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 milk, butter, eggs, and vegetables, and pay fabulous prices.

Behind the studios the ground falls away to the floor of the little valley over which, girt with alder and willow, a stream winds its way. It is a noisy, flippant little stream, filled with musical cascades and dotted with deep brown pools which promise trout but never fulfil the promise; it tinkles and bubbles and gurgles and tries to impress the world with a sense of its importance. There is a good deal of human nature about that stream. Being only an ornament, it fancies itself quite a bit as a necessity. However, importance is only relative, and I dare say to the trees and bushes that line its banks that absurd little brook seems a veritable Mississippi. Beyond the stream the ground rises again rather abruptly and climbs the