________________________________________________
_ It was about noon of a very fair July day, in the next summer, when
Euphemia and myself arrived at the little town where we were to
take the stage up into the mountains. We were off for a two weeks'
vacation and our minds were a good deal easier than when we went
away before, and left Pomona at the helm. We had enlarged the
boundaries of Rudder Grange, having purchased the house, with
enough adjoining land to make quite a respectable farm. Of course
I could not attend to the manifold duties on such a place, and my
wife seldom had a happier thought than when she proposed that we
should invite Pomona and her husband to come and live with us.
Pomona was delighted, and Jonas was quite willing to run our farm.
So arrangements were made, and the young couple were established in
apartments in our back building, and went to work as if taking care
of us and our possessions was the ultimate object of their lives.
Jonas was such a steady fellow that we feared no trouble from tree-
man or lightning rodder during this absence.
Our destination was a country tavern on the stage-road, not far
from the point where the road crosses the ridge of the mountain-
range, and about sixteen miles from the town. We had heard of this
tavern from a friend of ours, who had spent a summer there. The
surrounding country was lovely, and the house was kept by a farmer,
who was a good soul, and tried to make his guests happy. These
were generally passing farmers and wagoners, or stage-passengers,
stopping for a meal, but occasionally a person from the cities,
like our friend, came to spend a few weeks in the mountains.
So hither we came, for an out-of-the-world spot like this was just
what we wanted. When I took our places at the stage-office, I
inquired for David Dutton, the farmer tavern-keeper before
mentioned, but the agent did not know of him.
"However," said he, "the driver knows everybody on the road, and
he'll set you down at the house."
So, off we started, having paid for our tickets on the basis that
we were to ride about sixteen miles. We had seats on top, and the
trip, although slow,--for the road wound uphill steadily,--was a
delightful one. Our way lay, for the greater part of the time,
through the woods, but now and then we came to a farm, and a turn
in the road often gave us lovely views of the foot-hills and the
valleys behind us.
But the driver did not know where Dutton's tavern was. This we
found out after we had started. Some persons might have thought it
wiser to settle this matter before starting, but I am not at all
sure that it would have been so. We were going to this tavern, and
did not wish to go anywhere else. If people did not know where it
was, it would be well for us to go and look for it. We knew the
road that it was on, and the locality in which it was to be found.
Still, it was somewhat strange that a stage-driver, passing along
the road every week-day,--one day one way, and the next the other
way,--should not know a public-house like Dutton's.
"If I remember rightly," I said, "the stage used to stop there for
the passengers to take supper."
"Well, then, it aint on this side o' the ridge," said the driver;
"we stop for supper, about a quarter of a mile on the other side,
at Pete Lowry's. Perhaps Dutton used to keep that place. Was it
called the 'Ridge House'?"
I did not remember the name of the house, but I knew very well that
it was not on the other side of the ridge.
"Then," said the driver, "I'm sure I don't know where it is. But
I've only been on the road about a year, and your man may 'a' moved
away afore I come. But there aint no tavern this side the ridge,
arter ye leave Delhi, and, that's nowhere's nigh the ridge."
There were a couple of farmers who were sitting by the driver, and
who had listened with considerable interest to this conversation.
Presently, one of them turned around to me and said:
"Is it Dave Dutton ye're askin' about?"
"Yes," I replied, "that's his name."
"Well, I think he's dead," said he.
At this, I began to feel uneasy, and I could see that my wife
shared my trouble.
Then the other farmer spoke up.
"I don't believe he's dead, Hiram," said he to his companion "I
heered of him this spring. He's got a sheep-farm on the other side
o' the mountain, and he's a livin' there. That's what I heered, at
any rate. But he don't live on this road any more," he continued,
turning to us. "He used to keep tavern on this road, and the
stages did used to stop fur supper--or else dinner, I don't jist
ree-collect which. But he don't keep tavern on this road no more."
"Of course not," said his companion, "if he's a livin' over the
mountain. But I b'lieve he's dead."
I asked the other farmer if he knew how long it had been since
Dutton had left this part of the country.
"I don't know fur certain," he said, "but I know he was keeping
tavern here two year' ago, this fall, fur I came along here,
myself, and stopped there to git supper--or dinner, I don't jist
ree-collect which."
It had been three years since our friend had boarded at Dutton's
house. There was no doubt that the man was not living at his old
place now. My wife and I now agreed that it was very foolish in us
to come so far without making more particular inquiries. But we
had had an idea that a man who had a place like Dutton's tavern
would live there always.
