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Title: When Life Was Young
       At the Old Farm in Maine

Author: C. A. Stephens

Release Date: October 22, 2008 [EBook #26994]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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  [Illustration]




  When Life Was Young

  At the Old Farm in Maine


  BY

  C. A. STEPHENS




  [Illustration]




  PUBLISHED BY
  THE YOUTH'S COMPANION
  BOSTON, MASS.




  _Copyright_, 1912
  BY C. A. STEPHENS

  _All rights reserved_


  _Electrotyped and Printed by
  THE COLONIAL PRESS
  C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A._




  DEDICATED

  WITH CORDIAL BEST

  WISHES TO THE MANY

  Readers of the Youth's Companion

  WHO HAVE SO KINDLY REMEMBERED

  US AT THE OLD SQUIRE'S

  FARM




                                Contents

  CHAPTER                                                           PAGE

          THE FARM ON THE PENNESSEEWASSEE                              1

       I. A NOSE IN COMMON                                             5

      II. WHITE SUNDAY                                                13

     III. MONDAY AT THE OLD FARM                                      28

      IV. OUR FIRST JERSEY COW                                        47

       V. SHEEP-WASHING--ADDISON'S NOVEL WATER-WARMER                 57

      VI. THE VERMIFUGE BOTTLE                                        72

     VII. IMMERSING THE LAMBS                                         94

    VIII. "OLD THREE-LEGS"                                           106

      IX. HOMESICK AGAIN. BLUE, OH, SO BLUE                          119

       X. MUG-BREAD, PONES AND JOHNNY-REB TOAST                      128

      XI. THE BIRDS AND BIRD-SONGS AT THE OLD FARM                   136

     XII. TWO VERY EARLY CALLERS--EACH ON BUSINESS                   153

    XIII. WE ALL SET OFF TO HAVE OUR PICTURES TAKEN                  166

     XIV. "THERE IS A MAN IN ENGLAND, NAMED DARWIN"                  176

      XV. A WET FOURTH OF JULY, WITH A GOOD DEAL OF
          HUMAN NATURE IN IT                                         187

     XVI. WOOD-CHUCKS IN THE CLOVER--ADDISON'S STRATAGEM             208

    XVII. HAYING TIME                                                218

   XVIII. APPLE-HOARDS                                               227

     XIX. DOG DAYS, GRAIN HARVEST, AND A TRULY LUCRETIAN TEMPEST     247

      XX. CEDAR BROOMS AND A NOBLE STRING OF TROUT                   255

     XXI. TOM'S FORT                                                 268

    XXII. HIGH TIMES                                                 286

   XXIII. THE THRASHERS COME                                         297

    XXIV. GOING TO THE CATTLE SHOW                                   308

     XXV. THE WILD ROSE SWEETING                                     321

    XXVI. THE OLD SQUIRE ALLOWS US FOUR DAYS FOR CAMPING OUT         329

   XXVII. AT THE OLD SLAVE'S FARM                                    340

  XXVIII. THE OLD SQUIRE'S PANTHER STORY                             384

    XXIX. THE OUTLAW DOGS                                            397

     XXX. A HEARTFELT THANKSGIVING AND A MERRY YOUNG MUSE THAT
          VISITED US UNINVITED                                       410




When Life Was Young

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FARM ON THE PENNESSEEWASSEE


Away down East in the Pine Tree State, there is a lake dearer to my
heart than all the other waters of this fair earth, for its shores were
the scenes of my boyhood, when Life was young and the world a romance
still unread.

Dearer to the heart;--for then glowed that roseate young joy and faith
in life and its grand possibilities; that hope and confidence that great
things can be done and that the doing of them will prove of high avail.
For such is ever our natural, normal first view of life; the clear young
brain's first vision of this wondrous bright universe of earth and sky;
the first picture on the sentient plate of consciousness, and the true
one, before error blurs and evil dims it; a joy and a faith in life
which as yet, on this still imperfect earth of ours, comes but once,
with youth.

The white settlers called it the Great Pond; but long before they came
to Maine, the Indians had named it Pennesseewassee, pronounced
Penny-see-was-see, the lake-where-the-women-died, from the Abnaki words,
penem-pegouas-abem, in memory, perhaps, of some unhistoric tragedy.

From their villages on the upper Saco waters, the Pequawkets were
accustomed to cross over to the Androscoggin and often stopped at this
lake, midway, to fish in the spring, and again in winter to hunt for
moose, then snowbound in their "yards." On snowshoes, or paddling their
birch canoes along the pine-shadowed streams, these tawny,
pre-Columbian warriors came and camped on the Pennesseewassee; we still
pick up their flint arrow-heads along the shore; and it may even be that
the short, brown Skraellings were here before them, in neolithic days.

There are two ponds, or lakes, of this name, the Great and the Little
Pennesseewassee, the latter lying a mile and a half to the west of the
larger expanse and connected with it by a brook.

To the northeast, north and west, the land rises in long, picturesque
ridges and mountains of medium altitude; and still beyond and above
these, in the west and northwest, loom Mt. Washington, Madison,
Kearsarge and other White Mountain peaks.

The larger lake is a fine sheet of water, five miles in length,
containing four dark-green islets; and the view from its bosom is one of
the most beautiful in this our State-of-Lakes.

Hither, shortly after the "Revolution," came the writer's
great-grandfather, poor in purse; for he had served throughout that
long, and at times hopeless struggle for liberty. In payment he had
received a large roll of "Continental Money," all of which would at that
time have sufficed, scarcely, to procure him a tavern dinner. No
"bounties," no "pensions," then stimulated the citizen soldiery. With
little to aid him save his axe on his shoulder, the unremunerated
patriot made a clearing on the slopes, looking southward upon the lake;
and here, after some weeks, or months, of toil, he brought his young
family, consisting of my great-grandmother and two children. They came
up the lake in a skiff, fashioned from a pine log. Landing on a still
remembered rock, it is said that the ex-soldier turned about, and taking
the roll of Continental scrip from his pocket, threw it far out into the
water, exclaiming,--

"So much for soldiering! But here, by the blessing of God, we will have
a home yet!"

While going through the forest from the lake up to the clearing, a
distance of a mile or more, they lost their way, for night had fallen,
and after wandering for an hour, were obliged to sleep in the woods
beneath the boughs of a pine; and it was not till the next forenoon that
they found the clearing and the little log house in which my
great-grandmother began her humble housekeeping.

Other settlers made their way hither; and other farms were cleared.
Indians and moose departed and came no more. Then followed half a
century of robust, agricultural life, on a virgin soil. The boys grew
large and tall; the girls were strong and handsome. It was a hearty and
happy era.

But no happy era is enduring; the young men began to take what was
quaintly called "the western fever," and leave the home county for
greater opportunities in Illinois, Wisconsin and Iowa. The young women,
too, went away in numbers to work in the cotton factories at Lowell,
Lawrence and Biddeford; few of them came back; or if they returned, they
were not improved in health, or otherwise.

The third son of the Revolutionary soldier and pioneer remained at the
old farm and lived on alone there after his own sons had left home, to
enter other and less certain avocations than farming.

Then came war again, the terrible Civil War, when every one of these
sons, true to their soldier ancestry, entered the army of the Republic.
Of the five not one survived that murderous conflict. And so it happened
that we, the grandchildren, war waifs and orphaned, came back in 1865-6,
to live at grandfather's old farm on the Pennesseewassee.

We came from four different states of the Union, and two of us had never
before even seen the others. It is, therefore, not remarkable that at
first there were some small disagreements, due to our different ideas of
things.

We were, of course, a great burden upon the old folks, who were
compelled to begin life over again, so to speak, on our account. At the
age of sixty-five grandfather set himself to till the farm on a larger
scale, and to renew his lumbering operations, winters. Grandmother, too,
was constrained to increase her dairy, her flocks of geese and other
poultry, and to begin anew the labor of spinning and knitting.

It is but fair to say, however, that we all--with one exception,
perhaps--had a decent sense of the obligations we incurred, and on most
occasions, I believe, we did what we could to aid in the labors of the
farm.

Much as we added to the burdens of our grandparents, I can now see that
our coming lent fresh zest to their lives; they had something new to
live for; they took hold of life again, for another ten years.

Ten years of youth.

It was Life's happy era with us, full of hopes and plans for the future,
full, too, of those many jolts which young folks get from inexperience,
nor yet free from those mistakes which all of us make, when we first set
off on Life's journey. Like some bright panorama it passes on Memory's
walls, so many pictures of that hopeful young life of ours at the old
farm, as we grew up together, getting an education, or the rudiments of
one, at the district school, and later at the village Academy, Kent's
Hill Seminary and Bowdoin College.

And later I may try to relate how we came out and what we are still
doing in life.




CHAPTER I

A NOSE IN COMMON


It was on a sunny, windy May afternoon, late in the month, that the old
gentleman drove to the railway station, eight miles from the farm, to
fetch home the writer of this narrative. Till that day I had never seen
either of my grandparents. But I knew that grandfather was to meet me at
the station, and immediately on getting out of the car, I saw an erect,
rather tall, elderly man with white hair and blue eyes, peering over the
crowd, as if on the lookout for a boy. The instinctive stir of kinship
made me sure who he was; but from some childish bashfulness I did not
like to go directly to him and came around from one side, then touched
his arm. He glanced down. "Are you looking for a small fellow like me,
sir?" I asked.

"Yes, yes!" he exclaimed and laughed.

He looked at me searchingly, and his face grew sorrowful as he gazed.

"Yes, you are poor Edmund's boy. You've your father's forehead and eyes.
Well, well, my son, I am glad to see you, and I hope you will like with
us. You are coming to your father's old home, where he used to live when
he was a boy. Your grandmother will be glad to see you; and you must not
think of such a thing as being homesick. Your cousins are there; and
there will be plenty of things to take up your mind."

I hastened to say that I was thankful for the home he was giving me, and
that I had come to work and pay my way. (My mother had fully explained
the situation to me.)

Grandfather smiled and looked at me again. "Yes, you are quite a boy!"
he said. "If you are as good a boy as your father was, your coming may
prove a blessing instead of an additional tax on us."

I felt much gratified that he considered me "quite a boy," and said that
I knew so many of us must be a great care; but that I meant to do my
best and to take my father's place with him, if he ever needed a son.
(More of my good mother's ideas, rather than my own, I am afraid.)
Unwittingly I had touched a pleasant chord, albeit a sad one.
Grandfather grasped me by the hand, and I saw that his worn blue eyes
had moistened.

I drew out my baggage check and ran to get my small trunk, which I
dragged forward while grandfather backed the wagon up to the platform.
We drove off much reassured in each other; and I remember still that the
old gentleman's kind words stirred me to an impulsive boyish resolve
never to disappoint his confidence; but it was a resolve that I often
lost sight of in the years that followed.

Presently our road led along the shore of the Pennesseewassee, past
woodland and farms, mile on mile, with the lake often in sight. I was
much interested in watching the loons, and also a long raft of peeled
hemlock logs which four men were laboriously poling down the lake to the
saw-mills.

After a time grandfather began to talk more cheerily; he spoke of
farming and of town affairs to me as if I were older; and once or twice
he called me Edmund, although that was not my name; but I did not
correct the mistake; I thought that I could do that some other time.

"There will be six of you now," he said, "six cousins, all in one
family; and all not far from the same age." Then he asked me my age.
"Twelve, almost thirteen," I replied. "Why, I thought you were
fourteen," he said. "Well, now Addison is fifteen, or sixteen, and
Theodora is near fourteen. Addison is a good boy and a boy of character,
studious and scholarly. I do not know what his learning may lead to;
sometimes I am afraid that he is imbibing infidelic doctrines; but he is
a boy of good principles whom I would trust in anything. He is your
Uncle William's son, you know, and came to our house two years ago,
after his father's death at Shiloh. Theodora came at about the same
time; she is your Aunt Adelaide's daughter. Poor Adelaide had to send
her home to me after your Uncle Robert's death at Chancellorsville.
Theodora is a noble-hearted child, womanly and considerate in all her
ways; and she is as good a scholar as Addison.

"Then there's Halstead." Grandfather paused; and looking up in his face,
I saw that a less cheery expression had come there. "Sometimes I do not
know what to do with Halstead," grandfather remarked, at last. "He is a
strange boy and has a very unsteady disposition. He came to us after
your Uncle Henry's death. Your Uncle Henry and Uncle Charles both lost
their lives in the Gettysburg fight. O this has been a terrible war! But
what we have gained may be worth the sacrifice; I hope so! I hope so!"
exclaimed the old gentleman, fervently.

"How old is Halstead?" I asked, after a silence of some minutes.

"He is fifteen; and your little cousins, Ellen and Wealthy, are twelve
and nine," replied the old gentleman, resuming his account of my cousins
to me. "They are your Uncle Charles' little girls, good dutiful children
as one would ever need to have."

It was a long drive. At length the road, bending round the north end of
the lake, led for half a mile or more up an easy hill. Here, on either
hand, fields, inclosed with wide stone walls, were now beginning to
show green a little through the dry grass of last year. Other fields,
ploughed and planted, faintly disclosed long rows of corn, just breaking
ground, presided over by tutelar scarecrows which drummed on pans and
turned glittering bits of tin as the breeze played over them.

"We have lately finished planting," grandfather explained to me. "The
crows are very bold this spring. Halstead and Addison have been
displaying their ingenuity out there, to frighten them off."

At some distance below the farm buildings, we entered between rows of
apple trees, on both sides of the walled road, trees so large and leafy,
that they quite shut out the fields. These were now in blossom.

"To-morrow will be White Sunday," grandfather remarked, as old Sol (the
farm horse) toiled up the long hill. "Nature's own bright Whitsuntide,
never brighter, despite war and mourning."

The great trees stood like huge bouquets; their peculiar, heavy odor
loaded the air, which resounded to the deep, musical hum of thousands of
bees. The near report of a gun rang out, followed by a great uproar of
crows.

"The boys are scaring them out of the wheat-field," said grandfather.

I was looking for the house, when old Sol turned in before a high
gate-frame of squared timber, overhung by the apple trees (we sometimes
walked across on the top timber from one tree into the other), and I
jumped down to open the gate. "Pull out the pin," grandfather said. I
did so, and the gate swung of its own accord, disclosing a grassy lane,
marked with wheel-ruts. The farm buildings stood at the head of the
lane; a two-story house, large on the ground, lately painted straw
color. Three great Balm o' Gilead trees towered over it. A long
wood-shed led from the house to a new stable, with a gilt vane and
cupola, which showed off somewhat to the disadvantage of the two larger
barns beyond it; for the latter were barns of the old times, high-posted
with roofs of low pitch, and weathered from long conflicts with storms.
Around them, like stunted children, clustered sheds, sties and a
top-heavy corn-crib, stilted on four long, smooth legs.

Two boys, one carrying a gun, were coming in from the field; and I saw
girls' faces at the front windows.

We drove in at the open door of the stable; and while we were alighting
from the wagon, grandmother came out to welcome me and see, I suppose,
what manner of lad I was. The two boys, larger than myself and bearing
little resemblance to each other, approached to unharness the horse;
they regarded me casually, without much apparent interest; and a sense
of being an utter stranger there fell on me. I hardly ventured to glance
at grandmother, who took me by both hands and looked earnestly in my
face. I feared that she would kiss me before the others and durst not
look at her. "Yes," I heard her say, in a low voice, "it is Edmund's own
boy." She led the way into the house, through the long wood-shed and
ell. Supper was waiting; and after a hasty wash at a long sink in the
wood-shed, I followed grandfather through the kitchen to the room beyond
it, where the large round table was spread. The family all came in and
sat down. I still felt very strange to the place; but a glance into
grandmother's kind face reassured me a little.

Grandmother, as I remember her, was then fair and plump, with hair
partially gray, and a tinge of recent sadness upon a face naturally
genial. With a quiet sigh, she seated me next to her--a sigh for the
last of her boys.

"They are all here now, father," she said, "the last one has come. It's
a strange thing to see them coming as they have and know why they have
come."

My cousins were regarding me with a kind of curious sympathy. I picked
out Halstead at a glance: a boy with a rather low forehead, dark
complexion and a round head, which his short clipped hair caused to
appear still more spherical. A hare-lip, never appropriately treated,
gave his mouth a singular, grieved droop; but, as if in contradiction to
this, his eyes were black and restless. The contrast with the steady
gray eyes, and high forehead of the boy sitting next to him, was as
great as could well be imagined.

As a boy, I naturally looked at the boys first; but while doing so, I
knew that a girl in a black dress, was regarding me in a kind, cousinly
way, a girl with a large, fair face, calm gray-blue eyes and a profusion
of light golden hair. Grandfather's remark, that Theodora was "a
noble-hearted child," came back to me with my first glance at her.

Two smaller girls, who frequently left their chairs, to wait on the
table, were sitting at grandmother's left hand; girls with brown eyes,
brown hair, and rosy faces, one larger than the other; these were Ellen
and Wealthy.

"They don't look much alike," said grandmother, looking at us all, over
her glasses. "One never would mistrust they were cousins."

The old gentleman contemplated us kindly. "Only their noses," said he.
"Their noses are somewhat alike."

Grandmother looked again, _through_ her glasses this time.

"So they are!" cried she. "They've all got your nose, Joseph;" and the
old lady laughed; and we all laughed a little oddly and looked at
grandfather and laughed again. I think we felt a little better
acquainted after that; we had, at least, a nose in common. But even our
laughter that evening was distrait, or seemed to me so, as if shadowed
by something sad.

As evening drew on, we all, save Halstead, gathered in the front
sitting-room without lights; for the windows were open; and there was a
hazy moon. Theodora sat at one window, looking off upon the lake; while
Ellen slowly and rather imperfectly played tunes on a melodeon, lively
tunes, I believe, but the old instrument seemed to me to be weeping and
wailing to us under a mask of pretended music. Beyond doubt I was a
little homesick and tired from my journey; and after a time grandmother
lighted a candle to show me the way up-stairs to bed. I remember feeling
disappointed when she told me that I was to sleep with Halstead. The
latter had come in and followed us up-stairs. He seemed surprised at
finding me in his room.

"Thought you was going to roost with Ad," said he. "Heard the old gent
say so. Guess Ad has been whining to the grandmarm not to have you. He
is a regular old Betty. 'Fraid you'll upset some of his precious
gimcracks."

"What are they?" I asked.

"Don't know much about them. I don't go near him, and he keeps his door
fastened. Lets Doad and Nell in once in awhile. No admittance to me.

"Hold on a bit!" he exclaimed, suddenly. "Don't sit down on the side o'
the bed just yet. There's (feeling under the bed-clothes) something soft
in there. Here 'tis (drawing out half a large apple pie). Have a piece?"

Not liking to commit myself to pie under such dubious circumstances, I
said that I guessed not. Halstead began eating it without further
ceremony.

"I always want a luncheon before I go to bed," he explained, between
mouthfuls. "The old folks think it's hurtful to eat and go right to
sleep. I don't; and I generally manage to get a bite stowed away during
the day."

I inquired how he managed it.

"Oh, watch my chance at the cupboard. 'Bout three o'clock in the
afternoon is a pretty good time. Women-folks all in the sitting-room
then."

While Halstead was finishing the pie, I got into bed, taking the farther
side. There was a shockingly hard lump under my back and after trying in
vain to adapt myself to it, I asked Halstead if he knew what it was.

"Oh! I forgot that," said he; and coming round, he made another
investigation in the straw bed and took out an old pistol, a very large,
long one.

"It is loaded!" I exclaimed, for I caught sight of the bright brass cap.

"Course 'tis," said he. "What's the good of a pistol, if you don't load
it? I had a pair. They're hoss pistols. But the old gent don't 'prove of
pistols. He nabbed the other one. I have to keep this one hid."

"I should think they would find it when they make the bed," said I.

"Oh, the grandmarm don't stir the straw very often. She's kind o' fat.
It tires her, I expect. After she's stirred it once, I know I'm safe to
put things in there for quite a spell."

After secreting the pistol in the leg of an old boot, Halstead came to
bed, and was asleep in a few moments. Falling asleep almost as soon as
he touched the bed was one of his peculiarities. I, too, was soon
asleep.




CHAPTER II

WHITE SUNDAY

    'Tis Nature's own bright Whitsuntide,
    The bloom of apple-trees.
    The orchards stand like huge bouquets
    And o'er them hum the bees.


My dreams that first night at the old farm were many and disturbing; and
I waked in the morning with a resentful recollection that I had received
not a few hard knocks; but as everything was quiet, I dismissed the
impression; for I had yet to learn that my new bed-fellow was a
spasmodic kicker in his sleep of great range and power.

Erelong grandmother knocked at our chamber door and called us. Halstead
hastily opened his eyes and rose, as suddenly as he had fallen asleep,
without even a preliminary yawn.

"Sunday, isn't it?" said he, as he dressed. "But we don't have to go to
church to-day. It's the Elder's turn to preach at Stoneham; he only
comes here half the time."

After breakfast and after family prayers, Addison, Halstead and I went
out to the garden and there was some effort at a conversation about
blue-birds, a pair of which were building in a box on a pole which had
been set up in the garden wall. But we did not yet feel much acquainted;
Addison soon went back toward the house; Halstead sauntered off among
the apple trees in the orchard, and gradually approached the wall near
the road; then with a swift glance about him, he sprang over and
crouched out of sight behind it.

It occurred to me that he was doing this to initiate a frolic; and after
waiting for a few moments, I drew near the place and peeped over. But he
was not hidden there. Immediately I espied him down the road, evidently
stealing away.

White Sunday, indeed! The orchard was a sunlit wilderness of pink and
white blossoms. Every breath of the breeze shook off showers of them.
The ground grew white beneath the trees. The garden was bordered with
hedges of currant bushes; and within them stood a regiment of bare
bean-poles in line. On the upper side was a bee-house, also a long row
of grape trellises, covered with dry vines, showing here and there a
large, pale green bud.

Presently Theodora came out.

"Alone, cousin?" she asked. "Where are the other boys?"

I told her that Addison had gone into the house.

"And Halstead?"

I replied that he was in the orchard a few minutes ago.

"He's gone now," said she, glancing through the trees. "Let's go find
Addison."

No long search was necessary. She led the way directly up-stairs to his
room and tapped at the door. There was a moment's skurry inside and a
voice said, "Who's there?"

"Doad,"--with a smile to me.

The key turned and Addison looked out.

"I have brought our new cousin," she said. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," said he, hesitantly, with a backward glance into the room. "Come
in. Halse isn't there, is he?"

"No, Halse has gone, again," said Theodora.

They looked at each other significantly. Addison then opened the door
and bustled about, clearing out chairs for us. The room seemed filled
with things. On one side there was a great cupboard, stuffed, in a
helter-skelter way, with books, papers and magazines. Farther along
stood a bureau upon the top of which were set several bottles. A
hat-tree in the corner had, perched upon it, a stuffed crow, a hawk and
a blue jay with bright glass eyes. A rough shelf had been put up along
one end, on which lay many glistening stones of all sorts and sizes; and
on the bed was a large book, open to some cuts of birds.

"Naughty boy!" exclaimed Theodora, pointing to several loose feathers on
the bed and on the floor. "What did you promise me?"

Addison reddened.

"No, I will not hush it up!" cried Theodora. "You deserve to be exposed!
A youth who breaks his promises! You shall show us what you've been
doing. I know where you have hidden it!" Before he could hinder her, she
threw back the pillow and lo! more feathers and a small white and black
bird! "Ah-ha, sir!" she exclaimed. "Didn't you say that you would not
'mount' another bird, Sunday?"

"Yes, I did, I own I did," said Addison. "But I only got this bobolink
last night. He would spoil, if I let him go till Monday. Besides, I
shall have to work then. And (holding him up) he's such a little beauty
that I couldn't bear to lose him."

This last appeal disarmed Theodora. "We will pass it over this time,"
she said; "but (lowering her voice) you must not 'stuff' birds, Sunday.
Yet now that you've broken the Commandment in your heart, by beginning,
perhaps you might as well finish it. So we will both go off and let you
get through with your wickedness as soon as you can."

"Addison is a real good cousin," Theodora said to me, apologetically, as
we returned to the orchard. "He is one of the nicest boys I ever saw. He
almost never gets angry, and always speaks in a gentlemanly way to
grandfather and grandmother; and he is real good to us girls, whenever
we have anything hard to do, or want to make flower boxes, or spade up
our flower beds. He knows the different kinds of rocks and trees and
flowers, and the birds, too, and all about their nests and where they go
winters. Uncle William, you know, was a teacher, the preceptor of an
Academy; he understood botany and mineralogy and taught Ad when he was a
little boy. Addison means to get a college education, if he can make his
way to do it.

"I should like to get a good education, too," Theodora added after
awhile. "Have you any plans of your own?"

I replied that I had no plans as yet; but that I, too, would like to
attend school.

"We all go to the district school here," said Theodora, "and we can
learn a good deal, if we study well. But I should like to go to a more
advanced school when I get a little older, so that I could be a teacher
myself, perhaps; though I would rather be something else than a
teacher," she added.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't quite like to tell you that just yet," she said.

"I am going to show you the good apple trees," she continued, and led
the way through the orchard. "These three great ones, here below the
garden wall, are Orange Speck trees; they are real nice apples for
winter; and there is the Gilliflower tree. Over here is the Early Sweet
Bough; and that big one is the August Sweeting; and out there are the
three August Pippins. All those away down there toward the road are
Baldwins and Greenings. Those two by the lane wall are None Such trees.
Out there by the corn-field wall are four Sweet Harvey trees and next
below them, two Georgianas. I learned all their names last year. But
this one here by the currant bushes is a Sops-in-wine. Oh, they are so
good! and they get ripe early, too, and so do the August Pippins and the
Harveys and the August Sweetings; they are all nice. Those small trees
just below the barnyard fence are pears, Bartlett pears, luscious ones!
and those vines on the trellises are the Isabella and Concord grapes;
some years grapes don't get ripe up here in Maine; but they did last
year, pretty ripe, in October. Grandfather carried some of them to the
County Fair and lots of the apples; he had over forty different kinds of
fruit on exhibition. We girls went with him and placed the apples and
pears and the grapes on plates, in the Fair building. You will go with
us this year, I suppose.

"All this ground here is planted to beets and carrots and turnips. You
mustn't step on it," my pleasant-voiced cousin admonished me. "And we
will not go up very close to that little shed there. That is the
bee-house. See all those hives! The bees will sometimes sting any one
they don't know. Ad isn't afraid of them; I am not much afraid; they
have never stung me. They sting Halstead like sport, if he goes up in
front of the hives. Grandfather puts on a veil and some gloves and takes
them off the apple tree limbs, when they swarm. Ellen is afraid of them,
too; but Wealthy will go up and sit right down in her little chair,
close by that biggest, old, dark-colored hive. There's an enormous swarm
in that hive; and they send out two or three young swarms every year;
that is one of them in the white, tall hive there at the end of the
shed.

"Last year robber bees came out of the woods and attacked that hive with
the red cap-piece on it. Ad watched them all through one day and threw
hot water on the robbers. You'll see lots of excitement here when a
swarm comes out and grandfather has to hive them. They got fifty cents a
pound for the honey one year; but it isn't so high now. In the winter
the hives stand right out in the cold and snowdrifts. In February, last
winter, the drift in front of the shed was higher than the shed itself.
Grandfather stops up the holes into the hives, that's all; and in March,
before the snow is gone, the bees sometimes come out and get the
honey-sap on the birch and maple logs, when the men-folks are working up
the big woodpile in front of the wood-shed."

Ellen and Wealthy saw us talking by the bee-house, and approached the
garden gate. "Come down here, girls, and get acquainted with our new
cousin," Theodora called to them.

"Don't say much to them at first," she continued to me in a lower tone.
"They are bashful."

Being in much the same case, I looked another way while the two girls
joined us, Theodora having for the moment directed my attention to a
tremendously large queen bumble-bee which came booming along the ground
and began burrowing in a little heap of dry grass.

"Halstead says those big bumble-bees are the kings," Wealthy ventured to
remark.

"Well, that is not right," said Ellen. "For Ad says they are the
queens."

Theodora looked at me and laughed. "You see Ad's word is law," she said.
"But now I want to show you Gram's geese."

We climbed the garden wall and went around a large shed which joined the
"west barn" and then down into a little hollow behind it, where a rill
from a spring had been dammed to form a goose-pond, fifty or sixty feet
across. Near by the pond, in the edge of a potato field, we found the
geese, seven of them and a gander, which latter extended an aquatic,
pink beak and hissed his displeasure at our approach. "Go back, Job!"
Theodora said to him; Wealthy stepped to the rear of the others, being
still a little afraid of "Job." He was a grievous biter, Theodora
informed me, and had bitten her several times, till she had given him a
switching for it.

"Two old geese are sitting on eggs in a goose-house, under the shed,
near the barn," Ellen said. "That's what makes Job so valiant. It's most
time for them to hatch the goslings; Gram has given us strict orders not
to go nigh them."

My new cousins, having undertaken to show me the sights of the farm,
conducted me next to the large old barns, now empty of hay, disclosing
yawning hay bays, weathered brown beams and grain scaffolds.

On this Sabbath morning, the cobwebbed roofs were vocal with the
twitterings of many tireless, happy swallows, whose mud nests were
placed against the dusty ribs and rafters. Three comma-shaped
swallow-holes in the gable gave them access to the inside, where for two
generations of men they had found a safe breeding-place. Less safe and
less fortunate were the eaves swallows, a row of whose mud nests was
placed along one side of the barn, beneath the eaves without; for wind,
sun and rain often caused their nests to fall; crows, too, at times
stole up and plundered them; and weasels playing along the margin of the
roof, had been known to throttle the fledglings.

"He must go and see the 'Little Sea,'" said Ellen.

"Yes, cousin," Theodora said, "you have no doubt heard of the Black Sea
and the Baltic Sea and the Mediterranean Sea; but up here at Gramp's we
have a new sea that no geographer has yet put down on the map. It isn't
every day that anybody can discover a new sea, you know."

Ellen and Wealthy led the way across the fields toward the east side of
the farm; we crossed the road and descended through a wide field of
grass land, and came to a broad stone wall, extending for near half a
mile betwixt the fields and the pastures. Here grew a long, irregular
row of wild red cherry trees and black cherry trees, now just past the
season of bloom.

"The cherries off some of these trees are fine to eat," Theodora
remarked as we stood on the wall and looked about. "This one here is
Gramp's tree," she said. "Those off this tree are nearly half as large
as the 'tame' cherries; and this one by the rock is my tree; and those
out by the pine stump are Ellen's and Wealthy's. Halstead claims a whole
row of those higher up; he talks large if any of us rob his trees; but
the birds get the most of them. Ad thinks they are not really fit to eat
and says there is danger in swallowing the stones. We have enough of the
large, tame cherries, too, all through July and until the first of
August. Those trees that you saw along the barnyard fence of the north
barn are the tame cherry trees. The black cherries do not get ripe till
later; October is the month for them. They are nice when real glossy
black and ripe, after the first frosts. The trees are just loaded down
with them, sometimes; and right there, by that double tree, is where
Uncle Henry and Uncle Edmund (your father) saw a bear in the tree, or in
a tree that stood there then; it may not be the same one, but it was a
cherry tree. The bear was up in the tree, getting cherries. He would
reach out and pull in the branches with his paws, and then draw the
little twigs, all covered with cherries, through his big mouth and
scrape off a lot at once. That was what he was doing there, and he had
broken the top of the tree half off. The boys heard the green limbs
creaking and cracking, and the tree shaking under the bear's weight. So
they stole up and stood on the wall to look; and pretty soon they saw
his black hair amongst the leaves; but the bear was so busy eating
cherries that he did not notice them. They had no gun, so they each
picked up a good big stone and both threw at once; and one of them hit
the bear, thump, on his back! It took him by surprise, I expect, and his
mouth being so full of leaves and cherries, he sucked some of them down
the wrong way, maybe; for they said the old fellow gave an awful
cough!--and then started to slide down the tree. At that they both
turned and ran, like sport, for the house; for they imagined the old
bear meant to pay them back for that stone that had hit him."

"Did the bear chase them?" I cried.

"I rather think not," replied Theodora. "I didn't hear that he did."

"Are there bears around here now?" I inquired.

"Not many; they don't come around the buildings now as they did when our
fathers were boys."

"Old 'Three-Legs' comes into the sheep-pasture after the sheep," said
Ellen.

"Yes, and Halstead says he saw him when he was looking for the cows, one
night this spring," said Wealthy.

"Is 'Three-Legs' a bear?" I asked, greatly interested.

"Yes, a very bold, cunning old bear that lost his right foot in a trap
years ago," Ellen explained. "Halstead says he saw him about a month
ago."

"Halstead sees lots of bears," said Theodora, laughing. "I suppose there
are a few about, yet," she added. "They come down out of the Great Woods
once in awhile. But Gramp says there is no danger in our going out in
the pastures and the woods around the farm, except perhaps a little
while in the spring, when they first come out of their winter dens and
are very gaunt and hungry."

"Gram doesn't like to have us go off into the woods," said Wealthy.

"I have been all over the pasture and through all these woods here, and
those on the west side of the farm; and once, last November, I went up
to Mud Pond in the Great Woods, with Ad, after beaver-lily root, and I
never saw any bears," said Theodora.

"Nor I either," said Ellen. "But Gram never likes to have us go off
far."

"Where is the 'Great Woods'?" I asked.

"Oh, away off to the north and the west of the farms," replied Theodora.
"Most anything may come out of the Great Woods! It's a realm of mystery.
It extends off to the White Mountains and to the Lakes and toward
Canada. There are deer and moose in it, and 'lucivees.'"

"What are they?" I asked.

"It's a kind of big woods cat," Ellen said. "Some hunters brought out
three which they had shot, last winter; they were as large as dogs and
had pretty little black tufts on their ears, and such great, round,
silvery eyes and such paws, too, with toe-nails an inch long!"

"Addison thinks that there are valuable minerals up in the Great Woods,"
Theodora remarked; "silver and amethysts and tourmalines. The day he and
I and Kate Edwards went after the beaver-lily root, we climbed part way
up a high mountain and on the side of it Ad found rock crystals. Oh,
such beautiful ones! as large as a pear. He says he is going to explore
all those mountains, by and by."

"Are there mountains in the Great Woods?" I inquired.

"Yes, and ponds and brooks full of trout and I don't know what else. I
would like to explore it myself. Addison said that some time, when the
work is well along, we can get up a party and go up there, to explore
and fish and camp out a week. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"But it isn't often that the work is well along," remarked Ellen. "There
is always lots to do here."

"Well, now we must go down to the 'Little Sea,'" said Theodora; and we
descended through the pasture, a large tract of grazing land, partly
bushy, overgrown in many places by high, rank brakes, and at length came
to a brook, running over a sandy bed. Here at a bend was an artificial
pond, formed by a dam, built of stones laid up in a broad wall across
the course of the brook. In one place the wall was six or seven feet in
height; and through a little sluice-way of planks, the water ran in a
slender stream over the dam and fell into a pool below it. The pond was
perhaps a hundred feet in length by forty or fifty in width; a part of
the bottom was sandy and in one place it was over a boy's head in depth.

"This is the famous Little Sea," said Theodora. "Isn't it an extensive
sheet of water?"

"Who built the dam?" I inquired.

"Oh, your father and mine and all the rest of our uncles, grandfather's
first boys, when they were young."

"What did they build it for?" I asked.

"To wash the sheep. They hold the sheep under the stream of water where
it falls over the sluice-way below the dam here," replied Ellen.

"And to learn to swim in," said Wealthy. "They used to swim here when
they were boys; and Ad and Halstead come down here now, Saturday
evenings, for a bath. Doad and Nell and I are going to have us some
bathing suits and come down here, too, so that if ever we go to the
seashore, we may know how to swim."

The older girls laughed indulgently at Wealthy for thus ingenuously
informing me of their projects.

"Well, you needn't laugh," said Wealthy, coloring. "He's our cousin,
isn't he?"

This made me feel so awkward that, to change the subject, I began
skipping stones, and was very glad to have Ellen ask me whether I knew
how to make "whistles." I did not. "I do," said she. "If you will lend
me your pocket-knife, I will show you how."

"But it is Sunday, Nell," said Theodora, smiling.

"So 'tis!" exclaimed Ellen. "I forgot."

"I guess it need be no harm to make just one, now you've spoken of it,"
said Theodora. So the knife being opened, I was instructed how to cut a
stick of green osier, or maple, shape the end, cut and loosen the bark;
and having slipped the bark off, how further to make the requisite
notches, so that the hollow cylinder of bark being replaced, there would
be a whistle of keen, shrill note.

This bit of sylvan handicraft having been explained to me, in detail,
Theodora announced that it was time to return to the house. "Gram does
not approve of our taking too long strolls on Sunday," said she. "But so
long as we do right, I can see no harm in it. Besides, our new cousin
had never seen the farm before and to-morrow he will have to go to work,
I suppose."

"But there's lots more to show him," said Ellen. "He hasn't seen the
house-leek rocks, nor the old cider mill, nor the artichoke flat, nor
the sap-house, nor the colts."

"Nor the other trout brook where Ad caught the mink, nor the wood-chuck
wall, nor the bog where the big mud-turtle lives, nor the blackberry
hill, nor 'the fort.' Why, he hasn't seen hardly anything, yet," Wealthy
added.

"O well, he will have time to see it all, for he is going to live here,
you know," said Theodora. "But now we really ought to go home, for we
must help Gram get up the dinner, and it is past noon already, I think."

We took our way leisurely up through the fields where the wild
strawberries were in bloom, great patches of them, half an acre in
extent, white with the lowly blossoms. The girls carefully marked
certain places, so as to know where to come early in July, when the
grass was grown tall.

"Gramp does not quite like to have us come into the tall grass, after
strawberries," Theodora remarked, "because we trample the grass down and
make it difficult to mow; but Gram always sends us out and sometimes
goes herself."

"And when she goes, I tell you the grass has to catch it!" exclaimed
Wealthy. "She just creeps along and crushes down a whole acre of it at
one time!"

"Yes, Gramp scolded a little about it one day," said Ellen. "He came in
at noon and said to grandma, 'Ruth Ann, I should think that the
Millerites had been creeping through my east field.' He said that to
tease her, because Gram doesn't approve of the Millerites at all.

"'Joseph,' said Gram, pretty short for her, 'I'm afraid your memory's
failing you.'

"'What's my memory got to do with it?' said Gramp.

"'Didn't I put it in the bargain when I married you, that I should be
allowed to go strawberrying in the hay fields just when I wanted to?'
Gram said.

"At that, Gramp began to laugh and said, that if his memory was failing,
there certainly was nothing the matter with grandma's memory; and he
never said another word about the grass; so I guess he did make some
such promise when they were married."

The girls went into the house; and feeling pretty warm from our walk, I
lay down beneath one of the large old Balm o' Gileads. Addison came out
of the sitting-room and asked where we had been. "I was going to ask you
to go down to the 'Little Sea,'" he added, "for a swim before dinner.
But if you have been down there and back, you would be too warm to go
into the water; so I'll lend you a book to read."

He brought me from his room _Cudjo's Cave_, saying that the Old Squire
and Gram might not consider it wholly proper reading for Sunday, but
that it was his most interesting book, in the way of a story.

"Do you call grandfather the 'Old Squire'?" I asked.

"Yes, that is what the folks around here mostly call him," replied
Addison. "So I do. It doesn't sound quite so childish as to be always
saying grandfather, or grandpa.

"Of course," Addison continued, "we expect girls, or little boys, to say
'grandfather,' or 'gramp'; but we boys when we are out among other boys,
have to say the 'Old Squire,' or the 'old man,' or else they would be
laughing at us for milksops. It doesn't do for a boy to seem too
childish, you know.

"But I never like the sound of 'the old man,'" Addison went on coaching
me confidentially. "Sounds disrespectful and sort of rowdy. I don't like
'old gent,' either. But I sometimes speak of grandfather as the old
gentleman and of grandmother, generally, as 'Gram.' So do the girls. She
likes that, too; for some reason she doesn't like to be called
grandmother very well. I guess it makes her feel too old. For fun I
called her 'Ruth' one day. That is her given name, you know. She looked
at me and laughed. 'Addison,' she exclaimed, 'you are getting to be
quite a young man!'

"But I guess if the truth were known," Addison continued sapiently,
"that no oldish people like to be called grandpa and grandma very well,
till they get to be as much as eighty years old. Then they seem to enjoy
it."

Grandmother provided but two meals on Sunday: breakfast at about eight
in the morning, and dinner at three in the afternoon. Consequently we
were sitting down to dinner, with very good appetites, judging the
others by my own, when one seat was seen to be vacant.

"Where's Halstead?" the Old Squire asked.

There was an expectant hush; and again I saw Theodora and Addison glance
across to each other. As no one seemed to know, nothing further was
said. We were half through dinner, when the absent one came quickly
into the kitchen, looking very red and much heated. With a stealthy
glance through the open door into the dining-room, he hastily bathed his
face in cold water, then came in and took his place. His hair was wet,
his collar limp, and altogether he looked like a boy fresh from a hot
run.

"Where have you been, Halstead?" the Old Squire inquired.

"Up in the sheep pasture, sir," said Halstead promptly. "I can't make
but forty-seven lambs, the way I count. There is one gone."

"A very sudden liking for shepherd life," remarked Addison in an
undertone to Theodora.

"What made you run and heat yourself so?" Gram asked him.

"I was afraid I should be late to dinner," answered Halstead with a bold
look, intended for a frank one.

Grandfather looked at him earnestly; but nothing more was said. We all
felt uneasy. Dinner ended rather drearily.

In the evening Theodora read to us several chapters from _Dred_, Mrs.
Stowe's novel. Anti-slavery books were then well nigh sacred at the old
farm. Almost any other work of fiction would hardly have been considered
fit reading for Sunday.




CHAPTER III

MONDAY AT THE OLD FARM


"I shall expect you to work with us on the farm, 'Edmund,'" grandfather
said to me after breakfast. "But you may have this forenoon, to look
about and see the place. Enjoy yourself all you can."

The robins were singing blithely in the orchard. I went thither and I
think it was four robins' nests which I found in as many different apple
trees, one with three, two with four and one with five blue eggs. Is
there anything prettier than the eggs of a robin, in the eyes of a boy?

As I climbed the orchard wall to cross the road, a milk snake was
sunning on the loose stones among the raspberry bushes, the first I had
ever seen; and I bear witness that the ancestral antipathy to the
serpent leaped within me instantly. I beat his head without remorse, ay,
pounded his tail, too, which wriggled prodigiously, and chopped his body
to pieces with sharp stones.

This sorry victory achieved, I set off across the fields to the west
pasture and thence descended to the west brook, where I saw several
trout in a deep hole beneath the decayed logs of a former bridge. With a
mental resolve to come here fishing, as soon as I could procure a hook
and line, I continued onward through a low, swampy tract overgrown with
black alder and at length reached the "colt pasture," upon a cleared
hill. Here a handsome black colt, along with a sorrel and a white one,
was feeding, and at once came racing to meet me, in the hope of a nib
of provender, or salt. Continuing my voyage of discovery, I came to a
tract of woodland beyond the pasture through which a cart road led to a
clearing where there was a small old house, deserted, and also a small
barn. This, as I had yet to learn, was the "Aunt Hannah lot," an
appendage of the farm, which had come into grandfather's possession from
a sister, my great-aunt of that name. Save a field of oats, the land
here was allowed to lie in grass and remain otherwise uncultivated.
Beyond this small outlying farm, there was a dense body of woodland,
which I did not then attempt to penetrate, but made a circuit to the
northward through pasture land and young wood for half a mile or more,
and by and by crossed the road, looking along which to the northwest, I
could see the farmhouses of several of our neighbors.

Still farther around to the north rose a bold, rocky, cleared hill which
I concluded was the sheep pasture. In a wet run along the foot of the
hill was a stretch of what looked to be low, reddish, brushy grass,
which I ascertained later was the "cranberry swale."

Beyond it to the east, a long field curved around the foot of the sheep
pasture; and on the far side of this field there was woodland again,
descending first to the valley of the east brook where lay the "Little
Sea," then ascending a rugged hill.

A boy, like a bee, must needs take his bearings before he can feel quite
at home in a new place. I crossed the valley and climbed the wooded hill
beyond, a distance of nearly a mile and a half from the farmhouse.
Formerly there had been a grand growth of pine here; and there were
still a few pine trees. Numbers of the old stumps and stubs were of
great size. This rugged ridge bore the name of Pine Hill. From the
summit I gained a fine view of the country around, with its farms and
forest tracts, and of the Pennesseewassee stretching away to the
southward; also of the White Mountains in the northwest; while on the
other side of the hill to the east and southeast, lay an extensive bog
and another smaller lake, or pond, known as North Pond.

For half an hour or more I sat upon a pine stump and pored over the
geography of the district with much boyish interest, noting various
hills, farmhouses and other landmarks concerning which I determined to
inquire of Addison.

At length, beginning to feel hungry and bethinking myself that it must
be getting toward noon, I descended from my perch of observation, and
made my way homeward, although it did not seem very much like home to me
as yet. The tramp had done me good in the way of satisfying my "bump of
location."

Reaching the house in advance of the noon hour, I went out with Theodora
to see the eaves swallows again. We counted fifty-seven nests in a row,
each resembling very much a dry cocoanut shell, with a swallow's head
looking out at a little hole on the upper side. Dora pointed out the
nest of one pair which had experienced much ill luck. Three times the
nest had fallen. No sooner would they finish it and have an egg or two,
than down it would fall on the stones below. But their misfortunes had
finally taught the little architects wisdom. They brought hair from the
barnyard and mixed it with their mud, after the manner of mortar, and so
built a nest which successfully adhered.

All this Theodora told me as we stood watching them, coming and going
with cheery, ceaseless twitterings.

"And I think they've got a kind of reason about such things," Theodora
added with a certain tone of candid concession. "Although Gram says it
is only instinct. She doesn't like to have any one say that animals or
birds reason; she thinks it isn't Scriptural."

Just then Ellen came out with the dinner-horn which, after several
dissonant efforts, she succeeded in sounding, to call the Old Squire and
the boys from the field. Theodora and I were so greatly amused at the
odd sound that we burst out laughing; and Ellen, hearing us, was a good
deal mortified. "I don't care!" she exclaimed. "It goes awfully hard; I
haven't got breath enough to quite 'fill' it; and my lip isn't hard
enough. Ad says it takes practice to get up a lip for horn blowing."

Theodora tried it, and elicited a horrible blare. I did not succeed much
better; something seemed to be lacking in my lip, or my lungs. It
required a tremendous head of wind to make the old tube vibrate; at
last, I got it started a-roaring and made the whole countryside hideous
with an outlandish sort of blast. Theodora begged of me to desist.

"We shall have the neighborhood aroused and coming to see what the
matter is," she said. I was so much elated with my success, however,
that I blew a final roar; and just then Addison, Halstead, grandfather
and two hired men came upon the scene, over the wall from the field
side.

"What on earth are you trying to do with that horn?" Halstead called
out. "Do you think we are deaf? I never heard such a noise!"

"It is only our new cousin getting up his lip," said Ellen, scarcely
able to speak for laughing.

Grandfather told me that if they ever organized a brass band thereabout,
I should have the big French horn to play, for I seemed to have the
makings of a tremendous lip. All these little incidents of my first few
days at the farm are enduringly fixed in my memory.

The day proved a warm one; and after dinner I went into the front
sitting-room and looked at the old family pictures: grandfather's father
and mother in silhouette, General Scott's triumphant entry into the city
of Mexico, Jesus disputing with the Doctors, Martin Luther, George
Washington and several daguerreotypes of my uncles and aunts, framed and
hung on the wall. Next I read the battle parts of a new history of the
War, by Abbott.

Erelong grandfather came in for a nap on the lounge; and I found that
Addison and Halstead were hitching up old Sol and loading bags of corn
into the farm wagon, to go to mill. They told me that the grist mill was
three miles distant and invited me to go along with them. We set off
immediately, all three of us sitting on the seat, in front of the bags.
Halstead wanted to drive; but Addison had taken possession of the reins
and kept them, although Halstead secured the whip and occasionally
touched up the horse, contrary to Addison's wishes; for it proved a very
hilly road. First we descended from the ridge on which the home farm is
located, crossed the meadow, then ascended another long ridge whence a
good view was afforded of several ponds, and of the White Mountains in
the northwest.

Descending from this height of land to the westward for half a mile, we
came to the mill, in the valley of another large brook. It was a
weathered, saddle-back old structure, situated at the foot of a huge
dam, built of rough stones, like a farm wall across the brook, and
holding back a considerable pond. A rickety sluice-way led the water
down upon the water-wheel beneath the mill floor.

When we arrived there was no one stirring about the mill; but we had no
more than driven up and hitched old Sol to a post, when two boys came
out from a small red house, a little way along the road, where lived the
miller, whose name was Harland.

"There come Jock and George," said Addison. "Maybe the old man isn't at
home to-day.

"Where's your father?" he called out, as the boys drew near.

"Gone to the village," replied the larger of the two, who was
apparently thirteen or fourteen years of age.

"We want to get a grist ground," Addison said to them.

"What is it?" they both asked.

"Corn," replied Ad.

"If it's only corn, we can grind it," they said. "Take it in so we can
toll it. Pa said we could grind corn, or oats and pease; but he won't
let us grind wheat, yet, for that has to be bolted."

We carried the bags into the mill; there were three of them, each
containing two bushels of corn; and meantime the two young millers
brought along a half-bushel measure and a two-quart measure.

"It's two quarts toll to the bushel, ye know," said Jonathan, the elder
of the two. "So I must have two two-quart measurefuls out of every bag."
He proceeded to untie the bags and toll them, dipping out a heaped
measureful.

"Here, here," said Addison, "you must _strict_ those measures with a
square; you're getting a good pint too much on every one."

"All right," they assented, and producing a piece of straight-edged
board, _stricted_ them.

"Have to watch these millers a little," Addison remarked. "And I guess,
Jock, you had better not toll all the bags till you see whether there's
water enough to grind all of it."

"O, there's water enough," said they. "There's a whole damful."

They then poured the first bagful into the hopper over the millstones,
and went to hoist the gate. It was a very primitive, worn piece of
mechanism, and hoisting it proved a difficult task. Addison and Halstead
went to help them. At length they heaved the gate up; the water-wheel
began to turn and the other gear to revolve, making a tremendous noise.
I climbed down beneath the mill, at the lower end, to see the
water-wheel operate. The wheel and big mill post turned ponderously
around, wabbling somewhat and creaking ominously. By the time I went
back into the mill, above, the first bagful of corn was nearly ground
into yellow meal, which came out of the stones into the meal-box quite
hot from the molinary process. Addison was dipping the meal out and
putting it up in the empty bag.

"Is it fine enough?" Jock called out. "I can drop the stone a little, if
ye say so. We will grind it just as ye want it."

Presently something went through the millstones that made an odd noise;
and the young miller, George, accused Halstead of throwing a pebble into
the hopper. They had a dispute about it, and George complained that such
a trick might spoil the millstones.

Another bagful was poured into the hopper and ground out; and then
Addison and I brought along the third bagful.

"Hold on there," said Jock. "I haven't tolled that bag."

We thought that he had tolled it.

"No," said both Jock and George. "You said not to toll that last bag
till we saw whether there was water enough to grind it."

"But you declared that there was water enough, and tolled it!" cried
Halstead.

Addison and I could not say positively whether they had tolled it or
not; and they appeared to think that it had not been tolled. The point
was argued for some moments; finally it was agreed to compromise on it
and let them have one measure of toll out of it. So there was two quarts
of loss or gain, whichever party was in error.

When the last bagful was nearly ground and the hopper empty, all save a
pint or so, Jock and George ran to shut the gate and stop the mill.

"Hold on!" cried Addison. "That isn't fair. There's two quarts in the
stones yet; we shall lose all that on top of toll."

"But we must shut down before the corn is all through the stones!" cried
Jock, "or they'll get to running fast and grind themselves. 'Twon't do
to let them get to running fast, with no corn in."

"Well, don't be in such haste about it," urged Addison. "Wait a bit till
our grist is nearer out."

They waited a few moments, but were very uneasy about the stones, and
soon after the last kernels of corn had disappeared from the hopper,
they pulled the ash pin to let the gate fall. It was then discovered
that from some cause the gate would not drop. The boys thumped and
rattled it. But the water still poured down on the wheel. By this time
the meal had run nearly all out of the millstones and they revolved more
rapidly. The young millers were now a good deal alarmed, and, running
out, climbed up the dam and looked into the flume, to see what was the
matter with their gate.

"It's an old shingle-bolt!" shouted Jock, "that's floated down the pond!
It's got sucked in under the gate and holds it up! Fetch the pike-pole,
George!"

George ran to get the pike-pole; and for some moments they tried to
push, or pull, the block out. But it was wedged fast and the in-draught
of the water held it firmly in the aperture beneath the gate. It was
impossible to reach it with anything save the pike-pole, for the water
in the flume over it was four or five feet deep.

Meantime the old mill was running amuck inside. The water-wheel was
turning swiftly and the millstone was whirling like a buzz saw. After
every few seconds we could hear it graze down against the nether stone
with an ugly sound; and then there would fly up a powerful odor of
ozone.

Jock and George, finding that they could not shut the gate, came
rushing into the mill again in still greater excitement.

"The stones'll be spoilt!" Jock exclaimed. "We must get them to grinding
something."

He ran to the little bin of about a bushel of corn where the old miller
kept his toll and where they had put the toll from our bags. This was
hurriedly flung into the hopper and came through into the meal-box at a
great rate. It checked the speed in a measure, however, and we took
breath a little.

"You had better keep the mill grinding till the pond runs out," Addison
advised.

"I would," replied Jock, "but that's all the grain there is here."

