Adopting An Abandoned Farm

BY KATE SANBORN

1891

CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER I. --FROM GOTHAM TO GOOSEVILLE II. --AUCTIONS III. --BUYING A HORSE IV. --FOR THOSE WHO LOVE PETS V. --STARTING A POULTRY FARM VI. --GHOSTS VII. --DAILY DISTRACTIONSVIII. --THE PROSE OF NEW ENGLAND FARM LIFE IX. --THE PASSING OF THE PEACOCKS X. --LOOKING BACK

An old farm-house with meadows wide, And sweet with clover on each side. 

 MARION DOUGLASS. 

ADOPTING AN ABANDONED FARM. 

CHAPTER I. 

FROM GOTHAM TO GOOSEVILLE. 

 I have now come to the farmer's life, with which I am exceedingly delighted, and which seems to me to belong especially to the life of a wise man. 

 CICERO. 

Weary of boarding at seashore and mountain, tired of traveling in searchof comfort, hating hotel life, I visited a country friend at Gooseville, Conn. (an assumed name for Foxboro, Mass. ), and passed three happy weeksin her peaceful home. 

Far away at last from the garish horrors of dress, formal dinners, visits, and drives, the inevitable and demoralizing gossip and scandal;far away from hotel piazzas, with their tedious accompaniments ofcorpulent dowagers, exclusive or inquisitive, slowly dying from too muchfood and too little exercise; ennuied spinsters; gushing buds; athleticcollegians, cigarettes in mouths and hands in pockets; languid, drawlingdudes; old bachelors, fluttering around the fair human flower likeSeptember butterflies; fancy work, fancy work, like Penelope's web, never finished; pug dogs of the aged and asthmatic variety. Everythingthere but MEN--they are wise enough to keep far away. 

Before leaving this haven of rest, I heard that the old-fashionedfarm-house just opposite was for sale. And, as purchasers of real estatewere infrequent at Gooseville, it would be rented for forty dollars ayear to any responsible tenant who would "keep it up. "

After examining the house from garret to cellar and looking over thefields with a critical eye, I telegraphed to the owner, fearful oflosing such a prize, that I would take it for three years. For itcaptivated me. The cosy "settin'-room, " with a "pie closet" and an uppertiny cupboard known as a "rum closet" and its pretty fire place--brickedup, but capable of being rescued from such prosaic "desuetude"; a largesunny dining-room, with a brick oven, an oven suggestive of brown breadand baked beans--yes, the baked beans of my childhood, that adorned thebreakfast table on a Sunday morning, cooked with just a little molassesand a square piece of crisp salt pork in center, a dish to tempt a dyinganchorite. 

There wore two broad landings on the stairs, the lower one just theplace for an old clock to tick out its impressive"Forever--Never--Never--Forever" <i>à la</i> Longfellow. Then the long "shedchamber" with a wide swinging door opening to the west, framing asunset gorgeous enough to inspire a mummy. And the attic, with itspossible treasures. 

There was also a queer little room, dark and mysterious, in the centerof house on the ground floor, without even one window, convenient toretire to during severe thunder storms or to evade a personal interviewwith a burglar; just the place, too, for a restless ghost to revisit. 

Best of all, every room was blessed with two closets. 

Outside, what rare attractions! Twenty-five acres of arable land, stretching to the south; a grand old barn, with dusty, cobwebbed, hay-filled lofts, stalls for two horses and five cows; hen houses, withplenty of room to carry out a long-cherished plan of starting a poultryfarm. 

The situation, too, was exceptional, since the station from which Icould take trains direct to Boston and New York almost touched thenorthern corner of the farm, and nothing makes one so willing to stayin a secluded spot as the certainty that he or she can leave it at anytime and plunge directly into the excitements and pleasures which only alarge city gives. 

What charmed me most of all was a tiny but fascinating lakelet in thepasture near the house; a "spring-hole" it was called by the natives, but a lakelet it was to me, full of the most entrancing possibilities. It could be easily enlarged at once, and by putting a wind-mill on thehill, by the deep pool in "Chicken Brook" where the pickerel loved tosport, and damming something, somewhere, I could create or evolve aminiature pond, transplant water lilies, pink and white, set willowshoots around the well-turfed, graveled edge, with roots of theforget-me-not hiding under the banks their blue blossoms; just theflower for happy lovers to gather as they lingered in their rambles tofeed my trout. And there should be an arbor, vine-clad and shelteredfrom the curious gaze of the passers-by, and a little boat, moored at alittle wharf, and a plank walk leading up to the house. And--and oh, theidealism possible when an enthusiastic woman first rents a farm--an"abandoned" farm!

It may be more exact to say that my farm was not exactly "abandoned, " asits owner desired a tenant and paid the taxes; say rather depressed, full of evil from long neglect, suffering from lack of food and generaldebility. 