"What are ye goin' to do?" asked the driver, very much interested,
for it was not every day that he had passengers who had lost their
destination. "Ye might go on to Lowry's. He takes boarders
sometimes."
But Lowry's did not attract us. An ordinary country-tavern, where
stage-passengers took supper, was not what we came so far to find.
"Do you know where this house o' Dutton's is?" said the driver, to
the man who had once taken either dinner or supper there.
"Oh yes! I'd know the house well enough, if I saw it. It's the
fust house this side o' Lowry's."
"With a big pole in front of it?" asked the driver.
"Yes, there was a sign-pole in front of it."
"An a long porch?"
"Yes."
"Oh! well!" said the driver, settling himself in his seat. "I know
all about that house. That's a empty house. I didn't think you
meant that house. There's nobody lives there. An' yit, now I come
to remember, I have seen people about, too. I tell ye what ye
better do. Since ye're so set on staying on this side the ridge,
ye better let me put ye down at Dan Carson's place. That's jist
about quarter of a mile from where Dutton used to live. Dan's wife
can tell ye all about the Duttons, an' about everybody else, too,
in this part o' the country, and if there aint nobody livin' at the
old tavern, ye can stay all night at Carson's, and I'll stop an'
take you back, to-morrow, when I come along."
We agreed to this plan, for there was nothing better to be done,
and, late in the afternoon, we were set down with our small trunk--
for we were traveling under light weight--at Dan Carson's door.
The stage was rather behind time, and the driver whipped up and
left us to settle our own affairs. He called back, however, that
he would keep a good lookout for us to-morrow.
Mrs. Carson soon made her appearance, and, very naturally, was
somewhat surprised to see visitors with their baggage standing on
her little porch. She was a plain, coarsely dressed woman, with an
apron full of chips and kindling wood, and a fine mind for detail,
as we soon discovered.
"Jist so," said she, putting down the chips, and inviting us to
seats on a bench. "Dave Dutton's folks is all moved away. Dave
has a good farm on the other side o' the mountain, an' it never did
pay him to keep that tavern, 'specially as he didn't sell liquor.
When he went away, his son Al come there to live with his wife, an'
the old man left a good deal o' furniter and things fur him, but
Al's wife aint satisfied here, and, though they've been here, off
an' on, the house is shet up most o' the time. It's fur sale an'
to rent, both, ef anybody wants it. I'm sorry about you, too, fur
it was a nice tavern, when Dave kept it."
We admitted that we were also very sorry, and the kind-hearted
woman showed a great deal of sympathy.
"You might stay here, but we haint got no fit room where you two
could sleep."
At this, Euphemia and I looked very blank. "But you could go up to
the house and stay, jist as well as not," Mrs. Carson continued.
"There's plenty o' things there, an' I keep the key. For the
matter o' that, ye might take the house for as long as ye want to
stay; Dave 'd be glad enough to rent it; and, if the lady knows how
to keep house, it wouldn't be no trouble at all, jist for you two.
We could let ye have all the victuals ye'd want, cheap, and there's
plenty o' wood there, cut, and everything handy."
We looked at each other. We agreed. Here was a chance for a rare
good time. It might be better, perhaps, than anything we had
expected.
The bargain was struck. Mrs. Carson, who seemed vested with all
the necessary powers of attorney, appeared to be perfectly
satisfied with our trustworthiness, and when I paid on the spot the
small sum she thought proper for two weeks' rent, she evidently
considered she had done a very good thing for Dave Dutton and
herself.
"I'll jist put some bread, an' eggs, an' coffee, an' pork, an'
things in a basket, an' I'll have 'em took up fur ye, with yer
trunk, an' I'll go with ye an' take some milk. Here, Danny!" she
cried, and directly her husband, a long, thin, sun-burnt, sandy-
headed man, appeared, and to him she told, in a few words, our
story, and ordered him to hitch up the cart and be ready to take
our trunk and the basket up to Dutton's old house.
When all was ready, we walked up the hill, followed by Danny and
the cart. We found the house a large, low, old-fashioned farm-
house, standing near the road with a long piazza in front, and a
magnificent view of mountain-tops in the rear. Within, the lower
rooms were large and low, with quite a good deal of furniture in
them. There was no earthly reason why we should not be perfectly
jolly and comfortable here. The more we saw, the more delighted we
were at the odd experience we were about to have. Mrs. Carson
busied herself in getting things in order for our supper and
general accommodation. She made Danny carry our trunk to a bedroom
in the second story, and then set him to work building a fire in a
great fire-place, with a crane for the kettle.