It was evident that the mill must be kept grinding at something or
other, or it would grind itself. It would not answer to put in pebbles.
Ad suggested chips from the wood yard; and George set off on a run to
fetch a basketful of chips to grind; but while he was gone, Jock
bethought himself of a pile of corncobs in one corner of the mill; and
we hastily gathered up a half-bushel measureful. They were old dry cobs
and very hard.

"Not too fast with them!" Jock cautioned. "Only a few at a time!"

By throwing in a handful at a time, we reduced the speed of the stones
gradually, and then suddenly piling in a peck or more slowed it down
till it fairly came to a standstill, glutted with cobs. The water-wheel
had stopped, although the water was still pouring down upon it; and in
that condition we left it, with the miller boys peeping about the flume
and the millstones and exclaiming to each other, "What'll Pa say when he
gets back!"

That was my first experience in active milling business, and it made a
profound impression on my mind.

But we were not yet home with our grist, by a great deal! Halstead had
resented it because he had not been able to drive the horse on the
outward trip. While Addison and I were throwing in the last bag, he
jumped into the wagon and secured the reins. Not to have trouble,
Addison said nothing against his driving; and we two walked up the long
hill from the mill, behind the wagon. Reaching the summit, we got in and
Halstead started to drive down the hill on the other side. As I was a
stranger, he wished me to think that he was a fine driver and told me of
some of his exploits managing horses. "There's no use," said he, "in
letting a horse lag along down hill the way the old mossbacks do around
here. They are scared to death if a horse does more than walk. Ad won't
let a horse trot a single step on a hill, but mopes and mopes along.
I've seen horses driven in places where they know something, and I know
how a horse ought to go."

In earnest of this opinion, he touched old Sol up, and we went down the
first hill at such a pace, that I was glad to hold to the seat.

"You had better be careful," said Addison. "Drive with more sense, if
you are going to drive at all--which you are not fit to do," he added.

Out of bravado, I suppose, Halstead again applied the whip and we
trundled along down the next hill at a still more rapid rate.

"Now Halse, if you are going to drive like this, just haul up and let me
walk," Addison remonstrated, more seriously. But Halstead would not
stop, and, touching the horse again, set off down the last hill before
reaching the meadow, at an equally smart pace.

It is likely, however, that we might have got down without accident; but
the road, like most country roads, was rather narrow and as we drew near
the foot of the hill, we suddenly espied a horse and wagon emerging from
amongst the alder clumps through which the road across the meadow wound
its way, and saw, too, that a woman was driving.

"Give us half the road!" Halstead shouted. But the woman seemed
confused, as not knowing on which side of the road to turn out; she
hesitated and stopped in the middle of the road.

Perceiving that we were in danger of a collision, Addison snatched the
reins and turned our horse clean out into the alders; and the off hind
wheel coming violently in contact with an old log, the transient bolt of
the wagon broke. The forward wheels parted from the wagon body, and we
were all pitched out into the brush, in a heap together. The bags of
meal came on top of us.

Halstead had his nose scratched; I sprained one of my thumbs; and we
were all three shaken up smartly. Addison, however, regained his feet in
time to capture old Sol who was making off with the forward wheels.

The woman sat in her wagon and looked quite dazed by the spectacle of
boys and bags tumbling over each other.

"Dear hearts," said she, "are you all killed?"

"Why didn't you turn out!" exclaimed Halstead.

"I know I ought to," said the woman, humbly, "but you came down the hill
so fast, I thought your horse had run away. I was so scared I didn't
know what to do."

"You were not at all to blame, madam," said Ad. "It was we who were at
fault. We were driving too fast."

We contrived at length to patch up the wagon by tying the "rocker" of
the wagon body to the forward axle with the rope halter, and reloading
our meal bags, drove slowly home without further incident. Addison,
having captured the reins, retained possession of them, much to my
mental relief. Halstead laid the blame alternately to the woman and to
Addison's effort to grab the reins. "Now I suppose you will go home and
tell the old gent that I did it!" he added bitterly. "If you had let the
reins alone, I should have got along all right."

Addison did not reply to this accusation, except to say that he was
thankful our necks were not broken. As we drove into the carriage house,
Gramp came out and seeing the rope in so odd a position, asked what was
the matter.

"The transient bolt broke, coming down the Sylvester hill," Addison
replied. "It was badly worn, I see. If you think it best, sir, I will
take it to the blacksmith's shop after work, to-morrow."

"Very well," Gramp assented; and that was all there was said about the
accident.

It had been a long day, but my new experiences were far from being over.
A boy can live a great deal during one long May day. After supper I went
out to assist the boys with the farm chores, and took my first lesson,
milking a cow and feeding the calves. The latter were kept tied in the
long, now empty hay-bay of the east barn. I had already been there to
see them; there were ten of them, tied with ropes and neck-straps along
the sides of the bay to keep them apart.

Weaned, or unweaned, they were fed but twice a day, and from six o'clock
in the morning to six at night is a very long time for a young and
rapidly growing calf to wait between meals. As early as four o'clock in
the afternoon those calves would begin to bawl for their supper; by half
past five one could hardly make himself heard in the barn, unless there
chanced to fall a moment's silence, while the hungry little fellows were
all catching breath to bleat again. Then they would all peal forth
together on ten different keys.

How those old bare walls and high beams would resound! Blar-r-rt!
Blaw-ar-ar-ah-ahrt! Blah-ah-aht! Bul-ar-ah-ahrt! There were eager little
altos, soaring sopranos, high and importunate tenors that rose to the
roof and drowned the twitter of the happy barn-swallows.

Addison, Halstead, Theodora and Ellen, who had come to the farm before
me, knew all the calves by sight and had named them. There was Little
Star, Phil Sheridan, Black Betty, Hooker, Nut, Little Dagon, Andy
Johnson and Babe. I do not recollect the others, but have particular
reason to remember Little Dagon.

At the time I made the acquaintance of this broad-headed Hereford calf
he was five weeks old, and the soft buds of his horns were beginning to
show in the curly hair of his forehead. His color was dark red, except
for a milk-white face, two white feet, a white tassel on his tail, and a
little belt of white under his body. Grandfather had unexpectedly sold
this calf's mother, a fine, large, line-backed cow, to a friend at the
village on that very morning.

The old gentleman kindly showed me how to milk and how to hold the pail,
then gave me a milking-stool and sat me down to milk "Lily-Whiteface."
She was not a hard milker, but it did seem to me that after I had
extracted about three quarts of milk, my hands were getting paralyzed.
Halstead, who sat milking a few yards away, had, meanwhile, been adding
to my troubles by squirting streams of milk at my left ear, till Gramp
caught him in the act and bade him desist.

The old gentleman presently finished with his two cows, and went away
with his buckets of milk toward the house. Then, with soothing guile
which I had not yet learned to detect, Halstead offered to finish
milking my cow for me. I was glad to accept the offer. My untrained
fingers were aching so painfully that I could now hardly draw a drop of
milk. My knees, too, were tremulous from my efforts to clasp the pail
between them.

"It made mine ache at first," said Halstead with comforting sympathy as
he sat down on my stool and took my pail between his knees. I stood
gratefully by, and after a few moments he looked up and said, "While I
finish milking your cow, you run over to the west barn and get Little
Dagon. He is dreadfully hungry. His mother was sold this morning, and we
have got to teach him to drink his milk to-night."

"He had better not try to lead that calf!" Addison called out from his
stool, at a distance.

"Why not?" Halse exclaimed. "Oh, he can lead him all right. All he has
to do is to untie the calf's rope from the staple in the barn post. He
will come right along, himself."

It seemed very simple as Halstead put it, and I started off at once.
Addison said no more; he gave me an odd look as I hastened past him, but
I hardly noticed it at the time.

Little Dagon was making the rafters re-echo as I entered the bay. When
he saw me, he jumped to the end of his rope and fairly went into the
air. He had sucked the bow-knot of the rope till it was as slippery as
if soaped, and when I strove to untie it, he grabbed my hands in his
mouth. At length I untied him and then with a clatter on the loose
boards, we went out of the hay-bay, pranced across the barn floor and
out at the great doors.

No one has ever explained satisfactorily what that instinct is which
guides young animals unerringly back home, or in the direction of their
kin. Hungry Little Dagon, tied up in the barn, could hardly have noted
with eyes or ears the direction in which his mother had been driven
away; but as soon as we were out at the barn doors, instead of rushing
to the other barn, where he had hitherto found his mother night and
morning, the rampant little beast headed straight past the house and
down the lane to take the road for the village.

A man could have held him without difficulty. I was in my thirteenth
year, and may have weighed seventy-five pounds, but did not have weight
enough. In the exuberance of his young muscle, Little Dagon erected his
tail and made a bolt in the direction which instinct bade him take.

My one chance of holding him would have been to noose the rope about his
nose and seize him close by the neck, at the start; but this I did not
understand, and, in fact, had no time to study the problem. I clung to
the end of the rope, and away we went. I was not leading the calf.
Little Dagon was leading me. First I took one long step, and then such
strides as I had never made before.

Halstead and Addison had jumped up from their milking-stools and come to
the barnyard bars. "Hold him! Hold him!" they shouted. "Don't let him
get away!"

Grandfather, too, had now come to the kitchen door. "Hold him! Hold that
calf!" he called out, and I clung to the knot in the end of the rope,
with determination.

In a moment Little Dagon was towing me down the long lane to the road.
The gate stood open, and out we went into the highway, on the jump.
There, however, the calf pulled up short, to smell the road. I tried to
catch the strap round his neck and turn him back, but he seized my arm
in his mouth to suck it; and being unused to calves, I was afraid he
would bite me. When I attempted to lead him about, that eager impulse to
find his mother again possessed him, and away he ran down the long
orchard hill.

I do not now see how I contrived to hold on to the rope, but I remember
thinking that if I let go Addison and Halstead would laugh at me, and
that Gramp would blame me.

We raced down that long hill, my feet seeming hardly to touch the
ground, and struck a level, sandy stretch at the foot of it. The sand
felt queer to the calf's feet, and he stopped to smell it. By this
time I was badly out of breath, but I turned his head homeward and began
towing him back. He sulked, but took a few steps with me. Then he gave a
sudden wild prance into the air, headed round and started again. I could
not hold him, and on we went, a long run this time, until we came to the
bridge over the meadow brook. There the planks proved a new wonderment
to the calf, and he pulled up to smell them.

[Illustration: WHEN I LED LITTLE DAGON.]

Just then there appeared in the road ahead Theodora and "Aunt Olive
Witham," a working woman, who came every spring and fall to help
grandmother clean house and to do the year's spinning. Theodora had been
to the Corners that evening, to summon her.

"Oh, help me stop him!" I panted. "For pity's sake, catch hold of this
rope! He is running away with me! I can't hold him!"

Theodora edged across the bridge to bear a hand; but "Aunt Olive" knew
calves, or thought she did.

"Boss-boss-boss!" she crooned to the calf, and extending her hand,
walked straight to his head to get him by the ears. This may have been
the proper thing to do, but it did not work well that time. Little Dagon
suddenly looked up from his snuffing of the planks, and for some reason
his young eyes distrusted "Aunt Olive."

He bounded aside and began again to run. I was clinging fast to the
rope, and Aunt Olive and I collided. Aunt Olive, in truth, recoiled
nearly off the end of the bridge; I was jerked onward. Little Dagon had
learned that he could pull me, and I might as well have tried to hold a
locomotive. Theodora ran a few steps after us, trying loyally to succor
me. Aunt Olive stood endeavoring to recover her breath; ordinarily she
was energy personified, but for the instant stood gasping.

Beyond the meadow there was a hill, and going up that hill I came very
near mastering the calf; but after a hard tussle he gained the top in
spite of me and ran on, over descending ground, where the road passed
through woodland. We were now fully a mile and a half from home. Thus
far I had held on, but strength and breath were about gone. I was
panting hard, and actually crying from mortification.

Now, however, I saw a horse drawing a light wagon coming along the road.
A well-dressed elderly man was driving. I called out to him to aid me.
If I had known who he was, I might have been less unceremonious. "Oh,
help me stop him!" I cried. "Do help me stop him! I can't hold him!"

The stranger reined his horse half round across the road, and Little
Dagon ran full against the horse's fore legs and stopped to sniff again.
The elderly gentleman got out quickly.

"Did the calf run away with you, my son?" he asked, smiling at my heated
and tearful appearance.

"Yes, sir," I replied, panting.

"Well, well, you have had a hot run, haven't you?" and he gave me
several sympathetic pats on the shoulder. "How far have you come, all so
fast?"

"I came from Grandpa S.'s," I replied, as steadily as I could, for I was
sadly out of breath.

"Your grandfather is Joseph S.?" queried the elderly man.

"Yes, sir," I replied. "I have just come there to live."

"Ah, yes," commented my new acquaintance. "I know your grandpa very
well. I am on my way to call on him. Now let's see. How shall we manage?
Do you think that you could sit in the back part of my wagon and lead
the calf, if I were to drive slowly?"

"I'm afraid he would pull me out!" I exclaimed.

"Not if we both hold the rope, I think," remarked the elderly man, still
smiling broadly. "I will reach back with one hand and help you hold
him."

After much pulling, hauling and manoeuvring, Little Dagon was brought
to the back of the wagon. I then sat in the rear, with my feet hanging
out, and took the line; and my new friend gave hand to the rope over the
back of the seat. The horse started to walk, and Little Dagon was drawn
after; but the perverse little creature settled back in his strap till
his tongue hung out. The stranger laughed.

"It seems that we cannot lead a calf unless the calf pleases," he said.
"Can you think of any better way, my son?"

I thought hard, for I was ashamed to put my new acquaintance to so much
trouble and have nothing to suggest. At last, I said, with some
diffidence, that we might tie the calf's legs with the rope and put him
in the rear of the wagon, while I walked behind.

"That appears to be a practical suggestion," the stranger remarked. "Do
you think you can tie his legs?"

I answered that I believed I could if I had the calf on the ground.
"Well, sir," said he, with a whimsical glance at me, "I think I can
capsize the calf and hold him down, if you will agree to tie his legs
within a reasonable time."

I said I would try; and while I held the rope the stranger alighted,
seized the calf suddenly by the legs, and threw it down on its side.
Little Dagon struggled pluckily, but my new ally held fast and called on
me to do my part. After some hard picking at the knot, I untied the rope
from the neck-strap, then tied the calf's legs into a bunch and
crisscrossed the rope.

"Pretty well done, my son, pretty well done," was the encouraging
comment of my new friend. "Now I will take him by the head while you
seize him by the tail, and we will hoist him into the wagon."

Before we could do so, however, we heard a sudden rattle of wheels close
at hand, and glancing around, I saw Gramp and Addison with old Sol in
the express wagon. They had harnessed and given chase; Theodora and
Aunt Olive, whom they met, had adjured them to drive fast if they hoped
ever to overtake me. Grandfather, on seeing who was helping me,
exclaimed, "Why, Senator, how do you do, sir! My calf appears to be
making you a great deal of trouble."

In fact, my friend in need was none other than Hon. Lot M. Morrill, who
had been Governor of Maine for three terms in succession, and was now
United States Senator. Grandfather and he had been acquaintances for
forty years or more; and I have inferred since that the object of Mr.
Morrill's visit on this occasion was in part political. At this
particular time the Senator was "looking after his political
fences"--although this phrase had not yet come into vogue.

Grandfather and Mr. Morrill immediately drove home together, leaving
Addison and me to put the calf in the express wagon and follow more
slowly.

Senator Morrill at this time gave me the impression of being a man
oppressed by not a little anxiety, and inclined to be dissatisfied with
his career. As distinctly as if it were yesterday, I recall what he said
to me the next morning as he was about to drive away. "My son," said he
impressively, "don't you be a politician. Be a farmer like your
grandfather. He has had a happier life than I have had."

As it chanced, I was soon to have further experience with headstrong
young cattle.




CHAPTER IV

OUR FIRST JERSEY COW


Theodora had brought home the mail from the post-office out at the
Corners; and I remember that at the breakfast table next morning, the
Old Squire, who was reading the news from the weekly papers, looked up
and said in a tone of solemnity, that General Winfield Scott was dead;
that he had died at West Point, May 29.

The announcement signified little to us young people, whose knowledge of
generals and military events was confined mainly to the closing years of
the Civil War, but meant much to those of the older generation, who
remembered with still glowing enthusiasm the victor of Lundy's Lane in
1814 and the conqueror of Mexico in 1846.

"He was a good man and a patriot as well as an able general," the Old
Squire remarked. "And, old as he had become in 1861, President Lincoln
would have done better to trust more than he did to General Scott's
judgment." At that time the Old Squire and nearly every one else in
Maine feared that President Johnson was a treacherous and exceedingly
dangerous man, whereas the verdict of history seems to be that he was
merely a very egotistical and headstrong one. There was already much
talk of impeaching him and removing him from office, although the Old
Squire had doubts as to the wisdom of so radical a course.

He and Addison were debating the matter quite earnestly, when there came
a knock at the door, which I answered, and saw standing there a strong,
sturdy, well-favored boy of about my own age, one I was to know
intimately all the rest of my life; for this, as I now learned, was
Thomas Edwards, from the farmhouse of our nearest neighbors across the
fields. He had come to fetch word to the Old Squire that another farmer,
named Gurney--a relative of the Edwards--who lived at a distance of
three or four miles, had concluded to sell us one of his _new_ Jersey
heifers.

That morning, too, I recollect that just as we were finishing breakfast,
grandmother looked around on our enlarged family circle, over her
spectacles, and said to the Old Squire, "Joseph, we really must have
their pictures taken,"--referring to us young folks.

"I want them all taken now, so that we may have them to keep, and know
how they looked when they first came home here," the old lady continued.
"I don't want it put off and not have any pictures of them, if anything
should happen, as we did poor Ansel's and Coville's. (Two of my uncles
who fell during the Civil War.)

"We must go down to the village some afternoon and have them taken,"
grandmother continued quite positively.

"Well, we will see about it," the Old Squire said over his paper.

"It must be done and done soon," Gram insisted.

"Yes, yes, Ruth, I suppose so," he assented.

"There must be no 'suppose so' about it," said Gram, very decidedly. "It
is one of the things that mustn't be put off and off like your trip to
Father Rasle's Monument."

We newcomers had yet to learn that for twenty years the Old Squire had
been talking, every season, of making two wagon excursions, of several
days' duration each, one to Lovewell's Pond, the scene of the historic
fight of Captain Lovewell and his rangers with the Pequawket Indians in
1640, and the other to Norridgewock, where the devoted French
missionary, Father Sebastian Rasle, lost his life in 1724.

Owing to the constant press of farm labors, opportunity for setting off
had never yet fairly occurred. But the Old Squire always fully intended
to go; he was genuinely interested in the early history of our State
and, indeed, remarkably well posted as to it. Francis Parkman, the
historian, had once come to the farm for a day or two, on purpose to
inquire as to certain points connected with the massacre at
Norridgewock.

Nothing more was said that morning about our pictures, however, for both
the Old Squire and Addison were engrossed in the late disturbing news
concerning President Johnson.

"And father says," continued Thomas, "that I may go over to uncle
Gurney's with Addison and help him get the heifer home."

These, be it said, were the first Jersey cattle ever seen in that
vicinity. Gurney had bought four of them from a stock farm somewheres in
Massachusetts, and their arrival marked an era in Maine dairying.
Farmers were very curious about them. Opinions differed widely as to
their value.

The Jersey cow is now, to quote a certain witty Congressman, one of our
national institutions. Asked to name the five most characteristic
American "institutions," this waggish legislator replied, "The
Constitution, Free Public Schools, Railroads, Newspapers and the Jersey
cow!"

There is a spice of homely truth underlying the jest. For certainly the
greatest delicacies of our tables are the cream, the butter and the milk
that now come to us from our clean, well-managed dairies; and it is
hardly too much to say that we owe the best of these products to the
Jersey cow.

By careful breeding and feeding the Jersey has gained wonderfully in
size, temper and good appearance, until few handsomer animals can now
be found in the farmer's pasture or barn. But many of us can remember
the first Jerseys, and what a reproach their wizened bodies and piebald
hides were in any herd. It was admitted that their milk was yellow and
wonderfully rich in butter fat; but they were so homely, so
spindle-legged, so brindled along the withers, so pale-yellow down the
sides, so foolishly white in the flanks, down the fore legs and about
the jowls, yet so black-kneed and wildly touched about the eyes, that no
one could admire them.

"That a cow!" cried an honest old Vermont farmer, the first time he ever
saw one. "Why that looks like a cross between a deer and a 'Black
Scotch'!"

As to the real origin of Jersey cattle, nothing very definite is known.
They are said to have been brought to the Isle of Jersey from Normandy.

There is a theory, supported by tradition and legend, that thirty
centuries ago, when the Druids first came into western Europe, they
brought with them the Hindu sacred cattle, derived from the zebu, or
Brahman ox, in order that their sacrificial rites might be supplied with
the "cream-white heifers" which the altars of that strange, wild
religion demanded.

It is thought that in after centuries the Druid sacred cattle were
cross-bred with the urus or wild German buffalo, described by Cæsar, or
else with native breeds of domestic cattle, owned by the Gauls; and that
the Jersey of to-day is the far-descended progeny of this singular union
of zebu and urus. In color the sacred cattle ranged from white, through
mouse, fawn and brown to black.

But Addison could not go that day; so with a smile at thoughts of my
recent experience leading Little Dagon, the Old Squire said that I might
go; and immediately Thomas and I set off on foot with a rope
nose-halter, a few nubbins of corn in our pockets as "coaxers," and
many injunctions to be gentle. Grandfather supposed that two boys of our
age would be able to get a small heifer home without difficulty, one
leading, the other following after with a switch.

When we reached the farm, we found the odd-looking little white and
brindled heifer tied up at a stanchion in the barn; and Gurney appeared
to have doubts about our ability to take her home.

"She's a Jersey, boys," said he. "They're ticklish creatures. Awful
skittish at everything they see, particularly women-folks. So you must
look out sharp."

Thomas thought we could lead or hold a heifer as small as this one, even
if she was frightened. With the assistance of the farmer and his son, we
adjusted the halter, gave the heifer nubbins of corn, coaxed her out
upon the highway, and set off.

It soon became evident, however, that she was very timid. At every
unusual object along the road her head was raised high, and it was only
by much coaxing that we made any progress. Moreover, her fears appeared
to increase with every onward step. Presently we met a dog, and for five
minutes the heifer careered wildly on both sides of the road. The dog
behaved very well, however, and made a wide detour to pass us.

A horse and buggy and a loaded wagon each made trouble for us. The
driver of the team said, "You've got one of those wild Jerseys there;
I'd sooner try to lead a deer!"

Thomas and I had found already that, small as she was, both of us could
hardly hold her; she had a manner of bounding high with such suddenness
that we had no chance to brace our feet. By this time she was inspecting
everything by the roadside and far ahead, and an hour was spent in going
half a mile.

Suddenly her head went up higher than ever. She had discerned what we
had not yet seen, two girls coming on foot a quarter of a mile away.
Not another inch could we make her budge, either by pulling or
switching. Her eyes were fixed on those girls, and it was plain there
would be trouble when they came nearer. Thomas bethought himself to
blind her, however, and, taking off his jacket, wrapped it about her
head and horns, while I took the precaution to pass the end of the
halter around a post of the wayside fence.

Thus prepared, we stood waiting the approach of the girls, and if they
had gone by quietly, our precautions would have sufficed; but they were
greatly amused by the spectacle of our hooded heifer, and one of them
laughed outright. At the sound of her voice our Jersey went into the
air, broke the halter rope, and leaping blindly against the rail fence
beside which we were holding her, knocked down a length of it and ran
off across the field on the other side, with Thomas's jacket and the
head-stall of the halter still on her head. We gave chase, but the
heifer shook off the jacket and ran for a cedar swamp seven or eight
hundred yards distant.

We spent the remainder of the afternoon in that swamp, engaged in
efforts to approach near enough to the animal to seize and secure her.
By this time all her wilder instincts appeared to have revived. She fled
from one end of the swamp to the other, seeking the densest thickets of
cedar and alder, where she would lie up, still as a mouse, till we found
her; then she would make a break and run to another quarter of the
swamp.

Hungry and tired out, I now earnestly desired to go home; but my
resolute new acquaintance declared that they would all laugh at us if we
returned without the heifer.

At length, we went back to Gurney's farm, just at dusk, spent the night
there and in the morning proceeded to the cedar swamp again and resumed
the hunt, the farmer and his son Oscar accompanying us out of
compassion for our ill success.

An hour's search convinced us that the heifer had left the cedar
thickets; and she was at last discovered in a pasture half a mile away,
in company with six other young cattle to which she had joined herself
during the night in spite of three intervening fences.

On approaching them, however, it became apparent that the fugitive
Jersey had in some manner infused her own wild fears into these new
acquaintances. They all set off on the run with tails in the air; and
after coursing round the pasture several times, they jumped the fence
and made for a distant wood-lot, our Jersey leading the rout.

By this time I was wholly disheartened. But Thomas still said, "Come on.
We've got to get her;" and I followed wearily after the others.
Proceeding to the farmhouse of the owner of the young cattle, whose name
was Robbins, we informed him what had occurred, and in company with his
son, Luke, spent the forenoon searching for the runaways. Mr. Gurney
returned home, but Oscar went with us. The cattle had made off to an
extensive tract of forest, and after following their tracks hither and
thither for some time longer, hunger impelled us to retrace our steps.
Luke Robbins told us that the six young Durham cattle in their pasture
had previously been docile, and that they had never before broken out.
The Jersey heifer seemed to have demoralized them.

Quite discouraged and tired out, we now started for home, and were glad
enough to meet the Old Squire and Addison driving over to look us up.
Thomas's father, too, had come in quest of him. Night was at hand; we
all went home; and that was the last of the Jersey for months. I may as
well go on here, however, and relate the rest of the story.

Farmer Robbins and his son continued the search next day, but could not
find their stock; and beyond making inquiries, we did nothing further
for four or five months, until "housing time," in November. Then,
shortly after the first snow came, Luke Robbins drove over to tell us
that the fugitive cattle were reported to be in the woods, six miles to
the northwestward of their farm. He thought that we might like to join
in an effort to recover them and get them home before winter set in. Two
deer-hunters had seen them, but they were very wild and ran away at
speed. A party was now made up to attempt their capture, consisting of
the Old Squire and Addison, with two of our hired men and Thomas's
father. Farmer Gurney and his son also joined in the hunt, as also Luke
Robbins and his father. Thomas and myself were allowed to accompany
them, by virtue of our previous experience. Halters, axes and food were
also taken along.

No success attended the search during the first day, and we passed the
night at a newly cleared farm, five miles from home. But cattle-tracks
were discovered in dense fir woods near a large brook during the
following morning; and after following them for two hours we came upon
the whole herd, snugly sheltered in the ox hovel of a deserted
lumber-camp.

It was a low log structure, roofed with turf, and it had not been
occupied for three years. Bushes and briers had sprung up about it; but
the door was open, and the cattle were inside, lying down. We could see
our Jersey's head as she lay near the door, facing out, as if doing
sentinel duty. But she had not seen us, and was chewing her cud as
peacefully as if in a barn at home.

The situation was carefully studied from the bushes, at a distance; and
then Asa Doane, one of the hired men, crept quietly up from the rear
and, crawling round the corner of the hovel, suddenly clapped the old
door to and held it fast, before the cattle had time to jump up and rush
out. The little herd was now penned up inside; but they made a great
commotion, and we were at a loss how to proceed. After much talk Doane
said that he would take a halter, slip in and secure the Jersey heifer,
if the others would tend the door.

But he had no sooner entered than the heifer attacked him. He seized her
by the horns, and they tumbled about in a lively manner for some
moments. Immediately the other cattle began bawling, and evinced so
unmistakable a disposition to gore Doane that he shouted for us to help
him get out. This was not easily accomplished. At last he reached the
door, and we hauled him forth and clapped it to again. But he had lost
his hat, and his coat was torn in several places. He was also limping,
for in the struggle the cattle had trodden on his feet.

"I wouldn't go in there again for fifty dollars!" he exclaimed. "They
are wild cattle."

As none of the rest of the party had any wish to go in, and night was at
hand, we made the door fast with props and went home.

This last trip ended my own part in the adventure. Our winter school
began the next day, and the Old Squire deemed school of more importance
to me than cattle-hunting.

But the plan finally adopted was to proceed to the place with two yokes
of large, steady oxen, connected by a long draft-chain. A number of
neighbors assisted; and seven or eight "tie-chains," such as are used to
tie up cattle in the barn, were also taken along. After a series of
violent struggles the wild young cattle were secured, one by one, and
tied to the long draft-chain, on each side of it. Then with a yoke of
heavy oxen in advance and another in the rear of the procession, to
steady it, the rebellious creatures were constrained to walk home. For
the first mile or so they bounded and struggled, and some of them even
threw themselves down. But it was of no use; the procession moved
steadily on; and by the time they reached home all were pretty well
tamed.

We kept this wild-headed little Jersey at the farm for seven or eight
years afterwards, and several of her calves made good cows; but to the
end of her life she was always a skittish little creature, apt to take
fright at any moment. A dog coming along the barn floor in front of her
manger was always the signal for a struggle at her stanchion. But the
object of her worst fears was the sight of a woman! She would leap in
the air, wrench and tear, and even bawl aloud and cast herself flat on
the floor. Neither Gram nor any of the girls ever went in front of
"Little Jersey," if it could be avoided. This fear of women has always
seemed to me rather singular, for I am told that in the Isle of Jersey,
the women usually care for the cows.

But this digression has taken me a long way in advance of my narrative.




CHAPTER V

SHEEP-WASHING--ADDISON'S NOVEL WATER-WARMER


"To-morrow we must wash the sheep," the Old Squire remarked at the
breakfast table next day. "We will try your water-warming apparatus,
Addison," he continued. "Do you think that you can get the pipes
together again?"

"I am sure of it, sir," Addison replied. "But I shall have to go borrow
the blacksmith's wrench and pipe-tongs."

"Ad thinks that patent warmer of his is something great," Halstead
remarked ironically.

"I think it is nice to warm the water, and not put the poor sheep into
stone-cold water when they are heated from running, in their heavy, hot
fleeces," said Theodora.

"It seemed to prevent them from taking cold last year," observed the Old
Squire. "Sheep often take cold when washed and sheared," he continued.

"If you girls go with us, you shall help fetch wood and tend fire," said
Halstead. "It is a hard job to keep the fire up under the pipe."

"O we will help," cried Ellen. "It's fun, I think, to fetch dry stuff
and make a big blaze."

"How are you off for soap, Ruth?" the Old Squire asked. "We shall want
two bucketfuls of soft soap for the first washings."

"Well, sir, I don't know about that," replied Gram, not well pleased.
"My soap barrel is getting low; and I have not been able to have Olive
Witham come to make soap yet, nor clean house. I think that a bucketful
will be all I can spare you."

"That will be small soap for seventy-six sheep," remarked Addison.
"There ought to be a pint to every sheep, half a pint at least. You may
work and work, and squeeze and squeeze, but you cannot get their thick
fleeces clean unless you put on plenty of soap."

"Murches' folks never use soap," said Halstead. "The boys just fling the
sheep into the pond and souse them round a few times, then let them
crawl out. They don't bother with warm water and soap. Willis catches
the sheep and pitches them in; and his father and Ben souse them. They
stand in the water up to their waists all the time; but I saw Murch take
a sly pull at a little bottle which he had set behind a stump on the
shore."

"Murch does not half wash his sheep," Addison remarked. "When they
carried their wool to market last year, it all had to go at twenty-eight
cents per pound, as unwashed wool, when clean-washed brought forty
cents. I don't like to stand in cold water two hours at a time, either.
A man who takes a drink of liquor every half hour can stand it, maybe;
but all people don't think it best to drink liquor."

"I suppose you would stand and chatter your teeth two hours before you
would take a swallow of whiskey," said Halstead with a laugh.

"I would warm the water," retorted Addison. "Certain people we know
would stand in cold water just for an excuse to get a drink."

It was manifest that Addison had the best of the argument, and that the
Old Squire agreed with him.

"Let's get an early start with our housework," Theodora made haste to
say, "so that we can all go. You must go, too, Gram. It is fun to see
the long fires under the pipe."

"Yes, Gram, I want you to go and see how finely my new water-warmer
works," said Addison. "The Edwardses are going to drive their flock over
here and wash them at the 'Little Sea' this year, so as to try the
warm-water plan. They will come after we finish, in the afternoon."

I now asked Addison whether he really had a patent on his water-warmer.
"O no," replied he, laughing. "You cannot take a patent right for
warming water. Still, it is a rather new idea hereabouts. I use the iron
pipe which we took out of a pump aqueduct a year ago. But you will see
how we do it to-morrow."

We worked putting stove-wood into the wood-house that day; and after
what seemed a remarkably short night, I waked to find Halstead dressing
in haste.

"Ad's up, and gone after the tools," he said. "Ordered us to get up and
help the old gent milk."

"Did he 'order' us to do it?" I asked, a little surprised.

"'Bout's good as that," grumbled Halstead. "Stuck his head in at the
door and hollered, 'Hurry up now and help milk.' O he is
dandy-high-jinks 'round this farm, I tell ye. Everything goes as he
says. The old gent thinks he's a regular little George Washington."

I did not quite know what to think of this talk; it was evident that my
two cousins did not altogether admire each other.

Meantime, Halstead had set off for the barn; but I lingered about the
kitchen, where I was presently impressed into the service of Theodora
and Ellen, who were kindling a fire and making preparations for
breakfast.

"Now, cousin, do please split a few sticks of this wood," the latter
besought me. "It's so large I cannot make it burn; and I am in no end of
a hurry. Here is the axe. But look out sharp now, or you will chop your
toes off. Take care now." She seemed half sorry, I thought, that she had
asked me, after watching my first strokes. For I laid about me with
might and main, causing the splinters to fly, from a boy's natural
instinct to show off before girls.

As there was a great deal of coarse wood in the shed, I continued to
wield the axe, and split a large heap, for which those wily girls
praised me without stint; but I am sure, none the less, that they were
smiling on the sly. Gram, too, came out from the pantry and praised me,
but she also laughed. It is exceedingly difficult for a boy to show off
without exciting risibility. When Gramp came in with two milk-pails,
presently, he also looked into the shed, to bid me good-morning, and
went away smiling.

At length I heard the clang of iron on the doorstep, and looking out,
saw that Addison had returned and thrown down the pipe-tongs. "You're a
good one!" he exclaimed, catching sight of my woodpile. "Gram and those
girls will make a saint of you right off. Splitting kindlings is the
royal road to all their good graces. It means a doughnut, or a piece of
pie, any time, at a moment's notice. All the same it is somewhat sweaty
work," he added, noticing my perspiring brow. "I go a little easy on it
myself; I never refuse when they ask me; but I don't try to make such a
pile as that at one time."

Halse, who had been turning the cows to pasture, now came in; and
breakfast being not quite ready, we went to the wagon-house and got down
the lengths of iron pipe from the loft, preparatory to loading them into
the cart, to be taken to the "Little Sea." It was what hardware dealers
term inch and a quarter pipe, and it was in lengths or sections, each
twelve feet long. These were somewhat heavy, and had screw threads cut
at each end, so that the ten or twelve lengths could all be joined
together by screwing them into couplings, and thus form one continuous
pipe. The pipe-tongs and wrench were needed to turn the couplings.

Addison had called at the post-office, and the Old Squire at once
became engrossed in the papers, containing further news of President
Johnson's quarrel with Congress. He and Addison were discussing politics
during breakfast. It made me feel uncomfortably ignorant, to hear how
well Addison was informed upon such matters, and how much interested
Theodora appeared to be in their conversation. Addison even undertook to
say what was Constitutional and what wasn't.

Not to be utterly outstripped, I ventured to express my opinion that
General Hancock ought to be the next President; but neither Addison nor
grandfather agreed with me, and I was afraid Theodora did not, for I
thought she looked at me compassionately, as if my opinion was immature.

Halstead did not say a word, but ate his breakfast with an air of
supreme indifference. Afterwards, as we were going out through the
wood-shed, he remarked to me that it made him sick to hear Republicans
palaver. "I'm a Democrat," said he. "I'm a 'Secesh,' too. I would be a
Democrat anyway, if Ad was a Republican."

I confess to feeling somewhat "mugwumpish" myself that morning, for it
was pretty plain that I never could lead the Republican party in that
house, as long as Addison was about. Still, I did not like the idea of
being a "copperhead;"--for that was the unhandsome designation which
Addison applied to all lukewarm or doubtful citizens. On the whole, I
decided that I had better be a quiet, not very talkative Unionist, and
not mix too freely in politics. I had some idea, however, of being a
"War Democrat," for General Hancock was then the subject of my very
great admiration. I ventured to intimate darkly to Theodora, a few days
afterwards, that I leaned slightly toward the condition of a "War
Democrat;" but although she admitted, very tolerantly, that a "War
Democrat" might be a decent citizen, I found that she looked upon all
such as a still not wholly regenerate order of beings, and that nothing
less than a fully-fledged, unswerving Republican could command her
respect and confidence. She took pains to let me know, however, that the
fact of my being a "War Democrat" would not by any means constitute a
bar to our future good-fellowship and cousinly acquaintance.

I remarked that Halstead appeared to be a "copperhead."

"Yes," she replied, with a heavy sigh.

"I don't know that I ought to tell you what he said the morning the
dreadful news came, that President Lincoln was assassinated," she
continued, after a pause and in a very saddened tone. "I would not speak
of it if I did not have a reason."

"What did he say?" I asked, curiously.

"He and Addison were splitting stove-wood in the yard," continued
Theodora. "They had been arguing and disputing. Ad does not argue with
Halstead so much now; he has learned better. But that morning they had
been talking pretty loud. Gramp had gone to the post-office, and when he
came back and drove into the yard, he spoke in a low tone and said,
'Boys, there is a terrible rumor abroad.' 'What is it?' exclaimed
Addison, turning around quickly.

"'News has come that the President and Secretary Seward have been
assassinated,' said Gramp. Ad dropped his axe and stood looking at
Gramp, as if spellbound. 'It cannot be!' he said. 'I am afraid it is too
true,' replied grandfather.

"Then what do you think Halstead did but shout, 'Glad of it! Served 'em
right!'

"Gramp looked at Halse, astonished; he did not know what to think, and
drove on into the wagon-house without saying a word. But Addison turned
on Halse and said, 'Anybody that will say that ought to be strung up to
the nearest tree!'

"With that Halse shouted again, 'Glad of it! Glad of it!' and then
jumped on a log and, flapping his arms against his sides, crowed like a
rooster. Addison was so disgusted that he did not speak to Halstead for
more than a week.

"And now you see how it is," Theodora continued to me, in a confidential
tone. "That is why I told you this. Halstead has a reckless temper. He
feels and sees, I suppose, that Addison is more talented than he is, and
that all of us naturally place more confidence in what he says and does.
That provokes Halstead to do and say what he otherwise wouldn't. Instead
of doing his best, he often does his worst. Ad is intelligent and
conscientious; he despises anything that is mean, or tricky, and he has
no patience with any one who does such things. So they don't get along
very well; and I often think that it isn't a good thing for them to be
together--not a good thing for Halse, I mean.

"Isn't that a strange thing," continued Theodora, thoughtfully, "that
because one boy is good and manly and intelligent, another one in the
same household may not do nearly as well as he would if the first one
were only just stupid?"

Theodora had taken me into moral waters quite beyond my depth, observing
which, I presume, she went on to say that she wanted me to see and
realize just how it was with Halstead, and always try to bring out his
best side, instead of his worst.

If I could only have seen the matter in as clear a light as she did and
labored as hard as she did to bring out that "best side" of my youthful
kinsman, the outcome might perhaps have been different.

Breakfast over, after a parting glance at the newspaper, Gramp came out
to give directions for the sheep-washing. "I will go to the pasture and
see to getting the sheep myself this spring," said he; for it appeared
that on a previous occasion, Halse and Addison had difficulty, owing to
the injudicious use of a dog, and finally arrived at the brook with the
flock, as well as themselves, in a badly heated condition.

"I wish you would, sir," replied Addison. "I will yoke the oxen and haul
the pipe to the brook while you are gone."

This plan being adopted, the oxen were yoked and attached to the cart;
and under Addison's supervision, I took the goad-stick and received my
first lesson in driving them. "Swing your stick with a rolling motion
towards the nigh ox's head, and say, 'Back, Bright, get up, Broad,' when
you want to call them towards you," he instructed me. "And when you want
them to veer off, step to the head of the nigh ox and rap the off ox
gently on the nose, then reversing your stick, touch up the nigh ox." He
illustrated his teachings and I attempted to imitate him. Halstead stood
at a little distance and laughed; no doubt it was laughable.

"What a teamster he will make!" I heard him saying to the girls. "He
talks to old Bright as if he was afraid of hurting his feelings by
swinging the goad-stick so near his head. Next thing he will say, 'Beg
your pardon, Broad, but I really must rap your head and ask you to gee,
if it will not be too much trouble.'"

They all laughed at Halse's joke, not unkindly, yet I can hardly
describe how much it wounded my vanity and how incensed I felt with the
joker. Slowly the oxen moved away out of hearing. Even my instructor,
Addison, lagged a little behind to indulge in a broad smile. Glancing
backward, I detected his amused expression and was almost minded to
fling away the goad-stick; and I did not feel much reassured when he
remarked that I did very well for a beginner.

"Don't mind what Halse says," Addison continued. "He cannot drive a
cart through a gateway himself without tearing both gate-posts down."

There was solace in that statement. The oxen were very steady and well
broken; and I contrived to drive the cart across the field and down
through the pasture to the brook without much difficulty, although I
noticed several times that old Bright rolled the white of his eye up to
me, in a peculiar manner, as if something in my movements was puzzling
to the bovine mind. I asked Addison whether he did not think that the
oxen had very handsome eyes, for they seemed to me exceedingly soft and
lustrous.

"Yes," replied he, "all cattle have just such large, fine eyes." But he
appeared to be somewhat amused at the way I spoke of it; for the thought
had struck me that it was strange and not quite clear why cattle should
have eyes so much finer and more lustrous than human beings. I ventured
to ask Ad's opinion on that subject, as we were taking out the pipe
beside the brook. "Well," he replied, still laughing, "perhaps it is
because their lives are simpler and they don't have so much evil in them
as human beings do. But I recommend you to ask Elder Witham about that
the next time he spends the night here."

We now took the pipe out of the cart and chained up the oxen to the nigh
cart-wheel. Addison then explained to me his method of warming the water
for washing the sheep. From the dam which formed the Little Sea, there
was a considerable descent in the brook for some distance; and Addison's
device consisted in laying the pipe from the pond above the dam, so as
to carry water to two half-hogshead tubs, ninety or a hundred feet
farther down the bed of the brook. The pipe rested on heaps of stones
placed eight or ten feet apart and was thus elevated a foot and a half
from the ground; and directly beneath it a fire was kindled and kept
burning briskly all the time the washing was going on. The pipe was thus
exposed to the fire along its whole length; and it was found that the
water running through it was rendered very comfortably warm where it ran
out into the first tub. A short spout connected the first tub with the
other, set a little lower down, so that the warm water ran on into that
one. The sheep were first put into the lower tub and there soaped and
scrubbed, then taken to the upper tub and rinsed thoroughly.

"Now get out the wrench and pipe-tongs," said Addison. "The first thing
to do is to screw the pipe together."

This proved a task requiring some little muscular strength; and even
when we had done our best, several of the couplings leaked a little. We
put it together after awhile, however, and set the water running through
it to the two half-hogshead tubs, which had also to be lifted from the
cart and placed on a good foundation. Next, the sheep-yard, close beside
the tubs, had to be repaired, for the brush fence had sunk low during
the previous winter. Fresh bushes needed to be brought and a little
green spruce shrub with which to block up the hole that served as a
gate.

An hour or more elapsed while we were thus employed; and then, as we
were about ready to attend to the fire, we heard the voices of the
girls; and lo, besides Theodora and Ellen there was Gram herself, coming
down the pasture side.

"Good," said Addison. "They will help us drag brush and dry stuff from
the woods. It takes a lot of it to keep a good fire going. But the girls
like that. Nothing suits girls half so well as a fire out of doors. You
will see Gram herself fetching brush pretty soon.

"Just in time!" Addison shouted to them. "We were wishing for some help.
Now for a brush-bee!"--and he led the way to the edge of the woods, at a
little distance. "Gather up anything that will burn and carry it to the
pipe."

Soon we were all running to and fro with armfuls of it, and collected a
large heap, alongside the pipe, which was presently set blazing at one
end. From that point, the fire ran along beneath the whole line of pipe,
and very soon the water came out steaming into the half-hogsheads.

Erelong the bleating of the sheep and lambs was heard. "They're coming!"
Ellen cried. "I can see Wealthy running beside them, and Halse ahead of
the flock with the salt dish. Gramp is behind."

"Now we must form a line down here and guide them into the sheep-yard,"
Addison exclaimed. "The old and cunning ones will not like to go in."

"They have been there before; they know what is in store for them, and
they don't like it," said Gram, laughing. "They are like a little boy
whom I took off the town farm one spring. He had not been washed since
the previous summer. The sight of the tub frightened him dreadfully; he
bleated louder than the sheep do when I put him into it."

The flock came on with a rush, Halstead and Wealthy at the sides and the
Old Squire in the wake. By an adroit distribution of our forces, we
headed them into the yard, although three or four old sheep made
strenuous efforts to escape to one side and gain the woods, particularly
one called "old Mag." This venerable ewe was in great trouble about her
twin lambs that strayed continually in the press. The old hussy found
opportunity, however, to dart out betwixt Addison and myself, and
reached cover of a little hemlock thicket, with one of her lambs. But
anxiety for the other one caused her to emerge again, bleating, when she
was surrounded and ignominiously driven into the pen.

By this time the water was running as warm as fresh milk; and after
taking breath, the Old Squire and Addison removed their coats, rolled up
their sleeves and took their stations at the two tubs. Halstead, too,
prepared to assist.

"Now," said Addison, "let's each one have his or her particular part to
do. I will name you, sir" (addressing Gramp), "_Chief Washer_, if you
please. You may stand at the first, or lower, tub and take each sheep as
it comes from the yard. I will name Halse your _Assistant Washer_. I
will be _Rinser_ and stand at the second, or upper tub. Our new cousin
here, I shall name _Catcher_. It is to be his business to catch the
sheep in the yard and bring them, one by one, to the _Chief Washer_, and
also take them back from the _Rinser_ to the yard; and he will have to
look out sharp, or some of those strong, young sheep will throw him.
Fact, I think I will name Nell, who is pretty nimble and strong,
_Assistant Catcher_. She is to help hold and pull them along to the
tub--and pick Catcher up, if he gets thrown. Wealthy may be
_Sheep-Hole-Tender_; she must guard the sheep-hole and open and close it
with the spruce bush, as ordered by the Catcher and Assistant Catcher.

"I shall name Gram, if she has no objection, _Chief Fireman_, and Doad
her assistant. It is to be their business to put the wood and dry stuff
which we have gathered under the pipe and keep a good fire going.

"Are you all satisfied with your parts?" he then asked.

We all expressed ourselves delighted, except Halse, who desired to be
Catcher, instead of Assistant Washer. Thereupon I offered to resign in
his favor; but for reasons which they did not explain fully, the Old
Squire and Addison opposed my resignation. Halse grumbled a little, but
at length acquiesced.

"Now then," continued Addison, "every one to his or her station, and the
business of the day will open."

Still laughing a good deal, we took our places.

Elevating his voice, Addison then called out, "Catcher, do your duty!"

The Sheep-Hole-Tender hauled aside the bush and Catcher, followed by
Assistant Catcher, entered the yard.

"Take a little one, to begin with," whispered Ellen, who apparently
distrusted my competence for the office. That nettled me and, instead, I
made a plunge for a big wether and fastened both hands into his wool.
The animal gave a tremendous jump and then went round about that yard,
into corners and over the backs of the other sheep, at a rate of speed
that was simply distracting! But I held on. First, I was on my back,
with the rest of the flock leaping overhead. The Assistant Catcher
couldn't overtake us. At last, she turned and ran the other way and
headed us into a corner, and there the wether fell down and I fell on
top of him; and when the flock got done running by, I looked up and saw
that the Chief Washer, Rinser, Chief Fireman and their Assistants had
all left their posts and were peering over the fence into the yard, with
faces wearing every appearance of excessive mirth.

But Addison cried out, "Hurrah for the Catcher!" and that relieved my
embarrassment considerably.

My Assistant, however, looked coldly at me.

"What in the world possessed you to grab that biggest sheep first?" she
commented, as we dragged the now nearly breathless beast out at the
sheep-hole. "And you mustn't run at them in such a savage way. No wonder
the poor thing was scared! Go toward them more calm and gentle-like."

It appeared to me highly unbecoming that my Assistant should take it
upon herself to lecture her superior after that fashion; and I promptly
informed her (my blood being pretty hot by this time) that I would thank
her to obey orders and give advice when it was asked for. Much abashed
at this unexpected blast of spunk, cousin Ellen asked my pardon. When I
delivered the sheep into the hands of the Chief Washer, old gentleman
gazed benignly at me and simply remarked, "Well, well, sir, you had a
dusty time of it, didn't you? But you'll learn, you'll learn, my boy."

They proceeded to soap the animal by pouring strong suds into its wool,
and then seizing it by the legs, threw it upon its side in the tub of
water. Thereupon another struggle ensued, during which the Chief Washer
and his Assistant were plentifully spattered; but the experienced
calmness with which the former bore it, greatly excited my admiration.
After perhaps three or four minutes of scrubbing and squeezing the wool,
the now bedraggled and hopelessly patient creature was passed on to the
Rinser, who in turn immersed and rinsed it in the cleaner water of the
upper tub. Meantime another sheep had been required from the Catcher,
who again entered the yard, followed by his Assistant. This time I was
quite content to attempt the capture of a smaller one, and to approach
the animal in a less precipitate manner; for much as I had spurned my
cousin's advice at the moment of receiving it, I now recognized its
value.

The Catcher and his Assistant were kept very busy during the remainder
of the forenoon, for the Chief Washer was an experienced and rapid
operator. Some of the young sheep proved wild and refractory; and I
remember that both Ellen and I grew very tired by the time the last of
the seventy had been caught, subdued, dragged to the tub, and then
dragged back to the yard from the Rinser's tub. I for one had had quite
enough of it, and was content to sit down and look on, while Halstead,
Addison and Theodora caught several of the lambs, and ducked them in the
tub, by way, as they said, of giving them an early lesson and a
foretaste of what they would have to encounter the next spring, in the
regular order of things.

The fire was now allowed to subside under the water-pipe; and the Chief
Fireman declared that she and the girls must set off for the house at
once, in order to prepare dinner, for by this time the sun was nearing
the meridian and every one getting hungry.

It was an easy matter to drive the now docile and water-soaked flock
back to pasture; and we left pipe and tubs at the brook for our
neighbors. When we returned from the pasture, Gram and the girls had a
hastily prepared meal in readiness, consisting of fried eggs, bacon, and
a "five minute pudding" with cream. What a flavor it all had! My only
fear for some minutes was, lest there would not be half enough of it!
While at table, Rinser, Assistant Washer, Catcher and even Chief Washer
and Chief Fireman laughed a great deal as the various incidents and
mishaps of the morning were recounted. It is certain that work always
passes off much more pleasantly when it is enlivened by some such
play-plan as that which Addison had devised.




CHAPTER VI

THE VERMIFUGE BOTTLE


"Shall we dip the lambs as we did last spring, after shearing the
sheep?" Addison asked the Old Squire, as we drew back from table.

"I suppose we shall have to do it," the old gentleman replied. "It is a
disagreeable job, but it needs to be done."

"That means another poke stew!" cried Ellen, with a look of disgust.

I was quite in the dark as to what a "poke stew" might be.

"O it's beautiful smellin' stuff!" exclaimed Halstead. "Going to put any
tobacco into it?" he asked.

"A little," replied Gramp. "That is about the only use I ever would like
to see tobacco put to," he added with a glance at Halse, at which the
latter gave me a sly nudge under the table.

"Then I suppose we may as well take two large baskets with tools for
digging, and go down to Titcomb's meadow for the poke," suggested
Addison. "If you can get the arch-kettle hot while we are gone, we can
have the poke put to stew and simmer, so as to be good and strong by day
after to-morrow. I suppose you will shear the sheep that day; and by the
next morning the lambs will need attending to, will they not, sir?"

"Most likely," replied the Old Squire, smiling to see how Addison was
taking the burden of work on his young shoulders. "I can certainly get
the kettle hot," he added, laughing. "That looks like the easiest part
of the job."

"But you worked hard this forenoon, sir," Addison said. "I noticed how
you handled those sheep. To wash seventy sheep is no light job."

"Ad doesn't count me in at all," remarked Halse. "I reckon the
'Assistant Washer' had something to do."

"Yes, my Assistant worked well," said the Old Squire. "I could not have
washed more than fifty, but for his aid."

"Well, there is one thing to be said, right here and now," interposed
Gram with decision. "I cannot and will not have that awful mess of poke,
tobacco and what-not brewed in the kitchen arch-kettle. Now you hear me,
Joseph. Last year you stewed it there and you nearly drove us out of the
house. Such a stench I never smelled. It made me sick all night and
filled the whole house. I said then it should never come into the
kitchen again. You must take the other kettle and set it up out of
doors."

"Aren't you growing a little fussy, Ruth?" replied the Old Squire,
evidently to rally her, for he laughed roguishly.

"Maybe I am," replied Gram, shortly. "If you were a little more 'fussy'
about some things, it would be no failing."

This bit of fencing amused Addison and Theodora very much; and I began
to surmise that good-humored as grandmother habitually was, she yet had
a will of her own and was determined to regulate her domain indoors in
the way she deemed suitable.