As "abandoned farms" are now a subject of general interest, let me saythat my find was nothing unusual. The number of farms without occupantsin New Hampshire in August, 1889, was 1, 342 and in Maine 3, 318; and Isaw lately a farm of twenty acres advertised "free rent and a present offifty dollars. "

But it is my farm I want you to care about. I could hardly wait untilwinter was over to begin my new avocation. By the last of March I wasassured by practical agriculturists (who regarded me with amusementtempered with pity) that it was high time to prune the lazy fruit treesand arouse, if possible, the debilitated soil--in short, begin to "keepit up. "

So I left New York for the scene of my future labors and novel lessonsin life, accompanied by a German girl who proved to be merely ananimated onion in matters of cooking, a half-breed hired man, and afull-bred setter pup who suffered severely from nostalgia and stronglyobjected to the baggage car and separation from his playmates. 

If wit is, as has been averred, the "juxtaposition of dissimilar ideas, "then from "Gotham to Gooseville" is the most scintillating epigram everachieved. Nothing was going on at Gooseville except time and the milkwagon collecting for the creamery. The latter came rumbling along everymorning at 4. 30 precisely, with a clatter of cans that never failed toarouse the soundest sleeper. 

The general dreariness of the landscape was depressing. Nature herselfseemed in a lethargic trance, and her name was mud. 

But with a house to furnish and twenty-five enfeebled acres toresuscitate, one must not mind. Advanced scientists assure us of life, motion, even intelligence, appetite, and affection in the most primitiveprimordial atoms. So, after a little study, I found that the inhabitantsof Gooseville and its outlying hamlets were neither dead nor sleeping. It was only by contrast that they appeared comatose and moribund. 

Indeed, the degree of gayety was quite startling. I was at once invitedto "gatherings" which rejoiced in the paradoxical title of "MumSociables, " where a penalty of five cents was imposed on each personfor speaking (the revenue to go toward buying a new hearse, a cheerfulobject of benevolence), and the occasions were most enjoyable. There wasalso a "crazy party" at Way-back, the next village. This special form oflunacy I did not indulge in--farming was enough for me--but the painterwho was enlivening my dining-room with a coating of vivid red and green, kindly told me all about it, how much I missed, and how the couplelooked who took the first prize. The lady wore tin plates, tin cans, tinspoons, etc. , sewed on to skirt and waist in fantastic patterns, makingmusic as she walked, and on her head a battered old coffee pot, withartificial flowers which had outlived their usefulness sticking out ofthe spout; and her winning partner was arrayed in rag patchwork of themost demented variety. 

"Youdorter gone" said he; "'twas a great show. But I bet youder beatenthe hull lot on 'em if you'd set your mind on't!"

My walls were now covered with old-fashioned papers, five and ten centsa roll, and cheap matting improved the floors. But how to furnish elevenrooms? This brings me to--

CHAPTER II. 

AUCTIONS. 

"Going, going, gone. "

Next came the excitement of auctions, great occasions, and of vitalimportance to me, as I was ambitious to furnish the entire house for onehundred dollars. 

When the head of a family dies a settlement of the estate seems to makean auction necessary. I am glad of the custom, it proved of invaluableservice to me, and the mortality among old people was quite phenomenalat Gooseville and thereabouts last year. While I deeply regretted thedemise of each and all, still this general taking off was opportune formy needs. 

There were seventeen auctions last season, and all but two wereattended by me or my representatives. 

A country auction is not so exciting as one in the city; still you mustbe wide-awake and cool, or you will be fleeced. An experienced friend, acquainted with the auctioneer, piloted me through my first sale, andfor ten dollars I bought enough really valuable furniture to fill alarge express wagon--as a large desk with drawers, little and big, fascinating pigeon holes, and a secret drawer, for two dollars; queerold table, ten cents; good solid chairs, nine cents each; mahoganycenter-table, one dollar and sixteen cents; and, best of all, a tall andvenerable clock for the landing, only eight dollars! Its "innards" sadlydemoralized, but capable of resuscitation, the weights being tin-cansfilled with sand and attached by strong twine to the "works. " It has tobe wound twice daily, and when the hour hand points to six and the otherto ten, I guess that it is about quarter past two, and in five minutesI hear the senile timepiece strike eleven!

The scene was unique. The sale had been advertised in post-office andstores as beginning at 10 A. M. , but at eleven the farmers and theirwomen folks were driving toward the house. A dozen old men, chewingtobacco and looking wise, were in the barn yard examining the stock tobe sold, the carts and farming tools; a flock of hens were also to bedisposed of, at forty cents each. 

