"True, true," Mike replied, meditatively. "But what be yer runnin' the place for, Mr. Upton? Is it a real farmer ye'd be?" "A real farmer," I answered. "Why?" "Well, I didn't know. Onct I worked fer one o' them literary fellers that married rich, and he was always fer makin' me try new-fangled things in the ground instead o' good old cow manure. Begorra, he nigh drove the life out o' me with his talk o' bac-bac-bac somethin'--some kind of bugs, if ye can beat that--that he said made nitrogen. I've heard say yer wuz a literary feller, too, Mr. Upton, and I have me doubts." "Well, I am a sort of a literary feller," I confessed, "but I never married a rich wife." "Sure, ye're not so old to be past hopin'," Mike replied. I shook my head, and added, "But it's you I want to be the real literary feller, Mike. You must write me a poem in potatoes." Mike put back his head and roared. "It's a pome yer want, is it?" he cried. "Sure, it's an oration I'll give ye. I'll grow ye the real home rule pertaters." "Well," said I, rising, "do you begin to-morrow morning, and will your son help for a few weeks?" "The mornin' it is," said Mike, "and Joe along." I paused by the side of the girl. "All Gaul is divided into three parts," I laughed. She looked up with a pretty smile, but Mike spoke: "Sure, but they give all three parts to Nora," he said, "so what was the use o' dividin' it? She thinks she's me mither instead o' me daughter!" "I'll put you to bed in a minute," said Nora, while Mike grinned proudly at her. "I'm going to like Mike," said I to Bert, as we walked back up the road. "I knoo yer would soon ez I seen yer," Bert replied. "The only folks thet don't like Mike is the folks thet can't see a joke. Mike has a tolerable number o' dislikers." "Well, I've got my farmer," said I, "and now I suppose I've got to find a housekeeper, as soon as the house is ready to live in. Nora would suit me." "I reckon she would," Bert replied, "but she wouldn't soot Bentford." "In other words, I want an oldish woman, very plain, and preferably a widow?" "With a young son old enough ter help on the farm," Bert added with a grin. "I don't suppose you know of just that combination?" "Reckon I dew. You leave it to my old lady." "Mr. Temple," said I, "seems to me I'm leaving everything to you." "Wal, neow, yer might do a heap sight worse!" said Bert.