I tell 'em I can't buy 'em, but I'll haul 'em off for ye if ye want to get rid of 'em!" So much for market gardening at a distance from city demands.
But ducks! Sydney Smith, at the close of his life, said he "had but one illusion left, and that was the Archbishop of Canterbury." I still believe in Crankin and duck raising.

Let me see: "One pair dressed fourteen pounds, netted forty cents per pound." I'll order one of Crankin's "Monarch" incubators and begin a poultry farm anew.
"Dido et dux," and so do Boston epicures.

I'll sell at private sales, not for hotels! I used to imagine myself supplying one of the large hotels and saw on the menu: "Tame duck and apple sauce (from the famous 'Breezy Meadows' farm)." But I inquired of one of the proprietors what he would give, and "fifteen cents per pound for poultry dressed and delivered" gave me a combined attack of chills and hysterics.
Think of my chickens, from those prize hens (three dollars each)--my chickens, fed on eggs hard boiled, milk, Indian meal, cracked corn, sun-flower seed, oats, buckwheat, the best of bread, selling at fifteen cents per pound, and I to pay express charges! Is there, is there any "money in hens ?" To show how a child would revel in a little rational enjoyment on a farm, read this dear little poem of James Whitcomb Riley's: AT AUNTY'S HOUSE.
One time when we's at aunty's house-- 'Way in the country--where They's ist but woods and pigs and cows, An' all's outdoors and air! An orchurd swing; an' churry trees, An' churries in 'em! Yes, an' these Here red-head birds steal all they please An' tech 'em if you dare! W'y wunst, one time when we wuz there, We et out on the porch! Wite where the cellar door wuz shut The table wuz; an' I Let aunty set by me an' cut My wittles up--an' pie.
Tuz awful funny! I could see The red heads in the churry tree; An' bee-hives, where you got to be So keerful going by; An' comp'ny there an' all! An' we-- We et out on the porch! An'-- I ist et p'surves an' things 'At ma don't 'low me to-- An' chickun gizzurds (don't like wings Like parunts does, do you ?) An' all the time the wind blowed there An' I could feel it in my hair, An' ist smell clover ever'where! An' a old red head flew Purt' nigh wite over my high chair, When we et out on the porch!.