On such occasions the families from far and near who want to dispose ofany old truck are allowed to bring it to add to the motley display. Thereally valuable possessions, if any, are kept back, either for privatesale or to be divided among the heirs. I saw genuine antiquesoccasionally--old oak chests, finely carved oaken chairs--but these wererare. After the horses have been driven up and down the street, andwith the other stock disposed of, it is time for lunch. Following thecrowd into the kitchen, you see two barrels of crackers open, a mammothcheese of the skim-milk species with a big knife by it, and on the stovea giant kettle in which cotton bags full of coffee are being distilledin boiling water. You are expected to dip a heavy white mug into thekettle for your share of the fragrant reviving beverage, cut off a hunkof cheese, and eat as many crackers as you can. It tasted well, thatinformal "free lunch. "

Finding after one or two trials that the interested parties raisedrapidly on anything I desired. I used to send Gusta and John, nicknamedvery properly "Omniscience and Omnipotence, " which names did equallywell when reversed (like a paper cuff), and they, less verdant thantheir mistress, would return with an amazing array of stuff. We now haveeverything but a second-hand pulpit, a wooden leg, and a coffin plate. We utilized a cradle and antique churn as a composite flower stand; animmense spinning-wheel looks pretty covered with running vines, an oldcarriage lantern gleams brightly on my piazza every evening. I nearlybought a horse for fifteen dollars, and did secure a wagon for onedollar and a half, which, after a few needed repairs, costing onlytwenty-six dollars, was my pride, delight and comfort, and the envy ofthe neighborhood. Men came from near and far to examine that wagon, feltcritically of every wheel, admired the shining coat of dark-green paint, and would always wind up with: "I vum, if that 'ere wagon ain't fine!Why, it's wuth fifty dollars, now, ef it's wuth a cent!" After a hardday's work, it seemed a gratification to them to come with lanterns torenew their critical survey, making a fine Rembrandtish study as theystood around it and wondered. A sleigh was bought for three dollarswhich, when painted by our home artist, is both comfortable andeffective. 

At one auction, where I was the only woman present, I bid on threeshovels (needed to dig worms for my prize hens!) and, as the excitementincreased with a rise in bids from two cents to ten, I cried, "Eleven!"And the gallant old fellow in command roared out as a man opened hismouth for "Twelve!": "I wouldn't bid ag'in a woman ef I'se you. Let 'erhave 'em! Madam, Mum, or Miss--I can't pernounce your name and don'trightly know how to spell it--but the shovels are yourn!"

Attending auctions may be an acquired taste, but it grows on one likeany other habit, and whenever a new and tempting announcement calls, Irise to the occasion and hasten to the scene of action, be the weatherwhat it may. And many a treasure has been picked up in this way. Quaintold mirrors with the queerest pictures above, brass knockers, candlesticks of queer patterns, cups and saucers and plates, mugs of allsizes, from one generous enough to satisfy the capacities of alager-soaked Dutchman to a dear little child's mug, evidently oncebelonging to a series. Mine was for March. A mother sitting on a bench, with a bowl of possibly Lenten soup by her side, is reproving a fatlittle fellow for his gross appetite at this solemn season. He isweeping, and on her other side a pet dog is pleading to be fed. Therhyme explains the reason:

 The jovial days of feasting past, 'Tis pious prudence come at last; And eager gluttony is taught To be content with what it ought. 

A warming pan and a foot stove, just as it was brought home from a merrysleigh-ride, or a solemn hour at the "meetin'-house, " recalling thatline of Thomas Gray's:

 E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

Sometimes I would offer a little more to gain some coveted treasurealready bid off. How a city friend enjoyed the confidences of a man whohad agreed to sell for a profit! How he chuckled as he told of "one ofthem women who he guessed was a leetle crazy. " "Why, jest think on't! Ionly paid ten cents for that hull lot on the table yonder, and <i>she</i>"(pointing to me) "<i>she</i> gin me a quarter for that old pair o' tongs!"

One day I heard some comments on myself after I had bid on a rag carpetand offered more than the other women knew it was worth. 

"She's got a million, I hear. "

"Wanter know--merried?"

"No; just an old maid. "

"Judas Priest! Howd she git it?"

"Writin', I 'spoze. She writes love stories and sich for city papers. Some on 'em makes a lot. "

It is not always cheering to overhear too much. When some of my friends, whom I had taken to a favorite junk shop, felt after two hours ofpurchase and exploration that they must not keep me waiting any longer, the man, in his eagerness to make a few more sales, exclaimed: "Let herwait; <i>her</i> time ain't wuth nothin'!"

At an auction last summer, one man told me of a very venerable lantern, an heirloom in his first wife's family, <i>so</i> long, measuring nearly ayard with his hands. I said I should like to go with him to see it, as Iwas making a collection of lanterns. He looked rather dazed, and as Iturned away he inquired of my friend "if I wusn't <i>rather</i>--" She neverallowed him to finish, and his lantern is now mine. 

People seem to have but little sentiment about their associations withfurniture long in the family. 

The family and a few intimate friends usually sit at the upper windowsgazing curiously on the crowd, with no evidence of feeling or patheticrecollections. 

I lately heard a daughter say less than a month after her father'sdeath, pointing to a small cretonne-covered lounge: "Father made me thatlounge with his own hands when I's a little girl. He tho't a sight on'tit, and allers kep' it 'round. But my house is full now. I ain't got noroom for't. " It sold for twelve cents!

Arthur Helps says that human nature craves, nay <i>enjoys</i>, tragedy; andwhen away from dramatic representation of crime and horrors and suddendeath, as in this quiet country life, the people gratify their needs inthe sorrows, sins, and calamities that befall their neighbors. 