"Well, we will boil the stuff out of doors this year," replied the Old
Squire. "It is not the kind of perfumery women-folks like to smell," he
added, teasingly.

"Now don't try to be funny about it," rejoined Gram severely. "I never
ran you much in debt for perfumery, as you know. But I don't think it
is quite fair for a man to bring such a nauseous mess as that into the
kitchen to stew, then run off and leave it for the women-folks to stand
over and stir, and finally leave the dirty kettle for them to scrub out
the next day!"

"Hold on, Ruth! Hold on. You've let out a great deal more than I wanted
you to, now!" cried the Old Squire. "I remember now, I did forget that
kettle last year. 'Twas too bad. I don't blame you, Ruth Ann, I don't
blame you in the least for grumbling about it."

With that Gram looked up and laughed, but still gave her head a slight
toss.

I watched for a day or two a little anxiously, to see if she really
cherished any resentment, but soon discovered that there was no real
ill-feeling; it was only Gram's way of holding her ground and standing
for her house rights.

As we went out to get shovels and the two baskets, I ventured to ask
Addison, confidentially, whether Gram were really severe. "No!" said he.
"She's all right. She touches the Old Squire up a little once in awhile,
when he needs it; she always gets him foul, too. I suppose he doesn't
try very hard to hold up his end, but she always floors him when they
get to sparring. Then he will laugh and say something to patch things up
again. O they never really quarrel. Gramp once said to me, as we were
going out into the field together, after Gram had been touching him up,
'Addison,' said he, 'your grandmother was a Pepperill. They were nice
folks; but they had spicy tempers, some of them. Old Sir William
Pepperill, that led our people down to Louisburg, was her
great-great-uncle. They were good old New England stock, but none of
them would ever bear a bit of crowding; and I always take that into
account.'"

Halstead came out and then went to search for a tool which they termed
a "nigger hoe," a hoe with a narrow blade, such as, in the old
plantation days of the South, the negroes are said to have used for
turning over the turf of new fields.

Theodora came to the door of the wagon-house. "Going with us after
poke?" Addison called out to her.

"I wish we could," she replied; "but we have lots to do in the house.
Gram says that, as we were out all the forenoon, we must stay indoors
the rest of the day."

Ellen, too, was espied gazing regretfully after us, as we set off with
the baskets and tools. Halse had a pocketful of doughnuts (which he
always called duffnuts). He had made a raid on the pantry, he said, and
enlivened the way by topping off his dinner with them.

We went out through the fields to the southwest of the farm buildings,
then crossed a lot called the calf pasture, and then a swale, descending
through woods and bushes into the valley of the west brook.

"This is the meadow-brook," said Addison. "But Titcomb's meadow is a
mile below here. We will follow down the brook till we come to it.

"That's poke," he continued, pointing to a thick, rank, green plant,
with great curved leaves, now about a foot in height and growing near
the bank of the brook. Halstead gave one of the plants a crushing stroke
with his hoe, and I noticed that it gave off a very unpleasant odor.

"It is poison," Addison remarked. "It is the plant that botanists call
_veratrum viride_, I believe. But the common name is Indian poke."

"O Ad knows everything; his head is stuffed with long words!" exclaimed
Halse, derisively. "It'll bust one of these days. I don't dare to get
very near him on that account."

"No danger that yours will ever 'bust' on account of what's inside it,"
retorted Addison, laughing.

But Halstead, although he had begun the joking, did not appear to take
this shot back in good part. He turned aside and began to cut a
witch-hazel rod.

"Now quit that, Halse," exclaimed Addison. "Wait till we get the poke
dug, then we will all three cut some rods and fish for half an hour."

But Halstead proceeded to string a hook, bait it with a bit of pork
which he had brought, and then dropped it into a hole beside an alder
bush at a bend of the stream.

"He is the most provoking fellow I ever saw," muttered Addison. "He will
fish all the time, and we will have the poke to dig. I meant to show you
a good hole to fish in, but now he will scare all the trout away!

"Come on, Halse!" he shouted back. "What's the use to skulk and shirk
like that?"

"O you dig viratum-viridy!" cried Halstead. "You understand all about
that, you know. I don't comprehend it well enough; but I guess I can
manage to fish a little." A moment after we saw him haul out a trout,
which glistened as it went wriggling through the air and fell in the
grass. Halse got it, and holding it up so that we could see it, shouted,
"No viratum-viridy about that!"

"No use fooling with him," Addison said to me. "His nose is out of joint
about that word. He will not lift a finger to help us, but will catch a
good string of fish to take home; and if I say a word about it to the
folks, he will declare that I was so overbearing that he couldn't work
with me. That's the song he always sings.

"Sometimes," continued Addison, with another backward glance of
suppressed indignation, "I get so 'mad' all through at that boy that I
could thrash him half to death. If it wasn't for Doad and the old
folks, I believe I should do it.

"But of course that isn't the best thing to do," Addison continued. "The
best way to get along is to have as little to do with him as you can,
and not pay any attention to his quirks. For he is the trick pony in
this family. You cannot go out with him anywheres, without having some
sort of a circus; I defy you to. You see now, if we ever go out
together, without a scrape."

We went on down the brook to the meadow, called after its owner's name;
the stream was more sluggish here, and along its turfy banks the clumps
of Indian poke were very numerous. With shovel and hoe, we then
proceeded to dig up the rank-growing and ranker-smelling plant. To get
out much of the root required a great effort, and we did not like to
smear our hands with the juice. For this plant (which is the same made
use of by homoeopathic physicians as a medicine) proves poisonous to
cattle when, as is sometimes the case in the early spring, the animals
are tempted to crop its rank, fresh leaves. In order to take home enough
in our two baskets, we trod it down with our feet very solidly; and when
at length they were heaped full, each was heavy.

"I wish Ellen could have come, to help us home with it," said Addison.
"There ought to be two to each basket, one on each side, and so change
hands once in a while."

"Are we going to fish now?" I asked.

"Well, but you see the sun is nearly down," replied Addison. "It is
getting late in the afternoon for fishing, and we have a hard job before
us, to tote these baskets home. Besides, Halse has fished away down past
us, in all the good holes. I guess we had better not stop this time, but
wait for a lowery day.

"Come, help carry these baskets home!" he shouted to Halstead, who was
now near the lower end of the meadow. But the latter was very intent at
a trout-hole into which he had just dropped his hook, and did not
respond. We waited a few minutes, then shouldered the baskets, and
carrying our shovels in our free hands, set off. At first the basket did
not seem very heavy; but, by the time I had gone half a mile, I found
myself very tired. Addison, however, plodded sturdily forward with his
basket, and after resting for a few moments, I toiled on in his wake.

Presently Halse overtook us.

"Hullo, shirk!" Addison called out. "How many fish?"

Halstead held up a pretty string of fourteen.

"Well, you've had all the fun so far," said Addison. "Now let's see you
carry one of these baskets."

"What a fuss about a little basket of green stuff!" exclaimed Halstead
contemptuously; and throwing mine on his shoulder, he started on at a
great pace.

Before he had got as far as the "calf pasture," however, he began to
lag, fell behind and at length set down the basket.

"What was the use of stuffing them so full!" he grumbled. "There was no
need of so much."

A few rods farther on, he again set the basket down on a rock. Addison
turned round and laughed at him. "What's the matter with that 'little
basket of green stuff?'" he exclaimed.

"But there's no need of so much!" cried Halstead, and he threw out a
part of it before going on. I gathered up what he threw out and followed
behind him. When we came to the stone wall between the pasture and the
southwest field, Halse set the basket down and hurried on past Addison
to the house, in advance of us.

"He has run ahead to show his trout and tell a fine story," said
Addison, with a laugh. "That's the way he always does. But they know him
pretty well. I don't take the trouble to contradict any of his talk
now."

"Does he tell lies?" I asked.

"Not exactly outright lies," said Addison. "But he will talk large and
try to lead the folks to think that he dug the most of the poke and
brought it home, besides catching the trout. That's the kind of boy he
is; but if I were you, I would not mind anything of that sort. They all
know how it is--a great deal better than they want to know. You will not
lose anything by keeping quiet." Addison saw that I was a little ruffled
on account of the fishing incident, and thought it best to calm me.

By the time I reached the farm-yard, where the Old Squire had hung up a
large iron kettle and had water boiling in it, I was very tired indeed.
What with splitting wood in the early morning, catching seventy sheep
and digging and carrying poke, I had put forth a good deal of muscular
strength that day, for a lad unused to such exertion. In fact, the day
had seemed a week in length to me; for I appeared to myself to have
learned a hundred new things since morning, and had passed through a
wide series of new experiences.

But supper was ready, and supper is a great source of recuperation with
a hungry boy. How delicious the "pop-overs" and maple syrup tasted! I
was ashamed to ask for a sixth "pop-over;" but when cousin Theodora
called for more and slipped a sixth upon my plate, I felt very grateful
to her. Halstead was boasting of his skill fishing, and relating how he
threw the trout out of the holes.

"Won't they taste good for breakfast!" he exclaimed. "Nell, if you will
clean them and fry them, you shall have three. I shall want four for my
share," he continued; "and that will give the rest of you one apiece!"

Addison laughed. "That's real generous of you, Halse, seeing that the
rest of us had such poor luck fishing," said he. Theodora was listening,
and by and by asked me in a whisper--her chair at table being next
mine--whether Halstead had helped dig the poke.

"Ask Addison," I said, laughing in turn.

She did not ask, but I noticed that her face wore a thoughtful
expression during the remainder of the time we were at table.

After supper we put the poke into the kettle. The Old Squire had already
chipped up and thrown into it a pound of tobacco; and during the evening
we brought wood several times from the wood-shed and kept the kettle
boiling. By the time it had grown dark, I was glad to creep away to bed,
for I had grown so sleepy that I could scarcely keep my eyes open. It
seemed to me, too, that I had no more than fallen soundly asleep when I
heard somebody knocking and saying that it was time to get up and dress.
'Twas actually some moments before I could believe that morning had come
again. The sun had risen, however, and Halstead was dressing.
"Grandmarm's up fryin' my trout," said he. "I can smell 'em. O won't
they taste good! But one is all you can have."

"If you had done your part, we might all three have caught some trout,"
I grumbled, for I felt sleepy still and not in a good humor.

"Look here," said Halstead, "I stand a good deal of that kind of talk
from Ad, but you needn't think you can take up his tune."

"What will you do?" I asked.

"Give you a thrashing," said Halstead. "It would do you good, too. One
little George Washington is all we can have in this house."

I had some doubts as to his being able to handle me; still he was
considerably the larger, and I concluded that I had better not provoke
him to a trial of his ability in that direction. But his threat set a
deep resentment brewing in my mind. At breakfast time, however, he
attempted to soften the asperities of boy life between us, by putting
two trout, instead of one, on my plate. I surmised that Theodora had
prompted him to do it, however, but was not certain.

Gramp and Ellen had been to the pasture the previous evening and driven
the flock of sheep and lambs down to the west barn, where they had
remained shut up over night. This was the Old Squire's custom with his
flock the night of the washing, to prevent the sheep from taking cold,
and also from a theory of his that if they were kept warm for two nights
after washing, the oil from their skins would start sufficiently to put
the wool in proper condition for shearing on the third day.

After breakfast, the business of the day was announced to be
bean-planting, at which Halstead groaned audibly. Twelve quarts of
yellow-eyed beans, which had been carefully picked over, were brought
out from the granary chamber for seed; and with tin basins to drop from
and hoes to cover with, we were about setting off for the field, when
the bleating of sheep was heard along the road, and a babel of voices.
"There comes Edwards' flock!" cried Halstead. "And there's Tom and
Kate."

The flock went streaming along the road; and we young folks turned out
to assist in driving them through the field and pasture, down to the
yard by the Little Sea.

Thomas I had met already. His sister Catherine looked to be a little
older than Ellen. She and our girls appeared to be great friends and
rapidly exchanged a stock of small news and confidences. I felt bashful
about drawing near them, to receive an introduction; but Ellen brought
her young neighbor around, near where I was helping the other boys pen
up the sheep, and informed her that I was the new cousin who had come to
live at the farm, and hence that we must needs become acquainted.
Catherine and I did not become much acquainted, however, for months
afterwards.

Thomas and Catherine had an older brother, who did not appear with them
that morning. Mr. Edwards himself was a strong, weather-browned farmer,
then about forty-five years of age. Addison explained to them the
workings of his water-warming apparatus, and showed them where fuel
could be gathered for a fire beneath the pipes; we then returned to go
to our work. Before we had gone to the field, however, another
interruption occurred. A swarm of bees came out of one of the hives, at
the bee-house in the garden, and after mounting in a dense, brown cloud
into the air over the hives, settled upon the limb of a large apple
tree, a few rods distant. Gram bustled out with a pan and began drumming
noisily upon it, to drown the hum of the queen bee, as she said, and
thus prevent the swarm from flying away.

Meantime the Old Squire was putting on a veil and gloves, and then came
out with a saw in his hand, while Addison brought forth a new hive which
had been hurriedly rinsed out with salt and water.

"Fetch a ladder, quick!" was the order to Halstead and me.

Theodora had brought the clothes-line, which Addison hastily took from
her hands, and climbing the apple tree, attached one end of it to the
bending bough upon which the dark-brown mass of bees now clustered. This
seemed to me then to be a very brave act, for numbers of the bees were
darting angrily about, and one--as he afterwards showed us--stung him on
the wrist.

By this time the Old Squire had set the ladder, and climbing up, sawed
off the bough a little back of the point where the bees were clinging to
it. All this time Gram was drumming vigorously without cessation; and
Theodora having fetched a broad bit of board which she placed on the
ground under the tree, Addison slowly lowered the bough with the bees
till it rested upon the board, when Gramp clapped the empty hive over
them, and the swarm was hived; for during the day the bees went up from
the bough into the top of the hive, and that evening it was gently
removed to a place in the row of hives at the bee-house.

This was an early swarm, hence valuable. Gram repeated to us a proverb
in rhyme which set forth the relative values of swarms.

    "A swarm in May is worth a load of hay.
    A swarm in June is worth a silver spoon,
    But a swarm in July is not worth a fly."

July swarms would not have time to lay up a store of honey during the
season of flowers.

Between bees and neighbors the forenoon was far advanced before we
reached the field and began bean-planting. Quite enough of it remained,
however, to render me certain that farm work, in summer, is far from
being a pastime. We planted the beans among the corn which had been
planted two weeks previously and was now a finger's length above the
ground. The corn hills were three feet and a half apart, and between the
hills of every row we now inserted a hill of beans. Halstead and I
dropped the seed, three beans to a hill, going a few steps in advance of
Addison and the old Squire, who followed us with hoes and covered the
beans. The process of dropping was very simple; we had only to make an
imprint in the soft earth with the right heel, and then drop three beans
in the hole. Yet with the sun hot above my head, I found it a sweaty
task, and was but too glad to hear Ellen blow the horn for dinner.

Bean-planting was the business again after dinner, but dark clouds rose
in the west, shortly before three o'clock, and soon the first
thunder-shower of the season rose, rumbling upward over the White
Mountains. We were compelled to run for the barn. Gramp improved the
opportunity to sharpen the sheep-shears, and as soon as the shower
abated, sent Halstead off to notify a man at the Corners, named Peter
Glinds, a professional shearer, that his services would be required on
the following day. "Old Peter," as he was called, had made shearing
sheep his spring vocation for many years; he was a very tall, lean,
yellow old man, who was reported to use a plug of tobacco a day, the
year round.

Addison set about preparing a half-hogshead tub to hold the poke
decoction for immersing the lambs after the sheep were sheared.

But singeing off caterpillars' nests in the orchard was my work for the
remainder of that afternoon and the following forenoon. I went up to the
west barn a number of times, however, to see Peter Glinds shear sheep,
for I had a great curiosity concerning this piece of farm work.

Addison and Halstead were assisting at the shearing, the latter catching
and fetching the sheep, one by one, to the shearers, while the former
was attending to the fleeces, binding up each one by itself in a compact
bundle with stout twine. Instead of sitting at a bench, or standing at a
table, the sheep-shearer worked on his knees, extending the sheep prone
upon the barn floor. Old Peter could shear a sheep in ten minutes; Gramp
was less speedy with the shears; he contrived to shear about as many as
Peter, however, for, after every fourth sheep, the latter would have to
stop to light his pipe and refresh himself. "A bad habit! A bad habit!"
he would exclaim nearly every time he lighted up. "A bad habit! but I
can't seem to get along 'thout it." He also "chewed" constantly during
the intervals between smokes.

Peter was not very considerate of the feelings of the sheep while under
his hands, and a little careless with the shears. Naturally a sheep will
get clipped occasionally, and lose a bit of skin; but all those that
Peter sheared were plentifully covered with red spots. It nettled the
Old Squire, who always detested needless cruelty to domestic animals.
One of the sheep, in fact, looked so badly that Gramp exclaimed,
"Glinds, if you are going to skin the sheep, better take a butcher
knife!"

"'Twas a bad nestly sheep; 'twouldn't keep still nowheres," replied
Peter.

The old man had a thin, but rather long, gray beard; and while shearing
one of the sheep, either in revenge for its cuts, or else, as is more
likely, mistaking Peter's beard for a wisp of hay, it made a fitful grab
at it and tweaked away a small mouthful. Peter cried out angrily and
continued scolding in an undertone about it for some minutes. This
vastly amused Addison, who chanced to see the incident. In addition to
his duties with the wool, Addison was also "doctor." When a sheep was
cut with the shears, Gramp had the spot touched up with a swab, dipped
in a dish of melted tallow, to coat over the raw place and exclude the
air. To be effective, however, the tallow needed to be hot, or at least
quite warm, so that Addison was frequently making trips with the tallow
dipper to the stove in the house kitchen.

Going in with him to tell the girls of the accident to old Peter's
beard, I found them laboring and discouraged over the churn; for some
reason the cream had failed to come to butter that morning in a
reasonable time. They had been churning for nearly two hours. It was an
old-fashioned dasher churn, and the labor was far from light. Addison
could not stop to assist them; but I volunteered to do so, and soon
found that I had embarked in a tiresome business, for we had to work at
the dasher for as much as an hour more before the butter came.

That evening I had an ill turn. It may have been due to change of
climate, or of food, or perhaps the unwonted exercise. Gram, however,
was convinced that I had a "worm-turn;" and that night, for the first
time, I made the acquaintance of the Vermifuge Bottle!

Now Gram was a dear old soul, but had certain fixed ideas as to the
ailments of youngsters and the appropriate remedies therefor. Whenever
any one of us had taken cold, or committed youthful indiscretions in
diet, she was always persuaded that we were suffering from an attack of
Worms--which I am spelling with a big W, since it was a very large
ailment in her eyes. To her mind, and in all honesty, the average child
was a kind of walking helminthic menagerie, a thin shell of flesh and
skin, inclosing hundreds, if not thousands, of Worms! And drastic
measures were necessary to keep this raging internal population down to
the limits where a child could properly live.

For this bane of juvenile existence, Gram had one constant, sovereign
remedy in which she reposed implicit faith, and which she never varied
nor departed from, and that was a great spoonful of Van Tassel's
Vermifuge, followed four hours later by two great spoonfuls of castor
oil. Be it said, too, that the castor oil of that period was the
genuine, oily, rank abomination, crude from the bean, and not the
"Castoria" of present times, which children are alleged to cry for! And
as for Van Tassel's Vermifuge, it resembled raw petroleum, and of all
greenish-black, loathly nostrums was the most nauseous to swallow. It
was my fixed belief and hope in those youthful years that, if anywhere
in the next world there were a deep, dark, super-heated compartment far
below all others, it would be reserved expressly for Van Tassel and his
Anthelminthic.

Whenever, therefore, any one of us put in an appearance at the breakfast
table, looking a little rusty and "pindling," without appetite, Gram
would survey the unfortunate critically, with commiseration on her
placid countenance, and exclaim, "The Worms are at work again! Poor
child, you are all eaten up by worms! You must take a dose of
Vermifuge."

This diagnosis once made, excuses, prayers, sudden assumptions of
liveliness, or pseudo exhibitions of ravenous appetite, availed nothing.
Gram would rise from the table, walk calmly to the medicine cupboard and
fetch out that awful Bottle and Spoon.

With a species of fascination, the Worm-suspect would then watch her
turn out the hideous, sticky liquid, till the tablespoon was full and
crowning over the brim of it all around. Why, even to this day, as the
picture rises in memory, I feel my stomach roll and see the hard, wild
grin on the face of Halstead as he watched the ordeal approach me.

"Now shut your eyes and open your mouth," Gram would say, and, when the
awful dose was in, "Swallow! Swallow hard!" Then up would come her soft,
warm hand under my chin, tilting my head back like a chicken's. There
was no escape.

On one occasion Halstead bolted, while the Vermifuge was being poured
out, and escaped to the barn. But he had to go without his breakfast
that forenoon, and when he appeared at the dinner table, Bottle, Spoon
and Gram with a severe countenance were waiting for him.

Theodora used to try to take hers without murmuring, although convinced
that it was a mere whim, stipulating only that she might go out in the
kitchen to swallow it. But with Wealthy, who was younger, the ingestion
of Vermifuge was usually preceded by an orgy of tears and supplications.
Addison, who was older and generally well, long smiled in a superior way
at the grimaces of us who were more "Wormy." But shortly after our first
Thanksgiving Day at the farm, he, too, fell ill and failed to come down
to breakfast. On his absence being noted, Gram went up-stairs to inquire
into his plight; and it was with a sense of exultation rather than
proper pity, I fear, that Halse and I saw the old lady come down
presently and get the Vermifuge Bottle. We heard Addison expostulating
and arguing in rebuttal for some minutes, but he lost the case. Wealthy,
who had stolen up-stairs on tip-toe, to view the denouement, informed us
later, in great glee, that Addison had attempted by a sudden movement to
eject the nauseous mouthful, but that Gram had clapped one hand under
his chin and pinched his nose with the thumb and finger of the other,
till he was compelled to swallow, in order to breathe.

About that time it was hopefully observed that the Bottle was nearly
empty. A certain cheerfulness sprang up. It proved short-lived. The next
time the Old Squire went to the village, Gram sent for two more bottles.
The benevolent smile with which she exhibited the fresh supply to us
that night caused our hearts to sink. To have it the handier, she poured
both bottlefuls into an empty demijohn and put the Spoon beside it in
the cupboard.

Addison, although a pretty good boy in the main, was a crafty one. I
never knew, certainly, whether or not Halstead and Ellen had any
previous knowledge as to the prank Addison played with the Vermifuge,
but I rather think not. There was another large flask-shaped bottle in
the same cupboard, about half full of elderberry wine, old and quite
thick, which Gram had made years before. It was used only "for
sickness," and was always kept on the upper shelf. We knew what it was,
however; by the time we had been there a year, there were not many
bottles in that or any other cupboard which we had not investigated.

The Vermifuge and the old elderberry wine looked not a little alike, and
what Ad must have done--though he never fairly owned up to it--was to
shift the thick, dark liquids from one bottle to the other and restore
the bottles to their usual places in the cupboard. Time went on and I
think that it was Ellen who had next to take a dose from the Bottle. It
was then remarked that she neither shed tears nor made the usual wry
faces. Nor yet did she appear in haste to seize and swallow the draught
of consolatory coffee from the Old Squire's sympathetic hand. "Why,
Nellie girl, you are getting to be quite brave," was his approving
comment; and Ellen, with a puzzled glance around the table, laughed,
looked earnestly at Gram, but said nothing; I think she had caught
Addison's eye fixed meaningly on her.

If recollection serves me aright, I was the next whose morning symptoms
indicated the need of Vermifuge; and I remember the thrill of amazement
that went through me when the Spoon upset its dark contents adown the
roots of my tongue and Gram's cozy hand came up under my chin.

"Why, Gram!" I spluttered. "This isn't----!" "Here, dear boy, take a
good swallow of coffee. That'll take the taste out o' your mouth," Gramp
interrupted, his own face drawn into a compassionate pucker, and he
clapped the cup to my mouth. I drank, but, still wondering, was about to
break forth again, when a vigorous kick under the table, led me to take
second thought. Addison was regarding me in a queer way, so was Ellen.
Gram was placidly putting away the Bottle and Spoon; and something that
tingled very agreeably was warming up my stomach. I burst out laughing,
but another kick constrained me to preserve silence.

For some reason we did not say anything to each other about this,
although I remember feeling very curious concerning that last dose. A
species of roguish free-masonry took root among us. Once after that,
when Vermifuge was mentioned, Addison winked to me; and I think we were
pretty well aware that something funny had started, unbeknown to Gram.
Theodora, however, knew nothing of it. Whether this reprehensible
slyness would have continued among the rest of us, until we had taken up
the whole of the elderberry wine, I cannot say; but about a month later,
a dismal exposé was precipitated one Friday night by the arrival of
Elder Witham. There was to be a "quarterly meeting" at the meeting-house
Saturday afternoon and Sunday, and the Elder came to the Old Squire's to
stay till Monday morning.

Elder Witham was getting on in years; and upon this occasion he had
taken a little cold, and being a lean, tall, atra-bilious man, his
appetite was affected. Gram, as usual, had prepared a good supper,
largely on the Elder's account; but I remember that after we had sat
down and the Elder had asked the blessing, he straightened back and
said, "Sister S----, I see you've got a nice supper. But I don't believe
I can eat a mouthful to-night. I'm all out of fix. I'm afraid I shan't
be able to preach to-morrow. If you will not think strange, I want to go
back into the sitting-room and lie down a bit on your lounge, to see if
I can't feel better."

Gram was much disturbed; she followed the Elder from the table and we
overheard her speak of sending for a doctor; but the Elder said no, he
guessed that he should soon feel better.

"Well, but Elder Witham, isn't there something I can give you to take?"
Gram asked. "Some Jamaica ginger, or something like that?"

"Oh, that is rather too fiery for me," we heard the Elder say.

"Then how would a few swallows of my elderberry wine do?" queried Gram.

"But you know, Sister S----, that I don't much approve of such things,"
the Elder replied.

"Still, I think really, that it would do you good," urged Gram.

"Perhaps," assented the Elder; for, truth to say, this was not his first
introduction to the elderberry bottle; and we heard Gram go to the
medicine cupboard.

And "about this time," as the old almanac used to have it, several of us
youngsters at the supper table began to feel strangely interested.
Addison glanced across at Ellen, then jumped up suddenly and took a step
or two toward the sitting-room, but changed his mind and went hastily
out through the kitchen into the wood-shed. After a moment or two, Ellen
stole out after him. As for myself, mental confusion had fallen on me; I
looked at Halse, but he was eating very fast.

The trouble culminated speedily, for it does not take long to turn out a
small glass of elderberry wine, or drink it, for that matter. The Elder
did not drink it all, however; he took one good swallow, then jumped to
his feet and ran to the wood-box. "Sin o' the Jews! What! What! What
stuff's this?" he spluttered, clearing his mouth as energetically as
possible. "You've given me bug-pizen, by mistake!--and I've swallered a
lot of it!"

Inexpressibly shocked and alarmed, Gram could hardly trust the evidence
of her senses. She stared helplessly, at first, then all in a tremble,
snatched up the bottle, smelled of it, then tasted it.

"My sakes, Elder Witham!" she cried, "but don't be scared, it's only
Vermifuge, such as I give the children for Worms!"

"Tsssauh!" coughed the Elder. "But it's nasty stuff, ain't it?"

By this time, Gramp had appeared on the scene, and he fetched a cup of
tea to take the taste out of the Elder's mouth. Halstead snatched a
handful of cookies off the table and decamped. I could not find anything
of Addison or Ellen, and so ventured into the sitting-room, with
Theodora and Wealthy.

Gram, the Old Squire and Elder Witham were now holding a species of
first-aid council. The Elder had taken a full swallow of Vermifuge, and
after reading the "Directions," they all came to the conclusion that the
only safe and proper thing to do was for him to take two tablespoonfuls
of castor oil. This was accomplished during the evening; but it was a
strangely hushed and completely overawed household. Gram, indeed, was
nearly prostrated with mortification. How the Old Squire felt was not
quite so clear; as we milked that night, I thought once that I saw him
shaking strangely as he sat at his cow which stood next to mine; but I
was so shocked myself that I could hardly believe, then, that he was
laughing.

Addison helped milk, but immediately disappeared again, and Halse soon
retired to bed. Ellen, too, had gone to bed.

Next morning, affairs had not brightened much. Nobody spoke at the
breakfast table. The Elder's breakfast was carried in to him, and the
net result was that he did not preach that afternoon, as was expected;
another minister occupied the pulpit.

Gram gave up going to that quarterly meeting altogether. Shame was near
making her ill; and the clouds of chagrin hung low for several days.

It was not till Thursday, following, that Gram recovered her spirits and
temper sufficiently to inquire into it. Thursday morning she questioned
the whole of us with severity.

Little actual information was elicited, however, for the reason that the
most of us knew but little about it. We confessed what we knew, unless,
perhaps, Ad kept back something. We all--all except Theodora--knew that
we had previously taken elderberry instead of Van Tassel; and Gram gave
us an earnest lecture on the meanness of such concealments of facts. The
Old Squire said nothing at the time; but I think that he had some
private conversation with Addison concerning the matter.

The episode put a damper on the Vermifuge Bottle, however; it was never
quite so prominent afterwards. But I have digressed, and gone in advance
of my narrative of events at the old farm that season.




CHAPTER VII

IMMERSING THE LAMBS


The sheep were inclosed at the barn that night, partly that they might
not take cold, owing to the sudden loss of their winter coats, partly
also that, being pent up close with the lambs, all the parasites
("ticks") would leave the bare skins of the sheep and take refuge within
the partly grown fleeces of the lambs--and thus the more readily fall
victims to the bath which we had specially prepared for their
extermination on the morrow.

Immersing one hundred lambs, one by one, in a tubful of mingled poke and
tobacco juice is far from an agreeable task; it was a novelty to me
then, however, and I entered into it with much zeal and curiosity. I
wanted to see how the lambs would behave, and also how the parasites
would enjoy it. A boy's mind is eager for all kinds of visual
information.

We put on old clothes, and having set the tub containing the decoction
near the lean-to door of the barn, caught and brought forth the lambs,
one after another. Addison, by virtue of greater experience, undertook
the business of immersion, while Halstead and I caught the lambs. They
struggled vigorously, and the only practicable method of dipping them
was to grasp all four of their legs, two in each hand, and then thrust
them down into the tub, taking care that their noses did not go under
the liquid. Each had then to be held in the bath for about a minute,
giving time for the liquid to thoroughly saturate their wool. But this
was not all, nor yet the most disagreeable part of the affair. On
raising them from the tub, it was necessary to dry their fleeces to some
extent, by squeezing and wringing them in our hands, lest, owing to the
absorbent capacity of their wool, there should soon be nothing left of
our decoction in the tub. Taken with the struggles of the lambs, this
proved a repulsive task. Before half the lambs were dipped, our old
jacket sleeves were soaked. Withal we were nauseated, either from having
our hands in the decoction, or else from the odor which arose from the
tub and the wet lambs. At length, Addison was obliged _to go out behind
the barn_, where he remained for some minutes, and returned looking very
pale. "Good gracious!" he exclaimed. "I think that I shall hate the odor
of tobacco juice to the end of my life."

Not long after he made another trip; and immediately I was compelled to
follow him, in haste. Halse, who was not much affected, derided us; but
he had not held his hands in the tub as much as Addison; besides he was
known to have smoked tobacco on several occasions, and this previous
experience of the weed, perhaps, stood him in stead on this occasion.

Theodora, who had come out to see how we were progressing, was
distressed at our woe-begone condition and ran in to report our
sufferings; and as a result of this bulletin, the Old Squire soon made
his appearance upon the scene and assumed the rôle of immerser. Gram,
too, came out with a dipperful of chamomile tea, of which she
authoritatively exhorted us to imbibe a draught.

We judged from appearances that the lambs were also nauseated, for they
were observed to stand with drooping heads; and the Old Squire told us
that washing either lambs or calves in a strong solution of tobacco had
been known to kill them.

Here I may add that the following year we purchased a device for burning
tobacco and blowing the smoke into the wool of the sheep and lambs,
called a "fumigator." It was said to be even more destructive to the
parasites than the bath of poke and tobacco juices. In point of fact, we
found it quite efficacious, also less sloppy and disagreeable to use;
but it rendered us even more sick, so ill in fact, that we were fully a
day in recovering from the effects. None save a well-seasoned old smoker
of tobacco can use the fumigator with impunity.

There had been a "sea-turn" during the morning with the wind southerly,
and toward noon it set in rainy. The sheep were turned out to feed for a
little while, but at nightfall were driven indoors again. The Old Squire
took scrupulous care of his flock during washing and shearing week. A
few weeks later we drove the flock down to the barn and touched the
nostrils of all the sheep and the older lambs with tar, to prevent a
certain species of fly from depositing its eggs and larvae there,
causing what was known, later in the year, as "grubs in the head," an
affection that often causes many deaths in neglected flocks.

A rainy day is often a farm boy's only holiday. In the afternoon we
talked of going down to the lake to fish for pickerel. It came on to
rain too heavily, however. Halstead had gone up-stairs to our room, and
was hammering at something or other, making a great noise. We heard
Addison, who was trying to read in his room, which adjoined, repeatedly
begging Halse to desist. Theodora and I played a few games at checkers
in the sitting-room, then went up to see Addison. He was reading from
Audubon's work on American birds (_Ornithological Biography_), of which
he had three volumes that had been his father's; but he did not own the
great volumes of engravings which should accompany them, the want of
which he often lamented. I remember that he read to us a number of
little anecdotes of wild geese, among others how a certain "mighty
miller," with a great gun loaded with rifle balls, had shot geese clean
across the Ohio River. He then turned to the description of the heron.
"Herons build their nests down in the pines near the lake," said he. "I
have asked the Old Squire about making a trip there. He says I can go
Saturday afternoon. I would like to have you two and Ellen go with me,
but I do not want Halstead. You know how he always cuts up."

"But he will feel hurt if we go without him," Theodora said.

"If he would go and behave himself, I wouldn't say a word against it,"
replied Addison.

"Perhaps he would this time," said Theodora.

"I don't believe it."

"But he is our cousin, you know."

"The more's the pity, I say."

"But do not say it."

"We shall all say it before long, I'm afraid. Do you know where he goes
Sundays?"

"No," said Theodora, with a sigh.

"Well, I do not, but there is something wrong going on. I've thought so
for some time. The Old Squire does not know of it."

"I thought he seemed to suspect something last Sunday," said Theodora.

"Yes, but he doesn't see as much as I do."

"Couldn't you find out more about it?" asked Theodora.

"Very likely; but then I do not like to go spying after Halse."

"But perhaps you ought."

"I don't know about that."

They both seemed perplexed. Addison was turning over leaves in the book;
and Theodora sat looking at the birds, absently.

"Let's not make any secret about going to see the herons," she said at
length. "Even if you don't want to ask Halstead to go, let him know we
are going, and if he wants to go with us, do not say anything against
it. We must not shun him, or have him think we do."

It was left like that.

The Old Squire spoke of our going at breakfast the next morning, and I
heard Halstead asking Theodora about it afterwards. I knew from what he
said that night after we had gone up to bed, that he meant to go.

Saturday was fair. After dinner Addison went up to his room a few
minutes, then came down with the gun. Theodora had put on her hat and
came out under the trees where I was standing. Seeing us, Addison came
along and asked if we were ready. Ellen and little Wealthy also joined
us. Halstead was sitting at the front door, and as we started off, he
came along, saying, "I guess I'll go, too. Ad forgot to invite me, I
suppose."

Addison did not reply, and we went on for some time without speaking.

Leaving the road at the turn by the school-house, we went through the
pastures toward the valley of Foy Brook. The great pines in which the
herons built stand a little up from the lake. There are several groves
of them; many of the trees were gnarled, for which reason the lumbermen
had rejected them; some of them were four and five feet in diameter and
crooked into fantastic shapes.

Very agreeably and somewhat to our surprise, Halstead was on his good
behavior. He was polite to the girls and helped them over the brush
fences; and when, on coming nearer the pines, Addison asked us to go in
as quietly as we could, he complied, not even allowing a twig to snap
under his feet.

Addison wished to see the herons undisturbed; and the rest of us kept a
little to the rear while he went on cautiously. Presently he stopped,
then turned and whispered to us to come up quietly behind him and look
over his shoulder. "Up there," said he, pointing into the top of one of
the pines. In a fork, formed by the very highest branches, there was a
great mass of sticks and reeds as large as a two-bushel basket.

"That's one of the nests," whispered Addison. "And see that head and
long, pointed beak, just over the top of it! The old hen heron is
brooding."

"But look there!" whispered Halstead, pointing into another tree.

On a high, dead limb stood a heron on one long leg, perfectly
motionless. The other foot was drawn up so as to be hidden in the
feathers of the under part of its body. Its neck was crooked back so far
that its long bill rested on its breast. It was seemingly asleep, and
looked so ungainly that Ellen laughed outright, despite Addison's
injunctions to be quiet.

Several other nests were presently discovered, high up among the green
boughs.

"If you want to shoot one, to stuff," whispered Halstead, "you will not
get a better chance than that," pointing to the one asleep. "He is just
in good easy range."

"It seems too bad to shoot him, while he is sleeping," said Theodora.

"Once let him wake up and see us, and he will make himself scarce in a
hurry," said Halstead. "Better make sure of him, Ad."

Addison cocked the gun, and, raising it slowly, fired. The great bird
uttered a hoarse squawk, straightened up, then toppled over and fell to
the ground. Instantly there arose a deafening chorus of squawks. Herons
flew up from the tree tops all about us. The tops of the pines fairly
rocked. Great sticks, dirt and cones came rattling down. Upward they
soared in a great flock, several hundred feet above the trees, then flew
around and around overhead, uttering hoarse cries.

We ran to the place where the wounded heron had fallen. He lay extended
on the ground; but a bright sinister eye was turned up, watching us with
silent defiance.

"Don't go too near," said Addison. "He will strike with his beak. You
know I read to you, from Audubon, how a gentleman came near losing an
eye from the sudden stroke of a wounded heron. They always aim for the
eye."

He put out the butt of the gun, extending it slowly toward the bird. The
heron watched it till within a couple of feet, then struck quick as
thought, darting its bill against the hard walnut of the gunstock.

Meanwhile the other herons had flown off to the side of the mountain,
half a mile away. Now and then one would come back and circle about over
the pines.

Addison desired to examine a nest. One of the pines had low knots on the
trunk, within six feet of the ground, and a little higher up drooping
branches. There was a nest near the top. Halstead offered to climb up to
it. Addison and I lifted him up to the knots. He climbed up by these to
the lowest limbs, and then went on from branch to branch toward the top.

"Two eggs!" he shouted, peeping over into the great nest.

"Don't break them!" cried Addison. "Bring them down if you can!"

Halstead took them out and put them into his loose frock, then, before
we guessed what he was going to do, he had upset the nest from the
branches in which it rested, and it came bumping down through the boughs
to the ground. The fall shook it to pieces considerably, yet we could
see what its shape had been. There were some sticks in it three and four
feet long, as thick as a man's wrist. The inside was lined with dry
grass. It was large enough to allow the old heron to double its long
legs and sit in it comfortably. Halse now came down with the eggs. They
were of a dirty white color, the shells rough and uneven. Theodora
imagined that they would be as large as goose-eggs; they were not larger
than those of a turkey,--about two and a half inches in length by one
and a half in width.

"I shall carry them home and hatch them under a hen," said Addison.

"I guess the old hen will cackle when she sees what she has hatched,"
exclaimed Ellen, laughing.

While we were looking at them, a noise in the brush startled us, and,
turning hastily, we saw a young man wearing a glazed cap standing at the
border of alders, near the brook. His appearance startled us somewhat.
Presently we noticed that he was beckoning, evidently to Halstead, and
that the latter seemed very uneasy; he bent over the eggs and pretended
not to see any one. But the fellow continued loitering there; and at
last Halse jumped up, saying, "I'll see what he wants, I guess," and
went out to the alders. The man stepped back and they both disappeared
among the bushes.

We stood waiting for some minutes, then started to go slowly out through
the pines into the pasture and homeward with our trophies.

"Who could that have been?" Ellen exclaimed to Addison in a low voice;
but Addison merely shook his head.

Somewhat to our surprise, we found Halstead at home in advance of us; he
had already sat down to supper with Gramp and Gram.

That night, after milking was done and we had gone up-stairs to our
room, Halstead said to me, "I suppose you saw that fellow that came to
see me down at the pines this afternoon."

I said yes.

"That was a poor chap I promised to buy some seed-corn for," Halse went
on, hastily. "He came around to get the money; and I'm going to try to
make it up somehow, though I haven't got the money just now. Couldn't
let me have seventy-five cents, could you?"

I said that I could, for I felt relieved to think that the mysterious
person was merely a poor farmer.

Halstead regarded me for some moments. "I wish you would ask Doad and
Nell if they won't lend me a quarter apiece," he said at length. "I can
just make it up, if you would. I hate to ask them myself. But I will
give it back to you in the course of a month.

"I wouldn't say anything to Ad about it," Halstead went on; "Ad don't
like me and I don't want to feel beholden to him for anything."

I replied that I did not feel quite well enough acquainted with Theodora
and Ellen yet, to ask such a favor; but as Halstead seemed to feel hurt
that I hesitated about it, I finally promised to speak to them, although
I disliked the errand.

Next day was Sunday, and after breakfast we all set off, except Ellen
and Gram, to go to the old meeting-house, called the "chapel," three
miles distant, on a road leading westward from the farm. It was a very
hilly road, and we three boys walked; but Theodora and Wealthy rode with
the Old Squire in the two-seated wagon.

I had been accustomed to go to church in a more handsomely furnished
edifice, and the old chapel seemed, at first, very rude to me. It was a
weather-beaten structure, having a high gallery across one end and an
almost equally high pulpit at the other. The floor was bare, and the
box-shaped pews were not many of them provided with cushions. There was
a great clatter of feet when the people came in, and the roof gave back
hollow echoes.

The Old Squire and Gram were nominally Congregationalists, and the old
meeting-house had once belonged to that sect; but becoming reduced in
numbers, and being unable to support a clergyman of that denomination
during the entire year, they had allowed the Methodists, and finally the
Second Adventists, to hold meetings there.

The Old Squire, indeed, was by no means a strict sectarian; he attended
the Methodist service and sometimes, not often, the Adventist. Gram was
more conservative and did not go, as a rule, except when there was a
Congregationalist minister, although she always spoke well of the
Methodists; and the Methodist Elder Witham (the same who took the
Vermifuge) frequently visited at the farm.

"All Christians are good people," Gramp was accustomed to say.

"Well," Gram would reply, placidly, "I cannot help believing that we
(meaning the Congregationalists) are in the right."

The Old Squire's chief objection to the Adventists was, that their
preachers had come into the place uninvited, and, by their zealous
efforts, had caused a considerable number to withdraw from the church,
thus breaking up the Congregationalist Society in that town.

"I do not take it upon me to say who is right and who is wrong on these
great religious questions," the old gentleman used to remark, when the
subject came up. "But I disapprove of sowing the seeds of dissension in
any church." However, he used sometimes to go to hear the Adventists'
ministers.

It was Elder Witham's turn to preach that Sunday. He was a tall, spare
man, and he preached in a long linen "duster." For one I became quite a
good deal interested in the sermon, for the preacher began very
pleasantly by telling us several short anecdotes. Toward the close of
his discourse, he became very earnest and raised his voice quite near
the shouting pitch.

During intermission, there was an attempt made to organize a Sunday
school. The boys and girls were seated in classes in the pews, and
teachers were appointed from the older members of the church.

There was a small Sunday-school library, consisting of quaint little
books with marbled covers. Each of us was permitted to carry home one of
these small volumes; and I recollect that my book that Sabbath was
entitled _Herman's Repentance_.

The Elder rode home with our folks to tea, and Theodora walked with us
boys. There were six or eight others walking with us, the sons and
daughters of neighbors, to whom Theodora kindly introduced me: Georgie
and Elsie Wilbur, very pretty girls of about Ellen's age, also their
brother Edgar, near my own age, and a large, awkward but smiling
youngster, whose name was Henry Sylvester, whom the others called "Bub."
An older boy of rather swaggering manners overtook us on our way, and
began talking patronizingly to me, without an introduction. His name was
Alfred Batchelder. We also overtook a boy named Willis Murch, who had
stopped to sit, waiting for us, on a large rock beside the road. The
Murch family lived a mile beyond the Old Squire's to the northwest.

The quiet of the walk homeward was somewhat broken in upon, however, by
a scuffle and some hard words betwixt Halstead and Alfred Batchelder.

As we came near the great gate opening into our lane, Theodora walked up
to the house with me, a little behind the others, and told me,
confidentially--for my good, I suppose--that Alfred Batchelder was
deemed a reckless chap whose character was not above reproach. I, on my
part, seized the opportunity to proffer Halstead's petition for the loan
of twenty-five cents.

"I could lend it to him," she replied, "and so can Ellen, I think."

But she seemed thoughtful, and by and by asked me to tell her all that
Halstead had said. I did so, and added that he did not wish Addison to
know about it.

"I am sorry for that," she said, "for I should like to ask Ad's advice.
But I suppose we had better not tell him, if Halse is unwilling."

Later that evening she gave me the money, along with twenty-five cents
from Ellen. I handed it to Halstead that night, a dollar and a quarter
in all. He appeared much pleased.

"Does Ad know it, or the old gent?" he asked me, and cried, "Good!" when
I said they did not.

He sat on the side of the bed and tossed up the five quarter pieces,
catching them as they fell.

"I know a way to get plenty of these fellers," he remarked to me at
length.

"What makes you borrow of the girls, then?" I asked.

"O, you needn't be scared. I'll soon pay you all," he retorted.

But I had begun to doubt that the money was to pay for a poor farmer's
seed-corn.




CHAPTER VIII

"OLD THREE-LEGS"


Monday morning dawned bright and very warm. As we were about to sit down
to breakfast, Catherine Edwards called at the door and left a letter for
me, from my mother, which had arrived at the Corners post-office on
Saturday, but which Neighbor Edwards, who had brought the mail for us
late that evening, had overlooked; my letter had consequently lain over,
in his coat pocket, until that morning, when he had chanced to discover
it.

My mother had written me a very nice letter, as such letters go,
exhorting me to good behavior in general; and if she had stopped short
at that point, it would have been better. She went on, however, to tell
me of affairs at home, of what she was doing, of "Bush," our cat, of the
canary, of three or four boys and girls with whom I was acquainted, and
also of a grand parade of returned soldiers.

I had not half finished it, when I was seized with such a pang of
homesickness as I hope never to feel again; in fact, I do not believe
that I ever could feel another such pang. It penetrated my entire being;
I could not swallow a mouthful of breakfast. It seemed to me that I
should choke and die right there, if I did not get up and start for home
that very minute;--and I knew I could not go. Blue is no adequate word
with which to describe such sensations. In the course of an hour,
however, this first fit passed off for the most part, but left me very
pensive and melancholy. I was aware, too, that the Old Squire had
noticed my mood.

As we hoed corn that forenoon, a boy came driving a horse and "drag"
into the field; it was Edgar Wilbur, one of the lads whom I had seen the
day before while coming from church. The Wilburs lived at the farm next
beyond the Edwardses, about three-quarters of a mile distant from us.
Mr. Wilbur was not a wholly thrifty farmer, and often borrowed tools at
the Old Squire's. Edgar had now come for the "cultivator," for their
corn.

While we were loading it on the drag for him, Edgar told us boys that he
had to go to the back pasture to salt their sheep that afternoon, and
asked us to go with him. Addison replied that we were too busy with our
hoeing; but the Old Squire, who had overheard what was said, looked at
me with a compassionate smile, and said that I might go if I liked. I
suppose he hoped that the trip with Edgar would cheer me up.
Accordingly, after dinner, I was given my liberty, and set off for the
Wilburs, leaving Halstead grumbling over what he deemed my unmerited
good fortune.

The Wilburs lived in a one-story red house; and their barn was a
somewhat weather-beaten, infirm old structure, yet the place had a cozy
appearance; there were beds of flowers by the house door, and a great
bunch of pink hedge roses on one side of the way leading into the yard,
with a thick bush of lilacs on the other. Elsie and Georgie were at the
district school; but Mrs. Wilbur, a fresh-faced, pleasant woman, came to
the door and very kindly asked me in, offering me presently a glass of
spruce beer which had a queer flavor, I thought, and which I was not
quite able to finish.

Meantime Edgar--or Ned, as his mother called him--had filled a six-quart
pail with salt, and we set off immediately for the sheep pasture. The
distance was considerable, fully a mile; we first crossed their hay
fields, then a cow pasture and then a belt of woodland, through which
ran a cart road. Gradually ascending a considerable slope of the
woodland, we came out upon the cleared crest of a long ridge. This was
the "back pasture;" it was inclosed by a high hedge fence, made of
short, dry, spruce shrubs. This fence we climbed, and then Edgar began
calling the sheep,--"Ca-day, ca-day, ca-day, ca-day," stopping at
intervals to give me various items of information as to their flock and
the extent of the pasture. The Murches, who lived on the farm next
beyond the Wilburs, pastured their sheep with them, in this same back
pasture; they had a flock of thirty-eight, while the Wilburs had
thirty-three, but there were over a hundred lambs. Every spring the two
farmers and the boys repaired, or rebuilt, the high hedge fence in
company. The pasture was of seventy-five acres extent, Edgar said; but
it was much broken by crags and grown up to patches of dark, low spruce.

Altogether it was a very wild locality, wholly inclosed by somber
forests; and from the top of one of the ledges, which I climbed, I could
see no cleared land, far or near, save on the side next to their farms,
and that at quite a distance. This ledge, I recollect, had a vein of
white quartz running across it, displaying at one point a trace of
rose-color; and I remember thinking that some time I would come here and
break out specimens of this handsome stone.

At length in response to Ned's calls, we heard a faint _ba-a-a_, toward
the north end of the pasture, and going in that direction, past a number
of spruce copses and many other ledges, we came in sight of the flock of
sheep, feeding in a hollow near a spring. A great mob of lambs were
following their mothers and frisking about the rocks; and there was one
black sheep and one black lamb which, at first sight, I thought were
dogs or some other animals. "That black sheep is Murches'," Ned said.
"She's got two lambs; but that black lamb is in our flock. There's South
Down blood in a good many of them. You can tell the South Downs by their
black fore legs and smut faces. There's fifteen pairs of twins in our
flock and about as many in Murches'. Ca-day, ca-day, ca-day."

Catching sight of us and the salt pail, the flock now came crowding
eagerly about us. The ovine odor was very strong. Black flies troubled
the poor creatures grievously, and another larger, evil-looking fly was
buzzing about their noses.

"We are coming up in a day or two and tar all their noses," said Ned,
dealing out the salt in numerous handfuls, throwing it down on smooth
spots upon the grass, and running backwards to avoid the onward rush of
the sheep.

"Now let's count 'em," he continued. "We always count 'em when we salt
'em. Let's see, can you reckon good? Murches have got thirty-eight sheep
and fifty-three lambs, and we've got thirty-three sheep and forty-eight
lambs. How many does that make in all?"

After some cogitation, we agreed that there must be seventy-one sheep
and a hundred and one lambs, or a hundred and seventy-two all told. That
was what there should be; and we now set out to ascertain by counting if
all were there.

This was a greater feat than would appear at first thought, the flock
was so crowded together and so constantly running about. We made several
attempts, but as many times lost the count, or grew confused. At length,
we drove the sheep apart, and the salt being eaten by this time, we
contrived to enumerate eighty-two on one side and eighty-seven on the
other.

"Now how many's that?" said Ned. I could not make but a hundred and
sixty-nine from it; but Ned said that he guessed 'twas more. After
studying on it awhile, however, he agreed with me; and we then counted
the flock again, twice more, in fact, before we were both satisfied that
there were but a hundred and sixty-nine present.

"Now that's bad," said Ned.

"What suppose has become of them?" I asked.

"Dogs, maybe," replied Ned, "or else a 'lucivee,' or a bear."

"Perhaps 'twas men," I suggested.

"O no, I don't think that," said Ned. "If 'twas in the fall, I should
think it might be, for there are some folks down at the Corners that
have been laid in stealing sheep. But let's see whether it's sheep or
lambs that's gone, and whose 'tis, whether it's ours or Murches'. Now
all our sheep have got two slits in the right ear and a crop off the
left; but Murches' have a crop off both ears; and all our lambs have got
red paint across the fore shoulders, but Murches' have got red on the
rump." This necessitated a new count and a much more difficult one.

"I'll count the ones with slits and crops," said Ned; "and you count the
ones with two crops." But we were nearly half an hour establishing the
fact that one of the "two crops" was missing.

"It is one of Murches' sheep that's gone," said Ned; "I'm glad it isn't
ours." We then counted the lambs and found also that the missing ones
were two of the Murches'.

"It's an old sheep with twins," said Ned.

"Isn't she off by herself somewheres?" I asked.

"Not very likely to be unless she's got hung; they always keep
together," replied Ned. "But she may have got hung in the brush, or else
has tumbled in between big rocks and can't get out. I suppose we ought
to look her up if that's so.

"I'll tell you what we will do," continued Ned; "we will walk clean
round the pasture, in the first place, keeping where we can see the
fence, for she may be hung in it."

Thereupon we set off to walk around the pasture, going along the farther
side to the northwest and the southwest first. The fence skirted the
thick bushes and woods. Toward the southwest corner there was a long,
craggy ledge a little within the pasture fence. It fell off, rough,
rocky and almost perpendicular on that side, from a height of fifteen or
twenty feet, and about the foot of the crag were many of the low, black
spruces, but from the upper side one could walk out on the bare, smooth
rocks to the very brink of the ledge. We approached from this upper
side, and as we came out on it, to look down into the corner of the
pasture, a crow cawed suddenly and sharply, and we saw three crows rise,
flapping, off the ground, below the crag.

