Practical Harriet! My apples may not ALL be the size of Hubbard squashes, but they are good, sizable apples, and as for flavour--all the spices of Arcady--! And I believe, I KNOW, from my own experience that these fields and hills are capable of healing men's souls.

And when I see people wandering around a lonesome city like Kilburn, with never a soft bit of soil to put their heels into, nor a green thing to cultivate, nor any corn or apples or honey to harvest, I feel--well, that they are wasting their time.
(It's a fact, Harriet!) Indeed I had the most curious experience with my friend the wit--his name I soon learned was Healy--a jolly, round, red-nosed, outdoor chap with fists that looked like small-sized hams, and a rich, warm Irish voice.

At first he was inclined to use me as the ready butt of his lively mind, but presently he became so much interested in what I was saying that he sat squarely in front of me with both his jolly eyes and his smiling mouth wide open.
"If ever you pass my way," I said to him, "just drop in and I'll give you a dinner of baked beans"-- and I smacked--"and home made bread" and I smacked again--"and pumpkin pie"-- and I smacked a third time--"that will make your mouth water." All this smacking and the description of baked beans and pumpkin pie had an odd counter effect upon ME; for I suddenly recalled my own tragic state.

So I jumped up quickly and asked directions for getting down to the mill neighbourhood, where I hoped to find Bill Hahn.

My friend Healy instantly volunteered the information.
"And now," I said, "I want to ask a small favour of you.