I strongly incline to Hawthorne's idea that furniture becomesmagnetized, permeated, semi-vitalized, so that the chairs, sofas, andtables that have outlived their dear owners in my own family have almosta sacred value to me. 

Still, why moralize. Estates must be settled, and auctions are ablessing in disguise. 

Of course, buying so much by substitutes, I amassed a lot of curiousthings, of which I did not know the use or value, and therefore greatlyenjoyed the experience of the Spectator as given in the Christian Union. 

He attended an auction with the following result: "A long table wascovered with china, earthenware, and glass; and the mantel beyond, anarrow shelf quite near the ceiling, glittered with a tangled maze ofclean brass candlesticks, steel snuffers, and plated trays. At one enddangled a huge warming pan, and on the wall near it hung a bit ofcanvas in a gilded frame, from which the portrait had as utterly fadedas he whom it represented had vanished into thin air. It was a strangeplace, a room from which many a colonial citizen had passed to take astroll upon the village street; and here, in sad confusion to be sure, the dishes that graced his breakfast table. The Spectator could havelingered there if alone for half a day, but not willingly for half anhour in such a crowd. The crowd, however, closed every exit and he hadto submit. A possible chance to secure some odd bit was his onlyconsolation. Why the good old soul who last occupied the house, and whowas born in it fourscore years ago, should necessarily have had only hergrandmother's tableware, why every generation of this family should havesuffered no losses by breakage, was not asked. Every bit, even tobaking-powder prizes of green and greasy glass, antedated theRevolution, and the wise and mighty of Smalltown knew no better. A bitof egg shell sticking to a cracked teacup was stolen as a relic ofWashington's last breakfast in Smalltown. 

 * * * * *

"While willow-pattern china was passing into other hands the Spectatormade a discovery. A curious piece of polished, crooked mahogany was seenlying between soup tureens and gravy boats. He picked it up cautiously, fearing to attract attention, and, with one eye everywhere else, scannedit closely. What a curious paper-knife! he thought, and slyly tucked itback of a pile of plates. This must be kept track of; it may prove averitable prize. But all his care went for naught. A curious old lady athis elbow had seen every action. 'What is it?' she asked, and the woodenwonder was brought to light. 'It's an old-fashioned wooden butterknife. I've seen 'em 'afore this. Don't you know in old times it wasn'teverybody as had silver, and mahogany knives for butter was put on thetable for big folks. We folks each used our own knife. ' All this wasdribbled into the Spectator's willing ears, and have the relic he wouldat any cost. Time and again he nervously turned it over to be sure thatit was on the table, and so excited another's curiosity. 'What is it?' asecond and still older lady asked. 'A colonial butter knife, ' theSpectator replied with an air of much antiquarian lore. 'A butter knife!No such thing. My grandfather had one just like this, and it's a pruningknife. He wouldn't use a steel knife because it poisoned the sap. ' Whatnext? Paper knife, butter knife, and pruning knife! At all events everynew name added a dollar to its value, and the Spectator wondered whatthe crowd would say, for now it was in the auctioneer's hands. Helooked at it with a puzzled expression and merely cried: 'What is bidfor <i>this</i>?' His ignorance was encouraging. It started at a dime and theSpectator secured it for a quarter. For a moment he little wondered atthe fascination of public sales. The past was forgiven, for now luck hadturned and he gloried in the possession of a prize. 

"To seek the outer world was a perilous undertaking for fear that thetriply-named knife might come to grief; but a snug harbor was reached atlast, and hugging the precious bit, the Spectator mysteriouslydisappeared on reaching his home. No one must know of his success untilthe mystery was cleaned, brightened, and restored to pristine beauty. The Spectator rubbed the gummy surface with kerosene, and then polishedit with flannel. Then warm water and a tooth brush were brought intoplay, and the oil all removed. Then a long dry polishing, and therestoration was complete. Certainly no other Smalltowner had such awooden knife; and it was indeed beautiful. Black in a cross light, redin direct light, and kaleidoscopic by gaslight. Ah, such a prize! Thefamily knew that something strange was transpiring, but what no one hadan inkling. They must wait patiently, and they did. The Spectatorproudly appeared, his prize in hand. 'See there!' he cried in triumph, and they all looked eagerly; and when the Spectator's pride was soaringat its highest, a younger daughter cried, 'Why, papa, it's the back of ahair-brush!' And it was. "

An auctioneer usually tries to be off-hand, waggish, and brisk--a crossbetween a street peddler and a circus clown, with a hint of the forcedmirth of the after-dinner speaker. Occasionally the jokes are good andthe answers from the audience show the ready Yankee wit. 

