 CHAPTER VIII. Pomona once more, Part I. Sure enough, it was Pomona. There stood our old servant girl, of the canal boat, with a crooked straw bonnet on her head, a faded yellow parasol in her hand, a parcel done up in newspaper under her arm, and an expression of astonishment on her face. Well, truly, she ejaculated. Into the house, quick, I said, we have a savage dog. And here he is, cried Euphemia. Oh, she will be torn to atoms! Straight at Pomona came the great black beast, barking furiously. But the girl did not move. She did not even turn her head to look at the dog, who stopped before he reached her and began to rush wildly about her, barking terribly. We held our breath. I tried to say, get out or lie down, but my tongue could not form the words. Can't you get up here? gasped Euphemia. I don't want to, said the girl. The dog stopped barking and stood looking at Pomona, occasionally glancing up at us. Pomona took not the slightest notice of him. Do you know, ma'am, she said to Euphemia, that if I had come here yesterday that dog would have had my life's blood? And why don't he have it today, said Euphemia, who with myself was utterly amazed at the behavior of the dog? Because I know more today than I did yesterday, answered Pomona. It is only this afternoon that I read something as I was coming here on the cars. This is it, she continued, unwrapping her paper parcel, and taking from it one of the two books it contained. I finished this part just as the car stopped, and I put my scissors in the place. I'll read it to you. Being there with one book still under her arm, the newspaper half unwrapped from it hanging down and flapping in the breeze, she opened the other volume at the scissors place, turned back a page or two, and began to read as follows. Lord Edward slowly sauntered up the broad ancestral walk, when suddenly from a copse there sprang a furious hound. The marsh man concealed in a tree expected to see the life's blood of the young noble man staying the path. But no, Lord Edward did not stop nor turn his head. With a smile he strode steadily on. Well, he knew that if by betraying no emotion he could show the dog that he was walking where he had a right, the brute would recognize that right and let him pass unscathed. Thus in the moment of peril his noble courage saved him. The hound abashed, returned to his covert, and Lord Edward passed on. Foiled again, muttered the marsh man. Now, then, said Pomona, closing the book, you see I remembered that the minute I saw the dog coming and I didn't betray any emotion. Yesterday now, when I didn't know it, I had been sure to betray emotion and he would have had my life's blood. Did he drive you up there? Yes, said Euphemia, and she hastily explained the situation. Then I guess I'd better chain him up, remarked Pomona, and advancing to the dog she took him boldly by the collar and pulled him toward the shed. The animal hung back at first but soon followed her and she chained him up securely. Now you can come down, said Pomona. I assisted Euphemia to the ground and Pomona persuaded the hired girl to descend. Will he grab me by the leg, asked the girl. No, get down, gump, said Pomona, and down she scrambled. We took Pomona into the house with us and asked her news of herself. Well, said she, there ain't much to tell. I stayed a while at the institution, but I didn't get much good there, only I learned to read to myself because if I read out loud they came and took the book away. Then I left there and went to live out, but the woman was awfully mean. She throwed away one of my books and I was only half through it. It was a real good book, named the Bridal Corpse or Montriger's Curse, and I had to pay for it at the Circulatin Library. So I left her quick enough and then I went on the stage. On the stage, cried Euphemia, what did you do on the stage? Scrub, replied Pomona. You see, then I thought if I could get anything to do at the theatre I could work my way up, so I was glad to get scrubbing. I asked the prompter one morning if he thought there was a chance for me to work up, and he said yes, I might scrub the galleries, and then I told him I didn't want none of his lip, and I pretty soon left that place. I heard you was a keepin' house out here, and so I thought I'd come along and see you, and if you hadn't no girl I'd like to live with you again, and I guess you might as well take me, for that other girl said, when she got down from the shed, that she was goin' away to-morrow, she wouldn't stay in no house where they kept such a dog, though I told her I guessed he was only cuttin' round because he was so glad to get loose. Cutting around, exclaimed Euphemia, it was nothing of the kind. If you had seen him you would have known better. But did you come now to stay? Where are your things? On me, replied Pomona. When Euphemia found that the Irish girl really intended to leave, we consulted together and concluded to engage Pomona, and I went so far as to agree to carry her books to and from the circulating library to which she subscribed, hoping thereby to be able to exercise some influence on her taste. And thus part of the old family of Rutter Grange had come together again. True, the border was away, but as Pomona remarked when she heard about him, you couldn't always expect to ever regain the ties that had always bound everybody. Our delight and interest in our little farm increased day by day. In a week or two after Pomona's arrival I bought a cow. Euphemia was very anxious to have an Alderney. They were such gentle, beautiful creatures, but I could not afford such a luxury. I might possibly compass an Alderney calf, but we would have to wait a couple of years for our milk. And Euphemia said it would be better to have a common cow than to do that. It was our inward satisfaction when the cow, our own cow, walked slowly and solemnly into our yard, and began to crop the clover on our little lawn. Pomona and I gently drove her to the barn, while Euphemia endeavored to quiet the violent demonstrations of the dog, fortunately chained by assuring him that this was our cow and that she had to live here, and that he was to take care of her and never bark at her. All this and much more delivered in the earnest and confidential tone in which ladies talked to infants and to dumb animals made the dog think that he was to be let loose to kill the cow, and he bounded and leaped with the light, tugging at his chain so violently that Euphemia became a little frightened and left him. This dog had been named Lord Edward at the earnest solicitation of Pomona, and he was becoming somewhat reconciled to his life with us. He allowed me to unchain him at night, and I could generally chain him up in the morning without trouble if I had a good big plate of food with which to tempt him into the shed. CHAPTER VIII. Pomona once more, PART II Before supper we all went down to the barn to see the milking. Pomona who knew all about such things, having been on a farm in her first youth, was to be the milkmaid. But when she began operations she did no more than begin. Milk as industriously as she might she got no milk. This is a queer cow, said Pomona. Are you sure you know how to milk, asked Euphemia anxiously? Can I milk? Why, of course, ma'am, I've seen him milk hundreds of times. But you never milked yourself, I remarked. No, sir, but I know just how it's done. That might be, but she couldn't do it, and at last we had to give up the matter in despair and leave the poor cow until morning. When Pomona was to go for a man who occasionally worked on the place and engage him to come and milk for us. That night as we were going to bed I looked out of the window at the barn which contained the cow, and was astonished to see that there was a light inside of the building. What, I exclaimed, can't we be left in peaceful possession of a cow for a single night? And taking my revolver I hurried downstairs and out of doors, forgetting my hat in my haste. Euphemia screamed after me to be careful and keep the pistol pointed away from me. I whistled for the dog as I went out, but to my surprise he did not answer. Has he been killed? I thought, and for a moment I wished that I was a large family of brothers, all armed. But on my way to the barn I met a person approaching with a lantern and a dog. It was Pomona, and she had a milk pail on her arm. See here, sir, she said, it's more than half full. I just made up my mind that I'd learned to milk if it took me all night. I didn't go to bed at all, and I've been at the barn for an hour. And there ain't no need of my going after no man in the morning, she said, hanging up the barn key on its nail. I simply mentioned this circumstance to show what kind of a girl Pomona had grown to be. We were all the time at work in some way, improving our little place. Some day we will buy it, said Euphemia. We intended to have some wheat put in in the fall, and next year we would make the place fairly crack with luxuriance. We would divide the duties of the farm, and among other things Euphemia would take charge of the chickens. She wished to do this entirely herself, so that there might be one thing that should be all her own, just as my work in town was all my own. As she wished to buy the chickens and defray all the necessary expenses out of her own private funds, I could make no objection. And, indeed, I had no desire to do so. She bought a chicken-book and made herself mistress of the subject. For a week there was a strong chicken-flavor in all our conversation. This was while the poultry-yard was building. There was a chicken-house on the place but no yard, and Euphemia intended to have a good big one because she was going into the business to make money. Perhaps my chickens might buy the place, she said, and I very much hoped they would. Everything was to be done very systematically. She would have leg horns, brahmas, and common fowls. The first because they laid so many eggs, the second because they were such fine big fowls, and the third because they were such good mothers. We will eat and sell the eggs of the first and third classes, she said, and set the eggs of the second class under the hens of the third class. There seems to be some injustice in that arrangement, I said, for the first class will always be childless, the second class will have nothing to do with their offspring, while the third will be obliged to bring up and care for the children of others. But I really had no voice in this matter. As soon as the carpenter had finished the yard and had made some coops and other necessary arrangements, Euphemia hired a carriage and went about the country to buy chickens. It was not easy to find just what she wanted, and she was gone all day. However, she brought home an enormous Brahma cock in ten hens, which number was pretty well equally divided into her three classes. She was very proud of her purchases, and indeed they were fine fowls. In the evening I made