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“You must have struck a profitable section, Doctor,” returned the Idiot, taking possession of three steaming buckwheat cakes to the dismay of Mr. Whitechoker, who was about to reach out for them himself. “And I should have supposed that your good business sense would have restrained you from leaving.”

“Then the countryman is poor–always poor,” continued the Doctor, ignoring the Idiot’s sarcastic comments.

“Ah! that accounts for it,” observed the Idiot. “I see why you did not stay; for what shall it profit a man to save a patient if practice, like virtue, is to be its own reward?”

“Your suggestion, sir,” retorted the Doctor, “betrays an unhealthy frame of mind.”

“That’s all right, Doctor,” returned the Idiot; “but please do not diagnose the case any further. I can’t afford an expert opinion as to my mental condition. But to return to our subject: you two gentlemen appear to have had unhappy experiences in country life–quite different from those of a friend of mine who owns a farm. He doesn’t have to run for trains; he is independent of plumbers, because the only pipes in his house are for smoking purposes. The farm produces corn enough to keep his family supplied all the year round and to sell a balance at a profit. Oats and wheat are harvested to an extent which keeps the cattle and declares dividends besides. He never suffers from the cold or heat. He is never afraid of losing his house or barns by fire, because the whole fire department of the neighboring village is, to a man, in love with the house-keeper’s daughter, and is always on hand in force. The chickens are the envy and pride of the county, and there are so many of them that they have to take turns in going to roost. The pigs are the most intelligent of their kind, and are so happy they never grunt. In fact, everything is lovely and cheap, the only thing that hangs high being the goose.”

“Quite an ideal, no doubt,” put in the School-master, scornfully. “I suppose his is one of those model farms with steam-pipes under the walks to melt the snow in winter, and of course there is a vein of coal growing right up into his furnace ready to be lit.”

“Yes,” observed the Bibliomaniac; “and no doubt the chickens lay eggs in every style–poached, fried, scrambled, and boiled. The weeds in the garden grow so fast, I suppose, that they pull themselves up by the roots; and if there is anything left undone at the end of the day I presume tramps in dress suits, and courtly in manner, spring out of the ground and finish up for him.”

“I’ll bet he’s not on good terms with his neighbors if he has everything you speak of in such perfection. These farmers get frightfully jealous of each other,” asserted the Doctor, with a positiveness that seemed to be born of experience.

“He never quarrelled with one of them in his life,” returned the Idiot. “He doesn’t know them well enough to quarrel with them; in fact, I doubt if he ever sees them at all. He’s very exclusive.”

“Of course he is a born farmer to get everything the way he has it,” suggested Mrs. Smithers.

“No, he isn’t. He’s a broker,” said the Idiot, “and a very successful one. I see him on the street every day.”

“Does he employ a man to run the farm?” asked the Clergyman.

“No,” returned the Idiot, “he has too much sense and too few dollars to do any such foolish thing as that.”

“It must be one of those self-winding stock farms,” put in the School-master, scornfully. “But I don’t see how he can be a successful broker and make money off his farm at the same time. Your statements do not agree, either. You said he never had to run for trains.”

“Well, he never has,” returned the Idiot, calmly. “He never goes near his farm. He doesn’t have to. It’s leased to the husband of the house-keeper whose daughter has a crush on the fire department. He takes his pay in produce, and gets more than if he took it in cash on the basis of the New York vegetable market.”