"Hoh!" Ned exclaimed. "What are those black chaps up to there?"

We stopped and looked down attentively into the partly open plat of
pasture, inclosed around on the lower side by the seared, reddish line
of the now dried hedge fence.

"Why, Ned, see the wool down there on the ground!" I cried, as a white
mass caught my eye.

"Something's killed the sheep there!" replied Ned, in a low tone. "See
the head there and the meat and bones strung along. Something's killed
her and eaten her half up; and there looks to be part of a lamb farther
along by that little fir."

A very strange sensation, partly fear, stole over me, as we stood there
looking down upon the torn remains of the sheep and lamb. The place was
far off in the woods and the surroundings were wild and somber. There
was something uncanny, too, in the way those crows rose up and went
flapping away. In less degree, I think Ned experienced similar
sensations, for he stood without speaking for a moment, then said, "O it
may have been done by a dog, or maybe she died.

"Let's climb down and see what we can see," he continued.

"We can see that the sheep is dead from up here," I replied, for I did
not like the idea of going down there very well.

"Come along," said Ned, laughing. "You needn't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," said I. "But it is a kind of lonesome looking place."

"Yes, 'tis," replied Ned, stopping for a little to look again. "But
let's go down and see. They'll ask us all about it, and we've got to
find out what we can."

He walked along the top of the ledge, and, coming to a place where we
could descend between some large split rocks, began to climb down. I
followed after him, a little in the rear. Ned had got down among the
small spruces, at the foot of the crag, when he suddenly called back to
me that one of the lambs was there. "Poor little chap, he's hid here,
under the brush," he continued; and on getting down, I saw the lamb
standing far under the thick, dark boughs.

"I never saw a lamb hide in that way before," said Ned. "He's been awful
scared by something."

We crept around and tried to catch the lamb; it ran along the foot of
the rocks among the evergreens, but did not bleat, nor behave at all as
lambs generally do.

"He's got blood on his side there," remarked Ned. "But he may have got
that off the old sheep."

After looking at the lamb a moment, Ned started to go down where the
carcass of the sheep lay, but I felt a little timid and stood still,
near the foot of the rocks.

It was not far to go, not more than a hundred feet, I think, being about
half way down to the thick, reddish hedge of recently cut spruce. Ned
approached within a few yards and after looking at the fleece and bones
a minute, stopped to pick up a wisp of wool, when from right at hand
there burst forth the most frightful growl that I ever heard. It broke
on the utter stillness of that quiet nook like a thunder peal and it so
wrought on my already alert senses that I yelled outright from sudden
terror!

For the moment I could not have told from what quarter the terrible
sound came, for the high rocks behind me reverberated it. Following
instantly upon the growl, however, we heard a cracking of the brush in
the thicket below the hedge fence; and next moment there issued through
a hole in it a large black animal of terrific aspect, that to my
startled eyes looked as large as an ox!

Not that I stopped to estimate its size. I was on the move by the time
it had issued from the hole of the hedge fence;--but a boy's eye will
take in a good deal at one glance, under such circumstances. It was a
steep ascent betwixt the rocks to the top of the ledge; but if I had
possessed wings, I could not have got up much more quickly. As I gained
the top, I thought of striking off for the upper side of the pasture,
and thence running for my life toward the farms; but at the same instant
my eye fell on a low-growing oak, a few rods away, the lower limbs of
which I thought that I could jump up and seize. I had started for it,
but had taken only a bound or two, when I heard Ned say, "Hold on,"
behind me. I looked back. He had gained the top of the ledge almost as
quickly as I had, but had stopped there. "Hold on," he exclaimed in a
low voice. I stopped and stood, half breathless and panting, ready to
bound away again and half inclined to do so.

Ned was looking down from the ledge and motioned to me with his hand to
return. After some hesitation, I tiptoed back to him.

"See him?" he whispered to me. "He's right there behind that little
spruce, close beside the sheep. He's looking up here and harking!" The
black animal was half hidden by the spruce boughs, yet I could see him,
and experienced a curious nervous thrill as I made out its shaggy
outlines.

"Isn't it a bear?" I whispered.

"Cracky, yes," whispered Ned. "A big one, too!"

"But won't he chase us?"

"Guess not," replied Ned. "Ye see, 'tis the sheep he felt so mad about.
He'd killed the sheep and that lamb last night, I expect, and eaten them
part up. And he had only gone down there a little way into the firs
behind the fence and was kinder watching till he got hungry again. He
saw and heard us come along, but he kept still and didn't say a word
till he saw me stoop down to touch it. Then, sir, he just spoke right
out in meetin'! Told me to get out and let his meat alone. O, don't I
wish I had a good gun, loaded with a ball!"

"Would you dare to fire at him, Ned?" I said.

"Well," replied Ned, doubtfully, looking around and seeing the oak, and
then glancing down the rocks, "I dunno, but I believe I would get good
aim and let strip at him. If I hit him and hurt him, but didn't kill
him, he might come for us, lickety switch. But he couldn't get up here
very quick. We should have time to climb that tree."

"I wish we could shoot him!" I whispered, beginning to wax warlike.

"I've a great mind to let a stone go down there," said Ned, looking
about. "Let's both get stones and throw at once, and see what he will
do. If he starts up here, we'll put for that tree."

This was an extremely exciting proposition, but I was getting bolder. We
found each a stone as big as a coffee-cup.

"Now both together," whispered Ned, and we flung them with all our
power. We did not hit our mark, but they struck the ground near the
spruce and bounced past it, quite closely. The bear growled again,
savagely, and started stiffly out from his covert, past the remains of
the sheep. We both turned to run, but noticing that the creature had
stopped, we pulled up again. The bear saw us and growled repeatedly, yet
did not come far past his jealously guarded treasure. He shuffled about,
keeping his head drawn down in a peculiar manner, but we could see that
his eye was on us. After a few moments, he drew back behind the spruce
again. Thereupon we threw more stones; and again the beast rushed out,
growling and scratching up the grass in an odd manner; he did not appear
inclined to pursue us, however, and we now noticed that there was
something clumsy in its gait, like a limp.

"Gracious!" Ned suddenly exclaimed. "That's old 'Three-Legs!' He's come
round again!"

"What, the bear that lost his foot in a trap?" I asked, remembering what
Ellen and Theodora had told me a few days before.

"Yes, siree!" cried Ned. "He's an awful old sheep-killer! He comes round
once in a while. But he's mighty cunning! He's a savage one, too, but he
can't run very fast."

"Then let's pelt him!" I exclaimed.

"No, no," said Ned. "We must hurry back home and raise a crew. That bear
must be killed, you know. If we don't, he will come round every week and
take a sheep all summer."

We therefore set off in haste, to run to the Wilbur farm, where we
arrived very hot and out of breath just as the family was sitting down
to supper. "Old 'Three-Legs' is in the sheep pasture!" shouted Ned at
the door. "Get the gun, pa! I'm going to tell the Murches!"

Mr. Wilbur owned a gun, but it was not in shooting condition. We then
ran down the hill to the Murch farm, and there our story created
considerable excitement. Ben and Willis at once brought out a
double-barrelled gun, which their father proceeded to load, but they
lacked bullets and heavy shot. Willis and Ned and I therefore ran to the
Edwardses to notify Thomas and his father and procure ammunition. At the
Edwardses they had both shot and also a musket which carried balls. This
latter weapon was at once charged for bear.

Mr. Edwards, however, advised me to go home and notify the Old Squire
and Addison, in order that they, too, might join the hunt, if disposed.

I set off at a run again; but by this time I had become not a little
leg-weary; night, too, was at hand. The boys were milking, and I met the
Old Squire coming toward the house with two brimming pailfuls. "Old
'Three-Legs' has just killed one of Murches' sheep and a lamb, too!" I
shouted.

"Is that so?" said the old gentleman, but the intelligence did not
excite him so much as I had expected it would. He looked at me and said,
"You look badly heated. You have run too hard."

"But that old bear's killed a sheep!" I exclaimed. "They are all going
after him. They sent me to get you and the boys."

By this time Addison and Halstead had risen off their milking stools to
hear the tidings, and exhibited signs of interest.

"Did you see the bear, my son?" the Old Squire asked.

"Yes, siree!" I exclaimed, and thereupon I poured forth all the
particulars. "They want all of us to load our guns and go with them," I
cried expectantly.

"Well," remarked the Old Squire, with what seemed to me a very provoking
lack of enthusiasm. "If they are all going, I guess they will not need
us. You had better go to the well and wash your face and head in some
cold water, then rest a while and have your supper; it has been a very
hot day."

"But old Three-Legs!" I exclaimed. "He may get away!"

"Yes, he may," said Gramp, laughing. "I should not wonder if he did.

"I will tell you something about bears, my son," he went on,
good-naturedly. "A bear is quite a knowing animal, and sometimes very
cunning. This one they call old 'Three-Legs' is remarkably so. I'm very
sure that, if we all went over there as quick as we could, and stayed
around all night, we shouldn't find him. That bear knew just as well as
you did that you had gone to get help and would be back with it; and I
shouldn't wonder if by this time he was three miles away--and still
going. What that bear did after you and Ned left was to listen awhile,
till he made sure you were gone, then stuff himself with as much more of
that mutton as he could hold, and leave the place as fast as he could
go. He's gone, you may depend upon it;--and he will not come near that
place again for a week or two probably. That is bear nature and bear
wit. They seem to know some things almost as well as men. They know when
they kill sheep that men will make a fuss about it. That bear was lying
quiet there, with his ears open for trouble; he wasn't much afraid of
two boys, but he knows there are men and guns not far off."

I was really very tired and after hearing this view of the case was not
much sorry to rest and have my supper. We learned next day that Thomas
and his father, and Ned and the Murches went over to the pasture with
their guns, but they failed to find the bear. The Murches set a trap at
the place where the sheep had been killed, and kept it there for ten
days. A hound was caught in it, but no bear.

I remember that my sleep that night was somewhat disturbed by exciting
dreams of hunting. At the breakfast table next morning I told the story
of our adventure over again, and described the ugly demonstrations of
the bear at such length, that I presently saw grandfather smiling, and
detected Addison giving a sly wink to Theodora. This confused me so much
that I stopped in haste and was more cautious about my realistic
descriptions in future. Halstead began hectoring me that forenoon
concerning my adventure, and nicknamed me "the great bear hunter." Much
incensed, I retorted by asking him whether he had paid for that
seed-corn. Hearing that, Addison, who was near us, cast an inquiring
look at Halstead, and the latter hurriedly changed the subject; he was
unusually polite to me for several days afterwards.




CHAPTER IX

HOMESICK AGAIN. BLUE, OH, SO BLUE!


The jaunt with Edgar and the excitement about old "Three-Legs" had
distracted my thoughts for the time being, but had not cured me of
homesickness. Two days later my mother sent me by mail my book of
arithmetic, the one I had recently used at school; she thought that I
might attend the district school in Maine and need it.

Now there is not usually much in a text-book of arithmetic that excites
fond memories in a boy of thirteen. Often the reverse. But I had no
sooner taken that well-thumbed book from its wrapping of brown paper,
than another pang of homesickness went through me; and this time it was
nostalgia in earnest.

If, at this moment, there is anywhere in the United States, or in the
whole world, a boy or girl who is homesick, I know how to pity each and
all of them. I do not suppose that my pity will do them much good.
Nothing does much good. But I know exactly how they feel, and they have
my heartiest sympathy.

Whoever ridicules and laughs at any one who is truly homesick must have
a hard heart and a shallow mind. It is no laughing matter. Homesickness
is something midway between a physical disease and a mental worry. It
has a real, physiological cause, and is due to the inability of the
brain to adapt itself, without a struggle, to the strangeness of new
scenes and new surroundings; and that struggle is often a very painful
one.

Homesickness had not fallen upon me at first, there were so many new
things to see, so many new cousins and young neighbors to get acquainted
with. For a time my attention was wholly taken up with the novelties of
the place. The farm, the cattle, the birds, the work which we had to do,
everything, in fact, was novel. Perhaps for that very reason, when the
mental struggle to really adapt myself to it came, it was the more
profound and severe.

That morning I had no sooner unwrapped this old book than the pang began
again. I could not swallow a mouthful of breakfast. It really seemed to
me that I should die right then and there if I did not get up and start
for home.

_Blue_ is no adequate word with which to describe what I suffered. It
came upon me with a suddenness, too, which nearly took my breath with
it. At the table were the bright, cheery faces of my cousins, and of the
Old Squire and Gram; but for the moment, how saddening, poor and dreary
everything looked to me! The thought of remaining there, month after
month, gave me heart-sink like death.

Kind parent, if you have a boy or girl off at school, or anywhere at a
distance, whom you wish to be happy and content, do not write very much
to them, and above all things do not go on to tell them of home affairs,
home scenes and familiar objects. It is mistaken kindness. It might
possibly answer--if a boy--to speak of a woodpile soon to be sawn;
or--if a girl--to allude to great heaps of dishes to be washed; but I
would not even advise much of that, nor anything else in the least
suggestive of home scenes; in fact, write as little as possible.

I remember, as I sat there at table, unable to eat, or even to swallow
my coffee, that Cousin Theodora glanced compassionately at me, and Ellen
and Addison curiously. They surmised what ailed me, from their own
previous experience, but said nothing. The Old Squire and Gram, too,
wisely forebore to stir me by foolishly expressed sympathy. How glad I
was that they did not speak to me!

The day passed drearily enough, and as evening drew on, still gloomier
shadows fell into my mind. I stole away to read my mother's letter again
and be alone with my trouble. Billow after billow of the blackest misery
broke over me. I went out into the garden, then around to the back side
of the west barn; the darkening landscape was not more somber than my
heart. How unspeakably dreary the dim, weathered old barn, the shadowy
hills and forests looked to me! Not less dreary seemed my whole future.
I felt exiled. It appeared to me that I should never know another happy
moment, that I never could, by any possibility, enjoy myself again. I
sat down on a stone, in the dark, put my head in my hands, and gave
myself up to the most somber reflections. Cold despair crept into me at
every pore. A fever of tears then filled my eyes. I laid wild plans to
escape; I would run away that very night and go home. The distance, as I
knew, was about five hundred miles; but I was sure that I could walk
twenty miles per day, perhaps thirty. In twenty days I could reach home.
I did not think much about food by the way; it did not appear to me that
I should want to touch a mouthful of anything eatable till I reached
home. If I did so far desire, I fancied that I might gather a few
berries by the wayside. Then I began to plan the details of setting off.
I would go indoors and put on my other suit of clothes, after the family
were asleep; and not to be too mean and cause too much anxiety, I
determined to write a few words on a bit of paper and slip it under
Theodora's door, advising them all not to worry about me, as I had gone
home, "for a time." These latter words I concluded to add, by way of
breaking it a little more gently to them, not that I had the slightest
intention of ever returning.

As I sat there with my hands over my face, planning, and brewing hot
tears, I heard a step in the grass, and looking up, saw a tall, shadowy
figure which I knew must be the Old Squire.

"Is that you, 'Edmund?'" he said, as I jumped up off the stone. He still
called me that sometimes. "It is a close night, I declare," he
continued. "I had about as lief be out here in the cool myself, as in
the house abed. But the mosquitoes bite a little, don't they?".

I had neither noticed that the evening was hot, nor yet that there were
any mosquitoes; I was quite insensible to ordinary physical influences.

The old gentleman lay down on the grass beside me. "Let's lay and talk a
spell," said he. "I never come round back of the barn here, but that I
think of the fox I shot when I was a young man. That fox had a 'brush'
as big 'round as your leg, the biggest fox-tail I ever saw. He had been
coming around the barns for some time; I used to hear him bark,
mornings, about four o'clock."

The Old Squire then went on, at length, to tell me how he watched for
the fox, and how he loaded the old "United-States-piece" musket for it,
and how he finally fired and shot the fox, but that the gun nearly broke
his collar-bone, he had loaded it so heavily. He was nigh half an hour
telling me all about it, and in spite of myself, I grew somewhat
interested.

"Why, how these mosquitoes do bite!" he finally exclaimed, giving one a
rousing slap. "Let's go in before they eat us up, and go to bed."

I went in with him and went to bed, but my trouble had now cankered too
deeply to be easily calmed. In the blackness of the bedchamber it beset
me again. Like other maladies, nostalgia, when once set up, must run its
course, I suppose. It never has appeared to me that I slept at all that
night, yet perhaps I did. Long before daylight, however, I was again
shedding hot tears and laying wild plans. But my thoughts had now taken
on an even gloomier and more desperate shade. What was the use of my
going home, I thought; my mother did not want me there. What was the use
of living in such a hopelessly dreary world! Live there at the Old
Squire's I could not, would not; of that I was certain. I never could
endure it. The thought of existing there, as I then felt, week after
week and month after month, was simply unbearable. Better die at once. I
began to think of various cases of suicide of which I had heard, or
read--in my happier days: the rope, poison, drowning. The latter I
believed to be the easier method of death; and I thought of the Little
Sea down where we washed the sheep and had begun to go in swimming on
warm days. There was water enough there in the deepest place;--and once
in, it would soon be over!

As the hours of the night dragged by, I began to take a morbid pleasure
in thinking about it, as if I had fully decided the question. I really
believed that I had as good as decided to drown myself; and when at
length we were called at five o'clock, I rose to dress in a very
unhealthy frame of mind.

"What's the matter with you?" exclaimed Halstead, as we were putting on
our shoes.

"Nothing," said I, heavily.

"You look as if you had lost your best friend," said he, with an
unsympathetic grin.

"I shall lose something more than that before long," I replied, with a
miserable effort at mystery.

"You don't say!" cried he, ironically, and went out with an air of hard
indifference, not at all flattering to my self-love.

How poor and undesirable the house, the farm, the whole world, looked to
me that morning. I plodded about, assisting to do the early chores; I
really had no appetite for my breakfast, and stole away from the table
after a few moments. Gram called after me, to know if I were unwell; I
did not dare trust myself to reply, lest I should burst forth weeping,
and hastening out to the Balm o' Gilead trees, stood looking down the
lane a moment, with a dreadful tumult of repressed misery raging within
me. My mental malady had reached a crisis; I was wild with anguish. It
appeared to me that I never could endure it. One thought only kept its
place in my mind--the Little Sea! I stole away down the lane, crossed
the road, then went on through the east field and pasture, till I
reached the brook.

Not that I now believe there was much likelihood of my drowning myself.
Even if I had been wretched enough to jump in, the first spoonful of
cold water in my nose would probably have sent me scrambling out, as
would have been the case with hundreds who have really drowned
themselves, if only they had not jumped into too deep water. But I
wanted to do something or other very desperate, what, I hardly knew
myself. As I ran, I debated whether I should take off my clothes, or
drown with them on; I did not remember reading how suicides of
hydropathic tendencies had managed that detail. The boys would find my
body Sunday morning when they came down to bathe, I thought. Yet some
one else might find me; and it seemed more decent and proper to drown
with them on. I walked around the Little Sea and singled out the deepest
place in it, where there was four or five feet of water. It looked to be
fully sufficient.

There was now nothing to prevent my going ahead with my project; but
since I had looked into the water and saw how aqueous it appeared,
considered as a place to spend from that morning on till Sunday in,
haste did not seem altogether so desirable, and I was not in nearly so
great a hurry. I sat down on a stone to think it over once more. It
would be unbecoming, I recollected, to take such a step without mental
preparation.

Still, I actually did half believe that when I rose from that stone, I
should plunge into the pond. I imagine that I sat there for more than
half an hour, and very likely should have remained much longer had the
Old Squire not made his appearance, glancing curiously over the dam, a
few rods below me.

It struck me as a little singular that he should be there so early and
so very soon after breakfast. He had an axe on his shoulder, however,
and it occurred to me that it might possibly be that he was there to
mend the pasture fence. When he saw me sitting there, he smiled broadly,
and coming nearer said, "Oh, this isn't nearly so good a brook for
fishing as the other one on the west side."

"'Fishing!'" thought I. "How little he knows what brought me here! Can
he not see that I haven't a pole?"

"Don't know exactly why," he continued, retrospectively, "but there
never were nearly so many trout here as in the west brook. I meant to
have given you and Addison a day to go over there before now, but work
has been rather pressing ever since you came."

I rose from the stone, thinking--and not wholly sorry to think--that
suicide must necessarily be postponed for that day, at least; for I
could not, of course, harrow the old gentleman's feelings by plunging
into the Little Sea before his very eyes. He seemed so guileless, too,
and so wholly unsuspecting of my fell design!

As we walked away, he told me of great trout which he had caught when a
boy, particularly of one big three-pound trout which he had captured at
a deep hole in the west brook, down near the lake.

My mind was still too much disturbed to enjoy these piscatorial
reminiscences, however; and noting this, after a time, Gramp opened
another subject with me.

"A man has lately made an offer for my farm and timber lands here," said
he. "I do not know that I shall accept it; but I have had some thoughts
of selling and moving out West. If I should, I suppose you would have
to go back to Philadelphia. If I went West to look for a farm, I should
call at Philadelphia on my way. You and I would make the trip there
together."

It is astonishing what an effect that last remark of grandfather's
produced upon me. The whole world changed from deepest, darkest blue to
rose color in one minute; and I said, provisionally, to myself that even
if he did not sell so that we could start for a month, I could perhaps
endure it.

Observing the cheerier light in my face, probably, the old gentleman
laughed good-naturedly. He had not forgotten what it is to be a boy and
feel a boy's intense sorrows as well as joys; and he went on to say that
a journey to Philadelphia was a mere nothing nowadays. Why, one might
start, as for instance, that morning and be at Philadelphia the next
morning at eleven o'clock!

But how glad I was that he did not notice that I was homesick! He did
not even appear to mistrust such a thing. And as for drowning myself,
well, the less said or thought about that now the better.

I walked back to the house with the Old Squire; and I got him to let me
carry the axe, for I wanted Addison and Halse to think that Gramp and I
had been off mending fence together.

At intervals, however, for a month or more, I continued to be afflicted
by transient spasms of homesickness, but none of them were as severe as
these first ones, and they gradually ceased altogether.

Dear boys and girls who are homesick, it is astonishing sometimes how
quickly the spasm will pass off, and how bright and cheery life will
look again a few moments later. So don't jump into deep water without
waiting a bit to think it over. It is a hard old world to live in. I
don't pretend to tell you that it isn't; yet life has a great many
pleasant spots, after all, if only we will have a little patience and
courage to wait and look for them. Scores of poor, desperate young
people have actually drowned themselves, from one cause or another, who
would have scrambled out and lived happily for years afterwards, if only
they had not jumped in where the water was so deep! A safe rule in all
these cases is never try to commit suicide by drowning till after you
have learned to swim.




CHAPTER X

MUG-BREAD, PONES AND JOHNNY-REB TOAST


To this day I recall with what a zest my appetite returned after that
last attack of homesickness, and how good the farm food tasted. That
day, too, Gram had "mug-bread," and for supper pones made into
Johnny-reb toast. But these, perhaps, are unheard-of dishes to many
readers.

The pones were simply large, round, thin corn-meal cakes baked in a
fritter-spider in a hot oven. I have lately written to Cousin Ellen, who
now lives in the far Northwest, to ask her just how they used to make
those pones at the old farm. She has replied lightly that for a batch of
pones, they merely took a quart of yellow corn-meal, two tablespoonfuls
of wheat flour, a teaspoonful of salt and half a teaspoonful of soda,
all well stirred to a thin batter in boiling-hot water. This batter was
then poured into large fritter-spiders, forming thin sheets, and baked
yellow-brown in a hot oven. To make these pones into "Johnny-reb toast,"
they were basted while still hot with butter, then moistened plentifully
with Jersey milk which was half cream, allowed to stand five minutes,
then served still warm.

The recipe, I may add, came from Virginia in 1862, being brought home to
Maine by one of my uncles, who lived for a time in an Old Dominion
family, despite all the asperities of the War. From the same sunny
homeland of historic Presidents we obtained the recipe for a
marvellously good spider-cake, but that came later, as I shall relate in
due course.

As a hungry boy I used sometimes to think that pones and "Johnny-reb
toast" were pretty nearly worth the War to us!

Yet neither of these ever came quite up to "mug-bread"--the best flour
bread ever made, I still verily believe.

But the making and the baking of it are not easy, and a failure with
mug-bread is something awful!

The reader may not know it as mug-bread, for that was a local name,
confined largely to our own Maine homestead and vicinity. It has been
called milk-yeast bread, patent bread, milk-emptyings bread and
salt-rising bread; and it has also been stigmatized by several
opprobrious and offensive epithets, bestowed, I am told, by irate
housewives who lacked the skill and genius to make it.

We named it "mug-bread" because Gram always started it in an old
porcelain mug; a tall, white, lavender-and-gold banded mug, that held
more than a quart, but was sadly cracked, and, for safety's sake, was
wound just above the handle with fine white silk cord.

That mug was sixty-eight years old, and that silk cord had been on it
since 1842. Its familiar kitchen name was "Old Hannah." I suspect that
the interstices of this ancient silk string were the lurking-places of
that delightful yeast microbe that gave the flavor to the bread. For
there was rarely a failure when that mug was used.

About once in four days, generally at night, Gram would take two
tablespoonfuls of corn-meal, ten of boiled milk, and half a teaspoonful
of salt, mix them well in that mug, and set it on the low mantel-shelf,
behind the kitchen stove funnel, where it would keep uniformly warm
overnight. She covered in the top of the mug with an old tin coffee-pot
lid, which just fitted it.

When we saw "Old Hannah" go up there, we knew that some mug-bread was
incubating, and, if all worked well, would be due the following
afternoon for supper. For you cannot hurry mug-bread.

The next morning, by breakfast-time, a peep into the mug would show
whether the little "eyes" had begun to open in the mixture or not. Here
was where housewifely skill came in. Those eyes must be opened just so
wide, and there must be just so many of them, or else it was not safe to
proceed. It might be better to throw the setting away and start new, or
else to let it stand till noon. Gram knew as soon as she had looked at
it. If the omens were favorable, a cup of warm water and a variable
quantity of carefully warmed flour were added, and a batter made of
about the consistency for fritters. This was set up behind the funnel
again, to rise till noon.

More flour was then added and the dough carefully worked and set for a
third rising. About three o'clock it was put in tins and baked in an
even oven.

The favorite loaves with us were "cart-wheels," formed by putting the
dough in large, round, shallow tin plates, about a foot in diameter.
When baked, the yellow-brown, crackery loaf was only an inch thick. The
rule at Gram's table was a "cart-wheel" to a boy, with all the fresh
Jersey butter and canned berries or fruit that he wanted with it.

Sometimes, however, the mug would disappear rather suddenly in the
morning, and an odor as of sulphureted hydrogen would linger about, till
the kitchen windows were raised and the fresh west wind admitted.

That meant that a failure had occurred; the wrong microbe had obtained
possession of the mug. In such cases Gram acted promptly and said
little. She was always reticent concerning mug-bread. It had unspeakable
contingencies.

Ellen and Theodora shared the old lady's reticence. Ellen, in fact,
could never be persuaded to eat it, good as it was.

"I know too much about it," she would say. "It isn't nice."

Beyond doubt, when "mug-bread" goes astray at about the second rising,
the consequences are depressing.

If its little eyes fail to open and the batter takes on a greasy aspect,
with a tendency to crawl and glide about, no time should be lost. Open
all the windows at once and send the batter promptly to the
swill-barrel. It is useless to dally with it. You will be sorry if you
do. When it goes wrong, it is utterly depraved.

I remember an experience which Theodora and Ellen had with mug-bread on
one occasion, when Gram was away from home. Aunt Nabbie and Uncle Pascal
Mowbray came on from Philadelphia while she and the Old Squire were
gone.

Aunt Nabbie was grandmother's sister, and she and Uncle Mowbray had been
talking all that season of coming to visit us. But September had been
spoken of as the time they were coming.

They changed their minds, however. Uncle Pascal desired to look after
some business venture of his in Portland, and decided to come in August.
It was a somewhat sudden change of plan, but they sent us a letter the
day before they started, thinking that we would get it and meet them at
the railway station.

Now, all dear city cousins, aunts, uncles and the rest of you who visit
your country relatives, summer or winter, hear me! Do not hold back your
letter telling them you are coming till the day before you start.

Nine times out of ten they will not get it. You will get there before
the letter does; and the chances are that you will have to provide your
own transportation for the six or ten miles from the railway station to
the farm, and you will think that distance longer than all the rest of
the journey.

Most likely, too, you will find the farmer gone to a Grange meeting; and
by the time you have sat round the farmhouse door on your trunk till he
gets back at sunset, you will be homesick, and maybe hungry.

Also--for there are two sides to the matter--your country brother and
his wife will be troubled about it. So send your letter at least a week
ahead.

The first we knew of the coming of Uncle Pascal and Aunt Nabbie, they
drove into the yard with a livery team from the village, and an express
wagon coming on behind with their trunks.

Besides Uncle and Aunt, there was a smiling, dark-haired youth with
them, a grand-nephew of Uncle Mowbray, named Olin Randall, whom we had
heard of often as a kind of third or fourth cousin, but had never seen.
He had never beheld Maine before, and was regarding everything with
curiosity and a little grin of condescension.

That grin of his nearly upset us, particularly Ellen and "Doad," who for
a hundred reasons wished to make a very favorable impression on Uncle
and Aunt Mowbray and all the family. I nearly forgot to mention that
Uncle Mowbray was reputed very fussy and particular about his food.

Our two-story farmhouse was comfortable and big, and we had plenty of
everything; but of course it was not altogether like one of the finest
houses in Philadelphia. For Uncle Mowbray was a wealthy man, one of
those thrifty, prosperous Philadelphia merchants of the era ending with
the Civil War. He never let a dollar escape him.

They came just at dusk. We boys were doing the chores. The girls were
getting supper. Theodora had resolved to try her hand at a batch of
"mug-bread" for the next day, and had set "Old Hannah" up for it.

The unexpected arrival upset us all a good deal, particularly Ellen and
Theodora, who had to bear the brunt of grandmother's absence, get tea,
see to the spare rooms and do everything else. And then there was Olin,
mildly grinning. His presence disturbed the girls worse than everything
else. But Aunt Nabbie smoothed away their anxieties, and helped to make
all comfortable.

We got through the evening better than had at first seemed likely, and
in the morning the girls rose at five and tried to hurry that
"mug-bread" along, with other things, so as to have some of it for
dinner, for they found that they were short of bread.

Ellen, I believe, thought that they had better not attempt the risky
experiment, but should start some hop-yeast bread.

Theodora, however, peeped into the old mug, saw encouraging eyes in it,
and resolved to go on. They mixed it up with the necessary warm water
and flour and set it carefully back for the second rising.

Perhaps they had a little hotter fire than usual, perhaps they had
hurried it a shade too much, or--well, you can "perhaps" anything you
like with milk-yeast bread. At all events, it took the wrong turn and
began to perfume the kitchen.

If they had not been hard pressed and a little flurried that morning,
the girls would probably have thrown it out. Instead, they took it down,
saw that it was rising a little and--hoping that it would yet pull
through--worked in more flour and soda, and hurried four loaves of it
into the oven to bake.

Then it was that the unleavened turpitude of that hostile microbe
displayed the full measure of its malignity. A horrible odor presently
filled the place. Stale eggs would have been Araby the Blest beside it.

The girls hastily shut the kitchen doors, but doors would not hold it
in. It captured the whole house. Aunt Nabbie, in the sitting-room,
perceived it and came rustling out to give motherly advice and
assistance.

And it chanced that while Theodora was confidentially explaining it to
her, the kitchen door leading to the front piazza opened, and in walked
Uncle Pascal, with Olin behind him. They had been out in the garden
looking at the fruit, and had come back to get Aunt Nabbie to see the
bees.

When that awful odor smote them they stopped short. Uncle Mowbray was a
fastidious man. He sniffed and turned up his nose.

"Is it sink spouts?" he gasped. "Are the traps out of order?"

"No, no, Pascal!" said Aunt Nabbie, in a low tone, trying to quiet him.
"It is only bread."

"Bread!" cried Uncle Mowbray, with a glance of rank suspicion at the two
girls. "Bread smelling like that!"

Just then Ellen discovered something white, which appeared to be
mysteriously increasing in size, in the shadow on the back side of the
kitchen stove. After a glance she caught open the oven door.

It was that mug-bread dough! It had crawled--crawled out of the tins
into the oven--crawled down under the oven door to the kitchen floor,
where it made a viscous puddle, and was now trying, apparently, to crawl
out of sight under the wood-box.

Aunt Nabbie burst out laughing; she could not help it. Then she tried to
turn Uncle Mowbray out.

But no, he must stand there and talk about it. He was one of those men
who are always peeping round the kitchen, to see if the women are doing
things right. But Olin scudded out after one look, and the girls saw him
under one of the Balm o' Gilead trees, shaking and laughing as if he
would split.

Poor Doad and Nell! That was a dreadful forenoon for them. As youthful
housekeepers they felt, themselves disgraced beyond redemption. In
three years they had not recovered from it, and would cringe when any
one reminded them of Uncle Mowbray and the mug-bread.




CHAPTER XI

THE BIRDS AND BIRD-SONGS AT THE OLD FARM

    "Sing away, ye joyous birds,
    While the sun is o'er us."


Looking back to that first fortnight after my arrival at the Old
Squire's, I think what most impressed my youthful mind was the country
verdure and the bird-songs. Everything looked so very green, accustomed
as my eyes were to the red city bricks, white doorsteps and dusty
streets. The universal green of those June days at times well nigh
bewildered me.

Astronomers tell us that there are systems of worlds in outer space,
presided over by green suns; it was as if I had been transported to such
a world. Moreover, the effect was cool and calm and healthful; cities
are abnormal places of abode; man originated and during all the early
ages of his development, lived in the green, arboreal country,
surrounded by rustic scenery and sylvan quiet. The clangor and roar of a
great city, particularly the noise by night, is unnatural; nor are the
reflected colors from urban structures normal to the eye. Add to these
the undue tension to which city life, as a whole, braces the living
substance of brain and nerve, and the reason why city populations have
to be so constantly recruited from the country is in some degree
explained. Children even more than older persons need country
surroundings.

Next to the deep novelty of the wide green landscape, came the
bird-songs. It was June. The air seemed to me all a-quiver with
bird-notes, and I was listening to each and every one. Ah, to my
untried, youthful eyes those fresh great hay-fields, whitening with
ox-eyed daisies, reddening with sweet-scented clover and streaked golden
with vivid yellow butter-cups, over which the song-convulsed bobolinks
hovered on arcuate wings!

I had never heard the nesting song of a bobolink before. What a song it
is!--the eager zeal, the exultation in it. The overflowing, rollicking
joy with which it is poured forth, filled me with such gleeful
astonishment, the first time I heard one, and struck such a chord of
sympathetic feeling in my heart and so powerfully, that I recollect
shouting, "ye-ho!" and racing tumultuously after the rapturous singer.

"What does that bird say?" I cried.

Laughing quietly at my fresh curiosity, the Old Squire told me that the
bird was supposed to say,--

"Bob o' Lincoln, take-a-stick-and-give-a-lick, Bob-olink, Kitty-link,
Withy-link, Billy-seeble, see, see, see!"

Addison gave a somewhat different interpretation which has now slipped
my memory; I deemed the Old Squire's version the more reliable one.
While strawberrying in the fields, that summer, I searched three or four
times for the nests which I felt sure were close by, in the grass, for
the little plain gray wife of the noisy singer sat on the weed-tops,
crying,--"Skack! skack!" but I could not find them.

Once, I remember, the following year Theodora and I resolved that we
would find the nest of one bold fellow that kept singing close over our
heads, as we were gathering strawberries in a grassy swale, in the west
field. We set down our dishes and crept over every foot of a tract at
least a quarter of an acre in extent, and went over a part of it two or
three times. At last, we found it, but not till we had crushed both nest
and eggs beneath our crawling knees--a denouement which distressed
Theodora so much that she declared she would never search for a
bobolink's nest again. "Clumsy monsters that we are," said she; "the
poor thing's nest is crushed into the dirt!"

When we came to mow that swale a few days after, Gramp first marvelled,
then grumbled repeatedly; for the grass was in a mat. He spoke of it at
the dinner table that day, making a covert accusation against Gram,
whereupon Theodora and I owned up in the matter, Doad naively adding
that we had done it "on the strength of Gram's original permit," but
that we had agreed never to do so again. The Old Squire laughed a little
grimly and said he wanted it understood, that the permit, alluded to,
was not transferable. But the old lady now interposed her opinion, that
the permit could be made a moderate use of by others, if she saw
fit--and needed strawberries.

A pair of blue-birds built their nest in a box which Addison had nailed
to a short pole and set up in the barnyard wall; and every morning, as
we milked the cows, we would hear their plaintive notes, repeated over
and over to each other as they flew about;--"Deary, cheer up, Deary,
cheer up!" as if life needed constant mutual consolation, to be
supported. "Old Ummy," the house cat, was much inclined to watch their
box and once attempted to climb up to them.

Two pairs of peewees built about the premises, one just inside the south
barn cellar, the other under a projecting window-sill at the end of the
wagon-house. These two pairs, or younger birds reared there, had built
in these same places for seven or eight years. Night and morning as we
milked, and at noon also, as we sat grinding scythes at the well, those
old peewees would alight on posts, or gables, rub their beaks twice on
the dry wood and cry, "Peewee, peewee, peewitic; pewee, peer-a-zitic!"
For some not very good reason, I took a boyish dislike to peewees. They
are very useful birds, great destroyers of worms, moths and flies, and
so far as I know, never do the slightest harm, which can hardly be said
of all our feathered favorites.

As we hoed potatoes and corn on those green June days, the song of the
little gray ground sparrows was constantly in my ears, although the
others seemed not to notice it.

"And what does that one say?" I asked Gramp.

"What one?" the old gentleman asked.

"Why, that bird! It sings all the time," I rejoined. "Don't you hear
it?"

He stopped and appeared to listen, at a loss, for a minute, as to what I
heard.

"Oh, those sparrows," replied he, at length. "Addison, can you tell him
what they say?"

"Yes," replied Ad, laughing, "they say and say it very distinctly, too,
'Charlotte, Charlotte, don't you hear me whistle?' Charlotte is his
mate, you know; and the reply to that is 'Philip, Philip's sitting on
the thistle.'"

"That is a little different from what they used to tell me when I was a
boy," Gramp remarked. "I was told that they say, 'War-link, war-link,
christle, christle, christle; high-link, high-link, twiddle, twiddle,
twiddle.'"

"Good deal anybody knows what a bird says," Halstead exclaimed,
derisively. "They don't say anything that I can make out."

But it seemed to me, after Addison had mentioned it, that the first, or
opening note of the song sparrow, was much like, "Charlotte, Charlotte,
don't you hear me whistle?" They had several other notes, too, not as
easily likened to human language; indeed, these humble little sparrows,
when one comes to listen closely to them in all their moods, have a
curious variety of short _arias_.

During my second week at the farm, I found a sparrow's nest in a small
bunch of hard-hack, a few rods from the cow-pasture bars, with four
eggs, resembling, only a little larger than, speckled garden beans; and
I visited it every morning, till the sprawling, skinny little chicks
were hatched. But on the third morning the nest was empty; something had
taken them. Addison said that it was most likely a crow, but possibly a
snake. We often found the nests, while haying in the fields; the scythe
generally passed over them without doing any harm, and to save them from
the rake, we would put up a stick close beside them. But their enemies
are wofully numerous; not half the nests of young are reared. Ants, I
think, kill numbers of the nestlings, soon after they are hatched, when
they chance to be near an ant-hill.

But in the early mornings and evenings, and before the quickly gathering
south rains, the songsters of all others, which made the air vocal, were
the great, bold, red-breasted robins, not fewer than nine pairs of which
had their capacious nests in the garden, orchard and Balm o' Gilead
trees. They always took the greater part of our cherries, till Addison
at a considerable expense, some years later, bought mosquito netting to
spread over the tree tops; and they also ate strawberries greedily; but
we as constantly overlooked their offenses, they sang so royally and
came familiarly back to us so early every spring. No one can long find
the heart to injure Robin Red-Breast.

I do not think it necessary to qualify, or speak of this our fine bird
as the "American robin, or red-breasted thrush," because a different
bird is called the robin in England. This our bird is the Robin; and we
shall call it so without apology, or explanatory adjectives.

The robin songs in the Balm o' Gileads, just across the yard from our
chamber windows, were the matins that often waked us in June, and
sounded in our drowsy ears as we lay, still half asleep, reluctant to
rise and dress. For however it may be with most boys, I am obliged to
confess that both then and later, I was a sleepy-head in the morning;
it always seemed to me on waking, particularly in the summer months,
that I was not half rested, and that I would give almost anything I
possessed for another hour of sleep. As a fact, I now feel sure that I
did not get sleep enough, from half past nine in the evening to five in
the morning; and I think that most boys and girls of thirteen and
fourteen need nine hours of sleep in every twenty-four hours, especially
where they are in active exercise or work throughout the day. It is
really cruel to drive a boy up when he is so shockingly sleepy! There
was always so much going on, that we could not well go to bed till after
nine in the evening, although I would sometimes steal away up-stairs as
soon as it was dark.

Curiously enough it was when I was but about half awake in the morning,
that those robin-songs sounded the most distinctly, and I seemed to hear
every note and trill which they uttered.

    "Tulip, tulip, tulip; skillit, skillit,
    Tulip, skillit; fill it, fill it, fill it;"--

followed after a moment or two, perhaps, by a shrill and noisy "Piff!
piff! piff!"--as some sudden dissension broke out, or some suspicious
cat, or other marauder, came near the nest tree. The crows, always bold
in the early morning hours, would come into the Balm o' Gileads after
birds' nests, sometimes, before we were astir. I remember that Addison
once cut my nap short by firing his gun from the chamber window at a
crow that was sneaking into the Balm o' Gileads after young robins. He
shot the crow, but my own ear rang for more than two hours, and I was so
confused for a time, that I scarcely knew enough to dress myself.

There is no combination of letters which more nearly represents the song
notes of the robin than the above, I think, although many attempts have
been made to render them into some semblance of human language. Addison
always insisted that they said, "Dew-lip, Dew-lip; bill it, bill it,
bill it;"--the whole song being an exhortation of the robin to his mate
whose name was _Dew-lip_, to get up and _bill it_ for worms. Halstead
had somewheres got hold of a medical rendering of the song, by a waggish
doctor who declared that the robins were constantly admonishing him in
the line of his profession:--

    "Kill 'em, cure 'em; physic, physic."

But the rest of us scouted this partisan interpretation.

The explosive, alarmingly energetic danger cry of, "Piff, piff," which
will so suddenly wake the entire vicinity of the nest, is at times
modified and given quite a different intonation, as if to express
discontent: "Fibb, fibb!" and sometimes even loneliness: "Pheeb,
pheeb!"--very mournful.

During a shower, accompanied by wind in heavy wrenching gusts, in the
night, that summer, a nest containing four young robins fell from a
maple, a few rods down the lane, into the grass beneath. Theodora heard
the outcry of the old robins, blended with the thunder and the roar of
the rain, in the night, and noticing their mournful notes next morning
about the tree, made search and discovered the calamity. Addison and she
gathered up the nestlings and putting them in an old berry box, lined
with grass and cotton batting, tied the improvised nest to a branch of
the maple. For an hour or two the scolding old birds would not go near
the thing, but later in the day we saw them, feeding their young in it,
quite as if nothing had happened to disturb them.

In the rear of the wagon-house there grew a good-sized mountain ash or
round-wood tree which nearly every fall was crowned with the usual great
bright-red clusters of bitter berries. Late in October the robins
always came for those berries, and sometimes a flock of fifty or sixty
would assemble. We often tried to frighten the birds away, for the red
clusters are beautiful in winter, but for a long time we never succeeded
in saving them. The robins would linger about for a week, or more,
rather than leave a single bunch of those berries ungathered. Addison
once placed a stuffed cat-skin in the tree, at which the robins scolded
vociferously for a day or two from the neighboring shrubs and fence; but
they suddenly discovered the deception and got all the remaining berries
in the course of a single forenoon. Addison was boasting a little of the
success of his ruse when, at dinner, Ellen quietly bade him go look at
the tree. The robins had already got every berry and gone, leaving the
feline effigy in the bare tree, an object of mirth and ridicule. A
scarecrow made of old clothes, stuffed with hay and crowned by an old
hat, set up in the tree the following year, served no better purpose.
Ellen and Theodora then hung an old tin clothes boiler in the tree, and
arranged a jangling bunch of tin ware inside it, with a long line
running to the kitchen window, where they could conveniently give it a
jerk every few minutes. This device answered well for a day or two, and
it was very amusing to see those robins scatter from the tree, when the
line was pulled. They were some little time making up their minds
concerning it, and would sit on the back fence and rub their beaks on
the posts, at intervals, as if making a great effort to comprehend the
cause of the "manifestations" inside the boiler. No doubt the more
superstitious ones attributed it to "spirits." Skepticism increased,
however, and by the second day one unbelieving red fellow refused to
budge, till the line was jerked twice, and soon after that they wore the
girls out, pulling it, and got the berries as usual. The year after,
Addison saved the berries by stretching one of his cherry-tree nets over
the round-wood tree, in October. It chanced, however, that the tree
failed to produce a crop of berries the next season and died a year or
two later;--a circumstance which Gram hinted, mysteriously, might be a
"dispensation," on account of our persistent efforts to thwart the
robins. It should be taken into account, however, that the mountain-ash
is not long-lived, and that this was already an old tree.

In a large maple, down the lane, a preacher-bird sang every day in June
and until into August, generally loudest and most continuously, from
eleven till two o'clock. On coming to or going from our dinner, we would
often hear him: sometimes he sang in the morning and now and then after
supper. This bird--it is the red-eyed vireo--has an oddly persistent,
pragmatic note, which can hardly be called singing, being more like
declamation and somewhat disconnected and disjoint, as if the "preacher"
were laying down certain truths and facts and seeking by constant
iteration to impress them upon dullards. Betwixt every one of these
short sentences, there is a little pause, as if the preacher were
waiting for the truth to strike home to his hearers; but if the bird is
watched, he will be seen to be picking and hopping about on the branch
which serves him as a pulpit, snapping up a bug or a seed here and
there. Yet his discourse goes steadily on, by the half hour, or hour,
sometimes with a rising inflection, as after a question, sometimes the
falling, as having given an irrefutable answer, himself. Once the idea
that the bird is preaching has entered a listener's mind, he can never
shake it off.

"My hearers--where are you?--You know it--you see it.--Do you hear
me?--Do you believe it?" And so on, upon the same insistent and at
length tiresome strain.

"Oh, I do wish that preacher bird would stop," Ellen would exclaim at
times. "He has 'preached' steadily all the forenoon!"

His place for singing was always about half way from the ground to the
top of the maple, and he rarely came out in sight. The female was
probably sitting on her nest, hard by. They are trim little olive-tinted
birds and often rear two broods, I think, for they remain north till
autumn.

Once while Elder Witham was with us, in haying time, Ellen exclaimed,
inadvertently, as we were going in to sit down at table one day,
"There's that preacher bird again!"

The Elder looked at her a moment and said slowly, "'Preacher-bird,
preacher-bird,' what kind of a bird is that, young lady?"

Greatly abashed at her lapse, Ellen hardly knew how to best explain it,
but Addison came to her rescue. "There are two of those vireos," he
remarked in a perfectly natural, matter-of-fact tone. "One of them, the
warbling vireo, they call the 'brigadier' on account of its peculiar
note, and the other or red-eyed vireo, the 'preacher,' from its earnest
manner of utterance. I don't know," Addison continued, with candid
frankness, "that the names are very well chosen, but we have got in the
habit of calling them that way."

The Elder listened to this, observing Addison closely, then appeared
thoughtful for a moment and said, impressively, "Well, all God's
creatures preach, if only we have ears to hear them." Ellen drew a long
breath of relief, and after dinner, out on the wood-shed walk, she took
Addison by the button and said, "You're a treasure, Ad; ask me for a
cooky any time after this."

The brigadier, or warbling vireo, frequently sits on the tops of trees,
when singing; while the preacher takes his stand midway from the ground
upwards; the brigadier, too, more frequently joins in the great opening
overture of all bird voices, at dawn, to usher in the new day, while
preacher reserves his notes till the earlier choir has ceased its
anthem. Withal the little preacher is much more apt to nest in trees
near the habitations of men than his congener, the brigadier, who not
unfrequently makes his abode at a distance from buildings, where forests
border pastures, or old roads enter woody lands.

Another shrill, small songster of habits quite similar to the brigadier
we used sometimes to hear, but rarely saw, on our way over to the "Aunt
Hannah lot," an adjunct of the Old Squire's farm, to reach which we
crossed a tract of sparse woods. Its notes, prolonged on a very sharp,
high key, resembled the words, _My fee-fee-fee-fee-fee!_ each louder and
keener than the preceding.

Addison was quite uncertain as to this bird, during the first and second
summers we were at the farm. We only saw it once or twice; for its
favorite place, while singing, is at the top of some large dense tree;
and we were never able to find its nest. Addison at length decided that
it was an oven-bird, a surmise which he greatly desired to verify by
finding the rest.

Later in life he has often laughed over our ignorance and our fruitless
quests at that time.

Among the raspberry and blackberry briars, beside the stone wall on the
south side of this same old road, leading to the Aunt Hannah lot, we
used to see, occasionally, a deep blue indigo-bird, a very active little
fellow, always flitting and hopping about amongst the briars. But we
never heard it sing, nor utter any note, save rarely a petulant _snip,
snip_, and never found its nest.

To the south of the same lot there was a tract of mixed wood, sapling
pines, maples, a few beeches, and farther down, nearer the brook, white
ash and great yellow birches, with swamp maples, osier and alder. Here
among the beeches, maples and pines, we at times heard a Theresa-bird.
Theodora chanced to know something of this bird; and I remember that the
first time we ever went there together, she called out to us to listen
to the low, sweet note, which otherwise, in our haste, we should not
have noticed. Addison had never heard it then, and his volumes of
Audubon did not describe New England birds very clearly; but Theodora
said this was a Theresa-bird (which we subsequently found to be the
Green Warbler) and that its song was supposed, in Catholic countries, to
be a petition to _St. Theresa_, viz.,--"_Hear me, St. Theresa_,"
beginning quite high and sinking to a much lower strain. I have since
seen in the naturalist Nuttall's work, that this author compares the
note of the Green Warbler to the syllables, _te-de-deritsea_, repeated
slowly and melodiously.

On the north side of the lane, leading from the house down to the road,
opposite the maple above alluded to, where the robins had a nest, there
stood two elms, quite tall trees, in the uppermost of which, during
three summers, a pair of Baltimore orioles built. These orioles had
never come there previously; at least, the Old Squire had never seen
one, but Gram recognized them the first time one sang, as an old
acquaintance of her girlhood days; she called them Golden Robins and was
much delighted to hear them. They came on one of the first days of June;
and as I had arrived but a few days previously, Gram declared that I
"had brought them with me." But the fact is, that the Baltimore oriole
moves its habitat slowly northeastward, in the wake of man and his
orchards and shade trees; for it is one of those birds which, like the
robin, depend on mankind for protection. This pair constructed a hanging
nest from a twig of one of the drooping elm branches and reared a brood
successfully that season; and throughout that entire month of June,
their song, uttered at intervals of their labors, was a daily delight to
us all. Next after the wood thrush and the robin, the loud yet sweetly
modulated call of the Baltimore oriole is the most pleasing of all our
bird notes. Pure and sweet as it is, too, it nearly always startles the
hearer, from its regal volume and 5 strength. Gram's version of its song
was, _Cusick, cusick!_ _So-ho-o-o!_ _Do you know I'm back with you!_ But
the words themselves give no idea whatever of the song, unless uttered
with the strange, liquid modulations which characterize it.

During the third season some accident befell the pair, or their nest;
they suddenly disappeared and thenceforward we missed their melodious
invocations. Gram, in particular, lamented their departure. A pair,
perhaps the same pair, afterwards built in a butternut tree near the
Edwards' farmhouse; but they never returned to us. To the lover of
birds, the oriole in its flight among the trees, like a yellow meteor
flashing past, is a sight that instantly rivets the attention, and is as
delightfully startling to the eye as its song is to the ear. But I know
of no device by means of which they can be attracted to nest in any
given locality; their tastes are not well enough known to us; "houses,"
like those which attract the blue-bird and the martin, possess no charm
for the oriole. With the first of June Gram watched, wistfully, for the
return of this pair, during a number of successive springs; and for her
sake especially, we all hoped they would come back.

I arrived too late the first spring, to hear the woodlands echo to the
May-note of the white-throated sparrow. Once only, while going out to
get the cows with little Wealthy, the second week after I came, I heard
it twice repeated, from the woods along the south side of the pasture,
and when I asked my small companion what kind of a bird that was, she
roguishly cried, "Oh, that's old Ben Peabody."

"Is that what he says?" I asked, for the name at once struck me as being
like the bird's note.

"Yes," cried Wealthy. "He says, 'Old Ben Peabody, Peabody, Peabody,'
just as plain as anything; Theodora says so; and so does Nell and all of
us, but Addison. Ad thinks he says, 'All day whittling, whittling,
whittling.' And Alf Batchelder says,--but I'll not tell what he thinks
the bird says."

"What is it?" I queried.

"It's nothing very pretty," quoth Wealthy, running off to get around the
cows, thereby evading the question altogether, for she had not as yet
grown very well acquainted with me.

