Acre Hill ten years ago was as void of houses as the primeval forest.  Indeed, in many ways it suggested the primeval forest.  Then the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company sprang up in a night, and before the bewildered owners of its lovely solitudes and restful glades, who had been paying taxes on their property for many years, quite grasped the situation they found that they had sold out, and that their old-time paradise was as surely lost to them as was Eden to Adam and Eve.

To-day Acre Hill is gridironed with macadamized streets that are lined with houses of an architecture of various degrees of badness.  Where birds once sang, and squirrels gambolled, and stray foxes lurked, the morning hours are made musical by the voices of milkmen, and the squirrels have given place to children and nurse-maids.  Where sturdy oaks stood like sentinels guarding the forest folk from intrusion from the outside world now stand tall wooden poles with glaring white electric lights streaming from their tops.  And the soughing of the winds in the trees has given place to the clang of the bounding trolley.  All this is the work of the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company.

Yet if, as I have said, the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company sprang up in a night, it passed many sleepless nights before it received the rewards which come to him who destroys Nature.  And when I speak of a corporation passing sleepless nights I do so advisedly, for at the beginning of its career the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company consisted of one man ­a mild-mannered man who had previously labored in similar enterprises, and whose name was called blessed in a thousand uncomfortable houses in uncomfortable suburbs elsewhere, that, like Acre Hill, had once been garden spots, but had been “improved.”  Even a professional improver of land finds sleep difficult to woo at the beginning of such an enterprise.  In the first instance, when one buys land, giving a mortgage in full payment therefor, with the land as security, one appears to have assumed a moderately heavy burden.  Then, when to this one adds the enormous expense of cutting streets through the most beautiful of the sylvan glades, the building of sewers, and the erection of sample houses, to say nothing of the strain upon the intellect in the selection of names for the streets and lanes and circles that spring into being, one cannot but wonder how the master mind behind it all manages to survive.

But the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company did survive, and Dumfries Corners watched its progress with much interest.  Regrets were expressed when some historic knoll was levelled in order to provide a nice flat space for a public square.  Youngsters who had bagged many a partridge on Acre Hill felt like weeping when one stretch of bush after another was cut ruthlessly away in order that a pretentious-looking structure, the new home of the Acre Hill Country Club, might be erected.  Lovers sighed when certain noble old oaks fraught with sentimental associations fell before the un-sentimental axes of the Improvement Company; and numberless young Waltons muttered imprecations upon the corporation that filled in with stone and ashes the dear old pond that once gave forth fish in great abundance, and through earthen pipes diverted the running brook, that hitherto had kept it full, into a brand-new sewer.

These lovers of nature could not understand the great need of our constantly growing population for uncomfortable houses in inconvenient suburbs, and in their failure to comprehend they became cavilers.  But others ­those who admire the genius which enables a man to make unproductive land productive, who hail as benefactor one who supplants a profitless oak of a thousand years’ standing with a thriving butcher-shop ­these people understood what was being done for Dumfries Corners, but wondered how the venture was to be made profitable.  There were already more vacant houses in Dumfries Corners than could be rented, more butcher-shops than could be supported, more clubs than could be run without a deficit.  But the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company went on, and within three years paradise had become earth, and the mild-mannered and exceedingly amiable gentleman who had replaced the homes of the birds with some fifteen or twenty houses for small families could look about him and see greater results than ever greeted the eyes of Romulus in the days of the great Rome Land Improvement Company.

Most wonderful of all, he was still solvent!  But a city is not a city, nor, in its own degree, a suburb a suburb, without inhabitants; and while to a mind like that back of the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company it is seemingly a moderately easy task to lay out a suburb in so far as its exterior appointments are concerned, the rub comes in the getting of citizens.  A Standard Oil magnate can build a city if he is willing to spend the money, but all the powers of heaven and earth combined cannot manufacture offhand a citizenship.  In an emergency of this nature most land improvement companies would have issued pretty little pamphlets, gotten up in exquisite taste, full of beautiful pictures and bubbling over with enthusiastic text, all based upon possibilities rather than upon realities.  But the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company was sincere and honest.  It believed in advertising what it had; it believed in dilating somewhat on the possibilities, but it was too honest to claim for itself virtues it did not possess.

So it tried different methods.  The Acre Hill Country Club was the first of these, and a good idea it was.  It was successful from the start, socially.  Great numbers attended the entertainments and dances, although these were rather poorly conducted.  Still, the Country Club was a grand success.  It gave much and received nothing.  Dumfries Corners, reluctant to approve of anything, approved of it.

But no lots were sold!  The Acre Hill Land Improvement Company was willing to make itself popular ­very willing.  Didn’t mind giving Dumfries Corners people free entertainment, but ­lots didn’t sell.  What is the use of paying the expenses of a club if lots don’t sell?  This was a new problem for the company to consider.  There were sixteen houses ready for occupancy, and consuming interest at a terrible rate, but no one came to look at them.  Acre Hill was a charming spot, no doubt, but for some unknown reason or other it failed to take hold of the popular fancy, despite the attractions of the club.

Suddenly the head of the institution had an idea.  In the great metropolis there was an impecunious and popular member of Uppertendom whose name had been appearing in the society journals with great frequency for years.  He formerly had been prosperous, but now he was down financially; yet society still received and liked him, for he had many good points and was fundamentally what the world calls a good fellow.

