"He is the happiest man who best appreciates his happiness. Happiness comes to him who does not seek it."

"Well, you've got there. I was opposed to your goin' into the minstrel business. It's not good to argue agin anything a young man sets his mind on. I figured if you got knocked out, you'd be able to come back agin. I'd rather seed you in the circus business, but say, boy, if this show of yours ain't a Jim Dandy. Are you making any money?"

"Well, I have made money, Uncle Henry, but I'm investing it in my business as fast as I earn it. You see the minstrel business is changing. The basis of minstrelsy will always be that which it is and has been, but you can't hand them the same things they've been accepting the past forty years and expect them to enjoy and buy it. The farce comedy, the musical show are virtually minstrel shows. Based upon music and dancing, they produce about the same stuff the minstrels do."

"Well Alfred, we hear a great deal about the old black-face minstrels. Some people say they like them best."

"That's true, Uncle Henry. You can't gainsay it. Some people like the old-fashioned cooking the best. But the public, the majority demand something different. Even if they eat the same sort of food they ate when younger, they demand it be served differently. Let me call your attention to this fact: Every manager that has endeavored to present an old-time, black-face minstrel show in late years has failed. The old-time minstrel show, like the one-ring circus, is pleasant to dream of, pleasant to talk of, but not profitable to present. Two friends were responsible for my decision to put on a simon-pure, old-time minstrel show. I engaged the best talent procurable, costumed the show in conformity with the ideas of my friends. It was the least profitable of any season since my first year; or it would have been had I continued. I changed my entire show in the middle of the season, going back to the black-face comedians, white-face singers.

"The minstrels in all climes have sung their songs of love and war. Even in the days of the ancients there were minstrels who sang the news of the times to the gaping multitudes in the streets and market places. In fact, David, with his harp of a thousand strings, whose voice charmed King Saul and his court, was the first minstrel. I can fully understand why a minstrel, an American minstrel, singing a plantation melody to his dusky dulcinea, should have a blackened face, but why a man blackened as a negro should sing of 'My Sister's Golden Hair,' or 'Mother's Eyes of Blue,' is too incongruous for even argument's sake."

"Well, Alfred, how is it the other managers do not adopt the style of your entertainment."

"Uncle Henry, I am not my brother's keeper. I had opposition with one of those so-called old time minstrel shows a short time ago. Our company was making money every night. They were barely paying expenses. And yet the greater part of their press work was devoted to informing the public that we were not genuine minstrels, our singers wore white wigs, flesh colored stockings and satin suits. They were really advertising one of the attractions of our exhibition. We copied that notice and had it sent broadcast over the sections where the companies conflicted. I watched the press closely and but one paper that came under my observation endorsed their idea."

"Now, Alfred, let me tell you something. I've had all I wanted to eat and drink; I've worn good clothes; I've helped the poor; I've kept my family right; and I've seen enough of this world to convince me the only way to have money to burn is not to burn it. To have money to spend when you are old, is to save it while you're young. I was so poor when I was young, I had my lesson. Say, son, it's a sad thing to be poor when you're young, not wanted in your brother's home. But it's dreadful to be poor when you are old and not wanted anywhere. You can't make a living. You are dependent upon charity. Now don't fool yourself and say with your income you can't save. If you can live you can save. George M. Pullman, Marshall Field, John D. Rockefeller, and a thousand others began saving on less than your income. Now, Alfred, don't think because the fool in your business has spent money recklessly, don't think that's an excuse for you to spend. I know minstrel people. I know them backwards. Don't be like them. The only things to do in this world, day after day, are the things you ought to do. You can't do too much for others, but don't depend upon them to do for you. A poor, old man is the saddest sight on earth."

