“Then fasten up the hens, and put out some food for the foxes,” said Mary gently.
The farmer nearly choked himself laughing. The idea of feeding foxes seemed to deprive him of every remnant of self-control. I thought myself it would be a nice plan to feed them, if they were hungry, but then I didn't know anything about the matter.
Mr. and Mrs. Denville were thoughtfully examining the beautiful country about us, and did not pay much attention to Mary and the farmer.
“Have you any children, Mr. Gleason?” Mary asked softly.
She did not mind his laughing. My little mistress is very clever, and knows quite well whether one is laughing with her, or at her.
“Children,” he said, drawing a big blue and white handkerchief from his pocket, and wiping his eyes with it, “now, little sissy, just guess. Would you say I had, or I hadn't.”
“I should say you had,” she replied firmly.
“Good again—you pulled up the right turnip that time. I've got three children, sissy.”
“Oh! I am so glad,” she replied. “I just wanted some little children to play with, and papa didn't know whether you had any or not.”
“They're not at home now,” he said. “They are up visiting their aunt on the hills yonder,” and he pointed to the big swelling land against the sky in front of us.
We were going now directly toward the long range of the Green Hills, and away from the Purple Hills.
“Look about you, Black-Face,” murmured Mary in my ear. “Stare your little city eyes out. Isn't this country delicious?”
I was amused at the remark about my eyes. They were delighted, but it was my nose just then that was giving me most pleasure. Animals like strong perfumes, but I never had felt anything as strong and sweet as this air. In the city of Boston of course I am very near the ground. Human beings can't realize how different is a cat's point of view, and point of smell, unless they will drop on all fours, and walk along close to the ground as we do.
I was about to speak of the Boston smells. They are very varied—some clean, but mostly dirty. You go a little way, and in addition to all the queer suggestions of the pavement and gutter, you get a puff of sewer gas. You go a little further, and get another. Here in the country there is a different class of smells. When Mary spoke to me it was apple-blossom mixed with wild flower perfume and coming in great waves of warm air. I was almost intoxicated, so much so that I closed my eyes, and gave myself up to the pleasure of smell. Oh, the delicious country! Why do not cats and people forsake the cities?