“Why not send for Jocular Jimson Jones?” suggested the head and leading spirit of the Improvement Company.  “We can offer him one of our cottages, and pay his debts if he has any, if he will live here and give us the benefit of his social prestige.”

The suggestion was received with enthusiasm.  Mr. Jones was summoned, came and inspected the cottage, and declined.  He really couldn’t, you know.  Of course he was down, but not quite down to the level of a cottage of that particular kind.  He still had plenty of friends whom he could visit and who would be charmed to entertain him in the style to which he was accustomed.  Why, therefore, should he do this thing, and bring himself down to the level of the ordinary commuter?  No, indeed.  Not he!  The Directors saw the point, and next offered him ­and this time he accepted ­the free use of the residence of one of the officers of the company, a really handsome, pretentious structure, with a commanding view, stable, green-houses, graceful lawns, and all other appurtenances of a well-appointed country seat.  In addition to the furnishing of the house in proper taste, they put coal in the cellar and fly-screens in the windows.  They filled the residence with servants, and indorsed the young person at the grocer’s and butcher’s.  They bought him a surrey and a depot wagon.  They bought him horses and they stocked him well with fine cigars.  They paid his tailor’s bills, and sundry other pressing monetary affairs were funded.  In fact, the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company set Jocular Jimson Jones up and then gave him carte blanche to entertain; and inasmuch as Jocular had a genius for entertaining, it is hardly necessary to say that he availed himself of his opportunity.

During that first summer at Acre Hill Mr. Jones had the best time of his life.  His days were what the vulgar term “all velvet.”  His new residence was so superb that it restored his credit in the metropolis, and city “swells,” to whom he was under social obligation, went home, after having been paid in kind, wondering if Jocular Jimson Jones had unearthed somewhere a recently deceased rich uncle.  He gave suppers of most lavish sort.  He had vaudeville shows at the club-house, with talent made up of the most exclusive young men and women of the city.  The Amateur Thespians of the Borough of Manhattan gave a whole series of performances at the club during the autumn, and by slow degrees the society papers began to take notice.  Acre Hill began to be known as “a favorite resort of the 400.”  Nay, even the sacred 150 had penetrated to its very core, wonderingly, however, for none knew how Jocular Jimson Jones could do it.  Still, they never declined an invitation.  As a natural result the market for Acre Hill lots grew active.  The sixteen cottages were sold, and the purchasers found themselves right in the swim.  It was the easiest thing in the world to get into society if you only knew how.  Jocular Jimson Jones was a fine, approachable, neighborly person, and at the Country Club dances was quite as attentive to the hitherto unknown Mrs. Scraggs as he was to Mrs. John Jacob Wintergreen, the acknowledged leader of the 400.  Mrs. Wintergreen, too, was not unapproachable.  She talked pleasantly during a musicale at the club-house with Mr. Scraggs, and said she hoped some day to have the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Scraggs; and when Scraggs, in response, said he would go and get her she most amiably begged him not to leave her alone.

Months went by, and where sixteen empty houses had been, there were now sixty all occupied, and lots were going like hot cakes.  Tuxedo was in the shade.  Lenox was dying.  Newport was dead.  Society flocked to Acre Hill and hobnobbed with Acre Hillians.  Acre Hillians became somewhat proud of themselves, and rather took to looking down upon Dumfries Corners people.  Dumfries Corners people were nice, and all that, but not particularly interesting in the sense that “our set,” with Jocular Jimson Jones at the head of it, was interesting.

Then came the County Ball.  This Jocular engineered himself, and the names of the lady patrons were selected from the oldest and the newest on the list.  Mrs. Wintergreen’s name led, of course, but Mrs. Scraggs’ name was there too, sandwiched in between those of Mrs. Van Cortlandtuyvel and Mrs. Gardenior, of Gardenior’s Island, representing two families which would carry social weight either in Boston or the “other side of Market Street.”  There were four exalted names from the city, one from Dumfries Corners, and seven from Acre Hill.

Then more lots sold, and still more, and then, alas, came the end!  Jocular Jimson Jones was too successful.

After two years of glory the social light of Acre Hill went out.  The Acre Hill Land Improvement Company retired from the business.  All its lots were sold, and, of course, there was no further need for the services of Jocular Jimson Jones.  His efforts were crowned with success.  His mission was accomplished, but he moved away ­I think regretfully, for, after all, he had found the Acre Hill people a most likable lot ­but it was inevitable that, there being no more fish to catch, the anglers needed no bait, and Jocular Jimson had to go.  Where he has gone to there is no one who knows.  He has disappeared wholly, even in the metropolis, and, most unfortunately for Acre Hill, with Jocular Jimson Jones have departed also all its social glories.  None of the elect come to its dances any more.  The amateur thespians of the exclusive set no longer play on the stage of its club-house, and it was only last week that Mrs. John Jacob Wintergreen passed Mr. Scraggs on the street with a cold glare of unrecognition.

Possibly when Acre Hill reads this it will understand, possibly not.

Dumfries Corners people understood it right along, but then they always were a most suspicious lot, and fond of an amusing spectacle that cost them nothing.