"It's true I felt mighty sore that my folks threw me on the world so young. But you bet I am proud of the fact that I can buy and sell the whole kit of them. I help them, I give them, I don't begrudge it to them; but, while I can't entirely forget the bitterness of those boyhood days, I can't help but feel a bit proud that I am independent of them in my old days. And to hear some of them talk, you'd think they made me. Well, they did, but they didn't intend to. While they were sitting around praying for prosperity, I was sweating. Sweating, it's a good thing. It takes all the bad diseases out of you and a good deal of the cussedness. Say, Alfred, you never knowed a skin-flint that sweat. Stingy men never sweat. I admire all good people but I would rather see a man give another a meal, than talk over his victuals and eat them alone when he knows there's someone next door hungry. Did you ever notice when a man thinks he's a genius he lets his hair grow long and when a woman gets out of her place, to be something she oughtn't to be, she cuts her hair short. Every crank puts some kind of a brand on themselves. You don't have to talk to them to find out what they are.

"I sold whiskey when I was in the wholesale grocery business. Everybody in my line sold it. You remember the best stores in Columbus sold it. You couldn't hold a first-class trade if you didn't sell it. I never sold it to people who had no shoes. I never sold it to young men nor to old men in their dotage. There was never preacher came to me to talk religion or anything else while I was selling whiskey. But as soon as I sold out the whiskey business, they began runnin' after me. One of them kept a-comin' and a-comin'. He kept tellin' me how to live, how to spend the rest of my days. Get a library. A library was the greatest thing a man could have. It kept your mind at rest; you could seek refuge in your library at any time when in trouble. I promised him to get a library. I had one built expressly. I had two barrels of Old Crow whiskey that I kept when I sold the store. I filled a sufficient number of quart bottles to fill the shelves of the library, labeled the bottles, and waited for the next visit of the gentleman who induced me to invest in a library. He congratulated me on taking his advice. I told him I never had any learning to speak of; when I should have been at school I had to be at work; perhaps I should have consulted him about stocking the library. He expressed a desire to examine it. When I threw the doors open and the rows of bottles of Old Crow came into his view, he never flinched. I told Jim if he fainted to be handy with a pail of water. But he never backed off. He put his glasses on his nose, read the labels and 'lowed while my library was large it was not greatly diversified. Thereafter the good man was more deeply interested in me than ever before. At first he called once a day. It was not long until he called three times a day regularly."

Jim describes the scene thusly: "Uncle Henry, lolling in the big, easy chair, sleepily. Enter the gentleman who recommended the library. 'Good morning, Brother Hunt, I hope you are feeling well'; Uncle Henry, with eyes half-closed, never waited to hear more. He languidly motioned towards the sideboard, closed his eyes, looked the other way. Uncle Henry's idea of a gentleman was one who turned his back while you were pouring out your liquor."

Uncle Henry was known to every showman in America. He maintained a field whereon the circuses pitched their tents. He owned the billboards. No circus visited Burlington that did not find him an interested friend.

I have heard that Uncle Henry could drive a good bargain in a trade. I never knew him as a buyer or a seller. I only knew him as one who knew how to give. I only knew him as one who found it more blessed to give than receive.

His qualities of good more than overbalanced his imperfections. His was a character that left its impress on the community in which he was known. He was loved by those who were welcomed in his hospitable home. There have been men of more renown than the hardy old blacksmith, who, from a barefooted boy made his way without education or friends, and that he was influenced in his feelings by his early hardships was only the man that was in him, over-balancing the better nature of one who, when a friend was a friend, who, when against you, was always in the open. He was as honest in his dislikes as he was in his admirations.

When the sands of his life were ebbing fast on that Sunday afternoon in midsummer, the last of earth, the last sounds that fell upon the ears of Uncle Henry were the rumbling of the wheels of a circus moving over the paved streets from the train to the show grounds.

Alfred read and re-read this telegram. He was having the most strenuous opposition of his business career, fighting one of the most unprincipled of men, the head of a company that had attained great popularity although on the decline at the time, and soon thereafter went the way of all such concerns—those of the minstrel kind at least. It was known to Alfred that the opposition had engaged a noted press agent and that this agent had been on the route of Alfred's company. Alfred answered the telegram, requesting a synopsis of the article. It was at the time the notorious Hatfield gang of West Virginia, were the subjects of unusual newspaper exaggeration. The write-up that had stirred Kaine was in substance:

Kaine supplemented his first telegram with a second one advising Alfred that the evening paper would publish any statement he telegraphed, and to make the denial strong.

