sion so far undertaken. Even the Burrows' chauffeur relaxed at sight of her happiness and enthusiasm, and forgave the early start, for at eight-thirty they were spinning over Queensboro Bridge. Behind them lay the city, for the most part asleep, as New York generally is after its Saturday night gaieties.
"We early birds will have the famous Merrick Road practically to ourselves," said Mr. Larry, as they swept through Astoria. On they went, now through little towns, now past stately homes, now between rolling truck farms, green with corn, gray-blue with cabbage, spattered with the scarlet of tomatoes. It seemed as if all Long Island was yielding a bountiful store of fresh things, enough to feed three cities like New York.
"And yet," sighed Teresa Moore, "we pay absurdly high prices for vegetables, which, though raised within an hour's motor run of our doors, reach us withered and pithy."
"Well, we'll know why very soon," said Mrs. Larry. Then she turned to her husband. "Who did you say owns this farm?"
"The Long Island Railroad. The president of
