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_ It was winter at Rudder Grange. The season was the same at other
places, but that fact did not particularly interest Euphemia and
myself. It was winter with us, and we were ready for it. That was
the great point, and it made us proud to think that we had not been
taken unawares, notwithstanding the many things that were to be
thought of on a little farm like ours.
It is true that we had always been prepared for winter, wherever we
had lived; but this was a different case. In other days it did not
matter much whether we were ready or not; but now our house, our
cow, our poultry, and indeed ourselves, might have suffered,--there
is no way of finding out exactly how much,--if we had not made all
possible preparations for the coming of cold weather.
But there was a great deal yet to be thought of and planned out,
although we were ready for winter. The next thing to think of was
spring.
We laid out the farm. We decided where we would have wheat, corn,
potatoes, and oats. We would have a man by the day to sow and
reap. The intermediate processes I thought I could attend to
myself.
Everything was talked over, ciphered over, and freely discussed by
my wife and myself, except one matter, which I planned and worked
out alone, doing most of the necessary calculations at the office,
so as not to excite Euphemia's curiosity.
I had determined to buy a horse. This would be one of the most
important events of our married life, and it demanded a great deal
of thought, which I gave it.
The horse was chosen for me by a friend. He was an excellent beast
(the horse), excelling, as my friend told me, in muscle and wit.
Nothing better than this could be said about a horse. He was a
sorrel animal, quite handsome, gentle enough for Euphemia to drive,
and not too high-minded to do a little farm-work, if necessary. He
was exactly the animal I needed.
The carriage was not quite such a success. The horse having cost a
good deal more than I expected to pay, I found that I could only
afford a second-hand carriage. I bought a good, serviceable
vehicle, which would hold four persons, if necessary, and there was
room enough to pack all sorts of parcels and baskets. It was with
great satisfaction that I contemplated this feature of the
carriage, which was a rather rusty-looking affair, although sound
and strong enough. The harness was new, and set off the horse
admirably.
On the afternoon when my purchases were completed, I did not come
home by the train. I drove home in my own carriage, drawn by my
own horse! The ten miles' drive was over a smooth road, and the
sorrel traveled splendidly. If I had been a line of kings a mile
long, all in their chariots of state, with gold and silver, and
outriders, and music, and banners waving in the wind, I could not
have been prouder than when I drew up in front of my house.
There was a wagon-gate at one side of the front fence which had
never been used except by the men who brought coal, and I got out
and opened this, very quietly, so as not to attract the attention
of Euphemia. It was earlier than I usually returned, and she would
not be expecting me. I was then about to lead the horse up a
somewhat grass-grown carriage-way to the front door, but I
reflected that Euphemia might be looking out of some of the windows
and I had better drive up. So I got in and drove very slowly to
the door.
However, she heard the unaccustomed noise of wheels, and looked out
of the parlor window. She did not see me, but immediately came
around to the door. I hurried out of the carriage so quickly that,
not being familiar with the steps, I barely escaped tripping.
When she opened the front door she was surprised to see me standing
by the horse.
"Have you hired a carriage?" she cried. "Are we going to ride?"
"My dear," said I, as I took her by the hand, "we are going to
ride. But I have not hired a carriage. I have bought one. Do you
see this horse? He is ours--our own horse."
If you could have seen the face that was turned up to me,--all you
other men in the world,--you would have torn your hair in despair.
Afterward she went around and around that horse; she patted his
smooth sides; she looked, with admiration, at his strong, well-
formed legs; she stroked his head; she smoothed his mane; she was
brimful of joy.
When I had brought the horse some water in a bucket--and what a
pleasure it was to water one's own horse!--Euphemia rushed into the
house and got her hat and cloak, and we took a little drive.