some allusion to the cost of all this carpentry work, carriage hire, etc., besides the price of the chickens. Oh, said she, you don't look at the matter in the right light. You haven't studied it up as I have. Now, just let me show you how this thing will pay if carried on properly. Producing a piece of paper covered with figures, she continued, I begin with ten hens. I got four common ones, because it would make it easier to calculate. After a while I set these ten hens on thirteen eggs each. Three of these eggs will probably spoil. That leaves ten chickens hatched out. Of these I will say that half die. That will make five chickens for each hen, you see. I leave a large margin for loss. This makes fifty chickens, and when we add the ten hens we have sixty fowls at the end of the first year. Next year I set these sixty and they bring up five chickens each. I am sure there will be a larger proportion than this, but I want to be safe, and that is three hundred chickens. Add the hens, and we will have three hundred and sixty at the end of the second year. In the third year, calculating in the same way, we shall have twenty one hundred and sixty chickens. In the fourth year there will be twelve thousand nine hundred and sixty, and at the end of the fifth year, which is as far as I need to calculate now, we shall have sixty-four thousand and eight hundred chickens. What do you think of that? A seventy-five cents apiece, a very low price, that would be forty-eight thousand and six hundred dollars. Now what is the petty cost of offense and a few coops by the side of a sum like that? Nothing at all, I answered. It is lost like a drop in the ocean. I hate my dear to interfere in any way with such a splendid calculation as that, but I would like to ask you one question. Oh, of course, she said, I suppose you are going to say something about the cost of feeding all this poultry. That is to come out of the chickens supposed to die. They won't die. It is ridiculous to suppose that each hen will bring up but five chickens. The chickens that will live, out of those I consider as dead, will more than pay for the feed. That is not what I was going to ask you, so of course it ought to be considered. But you know you are only going to set common hens, and you do not intend to raise any. Now are those four hens to do all the setting and motherwork for five years and eventually bring up over sixty-four thousand chickens? Well, I did make a mistake there, she said, coloring a little. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll set every one of my hens every year. But all those chickens may not be hens. You have calculated that every one of them would set as soon as it was old enough. She stopped a minute to think this over. Two heads are better than one, I see, she said directly. I'll allow that one half of all the chickens are roosters, and that will make the profits twenty-four thousand three hundred dollars more than enough to buy this place. Ever so much more, I cried, this rudder grange is ours. CHAPTER IX. WE CAMP OUT. My wife and I were both so fond of country life and country pursuits that month after month passed by at our little farm in a succession of delightful days. Time flew like a limited express train, and it was September before we knew it. I had been working very hard at the office that summer and was glad to think of my two weeks' vacation, which were to begin on the first Monday of the month. I had intended spending these two weeks in rural retirement at home, but an interview in the city with my family physician caused me to change my mind. I told him my plan. Now, said he, if I were you, I'd do nothing of the kind. You've been working too hard, your face shows it. You need rest and change. Nothing will do you so much good as to camp out. That will be fifty times better than going to any summer resort. You can take your wife with you. I know she'll like it. I don't care where you go, so that it's a healthy spot. Get a good tent and an outfit, be off to the woods, and forget all about business and domestic matters for a few weeks. This sounded splendid and I propounded the plan to Euphemia that evening. She thought very well of it and was sure we could do it. Pomona would not be afraid to remain in the house under the protection of Lord Edward, and she could easily attend to the cow and the chickens. It would be a holiday for her, too. Old John, the man who occasionally worked for us, would come up sometimes and see after things. With her customary dexterity Euphemia swept away every obstacle to the plan and all was settled before we went to bed. As my wife had presumed Pomona made no objections to remaining in charge of the house. The scheme pleased her greatly. So far so good. I called that day on a friend who was in the habit of camping out to talk to him about getting a tent and the necessary traps for a life in the woods. He proved perfectly competent to furnish advice and everything else. He offered to lend me all I needed. He had a complete outfit, had done with them for the year, and I was perfectly welcome. Here was rare luck. He gave me a tent, camp stove, dishes, pots, gun, fishing tackle, a big canvas coat with dozens of pockets riveted on it, a canvas hat, rods, reels, boots that came up to my hips, and about a wagon load of things and all. He was a real good fellow. We laid in a stock of canned and condensed provisions, and I bought a book on camping out so as to be well posted on the subject. On the Saturday before the first Monday in September we would have been entirely ready to start had we decided on the place where we were to go. We had found it very difficult to make this decision. There were thousands of places where people went to camp out. But none of them seemed to be the place for us. Most of them were too far away. We figured up the cost of taking ourselves and our camp equipage to the Adirondacks, the lakes, the trout streams of Maine, or any of those well known resorts, and we found that we could not afford such trips, especially for a vacation of but fourteen days. On Sunday afternoon we took a little walk. Our minds were still troubled about the spot toward which we ought to journey next day, and we needed the soothing influence of nature. The country to the north and west of our little farm was very beautiful. About half a mile from the house a modest river ran. On each side of it were grass-covered fields and hills, and in some places there were extensive tracts of woodlands. Look here, exclaimed Euphemia, stopping short in the little path that wound along by the riverbank. Do you see this river, those woods, those beautiful fields, with not a soul in them or anywhere near them, and those lovely blue mountains over there? As she spoke she waved her parasol in the direction of the objects indicated, and I could not mistake them. Now, what could we want better than this? she continued. Here we can fish and do everything that we want to do. I say, let us camp here on our own river. I can take you to the very spot for the tent. Come on! And she was so excited about it that she fairly ran. The spot she pointed out was the one we had frequently visited on our rural walks. It was a grassy peninsula, as I termed it, formed by a sudden turn of the creek which, a short distance below, flowed into the river. It was a very secluded spot. The place was approached through a pasture field, we had found it by mere accident, and where the peninsula joined the field we had to climb a fence just there. There was a cluster of chestnut and hickory trees, while down near the point stood a widespreading oak. Here, under this oak, is the place for the tent, said Euphemia, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling, and her dress a little torn by getting over the fence in a hurry. What do we want with your Adirondacks and your dismal swamps? This is the place for us. Euphemia, said I, in as composed a tone as possible, although my whole frame was trembling with emotion. Euphemia, I am glad I married you. Had it not been Sunday we would have set up our tent that night. Early the next morning, old John's fifteen-dollar horse drew from our house a wagonload of camp fixtures. There was some difficulty in getting the wagon over the field, and there were fences to be taken down to allow of its passage, but we overcame all obstacles, and reached the camp ground without breaking so much as a teacup. Old John helped me to pitch the tent, and as neither of us understood the matter very well it took us some time. It was indeed nearly noon when old John left us, and it may have been possible that he delayed matters a little so as to be able to charge for a full half-day for himself and horse. Euphemia got into the wagon to ride back with him, that she might give some parting injunctions to Pomona. I'll have to stop a bit to put up the fences, ma'am, said old John, or Mr. Ball might make a fuss. Is this Mr. Ball's land? I asked. Oh, yes, sir, it's Mr. Ball's land. I wonder how he'll like our camping on it, I said, thoughtfully. I had a thought, sir, you'd asked him before you came, said old John, in a tone that seemed to indicate that he had his doubts about Mr. Ball. Oh, there'll be no trouble about that, cried Euphemia. You can drive me past Mr. Ball's. It's not much out of the way, and I'll ask him. In that wagon, said I, will you stop at Mr. Ball's door in that? Certainly, said she, as she arranged herself on the board which served as a seat. Now that our campaign has really commenced, we ought to begin to rough it, and should not be too proud to ride even in a—in a—she evidently couldn't think of any vehicle mean enough for her purpose. In a green grocery cart, I suggested. Yes, or in a red one. Go ahead, John. When Euphemia returned on foot, I had a fire in the campstove and the kettle was on. Well, said Euphemia, Mr. Ball says it's all right, if we keep the fence up. He don't want his cows to get into the creek, and I'm sure we don't want him walking over us. He couldn't understand, though, why we wanted to live out here. I explained the whole thing to him very carefully, but it didn't seem to make much impression on him. I believe he thinks Pomona has something to matter with her, and that we have come to stay out here in the fresh air so as not to take it. What an extremely stupid man, Mr. Ball must be, I said. The fire did not burn very well, and while I was at work at it, Euphemia spread a cloth upon the grass, and set forth bread and butter, cheese, sardines, potted ham, preserves, biscuits, and a lot of other things. We did not wait for the kettle to boil, but concluded to do without tea or coffee, for this meal, and content ourselves with pure water. For some reason or other, however, the creek water did not seem to be very pure, and we did not like it a bit. After lunch, said I, we will go and look for a spring, that will be a good way of exploring the country. If we can't find one, said