Alfred wired him:

He further telegraphed "Devil Anse" Hatfield and several others of the family:

Another telegram read:

Another telegram went forward later as a news item:

Of course all this was false. When the minstrel troupe arrived, hundreds were at the depot. Alfred was one of the first to leave the train. The officers and many others were aware of the falsity of the published statement, but hundreds were deceived by the sensational reports.

The owner of the paper wherein the reports originated assured Alfred they had been imposed upon and the columns of the paper were open to anything he might dictate for publication. Introducing Alfred to his city editor, the owner of the paper remarked: "I have requested Mr. Field to prepare a statement for publication. We want to do what is right by him."

The matter was submitted to the editor. He reminded Alfred that it did not answer the article published by them but was a boost for his minstrels.

Alfred replied: "I realize the matter published was false, but the dear public has gained the idea that I am a desperado. They will only remember this a day or two. If I endeavor to contradict the published reports, it will keep it in their minds. This matter I submit will benefit me. A denial such as you have in mind will not do me any good."

While this advertising was not the sort Alfred desired, he was bound to make the most of it. The theatres were packed to their capacity during the three or four weeks the opposition worked the press with the silly matter; although many newspapers treated it as a joke. For a few weeks Alfred was a living curiosity, pointed out by some as a desperado to be shunned, sought by others to be idolized. Surely, human nature is past understanding.

It is dangerous to try to blacken the character of your opponent as it invariably places one's own under the spotlight and they'll find spots you were sure were never visible.

Ed Boggs, now Secretary to the Governor of the State, was at the time engaged in the drug business and managed the Opera House in Charleston, W. Va. The gross receipts were the largest in the history of the opera house. Alfred carried his share of the money in a satchel after the show. Boggs accompanied him to the ferry. There was no bridge spanning the river in those days. Boggs' store was on the corner of Water Street near the ferry landing. The ferry boat was on the opposite side. Boggs suggested they step into the drug store and smoke a cigar until the boat returned. Alfred, arriving at his private car—the wife was a visitor—the first question propounded was: "Where have you been to this hour of the night? Where's your satchel?" Alfred nearly fainted. He rushed out on the platform of the car. The ferry boat had left on the last trip of the night. Alfred was not clear in his mind as to where he had left the satchel, whether in the drug store or on the boat. He floundered along the banks of the river, endeavoring to locate a skiff that he might recross the river. His fears were that he had left the satchel on the forecastle of the ferry boat where he stood smoking while crossing the river.

The Kanawha is a narrow stream as it flows by Charleston, yet it seemed an ocean that night. Alfred's slumbers were neither lengthy nor soothing. One hour previous to the scheduled time of the ferry boat's arrival on her first trip of the morning, he stood on the shore gazing across the river. When the boat was within four feet of her dock, Alfred leaped aboard, and began inquiries. The captain said: "I was at the wheel. If you left your money on the boat you might as well stay on this side. There was a rough crowd aboard after the show. That money's split up and partly drunk up by this time." Mr. Boggs had not arrived. The clerk searched the drug store. He urged the minstrel man to assist in exploring the mysterious recesses behind the counters. No satchel was found. Mr. Boggs was late coming to the store. "He always gets here before this," the clerk asserted. Alfred could not restrain himself longer. He fairly ran to the residence of Mr. Boggs. The servant brought the message: "Mr. Boggs was not well this morning. He would probably not go to the store until afternoon."

"Jumping Jupiter, Holy Moses," and other expressions were suppressed by the highly wrought-up minstrel, as he stood on the doorstep. Say to Mr. Boggs: "Mr. Field must see him, if only for a moment. Must see him at once."

"Howdy, Al, I thought you were on your way to Huntington."

"No, our train does not leave until eight-thirty. I only have twenty-five minutes. Are you going to the store?" Alfred tried to look unconcerned as he asked the question: "Did I leave my satchel in your drug store last night? I feel sure I did."

