If I live to be a hundred, I can never repay Bert Temple, artist in cauliflowers and best of friends in my hour of need. Bert and his wife took me in, treated me as a human, if helpless, fellow being, not as a "city man" to be fleeced, and gave me the best advice and the best supper a man ever had, meantime assuring me that my cows had been tested, and both were sound. [Illustration:] The supper came first. I hadn't eaten such a supper since grandmother died. There were brown bread Joes--only rival of Rhode Island Johnny cake for the title of the lost ambrosia of Olympus. They were so hot that the butter melted over them instantly, and crisp outside, with delicious, runny insides. "Mrs. Temple," said I, "I haven't eaten brown bread Joes since I was a boy. I didn't know the secret existed any more." Mrs. Temple beamed over her ample and calico-covered bosom. "You must hev come from Essex or Middlesex counties," she said, "if you've et brown bread Joes before." "Essex," said I. "Essex!" she cried. "Well, well! I came from Georgetown. Bert, he's Middlesex. I dunno what we're doing out here in these ungodly, half York State mountains, but here we be, and the secret's with us." "Let me have some more of the secret," said I. "I'm growing younger with every mouthful." After supper Bert took me in hand. "First thing fer you to do's to git a farmer _and_ carpenter," he said. "I kin git yer both, if yer want I should, an' not sting yer. Most noo folks thet come here gits stung. Seems like Bentford thinks thet's why they come!" "I'm clay in your hands," said I. "Wall, yer don't exactly know _me_ intimately," said Bert with a laugh, "so yer'd better git a bit o' granite into yer system. Neow, ez to a farmer--there's Mike Finn. He's not French, ez yer might guess, but he's honest ez the 21st o' June is long, an' he's out of a job on account of the Sulloways hevin' sold their estate whar he wuz gardener an' the noo folks bringin' their own, an' he lives 'bout a quarter of a mile from your corner. He'll come an' his son'll help out with the heavy work, sech ez ploughin', which you'd better begin termorrer." "Mike it is," said I. "What will he want for wages?" "He'll ask yer $60 a month, an' take $45, an' earn it all," Bert answered. "We'll walk deown an' see him neow, ef yer like." I liked, and in the soft, spring evening we set off down the road. "But," I was saying, "$45 a month for skilled labour seems to me a measly wage. I'm ashamed to offer it. Why, college instructors get as much as that! I shall offer Mike $50." "Do yer want ter spile all the hired help in Bentford?" cried Bert. "No," said I, "but Mike gets $50, and perhaps a raise if he makes good. I believe in the hire being worth the labourer. That's flat."