I doubt if any horse ever drew two happier people. Euphemia said
but little about the carriage. That was a necessary adjunct, and
it was good enough for the present. But the horse! How nobly and
with what vigor he pulled us up the hills and how carefully and
strongly he held the carriage back as we went down! How easily he
trotted over the level road, caring nothing for the ten miles he
had gone that afternoon! What a sensation of power it gave us to
think that all that strength and speed and endurance was ours, that
it would go where we wished, that it would wait for us as long as
we chose, that it was at our service day and night, that it was a
horse, and we owned it!
When we returned, Pomona saw us drive in,--she had not known of our
ride,--and when she heard the news she was as wild with proud
delight as anybody. She wanted to unharness him, but this I could
not allow. We did not wish to be selfish, but after she had seen
and heard what we thought was enough for her, we were obliged to
send her back to the kitchen for the sake of the dinner.
Then we unharnessed him. I say we, for Euphemia stood by and I
explained everything, for some day, she said, she might want to do
it herself. Then I led him into the stable. How nobly he trod,
and how finely his hoofs sounded on the stable floor!
There was hay in the mow and I had brought a bag of oats under the
seat of the carriage.
"Isn't it just delightful," said Euphemia, "that we haven't any
man? If we had a man he would take the horse at the door, and we
should be deprived of all this. It wouldn't be half like owning a
horse."
In the morning I drove down to the station, Euphemia by my side.
She drove back and Old John came up and attended to the horse.
This he was to do, for the present, for a small stipend. In the
afternoon Euphemia came down after me. How I enjoyed those rides!
Before this I had thought it ever so much more pleasant and
healthful to walk to and from the station than to ride, but then I
did not own a horse. At night I attended to everything, Euphemia
generally following me about the stable with a lantern. When the
days grew longer we would have delightful rides after dinner, and
even now we planned to have early breakfasts, and go to the station
by the longest possible way.
One day, in the following spring, I was riding home from the
station with Euphemia,--we seldom took pleasure-drives now, we were
so busy on the place,--and as we reached the house I heard the dog
barking savagely. He was loose in the little orchard by the side
of the house. As I drove in, Pomona came running to the carriage.
"Man up the tree!" she shouted.
I helped Euphemia out, left the horse standing by the door, and ran
to the dog, followed by my wife and Pomona. Sure enough, there was
a man up the tree, and Lord Edward was doing his best to get at
him, springing wildly at the tree and fairly shaking with rage.
I looked up at the man, he was a thoroughbred tramp, burly, dirty,
generally unkempt, but, unlike most tramps, he looked very much
frightened. His position, on a high crotch of an apple-tree, was
not altogether comfortable, and although, for the present, it was
safe, the fellow seemed to have a wavering faith in the strength of
apple-tree branches, and the moment he saw me, he earnestly
besought me to take that dog away, and let him down.
I made no answer, but turning to Pomona, I asked her what this all
meant.
"Why, sir, you see," said she, "I was in the kitchen bakin' pies,
and this fellow must have got over the fence at the side of the
house, for the dog didn't see him, and the first thing I know'd he
was stickin' his head in the window, and he asked me to give him
somethin' to eat. And when I said I'd see in a minute if there was
anything for him, he says to me, 'Gim me a piece of one of them
pies,'--pies I'd just baked and was settin' to cool on the kitchen
table! 'No, sir,' says I, 'I'm not goin' to cut one of them pies
for you, or any one like you.' 'All right!' says he. 'I'll come
in and help myself.' He must have known there was no man about,
and, comin' the way he did, he hadn't seen the dog. So he come
round to the kitchen door, but I shot out before he got there and
unchained Lord Edward. I guess he saw the dog, when he got to the
door, and at any rate he heard the chain clankin', and he didn't go
in, but just put for the gate. But Lord Edward was after him so
quick that he hadn't no time to go to no gates. It was all he
could do to scoot up this tree, and if he'd been a millionth part
of a minute later he'd 'a' been in another world by this time."
The man, who had not attempted to interrupt Pomona's speech, now
began again to implore me to let him down, while Euphemia looked
pitifully at him, and was about, I think, to intercede with me in
his favor, but my attention was drawn off from her, by the strange
conduct of the dog. Believing, I suppose, that he might leave the
tramp for a moment, now that I had arrived, he had dashed away to
another tree, where he was barking furiously, standing on his hind
legs and clawing at the trunk.