Boggs gazed at him in blank amazement. "Your satchel with all that money in it? You don't mean to tell me you left that satchel somewhere and are not certain where?"

"Oh, I am pretty certain I left it in your store."

"Well, if you left the satchel in my drug store it is there yet."

"I am pretty sure I did."

"But you're not certain," persisted Boggs.

After every corner and nook of the store had been searched, Alfred went behind the counters. Again he looked under them. Boggs did not seem to be greatly interested in the search. He seated himself at a desk as Alfred rose from his knees, from exploring a dark corner, and inquired in an unconcerned tone, "Find it?" Alfred was irritated. He did not reply. The ferry boat whistle sounded. The bell was tapping. Alfred looked at Boggs. He was still at the desk.

"Good-bye, I'm going. I guess the Hatfields haven't exclusive privileges in West Virginia. I think I'll join them to get even. I either left that satchel in this drug store or on that boat. That's a cinch."

Boggs raised his eyes. "Well, if you only knew where you left your satchel you'd have a better chance to recover it.""Well, I'm going," replied Alfred, moving towards the door.

"Good-bye," Boggs shouted. Alfred was on the front steps. "Hold on," Boggs yelled, "I'll go over the river with you." Alfred was looking across the river. Boggs was by his side. They had walked several yards towards the ferry boat. Boggs inquired as to what excuse he would make to his wife. Alfred turned his head. Boggs was carrying the satchel in his hand farthest from Alfred. As the latter reached for the grip, Boggs laughed as he pulled away, saying, "I won't trust you with it."

Boggs discovered the satchel after Alfred left the drug store. He awaited the return of the ferry boat and endeavored to have the Captain make an extra trip to relieve Alfred's suspense. The Captain refused, saying: "If a man is that careless with money, he ought to worry."

In the early days of Alfred's minstrel career he became acquainted with Dan D. Emmett, the originator of American Minstrelsy (the First Part). Emmett was living in Chicago at that time.

Years afterward Alfred learned that Mr. Emmett was living in retirement in his old home, Mount Vernon, Ohio. He called on the aged minstrel. Mr. Emmett pleaded that he be permitted to accompany the minstrels on a farewell tour. His request was granted. At the time there was no intention of advertising Emmett. He was simply to accompany the troupe as a guest of Mr. Field.

About this time several persons were claiming the song "Dixie." Alfred furnished the New York Herald with irrefutable proof that to Emmett belonged the honor. That paper sent a man from New York City. He spent several days at the home of Emmett. The feature story and the subsequent proofs published by Col. Cunningham, editor of the Confederate Veteran, forever settled the controversy as to the authorship of Dixie.

Emmett's memory, in his last years, as to dates was defective. The story of Dixie was often related to Alfred by Emmett and, from other information, Alfred is of the opinion that Dixie was sung in the south long before its New York production. Emmett was the musical director of Bryants' Minstrels. Dan Bryant desired a walk-around song and dance. Emmett, on Saturday night was commissioned to have this number ready for Monday night's performance. He labored all day Sunday. Dixie was produced on Monday night and made an instantaneous hit. This is the accepted story as to the production of "Dixie."

It is well known to all of Emmett's intimates that he was a slow study and a very indifferent reader but once he memorized music, he required no notes thereafter. It is not probable Emmett turned out Dixie in one day or the company learned and produced the song with only one rehearsal. All minstrel people admit this.

Dixie was produced in New York in 1859. Prof. Arnold, of Memphis, (of Montgomery, Ala., then), claims that Emmett visited Montgomery in January, 1859, and sang Dixie, the words, however, a little different from those used in New York later. In presence of Mr. Field, Prof. Arnold called Emmett's attention to this. Emmett's reply was that the air of Dixie—the melody—had been played by him for a year prior to his writing the words of the song.

It is Alfred's opinion that Emmett first sang the song in the south else how could it in those days become so suddenly popular. It is an authenticated fact that the troops from Alabama first sang Dixie as a war song of the South. There are gentlemen living in both Eufala and Montgomery who assert that Dixie was sung in those cities early in 1859 and that it attained great popularity.