But I have perhaps lingered too long with birds and bird-songs. It is a
fond subject, however, and scarcely can I forbear to speak of the
veeries, the vesper-birds, and "hair-birds" whose nests we so often
found in the orchard; the cedar birds or cherry birds which so
persistently stripped the wild cherry trees and pear-plum shrubs; the
wood thrushes that trilled forth such sad, mellow refrains in the cool,
gray border of the wood-lot below the fields, at eventide; the
yellow-hammers that tapped on the pasture stumps and cried out
boisterously when rain was impending; the wrens that filled and
re-filled a bit of hollow aqueduct log on the lane wall, with sticks for
a nest and laid thirteen eggs in it; the hundreds of black-birds that
built in the reeds down at the great bog, near the head of the lake; the
sap-suckers that punctured the trunks of the apple-trees with thousands
of tiny holes; the many-voiced blue-jays that came around when the corn
was ripening in September and sometimes lingered all winter in the
neighborhood.

And of the great pileated woodpeckers, a pair of which occasionally
cried loud and long from the five lofty pine stubs in the colt pasture,
beyond the Aunt Hannah lot; the yellow-birds that piped, _pee-chid-aby_,
_pee-chid-aby_, on wavy lines of flight, upon the last days of August,
just ere taking wing for warmer climes; the imitative cat-birds that
built in the alders along the road across the meadow, whose nests the
boys held it lawful to destroy because, forsooth, "they sucked other
birds' eggs," a false accusation rendered plausible, perhaps, from their
disagreeable feline squalls, and not wholly ingenuous imitations of the
songs of the thrush, the veery and the robin.

How well, too, I recall the cuckoos that, night or day, intoned so
moodily in the willow copses below the east field fence and suffered
from a like unpopular accusation of "laying their eggs in other birds'
nests." Also the mated triads of sooty chimney swallows that rumbled
nightly in the great brick flues of the farmhouse, and at first almost
terrified me, but at length furnished the thalamian refrain that most
surely lulled me asleep; the red-headed woodpeckers that with sharp
cries and concave stoop of flight moved fitfully, from tree to tree,
tapping this one loudly, that one low and dull, and whose nest hole in
the dead maple on the hillside was re-occupied year after year, till at
last the stub blew down and broke short off at the hole itself; the
king-fishers that with the same stooping flight, sprung their sharp
rattles along the brooks and lakeside; the martins that feloniously
caught the bees, and every season dragged their squalling, screaming
young out of their pole-house, then poked them off the platform to fly
for themselves, having first, however, cleared the yard of cats.

The militant king birds, too, that built every June on the tops of the
small apple-trees in the young orchard, and raged in mid air, overhead,
pouring out a wild farago of sharp cries, never so happy as when in full
career after crows, hawks, cats or dogs; the moth-catching night-hawks
that cried _peerk_ from their wide mouths, high in the sky at nightfall,
and dived far aslant on stiff wings, with a long drawn _soo-oo-ook_;
the clucking whip-poor-wills, that chanted from the bare flat pasture
rocks; the chickadees that came into the orchard and about the great
loose farm woodpile, in February, with their odd little minor refrain of
_cic-a-da-da-da-da_, mere feathery mites of ceaseless activity that
somehow did not freeze, at 20° below zero.

In this freezing weather, too, came the white-winged flocks of
snow-buntings, that heralded the coming storm and flew away, blending
with the whirling snowflakes, uttering queer thin notes that seemed like
spirit voices from the upper air: all these and many others, Nature's
humble angels, what part and parcel they were of that dear old farm life
of ours!

Nor yet have I mentioned the larger game birds, nor the birds of prey;
the "hoot-owls" that both in summer and winter, but oftenest in March
and October, on still, dark, cloudy evenings, uttered their dismal, deep
bass _hoot, hoot, hoo-oo-oot_, from the depths of the gloomy forest
side, beyond the Little Sea; the hen-hawks that cried down _chickee-ee_
to us, from endless mazy circles high over the farm, and occasionally
decimated the poultry, or were seen sailing low across the fields with a
snake dangling from their claws; the eagles that seldom, but on a few
occasions paid a brief visit to the vicinity; the herons that frogged
along the boggy shore of the lake and built their nests in the tops of
the Foy Brook pines; the wild geese that flew northward in a wide V,
early in the spring and again southward in October; the sheldrake and
the black ducks which Addison had such success shooting every fall, in
the old mill pond, beyond the east wood-lot; the swift-diving loons of
the blue Pennesseewassee, that flew heavily across the hills, to several
northerly ponds, uttering shaken, hollow cries, or that in the early
evening and morning hours, pealed their mellow, alto horns from the calm
bosom of the lake; the partridges that "drummed" in the outlying copses
and patches of second growth, in April, and led forth their broods in
June, subject every autumn to our first excited, early efforts at
gunning; and last of all, the flapping, canny, thievish, black crows
that like the foxes were always about, and always at loggerheads with
the farmers.




CHAPTER XII

TWO VERY EARLY CALLERS--EACH ON BUSINESS


Except on Sunday mornings, breakfast at the farm in summer came at six.
The Old Squire himself was often astir at four; and we boys were
supposed to get up at five, so as to have milking done and other barn
chores off, ready to go into the field from the breakfast table. Gram
and the girls also rose at five, to get breakfast, take care of the milk
and look after the poultry. Everybody, in fact, rose with the birds in
that rural community. But often I was scarcely more than half awake at
breakfast; Ellen and Wealthy, too, were in much the same case.

On one of these early mornings when I had been there about three weeks,
our drowsiness at the breakfast table was dispelled by the arrival of
two early callers--each on business.

Gram was pouring the coffee, when the outer door opened and a tall,
sallow, dark-complexioned woman entered, the same whom I had met on the
Meadow Brook bridge, while leading Little Dagon. She wore a calico gown
and sun-bonnet, and may have been fifty years of age; and she walked in
quite as a matter of course, saying, "How do you do, Joseph, how do you
do, Ruth?" to the Old Squire and Gram.

"Why, how do you do, Olive?" said Gram, but not in the most cordial of
tones. "Will you have some breakfast with us?"

"I have been to breakfast, Ruth," replied this visitor, throwing back
her sun-bonnet and thereby displaying a forehead and brow that for
height and breadth was truly Websterian. "I came to get my old dress
that I left here when I cleaned house for you last spring, and I should
also like that dollar that's owing me."

"Olive," rejoined Gram severely, "I do not owe you a dollar."

"Ruth," replied the caller with equal severity, "you do owe me a
dollar."

She proceeded, as one quite familiar in the house, to the kitchen closet
and took therefrom an old soiled gingham gown.

"Olive," said the Old Squire, "are you quite sure that there is a dollar
due you here?"

"Joseph," replied the lofty-browed woman, "do you think I would say so,
if I did not know it?"

"No, Olive, I don't think you would," said the Old Squire.

"It's no such thing, Olive," cried Gram, looking somewhat heated. "I
always paid you up when you cleaned house for me and when you spun for
me."

"Always but that one time, Ruth. Then you did not--into a dollar,"
replied the sallow woman, positively.

An argument ensued. It appeared that the debated dollar was a matter of
three or four years standing. There was little doubt that both were
equally honest in their convictions concerning it, pro and con. Still,
they were a dollar apart, somehow. Furthermore, it came out, that
"Olive" when she felt periodically poor, or out of sorts, was in the
habit of calling and dunning Gram for that dollar, much to the old
lady's displeasure.

The Old Squire sat uneasily and listened to the talk, with growing
disfavor. At last he pulled out his pocketbook. "I will pay you the
dollar, Olive," he said, "if only to stop the dispute about it."

"You shan't do it, Joseph!" exclaimed Gram. "There's no dollar due
her."

But the Old Squire persisted in handing the woman a dollar.

"I do not care whether it is due or not!" he exclaimed. "I have heard
altogether too much of this."

"I thank you, Joseph, for doing me justice of my hard-handed employer,"
said the tall woman, austerely.

"Now did ever anybody hear the like!" Gram exclaimed, pink from
vexation. "Oh, Olive, you--you--you bold thing, to say that of me!"

"There, there!" cried the Old Squire. "Peace, women folks. Remember that
you are both Christians and public professors."

Gram sat and fanned herself, fast and hard. Our visitor folded the dress
into a bundle and marched slowly and austerely out.

"Olive, I hope your conscience is clear," Gram called after her
severely.

"Ruth, I hope your conscience is as clear as mine," the departing one
called back in calm tones, from the yard outside.

She left an awkward silence behind her; breakfast had come to a
standstill; and I improved the elemental sort of hush, to whisper to
Theodora, who had been at the farm a year, and ask who this portentous
disturber of the family credit really was.

"Oh, it is only 'Aunt Olive,'" Theodora whispered back. "She comes here
to help us every spring and fall."

"Is she our actual aunt?" I asked in some dismay.

"No, she isn't our real, kindred aunt," said Theodora, "but folks call
her Aunt Olive. She is a sister to Elder Witham; and they say she can
quote more Scripture than the Elder himself.

"And I'm sort of glad that Gramp gave her the dollar," Theodora added,
in a still lower whisper. "Maybe Gram did forget to pay her, once."

But Gram was both incensed and humiliated. She resumed the interrupted
coffee pouring and handed the Old Squire his cup, with a look of deep
reproach.

Partly to change the unpleasant subject, perhaps, he said to us briskly,
"Boys, if we have good luck and get our haying work along, so we can, we
will all make a trip over to Norridgewock and see Father Rasle's
monument.

"Ruth, wouldn't you like to take a good long drive over to Norridgewock,
after the grain is in?" he asked in pacificatory tones.

"Joseph!" replied Gram, "you make me smile! You have been talking of
driving over to Norridgewock to visit Father Rasle's monument, and of
going to Lovewell's Pond, ever since I first knew you! But you never
have been, and I haven't a thought that you ever will go!"

"Well, but something has always come up to prevent it, Ruth," Gramp
replied hastily.

"Yes, Joseph, and something will come up to prevent it this year, too."

It was at this point that the second early caller had his arrival
announced. Little Wealthy, who had stolen out to watch Aunt Olive's
departure and then gone to the barn to see to her own small brood of
chicks, came running in headlong and cried, "Oh, Gram! Gram! a great big
fox has got one of your geese--on his back--and is running away!"

"What!" exclaimed Gram, setting the heavy coffee-pot down again with a
roiling bump. "Oh, Lord, what a morning. Where, child, where?"

"Out beyond the west barn!" cried Wealthy; but by this time Addison,
Halse and I were out of doors, in pursuit.

Beyond the west barn, there was a little hollow, or swale, where a
spring issued; and a few rods below the spring, a dam had been
constructed across the swale to form a goose-pond for Gram's flock. It
was a muddy, ill-smelling place; but hither the geese would always
waddle forth of a summer morning, and spend most of the day, wading and
swimming, with occasional loud outcries.

As we turned the corner of the barn, we met the flock--minus
one--beating a retreat to the goose-shed. But the fox was not in sight.

"Which way did he go, Wealth?" cried Addison, for Wealthy had run after
us, full of her important news.

"Right across the west field," she exclaimed. "He had the old goose on
his back, and it was trying to squall, but couldn't."

"Get the gun, Halse!" exclaimed Addison. "No, it isn't loaded! Bother!
But come on. The fox cannot run far with one of those heavy geese,
without resting. He is probably behind the pasture wall."

We set off at speed across the field and heard Gram calling out to us,
"Chase him, boys! Chase the old thief. You may make him drop it."

Away through the grass, laden with dew and "hopper spits," we careered,
and came on the trail of the fox where he had brushed off the dew as he
ran. But the rogue was not behind the pasture wall.

"Keep on," cried Addison, "he cannot run fast." We crossed the pasture
and entered the sugar maple grove between the pasture and the Aunt
Hannah Lot. As it chanced, the fox was lurking in the high brakes here,
having stopped to rest, no doubt, as Addison had conjectured. We did not
come upon him here, however; for warned probably by the noise which we
made, the goose-hunter stole out silently on the farther side and ran on
across the open fields of the Aunt Hannah Lot. As we emerged from the
belt of woodland, we caught sight of him, toiling up a hillside beyond
the fields, fifty or sixty rods away.

"It is of no use to chase him any further," said Addison, pulling up.
"He will reach the woods in a few minutes more."

By this time we were all three badly out of breath. The fox had the best
of the race. We could distinguish plainly the white goose across his
back, in contrast to his butter-colored coat and great bushy tail.

"Wouldn't Gram fume to see that!" Halse exclaimed. "Her best old goose
is taking its last ride."

"I think I know where that fox is going," remarked Addison. "I was in
those woods, gunning, one day last fall, and I came to a fox burrow, in
the side of a knoll, among trees. There was no end of yellow dirt, dug
out, and there seemed to be two or three holes, leading back into the
side-hill. I told the Old Squire about it. He said it was a fox-hole,
and that there had been one there for years. When he was a young man, he
once saw six foxes playing around that knoll, and, first and last, he
trapped a number there."

We went back to our interrupted breakfast. Gram heard our tidings with
much vexation. Gramp laughed. "If the foxes got every goose, I shouldn't
cry," said he. "Nasty creatures! Worse than a parcel of pigs about the
farm."

"But you like to put your head on a soft pillow as well as any one,"
replied Gram calmly. "If you know of anything that makes better pillows
than _live_ geese feathers, I shall be glad to hear about it."

The Old Squire not having any proper substitute to offer, Gram went on
to say that she wished some of us possessed the energy (I believe she
said _spunk_) to make an end of that fox; for now that it had achieved
the capture of a goose from her flock, it would be quite likely to come
back for another, in the course of a day or two.

This appeal stirred our pride, and after we had gone out to hoe corn
that forenoon, Addison asked the Old Squire whether he thought it likely
we could unearth the fox, if, as we suspected, it had its haunt in the
burrow on the hillside of the Aunt Hannah Lot.

"Maybe," replied the Old Squire, "by digging hard enough and long
enough. But 'tis no easy job."

Addison did not say anything more for ten or fifteen minutes, when he
observed that as Gram seemed a good deal disturbed, he for one would not
mind an hour or two of digging, if it would save her geese.

"Oh, I have nothing against her geese, boys," replied the old gentleman
with a kind of apologetic laugh. "I like to hear her stand up for them
once in a while.

"I wanted to get this corn hoed by to-morrow," he continued. "Let's see,
to-morrow is Saturday. We will take the crowbar and some shovels and
make a little trip over to that burrow, later this afternoon. Don't say
anything about it at dinner; for likely as not we shall not find the fox
there."

After we had hoed for some time longer, Addison said, "What if we have
Halse run over to Edwardses', right after dinner, and ask Tom to take a
bar, or shovel, and go with us. Tom is a good hand at digging,--and that
fox may trouble them, too."

The Old Squire laughed. "You are a pretty crafty boy, Addison," said he.

Ad looked a little confused. "I knew Tom would like to go first rate,"
said he; "and as there may be considerable hard digging before us, I
thought it would be all right to have somebody who could take his turn
at it."

"Quite right," replied Gramp, still laughing. "Craft is a good thing and
often helps along famously. But don't grow too crafty.

"I am quite willing for you to send for Thomas," he added. "I think it
is a good idea."

Accordingly, at noon Halse went to the Edwards homestead, bearing an
invitation to a fox-digging bee. They, too, were busy with their hoeing,
but Mr. Edwards, who was a very good-humored man, gave Thomas permission
to join us at two o'clock. When we went out from dinner to our own
hoeing, we took along an axe, two spades, a hog-hook to pull out the
fox, and a crowbar, also the gun; and after working two hours in the
corn-field, we set off across the fields and pastures for the fox
burrow, just as Thomas came running across lots to join us.

"Mother's glad to have me go," said he. "She lost a turkey last week;
and father says there's a fox over in that burrow, this summer, no
mistake. Father gets up at half-past three every morning now, and he
says he has heard a fox bark over that way at about sunrise for a
fortnight. But we will end his fun for him."

Thomas was such a resolute boy that it was always a treat to hear him
talk.

Crossing the pasture, we climbed the hillside of the Aunt Hannah lot,
and again entering the maple woods, went on for forty or fifty rods over
rather rough ground.

"That's the knoll," said Addison, pointing to a hillock among the trees.

"Yes, that's the place," the Old Squire corroborated.

On the side of the knoll next us as we drew near, there was a large
hole, leading downwards and backwards into the bank side. A quantity of
yellow earth had been thrown out quite recently, looking as if dogs had
tried to dig out the fox. Tom looked into the hole.

"Yes, siree," he exclaimed. "There's a fox lives here; I know by these
flies in the mouth of the hole. You'll always see two or three of these
flies at a hole where there's a fox or a wood-chuck."

Farther around the knoll there were two other holes, one beside a rock
and the other under a birch-tree root, which manifestly led into the
same burrow, deep back in the knoll.

"And only look here!" cried Addison. "See these bones and these
feathers."

"Oho!" said the Old Squire. "'Tis a female fox with her cubs that has
taken up her abode in the old burrow this summer. That accounts for her
raids on the turkeys and geese; she's got a young family to look out
for."

After some discussion, it was agreed to begin our assault at the hole
where the bones and feathers had been brought out; and while Addison and
I went to block up the entrance to the other two holes with stones, the
Old Squire threw off his coat, and seizing the crowbar, commenced to
break down the rooty ground over the hole, while Thomas and Halse
cleared it away with their shovels. We worked by turns, or all together,
as opportunity offered. It was no light task for a warm June afternoon,
and we were soon perspiring freely. Gradually we removed the top of the
knoll, following the hole inward, and came to the intersection of this
one with another farther around to the west side. There was a
considerable cavity here, matted underfoot with feathers and small
bones. From this point the burrow crooked around a large rock down in
the ground.

Listening now at this opening, we could hear faint sounds farther back
in the earth, and an occasional slight sneeze.

"Digging to get away, or get out!" exclaimed Thomas.

While we were resting and listening, a sharp, querulous bark came
suddenly to our ears from out in the woods behind us.

"'Tis the old fox!" said Addison. "She's been away. She isn't in the
hole. But she has come back in sight, and she don't like the looks of us
here." He seized the gun and went cautiously off in the direction of the
sound, but could not again catch sight of the fox.

We resumed our digging, and soon broke into a still larger cavity,
leading off from which were three passages. Fresh earth was flying back
out of one of them.

"We are close hauls on the fox inside!" cried Thomas. "Stand ready with
the gun, Ad; he may make a bolt out by us."

The Old Squire plied the crowbar again, and breaking down a part of the
bank over the passage, we caught sight of three fox cubs, all making the
dirt fly, digging away for dear life, to get farther back. As the bank
broke down and the light fell in upon them, they turned for a moment
from their labors, and casting a foxy eye up at us, "yapped" sharply and
bristled themselves.

"Oh, the little rogues!" cried Addison. "Only look at them! Look at
their little paws and their little noses all covered with yellow dirt!
There they go at it again, digging!"

"Aren't they cunning!" exclaimed Thomas. "Fox all over, too. Regular
little rascals. See the white of those eyes, will you, when they turn
them up at us! Isn't that a rogue's eye now?"

"We will catch them and carry them home, and put them in a pen," said
Addison. "By next November their skins will be worth something."

"They will make you lots of work, to tend them and get meat for them,"
said the Old Squire. "Their pelts will not half pay you for your
trouble."

These cubs were several weeks old, I suppose, but they were not larger
than half-grown kittens.

"It won't answer for you to grab them with your bare hands," the Old
Squire warned us. "I did that once, when a boy, and found that a fox cub
is sharp-bitten."

They were of rather lighter yellow tint than a full-grown fox, but
otherwise much like, although their legs, we thought, were not yet as
long in proportion as they would become; nor yet were their tails in
full bush.

It was not quite as far across lots to the Edwards farm as it was to the
Old Squire's, and at length Addison and Thomas set off to go there for a
basket to put the foxes in, and some old thick gloves with which to
catch them.

Meantime the rest of us remained hard by, to watch the burrow, lest the
cubs should escape. Once, while the boys were gone, we heard the mother
fox bark. Halse went after her with the gun; she was evidently lingering
about, but he could not catch sight of her.

The boys returned with a bushel basket and an old potato sack, to tie
over the top of it. A little more of the bank was then broken down, when
Addison, reaching in with his hands, protected by a pair of buckskin
gloves, seized first one, then another, of the snapping, snarling little
vulpines and popped them into the basket. It was agreed that Thomas
should have one of them; and in furtherance of this division of the
spoils, Halse and Addison went around by way of the Edwards farm, with
Tom and the basket, while the Old Squire and I loaded ourselves with the
tools and took the direct route homeward.

Supper was ready and Theodora had been blowing the horn for us, long and
loud; in fact, we met her by the corn-field, whither she had at length
come in search of us. I hastily told her of the capture, but the Old
Squire said, "Don't tell your grandmother till the boys come with the
cubs, then we will show them to her."

So we went into the house and leisurely got ready for supper. At length,
Addison and Halse came to the kitchen door with their basket; and Gramp
said, "Come here, Ruth, and see two little fellows who helped eat your
old goose."

Gram came out looking pretty stern at the word goose, and when Ad pulled
the bag partly away and showed the two fox cubs, casting up the whites
of their roguish eyes at her, she exclaimed harshly, "Ah, you little
scamps!"

"But, oh, aren't they cunning! Aren't they pretty!" exclaimed Theodora
and Ellen.

"Well, they are sort of pretty," admitted Gram, softening a little as
she looked at them. "I suppose they are not to blame for their sinful
natures, more than the rest of us."

We then told her of our exploit, digging them out of the burrow. The Old
Squire thought that the mother fox would not trouble the farm-yard
further, now that her family was disposed of.

After supper, Addison gathered up boards about the premises and built a
pen out behind the west barn, in which to inclose the young foxes. As
nearly as I can now remember, the pen was about fifteen feet long by
perhaps six feet in width, with board sides four feet high. We also
covered the top of it with boards upon which we laid stones. A pan for
water was set inside the pen, and we gave them, for food, the various
odds and ends of meat and other waste from the kitchen. For a day or two
we enjoyed watching them very much.

They did not thrive well, but grew poor and mangy; and I may as well go
on to relate what became of them. After we had kept them in the pen
about a month, a dog, or else a fox, came around one night and dug under
the side of the pen, as if making an attempt to get in and attack them.
The outsider, apparently, was not successful in breaking in, and
probably went away after a time, but it had dug a sufficiently large
hole for the two young foxes to escape; they were discovered to be
missing in the morning. Addison thought that it might possibly have been
the mother fox.

One of these cubs--as we believed--came back to the pen under singular
circumstances eight or nine months later. Having no use either for the
old boards, or for the ground on which the pen stood, it was not taken
away, but remained there throughout the autumn and following winter.

One day in April we heard two hounds baying, and as it proved, they were
out hunting on their own account and had started a fox. We heard them
from noon till near four in the afternoon, when Ellen, who was in the
kitchen at one of the back windows, saw them, and, at a distance of
twenty rods or less in advance of them, a small fox, coming at speed
across the field, heading toward the west barn.

Addison and I were working up fire-wood in the yard at the time, and
Ellen ran out to tell us what she had seen. We now heard the hounds
close behind the barn, and getting the gun, ran out there. The fox, hard
pressed evidently, had run straight to that old pen and taken refuge in
it, through a hole in the top where the covering boards were off. But
before we reached the spot, one of the hounds had also got in and shaken
the life out of the refugee.

We could not positively identify the fox, yet it was a young fox, and we
all thought that it resembled one of the cubs which we had kept in the
pen. I am inclined to think that, finding itself in sore straits, it
came to the old pen where, though a captive, it had once been safe from
dogs which came about the place.




CHAPTER XIII

WE ALL SET OFF TO HAVE OUR PICTURES TAKEN


A few days later--I think it was June 15th--Gram's constant, urgent
reminders prevailed, and directly after the noontide meal we all set off
for the village, to have our pictures taken. The old lady had never
ceased to mourn the fact that there were two of her sons whose
photographs had not been taken before they enlisted. This was not so
unusual an omission in those days as it would be at present; having
one's photograph taken was then a much less common occurrence. Indeed,
the photograph proper had hardly begun to be made, at least, not in the
rural districts. The ambrotype was still the popular variety of
portrait.

Personally, I confess to a lingering liking for the old ambrotype, the
likeness taken on a glazed plate, on which the lights are represented in
silver, and the shades are produced by a dark background. I like, too,
the respectful privacy of the little inclosing case which you opened to
gaze on the face of your friend. Best of all, I like its great
durability and fadelessness. The name itself is a passport to favor in a
picture, from _ambrotos_, immortal, and _tupos_, type, or impression:
the immortal-type. Your pasteboard photograph so soon grows yellowed,
dog-eared and stale! For certain purposes I would be glad to see the
dear old ambrotype revived and coming back in fashion. True, you had to
squint at it at a certain angle to see what it was; but when you
obtained the right view, it was wonderfully lifelike and comforting.

One obstacle and another had delayed the trip for several weeks, but on
that sunny June day the word to go was given. With much care and
attention to clean faces, and hair, our best clothes were donned, for to
have one's picture taken was then one of the great occasions of a
youngster's life. There was earnest advice given on all sides in regard
to "smiling expressions." Little Wealthy, especially, was exhorted so
much in this respect, that she actually shed tears before we started. A
"smiling expression" sometimes comes hard. Nor was she alone in her
anxiety. I remember being a good deal worried about it, and that I had
secretly resolved--since the sitting was said to occupy less than a
minute--to draw a long breath, set my teeth together hard, and hold on
to my "smiling expression" for that one minute, at least, if I died for
it afterwards.

Indeed, the young folks of this later generation will hardly be able to
understand what an ordeal it was to sit for an ambrotype, in 1866.

Ambrotypes were the kind of pictures which Gram had in view. Moreover,
she had no notion of investing in more than one likeness apiece for each
of us. This ambrotype was to be kept in the family archives, for the
benefit of generations to come; the idea of having a dozen taken, or
even half a dozen, to give away to one's friends, had not at that time
entered the minds of country people in that portion of New England.

We had at first intended to start by nine in the morning and arrive by
ten or eleven, so as to have the benefit of the midday sun--an important
requisite for an ambrotype. But it was eleven o'clock before all were
properly ready, and Gram then decided to have our noon meal before
setting off. We got off a few minutes past noon. All the doors of the
farmhouse were locked, or otherwise fastened, the garden gate closed and
the horses harnessed. The Old Squire with Gram led the way in the
single wagon, and we six cousins, with Addison driving old "Sol,"
followed in the express wagon, three on a seat. We were conscious that
we presented a curiously holiday appearance and laughed a great deal as
we rattled along the road, although secretly each felt not a little
anxious.

"Oh, but it's nothing!" Halstead exclaimed over and over. "All you have
to do is to sit still a minute; the cammirror is the thing that does the
work;"--for he was a little shaky on the pronunciation of the word
camera, or the workings of it. To Addison and Theodora's great
amusement, he went on to inform the rest of us in a superior tone, that
the cammirror took a reflection from a person's face, much as a
looking-glass does, and then threw it on a "mess of soft chemical stuff"
which the artist had spread on a little pane of glass. "Being soft, the
reflection naturally sticks in it," Halse continued. "Then all the
fellow has to do is to harden it up--and there you are.

"But he has to be pretty careful, or you come out upside down," Halstead
added. "I had a notion of buying one of those cammirrors once, before I
came here, and starting in the business. I wish I had now. It is a sight
better business than farming. I knew a fellow out at New Orleans that
made thirteen dollars in one day, taking pictures."

"I wonder that you didn't get a 'cammirror,' Halse," Addison remarked.
"You might have become a rich man in a few years."

"Oh, but it's dreadful unhealthy work," replied Halstead, in an offhand
tone. "The chemical stuff they have to mix up gets into the lungs. It
smells terribly. There's two kinds. The worst-smelling kind isn't the
most unhealthy, though; the other kind you can but just smell at all,
but one good whiff of it will about use a man up, if it gets fairly into
his lungs. It doesn't answer for the artist fellow to breathe much when
he is in the little dark place, where he spreads the chemical stuff on
the glass. They generally hold their noses when they are in there."

"If that is true, we had all better be careful how we breathe much this
afternoon," Addison observed, feigning a very anxious glance around.

Little Wealthy looked distressed, however, and erelong intimated a
desire to ride with Gram in the other wagon. She and Theodora and I rode
on the back seat of our wagon; and I heard Theodora whispering to her
reassuringly, that Halstead's talk was all nonsense.

On reaching the village we hitched our horses under two of the
Congregationalist meeting-house sheds, and then proceeded to the small,
low studio, or "saloon," with a large window in the roof, where at that
time one Antony Lockett (or else Locke) practised the art of
photography. He was a tall, large man of sandy complexion, somewhat slow
in his movements and of pleasant manners. Gram opened negotiations with
him directly, as to the price of ambrotypes, etc. She was not a little
distressed, however, to learn from Mr. Lockett that ambrotypes were
somewhat out of fashion, and that a new-fangled thing, called a
photograph, represented the highest art and progress of the day. It was
expensive, however. Of ambrotypes the artist spoke somewhat
apologetically and slightingly. He also talked fluently of "tin-types,"
a kind of small, inferior likeness on a thin metal plate, without case,
or glass. These he offered to make by the dozen at prices which almost
shocked us from their cheapness.

As an artist who wished to exercise his vocation to the extent of its
possibilities, Mr. Lockett argued adroitly in favor of the new
photographs for all of us.

Grandmother was much perplexed. "It appears that times are changing," I
heard her say to the Old Squire. "I should say times were changing,
Ruth!" he replied rather shortly. "If this man is going to charge six
dollars apiece for us all, for photographs, I guess we had better get
our horses and go home."

"Of course we cannot pay any such money as that, Joseph," Gram
concurred. "We shall have to have ambrotypes, as we set out in the first
place. I cannot see any better way. But it's a pity fashion has turned
against them."

Ambrotypes being declared for, artist Lockett made his preparations,
including several trips into his little dark room, the erection of his
camera on its tripod, hanging a little pink sock on a hook upon the wall
to look at, and setting out a chair with an iron head-rest. He then
said, somewhat impressively, "I am ready. Who will sit first?"

None of us wished for that distinction, and to this day I recall the
terrified look in little Wealthy's eye as she sought to make herself
invisible behind Theodora's shoulder. The child was really much alarmed,
largely from the peculiar odor which pervaded the place, and the stories
which Halstead had told on our way down. It was the odor of all
ambrotype "saloons" of that date, which can best be described by saying
that it resembled what might have been, if the place had long been the
haunt of a horde of cats.

"Joseph," said Gram at length, "you had better sit first, you are the
oldest."

"I am not so very many months older than you, Ruth," replied the Old
Squire, with a twinkle of his eye. "And when I was a young man, it was
held to be the proper thing to seat the ladies first."

"Now don't you go to being funny, Joe," replied Gram, fanning herself
vigorously. "This is no place for it."

Thus rebuked, and after some hesitation, the old gentleman with a queer
expression took his seat in the "chair," and had his iron-gray head
adjusted to the round black disks of the head-rest. Gram arranged his
front lock with her comb, and said, "Now keep your eye on the little
sock, Joseph, and look smilin';"--a superfluous piece of advice, as it
proved, for he had already begun grinning awfully.

The artist, who had his head under the black cloth of his camera, now
suddenly looked forth and gave different advice. "Not too smilin'. Not
so smilin' as that, quite," said he.

But the Old Squire only grinned the more vigorously, showing several
teeth.

Gram went around in front by the artist. "Oh, no, Joseph, not near so
smilin'!" she exclaimed.

But do their best, they could not get the smile off his face.

"Look more solemn, Joseph," Gram now exhorted him. "You are overdoing
it."

But so certain as the artist raised his hand to take off the cap from
the camera, the Old Squire's face would begin to pucker again, and the
artist was obliged to wait.

We all grew scandalized at his unaccountable levity. Addison sat
laughing silently in a chair behind, and Gram at last lost her patience.

"If you were only a little boy, it wouldn't be quite so silly!" she
exclaimed. "But an old man, with only a few years more on the earth, to
behave so, is all out of character. Think of the shortness of life,
Joseph, and the certainty of death."

But still from some nervous perversity, the old gentleman's face drew up
in the same inveterate pucker whenever Lockett raised his hand to uncap
the camera.

"O Joe, I'm astonished at you! I am for certain!" cried Gram, so vexed
and angry that she lost all patience. She rushed to the door and looked
out, to control her feelings.

Theodora then drew near the Old Squire's side and whispered, "Think of
the War, Grandpa."

The War was then a topic of such terrible sadness for us that the
mention of it, ordinarily, was sufficient to unloose the most poignant
recollections. To grandfather, as to us all, it had brought a sable
cloud of bereavement. But even thoughts of the War did not now long
suffice to remove that grin--longer than till the Old Squire saw
Lockett's hand raised. Then out jumped the all too "smilin' expression"
again.

Gram went out of doors altogether and walked along the sidewalk, in
mortification and despite; her feelings were much outraged.

Lockett now essayed to turn the conversation upon a current political
topic, namely the nomination of General Grant for the Presidency; and it
seemed as if the grin was at last exorcised. Yet when the artist
attempted covertly to remove the cap, a hundred puckers gathered about
Gramp's eyes again, his chin twitched, and even there were wrinkles on
his nose.

With that, Lockett himself walked to the door for a time. Gram now
returned, her face very red, and stalking in, surveyed the offender with
a look of hard exasperation. "My senses, Joseph, you are the most
provoking man I ever set my two eyes on. I do declare you are!"

Lockett returned to his place by the camera, looking somewhat bored.
"Well, shall we try again?" said he.

"If he don't keep his face straight now, I'll know the reason!" Gram
chimed in.

Yet quite the same when Lockett lifted his hand, after an awful pause,
every furrow and pucker reappeared.

"Oh, there!" Gram exclaimed almost in tears, so vexed she had grown.
"Take him. Take him, just as he is, the old Chessy-cat!" and again she
rushed away to the door and snatched out her pocket handkerchief.

Then Addison, who had sat and laughed till he had laughed himself tired
and sober, came to the rescue, with a stroke of genius. Nodding covertly
to Lockett, he approached the Old Squire from behind, and in a tone, as
intended only for his private ear, murmured, "Say, Gramp, d'ye know this
Lockett charges six dollars an hour for his time!"

The old gentleman's face suddenly straightened as his ear caught the
words, and a look of dignified indignation and incredulity overspread
his countenance, observing which the artist removed the cap and the
likeness was taken. What the thoughts of death and War failed to
accomplish was done by sudden resentment. After a moment or two, Gramp
perceived the ruse which Addison had practised on him, and laughed as he
rose from the chair. But Gram would not so much as look at him, and she
scarcely spoke to him again that day.

The Old Squire did not at the time condescend to offer any explanation
of his "smilin' expression;" but years afterwards, on an occasion when
he and I were making a journey together, he told me that he never quite
understood, himself, what whimsical freak took possession of his mind
that day. To have saved his life--he said--he could not have kept a
sober face when Lockett raised his hand to the cap. The ambrotype
faithfully reproduced the sudden resentful expression on his
countenance; and we always spoke of it as the "six dollars an hour
expression."

Grandmother sat next, after Theodora and Ellen had arranged or rather
rearranged her somewhat ruffled hair and collar. There was no
troublesome smile on her countenance that afternoon! The flush of
excitement and anger still tinged her cheeks, and her eye looked a
little snappy. Theodora tried to modify the severe expression by saying
pleasant things while helping seat her in a good position, but only half
succeeded; and the picture which we have of her does not do her entire
justice, since it gives an impression of austerity not in keeping with
her usual disposition and character.

I think that Addison sat next, and after him Halstead, who assumed a
somewhat bumptious air, which was to an extent reflected in his picture.

Theodora had the "smiling expression" naturally, and perhaps added a
trifle to it for the occasion. We often said to her afterwards, when
looking at the pictures, that her smile was almost as broad as Gramp's
irrepressible one. Still, it was a very good likeness of her at fifteen
and of the genial, half-amused expression she often wore during those
happy years at the farm.

It now came my turn to sit in the chair and have my head put back
against the rest. For some reason Addison laughed, and then the others
came around in front of me and laughed, too. "Don't he look worried?"
cried Halstead. "Get on your 'smiling expression.' Don't stare at that
poor little sock so hard, you'll knock it down off the hook! The little
sock isn't to blame."

"Smile a little," said the artist gently.

But I had just witnessed what befell Gramp from smiling, and was afraid
to risk it. "Oh, now!" whispered Theodora, "you really mustn't look so
morose. Think of something pleasant. Think of catching trout."

But it would not come to me. "He can't smile," said Addison. "I'll stump
him to smile."

"Oh, but you do look sad!" exclaimed Ellen.

"A regular cast-iron glare," said Halstead.

I grew angry.

"There's going to be a thunder-shower from the looks of his face,"
Addison remarked. "I'm going to get under cover."

They all took the hint and went away from in front of me. It seemed to
me that those iron disks of the head-rest were the only two points on
which my entire weight rested. The little pink sock swam up and down;
and from somewheres in the rear I heard Halse saying, "He will have a
fit in a minute more!"

At that moment Lockett took off the cap. I caught my breath, tried hard
to smile just a little and no more, and clenched my fists. _Click!_ the
cap was replaced, and Lockett said, "That'll do." I got out of the chair
and walked to the door; my ears were singing and both feet had "gone to
sleep." The ambrotype subsequently gave evidence that my last effort to
smile had materialized to the extent of being faintly visible, like a
far-distant nebula on a clear night. The others always hectored me about
that "frozen smile."

Ellen sat next and was taken very quickly, while I stood at the door
recovering myself; but Wealthy suffered even more than I did, I feel
sure. The poor child had stood awestruck and alarmed all the time the
others were sitting. What she had seen had by no means tended to
reassure her. She actually turned pale when Theodora took her to the
chair; her dark eyes looked uncommonly large and wild. The smile which
they finally developed on her face was one of fascination rather than
pleasure; and when at length the cap was replaced and the artist said,
"That'll do," she bounced out of the chair as if made of India-rubber.

We did not get the ambrotypes, in their small, square, black cases, till
some weeks subsequently; and I recollect that the entire bill was twelve
dollars, also that we all--all except Gram--rode home from the village
in very high spirits, as those do who have successfully passed through a
perilous ordeal. Gram, indeed, was unable to recover her equanimity till
next day.




CHAPTER XIV

"THERE IS A MAN IN ENGLAND, NAMED DARWIN"


It was the following Sunday morning, if I remember aright, that I first
heard the name of Charles Darwin and received an intimation as to the
now world-famous theory of the origin and descent of mankind. What a
singular name Darwin seemed to me, too, the first time I heard it.

The Old Squire was a great reader, for a Maine farmer, who as a rule has
little time for that, during the summer season. But he always caught a
few minutes for his newspapers at breakfast, or dinner, although we did
not then take a daily paper.

The old gentleman had not received a college education, but he had once
attended Fryeburg Academy, at the time Daniel Webster taught there, and
afterwards had been a student for two terms at Hebron Academy. Even at
the age of sixty-nine he retained a somewhat remarkable thirst for
information of all kinds. I remember that he would sit for a whole
evening, poring so intently in a volume of Chamber's _Encyclopædia_ as
to be hardly aware of what was going on in the room about him. After a
manner, too, he kept pretty well posted, not only on events of current
history and politics, but of scientific progress.

That spring of 1866, he had privately sent to an acquaintance in
Portland to procure for him a copy of _The Origin of Species_, then a
new book, to which he had seen brief allusions in our weekly newspapers,
and concerning which he felt much curiosity. He read it all through,
carefully, without saying much, if anything, about it to Gram, or any
one else. But Elder Witham found out, somehow, that there was such a
book in our house, and his animosity against it was much excited.

Before prayers that Sunday morning the Old Squire looked around--though
I think he had Addison and Theodora chiefly in mind--and said, "There is
a man in England, named Darwin, Charles Darwin, who has written a book,
called _The Origin of Species_, of which a great deal begins to be said.
This Darwin is a scholarly man and writes modestly. I see that a great
many appear to be adopting his views. He holds that man has risen from
certain lower animals, somewhat like the monkeys, or apes, and therefore
that we are related by descent to these animals, instead of having been
created perfect, as the Bible seems to teach.

"This man Darwin brings forward a great many things in support of his
views, some of which seem reasonable. He appears to be a sincere man,
and as such ought not to be condemned hastily. I think it is still too
soon to form a decided opinion as to this, and that it is safer for us
to go on believing as the Scriptures teach.

"I mention this," the Old Squire continued, "Because Elder Witham tells
me that he is going to take up Darwin's book in his sermon a week from
to-day, to warn people against it. The Elder, who is also very sincere,
believes that this Darwin is a dangerous man who is doing vast harm to
Christianity. I do not go quite so far as that, myself, although I still
hold to the Scriptural account of man's creation. But if Mr. Darwin is
as honest a man as he seems and has published what he thinks to be the
truth, I do not believe his book will in the end do any harm in the
world. But it is always better, in such important matters, not to change
our opinions hastily, but to reflect carefully." After a pause Addison
spoke. "Elder Witham's sermon against Darwin will not change my mind,"
said he, very decidedly. "I think Darwin is right. He is a great man.
Elder Witham is always down on everything that touches his narrow views
of the Bible."

"The Elder is an honest, fearless man," was all the reply the Old Squire
made to that. But Gram exclaimed that she hoped none of us would ever
read that wicked book about mankind being from monkeys--which somehow
made me perversely resolve to read it.

The Old Squire, however, kept _The Origin of Species_ put away in some
secret receptacle known only to himself.

That same Sabbath morning, too, the Old Squire read briefly from one of
the papers of a terrible war that was raging in South America, between
Paraguay on one hand and Brazil and the Argentine Republic on the other.
As usual, after reading anything of this kind at table, the old
gentleman commented on it and generally made some point clear to us.

"The trouble down there in South America," said he, "comes wholly from
an unscrupulous man, named Francisco Lopez, who has contrived to make
himself Dictator of Paraguay. Lopez is an imitator of Napoleon
Bonaparte. He has an insatiate ambition to conquer all South America and
found an empire there, much as Napoleon sought to conquer Europe and
establish a great French empire. Napoleon is Lopez' model. He has
plunged Paraguay in misery and mourning.

"When I was a boy," the Old Squire added, "I had a great admiration for
Napoleon Bonaparte and loved to read of his great battles. Nearly all
young people do admire him. But now that I see his motives and his acts
more clearly, I regard him as a monster of egotism and brutal
ambition."

Halstead had stolen out while the Old Squire was reading to us. We could
not find him during the forenoon, but he came in after we sat down at
dinner, much as on a former Sunday; this time, too, he looked much
heated. Addison and Theodora bent their eyes on their plates, but
nothing was said by any one. Halstead ate hurriedly, with covert glances
around. He seemed disturbed or excited, and after dinner went out in the
garden alone, keeping aloof, but came up to our room late that evening,
after I was abed.

At length I fell asleep, but immediately a noise like scratching or
squeaking on the window pane, roused me suddenly. The window was on the
back side of the house, but there was a driveway beneath it, and any one
outside could, with a very long stick, reach up to the glass panes. It
had grown dark, but when the noise waked me, I found that Halstead was
sitting on the side of the bed, as if listening.

"What was that?" I said, sleepily.

"Oh, nothing," replied Halse. "The wind rattled the window, I guess."

I recollect thinking, that there was no wind that night, and I believe I
said so, but I was very sleepy, and although I thought it queer that
Halse should be sitting up to hear the wind, I soon fell into a drowse
again and probably snored, for my room-mate often accused me of that
offense.

I had not fallen soundly asleep, however, when I again heard the tapping
at the window. A sly impulse, suggested probably by Halstead's demeanor,
prompted me to play 'possum and pretend that I had not waked this time.
I even went on breathing hard, on that pretense.

Halstead was still sitting on the bed. He listened for a moment to my
counterfeit breathing, then slid easily off and approached the window.
It was already raised a little and rested on a New Testament which Gram
always kept in our room. Halse gently shoved the window higher and put
out his head. The air of the quiet country night was very still, and I
heard a hoarse whisper from the ground outside, although I could not
distinguish the words.

"Yes," whispered Halstead in reply.

Then the whisper below resumed.

"I don't want to do that," said Halstead.

The whisper outside rejoined, at some length.

"Perhaps," answered Halse.

The other whisper continued.

"When?" asked Halstead.

The whisper replied for some moments.

"By eleven," Halse then said. "Not before."

Then there was a good deal of whispering beneath, and Halstead replied,
"Well, I'll be there."

Not long after, he crept back to bed, I meantime continuing my
fraudulent hard breathing, although by this time I was very much awake
and consumed by curiosity and suspicion. For at least half an hour,
Halse tossed and turned about, seeming to be very restless and uneasy;
in fact, he was still turning, when I fell asleep in very truth.

When I first waked next morning, I did not recollect this circumstance
of the previous evening; in fact, it did not come into my mind till we
had gone out to milk the cows. I then began to think it over earnestly
and continued doing so throughout the forenoon. At first I had no
thought of telling any one what I had heard, for although Halse had
recently threatened me, I did not wish to play the spy on him.

But the idea that something wrong was on foot grew very strong within
me. The more I pondered the circumstances the more certain I felt of it.
At length I concluded to speak of it to Theodora; for some reason my
choice of a confidante fell instinctively on her.

We were "cultivating" the corn that forenoon with old Sol, and hoeing it
for the second time. Finally, I made an excuse to go to the house for a
jug of sweetened water. While preparing it, I found opportunity to call
Theodora into the wood-shed, and first exacting a promise of secrecy
from her, I told her what had occurred the previous evening.

She seemed surprised at first, then terrified, and I went back to the
field with my jug, leaving her greatly disturbed.

When we came in at noon, she motioned me aside in the pantry and said
hurriedly, that I must tell Addison and ask him to speak with her after
dinner.

Twice during the afternoon we saw Theodora out in sight of the
corn-field, and I knew that she was anxiously looking for a word or sign
from Addison. At last, towards supper time, taking advantage of a few
minutes when Halse had gone to the horse pasture with old Sol, I briefly
mentioned the thing to Addison and proffered Theodora's request for an
interview.

Addison listened with a frown. "I think I know who that was under the
window," said he. "Halse has been running round with him, on the sly,
for a month, and they've got some kind of a 'dido' planned out."

"Suppose it is anything bad?" I queried.

"Oh, I don't know," said Ad, impatiently. "Bad enough, I'll warrant you.
If it is the fellow I think it is, he is an out-and-out 'tough' and a
blackguard. One of those chaps that are hanging round Tibbett's rum shop
out at the Corners. You may be sure that a man of that stamp isn't
whispering around under windows, for any good."

"Why, you don't suppose they were planning to steal, or rob, do you?" I
asked, much startled.

"Who knows," replied Addison, coolly. "Halse is a strange boy. He is
just rattle-headed and foolish enough to get coaxed into some scrape
that will disgrace him and all the rest of us. I never saw a fellow in
my life so lacking in good sense.

"Oh yes, I'll talk with Doad," continued Ad, somewhat impatiently. "Doad
is a good girl. She thinks moral suasion and generosity will do
everything. But if I had Halse to manage, I would put him under lock and
key, every night," said Addison, striking his hoe sharply into the
ground.

"And if we only let him alone, I guess he will get there, of his own
accord," he added with a fine irony.

I saw quite plainly that, as Theodora had once said to me, Addison had
no patience with Halstead and his but too evident weakness of character.

"I don't like to run to the Old Squire with all that I see and hear,"
Addison went on, in a low tone, for Gramp was hoeing only a few steps
behind us, and Halstead was now coming back from the pasture. "For they
all think now that I don't like Halse and that I am too hard on him. But
they will find out who is in the right about it."

After supper I saw Theodora in earnest conversation with Addison, out in
the garden by the bee-house. Doad was a great friend of the bees; if she
were wanted and not in the house, we generally looked first for her in
the garden, in the vicinity of the bee-house.

Later in the evening, after we had finished milking and were going into
the dairy with our pails, Addison said to me that it was best, he
thought, to say nothing to the old folks just yet. "Doad wants me to
watch to-night and, if Halse gets up to go off anywhere, to stop him and
coax him back to his room.

"It isn't a job I like," continued Addison, "but perhaps we had better
try it; Doad thinks so.

"So if you can keep awake, till ten or eleven, you had better," Addison
went on. "If he gets up to start off, ask him where he is going, and if
he really starts, come and call me, and we will go after him. I can
dress in a minute."

To this proposal I agreed, and I may add here that at about eleven
o'clock we surprised Halse in the act of stealing away to the Corners,
but after some parley and a scuffle with him, succeeded in getting him
back to bed, and I lodged with Addison.

It was but a short night thenceforward till five o'clock in the morning.
Before going down-stairs we peeped into Halse's room, to see if he were
there still. He lay soundly asleep. Addison closed the door softly.
"Poor noodle," said he, as we got the milk pails. "Let him snooze
awhile. I suppose it isn't really his fault that he has got such a head
on his shoulders. He is rather to be pitied, after all. He is his own
worst enemy.

"I've heard," Ad continued in a low tone, as we opened the barnyard
gate, "that Aunt Ysabel, Halse's mother, was a sort of queer, tempery,
flighty person."

The Old Squire had got out a little in advance of us and sat milking.
"Good morning, boys," said he, looking up cheerily, as we passed.
"Another fine day. The whole country looks bright and smiling. Grand
year for crops."

"We will not say a word to him about our scrape with Halse last night,"
Addison remarked to me. "There's no use plaguing him with it. We cost
him so much and give him so much trouble, that I am ashamed to let him
know of this."

When we took in the milk, Theodora was grinding coffee (and how good it
smelled! She had just roasted it in the stove oven). "We got him back
all right, with no great difficulty," Addison whispered to her, in
passing.

"Oh, I'm so glad," she replied.

Halse had not come down; and pretty soon we heard the Old Squire call
him, at which Addison laughed a little as he glanced at me. At
breakfast Halstead looked somewhat glum; in fact, he did not look at
Addison and me at all, if he could avoid it.

That forenoon we hoed corn again and talked a good deal of the Fourth of
July celebration which was to come off at the village the following
week.

Toward noon, however, word was sent us that the husband of a cousin of
the Old Squire's who resided in the town adjoining, to the eastward, had
suddenly died, and that the funeral was to be at two o'clock that
afternoon.

No one of the family seemed much disposed to attend it. It appeared that
the deceased had not been a highly respected citizen. It was said that
he had died from the effects of a fit of intoxication. The liquor which
drunkards were able to obtain, by hook or crook, at that period and in
spite of the Prohibitory Law, was of a peculiarly deleterious character.

At dinner the Old Squire remarked that he should attend the funeral, and
that I could go with him, if I liked, but that the others might be
excused. I at once accepted the invitation; almost anything was
preferable to hoeing corn in the hot sun.

It was a pleasant ride of eight miles along the county road to the
northeastward. We first passed numerous farms, then a "mud pond" and a
"clear water pond," following afterwards the valley of a small river
between two high, wooded mountains, till we came at last to a saw-mill,
grist-mill and a few houses at a place whimsically known as the "city."
Here in a little weathered house the last rites and services to the
deceased were held. Elder Witham, still in his duster, preached a short
discourse during which I felt somewhat distressed to hear him express
certain doubts as to the man's future state. The Elder was a thoroughly
upright Yankee and Methodist, who tried to preach the truth and the
gospel, as he apprehended it; he did not believe that all a person's
faults are, or ought to be, forgiven at his death. I remember the
following words which he made use of on that occasion, for they appealed
to some nascent sense of logic in me, I suppose: "The evil which men do
in this life lives on in the world after they die; and even so the just
penalty for it continues with them in a future state."

The Old Squire, although ordinarily a kind and reasonable man, yet
possessed some of the same severe traits of character, which have
descended in the sons of New England, from the days of the Puritans. I
remember that he said, as we drove along the road, going homeward: "The
death of a drunkard is a shameful end. Such a person can expect other
people to mourn only for his folly."

But these sentiments made far less impression upon me then than the
conduct of the wife of the dead man. I had somehow supposed that he was
an old man; but instead, he was only thirty-four years of age; and his
wife was an auburn-haired, strong woman, not more than thirty, unusually
handsome in face and form. She was in a state of great excitement, not
wholly caused by sorrow. It appeared that there had been a violently
bitter quarrel between the pair, the night before the man's death; and
so far from having forgiven her husband, even then, the woman exhibited
the turbulence of her temper and behaved in an unseemly manner during
and after the services. Her outcries gave me a very strange impression
and in fact so shocked and terrified me, that to this day I cannot
recall the scene without a singular sensation of disquiet. Withal, it
was the first funeral which I had ever attended. As a lad I was in not a
little doubt on several points, touching the behavior of widows on such
occasions; and as we drove homeward, I ventured to ask the Old Squire
whether women were often liable to go on at funerals as that one did.
For I remember thinking that if this were really the case, I should
never under any circumstances whatever, be allured into matrimony.

But the Old Squire at once said, positively, that they did not behave
so, and that this woman (her name was Britannia) was an exception to all
rules.

My next question upset him, however, for after a few moments of decent
inward satisfaction over his reply, I asked him whether Britannia was a
_Pepperill_.

Gramp turned half around on the wagon seat and looked at me in
astonishment for an instant; he then burst out in a hearty laugh.

"No, no," said he. "She is no Pepperill, no connection whatever of your
grandmother. The shoe is on the other foot. It's on my side this time."

He laughed again as he drove on; and just before we reached home, he
told me, and seemed much in earnest that I should understand it, that
the Pepperills were a very good family, as much or more so than the
average, and that if I had got any different impression from anything I
had heard said, it was utterly erroneous.

"You must never mind any of the nonsense I have over to your grandmother
when we are at table," he continued. "It's all fun. We don't mean
anything. Your grandma is the best woman I ever knew."

I replied that I had thought that was the way of it, myself. As the old
gentleman had expressed himself so magnanimously toward the Pepperills,
I at once resolved not to say a word to Gram, or any of the others,
about this Britannia's behavior. I did not like to have Gramp put at any
disadvantage in the family; so the old gentleman and I kept that
incident quiet between us for a good many years.