Euphemia, we shall have to go to the house for water, for I can never drink that stuff. Soon after lunch we started out. We searched high and low, near and far, for a spring, but could not find one. At length, by merest accident, we found ourselves in the vicinity of old John's little house. I knew he had a good well, and so we went in to get a drink, for our ham and biscuits had made us very thirsty. We told old John, who was digging potatoes, and who was also very much surprised to see us so soon, about our unexpected trouble in finding a spring. No, said he very slowly, there is no spring very near to you. Won't you tell your gal to bring you water? No, I replied. We don't want her coming down to the camp. She is to attend to the house. Oh, very well, said John, I will bring you water, morning and night, good fresh water, from my well, for—well, for ten cents a day. That will be nice, said Euphemia, and cheap, too. And then it will be well to have John come every day, he can carry our letters. I don't expect to write any letters. Neither do I, said Euphemia, but it will be pleasant to have some communication with the outer world. So we engaged old John to bring us water twice a day. I was a little disappointed at this, for I thought that camping on the edge of a stream settled the matter of water, but we have many things to learn in this world. Early in the afternoon I went out to catch some fish for supper. We agreed to dispense with dinner and have breakfast, lunch, and a good solid supper. For some time I had poor luck. There were either very few fish in the creek or they were not hungry. I had been fishing an hour or more when I saw Euphemia running toward me. What's the matter, said I? Oh, nothing. I've just come to see how you were getting along. Haven't you been gone an awfully long time? And are those all the fish you've caught? What little bits of things they are. I thought people who camped out caught big fish and lots of them. That depends a good deal upon where they go, said I. Yes, I suppose so, replied Euphemia, but I should think a stream as big as this would have plenty of fish in it. However, if you can't catch any, you might go up the road and watch for Mr. Mulligan. He sometimes comes along on Mondays. I am not going to the road to watch for any fishman, I replied, a little more testily than I should have spoken. What sort of a camping out would that be? But we must not be talking here or I shall never get a bite. Those fish are a little soiled from jumping about in the dust. You might watch them off at that shallow place while I go a little further on and try my luck. CHAPTER IX. WE CAMP OUT, PART II I went a short distance up the creek and threw my line into a dark, shadowy pool under some alders where there certainly should be fish. And sure enough, in less than a minute I got a splendid bite. Not only a bite, but a pull. I knew that I had certainly hooked a big fish. The thing actually tugged at my line so that I was afraid the pole would break. I did not fear for the line, for that I knew was strong. I would have played the fish until he was tired and I could pull him out without risk to the pole, but I did not know exactly how the process of playing was conducted. I was very much excited. Sometimes I gave a jerk and a pull, and then the fish would give a jerk and a pull. Directly I heard someone running toward me, and then I heard Euphemia cry out, Give him the butt, give him the butt. Give him what? I exclaimed, without having time even to look up at her. The butt, the butt, she cried almost breathlessly. I know that's right. I read how Edward Everett Hale did it in the Adirondacks. No, it wasn't Hale at all, said I, as I jumped about the bank. It was Mr. Murray. Well, it was one of those fishing ministers, and I know that he caught the fish. I know, I know, I read it, but I don't know how to do it. Perhaps you ought to punch him with it, said she. No, no, I hurriedly replied. I can't do anything like that. I'm just going to try and pull him out lengthwise. You take hold of the pole and go in shore as far as you can go, and I'll try and get hold of the line. Euphemia did as I bad her, and drew the line in so that I could reach it. As soon as I had a firm hold of it, I pulled in, regardless of consequences, and hauled ashore an enormous catfish. Hurrah! I shouted. Here is a prize. Euphemia dropped the pole and ran to me. What a horrid beast, she exclaimed. Throw it in again. Not at all, said I. This is a splendid fish. If I can ever get him off the hook, don't come near him. If he sticks that back fin into you, it will poison you. Then I should think it would be poisoned to us to eat him, said she. No, it's only his fin. I have eaten catfish, but I never saw one like that, said she. Look at its horrible mouth, and it has whiskers like a cat. Oh, you never saw one with its head on, I said. What I want to do is get this hook out. I had caught catfish before, but never one so large as this, and I was actually afraid to take hold of it, knowing, as I did, that you must be very careful how you clutch a fish of the kind. I finally concluded to carry it home as it was, and then I could decapitate it and take the hook out at my leisure. So back to camp we went, Euphemia picking up the little fish as we passed, for she did not think it right to catch fish and not eat them. They made her hand smell, it is true, but she did not mind that when we were camping. I prepared the big fish, and I had a desperate time getting the skin off, while my wife, who is one of the daintiest cooks in the world, made a fire in the stove and got ready the rest of the supper. She fried the fish because I told her that was the way catfish ought to be cooked, although she said that it seemed very strange to her to camp out for the sake of one's health and then to eat fried food. But that fish was splendid. The very smell of it made us hungry. Everything was good, and when supper was over and the dishes washed, I lighted my pipe and we sat down under a tree to enjoy the evening. The sun had set behind the distant ridge. A delightful twilight was gently subduing every color of the scene. The night insects were beginning to hum and chirp, and a fire that I had made under a tree blazed up gaily, and threw little flakes of light into the shadows under the shrubbery. Now, isn't this better than being cooped up in a narrow, constricted house, said I? Ever so much better, said Euphemia. Now we know what nature is. We are sitting right down in her lap, and she is cuddling us up. Isn't that sky lovely? Oh, I think this is perfectly splendid, said she, making a little dab at her face. If it wasn't for the mosquitoes. They are bad, I said. I thought my pipe would keep them off, but it don't. There must be plenty of them down at that creek. Down there, exclaimed Euphemia, why there are thousands of them up here. I never saw anything like it. They're getting worse every minute. I'll tell you what we must do, I explained, jumping up. We must make a smudge. What's that? Do you rub it on yourself? Asked Euphemia anxiously. No, it's only a great smoke. Come, let us gather up dry leaves and make a smoldering fire of them. We managed to get up a very fair smudge, and we stood to the leeward of it until Euphemia began to cough and sneeze, as if her head would come off. With tears running from her eyes, she declared that she would rather go and be in the lie than stay in that smoke. Perhaps we are too near it, said I. That may be, she answered, but I have had enough smoke. Why didn't I think of it before? I brought two veils. We can put those over our faces and wear gloves. She was always full of expedience. Veiled and gloved, we bad defiance to the mosquitoes, and we sat and talked for half an hour or more. I made a little hole in my veil, through which I put the mouthpiece of my pipe. When it became really dark, I lighted the lantern, and we prepared for a well-earned night's rest. The tent was spacious and comfortable, and we each had a nice little cot bed. Are you going to leave the front door open all night, said Euphemia, as I came in after the final round to see that all was right? I should hardly call this canvas flap a front door, I said, but I think it would be better to leave it open, otherwise we should smother. You need not be afraid. I shall keep my gun here by my bedside. And if anyone offers to come in, I'll bring him to a full stop quick enough. But I suppose we ought not to be afraid of burglars here. People and tents never are, so you needn't shut it. It was awfully quiet and dark and lonely, out there by that creek, when the light had been put out, and we had gone to bed. For some reason I could not go to sleep. After I had been lying awake for an hour or two, Euphemia spoke. Are you awake? said she, in a low voice, as if she were afraid of disturbing the people in the next room. Yes, said I. How long have you been awake? I haven't been asleep. Neither have I. Suppose we like the lantern, said she. Don't you think it would be pleasanter? It might be, I replied, but it would draw myriads of mosquitoes. I wish I had brought a mosquito net and a clock. It seems so lonesome without the ticking. Good night, we ought to have a long sleep if we do much tramping about tomorrow. In about half an hour more, just as I was beginning to be a little sleepy, she said, Where is that gun? Here, by me, I answered. Well, if a man should try to come in, try and be sure to put it up close to him before you fire. In a little tent like this the shot might scatter everywhere, if you're not careful. All right, I said. Good night. There's one thing we never thought of, she presently explained. What's that, said I. Snakes, said she. Well, don't let's think of them. We must try and get a little sleep. Dear knows, I've been trying hard enough, she said plaintively, and all was quiet again. We succeeded this time in going to sleep, and it was broad daylight before we awoke. That morning old John came with our water before breakfast was ready. He also brought us some milk as he thought we would want it. We considered this a good idea and agreed with him to bring us a quart a day. Don't you want some vegetables? said he. I've got some nice corn and some tomatoes, and I could bring you cabbage and peas. We had hardly expected to have fresh vegetables every day, but there seemed to be no reason why old John should not bring them as he had to come every day with the water and milk. So we arranged that he should furnish us daily with a few of the products of his garden. I could go to the butchers and get you a steak or some chops if you'd let me know in the morning, said he, intent on the profits of further commissions. But this was going too far. We remembered we were camping out and declined to have meat from the butcher. John had not been gone more than ten minutes before we saw Mr. Ball approaching. Oh, I hope he isn't going to say we can't stay, exclaimed