Once an exceedingly fat man, too obese to descend from his high wagon, bought an immense dinner bell and he was hit unmercifully. A rusty oldfly-catcher elicited many remarks--as "no flies on that. " I boughtseveral chests, half full of rubbish, but found, alas! no hiddentreasure, no missing jewels, no money hid away by miserly fingers andforgotten. Jake Corey, who was doing some work for me, encouraged me tohope. He said: "I hear ye patronize auctions putty reg'lar; sometimesthere is a good deal to be made that way, and then ag'in there isn't. Inever had no luck that way, but it's like getting married, it's alottery! Folks git queer and put money in some spot, where they're aptto forgit all about it. Now I knew a man who bought an old hat and asight of other stuff; jest threw in the hat. And when he got home andcome to examine it ef thar warn't three hundred dollars in good bills, chucked in under the sweater!"

"You ought to git over to Mason's auction to Milldon, sure. It's dayafter to-morrow at nine sharp. You see he'd a fortune left him, but herun straight through it buying the goldarndest things you ever heerdtell on--calves with six legs, dogs with three eyes or two tails, steersthat could be druv most as well as hosses (Barnum he got hold o' 'em andtuk 'em round with his show); all sorts o' curious fowl and everyoutlandish critter he could lay his hands on. 'T stands to reason hecouldn't run that rig many years. Your goin's on here made me think o'Mason. He cut a wide swath for a time. 

"Wall, I hope you'll come off better'n he did. He sunk such a pile thathe got discouraged and took to drink; then his wife, a mighty likelywoman she is (one o' the Batchelders of Dull Corner), couldn't stand itand went back to her old home, and he died ragged and friendless about amonth ago. Ef I's you, I'd go over, just to take warning and hold up intime. "

CHAPTER III. 

BUYING A HORSE. 

 "And you know this Deacon Elkins to be a thoroughly reliable man in every respect?"

 "Indeed, I do, " said honest Nathan Robbins. "He is the very soul of honor; couldn't do a mean thing. I'd trust him with all I have. "

 "Well, I'm glad to hear this, for I'm just going to buy a horse of him. "

 "A horse?"

 "Yes--a horse!"

 "Then I don't know anything about him!"

 A TRUE TALE. 

After furnishing my house in the aforesaid economical and nondescriptfashion, came the trials of "planting time. " This was such an unfragrantand expensive period that I pass over it as briefly as possible. I sawit was necessary in conformity with the appalling situation to alter onevowel in my Manorial Hall. The haul altogether amounted to eighteenloads besides a hundred bags of vilely smelling fertilizers. Agents forevery kind of phosphates crowded around me, descanting on the needs ofthe old land, until I began to comprehend what the owner meant by"keeping it up. " With Gail Hamilton, I had supposed the entire land ofthis earth to be pretty much the same age until I adopted the"abandoned. " This I found was fairly senile in its worthlessdecrepitude. 

My expenditure was something prodigious. 

Yes, "planting time" was a nightmare in broad daylight, but as I lookback, it seems a rosy dream, compared with the prolonged agonies ofbuying a horse!

All my friends said I must have a horse to truly enjoy the country, andit seemed a simple matter to procure an animal for my own use. 

Livery-stable keepers, complaisant and cordial, were continuallydriving around the corner into my yard, with a tremendous flourish andstyle, chirking up old by-gones, drawing newly painted buggies, patched-up phaetons, two-seated second-hand "Democrats, " high wagons, lowchaises, just for me to try. They all said that seeing I was a lady andhad just come among 'em, they would trade easy and treat me well. Eachmentioned the <i>real</i> value, and a much lower price, at which I, as aspecial favor, could secure the entire rig. Their prices were allabominably exorbitant, so I decided to hire for a season. The dozenbeasts tried in two months, if placed in a row, would cure the worstcase of melancholia. Some shied; others were liable to be overcome by"blind staggers"; three had the epizootic badly, and longed to lie down;one was nearly blind. At last I was told of a lady who desired to leaveher pet horse and Sargent buggy in some country home during her threemonths' trip abroad. 

Both were so highly praised as <i>just the thing</i> that I took them onfaith. 

I judge that a woman can lie worse than a man about a horse!

"You will love my Nellie" she wrote. "I hate to part with her, even forthe summer. She has been a famous racer in Canada--can travel easilytwenty-five miles a day. Will go better at the end of the journey thanat the beginning. I hear you are an accomplished driver, so I send mypet to your care without anxiety. "

I sent a man to her home to drive out with this delightful treasure, andpictured myself taking long and daily drives over our excellent countryroads. Nellie, <i>dear</i> Nellie; I loved her already. How I would pet her, and how fond she would become of me. Two lumps of sugar at least, everyday for her, and red ribbons for the whip. How she would dash along! Ahorse for me at last! About 1. 45 A. M. , of the next day, a carriage washeard slowly entering the yard. I could hardly wait until morning togloat over my gentle racer! At early dawn I visited the stable and foundJohn disgusted beyond measure with my bargain. A worn-out, tumble-down, rickety carriage with wobbling wheels, and an equally worn-out, thin, dejected, venerable animal, with an immense blood spavin on left hindleg, recently blistered! It took three weeks of constant doctoring, investment in Kendall's Spavin Cure, and consultation with an expensiveveterinary surgeon, to get the whilom race horse into a condition toslowly walk to market. I understood now the force of the one truthfulclause--"She will go better at the end of the drive than at thebeginning, " for it was well-nigh impossible to get her stiff legsstarted without a fire kindled under them and a measure of oats heldenticingly before her. It was enraging, but nothing to afterexperiences. All the disappointed livery men, their complaisance andcordiality, wholly a thing of the past, were jubilant that I had been soimposed upon by some one, even if they had failed. And their looks, asthey wheeled rapidly by me, as I crept along with the poor, suffering, limping "Nellie, " were almost more than I could endure. 