However, the memory of Emmett will be preserved to future generations as the author of a song the common people love to sing.

"I have bought a farm."

The wife looked incredulous. The past four years Alfred had optioned as many different farms, always dissuaded by the wife to give them up. In fact, the wife did not show the husband's enthusiasm as to the bucolic life.

"I've bought a farm: Bienville, a part of the old Goodrich tract ceded to that family by the government for services in the Revolutionary War, opposite 'high banks' on the Olentangy River, where the ruins of the old fort are. It is a place of historic interest. The river, the best bass stream in Ohio, skirts the east side of the farm. There's a lovely brook running through the farm, and the largest virgin forest in the county. Why, the timber in that woods will sell for more than I paid for the whole farm. But I will not cut a single tree down, only an occasional shell-bark hickory tree to smoke our meat. Uncle Jake always smoked his meat with hickory wood and he cured the finest meat in Fayette County, generally a little too salty; we must look out for that."

"The bottom land is a farm in itself. There are two orchards, an old one and a young one. The old one is about run out and I'll cut it down when the young one comes in. The wood will be fine to burn. Dry apple wood makes the hottest fire."

"Dried apples? What are you talking about—burning dried apples?"

But Alfred was not to be interrupted. "The hill land is not so good but I'll bring that up. I've bought a book on Liming Land. I won't have a great deal of stock to begin with. It's my intention to begin with a few of each species and breed up, that's the way Doctor Hartman does.

"The hill land is not productive now and the bottom land will have to supply the farm until we get the hills tillable. There's only one thing that troubles me. The bottoms overflow every time the river rises. As you know, the Olentangy rises every time it rains."

"Well, for Heaven's sake, you haven't bought a farm like that, have you? Now, Al, you are just like your father. Your mother often told me he could make money but always had a plan to spend it and his investments always proved failures. Why don't you let this farm business go? You've got enough on your hands without a farm."

Alfred never noticed the interruption.

"Chickens are very profitable. Poultry raising is one of the most profitable things about a farm, and the average farmer does not give his chickens any attention. I expect you to look after the chicken end of the farm. All the profits will be yours."

Even this liberal offer did not interest the wife greatly.

"The first thing I am going to do is to build a dyke or levee along the river bank to protect the bottoms from overflows. This must be done this winter. Mr. Monsarrat is at work on one on his place. He went to the expense of hiring regular dyke-builders, civil engineers and all that sort of thing. I'll just hire farmers and their teams. I've got onto a man that built all the dykes down toward Chillicothe. He knows just how to construct them. I'll hire him to superintend the work. Of course, I'll be on the ground all the time to look after the details."

"When will you have time to attend to matters of that kind? Now, Al, you're just hatching up a lot of trouble for us. Why don't you rest? You have been working all these years to lay by a few dollars and now you are contriving to spend them. We know nothing of farming. We will be worried to death."

"Now don't get excited, Tillie. Hold your horses. I've thought the whole matter out. Now listen to me. You can't farm in winter, can you?" and Alfred waited for his wife to answer. The wife deigned no reply; she either considered the question too deep or too silly. Alfred answered his own question: "No, you can't farm in winter. This is November. I've fixed it that by the time we are ready to farm we will be all prepared. I've subscribed for three farm journals, a poultry paper and a dairying book. The farm journals are published in New York, Los Angeles and Denver. This will educate us up to farming methods in all sections. What they don't know in one section, we will learn from another. You leave it all to me. Country life will make another woman out of you and Pearl will like it. It will be good for you all. It's the dream of my life realized and I do hope you will enter into my plans and be the help you have always been. I'm going to have a horse and phaeton for your exclusive use. I don't want you to do anything. Just sort of look over things. You need not read the farm journals unless you are interested. You read up on poultry and the dairy. They go together. All I'll ask you to do is to look after those two things, the poultry and the dairy. I'll take care of the farming."

