It was a matter of sentiment with me. All my family with the exception of my father had been farmers and even he, in his latter years, had talked wistfully of the independence of country life. His father had owned a fairly prosperous farm in New Hampshire and on his few acres had lived and died. He had raised there wheat for his flour, wool for his clothing, hides for his shoes, cream for his butter, and meat and vegetables for his table. He even made a fairly good imitation tea and coffee and sweetened the drink with maple sugar from his own trees. Grandfather Carleton, according to father, could have built a Chinese wall about his fields and lived within its boundaries, asking favor of no …
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