Euphemia. How do you do? said Mr. Ball, shaking hands with us. Did you stick it out all night? Oh, yes, indeed, I replied, and I expect to stick it out for many more nights if you don't object to our occupying your land. No objection in the world, said he, but it seems a little queer for people who have a good house to be living out here in the fields in a tent now, don't it? Oh, but you see, said I, and I went on and explained the whole thing to him. The advice of the doctor, the discussion about the proper place to go, and the good reasons for fixing on this spot. Yes, said he, that's all very well, no doubt. But how's the girl? What girl? I asked. Your girl, the higher girl you left at the house. Oh, she's all right, said I, she's always well. Well, said Mr. Ball, slowly turning on his heel. If you say so, I suppose she is. But you're going up to the house today to see about her, aren't you? Oh, no, said Euphemia. We don't intend to go near the house until our camping is over. Just so, just so, said Mr. Ball. I expected as much. But look here, don't you think it would be well for me to ask Dr. Ames to stop in and see how she is getting along? I dare say you fixed everything for her, but that would be safer, you know. He's coming this morning to vaccinate my baby, and he might stop there just as well as not after he has left my house. Euphemia and I could see no necessity for this proposed visit of the doctor, but we could not well object to it. And so Mr. Ball said he would be sure and send him. After our visitor had gone, the significance of his remarks flashed on me. He still thought that Pomona was sick with something catching, and that we were afraid to stay in the house with her. But I said nothing about this to Euphemia. It would only worry her, and our vacation was to be a season of unalloyed delight. End of Section 18 Section 19 of Rudder Grange. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rudder Grange by Frank R Stockton Chapter 10 Wet Blankets Part 1 We certainly enjoyed our second day in camp. All the morning and a great part of the afternoon we explored. We fastened up the tent as well as we could, and then I with my gun and Euphemia with the fishing pole, we started up the creek. We did not go very far for it would not do to leave the tent too long. I did not shoot anything, but Euphemia caught two or three nice little fish, and we enjoyed the sport exceedingly. Soon after we returned in the afternoon, and while we were getting things in order for supper, we had a call from two of our neighbors, Captain Atkinson and his wife. The captain greeted us hilariously. Hello, he cried. Why, this is gay. Who would have ever thought of a domestic couple like you going on such a lark as this? We just heard about it from old John, and we came down to see what you are up to. You've got everything very nice. I think I'd like this myself. Why, you might have a rifle range out here. You could cut down those bushes on the other side of the creek and put up your target over there on that hill. Then you could lie down here on the grass and bang away all day. If you'll do that, I'll come down and practice with you. How long are you going to keep it up? I told him that we expected to spend my two weeks vacation here. Not if it rains, my boy, said he, I know what it is to camp out in the rain. Meanwhile Mrs. Atkinson had been with Euphemia examining the tent and our equipage generally. It would be very nice for a day's picnic, she said, but I wouldn't want to stay out of doors all night. And then, addressing me, she asked, Do you have to breathe the fresh air all the time, nights as well as day? I expect that is a very good prescription, but I would not like to have to follow it myself. If the fresh air is what you must have, said the captain, you might have got all you wanted of that without taking the trouble to come out here. You could have sat out on your back porch night and day for the whole two weeks and breathed all the fresh air that any man could need. Yes, said I, and I might have gone down cellar and put my head in the cold air box of the furnace. But there wouldn't have been much fun in that. There are a great many things that there's no fun in, said the captain. Do you cook your own meals or have them sent from the house? Cook them ourselves, of course, said Euphemia. We are going to have supper now. Won't you wait and take some? Thank you, said Mrs. Atkinson, but we must go. Yes, we must be going, said the captain. Goodbye. If it rains, I'll come down after you with an umbrella. You need not trouble yourself about that, said I. We shall rough it out, rain or shine. I'd stay here now, said Euphemia, when they had gone, if it rained pitch. You mean pitchforks, I suggested. Yes, anything, she answered. Well, I don't know about the pitchforks, I said, looking over the creek at the sky, but I am very much afraid that it is going to rain water tomorrow. But that won't drive us home, will it? No, indeed, said she. We're prepared for it, but I wish they'd stayed at home. Sure enough, it commenced to rain that night, and we had showers all the next day. We stayed in camp during the morning, and I smoked and we played checkers, and had a very cozy time with a wood fire burning under a tree nearby. We kept up this fire, not to dry the air, but to make things look comfortable. In the afternoon I dressed myself up in a waterproof coat, boots and hat, and went out fishing. I went down to the water and fished along the banks for an hour, but caught nothing of any consequence. This was a great disappointment, for we had expected to live on fresh fish for a great part of the time while we were camping. With plenty of fish we would do without meat very well. We talked the matter over on my return, and we agreed that as it seemed impossible to depend on a supply of fish from the waters about our camp, it would be better to let old John bring fresh meat from the butcher, and as neither of us liked crackers, we also agreed that he should bring bread. Our greatest trouble that evening was to make a fire. The wood, of which there was a good deal lying about under the trees, was now all wet and would not burn. However, we managed to get up a fire in the stove, but I did not know what we were going to do in the morning. We should have stored away some wood under shelter. We set our little camp-table in the tent, and we had scarcely finished our supper when a very heavy rain set in, accompanied by a violent wind. The canvas at one end of our tent must have been badly fastened, for it was blown in, and in an instant our beds were deluged. I rushed out to fasten up the canvas and got drenched almost to the skin, and although Euphemia put on her waterproof cloak as soon as she could, she was pretty wet, for the rain seemed to dash right through the tent. This gust of wind did not last long, and the rain soon settled down into a steady drizzle, but we were in a sad plight. It was after nine o'clock before we had put things in tolerable order. We can't sleep in those beds, said Euphemia. There is wet as sop, and we shall have to go up to the house and get something to spread over them. I don't want to do it, but we mustn't catch our deaths of cold. There is nothing to be said against this, and we prepared to start out. I would have gone by myself, but Euphemia would not consent to be left alone. It was still raining, though not very hard, and I carried an umbrella and a lantern. Climbing fences at night with a wife, a lantern, and an umbrella to take care of is not very agreeable, but we managed to reach the house, although once or twice we had an argument in regard to the path, which seemed to be very different at night from what it is in the daytime. Lord Edward came bounding to the gate to meet us, and I am happy to say that he knew me at once and wagged his tail in a very sociable way. I had the key of a side door in my pocket, for we had thought it wise to give ourselves command of this door, and so we let ourselves in without ringing or waking Pomona. All was quiet within, and we went upstairs with the lantern. Everything seemed clean and in order, and it is impossible to convey any idea of the element of comfort which seemed to pervade the house, as we quietly made our way upstairs in our wet boots and heavy, damp clothes. The articles we wanted were in a closet, and while I was making a bundle of them, Euphemia went to look for Pomona. She soon returned walking softly. She sound asleep, said she, and I didn't think there was any need of waking her. We'll send word by John that we've been here. And, oh, you can't imagine how snug and happy she did look, lying there in her comfortable bed, in that nice, airy room. I'll tell you what it is, if it wasn't for the neighbors, and especially the Atkinsons, I wouldn't go back one step. Well, said I, I don't know that I care so particularly about it myself, but I suppose I couldn't stay here and leave all Thompson's things out there to take care of themselves. Oh, no, said Euphemia, and we're not going to back down. Are you ready? End of Section 19 Section 20 of Rudder Grange This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rudder Grange by Frank R Stockton Chapter 10 Wet Blankets, Part 2 On our way downstairs, we had to pass the partly open door of our own room. I could not help holding up the lantern to look in. There was the bed, with its fair white covering, and its smooth, soft pillows. There were the easy chairs, the pretty curtains, the neat and cheerful carpet, the bureau with Euphemia's workbasket on it. There was the little table with the book that we had been reading together, turned face downward upon it. There were my slippers. There was, come, said Euphemia. I can't bear to look in there. It's like a dead child. And so we hurried out into the night and the rain. We stopped at the wood shed and got an armful of dry kindling, which Euphemia was obliged to carry, as I had the bundle of bed-clothing, the umbrella, and the lantern. Lord Edward gave a short, peculiar bark as we shut the gate behind us, but whether it was meant as a fond farewell or a hoot of derision, I cannot say. We found everything as we left it at the camp, and we made our beds apparently dry. But I did not sleep well. I could not help thinking that it was not safe to sleep in a bed with a substratum of wet mattress, and I worried Euphemia a little by asking her several times if she felt the dampness striking through. To our great delight the next day was fine and clear, and I thought I would like, better than anything else, to take Euphemia in a boat up the river and spend the day rowing about, or resting in shady places on the shore. But what could we do about the tent? It would be impossible to go away and leave that with its contents for a whole day. When old John came with our water, milk, bread, and a basket of vegetables, we told him of our desired excursion and the difficulty