The farm did actually prosper, after a
while; and Andrew used to hang over the pasture bars at
sunset, and tell, from the way his pipe burned, just what the
weather would be the next day.
As I have said, we were tremendously happy until Andrew got
the fatal idea of telling the world how happy we were. I am
sorry to have to admit he had always been rather a bookish
man. In his college days he had edited the students'
magazine, and sometimes he would get discontented with the
_Farm and Fireside_ serials and pull down his bound volumes of
the college paper. He would read me some of his youthful
poems and stories and mutter vaguely about writing something
himself some day. I was more concerned with sitting hens than
with sonnets and I'm bound to say I never took these threats
very seriously. I should have been more severe.
Then great-uncle Philip died, and his carload of books came to
us. He had been a college professor, and years ago when
Andrew was a boy Uncle Philip had been very fond of him--had,
in fact, put him through college. We were the only near
relatives, and all those books turned up one fine day. That
was the beginning of the end, if I had only known it.
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