Horses were again brought for inspection, and there was a repetition ofprevious horrors. At last a man came from Mossgrown. He had an honestface; he knew of a man who knew of a man whose brother had just <i>the</i>horse for me, "sound, stylish, kind, gentle as a lamb, fast as thewind. " Profiting by experience, I said I would look at it. Next day, ayoung man, gawky and seemingly unsophisticated, brought the animal. Itlooked well enough, and I was so tired. He was anxious to sell, butonly because he was going to be married and go West; needed money. Andhe said with sweet simplicity: "Now I ain't no jockey, I ain't! Youneedn't be afeard of me--I say just what I mean. I want spot cash, I do, and you can have horse, carriage, and harness for $125 down. " He gave mea short drive, and we did go "like the wind. " I thought the steed veryhard to hold in, but he convinced me that it was not so. I decided totake the creature a week on trial, which was a blow to that guilelessyoung man. And that very afternoon I started for the long, pleasantdrive I had been dreaming about since early spring. 

The horse looked quiet enough, but I concluded to take my Germandomestic along for extra safety. I remembered his drawling direction, "Doan't pull up the reins unless you want him to go pretty lively, " soheld the reins rather loosely for a moment only, for this last hopewheeled round the corner as if possessed, and after trotting, thenbreaking, then darting madly from side to side, started into a full run. I pulled with all my might; Gusta stood up and helped. No avail. On werushed to sudden death. No one in sight anywhere. With one Herculeaneffort, bred of the wildest despair, we managed to rein him in at asharp right angle, and we succeeded in calming his fury, and tied thepanting, trembling fiend to a post. Then Gusta mounted guard while Iwalked home in the heat and dirt, fully half a mile to summon John. 

I learned that <i>that</i> horse had never before been driven by a woman. Heevidently was not pleased. 

Soon the following appeared among the local items of interest in theGooseville Clarion:

 Uriel Snooks, who has been working in the cheese factory at Frogville, is now to preside over chair number four in Baldwin's Tonsorial Establishment on Main Street. 

 Kate Sanborn is trying another horse. 

These bits of information in the papers were a boon to the variousreporters, but most annoying to me. The Bungtown Gazetteer announcedthat "a well-known Boston poetess had purchased the Britton Farm, andwas fitting up the old homestead for city boarders!" I couldn't import afew hens, invest in a new dog, or order a lawn mower, but a full accountwould grace the next issue of all the weeklies. I sympathized with theold woman who exclaimed in desperation:

 "Great Jerusalem, ca'nt I stir, Without a-raisin' some feller's fur?"

At last I suspected the itinerant butcher of doing double duty as areporter, and found that he "was engaged by several editors to pick upbits of news for the press" as he went his daily rounds. "But this, " Iexclaimed, "is just what I don't want and can't allow. Now if you shoulddrive in here some day and discover me dead, reclining against yondernoble elm, or stark at its base, surrounded by my various pets, don'tallude to it in the most indirect way. I prefer the funeral to bestrictly private. Moreover, if I notice another 'item' about me, I'llbuy of your rival. " And the trouble ceased. 

But the horses! Still they came and went. I used to pay my friend therubicund surgeon to test some of these highly recommended animals in ashort drive with me. 

One pronounced absolutely unrivaled was discovered by my wise mentor tobe "watch-eyed, " "rat-tailed, " with a swollen gland on the neck, wouldshy at a stone, stand on hind legs for a train, with various other minordefects. I grew fainthearted, discouraged, cynical, bitter. Was there nohorse for me? I became town-talk as "a drefful fussy old maid whodidn't know her own mind, and couldn't be suited <i>no</i> way. "

I remember one horse brought by a butcher from West Bungtown. It was, inthe vernacular, a buck-skin. Hide-bound, with ribs so prominent theysuggested a wash-board. The two fore legs were well bent out at theknees; both hind legs were swelled near the hoofs. His ears nearly aslarge as a donkey's; one eye covered with a cataract, the other deeplysunken. A Roman nose, accentuated by a wide stripe, aided the pensiveexpression of his drooping under lip. He leaned against the shafts as ifhe were tired. 

"There, Marm, " said the owner, eying my face as an amused expressionstole over it; "ef you don't care for <i>style</i>, ef ye want a good, steddycritter, and a critter that can <i>go</i>, and a critter that <i>any</i> lady candrive, <i>there's</i> the critter for ye!"