CHAPTER XV

A WET FOURTH OF JULY, WITH A GOOD DEAL OF HUMAN NATURE IN IT


The first days of July were very hot and sultry; the hoeing was
finished; haying was at hand. We young folks, however, were now chiefly
interested in the Fourth of July celebration at the village, seven miles
from the farm, and were laying our plans to go, all the previous day. In
fact, the whole family intended to go.

If we were to get the farm chores done, breakfast eaten and reach the
village by six o'clock, in time to see the procession of "fantastics" we
would have to be astir by three in the morning. Addison proposed to
harness old Sol and Nancy to the hay-rack, decorate it with green oak
boughs, making a canopy over it, and all ride to town together, taking
up six or eight of our neighbors, to swell the party.

Theodora and Ellen hailed this plan with delight, but Gram objected both
because of the fact that the hay-rack had no springs, and also upon
grounds of decorum.

"Why, people would think we were a part of the 'fantastics,'" the old
lady exclaimed. "I will never ride in any such gipsy fashion!"

This vigorous declaration tabled the hay-cart scheme. But as we were
milking that evening, Addison obtained the Old Squire's consent to
harness Nancy into the horse-cart, and decorate it for us young folks;
while our elders drove to the village with old Sol in the beach-wagon.
Boughs were accordingly fetched and a canopy made over the cart and by
nine we all retired, so as to secure as much sleep as possible before
three A. M.

But the Pluvian powers forbade the excursion. The southern sky, indeed,
had looked a trifle dark and wet, the previous evening. Raindrops on the
roof waked us shortly before three. We hoped it was but a passing
shower. At daylight, however, the rain was pouring profusely. Wealthy
actually cried; Ellen scolded a little; Halstead made certain irreverent
remarks; while Gram sought to inculcate resignation in the abstract.

It proved one of those profuse southerly rains, such as often occur in
Maine during the summer season. We milked in the barn and put the cows
out to pasture in the midst of the downpour, for it was a warm rain.

"No celebration to-day," remarked Addison; but the Old Squire thought
that it would slacken by noon and perhaps clear.

All the morning it rained too hard even to go fishing. Addison went up
to his room to read Audubon awhile. Halstead went out to the wagon-house
and having appropriated an auger, draw-shave and hammer, took an
umbrella and set off for the old cooper shop below the orchard. Seeing
me standing in the wood-house door, he said, "You can go down to my
shop, if you want to. I wouldn't invite Addison, but I will you."

I ran out to his umbrella, and we went down to the old shop. When we
reached the door, Halstead remarked that I need not _see_ the way he
opened it; so I stepped around the corner for a moment, till he called
to me. I then entered after him and stood around while he set to work on
several odd-looking pieces of wheeled gear. Then with his permission, I
kindled a little fire in the large old fireplace, and dried my clothes
before it.

"I tell ye that's a cute place to roast sweet corn ears," Halstead
remarked. "In the fall I have a fire here evenings and roast corn; I did
last fall and you and I will this next fall. It's jolly fun, after the
nights get cool; I would like to sleep down here, but the old gent wants
me to sleep in the house; I made a bunk of shavings and set out to stay
one night before my fire, but he came down and knocked at the door about
ten o'clock. He said I had better go up to the house.

"The old gent is awful particular about a fellow being out after dark,"
Halstead continued. "I ain't used, myself, to being bossed round so, and
treated as if I was a child that hadn't cut my teeth yet. I've seen
something of the world and can take care of number one, anywheres. It
ain't as if I was a little green chap. I've lived out among folks, till
I came 'way back here. I suppose the old gent and all the rest of them
think, that I don't know any more and must be looked after just like one
of these little greenhorns round here. It's a great bore to me to be
treated that way and I don't like it at all. It makes me mad sometimes.
A fellow that has travelled and seen something, wants more liberty."

I could see that he was talking around to lead up to something he wished
to tell me, and so said nothing.

"Now the other night," Halstead continued, "all I was going off for was
to get some money of a fellow who owes me out at the Corners; I wanted
to get it bad, for I wanted to pay you and the girls what I owe you. I
knew you wanted it for the Fourth and I wanted to pay it; so I thought I
would slip out to the Corners, and see this fellow and get it of him,
for he had promised me I should have it that night. I felt ructious that
I couldn't go, for of course a fellow wants to pay his honest debts, and
it's kinder hard when he can't."

I mentally set this down as one of the things that are important, if
true; it was pretty plain to me, however, that Halstead was hedging, and
making up a story which he thought suited to my understanding. I did not
like to hear him go on, and contrived to change the conversation.

Halstead was in one of his good moods that morning, and as he worked
with the draw-shave, he cast knowing, proud glances first at the wheeled
contrivance, then at me. I concluded that he wanted me to inquire about
it and so asked what it was for.

"A wind-mill," said he. "It will be a buster, too! I'll show 'em a thing
or two 'round here. I mean to run a lathe with it here at the shop and
do wood turning. I'll turn banisters, rolling-pins, gingerbread creasers
and all sorts of things. I can make lots of money off a lathe. I'm going
to set the wind-mill up on a tall post at the corner of the shop here,
and then have a pulley shaft clean across this whole side of it. Won't
it just hum though!"

I grew considerably interested in the proposed wind-mill, as Halse
explained it. He really had some ideas of a lathe, run by wind power,
and went on for some time telling me of his plans, till Ellen called us
to dinner.

It continued to rain till past two o'clock, when the clouds broke away
and the sun came forth very hot and bright.

"Shall we go?" was now the question. "Will there be a celebration now
the day is so far advanced?"

The Old Squire thought it hardly worth the while to set off, assuredly
not in the bough-embowered cart. Gram and the girls therefore decided to
give up going altogether, but we three boys at length harnessed old Sol
into the express wagon and started; for we hoped to see the fireworks in
the evening and perhaps the sack-race and wheelbarrow-race which had
been set for afternoon.

The meadow brook was swollen high out its banks and flowed into the
grass on both sides, and the wet road was full of puddles through which
old Sol splashed prosaically on. There were very few teams on the road.
Alfred Batchelder, the two Murch boys and Ned Wilbur overtook us,
however, when we had nearly reached the village, all four riding on one
seat of an old wagon. We found, too, that Thomas Edwards and Catherine
had come to the village, in advance of us. Catherine came out from one
of the stores to ask us whether Theodora and Ellen had come; she seemed
much disappointed to learn that they had not, and that she was the only
girl from our neighborhood who had ventured forth.

Despite the wet, a crowd of three or four hundred persons, mostly boys
or young men, had collected in front of the Elm House, where they were
popping off firecrackers and playing pranks. Zest was presently lent to
these latter efforts, by the continuous explosion of half a bunch of
crackers beneath the wagon seat of a young farmer who, with his sister,
or some other young lady, was sitting in a wagon on the outskirts of the
crowd, looking on. Both of them were smiling broadly. In the rear end of
their wagon was a butter firkin and a number of packages. Some rogue
lighted the crackers and tossed them directly beneath the wagon seat,
and immediately they began to pop off. Their horse gave a bound; smoke
and sparks flew, and after a moment the girl jumped clear of the wagon
and landed nimbly on her feet two yards away! She looked very wild,
indeed, and did not relish the joke; for an urchin in the crowd,
attempting to follow it up by covertly dropping a lighted cracker near
her feet, was instantly detected and received such a box on the ear as
set him howling.

Meantime the youthful farmer had no small ado to quiet his nag. When
the animal and the crackers had at length subsided into quiet, he began
to look about for the girl. His nerves were not of the highly strung
variety; he looked out for his horse first; he was not much excited, and
smiled broadly when Angelina came forward to climb into the wagon again,
but he was heard to remark in a slightly quickened tone. "By Gaul, 'f I
could find out who throwed them firecrackers, I'd lick him, I would, I
swan."

He gazed about over the crowd, with an inquiring eye, as one honestly on
the lookout for accurate information; and although everybody had laughed
uproariously, no one now claimed the honor of having started the fun.

Evidently a mischievous spirit possessed the crowd. In fact, when a
great concourse of people has gathered in expectation of a good time,
and has been balked of the fun, it is well to be wary and keep aloof.
Something is pretty certain to happen, and somebody is likely to be made
a victim of the general disappointment. In such a case the most prudent
thing is to go quietly home.

While all stood laughing and gaping at young Agricola and his fair
companion, another hubbub broke out. A cracker suddenly exploded in the
outer pocket of a long linen duster, worn by a tall youth who at that
moment had his mouth widely distended with laughter. He clapped his hand
to his pocket, when another went off there. With that he whirled around,
the lengthy skirts of the "duster" floating out in a circle amidst a
wreath of blue powder smoke. _Snap-fizz_ went another and another
cracker, the sparks flying and an odor of burnt cloth beginning to
pervade the air. The crowd, shouting in fresh glee, speedily drew out
from the new victim and formed a ring about him.

"Enoch, you're all afire!" exclaimed one of his acquaintances. "Throw
off yer duster." This was sound advice and would probably have been
acted upon by "Enoch;" but some one else cried, "Down and roll over."

The adage advising all whose clothes take fire, to roll on the floor, or
the ground, has become pretty firmly fixed in the public mind; and
hearing it, Enoch at once threw himself down and rolled over and over in
the road, to the accompaniment of a tremendous shout. The maneuver did
not much improve matters; for a lot of crackers had been dropped into
the duster pocket. These continued to pop off, in twos and threes; and
the more alarmingly they popped, the more vigorously Enoch rolled! A
more laughable spectacle, for the onlookers, can hardly be imagined. The
tall fellow's arms and legs flew about in a wonderful manner; the smoke
and sparks flew, too, and every time a cracker snapped, Enoch howled.

Somebody at length ran forward with a pailful of water that was set on
the tavern piazza, and dashed it over him, and withal the road was still
very muddy from the rain. When the water fell over him, he scrambled to
his feet; the crackers had snapped themselves out. But oh, sorrows, what
a fearfully singed and muddy object was Enoch! His own mother would have
looked coldly on him; and the unsympathetic crowd screamed with delight.

But Enoch had arisen in a somber frame of mind; and it was at once
apparent that something was going to be done about it, and that somebody
must settle the account with him. He cast a rueful glance over his
personal remnants, then a wrathy one at the laughter-shaken crowd, took
a step forward and giving vent to certain emphatic remarks, declared,
"The feller that did that has got to suffer!"

Thereupon a group of five or six boys, among them our Halstead and
Alfred Batchelder, not being upheld, perhaps, by the courage of entire
innocence, began to slink away and get behind others. In an instant
Enoch was after them. They took to their heels around to the rear of the
tavern, the crowd shouting, "Catch 'em! Give it to 'em! Go it, Enoch!"

There was a rush to see the denouement. Neither Addison, nor I,
witnessed all which took place. The chase had led the principals far
around to the rear of a stable and sheds. At length, we saw Halstead and
Alfred on the roof of the latter, and heard cries of dismay and distress
from others of the runaway party; Enoch was with them, evidently.

Alfred and Halse continued hastily to climb to the ridge-pole of the
stable and then walked along on the roof of an ell, till they gained the
higher roof of the tavern itself. Presently Enoch came back from the
rear and espying the refugees aloft, began to stone them with vigor,
till the proprietor came out and ordered all parties to the fracas to
desist and leave the premises.

Addison and I now crossed the street and joined Thomas and Kate Edwards,
who were standing on the platform of a store opposite, spectators at a
distance of what had taken place. After a time Halse came to us, having
made a circuit of several buildings from the rear of the Elm House. He
had the generally rumpled appearance of a boy who has been roughly
handled. Occasionally he nursed and rubbed certain spots upon his
person.

"Did he hit ye?" inquired Thomas, good-humoredly.

"Yes, he did," muttered Halse. "The old long-legged loafer! I wish he
had all burnt up!"

"Did you put the crackers in his pocket?" asked Catherine, laughing.

"No, I didn't," replied Halse. "But I know who did," he added, with a
knowing nod. "And I know who lit the match, too."

"You seem to know quite a good deal about it," commented Catherine.

"He needn't have stoned me!" cried Halse. "He had no proof against me.
But I'll pay him out."

"I guess you had better let Enoch alone," said Addison.

Meantime the sun had come out very hot; it was already five o'clock.
Kate persuaded Thomas to carry her to visit an acquaintance of theirs,
living somewhere on the outskirts of the village. We lingered about for
a time, then some one of the crowd of boys proposed going up to the
outlet of the lake, above the dam, to go in swimming. The heat rendered
this proposal agreeable; and as many as fifty set off together, some
intending to go into the water, others to sit in the shade and watch the
swimmers. Enoch, minus his duster, with a number of his friends, was in
the party, observing which Alfred and Halse kept at a respectful
distance in the rear. Ned Wilbur and Willis and Ben Murch went along
with Addison and me.

The distance up to the "swimming hole" was near half a mile; there was a
pretty bit of white, sandy shore, shelving off from shoal into deep
water. In a few minutes, twenty or thirty were splashing, wading and
swimming out, some boldly, as good swimmers will, others timidly, or
feigning to swim and taking good care not to get into water over their
heads.

And all along shore the grass was dotted with small heaps, capped with
white, representing each bather's temporarily discarded wearing apparel,
beside which were set his holiday shoes or boots.

It is the common, unwritten code among boys on such occasions, that
while in the water, each swimmer's clothes are to be held sacred from
molestation, even by his sworn enemies; at least, that was the "law," as
the writer understood it, in the year 1866. To meddle with another
boy's clothes while he was in the water was deemed an outlaw act.

Alfred and Halse, however, who had approached in the rear, and observed
Enoch's wardrobe lying unguarded on the shore, determined to redress
their grievances by making a descent upon it, while he was in the pond.
Ned and I, who were sitting under a large maple a little back from the
stream, saw them peering about the heaps of clothes, like a couple of
crows plotting larceny from a robin's nest. We had little idea what they
were about to do, however, for they walked away, and it was not till ten
minutes afterwards that we saw them again, this time with Alfred's horse
and wagon, up in the road, a hundred yards or more from the water.

"Why, Alf's going home!" Ned exclaimed. "I came down with him and I must
go back with him, unless I walk." "Don't go yet," I said. "You can ride
back with us. We are going to stay till evening."

"All right, I will," replied Ned. "I don't like to go with Alf very
well; he is always 'sassing' folks on the road.

"But they have stopped up there," Ned added. "Alf's got out and is
coming down here. Perhaps it's to call me to go home. He is picking up
stones. What suppose he is going to do?"

We watched him curiously. Halse sat in the wagon, holding the reins, but
Alf was stealing down to the shore, and he seemed to have a stone as
large as one's fist in each hand.

"You don't suppose he is going to stone Enoch and run?" queried Ned, in
some excitement. "There'll be high jinks, if he does."

I thought that was the intention, and called out in a low tone to
Addison, who was coming out of the water, a few rods off, to come to us.
But before he had more than heard me, Alfred slipped down past an alder
clump, to the spot where Enoch's clothes lay, and quickly tucking a
stone into each of his boots, threw them off into deep water, then
snatching up his pile of clothes, ran for the wagon.

They had the trick adroitly planned out, and he was not half a minute
executing it. Before an outcry was more than raised and the alarm wafted
out to Enoch, or his friends, Alfred and our Halstead were rattling off
up the road at a great rate.

But when the fact really dawned upon the crowd of boys, there was a roar
of indignant exclamations, and only a very few laughed this time. "After
them!" was the first shout. "Catch them!"--and some said, "Drown 'em!"

Not many were in a condition to make pursuit, however. The perpetrators
of the outrage easily escaped; they were a mile off, indeed, before the
most of the swimmers were dressed.

Poor Enoch was now in bad straits. He and three or four others began
diving for his boots, but failed to bring them up.

Addison was much disturbed. He gave Enoch his undershirt, and another
boy endowed him with a pair of drawers. With these donations, they got
him out of the bushes, and forming a close circle round him, escorted
him barefoot and bareheaded to one of the village stores, where he was
rigged up--on credit--so that he could go home. There was a great deal
of joking, yet the prevalent feeling was one of indignation; and if the
two tricksters had been caught that afternoon, they would have fared
badly, and probably taken a ride on a rail. Altogether, it had been a
bad day for Enoch; but for popular sympathy, he would not only have lost
his "duster," but been obliged to scud home under bare poles.

At sunset we bought crackers and cheese for our supper. Ned and the two
Murch boys were now of our party, but Thomas and Catherine had gone
home. We were but slightly repaid for waiting till evening, however;
only six rockets, five Roman candles and two "pin-wheels" were burned in
the way of fireworks. It was very soon over, although we had been
obliged to wait until a quarter to nine for the exhibition to begin.
Boy-like, however, we would not have missed it for a great deal.

Then came the long ride homeward in the dark, for the night proved
cloudy; but the events of the day furnished us a great deal to talk of,
as old Sol plodded onward,--and there was more to follow.

We had gone about half way home, and were passing a partly wooded tract
on the upper or west side of the highway, when Willis suddenly said,
"What's that thing, hanging down from that tree over the road?"

"I don't see anything," replied Addison.

"I tell you there is!" muttered Willis, excitedly. "Hold on, Ad. Stop."

Addison pulled up.

"Yes, there is something there," Ned said.

I was sure, too, that I could see something different from the branches
and leaves of the tree; there was a reflection as from white cloth, or
human skin.

"It looks like a man hanging there," whispered Willis.

"Gracious! You don't suppose it is a man, hung, do ye?" Ned whispered.

The idea startled us.

"Pshaw!" said Addison. "I don't believe it is any such thing. May be
something some one has lost in the road, and somebody else has found it
and hung it up there, where it will be seen."

"Perhaps," said Willis, doubtfully.

"I'm going to drive along, anyway," continued Addison.

"No, don't. Hold on, Ad. Don't," whispered Ned, for the thing did have a
curious appearance.

Addison persisted and slapped old Sol gently with the reins. The rest
of us cringed down as low as we could, for we did not like the looks of
the object, or the thought of passing close under it. But just as we had
got under it, Addison said, "Whoa," and old Sol stopped short.

"Drive on, Ad, drive on," whispered Ned, nervously.

"No," said Addison. "I'm going to see what that is. Take the reins," and
he gave them to me. "I can reach it by standing upon the seat."

Addison raised himself slowly, and finding that he could reach the
object, began to feel it with his hand.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed suddenly. "'Tis a man's stocking, _on his
foot_!"

"Ah-h-h!" quavered Ned. "Let's get from under!" He grabbed spasmodically
at the reins and gave a shake. Old Sol took a step, and Addison tumbled
partly over Willis and Ben, who both gave a howl of nervous
apprehension.

"Quit that!" cried Addison, angrily, to me. "Stop, I tell you. You hold
that horse."

I pulled old Sol up short and he backed a little, at which Ned jumped
out and ran on a few steps; Willis and Ben also slipped out behind.

"Hold still," said Addison to me. "Don't let the horse start and pitch
me out."

With that he stood up again and began feeling the object. "'Tis a man's
trouser leg, sure--and stocking--but there's something odd inside. Who's
got a match?"

Ben had a few matches, with which he had been touching off firecrackers
earlier in the day, and ventured up to the back of the wagon. Addison
stood up again and struck one, while the rest of us stared as the match
burned slowly.

"It is a stuffed man," cried Addison; "a scarecrow, I guess, stuffed
with grass. But where have I seen those checkered pants before,
to-day?--and, boys, here is a paper, pinned on to them higher up. Back
the horse a little."

I backed a step, and Addison, striking another match, read aloud on the
piece of paper, "THIS IS ENOCH."

"Oho!" cried Ned. "Alf and Halse did that!"

"Yes, these are Enoch's clothes, sure," said Addison. "There's his hat
on a big pine knot for a head, with his pocket handkerchief tied round
it for a face, and great daubs of wheel grease for mouth, eyes and
nose."

"Well, that's a queer sort of joke!" remarked Willis.

"I'm glad they didn't carry Enoch's clothes clean home with them," said
I.

"I was afraid they had," Addison remarked; "and I was thinking whether
or not he could make it out as stealing, against them."

"Had we better take them down and send them back to him?" I asked.

"No, sir-ee," said Addison. "We will not meddle with them. Enoch may
send the sheriff up here by morning. It would be a pretty go if the
clothes were found in our possession. Let them hang right where they
are, I say, and let's be going, too, before any one comes along and
catches us here!"

We drove on accordingly, and reached home without further adventures.
The house was dark; all had retired, except Theodora, who was sitting at
her window looking out for us. She came down stairs quietly, lighted a
lamp and had set on a lunch for us by the time we came in from the
wagon-house. They had gathered three quarts of field strawberries that
afternoon and had saved a quart for us. They were the first strawberries
of the season. How good they did taste, hungry as we were that night,
along with some big slices of Gram's new "mug bread" and butter, and a
plentiful swig of lemonade, a pitcherful of which Theodora had also set
aside for us.

"Doad!" cried Addison, giving her a pat on the shoulder. "You are the
boss girl of this county!"

"Oh, I wanted to hear all the Fourth o' July news," said Theodora. "Now
tell me. But don't talk so loud, or you will wake Gramp and Gram."

"The news, well, jingo, I don't know whether we ought to tell it all, or
not; what think?" said Addison to me, doubtfully.

"Has Halse got home?" I asked.

"Yes, he came just before supper. He said he rode up _with a fellow_ as
far as the forks of the road," replied Theodora.

"Did he say why he left us and came home so early?" asked Addison.

"Yes; he said there was nothing going on, and he had got tired of
loafing around."

Addison laughed; so did I.

"But I knew there was something behind it all," Theodora continued. "Now
what was it?"

"Nothing--much," replied Addison, evasively.

"Oh, but there was," exclaimed Theodora. "Tell me."

"Nothing but the usual 'circus,' when Halse goes out anywhere," replied
Addison wearily, yet still laughing a little.

"But tell me what it was," Theodora urged.

With a certain reluctance which boys always feel, to divulge
circumstances that pertain mainly to boys and boys' affairs, we related
to her the salient events of the afternoon, for it would have been a bad
return for her kindness to us to have refused altogether, and we felt,
too, that her motive was something more than mere curiosity.

Theodora was a fun-loving girl by nature; she laughed over the
snap-cracker episodes, and laughed, indeed, at the Elm House roof
exploit, and even could not help laughing at Alfred and Halse's final
trick with Enoch's clothes.

"But that _was_ mean," she kept saying. "What do you suppose he will do?
Will he have them arrested?"

"No, I guess not," replied Addison. "I think it will pass as a joke.
Enoch will probably get his clothes back, in a day or two, if not his
boots."

"But he declared he would give Alf and Halse an awful licking the first
time he meets them out anywheres," I said.

"Well, I shouldn't much blame him, I do say, if he did," observed
Theodora, laughing again.

"I would if I were he," said Addison. "You see, they begun on Enoch in
the first place."

Just then we heard a little creaking noise in the chamber stairway.

"Sh," whispered Theodora. "I believe Halse is there, on the stairs,
listening."

"Well, listeners rarely hear much good of themselves," said Addison,
loudly enough for him to hear it. We heard still another little creaking
noise, this time higher up the stairs, as if he were tiptoeing back to
his room.

"I am sorry if he overheard us," Theodora remarked in a low tone, as we
got up to go to our rooms.

"I don't care," said Addison. "What could he expect any one to say of a
mean thing like that?"

When I entered our room, Halse was in bed, and pretended to snore.

"Oh, that's too thin, Halse," said I. "We heard you on the stairs."

"You are a couple of tell-tales!" he exclaimed, hotly. "To come home and
chatter out everything that happened, to the girls!"

There was some little force in the reproach, and I did not at once reply
to it. "Tell-tale, tell-tale!" he kept calling out, tauntingly, as I
was undressing.

"You just wait till Enoch gets hold of you!" I remarked, beginning to
grow irritated.

"I'm not afraid of any of your Enochs!" cried Halse.

"What were you on the top of the Elm House for, then?" I asked,
sarcastically. "I wouldn't like to be in your shoes the next time Enoch
gets his eye on you."

"If he touches me, I'll fix him!" cried Halstead, wrathfully. "And I'll
slap you, too, if you don't keep still," he added, giving me a kick
under the bedspread, which I did not quite dare to resent, and so turned
over to the wall and fell asleep.

Thus ended our first Fourth of July at the farm.

I must add a word here relative to Enoch's clothes, however. The effigy
hung there over the road for two days; but word had been sent to Enoch,
who lived in another town, and on the third day he made his appearance
for the purpose of reclaiming his garments; but meantime, either that
morning or the previous evening, the effigy was stolen, or at least
captured and carried off. The latter offense was finally traced to a
passing tin-peddler, who, when accused of it, declared that he had found
the image lying in the road, and deemed the clothes old togs, fit only
for paper rags and not worth advertising; he had therefore put them in
his cart and driven on. He was subsequently shown to have sold the suit,
not as paper rags; and when threatened with legal proceedings, he
settled the matter on Enoch's own terms.

On the first day of the "Cattle Show," or County Fair, that fall, Enoch
fell in with Alfred Batchelder, in the rear of the cattle sheds, and, to
make use of a phrase common among fighting characters, "wiped up the
ground with him"--not over clean ground, either--for a space of several
minutes. Our Halstead steered clear of him, however, and so far as I
know, never received his just deserts for his share in the
transaction,--which may, perhaps, be said to lie in the line of a remark
which Elder Witham was fond of making in his quaint sermon against the
Universalists. "Justice," quoth the Elder, "certainly does not get done
in this brief, imperfect life of ours. Many of the worst wrongs men do
us go unredressed in spite of our best efforts to square accounts with
them!"

I recollect, also, that as we had unharnessed old Sol in the wagon-house
that night and led him out, we noticed a great light in the sky, away to
the southward. It shone up high in the heavens, but was pale, as if a
long distance off. I asked Addison what he thought it could be, and he
said there must be a great fire somewhere in that direction. We thought
no more about it at the time; but toward evening next day a rumor
reached us, afterwards confirmed, that a great part of the city of
Portland had burned, entailing a loss of nearly or quite twenty millions
of dollars.

But along with all these distracting incidents of the Fourth of July,
there was a bit of seriousness and worry that lingered in a back nook of
my mind, connected with that funeral which the Old Squire and I had
attended. I felt that there was something, some question concerning it,
which I must solve, or settle, before I could feel right again. I had
never seen a person lying dead before; I tried not to think about it and
in part succeeded, when there were a good many other things going on,
yet all the time I knew that it was there in my mind and must be thought
about before long. When I was very tired and first shut my eyes, on
lying down at night, I would see that man in his coffin so plainly that
I would fairly jump in bed, and then have to turn over several times
and begin talking with Halstead, somewhat to his annoyance, for without
quite understanding it, I suppose, he yet perceived that it was not a
genuine conversational effort.

During the days following the Fourth, this impression of death which had
entered my mind began to assume more definite limits, and grew pertinent
to my own status. I had heard that the average age of man was
thirty-three years, and granting that I should reach that age, I could
expect to live a little over twenty years more. That was a long time, to
be sure, twenty years; but it would pass, and at the end of it I should
have to die and look as that man looked, and be buried in the ground.
The thought of it caused me to gasp suddenly, and filled me with a sense
of terror and despair so awful that I could scarcely restrain myself
from crying out. Most young people, I conjecture, pass through a similar
mental experience, when the drear fact of death is first realized.

It continued to weigh heavily on my mind; and by way of relief from it,
I followed Theodora out into the garden the next Sunday evening, and
after quite an effort, opened the subject with her. There was no one
else with whom I could have summoned resolution to broach that topic.

"Did you ever see anybody after they were dead?" I asked her.

She did not seem very much surprised at the question, since it was
Sabbath eve. "Do you mean their body?" she inquired.

"Yes, their body," I replied.

"I have seen three," she said, at length.

"Didn't it make you feel strange?" I asked. "It did me. It is an awful
thing to die and be put down into the ground, with all that earth on
one."

"Oh, but they don't know it," said Theodora. "It is only their dead
bodies; their spirits are far away."

"Yes," I said, "but I cannot help thinking of their bodies, and that it
is them still, only they cannot wake up and speak."

"Oh, no, their spirits are far away," replied my gentle cousin,
confidently.

"But that man, the one whose funeral Gramp and I went to, he died
intoxicated. Where do you honestly think he is now?" I asked her.

"It's a dreadful thing to think of," replied Theodora, solemnly. "You
know the Bible says, no drunkard can go to heaven."

"Then he will be burned forever and ever and ever, won't he?" I said.

"I suppose he will," she said, and taking out her handkerchief, she
wiped her eyes sadly.

"Do you think it will be real fire and that it will smart just as it
does when we burn our fingers?" I asked her.

"Maybe worse," Theodora replied, again wiping her eyes. "But sometimes I
cannot believe that it will be all the time, night and day, year after
year. Maybe it is wicked to hope it will not be, but I do want to think
that _they would stop sometimes_. Universalists teach that nobody will
be punished at all after they die; but Gram thinks they are not real
Christians. Our folks all believe that the wicked will be punished
forever, and the Bible does say so, I suppose. Grandmother says that all
the great Bible scholars agree that the wicked will be punished."

"What does Ad think?" I asked, at length.

"I don't know. I'm afraid that he doesn't think at all," replied
Theodora. "The thing I do not like in Cousin Addison is that he will
never take a serious view of these important questions. The time he had
the measles, he was very sick one day, and I said that I hoped that his
mind was at peace. He looked at me as if he were a little frightened at
first, for I suppose he thought that I thought that he was going to die,
for I did begin in a sort of clumsy way. His head was swelled nearly as
big again as it ought to have been, and he looked very queer about the
eyes. 'O Doad!' he exclaimed, 'please do talk of things that you know
something about.' But of course he felt peevish, being so sick."

"I suppose he did," said I. "But isn't it awful that everybody's got to
die--and no getting away from it?"

"Yes, it does make any one feel dreadfully sad," Theodora assented. "But
the good will be better off."

I did not gain much comfort from the conversation, however, and for
years thereafter the thought of death filled me with the same choking
sense of terror.




CHAPTER XVI

WOOD-CHUCKS IN THE CLOVER--ADDISON'S STRATAGEM


Creameries with ice-chests were as yet unheard of in the rural counties
of Maine in 1866. At the old farm, all of the dairy milk was set in pans
on the clean, cool cellar bottom. As the warm mornings of midsummer drew
on, Gram was usually up by five o'clock, attending to her cream and
butter; and about this time, as we issued drowsily forth, in response to
the Old Squire's early rap, we were repeatedly startled at hearing a
sudden eldritch exclamation which was half scream, at the foot of the
bulkhead stairs.

"What's the matter down there, Ruth?" the Old Squire would exclaim.

"Dear me, I've stepped on that hateful toad again!" Gram would reply.
"It's always under foot there! Do, Ellen, you get the tongs and carry
that toad off again. Carry him away out to the foot of the garden, below
the currant bushes. I don't see how he is forever getting back to the
foot of those stairs! It gives me such a start, to put my foot on him!"

And Gram would have to sit down for a time, to fan herself and to
recover her composure.

"Well, Ruth, I should think it would give the toad a start, too," the
Old Squire would comment, dryly.

Meantime Ellen or Addison would proceed to capture the toad--a fine, big
brown chunk of a toad--and exile him to the garden. Once Ellen carried
him, wriggling in the tongs, around to the back side of the west barn.
Ad, too, carried him out into the orchard one night. But by the next
day, or the day following, toady would be back at the foot of the
bulkhead stairs again. There is no doubt that it was the same toad, and
he certainly must have possessed a good sense of locality. We could not
for some time imagine how he obtained entrance to the cellar, for he
returned to his favorite cool spot on days when the outer bulkhead door
was closed. Addison at length decided that he must have got in by way of
the cellar drain, on the back side of the house.

It was contrary to all the homely traditions at the farm to kill or
maltreat a toad. Not less than seven times was that toad carefully
carried away into the garden, or down the lane.

At last Gram's patience was exhausted. Her ire rose. "I'll see if you
come back into my cellar again, old fellow," she exclaimed, before
breakfast one morning after the recusant batrachian had been transported
the night before. This time the old lady seized the tongs herself, and
marched out into the yard, holding toady with no gentle pinch on his
rotund body.

"Ellen, you bring me a quart of that brine out of the beef barrel," she
called back to the kitchen.

Then having put the toad down in the cart road leading out into the
fields, she dashed him with brine, and as he hopped away pursued him
with further douches.

It is not likely that the brine injured the reptile very much, but for
some reason it never came back.

For a long time thereafter the Old Squire was accustomed to touch up
Gram's conscience now and then, by making sly allusion to her
hard-heartedness and cruelty in "pickling toads." The Old Squire, too,
had his bucolic enemies as well as Gram.

Wheet-wh-wh-wh-wh-wheedle! was a note we now began to hear daily about
the stone walls and in the fields of new clover.

"Oh, those wood-chucks!" the old gentleman would exclaim. "They are
making shocking work over in that new piece. Boys, I'll give you five
cents a head for every wood-chuck you will kill off."

Amidst the now rapidly blossoming red clover we could see the fresh
earth of numbers of their burrows, and almost every day a new one would
be espied beside a rock or stone heap. June is the happy month for
wood-chucks, in New England; they riot in the farmer's clover, and
tunnel the soft hillsides with their holes. June is the month, too, when
mother wood-chuck is leading out her four or five chubby little chucks,
teaching them the fear of dogs and man, which constitutes the wisdom of
a wood-chuck's life, and giving them their first lesson in that shrill,
yet guttural note peculiar to wood-chuckdom, which country boys call
"whistling."

It is remarkable how many wood-chucks will not only get a living, but
wax fat on an old farm where the farmer himself has difficulty in making
year's ends meet. Addison estimated that at one time there were seventy
wood-chucks on the Old Squire's homestead, all prosperous and laying by
something, metaphorically speaking, for a rainy day.

Despite all the evil that is said of the wood-chuck, too, he does in
reality a much smaller amount of damage to man than one would imagine
from the outcry against him. Occasionally, it is true, a chuck will
begin nibbling at early pease, or beans, and do real, measurable harm,
but the injury which he inflicts on the farmer in the hay-fields is
generally much exaggerated. In the "south field" that year, there were
two acres of red clover, where not less than seven or eight wood-chucks
dug new holes and threw out mounds of yellow earth, which in some places
crushed down the crop. Then, too, in feeding and running about, they
trampled on plats of the thick clover, particularly where it had
"lodged" from its own rank growth. There were, in all, five or six
square rods of the grass which it was not deemed worth while to attempt
to mow at all, and the loss of which was due in part, but not wholly, to
the wood-chucks. The hired men scolded about it, and Gramp himself, who
had a farmer's natural aversion to wood-chucks, fretted over it. We
boys, too, magnified the damage and discussed ingenious plans for
exterminating them. But after all, I do not believe that we really got
two hundred weight of hay less in the field, in consequence of
wood-chucks; and certainly the clover as it stood was not worth sixty
cents a hundred. A dollar and twenty cents would probably have made good
the entire loss; and I suspect that one-half of the damage from
trampling on the clover was done by us boys, in pursuit of the chucks,
rather than by the chucks themselves. At least, I still remember running
through the grass in a very reckless manner on several occasions.

I am keenly aware that to write anything in defense of the wood-chuck
will prove unpopular with farmers and farmers' boys. Still, I venture to
ask whether we are not, perhaps, a little too much inclined to deem the
earth and everything that grows out of it our own particular property.
The wood-chuck is undoubtedly an older resident on this continent than
men, certainly a far older resident than white men, who came here less
than three hundred years ago. Moreover, he is a quiet, inoffensive
resident, never becomes a pauper, never gets intoxicated, nor creates
any disturbance, minds his own business, and only "whistles" when
astonished or suddenly attacked by man and his dogs. May it not be
possible that he is honestly entitled to a few stalks of clover which
grow in the country which he and his ancestors had inhabited for
centuries before white men knew there was any such place as America?

The writer now owns a farm in Maine, or at least holds a deed of it,
given him, for a consideration, by another man who in turn had bought it
of a previous incumbent who had seized it from the Indians, wood-chucks,
hares, foxes and other original proprietors, without, as I hear, making
them any return whatever; who, in fact, ejected them without ceremony.
For some years whenever the wood-chucks ate anything that grew on the
land, particularly if it were anything which I had sown or planted, I
attacked them with guns, traps and dogs and killed them when I could.

But one day it occurred to me that perhaps my deed did not fairly
authorize me to behave in just that way towards them, and that I was
playing the rôle of a small, but very cruel, self-conceited tyrant over
a conquered species whose blood cried out against me from the ground. I
ceased my persecutions and massacres. Twenty or thirty wood-chucks now
live on the premises with me, unmolested, for the most part. They take
about what they want and dig a hole whenever they want a new one. They
are really very peaceable neighbors, and it is rarely that we have a
difference of opinion in the matter of garden truck,--for I still draw
the line at early pease and beans in the garden.

It is, indeed, quite surprising how little they take, or destroy. I do
not believe that in all that time they have done me damages which any
two fair-minded referees would allow me five dollars for. I am sure I
spent more than that for ammunition, to say nothing of time, traps,
dog-food, etc., during the year or two that I was playing the despot and
trying to exterminate them. Now that I have rid my mind of the barbarous
propensity to kill them, I really enjoy seeing them sitting up by their
holes, or peeping at me over the heads of clover.

But a boy naturally likes to use his trap and his gun, especially on any
animal, or bird, which his seniors represent to him as an outlaw. When
the Old Squire set a bounty of five cents upon wood-chuck scalps, the
desire to go on the war-path against the proscribed rodents at once took
possession of us. A number of rusty fox-traps and mink-traps were
brought forth from the wagon-house chamber, to be set at the entrances
of the wood-chucks' holes. We covered the trenchers of the traps
carefully over with loose dirt and attached the chain to stakes, driven
into the ground a little to one side of the hole. In this way five
chucks were trapped in the south field during the week.

Halstead and I were in partnership trapping them, but Addison preferred
to rely on the gun. It is next to impossible to kill a wood-chuck with
shot so quickly that he will not, after being hit, succeed in running
into his hole, and thus defeat the evidence that he is a dead
wood-chuck. Addison, however, hit upon a stratagem for shooting them at
short range. He could imitate their peculiar "whistle" quite cleverly,
and having observed that when one wood-chuck whistles, all the others
within hearing are apt to exhibit some little curiosity as to what is
going on, he turned the circumstance to account. Going cautiously to a
burrow, he would crouch down, and placing the muzzle of the gun so as to
shoot into the hole, "whistle," as if some neighboring chuck had come
along to prospect the premises. In almost every instance, when there was
a chuck in the hole, it would immediately come up in sight, probably to
greet, or repel its visitor. The instant it appeared, Addison would fire
and nearly always kill the animal; for although often he could not
secure it, he would carefully close up the hole with stones and earth,
and if, after three days, the chuck did not dig out past the
obstruction, he laid claim to the bounty. A roster, which he kept in
notches on the garden gate, showed that he had shot fourteen
wood-chucks.

I remember that Theodora had something to say several times about our
cruelty to the poor creatures; but we justified it on account of the
damage which the wood-chucks were alleged to do to the grain, grass and
beans.

"Oh, Doad would let the wood-chucks eat up everything we plant!" Halse
would say, sarcastically. "'Let them have it,' she would say. 'Don't
hurt the poor little things!' That's just like girls. They don't have to
plant and hoe, so they are very merciful and tender-hearted. But if they
had to plough and work and plant and sow and hoe in the hot sun all day,
to raise a crop, they'd sing a different tune when the plaguey
wood-chucks came around and ate it up!"

We thought Addison's stratagem a very bright one. That he could
"whistle" the chuck out of his hole, and fetch him up to the very muzzle
of the gun, was considered remarkably clever. But an incident which
occurred a few days later rendered it forever unpopular.

Catherine Edwards had come over to go raspberrying, and Theodora, Ellen
and Wealthy set off with her after school for the south field. They had
to go around the clover piece, and as they passed it, Kate espied a
wood-chuck, which, when it heard them, instead of disappearing in its
burrow hard by, ran around in so peculiar a manner that they all stopped
to watch it.

"It's crazy," cried Catherine; and at first they were afraid the animal
would attack them; it ran to and fro in what seemed an aimless sort of
manner. At length, they concluded that it had lost its hole and was
trying to find it. They saw that its head was bare of hair in front, and
presently decided that the poor creature was blind, for its eyes
appeared to be gone, or covered over with an incrustation.

The explanation of its singular appearance and behavior then suddenly
occurred to Ellen. "I know!" she cried. "It's one of those wood-chucks
that Ad has shot in the face and eyes, as they peep out of their holes
when he 'whistles' to them!"

"Oh, the poor, abused thing!" exclaimed Catherine. "I never heard of
anything so hatefully cruel!"

The wood-chuck, although so dreadfully wounded and with its eyes
destroyed by the powder, had yet, after several days, mustered
sufficient strength to come out and feed. But it was totally blind, and
once having lost its course, could not find the way back to its burrow,
but dashed about in terror amidst the clover. Finally it took refuge
beneath some of the lodged grass beside a stone; and meantime those
sympathetic girls held an indignation meeting. Their pity for the poor
creature knew no bounds, and Ellen was despatched to call us boys to the
spot, that the full enormity of our act might be exhibited before our
eyes.

We were just finishing hoeing the corn, the second time, that afternoon,
and had only a few rows more. With an air of one who has a mission and a
duty to perform, Ellen approached where we were at work and said, "We
want you to come down to the south field this minute!"

"What for?" asked Addison.

"A good reason," replied Ellen, with an accent of suppressed scorn.
"Kate and Doad sent me."

"What is it?" persisted Addison.

"Some of your fine works," said Ellen. "And you just come straight along
and see it."

"We won't go unless you tell," replied Halse.

"Oh, you won't!" exclaimed Ellen severely. "Great wood-chuck hunters you
are!" At the word _wood-chuck_ we began to feel interested, and at
length so far obeyed Ellen's iterated summons as to follow after her to
the south field.

"Well, what's wanted?" demanded Addison, addressing himself to Theodora,
as we drew near.

"I want you to see just what a cruel boy you are!" she replied. "There's
one of the wood-chucks that you pretend to shoot so cutely. Go look at
him, right under the clover there by that stone. Look at his poor little
eyes all burned out, you cruel fellow!"

Not a little dumbfounded by this blast of indignation, thus suddenly let
loose upon us, we drew near and examined the crouching chuck. It was
really a rueful spectacle,--the disabled and trembling creature trying
in vain to see where its enemies were gathered about it.

"I didn't think you were such a cruel boy!" exclaimed Catherine,
sarcastically. "Alf Batchelder might do such a thing. He is hateful
enough always. But I didn't think it of you."

"Well, I shot at him," exclaimed Addison. "I thought I had killed him,
you know."

"Oh yes, you did think, did you!" cried Catherine. "How would you like
to have some one come along to your door or your chamber window, and
speak to you to come out; and then when you stepped to the door to see
what was wanted, to have them fire powder in your face and burn your
eyes out! How would you like that?"

"I don't think I would like it," replied Addison, laughing.

"Now I wouldn't laugh," said Theodora, whose feelings, indeed, had been
wrought upon to the point of tears as she watched the blinded creature.
"You ought not to have such a hard heart. I didn't think you had, once,"
she added reproachfully.

"Oh, he is just like all the rest of the boys," exclaimed Kate. "No, he
isn't," said Theodora, wiping her eyes.

"They are all alike," persisted Kate. "Always killing and torturing
something."

"And all the girls are little saints," mimicked Halse.

"Oh, I'm not speaking to you!" cried Kate. "You're the Alf Batchelder
sort. But I'm ashamed of Addison, to treat any creature in that way!"

In short, those girls read us a dreadful lecture; they berated us hot
and heavy. If we attempted to reply and defend ourselves, they only
lashed us the harder.

"Well, well," said Addison at length, picking up a club. "I'll put the
creature out of its misery, so that at least it will not be caught and
worried by dogs."

"You sha'n't! You sha'n't kill the poor thing!" cried Ellen; and then
finding that Addison was about to do so, they all turned and ran away,
without looking back.

Halstead was inclined to make light of the matter, and ridiculed the
girls, but Addison did not say much about it. I think he felt
conscience-smitten, and I never knew him to attempt to shoot a
wood-chuck in that way afterwards.




CHAPTER XVII

HAYING TIME


It was the custom at the Old Squire's to begin "haying" on Monday after
the Fourth of July. What hot and sweaty memories are linked with that
word, _haying!_

But haying in and of itself is a clean and pleasant kind of farm work,
if only the farmers would not rush it so relentlessly. As soon as haying
begins, a demon of haste to finish in a given number of days seems, or
once seemed, to take possession of the American farmer. Thunder showers
goad him on; the fact that he has to pay two or even three dollars per
day for his hired help stimulates him to even greater exertions; and the
net result is, that haying time every year is a fiery ordeal from which
the husbandman and his boys emerge sunburnt, brown as bacon scraps and
lean as the camels of Sahara, often with blood perniciously altered from
excessive perspiration and too copious water drinking. An erroneous idea
has prevailed that "sweating" is good for a man. Sometimes it is good,
in case of colds or fevers. While unduly exerting himself beneath a
scorching sun, the farmer would no doubt perish if he did not perspire.
None the less, such copious sudation is an evil that wastefully saps
vitality. Few farmers go through twenty haying seasons without
practically breaking down.

The hired man, too, has come to know that haying is the hardest work of
the year and demands nearly double the wages that he expected to receive
for hoeing potatoes--far more disagreeable work--the week before.

As a result of many inquiries, I learn that farmers' boys dread haying
most of all farm work, chiefly on account of the long hours, the hurry
beneath the fervid July sun, and the heat of the close lofts and mows
where they have to stow away the hay. How many a lad, half-suffocated by
hay in these same hot mows and lofts, has made the resolve then and
there never to be a farmer--and kept it!

Is it not a serious mistake to harvest the hay crop on the
hurry-and-rush principle? Why not take a little more time for it? It is
better to let a load of hay get wet than drive one's self and one's
helpers to the brink of sunstroke. It is better to begin a week earlier
than try to do two weeks' work in one. A day's work in haying should and
can be so planned as to give two hours' nooning in the hottest part of
the day.

Gramp was an old-fashioned farmer, but he had seen the folly of undue
haste exemplified too many times not to have changed his earlier methods
of work considerably; so much so, that he now enjoyed the reputation of
being an "easy man to work for." For several years he had employed the
same help.

On this bright Monday morning of July, the hay-fields smiled, luxuriant,
blooming with clover, herdsgrass, buttercup, daisy and timothy. There
was the house field, the west field, the south field, the middle field
and the east field, besides the young orchard, the old orchard, the Aunt
Hannah lot and the Aunt Hannah meadow, which was left till the last,
sixty-five acres or more, altogether. What an expanse it looked to me!
It was my first experience, but Addison and Halse had forewarned me that
we would have it hot in haying. I had already grown a little inured to
the sun during June, however; and in point of fact, I never afterwards
suffered so much from the sun rays as during those first attempts to
hoe corn at the old farm in June.

One of the hired men was no less a personage than Elder Witham, who
preached at the Chapel every second week, and who, like the great
apostle of the Gentiles, was not above working with his hands, to piece
out his small salary. He came Sunday evening, and I did not suppose that
he had come to work with us till the next morning, when, after prayers,
he quietly fetched his scythe and snath down from the wagon-house
chamber, and called on Halstead to turn the grindstone for him. I then
learned that he had worked at haying for us three summers. The Elder was
fifty years old or more, and, though well-tanned, had yet a
semi-clerical appearance. He was austere in religious matters, and the
hired men were very careful what they said before him.

The other two men, who came after breakfast, were brothers, named James
and Asa Doane, or Jim and Ase, as they were familiarly addressed.

I was reckoned too young to mow with a scythe, though Halse and Addison
mowed for an hour or two in the forenoon. I had plenty to do, however,
raking, spreading, and stowing the hay in the barn.

In haying time we boys were called at half-past four o'clock every
morning, with the hired men. It was our business to milk and do the barn
chores before breakfast. Often, too, there would be a load of hay, drawn
in the previous evening, to stow away, in addition to the chores.

Mowing machines and horse-rakes had not then come into general use. All
the mowing was done with scythes, and the raking with hand rakes and
"loafer" rakes. Generally, all hands would be busy for three hours every
bright afternoon, raking the grass which had been cut down in the
forenoon. The Old Squire and the Elder commonly raked side by side, and
often fell into argument on the subject of man's free moral agency, on
which they held somewhat diverse views. Upon the second afternoon, Asa
Doane maneuvered to get them both into a yellow-backed bumble-bees'
nest, which was under an old stump in the hay.

The Elder was just saying, "I tell you, Squire, man was designed for--"
when a yellow-back stung him on his neck, and he finished his sentence
with a rather funny exclamation! Another insect punched Gramp at almost
the same moment, and they had a lively time of it, brandishing their
rakes, and throwing the hay about. The others raked on, laughing
inwardly without seeming to notice their trouble.

But that night after supper, while we were grinding scythes, the Elder
called Gramp out behind the barn, and I overheard him very gravely ask,
in an undertone, "Squire, when we were amongst those bumble-bees, this
afternoon, I hope I didn't say anything unbecoming a minister. I was a
reckless young man once, Squire; and even now, when anything comes
acrost me sudden, like those bumble-bees, the old words are a-dancing at
my tongue's end before I know they are there.

"Because, if I did make a mistake," he continued, "I want to make public
confession of it before these young men."

But the Squire had been too busy with his own bumble-bees to remember.
So the matter passed, by default of evidence; but the Elder felt uneasy
about it, and watched our faces pretty sharply for a day or two.

The heat troubled me not a little, and I then knew no better than to
drink inordinately of cold water. I would drink every five minutes when
I could get where there was water, even after the Old Squire had pointed
out to me the ill effects that follow such indulgence. But it seemed to
me that I must drink, and the more I drank the more I wanted, till by
Friday of that first week I was taken ill. Sharp pain is a severe yet
often useful teacher. I was obliged to desist from frequent potations,
and Gram gave me some bits of snake-root to hold in my mouth and chew.

Both the Doanes were great jokers. There was something in the way of fun
going on, nearly all the time; either there was racing, while mowing, or
raking the heels of the boys ahead of them. They were brimming over with
hay-makers' tricks, and I well remember what a prank they played on me
during the second week.

It befell while we were getting the south field, which was mostly in
clover that summer. We drew in the hay with both oxen and horses. When
the former were employed, they were yoked to a "rack," set midway on the
axle of two large wheels. The rack would carry a ton or more of hay.
During the first week, they had several times set me to tread down the
hay in the rack, but I made a very bad job of loading it; for I did not
know how to "lay the corners" of the load.

At length one afternoon, the Old Squire, observing my faults, climbed on
the cart, and taking the fork, showed me patiently how to begin at
first, and how to lay the hay out at the sides and ends of the rack,
keeping the ends higher than the middle all the way up. He made it so
plain to me that I took a liking to that part of the work. I could not
of course handle the hay as well as a man, but I contrived to stow it
quite well, for I had grasped the principle of loading and managed to
lay a fairly presentable load. As a result I grew a little
over-confident, and was inclined to boast of my skill and make somewhat
rash statements as to the size of loads which I could lay. The others
probably saw that I needed discipline. I must have been dull, or I
should have been on my guard for set-backs from Halse, Addison, or the
mischievous Doanes. When a boy's head begins to grow large and his
self-conceit to sprout, he is sometimes singularly blind to
consequences.

But to proceed, we had thirty-one "tumbles" of dry clover to get in
after supper that day, from the south field. The Elder and the Old
Squire did not go out with us.

"You will have to make two loads of it," the latter remarked as we set
off. "Put it in the 'west barn.' You need not hurry. The Elder and I
will grind the scythes to-night."

I climbed into the rack and rode out to the field, Asa driving and
Addison coming on behind, to rake after the cart. Jim and Halstead had
gone on ahead, to rick up the hay.

"Two loads, wal, they won't be very large ones," Asa remarked.

"What's the use to go twice?" I said. "I can load that hay all on at
once."

Asa looked round at me, as I afterwards remembered, in a somewhat
peculiar manner, and I now imagine that both he and Addison at once
began plotting my abasement, and passed the "wink" to the others.

"You couldn't do it," said Asa.

I studied the amount of hay on the ground carefully for a moment or two,
reflected on the number of "tumbles" I had previously loaded, and then
foolishly offered to bet that, if they would pitch it slowly, I could
stow every straw of it on the rack at one load and ride the load into
the barn. I had forgotten that our orders were to put the hay in the
west barn, and that the great doors of that barn were not as large as
those of the south barn, the top-piece over them being but twelve feet
high. I did not once think of that!

The others saw the trap which I was setting for myself, but kept quiet
and laid wagers against me. The more they wagered, the more eager I
became to try it, if they would not hurry me.

Asa began slowly pitching on the hay to me. I laid the load broad and
long, and without any very great difficulty stowed the thirty-one
"tumbles." It was a large load but a shapely one. I was not a little
elated, and chaffed the Doanes considerably. They kept ominously quiet.

We started for the barn, I riding in triumph on the load, and I did not
see the danger before me till we were close to the great doors. Asa did
not stop.

"Haw, Buck! Huh, Line, up there!" he shouted, and drove fast. The
top-piece over the doors struck the load fully three feet down from the
top, scraping off about half a ton of hay and myself along with it. I
landed on the ground behind the cart outside of the doors, with all that
hay over me! The rest of the load went in, amidst shouts of laughter
from the others.

I lay still under the hay, to hear what they would say. Then they all
came around and began to call to me. I kept quiet. Finding that I did
not move nor answer, they grew alarmed. The Old Squire and Elder were
seen coming. "Boys," says Asa, "I dunno but it's broke his neck!" With
that he and Jim seized their forks and began to dig for me so vigorously
that I was glad to shout, to keep from being impaled on the fork-tines.

I crept out and rose to my feet a good deal rumpled, bareheaded and
shamefaced.

The Doanes, Addison and Halse had been so frightened that they did not
now laugh much. The Elder looked at me with a curious expression; and
the Old Squire, who had begun to say something pretty sharp to Asa and
James (who certainly deserved a reprimand), regarded me at first with
some anxiety, which, however, rapidly gave place to a grim smile.
"Well, well, my son," said he, "you must live and learn."