in the way. This good man, who always had a keen sense for any advantage to himself, warmly praised the boating plan and volunteer to send his wife and two of his younger children to stay with the tent while we were away. The old woman, he said, could do her sewing here as well as anywhere, and she would stay all day for fifty cents. This plan pleased us, and we sent for Mrs. Old John, who came with three of her children, all too young to leave behind, she said, and took charge of the camp. Our day proved to be as delightful as we had anticipated, and when we returned, hungry and tired, we were perfectly charmed to find that Mrs. Old John had our supper ready for us. She charged a quarter extra for this service, and we did not begrudge it to her, though we declined her offer to come every day and cook and keep the place in order. However, said Euphemia, on second thought, you may come on Saturday and clean up generally. The next day, which was Friday, I went out in the morning with the gun. As yet I had shot nothing, for I had seen no birds about the camp, which, without breaking the state laws, I thought I could kill, and so I started off up the River Road. I saw no game, but after I had walked about a mile, I met a man in a wagon. Hello, said he, pulling up, you'd better be careful how you go popping around here on the public roads, frightening horses. As I had not yet fired a single shot, I thought this was a very impudent speech, and I think so still. You had better wait until I begin to pop, said I, before you make such a fuss about it. No, said he, I'd rather make the fuss before you begin. My horse is skittish, and he drove off. This man annoyed me, but, as I did not, of course, wish to frighten horses, I left the road and made my way back to the tent over some very rough fields. It was a poor day for birds, and I did not get a shot. What a foolish man, said Euphemia, when I told her the above incident, to talk that way when you have stood there with your gun in your hand. You might have raked his wagon, fore and aft. That afternoon, as Euphemia and I were sitting under a tree by the tent, we were very much surprised to see Pomona come walking down the peninsula. I was annoyed and provoked at this. We had given Pomona positive orders not to leave the place under any pretense while we were gone. If necessary to send for anything, she could go to the fence back of the barn and scream across a small field to some of the numerous members of old John's family. Under this arrangement, I felt that the house was perfectly safe. Before she could reach us, I called out, why did you leave the house, Pomona? Don't you know you should never come away and leave the house empty? I thought I had made you understand that. It isn't empty, said Pomona, in an entirely unruffled tone. Your old border is there with his wife and child. Euphemia and I looked at each other in dismay. They came early this afternoon, continued Pomona, by the one fourteen train, and walked up, he carrying the child. It can't be, cried Euphemia, their child's married. It must have married very young then, said Pomona, for it isn't over four years old. Oh, said Euphemia, I know, it's his grandchild. Grandchild, repeated Pomona, with her countenance more expressive of emotion than I had ever yet seen it. Yes, said Euphemia, but how long are they going to stay? Where did you tell them we were? They didn't say how long they was going to stay, answered Pomona. I told them you had gone to be with some friends in the country, and that I didn't know whether you'd be home tonight or not. How could you tell them such a falsehood? cried Euphemia. That was no falsehood, said Pomona, it was true as truth. If you're not your own friends, I don't know who is, and I wasn't going to tell the border where you was until I found out whether you wanted me to do it or not. And so I left them and run over to old Johns and then down here. It was impossible to find fault with the excellent management of Pomona. What were they doing? asked Euphemia. I opened the parlor and she was in there with the child, putting it to sleep on the sofa, I think. The border was out in the yard, trying to teach Lord Edward some tricks. He had better look out, I exclaimed. Oh, the jogs chained and growl and fearful. What am I to do with them? This was a difficult point to decide. If we went to see them, we might as well break up our camp, for we could not tell when we should be able to come back to it. We discussed the matter very anxiously and finally concluded that under the circumstances and considering what Pomona had said about our whereabouts, it would be well for us to stay where we were and for Pomona to take charge of the visitors. If they returned to the city that evening she was to give them a good supper before they went, sending John to the store for what was needed. If they stayed all night she could get breakfast for them. We can write, said Euphemia, and invite them to come and spend some days with us when we are at home and everything is all right. I want dreadfully to see that child, but I don't see how I can do it now. No, said I. They're sure to stay all night if we go up to the house, and then I should have to have the tent and things hauled away, for I couldn't leave them here. The fact is, said Euphemia, if we were miles away in the woods of Maine, we couldn't leave our camp to see anybody, and this is practically the same. Certainly, said I, and so Pomona went away to her new charge. End of Section 20. Section 21 of Rutter Grange. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rutter Grange by Frank R. Stockton. Chapter 11. The Borders Visit. For the rest of the afternoon, and indeed far into the night, our conversation consisted almost entirely of conjectures regarding the probable condition of things at the house. We both thought we had done right, but we felt badly about it. It was not hospitable, to be sure, but then I should have no other holiday until next year, and our friends could come at any time to see us. The next morning, old John brought a note from Pomona. It was written with pencil on a small piece of paper torn from the margin of a newspaper and contained the words here yet. So you've got company, said old John with a smile. That's a queer gala yarn. She says I mustn't tell him you're here. As if I'd tell him. We knew well enough that old John was not at all likely to do anything that would cut off the nice little revenue he was making out of our camp, and so we felt no concern on that score. But we were very anxious for further news, and we told old John to go to the house about ten o'clock and asked Pomona to send us another note. We waited in a very disturbed condition of mind until nearly eleven o'clock, when old John came with a verbal message from Pomona. She says she's a-coming herself as soon as she can get a chance to slip off. This was not pleasant news. It filled our minds with a confused mass of probabilities, and it made us feel mean. How contemptible it seemed to be a party to this concealment and in league with a servant girl who has to slip off. Before long Pomona appeared quite out of breath. In all my life, said she, I never see people like them to. I thought I was never going to get away. Are they there yet? cried Euphemia. How long are they going to stay? Dear knows, replied Pomona. Their beliefs came up by express last night. Oh, we'll have to go up to the house, said Euphemia. It won't do to stay away any longer. Well, said Pomona, fanning herself with her apron, if you know it all I know I don't think you'd think so. What do you mean, said Euphemia? Well, ma'am, they've just settled down and taken possession of the whole place. He says to me that he knowed you'd both want them to make themselves at home, just as if you was there, and they thought they'd better do it. He asked me, did I think you would be home Monday, and I said I didn't know, but I guessed you would. So he says to his wife, won't that be a jolly lark? We'll just keep house for them till they come. And he says he would go down to the store and order some things, if there wasn't enough in the house. And he asked her to see what would be needed, which she did, and he's gone down for him now. And she says that, as it was Saturday, she'd see the house was put to rights, and after breakfast she set me to sweep in, and it's only by way of her dust in the parlor and given me the little girl to take for a walk that I got off at all. But what have you done with the child? exclaimed Euphemia. Oh, I left her at old John's's. And so do you think they're pleased with having the house to themselves? I said. Pleased, sir, replied Pomona. They're tickled to death. But how do you like having strangers telling you what to do? asked Euphemia. Oh, well, said Pomona. He's no stranger and she's real pleasant. And if it gives you a good camp out, I don't mind. Euphemia and I looked at each other. Here was true allegiance. We would remember this. Pomona now hurried off and we seriously discussed the matter and soon came to the conclusion that while it might be the truest hospitality to let our friends stay at our house for a day or two and enjoy themselves, still it would not do for us to allow ourselves to be governed by a too delicate sentimentality. We must go home and act our part of host and hostess. Mrs. Old John had been at the camp ever since breakfast time, giving the place a Saturday cleaning. What she had found to occupy her for so long a time I could not imagine, but in her efforts to put in a full half-day's work, I have no doubt she scrubbed some of the trees. We had been so fully occupied with our own affairs that we had paid very little attention to her. But she had probably heard pretty much all that had been said. At noon we paid her, giving her at her suggestion something extra in lieu of the midday meal, which she did not stay to take, and told her to send her husband with his wagon as soon as possible, as we intended to break up our encampment. We determined that we would pack everything in John's wagon and let him take the load to his house and keep it there until Monday, when I would have the tent and accompaniments expressed to their owner. We would go home and join our friends. It would not be necessary to say where he had been. It was hard for us to break up our camp. In many respects we had enjoyed the novel experience and we had fully expected, during the next week, to make up for all our shortcomings and mistakes. It seemed like losing all our labor and expenditure to break up now, but there was no help for it. Our place was at home. We did not wish to invite our friends to the camp. They would certainly have come had they known we were there, but we had no accommodation for them. Neither had we any desire for even transient visitors. Besides we both thought that we would prefer that our exporter and his wife should not know that we were encamped on that little