Bob Brown, (no relation to Bill Brown), editor of the Louisville Times, one of Alfred's warmest friends, published a feature article, a brief history of Alfred's career, touching on his newspaper experiences, however, omitting the cow-doctor experience. The article concluded with a lengthy write-up of Alfred as a farmer. The paper was carried in triumph and read to Mrs. Field and Pearl. Bob predicted the success for Alfred in farming that he had attained in minstrelsy. Several illustrations in Bob's write-up exhibited Alfred in farmer's garb, feeding cattle, sheep and hogs out of his hand.The wife observed: "Why, you haven't got sheep, hogs or cows as yet; have you imposed upon Mr. Brown?"

"No, certainly not. Bob is an up-to-date newspaper man. Newspapers that wait to print things as they are, get left. Newspapers that print things as they are to be, are the live, up-to-date, always read journals. Bob knows I'll have things just as he represents them."

Bob Brown's write-up was greatly appreciated by Alfred even after Emmett Logan informed him that Bob had written him confidentially that he, Alfred, had turned farmer, but he did not know what for, as he felt certain Alfred could not plant his feet in the road and raise dust; in fact, he did not think Alfred could raise a parasol.

Alfred was advised that a club, of which he was an honorary member, would entertain him—that it would be a farmer's night. Alfred well knew there would be great fun at the expense of the farmer. He would be the butt of all the jokes the busy brains of a dozen or more keen wits could devise. Therefore, he studied for days that he might in a humorous way parry the jibes. Nothing humorous in connection with the farm could be evolved from his brain. He was too ambitious, too enthusiastic a farmer to ridicule any phase of his newly adopted calling.

Therefore, when the chairman concluded his introduction in these words: "And now, gentlemen, we have a farmer as our guest here tonight. It has been the plaint of the farmer from time out of mind that he had not representation; that he had not voice in affairs that had to do with his vocation. The newly made clod-hopper is respectfully informed that he can air his grievances to the fullest extent and that, unlike others, we will not pass resolutions of acquiescence in his views and then repudiate them. We will file them in our archives as a memento of the fact that another good man has gone wrong. Alfred, it is the fear of all your friends in this club that the minstrel show will not make enough money to run the farm."

Alfred replied to the introduction:

"Gentlemen, the introduction honors me; to be a farmer has been the dream of my life. Beginning life on a farm, I ask no more pleasant ending than to live the last days of my earthly time on a farm.

"The facetious remarks of the toastmaster do not explain my reasons for engaging in farming. It is true, financial consideration did not govern me in this matter, although I do hope to make the farm self-supporting. If I do not, I shall not feel that I have made a bad investment.

"In seeking the quietude of the farm, I was actuated by that yearning that comes to all men who have led a busy life—to turn back the years and try to live the days of patches, freckles, stone bruises and laughter; to live those days again when there was only one care in the world, not to be late for meals.

"I want to go way back yonder in my life to a house half hidden from view by the locusts and maples, where the bees hummed and swarmed. I want a scent of the honeysuckle as the maples and locusts budded forth in what seemed to me the morning of the world—springtime. I want to follow the path down by the big spring, through the hazel bushes, where the cotton tail jumped up just ahead of you and the redbird sang his sweetest song. I can follow the path in my mind as the hunting dog follows the scent, down to the old rock hole where the clear, cool waters of the creek formed an eddy, in which the chub and yellow perch lurked and jumped at the bait as they never did anywhere else.

"I want to feel that ecstacy that only comes to a boy when the bottle cork you used for a bobber goes under water, when something is pulling on the line like a scared mule, bending double the pole cut in the thicket on your way to the creek. I want to throw the pole away, roll up the tangled line, hide it away in the corn crib, and sneak back to the house the opposite direction from the creek, that the folks wouldn't suspect I had been fishing on Sunday.

"I want to go back yonder in my life where the hills meet the sky in a purple haze, where you feel yourself growing with the trees, where the smell of new earth calls you to the woods, where the dogwood is budding and the may-apple peeps up through last year's leaves at the new leaves budding out on the grand old maples above.