One afternoon later in the month, while we were getting the hay in the
Aunt Hannah meadow, a somewhat exciting incident occurred. Asa was
pitching on a load of the meadow hay and I loading, for I still kept my
liking for that part of the work and was allowed to do it, although it
was in reality too hard for me. The Old Squire was raking after the
cart, and the others were raking hay into windrows a little way off. As
we were putting on the last "tumble," or the last but one, a peculiar
kind of large fly, or bee, of which cattle are strangely afraid, came
buzzing about old Line, the off ox. The instant the ox heard that bee,
he snorted, uttered a bellow and started to run. The very sound of the
bee's hum seemed to render the oxen quite frantic. Almost at the outset
they ran the offwheel over a rick of logs, nearly throwing me headlong
from the load. I thrust my fork down deep and held to that, and away
went the load down the meadow, both oxen going at full speed, with Asa
vainly endeavoring to outrun them, and Gramp shouting, "Whoa-hish!" at
the top of his voice. We went on over stumps and through water-holes,
while the rest ran across lots, to head off the runaways. At one time I
was tumbling in the hay, then jounced high above it; and such a whooping
and shouting as rose on all sides had never before disturbed that
peaceful meadow, at least within historic times.

Coming to a place where the brook made a broad bend partly across the
meadow, the oxen rushed blindly off the turfy bank, and landed, load and
all, in two or three feet of water and mud. When the load struck in the
brook, I went off, heels over head, and fell on the nigh ox's back. The
oxen were mired, and so was the load. We were obliged to get the horses
to haul the cattle out, and both the oxen and horses were required to
haul out the cart. Altogether, it was a very muddy episode; and though
rather startling while it lasted, we yet laughed a great deal over it
afterwards.




CHAPTER XVIII

APPLE-HOARDS


We heard a great deal concerning "Reconstruction" of the Union that
summer. The Old Squire was painfully concerned about it; he feared that
Congress had made mistakes which would nullify the results gained by the
Civil War. The low character of the men, sent to the South to administer
the government, revolted him. He used to bring his newspaper to the
table nearly every meal and would sometimes fling it down indignantly,
crying, "Wrong! wrong! all wrong!" Then he and Addison would discuss
current politics, while the rest of us listened, Theodora gravely,
Halstead scoffing, and I often very absently, for as a boy I had other
more trivial interests chiefly in mind. I recall that the old gentleman
used frequently to exclaim, "You boys must begin to read the
Constitution. Next after the Bible, the Constitution ought to be read in
every family in our land."

I have to confess that at this particular time I was much less
interested in the Constitution than in the luscious fall apples out in
the orchard, and the rivalry to secure them.

"Have you got a hoard?" was the question which, at about this time,
began to be whispered among us.

At first the query was a novelty to me; my thoughts went back to a story
which I had once read concerning a horde of robbers on the steppes of
Central Asia. In this case, however, the thing referred to was a hoard
of early apples. I had gone to the Edwardses on some domestic errand; it
was directly after breakfast, and Thomas, who was putting a new tooth
in the "loafer rake," had set a fine, mellow "wine-sap," from which he
had taken a bite, on the shed sill beside him. "Got a pile of those
fellows in my hoard," he remarked, with a boastful wink. "Have you got a
hoard down at your house?"

"Tom is always bragging about his hoard," said Catherine, who had come
to the kitchen door, to hear any news which I might have to impart. "He
thinks nobody can have a hoard but himself."

"She's got one," Tom whispered to me, as Catherine turned away. "She's
awful sly about it, for fear I'll find it, and I think I know where it
is. I'll bet she has gone to it now," he added, taking another bite; and
jumping up, he peeped into the kitchen. "She _has_" he whispered to me.
"Come on, _still_; don't say a word and we will catch her."

I remember feeling a certain faint sense of repugnance to engaging in a
hunt for Catherine's apple preserve; but I followed Tom around the
wood-shed, past a corn-crib, and then around to the north side of the
barn.

"Now sneak along beside the stone wall here," said Tom. "Keep down.
Don't get in sight."

We crawled along in cover of the stone wall and came down opposite the
garden and orchard. Tom then peeped stealthily over.

"There she is!" he whispered, "right out there by the Isabella grape
trellis; keep still now, she's going back to the house. We'll find her
hoard."

We searched about the grape trellis and over the entire garden for ten
minutes or more, but found no secret preserve of apples.

As we returned to the wood-shed, Kate came out, smiling disdainfully.

"Found it?" she asked us,--a question which I felt to be an embarrassing
one. With an air of triumph, she then displayed a fine yellow Sweet
Harvey. "Oh, don't you think you are cunning?" muttered Tom. "But I'll
find your hoard all the same."

"Let me know when you do," replied Kate, with a provoking laugh.

"Oh, you'll know when I find it," said Tom. "I'll take what there is in
it. That was all a blind--her going out to the grape-vine," he remarked
to me, as Kate turned away about her work. "She went down there on
purpose to fool us, and get us to hunt there for nothing."

I went home quite fully informed in regard to the ethics of
apple-hoards. The code was simple; it consisted in keeping one's own
hoard undiscovered, and in finding and robbing those of others.

"Have you got an apple-hoard?" I asked Addison, as soon as I reached
home.

For all reply, he winked his left eye to me.

"Doad's got one, too," he said, after I had had time to comprehend his
stealth.

"You didn't tell me," I remarked.

Addison laughed. "That would be great strategy!" he observed,
derisively, "to tell of it! But I only made mine day before yesterday. I
thought the early apples were beginning to get good enough to have a
hoard. I want to get a big stock on hand for September town-meeting," he
added. "I mean to carry a bushel or two, and peddle them out for a cent
apiece. The Old Squire put me up to that last year, and I made two
dollars and ninety cents. That's better than nothing."

"Are you really contented here? Are you homesick, ever?" I asked him.

"Well," replied Ad, judicially, after weighing my question a little, "it
isn't, of course, as it would have been with me if it had not been for
the War, and father had lived. I should be at school now and getting
ahead fast. But it is of no use to think of that; father and mother are
both in their graves, and here I am, same as you and Doad are. We have
got to make our way along somehow and get what education we can. It is
of no use to be discontented. We are lucky to have so good a place to go
to. I like here pretty well, for I like to be in the country better, on
the whole, than in the city. Things are sort of good and solid here. The
only drawback is that there isn't much chance to go to school; but after
this year, I hope to go to the Academy, down at the village, ten or
twelve weeks every season."

"Then you mean to try to get an education?" I asked, for it looked to me
to be a vast undertaking.

"I do," replied Addison, hopefully. "Father meant for me to go to
college, and I mean to go, even if I get to be twenty before I am fitted
to enter. I will not grow up an ignoramus. A man without education is a
nobody nowadays. But with a good education, a man can do almost
anything."

"Halse doesn't talk that way," said I.

"I presume to say he doesn't," replied Addison. "He and I do not think
alike."

"But Theodora says that she means to go to school and study a great
deal, so as to do something which she has in mind, one of these days," I
went on to say. "Do you know what it is?"

"Cannot say that I do," Addison replied, rather indifferently, as I
thought.

"Oh, I suppose it is a good thing for girls to study and get educated,"
Addison continued. "But I do not think it amounts to so much for them as
it does for boys."

This, indeed, was an opinion far more common in 1866 than at the present
time.

"Perhaps it is to be a teacher?" I conjectured.

"Maybe," said Addison.

But I was thinking of apple-hoards. There was a delightful proprietary
sense in the idea of owning one. It stimulated some latent propensity
to secretiveness, as also the inclination to play the freebooter in a
small way.

This was the first time that I had ever had access to an orchard of
ripening fruit, and those "early trees" are well fixed in my youthful
recollections. Several of them stood immediately below the garden, along
the upper side of the orchard. First there was the "August Pippin" tree,
a great crotched tree, with a trunk as large round as a barrel. Somehow
such trees do not grow nowadays.

The August Pippins began to ripen early in August. These apples were as
large as a teacup, bright canary yellow in color, mellow, a trifle tart,
and wonderfully fragrant. When the wind was right, I could smell those
pippins over in the corn-field, fifty rods distant from the orchard. I
even used to think that I could tell by the smell when an apple had
dropped off from the tree!

Then there were the "August Sweets," which grew on four grafts, set into
an old "drying apple" tree. They were pale yellow apples, larger even
than the August Pippins, sweet, juicy and mellow. The old people called
them "Pear Sweets."

Next were the "Sour Harvey," the "Sweet Harvey," and the "Mealy Sweet"
trees. The "Mealy Sweet" was not of much account; it was too dry, but
the Harveys were excellent. Some of the Sweet Harveys were almost as
sweet as honey; at least, I thought so then.

Then there were the "Noyes Apple" and the "Hobbs Apple." The Noyes was a
deep-red, pleasant-sour apple, which ripened in the latter part of
August; the Hobbs was striped red and green, flattened in shape, but of
a fine, spicy flavor.

The "sops-in-wines," as, I believe, the fruit men term them, but which
we called "wine-saps," were a pleasant-flavored apple, scarcely sweet,
yet hardly sour. A little later came the "Porters" and "Sweet
Greenings," also the "Nodheads" and the "Minute Apples," the
"Georgianas" and the "Gravensteins," and so on until the winter apples,
the principal product of the orchard, were reached.

We began eating those early apples by the first of August, in spite of
all the terrible stories of colic which Gram told, in order to dissuade
us from making ourselves ill. As the Pippins and August Sweets began to
get mellow and palatable, we rivalled each other in the haste with which
we tumbled out of doors early in the morning, so as to capture, each for
himself or herself, the apples which had dropped from the trees
overnight. Every one of us soon had a private hoard in which to secrete
those apples which we did not eat at the time. There were numerous
contests in rapid dressing and in reckless racing down-stairs and out
into the orchard.

Little Wealthy, on account of her youth, was, to some degree, exempted
from this ruthless looting. We all knew where her hoard was, but spared
it for a long time. She believed that she had placed it in a wonderfully
secret place, and because none of us seemed to discover it, she boasted
so much that Ellen and I plundered it one morning, before she was awake,
to give her a wholesome lesson in humility.

A little later, just before the breakfast hour, Wealthy stole out to her
preserve--to find it empty. I never saw a child more mortified. She felt
so badly that she could scarcely eat breakfast, and her lip kept
quivering. The others laughed at her, and soon she left the table, and
no doubt shed tears in secret over her loss.

After breakfast Ellen and I sought her out, and offered to give back the
apples that we had taken. The child was too proud, however, to obtain
them in such a way, and refused to touch one of them.

No such clemency as had been shown to Wealthy was practised by any
one toward the others; no quarter was given or taken in the matter of
robbing hoards. For a month this looting went on, and was a great
contest of wits.

[Illustration: THE EARLY APPLES.]

Theodora's was the only hoard that escaped detection during the entire
summer and autumn. She had her apples hidden in an empty bee-hive, which
stood out in the garden under the "bee-shed" about midway in the row of
thirteen hives. The most of us were a little afraid of the bees, but
Theodora was one of those persons whom bees seem never to sting. She was
accustomed to care for them, and thus to be about the hives a great
deal. Not one of us happened to think of that empty bee-hive. The shed
and some lilac shrubs concealed the place from the house; and Doad went
unsuspected to and from the hive, which she kept filled with apples. We
spent hours in searching for her hoard, but did not learn where she had
concealed it until she told us herself, two years afterwards.

Ellen had the worst fortune of us all. We found her hoard regularly
every few days. At first she hid it in the wagon-house, then up garret,
and afterward in the wood-shed; but no sooner would she accumulate a
little stock of apples than some one of us, who had spied on her goings
and comings, would rob her. Even Wealthy found Nell's hoard once, and
robbed it of nearly a half-bushel of apples. Nell always bore her losses
good-denature, and obtained satisfaction occasionally by plundering
Halse and me.

I remember that my first hoard was placed in the very high, thick
"double" wall of the orchard. I loosened and removed a stone from the
orchard side of the wall, and then took out the small inside stones from
behind it until I had made a cavity sufficient to hold nearly a bushel.
Into this cavity I put my apples, and then fitted the outer stone back
into its place, thus making the wall look as if it had not been
disturbed. This device protected my apples for nearly a fortnight; but
at length Ellen, who was on my track, observed me disappear suspiciously
behind the wall one day, and an hour or two later took occasion to
reconnoiter the place where I had disappeared.

She passed the hidden cavity several times, and would not have
discovered it, if she had not happened to smell the mellow August
Pippins of my hoard. Guided by the fragrance which they emitted, she
examined the wall more closely, and finally found the loose stone. When
I went to my preserve, after we had milked the cows that evening, I
found only the empty hole in the wall.

I next essayed to conceal my hoard in the ground. In the side of a
knoll, screened from the house by the orchard wall and a thick nursery
of little apple trees, I secretly dug a hole which I lined with new
cedar shingles. For a lid to the orifice leading into it, I fitted a
sod. A little wild gooseberry bush overhung the spot, and I fancied that
I had my apples safely hidden.

But never was self-confidence worse misplaced! It was a cloudy, wet
afternoon in which I had thus employed myself. Halse had gone fishing;
but Addison chanced to be up garret, reading over a pile of old
magazines, as was his habit on wet days. From the attic window he espied
the top of my straw hat bobbing up and down beyond the wall, and as he
read, he marked my operations.

With cool, calculating shrewdness he remained quiet for three or four
days, till I had my new hoard well stocked with "Sweet Harveys," then
made a descent upon it and cleared it out. Next morning, when, with
great stealth and caution, I had stolen to the place, I found my
miniature cavern empty except for a bit of paper, on which, with a
lead-pencil, had been hastily inscribed the following tantalizing bit of
doggerel:

    "He hid his hoard in the ground
    And thought it couldn't be found;
    But forgot, as indeed he should not,
    That the attic window overlooked the spot."

For about three minutes I felt very angry, then I managed to summon a
grin, along with a resolve to get even with Addison--for I recognized
his handwriting--by plundering his hoard, if by any amount of searching
it were possible to find it. Addison was supposed to have the best and
biggest hoard of all, and thus far none of us had got even an inkling as
to where it was hidden.

I watched him as a cat might watch a mouse for two days, and made pretty
sure that he did not go to his hoard in the daytime. Then I bethought
myself that he always had a pocketful of apples every morning, and
concluded that he must visit his preserve sometime "between days," most
likely directly after he appeared to retire to his room at night.

So on the following night I lay awake and listened. After about half an
hour of silence, I heard the door of his room open softly. With equal
softness I stole out, and followed Addison through the open chamber of
the ell, down a flight of stairs into the wagon-house, and then down
another flight into the carriage-house cellar.

He had a lamp in his hand. When he entered the cellar the door closed
after him, so that I did not dare go farther. I went back into the
chamber, concealing myself, and waited to observe his return. He soon
made his appearance, eating an apple; there was a smile on his face, and
his pockets were protuberant.

Next day I proceeded to search the wagon-house cellar, but for some time
my search was in vain.

There was in the cellar a large box-stove, into which I had often
looked, but had seen only a mass of old brown paper and corn-husks. On
this day I went to the stove and pulled out the rubbish, when lo! in
the farther end I saw three salt boxes, all full of Pippins and August
Sweetings.

I was not long in emptying those boxes, but I wanted to leave in the
place of the apples a particularly exasperating bit of rhyme. I studied
and rhymed all that forenoon, and at last, with much mental travail, I
got out the following skit, which I left in the topmost box:

    "He was a cunning cove
    Who hid his hoard in the stove;
    And he was so awful bright
    That he went to it only by night.
    But there was still another fellow
    Whose head was not always on his pillow."

I knew by the sickly grin on Ad's face when we went out to milk the cows
next morning that my first effort at poetry had nauseated him; he could
not hold his head up all day, to look me in the face, without the same,
sheepish, sick look.

Where to put my next hoard was a question over which I pondered long. I
tried the hay-mow and several old sleighs set away for the summer, but
Addison was now on my trail and speedily relieved me of my savings.

There were many obstacles to the successful concealment of apples. If I
were to choose an unfrequented spot, the others, who were always on the
lookout, would be sure to spy out my goings to and fro. It was
necessary, I found, that the hoard should be placed where I could visit
it as I went about my ordinary business, without exciting suspicion.

We had often to go into the granary after oats and meal, and the place
that I at last hit on was a large bin of oats. I put my apples in a bag,
and buried them to a depth of over two feet in the oats in one corner of
the bin. I knew that Addison and Halse would look among the oats, but I
did not believe that they would dig deeply enough to find the apples,
and my confidence was justified.

It was a considerable task to get at my hoard to put apples into it, or
to get them out; but the sense of exultation which I felt, as days and
weeks passed and my hoard remained safe, amply repaid me. I was
particularly pleased when I saw from the appearance of the oats that
they had been repeatedly dug over.

As I had to go to the granary every night and morning for corn, or oats,
I had an opportunity to visit my store without roundabout journeys or
suspicious trips, which my numerous and vigilant enemies would have been
certain to note.

The hay-mow was Halse's hoarding-place throughout the season, and
although I was never but once able to find his preserve, Addison could
always discover it whenever he deemed it worth while to make the search.

To ensure fair play with the early apples, the Old Squire had made a
rule that none of us should shake the trees, or knock off apples with
poles or clubs. So we all had equal chances to secure those apples which
fell off, and the prospect of finding them beneath the trees was a great
premium on early rising in the months of August and September.

I will go on in advance of my story proper to relate a queer incident
which happened in connection with those early apples and our rivalry to
get them, the following year. The August Sweeting tree stood apart from
the other trees, near the wall between the orchard and the field, so
that fully half of the apples that dropped from it fell into the field
instead of into the orchard.

We began to notice early in August that no apples seemed to drop off in
the night on the field side of the wall.

For a long time every one of us supposed that some of the others had
got out ahead of the rest and picked them up. But one morning Addison
mentioned the circumstance at the breakfast table, as being rather
singular; and when we came to compare notes, it transpired that none of
us had been getting any apples, mornings, on the field side of the wall.

"Somebody's hooking those apples, then!" exclaimed Addison. "Now who can
it be?" For we all knew that a good many apples must fall into the
field.

"I'll bet it's Alf Batchelder!" Halse exclaimed. But it did not seem
likely that Alfred would come a mile, in the night, to "hook" a few
August Sweets, when he had plenty of apples at home.

Nor could we think of any one among our young neighbors who would be
likely to come constantly to take the apples, although any one of them
in passing might help himself, for fall apples were regarded much as
common property in our neighborhood.

Yet every morning, while there would be a peck or more of Sweetings on
the orchard side of the wall, scarcely an apple would be found in the
field.

Addison confessed that he could not understand the matter; Theodora also
thought it a very mysterious thing. The oddity of the circumstance
seemed to make a great impression on her mind. At last she declared that
she was determined to know what became of those Sweets, and asked me to
sit up with her one night and watch, as she thought it would be too dark
and lonesome an undertaking to watch alone.

I agreed to get up at two o'clock on the following morning, if she would
call me, for we wisely concluded that the pilferer came early in the
morning, rather than early in the night, else many apples would have
fallen off into the field after his visit, and have been found by us in
our early visits.

I did not half believe that Theodora would wake in time to carry out
our plan, but at half-past two she knocked softly at the door of my
room. I hastily dressed, and each of us put on an old Army over-coat,
for the morning was foggy and chilly. It was still very dark. We went
out into the garden, felt our way along to a point near the August
Sweeting tree, and sat down on two old squash-bug boxes under the
trellis of a Concord grape-vine, which made a thick shelter and a
complete hiding-place.

For a mortal long while we sat there and watched and listened in
silence, not wishing to talk, lest the rogue whom we were trying to
surprise should overhear us. At intervals Theodora gave me a pinch, to
make sure that I was not asleep. An hour passed, but it was still dark
when suddenly we heard, on the other side of the wall, a slight noise
resembling the sound of footsteps.

Instantly Doad shook my arm. "Sh!" she breathed. "Some one's come! Creep
along and peep over."

I stole to the wall, and then, rising, slowly parted the vine leaves,
and tried to see what it was there. Presently I discerned one, then
another dim object on the ground beyond the wall. They were creeping
about, and I could plainly hear them munch the apples.

Then Theodora peeped. "It's two little bears, I believe," she breathed
in my ear, with her lightest whisper, yet in considerable excitement.
"What shall we do?"

I peeped again. If bears, they were very little ones.

I mustered my courage. As a weapon I had brought an old pitchfork
handle. Scrambling suddenly over the wall, I uttered a shout, and the
dark objects scudded away across the field, making a great scurry over
the stubble of the wheat-field, but they were not very fleet. I came up
with one of them after a hundred yards' chase, when it suddenly turned
and faced me with a strange loud squeak! Drawing back, I belabored it
with my fork handle until the creature lay helpless, quite dead, in
fact.

Theodora came after me in alarm. "Oh, my, you have killed it!" she
exclaimed. "What can it be?"

I put my hand cautiously down upon its hair, which was coarser than
bristles and sharp-pointed. Turning the body over with the fork handle,
I found that it was really heavy.

We could not, in the darkness, even guess what the animal was, and went
back to the house much mystified. The Old Squire had just arisen, and we
told him the story of our early vigil. "Wood-chucks, I guess," was his
comment, but we knew that they were not wood-chucks. Addison was then
called up, to get his opinion, and when told of the animal's exceedingly
coarse, sharp-pointed hair, he exclaimed, "I know what it is! It's a
hedgehog!"

He bustled around, got on his boots, and went out into the field with
me. It was now light, and he had no sooner bent down over it than he
pronounced it to be a hedgehog fast enough, or rather a Canada
porcupine. Its weight was over thirty pounds, and some of the quills on
its back were four or five inches in length, with needle-like, finely
barbed points.

The other hedgehog escaped to the woods, and did not again trouble us.
The next summer the August Sweetings that fell into the field from the
same tree were quite as mysteriously taken at night by a cosset sheep,
which for more than a fortnight escaped nightly from the farm-yard, and
returned thither of its own accord after it had stolen the apples. Again
Theodora and I watched for the pilferer, and captured the cunning
creature in the act.

During that first year at the farm, the old folks did not pay much
attention to our apple-hoards, but by the time our contests were under
way the second season, they, too, caught the contagion of it, from
hearing us talk so much about it at the breakfast table. At first the
Old Squire merely dropped some remarks to the effect that, when he was a
boy, he could have hidden a hoard where nobody could find it.

"Well, sir, we would like to see you do it!" cried Halse.

The old gentleman did not say at the time that he would, or would not,
attempt such an exploit. Moved by Ellen's serio-comic lamentations over
her losses, Gram also insinuated that she knew of places in the house in
which she could make a hoard that would be hard for us to find; but the
girls declared that they would like to see her try to hide a hoard away
from them.

Not many days after these conversations had occurred, the Old Squire
rather ostentatiously took a very fine August Pippin from his pocket, as
we were gathering round the breakfast table, and, after thumbing it
approvingly, set it beside his plate, remarking, incidentally, that if
one wanted his apples to ripen well, and have just the right flavor, it
was necessary that he should place his hoard in some dry, clean,
perfectly sweet place.

Of course we were not long in taking so broad a hint as that. Several
sly nudges and winks went around the table.

"He's got one!" Addison whispered to me, as Gram poured the coffee, and
from that time the Old Squire, in all his goings and comings, was a
marked man. He had thrown down a challenge to us, and we were determined
to prove that we were as smart as he had been in his youthful days. But
for more than a week we were unable to gain the slightest hint as to
where his preserve was situated. Meantime Gram had also begun to place a
nice August Sweet beside her own plate every morning, as she glanced
with a twinkle in her eye over to the Old Squire.

We rummaged everywhere that week, and even forgot to carry on mutual
injury and reprisal, in our desire to humble the pride of our elders.
We even bethought ourselves of the words "perfectly sweet," which the
old gentleman had used in connection with hoards, and looked in the
sugar barrel, but quite in vain. Yet all the while we were daily going
by the place where the Old Squire's hoard was concealed; passing so near
it that we might have laid hands on it without stepping out of our way,
for it was in the wood-house beside the walk which led past the tiered
up stove wood into the wagon-house and stable.

Ten or twelve cords of wood, sawed short and split, had been piled
loosely into the back part of the wood-house, but in front of this loose
pile, and next the plank walk, the wood had been tiered up evenly and
closely to a height of ten feet. The Old Squire managed to pull from
this tier, at a height of about four feet, a good-sized block, and then,
reaching in behind it, had made a considerable cavity. Here he deposited
his apples, replacing the block, which fitted to its place in the tier
so well that the woodpile appeared as if it had not been disturbed.
Shrewdly mindful of the fact that our keen nostrils might smell out his
preserve, he cunningly set an old pan with a few refuse pippins in it on
a bench close beside the place.

Gram's hoard was hidden, with equal cunning, in the "yarn cupboard,"
where were kept the woollen balls and yarn hanks, used in darning and
knitting,--a small, high cupboard, with a little panel door, set in the
wall of the sitting-room next to the fireplace and chimney. The bottom
of this cupboard was formed of one broad piece of pine board, which
seemed to be nailed down hard and fast; but the old lady, who knew that
this board was loose, had raised it and kept her apples in a yarn-ball
basket beneath it.

She often had occasion to go to the cupboard to get or replace her
knitting, and for a long time none of the girls suspected her
hiding-place. The plain fact was that those girls, as a rule, steered
clear of the yarn cupboard, for they none of them very much liked to
knit or darn. But at last Ellen happened to go to it one day for a
darning-needle, and smelled the apples. Even then she could not discover
the hoard, but she went in search of Theodora, who penetrated the secret
of the loose bottom board.

They came with great glee to tell us of their discovery, and we were
thereby stimulated to renewed efforts to unearth the Old Squire's
preserve. The girls promised to say nothing of their discovery for a day
or two, and at Ellen's suggestion we agreed that if we could find
Gramp's hoard, we would rob both hoarding-places at once and have the
laugh on them both at the same time.

We had watched the Old Squire closely, and felt sure that he did not go
to his hoard at any time during the day. As he was an early riser, it
seemed probable to us that he did his apple-hoarding before we were
astir. Addison and I accordingly agreed to get up at three o'clock the
following morning and secretly watch all his movements. By a great
effort we rose long before light, and dressing, stole out through the
wood-house chamber and down the wagon-house stairs into the stable. Here
I concealed myself behind an old sleigh, while Addison went back into
the wood-house and posted himself on the high tier of wood that fronted
on the passageway, lying there in such a posture that he could get a
peep of the long walk.

It had hardly begun to grow light, when we heard the old gentleman astir
in the kitchen. Presently he came out through the stable and fed the
horses, then returned. As he went back through the wood-house, he
stopped on the walk beside the high tier of wood on which Addison lay.
After listening and looking about him, he removed the block of wood,
took out a fine pippin from his hoard, and carefully replaced the
block.

This amused Ad so greatly that he nearly shook the tier of wood down in
his efforts to repress laughter, and after the old gentleman had gone
into the house, he came tiptoeing out into the stable to tell me, with
much elation, what he had seen.

During the forenoon we examined the hoard and told the girls about it.
We arranged to rob both the old folks' hoards late that evening, and
fill our own with the plunder. To emphasize the exploit, we agreed to
take some of the largest apples to the breakfast-table next morning. We
fancied that when the old folks saw those apples, and found out where we
got them, they would think there were young people living nearly as
bright as those of fifty years ago.

Theodora did not really promise that she would assist in the scheme, but
she laughed a good deal over it, and seemed to concur with the rest of
us.

That evening as soon as the old folks had retired and the house had
become quiet, Addison and I cleared out the Old Squire's preserve; and,
meantime, Ellen and Theodora had slipped down-stairs into the
sitting-room and emptied Gram's hoard in the yarn cupboard. We met out
in the garden and divided the spoils; then not liking to trust each
other to go directly to our respective hoards, we deposited our shares
of the plunder in three different boxes in the wagon-house, and looked
forward with no little zest to the fun next morning at the
breakfast-table.

But on visiting the boxes next morning, they were all empty! Some one
had made a clean sweep. Not an apple was left in them! Addison and I
were astounded when we compared notes a few minutes before breakfast.
"Who on earth could have done it?" he whispered, after he found out that
I was not the traitor.

We hurried to the wood-house and peeped into the Old Squire's
hoarding-place. It was brimful of apples! A light began to dawn upon us.
Had the old gentleman watched our performance on the previous evening
and outwitted us all? It looked so, for on going in to breakfast, there
beside the plates of each of the old folks stood a great nappy dish,
heaped full of choice Pippins and Sweets! Addison stole a look around
and then dropped his eyes; I did the same, while Ellen looked equally
amazed and disconcerted. Theodora, too, remained very quiet.

We concluded that our elders had completely outdone us, and that they
were enjoying their victory in a manner intended to convey their
ironical appreciation of our small effort to rob them. The more we
considered the matter, the more sheepish we felt.

"These are charming good pippins, aren't they, Ruth?" said the old
gentleman to Gram.

"Charming," answered she.

Addison gave me a punch under the table, as if to say, "Now they are
giving us the laugh."

"And I'm sure we're much obliged for them," the Old Squire continued.

"Indeed, we are obliged," said Gram.

Their remarks seemed to me a little odd, but I didn't look up.

Not another word was spoken at the table, but afterwards Addison and
Ellen and I got together in the garden and mutually agreed that we had
been badly beaten at our own game.

"They are too old and long-headed for us to meddle with," said Addison.
"I cannot even imagine how they did it. I guess we had better let their
hoards alone in the future." None the less we could not help thinking
that there had been something a little queer about our defeat.

It was nearly two years later before the truth about that night's frolic
came to light. Theodora did it. She could not bear to have the old folks
beaten and humiliated by us, for whom they were doing so much. After we
had robbed their hoarding-places, she sallied forth again and took all
of our shares as well as her own, and then having replenished the looted
hoarding-places, she filled the two nappy dishes from her own hoard and
set them beside their plates.

The best part of the joke was that the Old Squire and Gram never knew
that they had been robbed, and thought only that we had made them a
present of some excellent apples. When Theodora saw how chagrined the
rest of us were, she kept the whole matter a secret.




CHAPTER XIX

DOG DAYS, GRAIN HARVEST, AND A TRULY LUCRETIAN TEMPEST


After haying came grain harvest. There were three acres of wheat, four
of oats, an acre of barley, an acre of buckwheat and an acre and
three-fourths of rye to get in. The rye, however, had been harvested
during the last week of haying. It ripened early, for it was the Old
Squire's custom to sow his rye very early in the spring. The first work
which we did on the land, after the snow melted, was to plough and
harrow for rye. With the rye we always sowed clover and herdsgrass seed
for a hay crop the following year. This we termed "seeding down;" and
the Old Squire liked rye the best of all grain crops for this purpose.
"Grass seed 'catches' better with rye than oats, or barley, or even
wheat," he was accustomed to say.

When we harvested the grain, he would be seen peering into the stubble
with an observant eye, and would then be heard to say, "A pretty good
'catch' this year," or, "It hasn't 'caught' worth a cent."

It was not on more than half the years that we secured a fair wheat
crop. Maine is not a State wholly favorable for wheat; yet the Old
Squire persisted in sowing it, year by year, although Addison often
demonstrated to him that oats were more profitable and could be
exchanged for flour. "But a farmer ought to raise his bread-stuff," the
old gentleman would rejoin stoutly. "How do we know, too, that some
calamity may not cut off the Western wheat crop; then where should we
be?"

It is a pity, perhaps, that Eastern farmers do not generally display the
same independent spirit.

But the Old Squire himself finally gave up wheat raising. Gram and the
girls found fault with our Maine grown wheat flour, because the bread
from it was not very white and did not "rise" well. The neighbors had
Western flour and their bread was white and light, while ours was darker
colored and sometimes heavy, in spite of their best efforts.

No farmer can hold out long against such indoor repinings, but the Old
Squire never came to look with favor on Western flour; he admitted that
it made whiter bread, but he always declared that it was not as
wholesome! The fact was that it seemed to him to be an unfarmerlike
proceeding, to buy his flour. For the same reason he would never buy
Western corn for his cattle.

"When I cannot raise fodder enough for my stock, I'll quit farming," he
would exclaim, when his neighbors told him of the corn they were buying.
As a matter of fact, the old gentleman lived to see a good many of his
neighbors' farms under mortgage, and held a number of these papers
himself. It was not a wholly propitious day for New England farmers when
they began buying Western corn, on the theory that they could buy it
cheaper than they could raise it themselves. The net result has been
that their profits have often gone West, or into the pockets of the
railway companies which draw the corn to them.

Another drawback to wheat raising in Maine is the uncertain weather at
harvest time. Despite our shrewdest inspection of the weather signs, the
wheat as well as the other grain would often get wet in the field, and
sometimes it would lie wet so long as to sprout. Sprouted wheat flour
makes a kind of bread which drives the housewife to despair.

"Oh, this dog-days weather!" the Old Squire would exclaim, as the grain
lay wet in the field, day after day, or when an August shower came
rumbling over the mountains just as we were raking it up into windrows
and tumbles.

I had never heard of "dog days" before and was curious to know what sort
of days they were. "They set in," the Old Squire informed me, "on the
twenty-fifth of July and last till the fifth of September. Then is when
the Dog-star rages, and it is apt to be 'catching' weather. Dogs are
more liable to run mad at this time of year, and snakes are most
venomous then." Such is the olden lore, and I gained an impression that
those forty-two days were after a manner unhealthy for man and beast.

Near the middle of August that summer there came the most terrific
thunder shower which I had ever witnessed. Halse, Addison and Asa Doane
had mowed the acre of barley that morning, and after dinner we three
boys went out into the field to turn the swaths, for the sun had been
very hot all day. It was while thus employed that we saw the shower
rising over the mountains to the westward and soon heard the thunder. It
rose rapidly, and the clouds took on, as they rolled upward, a peculiar
black, greenish tint.

It was such a tempest as Lucretius describes when he says,--

"So dire and terrible is the aspect of Heaven, that one might think all
the Darkness had left Acheron, to be poured out across the sky, as the
drear gloom of the storm collects and the Tempest, forging loud
thunderbolts, bends down its black face of terror over the affrighted
earth."

Gramp called us in, to carry a few cocks of late-made hay into the barn
from the orchard, and then bade us shut all the barn doors and make
things snug. "For there's a tremendous shower coming, boys," he said.
"There's hail in those clouds."

We ran to do as he advised, and had no more than taken these
precautions when the shower struck. Such awful thunder and such bright,
vengeful lightning had, the people of the vicinity declared, never been
observed in that town, previously. A bolt came down one of the large
Balm o' Gilead trees near the house, and the thunder peal was absolutely
deafening. Wealthy hid herself in the parlor clothes-closet, and Gram
sat with her hands folded in the middle of the sitting-room. Just before
the clouds burst, it was so dark in the house that we could scarcely see
each others' faces. A moment later the lightning struck a large
butternut tree near the calf-pasture wall, across the south field,
shivering it so completely that nearly all the top fell; the trunk, too,
was split open from the heart.

In fact, the terrific flashes and peals indicated that the lightning was
descending to the earth all about us. Two barns were struck and burned
in the school district adjoining ours. Rain then fell in sheets, and
also hail, which cut the garden vegetables to strings and broke a number
of windows. This tempest lasted for nearly an hour, and prostrated the
corn and standing grain very badly. An apple tree was also up-rooted,
for there was violent wind as well as lightning and thunder.

Next morning we were obliged to leave our farm work and repair the roads
throughout that highway district, for the shower had gullied the hills
almost beyond belief. Altogether it had done a great amount of damage on
every hand.

At supper that night, after returning from work on the highway, the Old
Squire suddenly asked whether any of us had seen the colts, in the
pasture beyond the west field, that day.

No one remembered having seen them since the shower, though we generally
noticed them running around the pasture every day. There were three of
them, two bays and a black one. The two former were the property of men
in the village, but Black Hawk, as we called him, belonged to us.

"After supper, you had better go see where they are," the Old Squire
said to us.

Addison and I set off accordingly. The pasture was partly cleared, with
here and there a pine stub left standing, and was of about twenty acres
extent. We went up across it to the top of the hill, but could not find
the colts. Then we walked around by the farther fence, but discovered no
breach in it and no traces where truant hoofs had jumped over it. It was
growing dark, and we at length went home to report our ill-success.

"Strange!" the Old Squire said. "We must look them up." But no further
search was made that night.

"Is that a hawk?" Halstead said to me, while he and I were out milking a
little before sunrise next morning. "Don't you see it? Sailing round
over the colt pasture. Too big for a hawk, isn't it?"

A large bird was wheeling slowly above the pasture, moving in lofty
circles, on motionless wings.

"I'll bet that's an eagle!" Halse cried. "Can't be a hawk. We couldn't
see a hawk so far off."

Suddenly the bird seemed to pause on wing a moment, then descended
through the air and disappeared just over the crest of the ridge.
Perhaps it was fancy, but we thought we heard the roar of its wings.

"Came down by that high stub!" exclaimed Halstead. "Pounced upon
something there! I'll run in and get the shotgun. The folks aren't up
yet. We'll go over. Perhaps we can get a shot at it."

Addison had gone on an errand to the Corners that morning. Halstead got
the gun, and setting down our milk pails, we ran across the field, and
so onward to the pasture. "'Twas near that stub," whispered Halse, as we
began to see the top of it over the crest of the ridge. We peeped over.
Down in the hollow at the foot of the stub was the great bird, flapping
and tugging at something--one, two, three animals, lying stretched out
on the ground! The sight gave us a sudden shock.

"The colts!" exclaimed Halse, forgetting the eagle. "Dead!"

The big bird raised its head, then rose into the air with mighty flaps
and sailed away. We watched it glide off along the ridge, and saw it
alight in an oak, the branches of which bent and swayed beneath its
weight.

"All dead!" cried Halstead, gazing around. "Isn't that hard!"

The eagle had been tearing at their tongues, which protruded as they lay
on the ground. There was a strong odor from the carcasses.

"Been dead some time," Halse exclaimed. "What killed them?"

We examined them attentively. Not the slightest mark, nor wound, could
be detected. But a lot of fresh splinters lay at the foot of the pine
stub, close by them.

"Must have been lightning," I said, glancing up. "That's just what it
was! They were struck during that big shower."

We went to the house with the unwelcome tidings. At first the folks
would scarcely believe our account. Then there were rueful looks.

"Ah, those pine stubs ought to have been cut down," exclaimed the Old
Squire. "Dangerous things to be left standing in pastures!"

Later in the day we took shovels and went to the pasture, with Asa
Doane, to bury the dead animals. While this was going on, the eagle came
back and sailed about, high overhead.

"Leave one carcass above ground," said Asa. "That old chap will light
here again. You can shoot him then, or catch him in a trap."

So we left Black Hawk unburied, and bringing over an old fox-trap,
fastened a large stick of wood to it and set it near. During the day we
saw the eagle hovering about the spot, also a great flock of crows,
cawing noisily, and next morning when we went over to see if any of them
had got into the trap, both trap and stick were gone.

"Must have been the eagle," said Addison. "A crow could never have
carried off that trap!" But as neither trap nor eagle was anywhere in
sight, we concluded that we had lost the game.

Several days passed, when one morning we heard a pow-wow of crows down
in the valley beyond the Little Sea. A flock of them were circling about
a tree-top, charging into it.

"Owl, or else a raccoon, I guess," said Addison. "Crows are always
hectoring owls and 'coons whenever they happen to spy one out by day."

Thinking that perhaps we might get a 'coon, we took the gun and went
down there. But on coming near, instead of a raccoon, lo! there was our
lost eagle, perched in the tree-top, with a hundred crows scolding and
flapping him. He saw us, and started up as if to fly off, but fell back,
and we heard a chain clank.

"Hard and fast in that trap!" exclaimed Addison. The stick and trap had
caught among the branches. The big bird was a prisoner. We wished to
take him alive, but to climb a tall basswood, and bring down an eagle
strong enough to carry off a twelve-pound clog and trap, was not a feat
to be rashly undertaken. Addison was obliged to shoot the bird before
climbing after him. It was a fine, fierce-looking eagle, measuring
nearly six feet from tip to tip of its wings. Its beak was hooked and
very strong, and its claws an inch and a half long, curved and
exceedingly sharp.

Addison deemed it a great prize, for it was not a common bald eagle,
but a much darker bird. After reading his Audubon, he pronounced it a
Golden Eagle and wrote a letter describing its capture, which was
published in several New York papers. Gramp gave him all the following
day to "mount" the eagle as a specimen. In point of fact, he was nearer
three days preparing it. It looked very well when he had it done. I
remember only that its legs were feathered down to the feet.




CHAPTER XX

CEDAR BROOMS AND A NOBLE STRING OF TROUT


It was a part of Gram's household creed, that the wood-house and
carriage-house could be properly swept only with a cedar broom. Brooms
made of cedar boughs, bound to a broom-stick with a gray tow string,
were the kind in use when she and Gramp began life together; and
although she had accepted corn brooms in due course, for house work, the
cedar broom still held a warm corner in her heart. "A nice new cedar
broom is the best thing in the world to take up all the dust and to
brush out all the nooks and corners," she used to say to Theodora and
Ellen; and when, at stated intervals, it became necessary, in her
opinion, to clean the wood-house and other out-buildings, or the cellar,
she would generally preface the announcement by saying to them at the
breakfast table, "You must get me some broom-stuff, to-day, some of that
green cedar down in the swamp below the pasture. I want enough for two
or three brooms. Sprig off a good lot of it and get the sprigs of a size
to tie on good."

The girls liked the trip, for it gave them an opportunity to gather
checkerberries, pull "young ivies," search for "twin sisters" and see
the woods, birds and squirrels, with a chance of espying an owl in the
swamp, or a hawk's nest in some big tree; or perhaps a rabbit, or a mink
along the brook.

If they could contrive to get word of their trip to Catherine Edwards
and she could find time to accompany them, so much the more pleasant;
for Catherine was better acquainted with the woods and possessed that
practical knowledge of all rural matters which only a bright girl, bred
in the country with a taste for rambling about, ever acquires.

A morning proclamation to gather broom-stuff having been issued at about
this time, the three girls set off an hour or two after dinner for the
east pasture; Mrs. Edwards, who was a very kind, easy-going woman,
nearly always allowed Catherine to accompany our girls. Kate, in fact,
did about as she liked at home, not from indulgence on the part of her
mother so much as from being a leading spirit in the household. She was
very quick at work; and her mother, instead of having to prompt her,
generally found her going ahead, hurrying about to get everything done
early in the day. Then, too, she was quick-witted and knew how to take
care of herself when out from home. Mrs. Edwards always appeared to
treat Kate more as an equal than a daughter. There are children who are
spoiled if allowed to have their own way, and others who can be trusted
to take their own way without the least danger of injury, and whom it is
but an ill-natured exercise of authority to restrict to rules.

The Old Squire was breaking greensward in the south field that afternoon
with Addison and Halse driving the team which consisted of a yoke of
oxen and two yokes of steers, the latter not as yet very well "broken"
to work. My inexperienced services were not required; but to keep me out
of hurtful idleness, the old gentleman bade me pick up four heaps of
stones on a stubble field near the east pasture wall. It was a kind of
work which I did not enjoy very well, and I therefore set about it with
a will to get it done as soon as possible.

I had nearly completed the fourth not very large stone pile, when I
heard one of the girls calling me from down in the pasture, below the
field. It was Ellen. She came hurriedly up nearer the wall. "Run to the
house and get Addison's fish-hook and line and something for bait!" she
exclaimed. "For there is the greatest lot of trout over at the Foy
mill-pond you ever saw! There's more than fifty of them. Such great
ones!"

"Why, how came you to go over there?" said I; for the Foy mill-pond was
fully a mile distant, in a lonely place where formerly a saw-mill had
stood, and where an old stone dam still held back a pond of perhaps four
acres in extent. The ruins of the mill with several broken wheels and
other gear were lying on the ledges below the dam; and two curiously
gnarled trees overhung the bed of the hollow-gurgling stream. Alders had
now grown up around the pond; and there were said to be some very large
water snakes living in the chinks of the old dam. It was one of those
ponds the shores of which are much infested by dragon-flies, or "devil's
darn-needles," as they are called by country boys,--the legend being
that with their long stiff bodies, used as darning needles, they have a
mission, to sew up the mouths of those who tell falsehoods.

"Oh, Kate wanted to go," replied Ellen. "We went by the old logging road
through the woods from the cedar swamp. She thought we would see a
turtle on that sand bank across from the old dam, if we sat down quietly
and waited awhile. The turtles sometimes come out on that sand bank to
sun themselves, she said. So we went over and sat down, very still, in
the little path at the top of the dam wall. The sun shone down into the
water. We could see the bottom of the pond for a long way out. Kate was
watching the sand bank: and so was I; but after a minute or two,
Theodora whispered, 'Only see those big fish!' Then we looked down into
the water and saw them, great lovely fish with spots of red on their
sides, swimming slowly along, all together, circling around the foot of
the pond as if they were exploring. Oh, how pretty they looked as they
turned; for they kept together and then swam off up the pond again.

"Kate whispered that they were trout. 'But I never saw so many,' she
said, 'nor such large ones before; and I never heard Tom nor any of the
boys say there were trout here.'

"We thought they had gone perhaps and would not come again," Ellen
continued. "But in about ten minutes they all came circling back down
the other shore of the pond, keeping in a school together just as when
we first saw them. We sat and watched them till they came around the
third time, and then Kate said, 'One of us must run home and tell the
boys to come with their hooks.' I said that I would go, and I've run
almost all the way. Now hurry. I'll rest here till you come. Then we
will scamper back."

In a corner of the vegetable garden where I had dug horse-radish a few
mornings before, I had seen some exceedingly plethoric angle-worms; and
after running to the wood-house and securing a fish-hook, pole and line
which Addison kept there, ready strung, I seized an old tin quart, and
going to the garden, with a few deep thrusts of the shovel, turned out a
score or two of those great pale-purple, wriggling worms. These I as
hastily hustled into the quart along with a pint or more of the dirt,
then snatching up my pole, ran down to the field where Nell was waiting
for me, seated on one of my lately piled stone heaps.

"Come, hurry now," said she; and away we went over the wall and through
brakes and bushes, down into the swamp, and then along the old road in
the woods, till we came out at the high conical knoll, covered with
sapling pines, to the left of the old mill dam. There we espied Kate and
Theodora sitting quietly on a log.

"Oh, we thought that you never would come," said the former in a low
tone. "But creep along here. Don't make a noise. They've come around six
times, Ellen, since you went away. I never saw trout do so before. I
believe they are lost and are exploring, or looking for some way out of
this pond. I guess they came down out of North Pond along the Foy Brook;
for they are too large for brook trout. They will be back here in a few
minutes, again. Now bait the hook and drop in before they come back.
Then sit still, and when they come, just move the bait a little and I
think you'll get a bite."

I followed this advice and sat for some minutes, dangling a big
angle-worm out in the deep water, off the inner wall of the dam, while
my three companions watched the water. Presently Theodora whispered that
they were coming again; and then I saw what was, indeed, from a
piscatorial point of view, a rare spectacle. First the water waved deep
down, near the bottom, and seemed filled with dark moving objects,
showing here and there the sheen of light brown and a glimmer of
flashing red specks, as the sunlight fell in among them. For an instant
I was so intent on the sight, that I quite forgot my hook. "Bob it now,"
whispered Kate, excitedly.

I had scarcely given my hook a bob up and down when, with a grand rush
and snap, a big trout grabbed worm, hook and all. Instinctively I gave a
great yank and swung him heavily out of the water, my pole bending half
double. The trout was securely hooked, or I should have lost him, for he
fell first on some drift logs and slid down betwixt them into the water
again. Seizing the line in my hands, since the pole was too light for
the fish, I contrived to lift him up and land him high and dry on the
dam, close at the feet of the girls.

"Well done!" Theodora whispered. "Oh, isn't he a noble great one, and
how like sport he jumps about! Too bad to take his life when he's so
handsome and was having such a good time among his mates!"

"Unhook him quick and throw in again!" cried Kate. "Be careful he don't
snap your fingers. He's got sharp teeth. Don't let him leap into the
water. That's good! We'll keep him behind this log. Now bait again with
a good new worm."

"But they've gone," said Theodora. "They darted away when you pulled
this one out. It scared them."

I had experienced some difficulty in disengaging my hook from the
trout's jaw, but at length put on another worm and dropped in again, not
a little excited over my catch.

"I'm afraid they will not come around again," said Ellen. Kate, too,
thought it doubtful whether we would see anything more of the school. "I
guess they will beat a retreat up to North Pond," said she.

We sat quietly waiting for eight or ten minutes and were losing hope
fast, when lo! there they all came again--swimming evenly around the
foot of the pond in the deep part, as before, winnowing the water slowly
with their fins.

Again I waited till my hook was in the midst of the school; and this
time I had scarcely moved it, when another snapped it. I had resolved
not to jerk quite so hard this time; but in my excitement I pulled much
harder than was necessary to hook the trout and again swung it out and
against the wall of the dam. With a vigorous squirm the fish threw
himself clean off the hook; but by chance I grabbed him in my hands, as
he did so, and threw him over the dam among the raspberry briars--safe.

"Well done again," said Theodora.

In a trice I had rebaited my hook and dropped in a third time; but as
before the vagrant school had moved on. They had seemed alarmed for the
moment by the commotion, and darted off with accelerated speed. But we
now had more confidence that they would return and again settled
ourselves to wait.

"Oh, I want to catch one!" exclaimed Ellen.

"I wish we had more hooks," said Kate. "We would fish at different
points around the pond."

After about the same interval of time and in the same odd, migratory
manner, the beautiful school came around four times more in succession;
and every time I swung out a handsome one. Kate then took the pole and
caught one. Then Ellen caught one; and afterwards Theodora took her turn
and succeeded in landing a fine fellow which flopped off the dam once,
but was finally secured. In the scramble to save this last one, however,
I rolled a loose stone off the dam into the water; and either owing to
the splash made by the stone, or because the trout had completed their
survey of the pond, they did not return. We saw nothing more of the
school although we had not caught a fifth part of them.

After waiting fifteen or twenty minutes we went along the shore on both
sides of the pond but could not discern them anywheres. It is likely
that they had gone back to the larger pond, two miles distant.

At that time, the very odd circumstances attending the capture of these
trout did not greatly surprise me; for I knew almost nothing of fishing.
But within a considerable experience since, I have never seen anything
like it.

We laid the nine large trout in a row on the dam, side by side, and then
strung them on a forked maple branch. They were indeed beauties! The
largest was found that night to weigh three pounds and three quarters;
and the smallest two pounds and an ounce. The whole string weighed over
twenty-two pounds. Going homeward, we first took turns carrying them,
then hung them on a pole for two to carry.

Our folks were at supper when we arrived at the house door with our
cedar and our fish. When they saw those trout, they all jumped up from
the table. Addison and Halse had never caught anything which could
compare with them for size; both of the boys stared in astonishment.

"Where in the world did you catch those whopping trout?" was then the
question which we had to answer in detail.

Kate carried three of them home with her; and we had six for our share.
The Old Squire dressed two of the largest; and grandmother rolled them
in meal and fried them with pork for our supper. I thought at the time
that I had never tasted anything one half as good in my life!

Next morning Addison got up at half past four and having hastily milked
his two cows, went over to the old mill-pond, to try his own hand at
fishing there. He found Tom Edwards there already; but neither of them
caught a trout, nor saw one. Addison went again a day or two after; and
the story having got abroad, more than twenty persons fished there
during the next fortnight, but caught no trout.

Evidently it was a transient school. I never caught a trout in the
mill-pond, afterwards; although the following year Addison made a great
catch in a branch of the Foy stream below the dam under somewhat
peculiar circumstances.

At the far end of the dam, a hundred feet from the flume, there was an
"apron," beneath a waste-way, where formerly the overflow of water went
out and found its way for a hundred and fifty yards, perhaps, by another
channel along the foot of a steep bank; then, issuing through a dense
willow thicket, it joined the main stream from the flume.

Water rarely flowed here now, except in time of freshets, or during the
spring and fall rains; and there was such a prodigious tangle of alder,
willow, clematis and other vines that for years no one had penetrated
it. From a fisherman's point of view there seemed no inducement to do
so, since this secondary channel appeared to be dry for most of the
time.

In point of fact, however, and unknown to us, there was a very deep hole
at the foot of the high bank where the channel was obstructed by a
ledge. The hole thus formed was thirty or forty feet in length, and at
the deepest place under the bank the water was six or seven feet in
depth; but such was the tangle of brush above, below and all about it
that one would never have suspected its existence.

An experienced and observing fisherman would have noted, however, that
always, even in midsummer, there was a tiny rill of water issuing
through the willows to join the main stream; and that, too, when not a
drop of water was running over the waste-way of the dam. He would have
noted also that this was unusually clear, cold water, like water from a
spring. There was, in fact, a copious spring at the foot of the bank
near the deep hole; and this hole was maintained by the spring, and not
by the water from above the dam.

Addison was a born observer, a naturalist by nature; and on one of these
hopeful trips to the mill-pond, he had searched out and found that
hidden hole on the old waste-way channel, below the dam. When he had
forced his way through the tangled mass of willows, alders and vines and
discovered the pool, he found eighteen or nineteen splendid speckled
trout in it.

Either these trout had come over the waste-way of the dam in time of
freshet, and had been unable to get out through the rick of small drift
stuff at the foot of the hole; or else perhaps they were trout that had
come in there as small fry and had been there for years, till they had
grown to their present size. Certain it is that they were now two-and
three-pound trout.

Did Addison come home in haste to tell us of his discovery? Not at all.
He did not even allow himself to catch one of the trout at that time,
for he knew that Halstead and I had seen him set off for the old
mill-pond. He came home without a fish, and remarked at the
dinner-table that it was of no use to fish for trout in that old
pond--which was true enough.

