"But you see," said Euphemia to her, "we had to put them down at very low prices, because the model house we speak of in the book is to be entirely furnished for just so much." But in spite of this explanation the lady was not satisfied.
We found ourselves obliged to give up the idea of a furnished house. We would have taken an unfurnished one and furnished it ourselves, but we had not money enough. We were dreadfully afraid that we should have to continue to board.
It was now getting on toward summer—at least there was only a part of a month of spring left—and whenever I could get off from my business, Euphemia and I made little excursions into the country round about the city. One afternoon we went up the river, and there we saw a sight that transfixed us, as it were. On the bank, a mile or so above the city, stood a canal-boat. I say stood, because it was so firmly embedded in the ground, by the river-side, that it would have been almost as impossible to move it as to have turned the Sphinx around. This boat we soon found was inhabited by an oyster-man and his family. They had lived there for many years, and were really doing quite well. The boat was divided, inside, into rooms, and these were papered and painted and nicely furnished. There was a kitchen, a living-room, a parlour, and bedrooms. There were all sorts of conveniences—carpets on the floors, pictures, and everything, at least, so it seemed to us, to make a home comfortable. This was not all done at once, the oysterman told me. They had lived there for years, and had gradually added this and that until the place was as we saw it. He had an oyster-bed out in the river, and he made cider in the winter, but where he got the apples I don't know.
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