Irving Bacheller, it appears, was on a tramping tour through New England. He discovered a chin-bearded patriarch on a roadside rock.
"Fine corn," said Mr. Bacheller, tentatively, using a hillside filled with straggling stalks as a means of breaking the conversational ice.
"Best in Massachusetts," said the sitter.
"How do you plow that field?" asked Mr. Bacheller. "It is so very steep."
"Don't plow it," said the sitter. "When the spring thaws come, the rocks rolling down hill tear it up so that we can plant corn."
"And how do you plant it?" asked Mr. Bacheller. The sitter said that he didn't plant it, really. He stood in his back door and shot the seed in with a shotgun.
"Is that the truth?" asked Bacheller.
"H - ll no," said the sitter, disgusted. "That's conversation."
