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.—Oh, Mr. Curtis, what a lovely, dewy morning!

.—Yes; them slippers of yours will ketch it.

.—Why, the grass is quite wet. Whatever makes the grass wet, now?

.—Why, the dew, to be sure.

.—Oh, but you know the dew falls at night.

.—Yes; it stays fallen, too, till the sun dries it off next day.

.—Oh, now, really! But how clear and limpid the air is—like new wine.

.—H'm. Did you ever happen to see new wine?

.—Really, now—I am not positive that I ever have.

.—H'm. Well, it's about the muddiest looking stuff you ever came across.

.—Is it, now, really? You have a lovely farm here!

.—H'm. Pretty fair for a side-hill lay.

.—And look, there comes an ideal yeoman.

.—Oh, no; he's one of the hands.

.—So stalwart and graceful!

.—That young feller can mow a wider swath than any man I ever had—

.—Oh, I am sure of it—a perfect Hercules!

.—Yes; an' drink more beer than any three I ever had.

.—Oh, what an iconoclast you are, Mr. Curtis.

.—H'm—p'rhaps so.

.—Oh, but you are, you know. Fancy that young Apollo drinking beer!

.—That's just what he can do, every time.

.—Oh, there are the cows—where are they going?

.—To be milked.

.—Oh, may I go and see them?

.—Oh, yes; go right along.

.—And here comes the milkmaid. Oh, I am so glad she is a milkmaid and not a milkman!

.—She couldn't very well be that.

.—I feel positively grateful to you, Mr. Curtis. It is all so delightfully rural and effective—the gentle cows, the fresh, young milkmaid—oh, if she will only carry the milk-pails on her head, it will simply be a picture!

.—H'm, Elmiry'll hardly do that.

.—I am so sorry. There is something very calm and soothing about a cow, I think; don't you, Mr. Curtis?

.—I don't know as it ever struck me—

.—That one now being milked stands placidly chewing her cud, content and philosophical.

.—Hold on, Elmir—There goes a good ten quarts!

.—Oh, Mr. Curtis, the milkmaid—

.—She ain't hurt, She got out of the way. She knows Brindle through and through.

.—But, Mr. Curtis—another shattered idol; she's cross-eyed, and forty, at least.

.—Brindle?

.—Milkmaid.

.—Nearer fifty; but she's mighty useful. Brindle cuts up that caper about once a week. I'll beef her next winter. That's a fine young heifer yonder.

.—Oh, yes, lovely! You mean the one with dark spots?

.—Yes.

.—And a heifer, I suppose, is a—a—he-cow?

.—H'm. Well, no, not exactly.

.—Oh, where are those men going?

.—Out in the fields to mow.

.—Oh, are they? How lovely! Do they sing?

.—Not that I know of.

.—Oh, I fancy they do! In the opera, you know, the mowers' chorus is so lovely!

.—H'm—I guess they don't sing it out of the opera!

.—Oh, and what is it they mow?

.—Grass!

.—Oh, is it now? I fancied it was hay!

.—H'm—it isn't hay till its mowed and dried!

.—Oh, yes, I know! I have a bunch of dried grasses at home now!

.—Yes?

.—Oh, do promise me that I shall have a ride on a hay-mow?

.—H'm—you shall have a ride!

.—Thanks, awfully—it will be such an interesting experience! I think I'll go in now, my feet are really quite damp!

(watching her go).—H'm, damp! They're soaked! White dress, bronze slippers, and silk stockings, for walking over a farm before breakfast! H'm!