_Harry._ Beautiful, beautiful! “There’s music in _that_ air.” Now take a fresh roll, and keep me company while I take another of your mother’s delicious fresh rolls. _Sally._ Making the sixth you have devoured before my eyes! _Harry._ Exactly. What a tribute to her cooking! She’s the best bred woman in the country. Her pies are miracles of skill; her rolls are rolls of honor; her golden butter is so sweet, it makes me sweet upon her. _Sally._ Well, I declare, Harry Holden, that’s poetry! _Harry._ Is it? Then hereafter call me the poet of the breakfast table. My lay shall be seconded with a fresh egg. _Sally._ Another? Land sakes! you think of nothing but eating. _Harry._ Exactly, when I’m hungry. My hunger once appeased, I think of this good farm--the broad fields, mowing, haying, the well-fed cattle, and sometimes, when I am _very_ hungry, I think of the time when I leaned over the fence, and gazed enchanted upon the pretty girl milking her cow--whose name was Sally. _Sally._ Eh--the cow? _Harry._ Now, Sally, don’t destroy the poetry of my language. _Sally._ Don’t be ungrammatical, Harry; and do stop talking nonsense. _Harry._ I will, for my breakfast is finished, and I can talk to you no longer. I’m off. (_Sings._) “For to reap and to sow, To plough and to mow, And to be a farmer’s boy.” (_Rises._) Ah, I little dreamed, two years ago, when I was playing the fine gentleman at Squire Jordan’s,--a city swell, up in the country here on a vacation,--that I should soon become a farmer. _Sally._ Are you sorry it is so, Harry? _Harry._ (_Comes down, places a cricket beside SALLY, and sits on it._) Sorry, you gypsy, when it has made a man of me? No. It has been my salvation. I have a fortune left me, and was in a fair way of squandering it in all the vices of the city; had acquired a taste for hot suppers, fine wines, gambling, and all sorts of dissipation; was on the high road to ruin, when some good angel sent me up here. I saw you, and was saved. _Sally._ And you are perfectly contented with your situation? _Harry._ Well, no, I’m not. In fact, I’m getting very much dissatisfied. _Sally._ Not with me, Harry? _Harry._ With you? Bless your dear little heart! you’re the only satisfaction I have. When I asked the old gentleman--your father--to give you to me, two years ago, he said, “No, young man. Though I’ve no doubt you love my Sally, you’ve got too much money. You never worked a day in your life. Suppose your wealth should take to itself wings some day, what’s to become of her? She shall be a farmer’s wife, or die an old maid. You say you would die for her. Go to work, learn to run a farm, bring out your muscle, get some color in that pale face, get rid of your vices, and then, if your money goes, you’ve the power to earn a living, and a smart wife to help you.” _Sally._ That’s just what he said, and ’twas good advice.