"A good picture of the woodshed," I said; "but whose woodshed is it?" "A woodshed!" exclaimed friend wife; "why, that is your face, John. And where you think the door is open is only your mouth!" I looked crestfallen and then I looked at the picture again, but my better nature asserted itself and I made no attempt to strike this defenseless woman. Then she handed me another picture and said, "John, isn't this wonderful?" I looked at the picture and muttered, "All I can see is Theodore, the colored gardener, walking across lots with a sack of flour on his back!" "John, you are so stupid," said friend wife. "How can you expect to see what it is when you are holding the picture upside down?" I turned the picture around, and then I was quite agreeably surprised. "It's immense!" I shouted. "It's the real thing, all right! Why this is aces! I suppose it is called, 'Moonlight on Lake Champlain'? Did this one come with the camera or did you draw it from memory?" "The idea of such a thing," friend wife snapped, "can't you see that you're holding the picture the wrong way. Turn it around and you will see what it is!" I gave the thing another turn. "Gee whiz!" I said, "now I have it! Oh, the limit! You wished to surprise me with a picture of the sunset at Governor's Island. How lovely it is! See, over here in this corner there's a bunch of soldiers listening to what's cooking for supper, and over here is the smoke from the gun that sets the sun--I like it!" Then my wife grabbed the picture out of my hands and burst into speech. "Why do you try to discourage my efforts to be artistic?" she volleyed and thundered. "This is a picture of you holding Mrs. McIlvaine's baby in your arms, and I think it's perfectly lovely, even if the baby is the only intelligent thing in the picture." When the exercises were over I inquired casually, "Where, my dear, where are the other 21,219 pictures you snapped to-day?" "Only these two came out good because, don't you see, I'm an amateur yet," was her come-back. Then she looked lovingly at the result of her day's work and began to peel some bicarbonate of magnesia off her knuckles with the nutcracker. "Only two out of 21,219--I think you ought to call it a long shot instead of a snap shot," I whispered, after I had dodged behind a sofa. She went out of the room without saying a word, and I took out my pocketbook and looked at it wistfully. CHAPTER VII YOU SHOULD WORRY ABOUT THE SERVANTS When Peaches and I get tired of the Big Town--tired of its noises and hullabaloo; tired of being tagged by taxis as we cross a street; tired of watching grocers and butchers hoisting higher the highest cost of living--that's our cue to grab a choo-choo and breeze out to Uncle Peter Grant's farm and bungalow in the wilds of Westchester, which he calls Troolyrooral. Just to even matters up Uncle Peter and his wife visit us from time to time in our amateur apartment in the Big Town.