I told 'em they'd better let me off; but they would have it and so I went up and talked on ensilage.

It was fall and I thought ensilage was seasonable and they ought to know about it if they didn't.

And they didn't, all right." Sylvia had been staring straight ahead across the backs of the team; she was conscious suddenly that Mrs.Owen was looking at her fixedly, with mirth kindling in her shrewd old eyes.

Sylvia had no idea what ensilage was, but she knew it must be something amusing or Mrs.Owen would not have laughed so heartily.
"It was a good joke, wasn't it--talking to a literary club about silos.
I told 'em I'd come back and read my little piece on 'Winter Feeding,' but they haven't called me yet." They had driven across to Meridian Street, and Mrs.Owen sent the horses into town at a comfortable trot.

They traversed the new residential area characterized by larger grounds and a higher average of architecture.
"That's Edward Thatcher's new house--the biggest one.