The Abandoned Farmers His Humorous Account of a Retreat from the City to the Farm — Edition Insights

A Preface in Disguise and the Confession of Invention

Cobb begins by acknowledging the reader's temptation to skip prefaces, a habit he shares. But he insists that here, prefatory remarks are essential to explain the book's construction. He reveals that Chapter II was written first as a standalone piece, and only later did actual events justify adding Chapters III through V. The incident of the missing will in the old mill is a pure figment, as is the search for the lost heir. Cobb is disarmingly honest about his method: he adds sprinklings of fancy, like dashes of paprika on a stew, to spice up the factual record. This self-aware framing sets the stage for a narrative that openly blends truth and invention.

The Battle Over Sleeping Porches and Architectural Whims

A long excerpt details the narrator's resistance to sleeping porches, a fad promoted by friends. He mocks the idea of sleeping on a wind-swept porch in winter, comparing it to the polar bear section at the Bronx Zoo. One friend, a Bostonian Harvard graduate, is described as having a slightly superior manner—like an egg laid twice and both times successfully. Under such influence, the narrator and his wife incorporate sleeping porches, vistas, sun parlors, and a hundred other things into their house plan. They knock out walls, then stick them back in; lift the roof for air, lower it for style; tile and untile floors; and reject paneled wainscoting for rough-cast plaster, then abolish that for a smooth finish. The result would be a house suitable for national conventions. Only one point remains adamant, though it is not specified in the excerpt.

The Narrator's Self-Deprecating Voice and Urban-Rural Tensions

Cobb's narrator presents himself as a reluctant convert to rural fads, pushed by stronger natures. He admits to carrying consideration for others to such a point that in the city, he positioned his bed to breathe up the chimney. The humor lies in his exaggerated compliance and the absurdity of the decisions made. The contrast between city and country is not yet fully drawn in the excerpts, but the narrator's urban habits—like valuing a cozy bedroom with steam heat and a short cut to the pantry—clash with the rustic ideals of his friends. The tone is consistently self-mocking, with the narrator casting himself as a victim of majority rule, albeit with private reservations. This voice promises a series of misadventures as the city dweller attempts to become an abandoned farmer.

Readers should approach The Abandoned Farmers as a layered narrative where Cobb openly admits to mixing fact and fancy. The humor derives from the narrator's willingness to be the butt of his own jokes, and the architectural battles over sleeping porches hint at larger conflicts between urban sensibilities and rural aspirations. Pay attention to how Cobb signals which parts are invented and which are drawn from experience—the line is part of the comedy.

There’s something tender about watching city folks tumble into mud puddles, laughing at themselves the way Cobb does. It made me think of another kind of retreat—into the past, messy and stirring, in The Manchester Rebels of the Fatal '45 — Reading Companion. Both books share that ache for a life we imagine, then must learn to live, crookedly, as best we can.