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Albert Bigelow Paine was an American author and biographer best known for his work with Mark Twain. Paine was a member of the Pulitzer Prize Committee and wrote in several genres, including fiction, humour, and verse. (Source: en.wikipedia.org)
Paine (perhaps best known for his association with Mark Twain) writes of moving his family into an old farmhouse in rural Connecticut. There is a slight semblance to "Mister Blandings Builds His Dream House" here, but only slight- surmounting the occasional difficulties the Paines (the author, his wife Elizabeth, and three young daughters referred to as the Pride of the family, the Hope of the family and the Joy of the family) settle easily into the life of gentleman farmers. This is an easygoing book- the style is like having an optimistic and witty friend talk to you, and there are some sharp observations on the ways of bees, cows, chickens, and the youngest daughter- who runs about the yard fondly believing herself to be a horse. At times the book turns eloquent: "Yet even in those days I loved the fall garden. The hoeing was all done then, the weeds were no longer my enemies. One could dig around among them and find a belated melon, and in the mellow sunlight, between faded corn-rows,scoop out its golden or ruby heart and reflect on many things."
It's kind of like "Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House" (later turned into "The Money Pit") except that Albert Paine mostly had a great time and very little goes all that wrong. Paine moves with daughters and wife to an old house and, well, not too many hijinks, but a lot of pleasant times ensue. He was an antiquarian at heart, which probably makes any reader likely to pick up "Dwellers in Arcady" sympatico.
Samples:
"Moves, like earthquakes, are all a good deal alike, except as to size and the extent of destruction" ----- "I remember once suggesting that we do our cooking and heating entirely in the old way—that is to say, using the fireplaces and the Dutch oven—and was pained to find that Elizabeth was contemplating a furnace and a kitchen range. She asked me rather pointedly who I thought was going to get in wood enough to keep four fireplaces running, and if I fancied the idea of going to bed in the big north room up-stairs with the thermometer shrinking below zero.
It was still August at the moment, and the prospect was not so disturbing. I said that hardy races always did those things, that the old builders of this house had probably not minded it at all, and just see to what great old ages they had lived. I said that as a child I had even done it myself.
"So did I," said Elizabeth; "that is why I am not going to do it now." "