When she had done all she could, it was nearly dark, and after
lighting a couple of candles, she left us, to go home and get
supper for her own family.
As she and Danny were about to depart in the cart, she ran back to
ask us if we would like to borrow a dog.
"There aint nuthin to be afeard of," she said; "for nobody hardly
ever takes the trouble to lock the doors in these parts, but bein'
city folks, I thought ye might feel better if ye had a dog."
We made haste to tell her that we were not city folks, but declined
the dog. Indeed, Euphemia remarked that she would be much more
afraid of a strange dog than of robbers.
After supper, which we enjoyed as much as any meal we ever ate in
our lives, we each took a candle, and after arranging our bedroom
for the night, we explored the old house. There were lots of
curious things everywhere,--things that were apparently so "old
timey," as my wife remarked, that David Dutton did not care to take
them with him to his new farm, and so left them for his son, who
probably cared for them even less than his father did. There was a
garret extending over the whole house, and filled with old
spinning-wheels, and strings of onions, and all sorts of antiquated
bric-a-brac, which was so fascinating to me that I could scarcely
tear myself away from it; but Euphemia, who was dreadfully afraid
that I would set the whole place on fire, at length prevailed on me
to come down.
We slept soundly that night, in what was probably the best bedroom
of the house, and awoke with a feeling that we were about to enter
on a period of some uncommon kind of jollity, which we found to be
true when we went down to get breakfast. I made the fire, Euphemia
made the coffee, and Mrs. Carson came with cream and some fresh
eggs. The good woman was in high spirits. She was evidently
pleased at the idea of having neighbors, temporary though they
were, and it had probably been a long time since she had had such a
chance of selling milk, eggs and sundries. It was almost the same
as opening a country store. We bought groceries and everything of
her.
We had a glorious time that day. We were just starting out for a
mountain stroll when our stage-driver came along on his down trip.
"Hello!" he called out. "Want to go back this morning?"
"Not a bit of it," I cried. "We wont go back for a couple of
weeks. We've settled here for the present."
The man smiled. He didn't seem to understand it exactly, but he
was evidently glad to see us so well satisfied. If he had had time
to stop and have the matter explained to him, he would probably
have been better satisfied; but as it was, he waved his whip to us
and drove on. He was a good fellow.
We strolled all day, having locked up the house and taken our lunch
with us; and when we came back, it seemed really like coming home.
Mrs. Carson with whom we had left the key, had brought the milk and
was making the fire. This woman was too kind. We determined to
try and repay her in some way. After a splendid supper we went to
bed happy.
The next day was a repetition of this one, but the day after it
rained. So we determined to enjoy the old tavern, and we rummaged
about everywhere. I visited the garret again, and we went to the
old barn, with its mows half full of hay, and had rare times
climbing about there. We were delighted that it happened to rain.
In a wood-shed, near the house, I saw a big square board with
letters on it. I examined the board, and found it was a sign,--a
hanging sign,--and on it was painted in letters that were yet quite
plain:
"FARMERS'
AND
MECHANICS'
HOTEL."
I called to Euphemia and told her that I had found the old tavern
sign. She came to look at it, and I pulled it out.
"Soldiers and sailors!" she exclaimed; "that's funny."
I looked over on her side of the sign, and, sure enough, there was
the inscription:
"SOLDIERS
AND
SAILORS'
HOUSE."
"They must have bought this comprehensive sign in some town," I
said. "Such a name would never have been chosen for a country
tavern like this. But I wish they hadn't taken it down. The house
would look more like what it ought to be with its sign hanging
before it."
"Well, then," said Euphemia, "let's put it up." I agreed instantly
to this proposition, and we went to look for a ladder. We found
one in the wagon-house, and carried it out to the sign-post in the
front of the house. It was raining, gently, during these
performances, but we had on our old clothes, and were so much
interested in our work that we did not care for a little rain. I
carried the sign to the post, and then, at the imminent risk of
breaking my neck, I hung it on its appropriate hooks on the
transverse beam of the sign-post. Now our tavern was really what
it pretended to be. We gazed on the sign with admiration and
content.
"Do you think we had better keep it up all the time?" I asked of my
wife.
"Certainly," said she. "It's a part of the house. The place isn't
complete without it."
"But suppose some one should come along and want to be
entertained?"
"But no one will. And if people do come, I'll take care of the
soldiers and sailors, if you will attend to the farmers and
mechanics."
I consented to this, and we went in-doors to prepare dinner. _
Read next: Chapter XVIII - Our Tavern
Read previous: Chapter XVI - In which an Old Friend appears, and the Bridal Trip takes a Fresh Start
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