"'I run over to New York every two weeks to see a show,' says the
farmer, hanging up the receiver. 'I catch the eighteen-hour flyer at
Indianapolis, spend ten hours in the heyday of night on the Yappian
Way, and get home in time to see the chickens go to roost forty-eight
hours later. Oh, the pristine Hubbard squasherino of the cave-dwelling
period is getting geared up some for the annual meeting of the
Don't-Blow-Out-the-Gas Association, don't you think, Mr. Bunk?'

"'I seem to perceive,' says I, 'a kind of hiatus in the agrarian
traditions in which heretofore, I have reposed confidence.'

"'Sure, Bunk,' says he. 'The yellow primrose on the river's brim is
getting to look to us Reubs like a holiday edition de luxe of the
Language of Flowers with deckle edges and frontispiece.'

"Just then the telephone calls him again.

"'Hello, hello!' says he. 'Oh, that's Perkins, at Milldale. I told you
$800 was too much for that horse. Have you got him there? Good. Let me
see him. Get away from the transmitter. Now make him trot in a circle.
Faster. Yes, I can hear him. Keep on--faster yet. ... That'll do.
Now lead him up to the phone. Closer. Get his nose nearer. There. Now
wait. No; I don't want that horse. What? No; not at any price. He
interferes; and he's windbroken. Goodbye.'

"'Now, Bunk,' says the farmer, 'do you begin to realize that
agriculture has had a hair cut? You belong in a bygone era. Why,
Tom Lawson himself knows better than to try to catch an up-to-date
agriculturalist napping. It's Saturday, the Fourteenth, on the farm,