“Nice place?  I guess it is; ther hain’t no such farm in this part of Illinoy, nor anywhere else that I knows on.  Two-story house, and painted instead of being whitewashed; blinds on the winders; no thirty-dollar horses in the barn, an’ no old, unpainted wagons around; no deadened trees standin’ aroun’ in the corn-lot or the wheat-field—­not a one.  Good cribs to hold his corn, instead of leaving it on the stalk, or tuckin’ it away in holler sycamore logs, good pump to h’ist his drinkin’-water with, good help to keep up with the work—­why, ther hain’t a man on Matalette’s whole place that don’t look smart enough to run a farm all alone by himself.  And money—­well, he don’t ask no credit of no man:  he just hauls out his money and pays up, as if he enjoyed gettin’ rid of it.  There’s nobody like him in these parts, you can just bet your life.”

The speaker was a Southern Illinoisan of twenty-five years ago, and his only auditor was a brother farmer.

Both worked hard and shook often (with ague) between the seed time and harvest, but neither had succeeded in amassing such comfortable results as had seemed to reward the efforts of their neighbor Matalette.  For the listener had not heard half the story of Matalette’s advantages.  He was as good-natured, smart and hospitable as he was lucky.  He indulged in the unusual extravagance of a hired cook; and the neighbors, though they, on principle, disapproved of such expenditure, never failed to appreciate the results of the said cook’s labors.

Matalette had a sideboard, too, and the contents smelled and tasted very unlike the liquor which was sold at the only store in Bonpas Bottoms.

When young Lauquer, who was making a gallant fight against a stumpy quarter section, had his only horse lie down and die just as the second corn-plowing season came on, it was Matalette who supplied the money which bought the new horse.

When the inhabitants of the Bottoms wondered and talked and argued about the advisability of trying some new seed-wheat, which had the reputation of being very heavy, Matalette settled the whole question by ordering a large lot, and distributing it with his compliments.

Lastly—­though the statement has not, strictly speaking, any agricultural bearing—­Matalette had a daughter.  There were plenty of daughters among the families in Bonpas Bottoms, and many of them were very estimable girls; but Helen Matalette was very different from any of them.

“Always knows just what to say and do,” remarked Syle-Conover, one day, at the store, where the male gossips of the neighborhood met to exchange views.  “A fellow goes up to see Matalette—­goes in his shirt-sleeves, not expectin’ to see any women around—­when who comes to the door but her.  For a minute a fellow wishes he could fly, or sink; next minute he feels as if he’d been acquainted with her for a year.  Hanged if I understand it, but she’s the kind of gal I go in fur!”