In my
musings it seems to me to be almost idyllic to have known a spring
chicken in his infancy; to have watched a hind-quarter of lamb
gambolling about its native heath before its muscles became adamant, and
before chopped-up celery tops steeped in vinegar were poured upon it in
the hope of hypnotizing boarders into the belief that spring lamb and
mint-sauce lay before them. What care I how hard it is to rise every
morning before six in winter to thaw out the boiler, so long as the
night coming finds me seated in the genial glow of the gas log! What man
is he that would complain of having to bale out his cellar every week,
if, on the other hand, that cellar gains thereby a fertility that keeps
its floor sheeny, soft, and green--an interior tennis-court--from spring
to spring, causing the gladsome click of the lawn-mower to be heard
within its walls all through the still watches of the winter day? I
tell you, sir, it is the life to lead, that of our rural brother. I do
not believe that in this whole vast city there is a cellar like that--an
in-door garden-patch, as it were."
[Illustration: "'A HIND-QUARTER OF LAMB GAMBOLLING
ABOUT ITS NATIVE HEATH'"]
"No," returned the Doctor; "and it is a good thing there isn't. There is
enough sickness in the world without bringing any of your _rus_ ideas
_in urbe_. I've lived in the country, sir, and I assure you it is not
what it is written up to be. Country life is misery, melancholy, and
malaria.
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