Merry took the document. "It was all because of the rain," she said. "See! those last crates, that were picked dry, sold well enough. If all had done as well as that we should have had our money back; and that's all we expected the first year." "There's the corn, at any rate," said Hope, rousing herself. "Dryden says it's splendid, and no one else has any nearly as early. We shall have the first of the market." The corn was our first thought in the morning, and we walked out that way to console ourselves with the sight of its green and waving beauty, old Spafford being of the party. On the road we passed a colored woman, who greeted us with the usual "Howdy?" "How's all with you, Sister Lucindy?" asked the "section." "All standin' up, thank God! I done come t'rough your cornfield, Uncle Spafford. De coons is to wuk dar." We hastened on at this direful news. "I declar'!" said old Spafford as we reached the fence. "So dey _is_ bin' to wuk! Done tote off half a dozen bushel dis bery las' night. Mought as well give it up, missis. Once _dey_ gits a taste ob it, _good-bye!_" "Well, that's the worst I _ever_ heard!" exclaimed the Pessimist, resorting to his favorite formula in his dismay. "Between the coons and the commission-merchants your profits will vanish, Hope." "Do you think I shall give it up so?" asked Hope stoutly. "We kept the rabbits out with a fence, and we can keep the coons out with something else. It is only a few nights' watching and the corn will be fit for sale. Dryden and Solomon must come out with their dogs and guns and lie in wait." "Bravo, Hope! Don't give up the ship," said the Invalid, smiling. "Well, if she doesn't, neither will I," said the Pessimist. "For the matter of that, it will be first-rate sport, and I wonder I haven't thought of coon-hunting before. I'll come out and keep the boys company, and we'll see if we don't 'sarcumvent the rascals' yet." And we _did_ save the corn, and sell it too at a good price, the hotels in the neighborhood being glad to get possession of the rarity. Hope was radiant at the result of her determination: the Pessimist smiled a grim approval when she counted up and displayed her bank-notes and silver. "A few years more of mistakes and losses, Hope, and you'll make quite a farmer," he condescended to acknowledge. "But do you think you have exhausted the catalogue of animal pests?" "No," said Hope, laughing. "I never dared to tell you about the Irish potatoes. Something has eaten them all up: Uncle Spafford says it is gophers." "What is a gopher?" asked Merry. "Is it any relation to the gryphon?" "It is a sagacious variety of snapping-turtle," replied the Invalid, "which walks about seeking what it may devour." "And devours my potatoes," said Hope. "But we have got the better of the rabbits and the coons, and I don't despair next year even of the gophers and salamanders." "Even victory may be purchased too dearly," said the Pessimist.