peninsula. We set to work to pack up and get ready for moving, but the afternoon passed away without bringing old John. Between five and six o'clock along came his oldest boy with a bucket of water. I'm to go back after the milk, he said. Hold up, I cried. Where is your father and his wagon? We've been waiting for him for hours. The horse is sick. I mean he's gone to Balville for oats. And why didn't he send and tell me, I asked. There wasn't nobody to send, answered the boy. You are not telling the truth, exclaimed Euphemia. There is always someone to send in a family like yours. To this the boy made no answer, but again said that he would go after the milk. We want you to bring no milk, I cried, now quite angry. I want you to go down to the station and tell the driver of the express wagon to come here immediately. Do you understand? Immediately. The boy declared he understood and started off quite willingly. We did not prefer to have the express wagon for it was too public a conveyance. And besides, old John knew exactly how to do what was required. But we need not have troubled ourselves. The express wagon did not come. When it became dark we saw that we could not leave that night. Even if a wagon did come it would not be safe to drive over the fields in the darkness. And we could not go away and leave the camp equipage. I proposed that Euphemia should go up to the house while I remained in camp. But she declined. We would keep together whatever happened, she said. We unpacked our cooking utensils and provisions and had supper. There was no milk for our coffee but we did not care. The evening did not pass gaily. We were annoyed by the conduct of old John and the express boy, though perhaps it was not their fault. I had given them no notice that I should need them. And we were greatly troubled at the continuance of the secrecy and subterfuge which had now become really necessary if we did not wish to hurt our friends's feelings. The first thing that I thought of when I opened my eyes in the morning was the fact that we would have to stay there all day for we could not move on Sunday. But Euphemia did not agree with me. After breakfast we found that the water and the milk had been brought very early before we were up. She stated that she did not intend to be treated in this way. She was going up to old John's house herself and away she went. In less than half an hour she returned, followed by old John and his wife, both looking much as if they had been whipped. These people, said she, have entered into a conspiracy against us. I have questioned them thoroughly and have made them answer me. The horse was at home yesterday and the boy did not go after the express wagon. They thought that if they could keep us here until our company had gone we would stay as long as we originally intended and they would continue to make money out of us. But they are mistaken. We are going home immediately. At this point I could not help thinking that Euphemia might have consulted me in regard to her determination, but she was very much an earnest and I would not have any discussion before these people. Now listen, said Euphemia, addressing the downcast couple. We are going home and you two are to stay here all this day and tonight and to take care of these things. You can't work today and you can shut up your house and bring your whole family here if you choose. We will pay you for the service, although you do not deserve a cent, and we will leave enough here for you to eat. You must bring your own sheets and pillowcases and stay here until we see you on Monday morning. Old John and his wife agreed to this plan with the greatest alacrity, apparently well pleased to get off so easily, and having locked up the smaller articles of camp furniture we filled a release with our personal baggage and started off home. End of section 21. Section 22 of Rudder Grange. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rudder Grange by Frank R. Stockton. Chapter 11. The Borders Visit. Part 2. Our house and grounds never looked prettier than they did that morning as we stood at the gate. Lord Edward barked a welcome from his shed, and before we reached the door, Pomona came running out, her face radiant. I'm awful glad to see you back, she said, though I'd never have said so while you was in camp. I padded the dog and looked into the garden. Everything was growing splendidly. Euphemia rushed to the chicken yard. It was in first-rate order, and there were two broods of little yellow, puffy chicks. Down on her knees went my wife to pick up the little creatures, one by one, pressed their downy bodies to her cheek and called them tootsie-wootsies, and away I went to the barn, followed by Pomona, and soon afterward by Euphemia. The cow was all right. I've been making butter, said Pomona, though it don't look exactly like it ought to yet, and the skim milk I don't know what to do with, so I gave it to old John. He came for it every day and was real mad once because I'd given a lot of it to the dog and couldn't let him have but a pint. He ought to have been mad, said I, to Euphemia, as we walked up to the house. He got ten cents a quart for that milk. We laughed and didn't care. We were too glad to be at home. But where are our friends? I asked Pomona. We had actually forgotten them. Oh, they're gone out for a walk, said she. They started off right after breakfast. We were not sorry for this. It would be so much nicer to see our dear home again when there was nobody there but ourselves. Indoors we rushed. Our absence had been like a rain on a garden. Everything now seemed fresher and brighter and more delightful. We went from room to room and seemed to appreciate better than ever what a charming home we had. We were so full of the delights of our return that we forgot all about the Sunday dinner and our guests. But Pomona, whom my wife was training to be an excellent cook, did not forget. And Euphemia was summoned to a consultation in the kitchen. Dinner was late, but our guests were later. We waited as long as the state of the provisions and our appetites would permit. And then we sat down to the table and began to eat slowly. But they did not come. We finished our meal and they were still absent. We now became quite anxious and I proposed to Euphemia that we should go and look for them. We started out and our steps naturally turned toward the river. An unpleasant thought began to crowd itself into my mind and perhaps the same thing happened to Euphemia. For without saying anything to each other we both turned toward the path that led to the peninsula. We crossed the field climbed the fence and there in front of the tent sat our old border splitting sticks with the camp hatchet. Hurrah! He cried, springing to his feet when he saw us. How glad I am to see you back. When did you return? Isn't this splendid? What! I said as we shook hands. Why this! He cried, pointing to the tent. Don't you see? We're camping out. You are, I exclaimed, looking around for his wife while Euphemia stood motionless, actually unable to make a remark. Certainly we are. It's the rarest bit of luck. My wife and Adele will be here directly. They've gone to look for watercresses. But I must tell you how I came to make this magnificent find. We started out for a walk this morning and we happened to hit on this place and here we saw this gorgeous tent with nobody near but a little toe-headed boy. Only a boy, cried Euphemia. Yes, a young shaver of about nine or ten. I asked him what he was doing here and he told me that this tent belonged to a gentleman who had gone away and that he was here to watch it until he came back. Then I asked him how long the owner would probably be away and he said he supposed for a day or two. Then a splendid idea struck me. I offered the boy a dollar to let me take his place. I knew that any sensible man would rather have me in charge of his tent than a young codger like that. The boy agreed as quick as lightning and I paid him and sent him off. You see how little he was to be trusted. The owner of this tent will be under the greatest obligations to me. Just look at it. He cried. Beds, table, stove, everything anybody could want. I've camped out lots of times but never had such a tent as this. I intended coming up this afternoon after my release and to tell your girl where we are. But here is my wife and little Adele. In the midst of the salutations and the mutual surprise Euphemia cried, but you don't expect to camp out now. You are coming back to our house? You see, said the exporter, we should never have thought of doing anything so rude. Had we supposed you would have returned so soon. But your girl gave us to understand that you would not be back for days and so we felt free to go at any time and I did not hesitate to make this arrangement. And now that I have really taken the responsibility of the tent and fixtures on myself, I don't think it would be right to go away and leave the place, especially as I don't know where to find that boy. The owner will be back in a day or two and I would like to explain matters to him and give up the property in good order into his hands. And to tell the truth we both adore camping out and we may never have such a chance again. We can live here splendidly. I went out to forage this morning and found an old fellow living nearby who sold me a lot of provisions, even some coffee and sugar and he's to bring us some milk. We're going to have supper in about an hour. Won't you stay and take a camp meal with us? It will be a novelty for you at any rate. We declined this invitation as we had so lately dined. I looked at Euphemia with a question in my eye. She understood me and gently shook her head. It would be a shame to make any explanations which might put an end to this bit of camp life, which evidently was so eagerly enjoyed by our old friend. But we insisted that they should come up to the house and see us and they agreed to dine with us the next evening. On Tuesday they must return to the city. Now this is what I call real hospitality, said the exporter, warmly grasping my hand. I could not help agreeing with him. As we walked home I happened to look back and saw old John going over the fields toward the camp, carrying a little tin pail in a water bucket. The next day toward evening a storm set in and at the hour fixed for our dinner the rain was pouring down in such torrents that we did not expect our guests. After dinner the rain ceased and as we supposed that they might not have made any preparations for a meal Euphemia packed up some dinner for them in a basket and I took it down to the camp. They were glad to see me and said they had a splendid time all day. They were up before sunrise and had explored, tramped, boated and I don't know what else. My basket was very acceptable and I would have stayed a while with them but as they were obliged to eat in the tent there was no place for me to sit it being too wet