"I want to go so far back from the worries of city life that the crowing of the cock and the cackle of the hen will tell me it is morning, instead of the clanging of bells and blowing of whistles. I want to go back yonder where the setting sun, instead of the city lights, will tell me it is night. I want to hear the cricket and whip-poor-will as we heard them in the evenings long ago, as we listened with bated breath to the jack o'-lantern legends that stirred our childish fancy until the croaking of the frogs sent us to bed to dream of uncanny things.

"I want to live in the happiness of an autumn when the frost was on the pumpkin and the fodder in the shock; when the hickory nuts falling on the ground called the squirrels; when the stars gleamed bright enough to afford you light to bring a 'possum out of a tree with the old flintlock musket—how you cherished that gun. And when the snow hid the roads and paths like the white coverlet on the big bed in the spare room and the big backlog crackled and burned on the hearth, and the red apples glistened in the firelight, and the popcorn imitation of a snowstorm was more realistic than any artificial one that you have since witnessed.

"How you shivered as you undressed in the room above going to bed, but how soundly you slept after you got warm. I want to go back to one of those hallowed Sunday mornings in summer when the hush of heaven seemed to fall on earth; when the quiet that spread over hill and vale seemed to announce the Spirit of God in some unusual sense; when the peace of heaven seemed so near you felt its happiness.

"While living the old days over—the days way back yonder—I want to live in the love of my friends of today. Whilst I cherish only a memory of the friends of the old days, I hold, after my family, the love and esteem of my friends of today above all things in this life.

"Gentlemen, come down to the farm. Visit with me and endeavor to live the life of a boy again, if only for a day."

Alfred's response was not what the assemblage expected. Congratulations were showered upon him. The speech was reproduced in newspapers all over the country. Printed copies of it were circulated. The sentiment expressed therein seemed to have struck a responsive chord in the hearts of all men who love to live close to Nature. It does not seem possible that any one would have the hardihood to endeavor to controvert the sentiments set forth in Alfred's tribute to the "Back to the Farm" life, yet there appeared in all the papers that had given publicity to Alfred's speech, a diatribe from Bill Brown, headed "The Truth," as follows:

Insofar as Alfred's knowledge goes, Bill Brown's pessimistic views of farm life were not accepted by any save Alfred's immediate family. Alfred carried a copy of his address, "A Glimpse of Nature, or Back to the Farm" in his pocket. Mrs. Field preserved Bill Brown's screed. As one prediction of Bill's after another came to pass, she would say to Alfred: "There, see there? Even Mr. Brown knew what would come of this farming business."

The dyke was constructed and would no doubt have answered the purpose intended had it not been constructed of clayey soil that disintegrated and floated away with the muddy current the first freshet.

Chickens were the first purchases. Rhode Island Reds, Alfred asserted, were superior as farm chickens. They were good layers, good setters and good mothers. One hundred hens and two roosters were the basis of the poultry plant. Alfred had read that one hundred hens properly catered to would produce on an average five dozens of eggs a day. Eggs were fifty cents a dozen. He figured that fifteen dollars a week would be pretty good. Of course, he had forgotten that farm hands eat eggs. Two dozen eggs were brought to the city and delivered to the home of Alfred, where the family rests up in the winter from the farm labors of the summer. "Of course, it's not what I expected," he consolingly admitted to his wife, "but you can't move chickens from one place to another and have them do well. Howard Park says so and he has had a heap of chicken experience. They will do better when you get out there. You will feed them properly and regularly. Their laying streak has been broken up. We must train them to lay while eggs are expensive and lay off when they are cheap."

Alfred insisted Pearl keep a "farm book," entering on one page the expenditures opposite the receipts. After two months Alfred declared the book a trouble and worry. "Just spend what you have to and let it go at that. Howard Park says everybody has the same experience when they first go into farming." There were two entries on the two pages of receipts, nineteen pages of expenditures:

Alfred bought the bull from a neighboring farmer. "Registered Jersey, worth at least $100; I got him for $75," boasted Alfred. "The man needed the money." It was learned later that the bull had been accidently shot by trespassing hunters and permanently disabled. When Alfred was put wise to this, he sold the bull for beef.