"What's the matter over there?" I asked.
"Oh, that's the other fellow," said Pomona. "He's no harm." And
then, as the tramp made a movement as if he would try to come down,
and make a rush for safety, during the absence of the dog, she
called out, "Here, boy! here, boy!" and in an instant Lord Edward
was again raging at his post, at the foot of the apple-tree.
I was grievously puzzled at all this, and walked over to the other
tree, followed, as before, by Euphemia and Pomona.
"This one," said the latter, "is a tree-man--"
"I should think so," said I, as I caught sight of a person in gray
trowsers standing among the branches of a cherry-tree not very far
from the kitchen door. The tree was not a large one, and the
branches were not strong enough to allow him to sit down on them,
although they supported him well enough, as he stood close to the
trunk just out of reach of Lord Edward.
"This is a very unpleasant position, sir," said he, when I reached
the tree. "I simply came into your yard, on a matter of business,
and finding that raging beast attacking a person in a tree, I had
barely time to get up into this tree myself, before he dashed at
me. Luckily I was out of his reach; but I very much fear I have
lost some of my property."
"No, he hasn't," said Pomona. "It was a big book he dropped. I
picked it up and took it into the house. It's full of pictures of
pears and peaches and flowers. I've been lookin' at it. That's
how I knew what he was. And there was no call for his gittin' up a
tree. Lord Edward never would have gone after him if he hadn't run
as if he had guilt on his soul."
"I suppose, then," said I, addressing the individual in the cherry-
tree, "that you came here to sell me some trees."
"Yes, sir," said he quickly, "trees, shrubs, vines, evergreens,--
everything suitable for a gentleman's country villa. I can sell
you something quite remarkable, sir, in the way of cherry-trees,--
French ones, just imported; bear fruit three times the size of
anything that could be produced on a tree like this. And pears--
fruit of the finest flavor and enormous size--"
"Yes," said Pomona. "I seen them in the book. But they must grow
on a ground-vine. No tree couldn't hold such pears as them."
Here Euphemia reproved Pomona's forwardness, and I invited the
tree-agent to get down out of the tree.
"Thank you," said he; "but not while that dog is loose. If you
will kindly chain him up, I will get my book, and show you
specimens of some of the finest small fruit in the world, all
imported from the first nurseries of Europe--the Red-gold Amber
Muscat grape,--the--"
"Oh, please let him down!" said Euphemia, her eyes beginning to
sparkle.
I slowly walked toward the tramp-tree, revolving various matters in
my mind. We had not spent much money on the place during the
winter, and we now had a small sum which we intended to use for the
advantage of the farm, but had not yet decided what to do with it.
It behooved me to be careful.
I told Pomona to run and get me the dog-chain, and I stood under
the tree, listening, as well as I could, to the tree-agent talking
to Euphemia, and paying no attention to the impassioned entreaties
of the tramp in the crotch above me. When the chain was brought, I
hooked one end of it in Lord Edward's collar, and then I took a
firm grasp of the other. Telling Pomona to bring the tree-agent's
book from the house, I called to that individual to get down from
his tree. He promptly obeyed, and taking the book from Pomona,
began to show the pictures to Euphemia.
"You had better hurry, sir," I called out. "I can't hold this dog
very long." And, indeed, Lord Edward had made a run toward the
agent, which jerked me very forcibly in his direction. But a
movement by the tramp had quickly brought the dog back to his more
desired victim.
"If you will just tie up that dog, sir," said the agent, "and come
this way, I would like to show you the Meltinagua pear,--dissolves
in the mouth like snow, sir; trees will bear next year."
"Oh, come look at the Royal Sparkling Ruby grape!" cried Euphemia.
"It glows in the sun like a gem."
"Yes," said the agent, "and fills the air with fragrance during the
whole month of September--"
"I tell you," I shouted, "I can't hold this dog another minute!