outside and so I soon came away. We were in doubt whether or not to tell our friends the true history of the camp. I thought that it was not right to keep up the deception. While Euphemia declared that if they were sensitive people they would feel very badly at having broken up our plans by their visit and then having appropriated our camp to themselves. She thought it would be the part of magnanimity to say nothing about it. I could not help seeing a good deal of force in her arguments although I wished very much to set the thing straight and we discussed the matter again as we walked down to the camp after breakfast next morning. There we found old John sitting on a stump. He said nothing but handed me a note written in lead pencil on a card. It was from our exporter and informed me that early that morning he had found that there was a tug lying in the river which would soon start for the city. He also found that he could get passage on her for his party and as this was such a splendid chance to go home without the bother of getting up to the station he had just bundled his family and his valise on board and was very sorry they did not have time to come up and bid us good-bye. The tent he left in charge of a very respectable man from whom he had had supplies. That morning I had the camp equipage packed up and expressed to its owner. We did not care to camp out anymore that season but thought it would be better to spend the rest of my vacation at the seashore. Our exporter wrote to us that he and his wife were anxious that we should return their visit during my holidays but as we did not see exactly how we could return a visit of the kind we did not try to do it. End of Section 22 Section 23 of Rudder Grange This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Rudder Grange by Frank R Stockton Chapter 12 Lord Edward and the Tree Man Part One 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 not withstanding 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 Ephemia'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 swirl animal, quite handsome, gentle enough for Ephemia 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 rather a 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 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 in all 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 and despair. Afterwards she went around and around that horse. She padded his smooth sides. She looked with admiration at his strong well-formed legs. She stroked his head. She smoothed his mane. She was brim full 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 carrying 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 Eufemia stood by and I explained everything for some days she said she might want to do it herself. Then I led him into the stable how nobly he trod and how finally his hoof 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 wonderful said Eufemia 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 Eufemia 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 Eufemia came down after me. How I enjoyed those rides. Before this I had thought it ever so much more pleasant and helpful to walk to and from the station then to ride but then I did not own a horse. At night I attended to everything. Eufemia 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 Eufemia. We seldom took pleasure drives now. We were so busy on the place and as we reached the place 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 Eufemia 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 all this meant. Why sir you see said she I was in the kitchen bacon 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 knowed he was sticking his head in the window and he asked me to give him something to eat. And when I said I'd see in a minute if there was anything for him he says to me give me a piece of one of them pies pies I just baked and was sitting to cool on the kitchen table. No sir says I I'm not going to cut one of them pies for you or anyone like you. All right says he I'll come in and help myself. He must have known there was no man about and come in 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 clanking 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 get 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 have been in another world by this time. The man who had not attempted to interrupt to 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 hear boy hear 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 trousers 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 looking at it. That's how I knew what he was. And there was no call for his getting up a tree. Lord Edward would never 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. In 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 musket grape, the— Oh, please let him down, said Euphemia, her eyes beginning to sparkle. End of Section 23 Section 24 of Rudder Grange This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Rudder Grange by Frank R. Stockton Chapter 12 Lord Edward and the Tree Man Part 2 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 now we 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 this 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 of 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 could only 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 Spyzenberg sweet-scented balsam fur 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 furs along here. My good, sir, said I. There is no row of furs 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 here, cried the tramp from the tree in the voice of a very ill-used person. Ain't you going to fasten up that dog and let me get 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 a dog or you can stay up there until I've 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 very 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 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 ahead said the individual in the crotch. You don't know how dreadful uneasy these limb gets after you've been setting up here as long as I have. And I don't want to have nothing to do with no constables. I'll tell you what I'll do if you chain up that dog and let me go. I'll fix things though that you'll not be troubled no more by no tramps. How will you do that? I asked. Oh, never you mine. said he. I'll give you my word of honor. I'll do it. There's a regular understanding among us fellers, you know. I considered the matter. The word of honor of such a fellow as he was could not be considered worth much but the nearest 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 writing home, I noticed on the trunk of a large tree which stood at the corner of the lane and a 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 for? 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 will 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 that it's no good to go up 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 foul record, but afterwards she 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 performance of every foul 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 adventures of various methods of treatment and there were statements of the results of a great many experiments. Something like this. Set toppy in her sister Pinky April 2nd, 1870. Toppy with 12 eggs, three Brahma, four Common and five Leghorn, Pinky with 13 eggs as she weighs four ounces more than her sister of which three were Leghorn, five Common and five Brahma. During the 22nd and 23rd of April same year Toppy hatched out four Brahma's two Common's and three Leghorn's while her sister on these days and the morning of the day following hatched two Leghorn's six Common's 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's 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 principal 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. End of Section 24 Section 25 of Rudder Grange This is a Librivox recording All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit Librivox.org Rudder Grange by Frank R Stockton Chapter 13 Pomona's novel Part 1 It was in the latter part of August of that year that it became necessary for someone in the office in which I was engaged to go to St. Louis to attend to some important business. Everything seemed to point to me as the fit person for I understood the particular business better than anyone else. I felt that I ought to go but I did not altogether like to do it. I went home and Euphemia and I talked over the matter far into the regulations sleeping hours. There were very good reasons why we should go for of course I would not think of taking such a journey without Euphemia. In the first place it would be of advantage to me in my business connection to take the trip and then it would be such a charming journey for us. We had never been west of the Alleghenies and nearly all the country we would see would be new to us. We would come home by the Great Lakes and Niagara and the prospect was delightful to both of us. But then we would have to leave Rutter Grange for at least three weeks and how could we do that? This was indeed a difficult question to answer. Who could take care of our garden, our poultry, our horse and cow and all their complicated belongings? The garden was in admirable condition. Our vegetables were coming in every day in just that fresh and satisfactory condition. All together unknown to people who buy vegetables for which I had labored so faithfully and about which I had so many cheerful anticipations. As to Euphemia's chicken yard with Euphemia away the subject was too great for us. We did not even discuss it. But we would give up all the pleasures of our home for the chance of this most desirable excursion if we could but think of someone who would come and take care of the place while we were gone. Rutter Grange could not run itself for three weeks. We thought of every available person. Old John would not do. We did not feel that we could trust him. We thought of several of our friends but there was in both our minds a certain shrinking from the idea of handing over the place to any of them for such a length of time. For my part I said I would rather leave Pomona in charge than anyone else. But then Pomona was young and a girl. Euphemia agreed with me that she would rather trust her than anyone else but she also agreed in regard to the disqualifications. So when I went to the office the next morning we had fully determined to go on the trip if we could find someone to take charge of our place while we were gone. When I returned from the office in the afternoon I had agreed to go to St. Louis. By this time I had no choice in the matter unless I wished to interfere very much with my own interests. We were to start in two days. If in that time we could get anyone to stay at the place very well. If not Pomona must assume the charge. We were not able to get anyone and Pomona did assume the charge. It