The next wet day, however, he said at breakfast to the Old Squire, "If
you don't want me, sir, for an hour or two this morning, I guess I'll go
down the Horr Brook and see if I can catch a few trout."

Gramp nodded, and we saw Addison dig his worms and set off. The Horr
Brook was on the west side of the farm, while the old mill-pond lay to
the southeast. What Addison did was to fish down the Horr Brook for
about a mile, to the meadows where the lake woods began. He then made a
rapid detour around through the woods to the Foy Brook, and caught four
trout out of the hidden preserve below the old dam. Afterwards he went
back as he had come to the Horr Brook, then strolled leisurely home with
eight pounds of trout.

Of course there was astonishment and questions. "You never caught those
trout in the Horr Brook!" Halstead exclaimed. But Addison only laughed.

"Ad, did you get those beauties out of the old mill-pond?" demanded
Ellen.

"No," said Addison, but he would answer no more questions.

About two weeks after that he set off fishing to the Horr Brook again,
and again returned with two big trout. Nobody else who fished there had
caught anything weighing more than half a pound; and in the lake, at
that time, there was nothing except pickerel. But all that Addison would
say was that he did not have any trouble in catching such trout.

The mystery of those trout puzzled us deeply. Not only Halstead and I,
but Thomas Edwards, Edgar Wilbur and the Murch boys all did our best to
find out where and how Addison fished, but quite without success.

Cold weather was now at hand and the fishing over; Addison astonished
us, however, by bringing home two noble trout for Thanksgiving day.

[Illustration: THOSE BIG TROUT.]

The next spring, about May 1st, he went off fishing, unobserved, and
brought home two more big trout. After that if he so much as took down
his fish-pole, the rumor of it went round, and more than one boy made
ready to follow him. For we were all persuaded that he had discovered
some wonderful new brook or trout preserve.

Not even the girls could endure the grin of superior skill which Addison
wore when he came home with those big trout. Theodora and Ellen also
began to watch him; and the two girls, with Catherine Edwards, hatched a
scheme for tracking him. Thomas had a little half-bred cocker spaniel
puppy, called Tyro, which had a great notion of running after members of
the family by scent. If Thomas had gone out, and Kate wished to discover
his whereabouts, she would show him one of Thomas's shoes and say, "Go
find him!" Tyro would go coursing around till he took Thomas's track,
then race away till he came upon him.

The girls saved up one of Addison's socks, and on a lowery day in June,
when they made pretty sure that he had stolen off fishing, Ellen ran
over for Kate and Tyro. Thomas was with them when they came back, and
Halstead and I joined in the hunt. The sock was brought out for Tyro to
scent; then away he ran till he struck Addison's trail, and dashed out
through the west field and down into the valley of the Horr Brook.

All six of us followed in great glee, but kept as quiet as possible. It
proved a long, hot chase; for when Tyro had gone along the brook as far
as the lake woods, he suddenly tacked and ran on an almost straight
course through the woods and across the bushy pasture-lands, stopping
only now and then for us to catch up. When we came out on the Foy Brook
at a distance below the old dam, the dog ran directly up the stream
till he came to the place where the little rill from the hidden hole
joined it; then he scrambled in among the thick willows.

We were a little way behind, and knowing that the dog would soon come
out at the mill-pond, we climbed up the bank among the low pines on the
hither side of the brook.

Tyro was not a noisy dog, but a few moments after he entered the thicket
we heard him give one little bark, as if of joy.

"He's found him!" whispered Kate. "Let's keep still!"

Nothing happened for some minutes; then we saw Addison's head appear
among the brush, as if to look around. For some time he stood there,
still as a mouse, peering about and listening. Evidently he suspected
that some one was with the dog, most likely Thomas, and that he had gone
to the mill-pond to fish; but we were not more than fifty feet away,
lying up in the thick pine brush.

After looking and listening for a long while, Addison drew back into the
thicket, but soon reappeared with two large trout, and was hurrying away
down the brook when we all shouted, "Oho!"

Addison stopped, looking both sheepish and wrathful; but we pounced on
him, laughing so much that he was compelled to own up that he was
beaten. He showed us the hole--after we had crept into the thicket--and
the ledge where he had sat so many times to fish. "But there are only
four more big trout," he said. "I meant to leave them here, and put in
twenty smaller ones to grow up."

The girls thought it best to do so, and Halstead and I agreed to the
plan; but three or four days later, when Theodora, Ellen and Addison
went over to see the hole again, we found that the four large trout had
disappeared. We always suspected that Thomas caught them, or that he
told the Murch boys or Alfred Batchelder of the hole. Yet an otter may
possibly have found it. In May, two years afterward, Halstead and I
caught six very pretty half-pound trout there, but no one since has ever
found such a school of beauties as Addison discovered.




CHAPTER XXI

TOM'S FORT


During the next week there was what is termed by Congregationalists a
"Conference Meeting," at the town of Hebron, distant fifteen miles from
the Old Squire's. Gram and he made it a rule to attend these meetings;
and on this occasion they set off on Monday afternoon with old Sol and
the light driving wagon, in Sunday attire, and did not return till the
following Monday. Wealthy went with them; but the rest of us young folks
were left, with many instructions, to keep house and look after things
at the farm.

Haying was now over; and the wheat and barley were in; but an acre more
of late-sown oats still remained to be harvested, also an acre of
buckwheat. There was not a little solicitude felt for this acre of
buckwheat. With it were connected visions of future buckwheat cakes and
maple sirup. I was assured by Ellen and the others who had come to the
farm in advance of me, that the maple molasses and candy "flapjacks,"
made on pans of hard snow, during the previous spring, had been
something to smack one's mouth for.

The Old Squire had bidden Addison, who was practically in charge, to mow
the oats on Tuesday, and the buckwheat on Thursday, if the weather
continued good. Asa Doane was coming to assist us. The oats were to be
turned on Wednesday and drawn in on Friday. The buckwheat would need to
lie in the swath till the next week and be turned once or twice, in
order to cure properly.

We had also a half acre of weeds to pull, in a part of the potato field
which had thus far been hoed but once; and an acre of stubble to clear
of stones, preparatory to ploughing. The Old Squire did not believe that
abundant leisure is good for boys, left alone under such circumstances.

"If you get the loose stones all off the stubble and have time, you can
begin to draw off the stone heaps from the piece which we are going to
break up in the south field," he said finally, as he got into the wagon
and took the reins to drive away. But he laughed when he said it; and
Addison laughed, too; for we thought that he had already laid out a long
stint for us. Halstead was grumbling about it to himself. "Wonder if he
thinks we can do a whole season's work in a week," he exclaimed,
spitefully. "Never saw such a man to lay off work! Wants a week to play
in, himself, but expects us to stay at home and dig like slaves!"

"Oh, he doesn't want us to hurt ourselves," said Addison. "He will be
satisfied if we manage the grain, the weeds and the stones on the
stubble. It really isn't so very much for four of us. We could do it in
one half the time, by working smart, and have the rest of the time to
play in."

Gram had left corresponding work for the girls, indoors, besides
cooking, getting the three daily meals and caring for the dairy.

We set to work that afternoon and pulled the weeds, finishing this task
before five o'clock. Ellen had found time to make a brief call on Kate
Edwards; and at supper, she informed us that Tom had invited us all to
come to his "fort," that evening. "He is going to have a fire there and
roast some of his early Pine Knot corn," continued Ellen. "He says he
has got a whole basketful of ears, all nice in the milk and ready to
roast."

"Where is his 'fort?'" I inquired, for this was the first that I had
heard of such a fortification, although the others appeared to know
something about it.

"Oh, Tom thinks he has got a great fort over there!" said Halse. "It's
no more a fort, like some I've seen, than our sheep pen!"

"Oh, but it is," replied Ellen. "It is a terribly rocky place. Nobody
can get into it, if Tom hasn't a mind to let them."

"Pooh!" exclaimed Halse. "One little six pound cannon would knock it all
down over his head."

"I don't think so," persisted Ellen.

"What do you know about cannon?" cried Halse.

"Well, I don't know much about them," replied Ellen. "But I do not
believe that a small cannon would knock down rocks as big as this
house."

This argument increased my curiosity, and Addison now told me something
about the so-called fortress. "It is a queer sort of place," said he; "a
kind of knoll, with four or five prodigious great rocks around it. I
guess we never have been over there since you came, though we passed in
sight of it the day we went to dig out the foxes. It is on the line
between Mr. Edwards' south field on one side, and the woods of our
pasture where those big yellow birches and rock maples are, on the
other. Those great rocks lie close together there, on that little knoll,
just as if they had been dropped down there like so many big kernels of
corn in a hill.

"From what I have read about geology," continued Addison, reflectively,
"I think it is likely that some mighty glacier, in long past ages, piled
them there. One could imagine that a giant had placed them there, or had
dropped them, accidentally out of his big leather apron, as he strode
across the continent, in early times."

"Oh, hear him!" cried Halse. "Ad will be out giving lectures on geology
next!"

"No," said Addison, laughing, "I don't want to give lectures. I don't
know how the rocks got there, but they got there somehow, for there they
are. Two of them, as Nell says, are almost as large as a house; and they
all stand around, irregularly, enclosing a sort of little space inside
them, as large as--how big is it, Doad?"

"Oh, I should think that it was as large as our sitting-room," she
replied.

"It is bigger than that," said Ellen. "It is as big as the sitting-room
and parlor together."

"Perhaps it is," assented Theodora. "But it isn't like rooms at all; it
is an odd place and there are nooks like little side rooms running back
between where the sides of the great rocks approach each other. It is a
real pleasant place, sort of gigantic and rustic. I don't wonder that
Thomas and Kate like to go there."

"None of these big rocks quite touch together," continued Addison, "but
Tom has built up between them with stones, all around, except one narrow
place which he calls the fort gate. He has built up all the open places,
six or seven feet high, so that it is really like a fort: and he has
made a stone fireplace against one of the rocks inside, with a little
chimney of flat stones running up the side of the rock, so that he can
have a fire there without being plagued by the smoke."

"And he's got a woodpile in there," said Ellen, "and seats to sit on,
round his fireplace. It is a cozy place, I tell you; the wind doesn't
strike you at all in there; and the knoll is quite a good deal higher
than the ground about it. You climb up a little path and turn the corner
of one big rock, and then go in between that one and another, for
fifteen or twenty feet, till you come to the open place inside, where
the fireplace is. Tom and Kate gave a little party there last fall. Tom
was a number of days building the fireplace and the wall and getting
ready. We all went there one evening and Kate and I played there one
afternoon, a week after that. But I guess they haven't been there at
all this spring and summer. I haven't heard them say anything about it
for a long time, till this afternoon. 'Tell the boys and Doad to come
over here this evening,' Tom said, as I was coming away. 'I'm going to
roast corn down at my fort to-night.'"

"Let's all go over after it gets dark and storm his fort!" exclaimed
Halse. "We can take sods and pitch them over the rocks into his fort
after he gets in there and is roasting corn!"

"I don't think that would be a very polite way of accepting his
invitation," said Theodora.

"That would be contrary to all the laws of war, to storm a neighboring
nation's fort, before war was declared!" said Addison, laughing. "That
would be a sad piece of international treachery."

"Oh, dear, only hear the big words roll out!" cried Halse. "Ad's a
walking dictionary."

"Well, dictionaries are always handy to have about," said Theodora,
smoothing away the rudeness of this ill-natured remark. Addison did not
mind, however; it was only occasionally that Halse's flings disturbed
him.

"Yes, let's all go," said he. "We will get our milking off early and our
chores done. Then we will take a lantern and start; for it will be nine
o'clock before we get back home, and we shall have to go through the
little piece of woods between here and the Aunt Hannah lot."

The girls had prepared a nice supper. Ellen had been making pop-overs,
and Theodora had fried a great panful of crispy doughnuts. They cut a
sage cheese to go with these; and rather unwisely Ellen made a pot of
fresh coffee. It tasted much better than that which we ordinarily had at
breakfast; for she roasted the coffee, then ground it smoking hot from
the oven, and poured it into the pot before it had time to lose its
delicate aroma. They set on a brimming pitcherful of cream to put in it;
and we each had two cupfuls, at table, in consequence of which we all
felt very bright and jolly throughout the evening. But this was not a
wise procedure, from a hygienic point of view; I scarcely slept at all
that night.

In the twilight we loaded our pockets with early apples, then went
across the fields, through the pasture and over the hill, toward the
fort. The great trees in the Aunt Hannah lot pasture favored a covert
approach, and we drew near, very quietly, to surprise our friends. It
was now dusk, and halting under a great beech, we reconnoitered the
rocks on the knoll for some moments. Smoke was rising from out the fort;
at least we could smell it; and presently a pale gleam of firelight
shone up into the leafy top of a great black cherry tree which stood
within the space enclosed by the rocks. But not a word could we hear
spoken inside, or about the fort.

"Perhaps Kate hasn't come down from the house yet," Ellen said. "Let's
steal up softly till we are at the foot of the knoll; then you boys rush
up the path and surprise Tom. Shout 'Surrender, your fort is ours!' as
you rush in."

We approached, apparently without being discovered, and then emerging
suddenly from under the shadow of the great trees, ran up the path and
around the corner of the rock at the gateway with tumultuous cheers!

But we soon found that instead of surprising the fort, we had been
beguiled into a trap, ourselves. Kate and Tom had guessed our tactics,
in advance, and were watching us all the while. We rushed into the
narrow passage, but found our progress arrested there by four or five
stout bars; and then bang! went Tom's gun, from the rocks over our
heads. He and Kate were both up there in a strong position; and Tom's
only response to our shouts was, "Throw down your arms or we will open
fire on you with grape and canister!"

"We may as well surrender," said Addison, laughing. "Nell, you proved a
very bad general. You've lost your whole army before striking a single
blow."

"So I see," replied Ellen. "I'm disgraced and shall be superseded at
once."

In 1866 the circumstance of superseding one general by another was still
very familiar in the minds of every one, old and young, in the United
States.

We were now admitted to the fort. To me, at that time, Tom's fort was a
great novelty. I present a photograph of it, as the knoll and rocks now
appear; but the walls have mostly fallen down. I believe that the place
was stormed once by a party of boys who broke down much of the light
stone wall, in imitation of sieges, in ancient warfare. But that evening
it was all new to me and made a lasting impression on my boyish fancy.
They had a fire burning; and a row of short Pine Knot corn ears stood
roasting in front of it. There were two long seats consisting each of a
board placed on piles of flat stones with another board for the back,
held in its place by short stakes, driven into the ground. The light
shone on the great rough sides of the schistose rocks and on the trunks
of the cherry tree and two white birch trees inside the enclosed space.
It was so much shut in as to seem like a room in a house; yet overhead
the stars could be seen shining. Sufficient warmth was radiated from the
fire to make us all quite comfortable as we sat around.

Kate had brought down a large ball of butter and half a dozen
case-knives. We buttered our corn and feasted on it, then finished off
on Early Sweet Bough, Sweet Harvey and August Pippin apples. After every
few minutes, Tom would ascend, by stone steps which he had built up, to
the top of the largest rock of the group, to see if any "enemies" were
about, as he said. It was possible that Alfred Batchelder, or the Murch
boys, or Ned Wilbur, might come around and scale the wall.

As we sat by the fire, regaling ourselves, we talked after the manner of
the young to whom everything under the sun looks possible of
achievement, to whom life looks long enough for every plan that tickles
the fancy and to whom as yet the hard experiences of life have
administered few rebuffs.

Oh, for that splendid courage of youth again! that joyous confidence
that everything can be done! It is the heritage of young hearts. It is
given us but once; and it was then ours.

"I would like to command a strong, big fort on the frontier of the
country," exclaimed Tom. "The enemy wouldn't surprise me. I would be
ready for them. If they attacked me they would get it hot, I tell you!

"I mean to study and try to get an appointment to West Point," he
continued, enthusiastically. "Then I may command a fort somewheres. I
tell you, West Point is the place to go! Don't you say so, Ad?"

"It is a good place to get a military education," replied Addison. "And
a military education is a great thing to have, if there is a war. But
there may never be another war, Tom; most of folks hope there will not
be; but I shouldn't much wonder if there were another, before many
years."

"Oh, I hope not," exclaimed Theodora, fervently. In fact, the Civil War
with its sad afflictions was still too fresh in the minds of all in our
family to be spoken of without a sense of bereavement.

"But I don't think that I should like a military life altogether,"
continued Addison. "Promotion is dreadfully slow, unless there's war;
and even after you are a general, there is no money in it. I want to go
into something that will give me all the money I want; and I want a lot
of it."

"I had rather have fame than money," exclaimed Tom. "Nothing makes
anybody feel so good, as to know that folks are saying, 'He did a big
thing. Nobody else could have done it.'"

"Tom, you want to be a hero," said Theodora.

"Well, I do," replied Tom. "I don't want to be such a hero as there are
in novels. But I want to do something that will put me right up in the
world."

I remember that I felt much like that myself, but did not quite like to
say so outright.

"The trouble is that in common every-day life there do not seem to be
many chances to do great things," remarked Addison, thoughtfully. "There
are always a few distinguished men, like General Grant, General Sherman
and President Lincoln, but only a few. There couldn't be a thousand
famous men in a nation at once. We couldn't think of so many, even if
they all had done great deeds. We could not even remember the names of
so many heroes. So it is pretty plain that only a few, five or six,
perhaps, of the millions of boys and girls in the country, can be really
famous. All the rest have got to take a lower place and make the best of
it. But if a fellow can plan and carry out enterprises to make lots of
money, he can do a great deal with it in the world."

"I don't care just for money!" cried Tom again; "I want to _do_
something!"

"Tom, you ought to be an explorer," said Theodora; "a discoverer, like
Livingstone, or Sir John Franklin, or Dr. Kane. If you could discover
the North Pole, or a new race of people in Africa, you would be famous."

"I should like that," exclaimed Tom. "I should like to make a voyage up
north. I can stand any amount of cold; and I never saw the sun so hot
yet that I couldn't work, or run a mile, under it. Those folks that get
sun-struck must be sort of sick, pindling fellows, I guess."

"Tom, I think that you would make a real go-ahead explorer," said Ellen.
"I hope you will stick to it."

"Well, it takes money to fit out exploring expeditions," said Addison.
"But there are other discoveries fully as important as those in the far
north, or in Africa; discoveries in science bring the best kind of fame,
like those of Franklin, Morse, Tyndall, Darwin and Pasteur. There is no
end to the discoveries that can be made in science. It is the great
field for explorers, I think. Grand new discoveries will be made right
along now, and the more there are made the more there will be made; for
one scientific discovery always seems to open the way to another."

"Oh, but I don't know anything about science," exclaimed Tom. "I don't
believe I ever shall."

"No one does without hard study," replied Addison. "But any one can
afford to study if by doing so some splendid new invention can be
brought about."

"Dora, what are we girls going to do?" said Kate, laughing. "It makes me
feel lonesome to hear the boys talk of the great exploits they mean to
perform."

"There doesn't seem to be so much that girls can do," replied Theodora,
with a sigh. "Still, I know of one thing I wish to do very much," she
continued with a glance at Addison.

"What is it?" said Tom. "What are you going to astonish the world with?"

"Oh, I haven't the courage to talk about it," replied Theodora. "And it
looks so hard to me and I shall need to study so long to get prepared,
that I sometimes think I never shall do it."

"Well, girls can all make school-mistresses," said Addison.

"Kate is going to make something besides a school-mistress," said Ellen.
"Kate means to study chemistry and be a chemist."

"She said last winter that she meant to learn how to telegraph and be a
telegraph operator," said Halse, laughing.

"Yes, I did," replied Kate, coldly. "But I have changed my mind. I
don't know much about chemistry yet, but I think I like it. I mean to
study it and I mean to learn all about drugs, too, and have a pharmacy
in some large pleasant town. I'll make as much money as Addison; for I
think money is a great thing."

"Shall you have a soda-fountain in your drug store and sell soda with a
'stick' in it?" asked Halse.

"I don't think so," replied Kate. "But if I do, I shall hire somebody
like you to tend the 'stick' part of it."

Halse had sat poking fun at all the others, while they talked of their
plans, pretending to be on the point of fainting away, when Addison, Tom
and Theodora discussed different pursuits in life; and this retort from
Kate hit him hard; he was angry. "I would not work for anyone with a
tongue like yours," he exclaimed.

"Never mind," replied Kate. "We will not quarrel about that now. It is
rather too far ahead. It will take you years and years to get education
enough to tend a soda-fountain," she added, mischievously. "Perhaps you
know enough already about putting the 'stick' in it, as you call it; I'm
rather afraid you do from what I heard your friend Alfred Batchelder say
a few days ago. It doesn't sound well for little boys like you to talk
about 'sticks' in soda."

Halse usually fared ill when he attempted jokes at Kate's expense. It
seemed odd to the rest of us that he did not learn to avoid such
efforts; but he never did; he was always worsted, promptly, and always
got angry. "Tom, if I had such a sister as you've got, I'd tie a hot
potato in her mouth," he exclaimed.

"She is a terrible girl," said Tom, with a wink. "Her tongue is just
like a new whalebone whip with a silk snapper on it. Takes the skin
right off. But as she is all the sister I've got, I try to put up with
her.

"She is a pretty good sister," he added, going across where Kate sat and
sitting down beside her. "I don't know what I should do without her."

"Thank you, Tommy dear," said Kate. "I know now that you want me to coax
father to let you take 'White-foot' (their colt) to the Fair. Perhaps I
will; but it will not amount to anything. You will not get a premium on
White-foot, if you take him. He isn't big and handsome enough. You've
looked at him till your eyes think he is, but he isn't. I shall not tell
father that I think he will take a premium, because I want father to
respect my judgment more than that."

"Kate, you don't know anything about colts!" cried Tom. "That's the best
colt in this town!"

"O my! O my!" groaned Kate. "Once let a boy begin to dote on a colt,
particularly if he calls it _his_ colt, and he can soon see beauty,
size, speed, everything else in it, in matchless perfection. It's a kind
of disease, a horse-disease that gets into his eye. Tom's got it badly.
Please excuse his boasting!

"Here, Tom, pass this nice buttered ear of corn over to Halse, and tell
him that I didn't mean to hurt his feelings--quite so badly," she added.
"I only meant to hurt them a little."

This was like Kate; she would always talk like that; but she rarely said
more than was true and never treasured up ill-feeling, nor wished others
to do so.

But Halse would not accept her peace-offering.

"Ah, well," sighed Ellen, "I really am afraid that there is nothing I
shall ever be able to do that will bring me either fame or money. I
cannot think of a thing that I am good for."

"Oh, yes, there is!" cried Addison. "You have a sure hand on pop-overs,
Nell, pop-overs and cookies."

"Right, Ad, I can make pop-overs," replied Ellen, laughing. "Perhaps I
can get a living, cooking."

"Well, that is a pretty important thing, I think," remarked Thomas,
candidly. "Somebody must know how to cook, and I like to have victuals
taste good."

"I do not think those who cook get much credit for their labors," said
Kate. "Mother and I are cooking every day and our men folks come in, sit
down at table and swallow it all, with never a word of praise when we
cook well; but if we make a mistake, and bread, or cake, or pie does not
taste quite right, then they will growl and look at us as surly as if we
had never cooked well in all our lives. I think that is rather hard
usage and poor thanks for long service. Mother does not mind it. 'Oh,
that is something you must get used to, Kate,' she says to me. 'Men
folks always behave so. We never get much praise for our cooking.' But I
do mind it. When I've made a nice batch of tea rolls, or cakes, I want
them to know it and to act as if they appreciated it."

"That is just the way it is at our house," said Ellen.

"Yes," remarked Theodora. "The only way our boys ever show that they
appreciate our good biscuit, or cake, is by eating about twice as much
of it, which of course makes it all the harder for us to cook more. When
we get a poor batch of bread it will last twice as long as good;--that's
one comfort."

"Why, Doad, I never heard you talk like that before," said Halse, with a
look of surprise.

"No more did I," remarked Addison. "Theodora, I am scandalized."

"I know it is horrid," she replied. "But I have thought it, if I never
have said it, many and many a time, when I've nearly roasted myself over
the hot stove, this summer, and thought I had enough cooked to last two
days, at least; and then in would march you three hungry boys, to table,
and eat it all up, eat my whole panful of doughnuts and finish off with
eight or ten cookies apiece, just because they were good, or a little
better than usual. If they had been a little poorer they would have
lasted two days, surely."

"Doad, you are getting positively wicked," said Addison. "I don't see
what has come over you. You are not yourself."

"She is only telling the cold truth," exclaimed Kate. "Boys all seem to
think that victuals grow ready cooked in the house somewheres, and that
the more they can eat the better it ought to suit us. Here's Tom, a
pretty good sort of boy generally, but he will come into the pantry,
after he has been racing about out-of-doors, and commit ravages that it
will take me hours of hot, hateful work to repair. Oh, he is a perfect
pantry scourge, a doughnut-and-cooky terror! Why, I have had what I knew
must be half a big panful of doughnuts, or cookies, enough for supper
and breakfast, certainly; and then about three or four o'clock of a hot
August afternoon, I would hear Tom's boots clumpering in the pantry, and
by the time I would get there, he would be just sneaking out, grinning
like a Chessy-cat, with his old mouth full and his pockets bulging out.
I will look in my pan and there will not be enough left to put on a
plate once! Then I know I have got to build a fire, get on my old floury
apron and go at it again, when I've just got cool and comfortable, after
my day's work!

"When he does that, I sometimes think I don't know whether I love him
well enough to cook for him, or not. For when he is hungry and comes
tearing in like that, he will carry off more than he can eat. His eyes
want all he sees. He will carry off lots more than he can possibly eat;
I've found it, time and again, laid up out in the wood-shed; and once I
found eight of my doughnuts hid in a hole in the garden wall. He thought
that he could eat the whole panful, but found that he couldn't."

"Oh, that was only laying up a store against days of famine," said Tom,
calmly. "Some days the pantry is awfully bare; and Kate, too, has a
caper of hiding the victuals. I call that a plaguey mean trick--when a
fellow's hungry! I clear the pan when I do find it, to get square with
her."

"Well," Addison remarked, "the girls have presented their side of the
work pretty strongly; but I rather guess the boys could say something on
their side;--how they have to work in the hot sun, all day long, to
plough and harrow and sow and plant and hoe the crops, to get the bread
stuff to cook into food. The girls want cooked victuals, too, as well as
we. The hot, hard work isn't all on one side."

"That's so!" echoed Tom and Halse, fervently.

"I often come in tired, hot and sweaty after a drink of water, in the
sweltering summer afternoons, and find our girls in the cool
sitting-room, rocking by the windows, looking as comfortable as you
please, reading novels," continued Addison.

"That's so!" we boys exclaimed.

"Not that I grudge them their comfort," Addison went on, laughing. "I
don't. I like to see them comfortable. Besides girls ought not to work
so hard and long as boys; they are not so strong, nor so well able to
work in the heat. But I think that a great deal of the hardship that
Kate and Doad and Nell complain of, about cooking over the hot stove, is
due to a bad method which all the women hereabouts seem to follow. They
cook twice every day. Fact, they seem to be cooking all the time. They
all do their cooking in stoves, with small ovens that will not hold more
than three or four pies, or a couple of loaves of bread at once. By the
next day they have to bake again, and so on. In summer, particularly,
their faces are red from bending over the hot stove about half the
time."

"But what would you do, Addison?" asked Theodora.

"I'll tell you what I would do," replied Addison. "I would do just what
I suggested to Gram last spring. The old lady was getting down to peep
into the stove oven and hopping up again about every two minutes. She
looked tired and her face was as red as a peony. 'Gram,' said I, 'I'll
tell you what I'll do, if you want me to. I'll take the oxen and cart
and go over to the Aunt Hannah lot, and draw home some brick there are
in an old chimney over there; and then we will get a cask of lime and
some sand for mortar, and have a mason come half a day and build you a
good big brick oven, beside the wash-room chimney. It can be seven or
eight feet long by four or five wide, big enough to bake all the pies,
bread, pork and beans and most of the meat you want to cook for us, in a
week. Then after you have baked, Saturday afternoon, you no need to have
much more cooking to do till the next Saturday. All you need do over the
stove will be to make coffee and tea, boil eggs and potatoes once in a
while and warm up the food.' 'There's an oven that goes with the
sitting-room chimney,' said she; 'I used always to bake in it; but
somehow I have got out of the way of it, since we began to use stoves.'
I couldn't get her to say that she wanted an oven, so I did nothing
about it. But I know it would be a great deal easier, after she got the
habit of it again."

"But how could you have hot tea-rolls every night and morning, Addison,
with an oven like that?" asked Ellen.

"I should not want them, myself," replied Addison. "They nearly always
smell so strongly of soda that I do not like them; and I do not think
they are wholesome. For my own part I like bread better, or bread made
into toast."

"Well, Ad, I think that sounds like a pretty good plan," said Kate.
"Mother has an oven, too; but we never use it now, except to smoke bacon
in. I think it would save us a great deal of hard work, if we baked in
it once a week."

"Hark," said Tom, suddenly.

Far aloft, overhead, a faint "quark-quock" was heard.

"'Tis a flock of wild geese, going over," said Addison. "It's early in
the season for them to be on their way to the south."

"Gram says that's a sign of an early winter," said Ellen.

We sat listening to the occasional quiet note of the flock gander for
some moments till they passed out of hearing toward the lake. Addison
then lighted our lantern; and after accompanying Tom and Kate a part of
the way to the Edwards place, across the fields, we bade them good night
and made our own way home.

Neighbor Wilbur had called at the door, during the evening, and left our
mail on the doorstep. There was a letter for me from my mother, and also
a circular from some swindling fellow in "Gotham," informing me most
positively that for the sum of one dollar, a powder would be forwarded
to me by mail, which, when dissolved and applied to my upper lip, would
produce a moustache in the course of three or four weeks. I laid it
away, thinking that I was perhaps not quite old enough for so ambitious
an effort, but that it might be of importance to me, later.

We went to "Tom's fort" again on Wednesday evening; and I remember that
one of the stones in the fireplace exploded that night. It burst in
several pieces with a sharp report like that of a pistol. One of these
hit Halse, scorching his wrist somewhat. At first we thought that
someone had mischievously put powder in the fireplace; but after
examining the pieces of stone carefully, Addison decided that it had
burst from some unequal expansion of its substance, or of moisture in
it, due to the heat.

That night, too, those long-delayed ambrotypes came home from artist
Lockett. Lockett sent them up to us by Mr. Edwards, who had driven to
the village that day.

In the sitting-room, that evening, after returning from the "fort," we
examined them with great interest, each anxious to see what the result
had been to us, personally. Halstead, I recollect, was wofully
disappointed in his. Truth to say, the picture was far from good; and it
is supposed that he destroyed it, later, in a fit of pique, for it
mysteriously disappeared.

Indeed, the history of that day's little crop of ambrotypes is rather
tragic. The Old Squire's and Gram's, alas, were lost in the farmhouse
fire (1883). Addison's and Theodora's shared the same fate. Ellen lent
hers to her first sweetheart, a college student named Cobb, at Colby
University. He was unfortunately drowned a few months later; and for
some cause the ambrotype was not returned. Little Wealthy's alone has
survived the vicissitudes of time.

The pictures in this book are mainly from photographs taken
subsequently.




CHAPTER XXII

HIGH TIMES


Truth to say, we had a pretty "high time" that week. When not at Tom's
fort evenings, our youthful neighbors came to our house. Sweet corn was
in the "milk;" and early apples, pears and plums were ripe. We roasted
corn ears and played hide-and-seek by moonlight, over the house,
wagon-house, wood-shed, granary and both barns.

I am inclined to believe that the Old Squire did not leave work enough
to keep us properly out of that idleness which leads to mischief. For on
the afternoon of the fourth day, we broke one wheel of the ox cart and
hay rack, while "coasting" in it. There was a long slope in the east
field; and we coasted there, all getting into the cart and letting it
run down backwards, dragging the "tongue" on the ground behind it: not
the proper manner of using a heavy cart.

After we had coasted down, we hauled the cart back with the oxen which
we yoked for the purpose. The wheel was broken on account of the cart
running off diagonally and striking a large stone.

We were obliged to own up to the matter on the Old Squire's return. He
said little; but after considering the matter over night, he held a
species of moot court in the sitting-room, heard all the evidence and
then, good-humoredly, "sentenced" Addison, Halstead and myself to work
on the highway that fall till we had earned enough to repair the wheel,
six dollars; and speaking for myself, it was the most salutary bit of
correction which I ever received; it led me to feel my personal
responsibility for damage done foolishly.

But it is not of the broken cart wheel, or hide-and-seek by moonlight,
that I wish to speak here, but of another diversion next day, and of a
mysterious stranger who arrived at nick of time to participate in it.

Generally speaking, Theodora did not excel as a cook. She was much more
fond of reading than of housework and domestic duties, although at the
farm she always did her share conscientiously. Ellen had a greater
natural bent toward cookery.

But there was one article of food which Theodora could prepare to
perfection and that was fried pies. Such at least was the name we had
for them; and we boys thought that if "Doad" had known how to do nothing
else in the world but fry pies, she would still be a shining success in
life. We esteemed her gift all the more highly for the reason that it
was extra-hazardous. Making fried pies is nearly as dangerous as working
in a powder-mill; those who have made them will understand what this
means. I know a housewife who lost the sight of one of her eyes from a
fried pie explosion. In another instance fully half the kitchen ceiling
was literally coated with smoking hot fat, from the frying-pan, thrown
up by the bursting of a pie.

Let not a novice like myself, however, presume to descant on the subject
of fried pies to the thousands who doubtless know all the details of
their manufacture. Theodora first prepared her dough, sweetened and
mixed like ordinary doughnut dough, rolled it like a thick pie crust and
then enclosed the "filling," consisting of mince-meat, or stewed apple,
or gooseberry, or plum, or blackberry; or perhaps peach, raspberry, or
preserved cherries. Only such fruits must be cooked and the pits or
stones of plums or peaches carefully removed. The edges of the dough
were wet and dexterously crimped together, so that the pie would not
open in frying.

Then when the big pan of fat on the stove was just beginning to get
smoking hot, the pies were launched gently in at one side and allowed to
sink and rise. And about that time it was well to be watchful; for there
was no telling just when a swelling, hot pie might take a fancy to enact
the role of a bomb-shell and blow the blistering hot fat on all sides.

After suffering from a bad burn on one of her wrists the previous
winter, Theodora had learned not to take chances with fried pies. She
had a face mask which Addison had made for her, from pink pasteboard,
and a pair of blue goggles for the eyes, which some member of the family
had once made use of for snow blindness. The mask as I remember wore an
irresistible grin.

When ready to begin frying two dozen pies, Theodora donned the mask and
goggles and put on a pair of old kid gloves. Then if spatters of hot fat
flew, she was none the worse;--but it was quite a sight to see her
rigged for the occasion. The goggles were of portentous size, and we
boys used to clap and cheer when she made her appearance.

As an article of diet, perhaps, fried pies could hardly be commended for
invalids; but to a boy who had been working hard, or racing about for
hours in the fresh air out of doors, they were simply delicious and went
exactly to the right spot. Few articles of food are more appetizing to
the eye than the rich doughnut brown of a fine fried pie.

That forenoon we coaxed Theodora and Ellen to fry a batch of three
dozen, and two "Jonahs;" and the girls, with some misgivings as to what
Gram would say to them for making such inroads on "pie timber," set
about it by ten o'clock. Be it said, however, that "closeness" in the
matter of daily food was not one of Gram's faults. She always laid in a
large supply of "pie timber" and was not much concerned for fear of a
shortage.

They filled half a dozen with mince-meat, half a dozen with stewed
gooseberry, and then half a dozen each, of crab apple jelly, plum, peach
and blackberry. They would not let us see what they filled the "Jonahs"
with, but we knew that it was a fearful load. Generally it was with
something shockingly sour, or bitter. The "Jonahs" looked precisely like
the others and were mixed with the others on the platter which was
passed at table, for each one to take his or her choice. And the rule
was that whoever got the "Jonah pie" must either eat it, or crawl under
the table for a foot-stool for the others during the rest of the meal!

What they actually put in the two "Jonahs," this time, was wheat bran
mixed with cayenne pepper--an awful dose such as no mortal mouth could
possibly bear up under! It is needless to say that the girls usually
kept an eye on the Jonah pie or placed some slight private mark on it,
so as not to get it themselves.

When we were alone and had something particularly good on the table,
Addison and Theodora had a habit of making up rhymes about it, before
passing it around, and sometimes the rest of us attempted to join in the
recreation, generally with indifferent success. Kate Edwards had come in
that day, and being invited to remain to our feast of fried pies, was
contributing her wit to the rhyming contest, when chancing to glance out
of the window, Ellen espied a gray horse and buggy with the top turned
back, standing in the yard, and in the buggy a large elderly,
dark-complexioned man, a stranger to all of us, who sat regarding the
premises with a smile of shrewd and pleasant contemplation.

"Now who in the world can that be?" exclaimed Ellen in low tones. "I do
believe he has overheard some of those awful verses you have been making
up."

"But someone must go to the door," Theodora whispered. "Addison, you go
out and see what he has come for."

"He doesn't look just like a minister," said Halstead.

"Nor just like a doctor," Kate whispered. "But he is somebody of
consequence, I know, he looks so sort of dignified and experienced."

"And what a good, old, broad, distinguished face," said Ellen.

Thus their sharp young eyes took an inventory of our caller, who, I may
as well say here, was Hannibal Hamlin, recently Vice-President of the
United States and one of the most famous anti-slavery leaders of the
Republican party before the Civil War.

The old Hamlin homestead, where Hannibal Hamlin passed his boyhood, was
at Paris Hill, Maine, eight or ten miles to the eastward of the Old
Squire's farm; he and the Old Squire had been young men together, and at
one time quite close friends and classmates at Hebron Academy.

In strict point of fact, Mr. Hamlin's term of office as Vice-President
with Abraham Lincoln, had expired; and at this time he had not entered
on his long tenure of the Senatorship from Maine. Meantime he was
Collector of Customs for the Port of Boston, but a few days previously
had resigned this lucrative office, being unwilling longer to endorse
the erratic administrative policy of President Andrew Johnson by holding
an appointment from him.

In the interim he was making a brief visit to the scenes of his boyhood
home, and had taken a fancy to drive over to call on the Old Squire. But
we of the younger and lately-arriving generation, did not even know
"Uncle Hannibal" by sight and had not the slightest idea who he was.
Addison went out, however, and asked if he should take his horse.

"Why, Joseph S---- still lives here, does he not?" queried Mr. Hamlin,
regarding Addison's youthful countenance inquiringly.

"Yes, sir," replied Addison. "I am his grandson."

"Ah, I thought you were rather young for one of his sons," Mr. Hamlin
remarked. "I heard, too, that he had lost all his sons in the War."

"Yes, sir," Addison replied soberly.

Mr. Hamlin regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. "I used to know your
grandfather," he said. "Is he at home?"

Addison explained the absence of Gramp and Gram. "I am very sorry they
are away," he added.

"I am sorry, too," said Mr. Hamlin, "I wanted to see them and say a few
words to them." He began to turn his horse as if to drive away, but
Theodora, who was always exceedingly hospitable, had gone out and now
addressed our caller with greater cordiality.

"Will you not come in, sir?" she exclaimed. "Grandfather will be very
sorry! Do please stop a little while and let the boys feed your horse."

Mr. Hamlin regarded her with a paternal smile. "I will get out and walk
around a bit, to rest my legs," he replied.

Once he was out of the buggy, Addison and I took his horse to the
stable; and Theodora having first shown him the garden and the long row
of bee hives, led the way to the cool sitting-room, and domesticated him
in an easy chair. We heard her relating recent events of our family
history to him, and answering his questions.

Meantime the fried pies were waiting and getting cold; and when Addison
and I had returned from the stable, we all began to feel a little
impatient. Ellen and Kate set the pies in the oven, to keep them warm;
we did not like to begin eating them with company in the sitting-room,
and so lingered hungrily about, awaiting developments. "How long s'pose
he will stay!" Halse exclaimed crossly; and Addison began brushing up a
little, in order to go in and help do the honors of the house with
Theodora.

"He is a pretty nice old fellow," Addison remarked to Kate. "Have you
any idea who he is?"

But Kate, though born in the county, had never seen him. Just then the
sitting-room door opened, and we heard "Doad" saying, "We haven't much
for luncheon to-day, but fried pies, but we shall all be glad to have
you sit down with us."

"What an awful fib!" whispered Ellen behind her hand to Kate; and truth
to say, his coming had rather upset our anticipated pleasure; but Mr.
Hamlin had taken a great fancy to Theodora and was accepting her
invitation, with vast good-nature.

What a great dark man he looked, as he followed Theodora out to the
table.

"These are my cousins that I have told you of," she was saying, and then
mentioned all our names to him and afterwards Kate's, although Mr.
Hamlin had not seen fit to tell us his own; we supposed that he was
merely some pleasant old acquaintance of Gramp's early years.

He was seated in Gramp's place at table and, after a brief flurry in the
kitchen, the big platterful of fried pies was brought in. What Ellen and
Theodora had done was, carefully to pick out the two "Jonahs" and lay
them aside. We were now all gathered around. Addison and Theodora
exchanged glances and there was a little pause of interrogation, in case
our caller might possibly be a clergyman, after all, and might wish to
say grace.

He evinced no disposition to do so, however; and laughing a little in
spite of herself, Doad raised the platter and assayed to pass it to our
guest.

"And are these the 'fried pies?'" he asked with the broadest of smiles.
"They resemble huge doughnuts. But I now remember that my mother used to
fry something like this, when I was a boy at home, over at Paris Hill;
and my recollection is that they were very good."

"Yes, the most of them are very good," said Addison, by way of making
conversation, "unless you happen to get the 'Jonah.'"

"And what's the 'Jonah?'" asked our visitor.

Amidst much laughter, this was explained to him--also the penalty. Mr.
Hamlin burst forth in a great shout of laughter, which led us to surmise
that he enjoyed fun.

"But we have taken the 'Jonahs' out of these," Theodora made haste to
reassure him.

"What for?" he exclaimed.

"Why--why--because we have company," stammered Doad, much confused.

"And spoil the sport?" cried our visitor. "Young lady, I want those
'Jonahs' put back."

"Oh, but they are awful 'Jonahs!'" pleaded Theodora.

"I want those 'Jonahs' put back," insisted Mr. Hamlin. "I shall have to
decline to lunch here, unless the 'Jonahs' are in their proper places.
Fetch in the 'Jonahs.'"

Very shamefaced, Ellen brought them in.

"No hokus-pokus now," cried our visitor, and nothing would answer, but
that we should all turn our backs and shut our eyes, while Kate put them
among the others in the platter.

It was then passed and all chose one. "Each take a good, deep mouthful,"
cried Mr. Hamlin, entering mirthfully into the spirit of the game.
"Altogether--now!"

We all bit, eight bites at once; as it chanced no one got a "Jonah," and
the eight fried pies rapidly disappeared.

"But these are good!" cried our visitor, "Mine was gooseberry." Then
turning to Theodora, "How many times can a fellow try for a 'Jonah'
here?"

"Five times!" replied Doad, laughing and not a little pleased with the
praise.

The platter was passed again, and again no one got bran and cayenne.

But at the third passing, I saw Kate start visibly when our visitor
chose his pie. "All ready. Bite!" he cried; and we bit! but at the first
taste he stopped short, rolled his eyes around and shook his head with
his capacious mouth full.

"Oh, but you need not eat it, sir!" cried Theodora, rushing round to
him. "You need not do anything!"

But without a word our bulky visitor had sunk slowly out of his chair
and pushing it back, disappeared under the long table.

For a moment we all sat, scandalized, then shouted in spite of
ourselves. In the midst of our confused hilarity, the table began to
oscillate; it rose slowly several inches, then moved off, rattling,
toward the sitting-room door! Our jolly visitor had it on his back and
was crawling ponderously but carefully away with it on his hands and
knees;--and the rest of us were getting ourselves and our chairs out of
the way! In fact, the remainder of that luncheon was a perfect gale of
laughter. The table _walked_ clean around the room and came very
carefully back to its original position.

After the hilarity had subsided, the girls served some very nice large,
sweet blackberries, which our visitor appeared to relish greatly. He
told us of his boyhood at Paris Hill; of his fishing for trout in the
brooks thereabouts, of the time he broke his arm and of the doctor who
set it so unskilfully that it had to be broken again and re-set; of the
beautiful tourmaline crystals which he and his brother found at Mt.
Mica; and of his school-days at Hebron Academy; and all with such
feeling and such a relish, that for an hour we were rapt listeners.

[Illustration: FRIED PIES.]

When at length he declared that he positively must be going on his way,
we begged him to remain over night, and brought out his horse with great
reluctance.

Before getting into the buggy, he took us each by the hand and saluted
the girls, particularly "Doad," in a truly paternal manner.

"I've had a good time!" said he. "I am glad to see you all here at this
old farm in my dear native state; but (and we saw the moisture start in
his great black eyes) it touches my heart more than I can tell you, to
know of the sad reason for your coming here. You have my heartiest
sympathy.

"Tell your grandparents, that I should have been very glad to see them,"
he added, as he got in the buggy and took the reins from Addison.

"But, sir," said Theodora, earnestly, for we were all crowding up to the
buggy, "grandfather will ask who it was that called."

"Oh, well, you can describe me to him!" cried Mr. Hamlin, laughing (for
he knew how cut up we should feel if he told us who he really was). "And
if he cannot make me out, you may tell him that it was an old fellow he
once knew, named Hamlin. Good-by." And he drove away. The name signified
little to us at the time.

"Well, whoever he is, he's an old brick!" said Halse, as the gray horse
and buggy passed between the high gate-posts, at the foot of the lane.

"I think he is just splendid!" exclaimed Kate, enthusiastically.

"And he has such a great, kind heart!" said Theodora.

When Gramp and Gram came home, we were not slow in telling them that a
most remarkable elderly man, named Hamlin, had called to see them, and
stopped to lunch with us.

"Hamlin, Hamlin," repeated the Old Squire, absently. "What sort of
looking man?"

Theodora and Ellen described him, with much zest.

"Why, Joseph, it must have been Hannibal!" cried Gram.

"So it was!" exclaimed Gramp. "Too bad we were not at home!"

"What! Not Hannibal Hamlin that was Vice-President of the United
States!" Addison almost shouted.

"Yes, Vice-President Hamlin," said the Old Squire.

And about that time, it would have required nothing much heavier than a
turkey's feather to bowl us all over. Addison looked at "Doad" and she
looked at Ellen and me. Halse whistled.

"Why, what did you say, or do, that makes you look so queer!" cried
Gram, with uneasiness. "I hope you behaved well to him. Did anything
happen?"

"Oh, no, nothing much," said Ellen, laughing nervously. "Only he got the
'Jonah' pie and--and--we've had the Vice-President of the United States
under the table to put our feet on!"

Gram turned very red and was much disturbed. She wanted to have a letter
written that night, and try to apologize for us. But the Old Squire only
laughed. "I have known Mr. Hamlin ever since he was a boy," said he. "He
enjoyed that pie as well as any of them; no apology is needed."




CHAPTER XXIII

THE THRASHERS COME


Truth to say, farm work is never done, particularly on a New England
farm where a little of everything has to be undertaken and all kinds of
crops are raised, and where sheep, cattle, calves, colts, horses and
poultry have to be tended and provided with winter food, indoors. A
thrifty farmer has always a score of small jobs awaiting his hands.

There were now brakes to cut and dry for "bedding" at the barn, bushes
and briars to clear up along the fences and walls, and stone-heaps to
draw off, preparatory to "breaking up" several acres more of greensward.
The Old Squire's custom was to break up three or four acres, every
August, so that the turf would rot during the autumn. Potatoes were then
usually planted on it the ensuing spring, to be followed the next year
by corn and the next by wheat, or some other grain, when it was again
seeded down in grass.

About this time, too, the beans had to be pulled and stacked; and there
were always early apples to be gathered, for sale at the village stores.
Sometimes, too, the corn would be ripe enough to cut up and shock by the
5th or 6th of September; and immediately after came potato-digging,
always a heavy, dirty piece of farm work.

Not far from this time, "the thrashers" would make their appearance,
with "horse-power," "beater" and "separator," which were set up in the
west barn floor. These dusty itinerants usually remained with us for two
days and threshed the grain on shares: one bushel for every ten of
wheat, rye and barley and one for every twelve of oats. There were
always two of them; and for five or six years the same pair came to our
barn every fall: a sturdy old man, named Dennett, and his son-in-law,
Amos Moss. Dennett, himself, "tended beater" and Moss measured and
"stricted" the grain as it came from the separator;--and it was hinted
about among the farmers, that "Moss would bear watching."

We were kept very busy during those two days; Halse, I remember, was
first set to "shake down" the wheat off a high scaffold, for Dennett to
feed into the beater; while Addison and I got away the straw. I deemed
it great fun at first, to see the horses travel up the lags of the
horse-power incline, and hear the machine in action; but I soon found
that it was suffocatingly dusty work; our nostrils and throats as well
as our hair and clothing were much choked and loaded with dust.

We had been at work an hour or two, when suddenly an unusual snapping
noise issued from the beater; and Dennett abruptly stopped the machine.
After examining the teeth, he looked up where Halse stood on the
scaffold, shaking down, and said, "Look here, young man, I want you to
be more careful what you shake down here; we don't want to thrash
clubs!"

"I didn't shake down clubs," said Halse.

"A pretty big stick went through anyway," remarked Dennett. "I haven't
said you did it a-purpose. But I asked you to be more careful."

They went on again, for half or three-quarters of an hour, when there
was another odd noise, and Dennett again stopped and looked up sharply
at Halse. "Can't you see clubs as big as that?" said he. "Why, that's an
old tooth out of a loafer rake. You must mind what you are about."

Halse pretended that he had seen nothing in the grain; and the machine
was started again; but Addison and I could see Halse at times from the
place where we were at work, and noticed that he looked mischievous.
Addison shook his head at him, vehemently.

Nothing further happened that forenoon; but we had not been at work for
more than an hour, after dinner, when a shrill _thrip_ resounded from
the beater, followed by a jingling noise, and one of the short iron
teeth from it flew into the roof of the barn. Again Dennett stopped the
machine, hastily.

"What kind of a feller do you call yerself!" he exclaimed, looking very
hard up at Halse. "You threw that stone into the beater, you know you
did."

"I didn't!" protested Halse. "You can't prove I did, either."

"I'd tan your jacket for ye, ef you was my boy," muttered Dennett,
wrathfully. He and Moss got wrenches from their tool-box and replaced
the broken tooth with a new one. The Old Squire, who had been looking to
the grain in the granary, came in and asked what the trouble was.

"Squire," said Dennett, "I want another man to shake down here for me.
That's a queer Dick you've put up there."

The Old Squire spoke to Addison to get up and shake out the grain and
bade Halse come down and assist me with the straw. Halse climbed down,
muttering to himself. "I want to get a drink of water," he said; and as
he went out past the beater, he made a saucy remark to Dennett;
whereupon the latter seized a whip-stock and aimed a blow at him. Halse
dodged it and ran. Dennett chased him out of the barn; and Halse took
refuge in the wood-shed.

The Old Squire was at first inclined to reprove Dennett for this
apparently unwarranted act; he considered that he had no right to
chastise Halse. "I will attend to that part of the business, myself," he
said, somewhat sharply.

"All right, Squire," said Dennett. "But I want you to understand you've
got a bad boy there. Throwing stones into a beater is rough business. He
might kill somebody."

Halse did not come back to help me, at once; and at length Gramp went to
the house, in search of him. Ellen subsequently told me, that Halse had
at first refused to come out, on the pretext that Dennett would injure
him. The Old Squire assured him that he should not be hurt. Still he
refused to go. Thereupon the old gentleman went in search of a
horsewhip, himself; and as a net result of the proceedings, Halse made
his appearance beside me, sniffing.

"I wish it had stove his old machine all to flinders and him with it,"
he said to me, revengefully.

"Did you throw the stone into the beater?" I asked. The machine made so
much noise that I did not distinctly hear what Halse replied, but I
thought that he denied doing it; and whether he actually did it, or
whether the stone slid down with the grain owing to his carelessness, I
never knew. Addison shook down till night; and the next day Asa Doane
came to help us; for the Old Squire deemed it too hard for boys of our
age to handle the grain and straw, unassisted.

In May, before I came to the farm, Addison and Halse had planted a large
melon bed, in the corn field, on a spot where a heap of barnyard
dressing had stood. There were both watermelons and musk-melons. These
had ripened slowly during August and, by the time of the September
town-meeting, were fit for eating.

The election for governor, with other State and county officers, was
held on the second Monday of September in Maine.

In order to raise a little pocket money, Addison and Halstead carried
their melons, also several bushels of good eating apples and pears, to
the town-house at the village, early on election day, and rigged a
little "booth" for selling from. They set off by sunrise, with old Nancy
harnessed in the express wagon.

As I had no part in the planting of the melons, I was not a partner in
the sales, although Gramp allowed me to go to the town-meeting with him,
later in the forenoon. The distance was seven miles from the farm.

The boys sold thirty melons at ten cents apiece and disposed of the most
of the apples at two for a cent and pears at a cent apiece; so that the
combined profits amounted to rather over seven dollars. Sales were so
good, that they had disposed of their entire stock by three o'clock in
the afternoon.

The polls were not closed, however, till sunset, that is to say voting
could legally continue till that time. Halse had called on Addison for a
division of the money, at about three o'clock, and received his share;
he then told Addison that he was going home. Addison preferred to
remain, to learn how the town had voted; for he was much interested in a
"temperance movement" which was agitating that portion of the State that
year.

The Old Squire had returned home, shortly after noon, and gone into the
field to see to the digging of the potatoes. When we came in to supper,
at six o'clock, Addison was just coming up th