I did buy at last, for life had become a burden. An <i>interested</i>neighbor (who really pitied me?) induced me to buy a pretty little blackhorse. I named him "O. K. "

After a week I changed to "N. G. "

After he had run away, and no one would buy him, "D. B. "

At last I succeeded in exchanging this shying and dangerous creature fora melancholy, overworked mare at a livery stable. I hear that "D. B. " hassince killed two <i>I</i>-talians by throwing them out when not sufficientlyinebriated to fall against rocks with safety. 

And my latest venture is a <i>backer</i>. 

Horses have just as many disagreeable traits, just as much individualityin their badness, as human beings. Under kind treatment, daily petting, and generous feeding, "Dolly" is too frisky and headstrong for a lady todrive. 

"Sell that treacherous beast at once or you will be killed, " writes ananxious friend who had a slight acquaintance with her moods. 

I want now to find an equine reliance whose motto is "Nulla vestigiaretrorsum, " or "No steps backward. "

I have pasted Mr. Hale's famous motto, "Look forward and not back, " overher stall--but with no effect. The "Lend a Hand" applies to those weyell for when the backing is going on. 

By the way, a witty woman said the other day that men always had theadvantage. A woman looked back and was turned into a pillar of salt;Bellamy looked back and made sixty thousand dollars. 

Mr. Robert B. Roosevelt, in his amusing book "Five Acres too Much" giveseven a more tragic picture, saying: "My experience of horseflesh hasbeen various and instructive. I have been thrown over their heads andslid over their tails; have been dragged by saddle, stirrups, and tossedout of wagons. I have had them to back and to kick, to run and to bolt, to stand on their hind feet and kick with their front, and thenreciprocate by standing on their front and kicking with their hindfeet.... I have been thrown much with horses and more by them. "

"Horses are the most miserable creatures, invariably doing preciselywhat they ought not to do; a pest, a nuisance, a bore. " Or, as some oneelse puts it:

"A horse at its best is an amiable idiot; at its worst, a dangerousmaniac. "

CHAPTER IV. 

FOR THOSE WHO LOVE PETS. 

 "All were loved and all were regretted, but life is made up of forgetting. "

 "The best thing which a man possesses is his dog. "

When I saw a man driving into my yard after this, I would dart out of aback door and flee to sweet communion with my cows. 

On one such occasion I shouted back that I did not want a horse of anyvariety, could not engage any fruit trees, did not want the placephotographed, and was just going out to spend the day. I was courteouslybut firmly informed that my latest visitor had, singular to relate, nohorse to dispose of, but he "would like fourteen dollars for my dog taxfor the current year!" As he was also sheriff, constable, and justiceof the peace, I did not think it worth while to argue the question, although I had no more thought of being called up to pay a dog tax thana hen tax or cat tax. I trembled, lest I should be obliged to enumeratemy entire menagerie--cats, dogs, canaries, rabbits, pigs, ducks, geese, hens, turkeys, pigeons, peacocks, cows, and horses. 

Each kind deserves an entire chapter, and how easy it would be to writeof cats and their admirers from Cambyses to Warner; of dogs and theirfriends from Ulysses to Bismarck. I agree with Ik Marvel that a cat islike a politician, sly and diplomatic; purring--for food; andaffectionate--for a consideration; really caring nothing for friendshipand devotion, except as means to an end. Those who write books andarticles and verse and prose tributes to cats think very differently, but the cats I have met have been of this type. 

And dogs. Are they really so affectionate, or are they also a littleshrewd in licking the hand that feeds them? I dislike to be pessimistic. But when my dogs come bounding to meet me for a jolly morning greetingthey do seem expectant and hungry rather than affectionate. At otherhours of the day they plead with loving eyes and wagging tails for awalk or a seat in the carriage or permission to follow the wagon. 

But I will not analyze their motives. They fill the house and groundswith life and frolic, and a farm would be incomplete if they weremissing. Hamerton, in speaking of the one dog, the special pet and dearcompanion of one's youth, observes that "the comparative shortness ofthe lives of dogs is the only imperfection in the relation between themand us. If they had lived to three-score and ten, man and dog might havetraveled through life together, but, as it is, we must either have asuccession of affections, or else, when the first is buried in its earlygrave, live in a chill condition of dog-less-ness. "

I thank him for that expressive compound word. Almost every one might, like Grace Greenwood and Gautier, write a History of my Pets and make areadable book. Carlyle, the grand old growler, was actually attached toa little white dog--his wife's special delight, for whom she used towrite cute little notes to the master. And when he met with a fatalaccident, he was tenderly nursed by both for months, and when the doctorwas at last obliged to put him out of pain by prussic acid, their griefwas sincere. They buried him at the top of the garden in Cheyne Row, andplanted cowslips round his grave, and his mistress placed a stonetablet, with name and date, to mark the last resting place of herblessed dog. 

