No matter where you are, up in the garret or down cellar, it's cinnamon, and allspice, and cloves, and every sort of sugary odour.

Now, that gets me where I live!" "It IS good!" said Mrs.Clark with a laugh that could certainly be called nothing if not girlish.
All this time I had been keeping one eye on Mr.Clark.It was amusing to see him struggling against a cheerful view of life.

He now broke into the conversation.
"Well, but--" he began.
Instantly I headed him off.
"And think," said I, "of living a life in which you are beholden to no man.

It's a free life, the farmer's life.

No one can discharge you because you are sick, or tired, or old, or because you are a Democrat or a Baptist!" "Well, but--" "And think of having to pay no rent, nor of having to live upstairs in a tenement!" "Well, but--" "Or getting run over by a street-car, or having the children play in the gutters." "I never did like to think of what my children would do if we went to town," said Mrs.Clark.
"I guess not!" I exclaimed.
The fact is, most people don't think half enough of themselves and of their jobs; but before we went to bed that night I had the forlorn T.N.
Clark talking about the virtues of his farm in quite a surprising way.
I even saw him eying me two or three times with a shrewd look in his eyes (your American is an irrepressible trader) as though I might possibly be some would-be purchaser in disguise.
(I shall write some time a dissertation on the advantages, of wearing shabby clothing.) The farm really had many good points.