The chain is cutting the skin off my hands. Run, sir, run! I'm
going to let go!"
"Run! run!" cried Pomona. "Fly for your life!"
The agent now began to be frightened, and shut up his book.
"If you only could see the plates, sir, I'm sure--"
"Are you ready?" I cried, as the dog, excited by Pomona's wild
shouts, made a bolt in his direction.
"Good-day, if I must--" said the agent, as he hurried to the gate.
But there he stopped.
"There is nothing, sir," he said, "that would so improve your place
as a row of the Spitzenberg Sweet-scented Balsam fir along this
fence. I'll sell you three-year-old trees--"
"He's loose!" I shouted, as I dropped the chain.
In a second the agent was on the other side of the gate. Lord
Edward made a dash toward him; but, stopping suddenly, flew back to
the tree of the tramp.
"If you should conclude, sir," said the tree-agent, looking over
the fence, "to have a row of those firs along here--"
"My good sir," said I, "there is no row of firs there now, and the
fence is not very high. My dog, as you see, is very much excited
and I cannot answer for the consequences if he takes it into his
head to jump over."
The tree-agent turned and walked slowly away.
"Now, look-a-here," cried the tramp from the tree, in the voice of
a very ill-used person, "ain't you goin' to fasten up that dog, and
let me git down?"
I walked up close to the tree and addressed him.
"No," said I, "I am not. When a man comes to my place, bullies a
young girl who was about to relieve his hunger, and then boldly
determines to enter my house and help himself to my property, I
don't propose to fasten up any dog that may happen to be after him.
If I had another dog, I'd let him loose, and give this faithful
beast a rest. You can do as you please. You can come down and
have it out with the dog, or you can stay up there, until I have
had my dinner. Then I will drive down to the village and bring up
the constable, and deliver you into his hands. We want no such
fellows as you about."
With that, I unhooked the chain from Lord Edward, and walked off to
put up the horse. The man shouted after me, but I paid no
attention. I did not feel in a good humor with him.
Euphemia was much disturbed by the various occurrences of the
afternoon. She was sorry for the man in the tree; she was sorry
that the agent for the Royal Ruby grape had been obliged to go
away; and I had a good deal of trouble during dinner to make her
see things in the proper light. But I succeeded at last.
I did not hurry through dinner, and when we had finished I went to
my work at the barn. Tramps are not generally pressed for time,
and Pomona had been told to give our captive something to eat.
I was just locking the door of the carriage-house, when Pomona came
running to me to tell me that the tramp wanted to see me about
something very important--just a minute, he said. I put the key in
my pocket and walked over to the tree. It was now almost dark, but
I could see that the dog, the tramp, and the tree still kept their
respective places.
"Look-a-here," said the individual in the crotch, "you don't know
how dreadful oneasy these limbs gits after you've been settin up
here as long as I have. And I don't want to have nuthin to do with
no constables. I'll tell you what I'll do if you'll chain up that
dog, and let me go, I'll fix things so that you'll not be troubled
no more by no tramps."
"How will you do that?" I asked.
"Oh, never you mind," said he. "I'll give you my word of honor
I'll do it. There's a reg'lar understandin' among us fellers, you
know."
I considered the matter. The word of honor of a fellow such as he
was could not be worth much, but the merest chance of getting rid
of tramps should not be neglected. I went in to talk to Euphemia
about it, although I knew what she would say. I reasoned with
myself as much as with her.
"If we put this one fellow in prison for a few weeks," I said, "the
benefit is not very great. If we are freed from all tramps, for
the season, the benefit is very great. Shall we try for the
greatest good?"
"Certainly," said Euphemia; "and his legs must be dreadfully
stiff."
So I went out, and after a struggle of some minutes, I chained Lord
Edward to a post at a little distance from the apple-tree. When he
was secure, the tramp descended nimbly from his perch,
notwithstanding his stiff legs, and hurried out of the gate. He
stopped to make no remarks over the fence. With a wild howl of
disappointed ambition, Lord Edward threw himself after him. But
the chain held.