is surprising how greatly relieved we felt when we were obliged to come to this conclusion. The arrangement was exactly what we wanted and now that there was no help for it our consciences were easy. We felt that there would be no danger to Pomona. Lord Edward would be with her and she was a young person who was extraordinarily well able to take care of herself. Old John would be within call in case she needed him and I borrowed a bulldog to be kept in the house at night. Pomona herself was more than satisfied with the plan. We made out the night before we left a long and minute series of directions for her guidance in household, garden, and farm matters and directed her to keep a careful record of everything noteworthy that might occur. She was fully supplied with all the necessities of life and it has seldom happened that a young girl has been left in such a responsible and independent position as that in which we left Pomona. She was very proud of it. Our journey was ten times more delightful than we had expected it would be and successful in every way and yet although we enjoyed every hour of the trip we were no sooner fairly on our way home than we became so wildly anxious to get there that we reached Rudder Grange on Wednesday whereas we had written that we would be home on Thursday. We arrived early in the afternoon to be sent the express wagon. As we approached our dear home we wanted to run we were so eager to see it. There it was the same as ever. I lifted the latch gate. The gate was locked. We ran to the carriage gate. That was locked too. Just then I noticed a placard on the fence. It was not printed but the lettering was large apparently made with ink in a brush. It read to be sold for taxes. We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia turned pale. What does this mean? said I. Has our landlord I could say no more. The dreadful thought arose that the place might pass away from us. We were not yet ready to buy it. But I did not put the thought in words. There was a field next to our lot and I got over the fence and helped Euphemia over. Then we climbed our side fence. This was more difficult but we accomplished it without thinking much about his difficulties. Our hearts were too full of painful apprehensions. I hurried to the front door. It was locked. All the lower windows were shut. We went around to the kitchen. What surprised us more than anything was the absence of Lord Edward. Had he been sold? Before we reached the back part of the house Euphemia said she felt faint and must sit down. I led her to a tree nearby under which I had made a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She sat on the grass and I ran to the pump for some water. I looked for the bright tin dipper which always hung by the pump. It was not there. But I had a traveling cup in my pocket and as I was taking it out I looked around me. There was an air of bareness over everything. I did not know what it all meant but I knew that my hand trembled as I took hold of the pump handle and began to pump. At the first sound of the pump handle I heard a deep bark in the direction of the barn and then furiously around the corner came Lord Edward. Before I had filled up the cup he was bounding about me. I believed the glad welcome of the dog did more to revive euphemia than the water. He was delighted to see us and in a moment up came Pomona running from the barn. Her face was radiant too. We felt relieved. Here were two friends who looked as if they were neither sold nor ruined. Pomona quickly saw that we were ill at ease and before I could put a question to her she divined the cause. Her countenance fell. You know, said she, you said you wasn't come until tomorrow. If you only had come then. I was going to have everything just exactly right. And now you had to climb in and the poor girl looked as if she might cry, which would have been a wonderful thing for Pomona to do. Tell me one thing, said I. What about those taxes? Oh, that's all right, she cried. Don't think another minute about that. I'll tell you all about it soon. But come in first and I'll get you some lunch in a minute. We were somewhat relieved by Pomona's statement that it was all right in regard to the tax poster. But we were very anxious to know all about the matter. Pomona, however, gave us little chance to ask her any questions. As soon as she had made ready our lunch, she asked us, as a particular favor, to give her three quarters of an hour to herself, and then said she, I'll have everything looking just as if it was tomorrow. We respected her feelings, for of course it was a great disappointment to her to be taken thus unawares. And we remained in the dining room until she appeared and announced that she was ready for us to go about. We availed ourselves quickly of the privilege and Euphemia hurried to the chicken-yard while I bent my steps toward the garden and barn. As I went out I noticed that the rustic chair was in its place and passing the pump I looked for the dipper. It was there. I asked Pomona about the chair, but she did not answer as quickly as was her habit. Would you rather, said she, hear it altogether when you come in, or have it in little bits, head and tail all of a jumble. I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought and she was so anxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather wait and hear it altogether. We found everything in perfect order. The garden was even free from weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it had not been for that cloud on the front fence I should have been happy enough. Pomona had said it was all right, but she could not have paid the taxes. However I would wait and I went to the barn. When Euphemia came in from the poultry yard she called me and said she was in a hurry to hear Pomona's account of things. So I went in and we sat on the side porch where it was shady while Pomona producing some sheets of fool's cap paper took her seat on the upper step. I wrote down the things of any account what happened, said she, as you told me to and while it was about it I thought I'd make it like a novel. It would be just as true and perhaps more amusing. I suppose you don't mind? No, we didn't mind so she went on. I haven't got no name for my novel. I intended to think one out to-night. I wrote this all of nights and I don't read the first chapters for they tell about my birth and my parentage and my early adventures. I'll just come down to what happened to me while you was away because you'll be more anxious to hear about that. All that's written here is true, just the same as if I told it to you but I've put it into novel language because it seems to come easier to me. And then in a voice somewhat different from her ordinary tones as if the novel language demanded it she began to read. Chapter 5 The Lonely House and the Faithful Friend Thus was I left alone none but two dogs to keep me company. I milked the lowing kind and watered and fed the steed and then after my frugal repast I closed the mansean shutting out all the recollections of the past and also foresights into the future. That night was a memorable one. I slept soundly until the break of morn but had the events transpired which afterward occurred what would have happened to me no tongue can tell. Early the next day nothing happened. Soon after breakfast the venerable John came to borrow some kerosene oil and half a pound of sugar but his attempt was foiled. I knew too well the insidious foe. In the very outset of his villiany I sent him home with an empty can. For two long days I wandered among the verdant pathways of the garden and to the barn whenever and anon my duty called me nor did I air neglect the fallery. No cloud overspread this happy period of my life. But the cloud was rising in the horizon although I saw it not. It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven on the morning of a Thursday that I sat pondering in my mind the question what to do with the butter and the vegetables. Here was butter and here was green corn and lima beans and trophy tomats far more than air could use. And here was a horse idly cropping the foliage in the field for as my employer had advised and ordered I had put the steed to grass. And here was a wagon none too new which had it the top taken off or even the curtains rolled up would do for a lison's vendor. With the truck and butter and may have some milk I could load that wagon. Oh Pomona interrupted you Femmea you don't mean to say that you were thinking of doing anything like that. Well I was just beginning to think of it said Pomona but of course I couldn't have gone away and left the house and you'll see I didn't do it. And then she continued her novel. But while my thoughts were thus employed I heard Lord Edward burst into barter at this Femmea and I could not help bursting into laughter. Pomona did not seem at all confused but went on with her reading. I hurried to the door and looking out I saw a wagon at the gate. Repair ring there I saw a man said he wilt open this gate I had fastened up the gates and removed every stealable article from the yard. Femmea and I looked at each other. This explained the absence of the rustic seat and the dipper. Thus with my mind at ease I could let my faithful fray end the dog for he it was roam with me through the grounds while the fierce bulldog guarded the Mansiyan within. Then said I quite bold unto him no I let no man hear my employer and employer s are now from home what do you want then says he as bold as brass I've come to put the lightening rods upon the house open the gate what rods says I the rods as was ordered says he open the gate I stood and gazed at him full well I saw through his pinch-back mask I knew his tricks in the absence of my employer he would put up rods and ever so many more than was wanted and likely to some miserable trash that would attract the lightening instead of keeping it off then as it would spoil the house to take them down they would be kept and pay demanded no sir says I no lightening rods upon this house whilst I stand here and with that I walk it away and let lord Edward loose the man he stormed with pasiyan his eyes flashed fire he would Ian have scaled the gate but when he saw the dog he did forbear as it was then near noon I strode away to feed the fowls but when I did return I saw a sight which froze the blood within my veins the dog didn't kill him cried euphemia oh no ma'am said Pomona you'll see that wasn't it at one corner of the lot in front a base boy who had accompanied this man was banging on the fence with a long stick and thus attracting to himself the rage of lord Edward while the vile intriguer of a lightning rodder had brought a ladder to the other side of the house up which he had now ascended and was on the roof what horrors fillied my soul how my form trembled this continued Pomona is the end of the novel and she laid her fool scat pages upon the porch end of