There isn't a spot as big as your hat where you can't show me some sort of a huckleberry bush."

"So much the better," I said contentedly.

"Oh, come now," he protested. "Be reasonable. Even your wonderful farmer that you tell about did a little mowing. He mowed around the b.u.t.terfly-weed, but he mowed. You're making the farm into solid b.u.t.terfly-weed, and there'll be no mowing at all."

"Why, Jonathan, I've left you the long meadow, and the corner meadow, and the hill orchard, and then there's the ten-acre lot for corn and potatoes--only I wish you wouldn't plant potatoes."

"What's the matter with potatoes?"

"Oh, I don't know. First, they are too neat and green, and then they are all covered with potato-bug powder, and then they wither up and lie all around, and then they are dug, and the field is a sight! Now, rye and corn! They're lovely from beginning to end."

Jonathan ruminated. "I seem to see myself expressing these ideas to Hiram," he remarked dryly.

"I suppose it all comes down to the simple question, What is the farm for?" I said.

"I am afraid that is what Hiram would think," said Jonathan.

"Never mind about Hiram," I said severely. "Now really, away down deep, haven't you yourself a sneaking desire for--oh, for crops, and for having things look shipshape, as you call it? Now, haven't you?"

"I wonder," said Jonathan, as though we were talking about a third person.

"I don't wonder; I know. The trouble with men," I went on, "is that when they want to make a thing look well, all they can think of is cutting and chopping. Look at a man when he goes to a party, or to have his picture taken! He always dashes to the barber's first--that is, unless there's a woman around to interfere. Do you remember Jack Mason when he was married? Face and neck the color of raw beef from sunburn, and hair cropped so close it made his head look like a drab egg!"

"I didn't notice," said Jonathan.

"No, I suppose not. You would have done the same thing--you're all alike. Look at horses! When men want to make a horse look stylish, why, chop off his tail, of course! And they are only beginning to learn better. When a man builds a house, what does he do? Cuts down every tree, every bush and twig, and makes it 'shipshape,' as you call it. And then the women have to come along and plant everything all over again."

"But things need cutting now and then," said Jonathan. "You wouldn't like it, you know, if a man never went to the barber's. He'd look like a woodchuck."

"There are worse-looking things than woodchucks. Still, of course, there's a medium. Possibly the woodchuck carries neglect to excess."

The discussion rested there. I do not know whether Jonathan expressed any of these ideas to Hiram, but the grooming process appeared to be temporarily suspended. Then one day my turn came. It was dusk, and I was sitting on an old log at the back of the orchard, looking out over the little swamp, all a-twinkle with fireflies. Jonathan had been up the lane, prowling about, as he often does at nightfall, "to take a look at the farm." I heard his step in the lane, and he jumped over the bars at the far end of the orchard. There was a pause, then a vehement exclamation--too vehement to print. Jonathan's remarks do not usually need editing, and I listened to these in the dusk in some degree of wonder, if not of positive enjoyment.

Finally I called out, "What's the matter?"

"Oh! You there?" He strode over. "Matter! Come and see what that fool hobo did."

"You called him something besides that a moment ago," I remarked.