A lane of moderate length led from our house to the main road, and
the next day, as we were riding home, I noticed, on the trunk of a
large tree, which stood at the corner of the lane and road, a
curious mark. I drew up to see what it was, but we could not make
it out. It was a very rude device, cut deeply into the tree, and
somewhat resembled a square, a circle, a triangle, and a cross,
with some smaller marks beneath it. I felt sure that our tramp had
cut it, and that it had some significance, which would be
understood by the members of his fraternity.
And it must have had, for no tramps came near us all that summer.
We were visited by a needy person now and then, but by no member of
the regular army of tramps.
One afternoon, that fall, I walked home, and at the corner of the
lane I saw a tramp looking up at the mark on the tree, which was
still quite distinct.
"What does that mean?" I said, stepping up to him.
"How do I know?" said the man, "and what do you want to know fur?"
"Just out of curiosity," I said; "I have often noticed it. I think
you can tell me what it means, and if you will do so, I'll give you
a dollar."
"And keep mum about it?" said the man.
"Yes," I replied, taking out the dollar.
"All right!" said the tramp. "That sign means that the man that
lives up this lane is a mean, stingy cuss, with a wicked dog, and
it's no good to go there."
I handed him the dollar and went away, perfectly satisfied with my
reputation.
I wish here to make some mention of Euphemia's methods of work in
her chicken-yard. She kept a book, which she at first called her
"Fowl Record," but she afterward changed the name to "Poultry
Register." I never could thoroughly understand this book, although
she has often explained every part of it to me. She had pages for
registering the age, description, time of purchase or of birth, and
subsequent performances of every fowl in her yard. She had
divisions of the book for expenses, profits, probable losses and
positive losses; she noted the number of eggs put under each
setting hen; the number of eggs cracked per day, the number
spoiled, and finally, the number hatched. Each chick, on emerging
from its shell, was registered, and an account kept of its
subsequent life and adventures. There were frequent calculations
regarding the advantages of various methods of treatment, and there
were statements of the results of a great many experiments--
something like this: "Set Toppy and her sister Pinky, April 2nd
187-; Toppy with twelve eggs,--three Brahma, four common, and five
Leghorn; Pinky with thirteen eggs (as she weighs four ounces more
than her sister), of which three were Leghorn, five common, and
five Brahma. During the twenty-second and twenty-third of April
(same year) Toppy hatched out four Brahmas, two commons, and three
Leghorns, while her sister, on these days and the morning of the
day following, hatched two Leghorns, six commons, and only one
Brahma. Now, could Toppy, who had only three Brahma eggs, and
hatched out four of that breed, have exchanged eggs with her
sister, thus making it possible for her to hatch out six common
chickens, when she only had five eggs of that kind? Or, did the
eggs get mixed up in some way before going into the possession of
the hens? Look into probabilities."
These probabilities must have puzzled Euphemia a great deal, but
they never disturbed her equanimity. She was always as tranquil
and good-humored about her poultry-yard as if every hen laid an egg
every day, and a hen-chick was hatched out of every egg.
For it may be remembered that the principle underlying Euphemia's
management of her poultry was what might be designated as the
"cumulative hatch." That is, she wished every chicken hatched in
her yard to become the mother of a brood of her own during the
year, and every one of this brood to raise another brood the next
year, and so on, in a kind of geometrical progression. This plan
called for a great many mother-fowls, and so Euphemia based her
highest hopes on a great annual preponderance of hens.
We ate a good many young roosters that fall, for Euphemia would not
allow all the products of her yard to go to market, and, also, a
great many eggs and fowls were sold. She had not contented herself
with her original stock of poultry, but had bought fowls during the
winter, and she certainly had extraordinary good luck, or else her
extraordinary system worked extraordinarily well. _
Read next: Chapter XIII - Pomona's Novel
Read previous: Chapter XI - The Boarder's Visit
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