"I could not have believed, " writes Carlyle in the Memorials, "my griefthen and since would have been the twentieth part of what it was--nay, that the want of him would have been to me other than a riddance. Ourlast midnight walk together (for he insisted on trying to come), January31st, is still painful to my thought. Little dim, white speck of life, of love, of fidelity, girdled by the darkness of night eternal. "

Beecher said many a good thing about dogs, but I like this best:Speaking of horseback riding, he incidentally remarked that inevolution, the human door was just shut upon the horse, but the dog gotfully up before the door was shut. If there was not reason, mirthfulness, love, honor, and fidelity in a dog, he did not know whereto look for it. Oh, if they only could speak, what wise and humorous andsarcastic things they would say! Did you never feel snubbed by animmense dog you had tried to patronize? And I have seen many a dogsmile. Bayard Taylor says: "I know of nothing more moving, indeedsemi-tragic, than the yearning helplessness in the face of a dog, whounderstands what is said to him, and can not answer!"

Dr. Holland wrote a poem to his dog Blanco, "his dear, dumb friend, " inwhich he expresses what we all have felt many times. 

 I look into your great brown eyes, Where love and loyal homage shine, And wonder where the difference lies Between your soul and mine. 

The whole poem is one of the best things Holland ever did in rhyme. Hewas ambitious to be remembered as a poet, but he never excelled in verseunless he had something to express that was very near his heart. He wasemphatically the Apostle of Common Sense. How beautifully he closes hisloving tribute--

 Ah, Blanco, did I worship God As truly as you worship me, Or follow where my Master trod With your humility, Did I sit fondly at his feet As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine, And watch him with a love as sweet, My life would grow divine!

Almost all our great men have more than one dog in their homes. When Ispent a day with the Quaker poet at Danvers, I found he had three dogs. Roger Williams, a fine Newfoundland, stood on the piazza with thequestioning, patronizing air of a dignified host; a bright-faced Scotchterrier, Charles Dickens, peered at us from the window, as if glad of alittle excitement; while Carl, the graceful greyhound, was indolentlycoiled up on a shawl and took little notice of us. 

Whittier has also a pet cow, favorite and favored, which puts up herhandsome head for an expected caress. The kindly hearted old poet, sofull of tenderness for all created things, told me that years when nutswere scarce he would put beech nuts and acorns here and there as hewalked over his farm, to cheer the squirrels by an unexpected find. 

Miss Mitford's tribute to her defunct doggie shows to what a degree ofimbecility an old maid may carry fondness for her pets, but it ispathetically amusing. 

"My own darling Mossy's hair, cut off after he was dead by dear Drum, August 22, 1819. He was the greatest darling that ever lived (son ofMaria and Mr. Webb's 'Ruler, ' a famous dog given him by Lord Rivers), and was, when he died, about seven or eight years old. He was a largeblack dog, of the largest and strongest kind of greyhounds; very fastand honest, and resolute past example; an excellent killer of hares, anda most magnificent and noble-looking creature. His coat was of thefinest and most glossy black, with no white, except a very little underhis feet (pretty white shoe linings I used to call them)--a littlebeautiful white spot, quite small, in the very middle of his neck, between his chin and his breast--and a white mark on his bosom. His facewas singularly beautiful; the finest black eyes, very bright, and yetsweet, and fond, and tender--eyes that seemed to speak; a beautiful, complacent mouth, which used sometimes to show one of the long whiteteeth at the side; a jet black nose; a brow which was bent and flexible, like Mr. Fox's, and gave great sweetness and expression, and a look ofthought to his dear face. There never was such a dog! His temper was, beyond comparison, the sweetest ever known. Nobody ever saw him out ofhumor. And his sagacity was equal to his temper. Thank God, he went offwithout suffering. He must have died in a moment. I thought I shouldhave broken my heart when I came home and found what had happened. Ishall miss him every moment of my life; I have missed him every instantto-day--so have Drum and Granny. He was laid out last night in thestable, and this morning we buried him in the middle plantation on thehouse side of the fence, in the flowery corner, between the fence andLord Shrewsbury's fields. We covered his dear body with flowers; everyflower in the garden. <i>Everybody loved him</i>; 'dear saint, ' as I used tocall him, and as <i>I do not doubt he now is!!</i> No human being was ever sofaithful, so gentle, so generous, and so fond! I shall never loveanything half so well. 

"It will always be pleasant to me to remember that I never teased him bypetting other things, and that everything I had he shared. He always atehalf my breakfast, and the very day before he died I fed him <i>all themorning</i> with filberts. " (There may have been a connection between thefilberts and the funeral. )

"While I had him, I was always sure of having one who would love mealike in riches or poverty, who always looked at me with looks of thefondest love, always faithful and always kind. To think of him was atalisman against vexing thoughts. A thousand times I have said, 'I wantmy Mossy, ' when that dear Mossy was close by and would put his dearblack nose under my hand on hearing his name. God bless you, my Mossy! Icried when you died, and I can hardly help crying whenever I think ofyou. All who loved me loved Mossy. He had the most perfect confidence inme--always came to me for protection against any one who threatened him, and, thank God, always found it. I value all things he had lately orever touched; even the old quilt that used to be spread on my bed forhim to lie on, and which we called Mossy's quilt; and the pan that heused to drink out of in the parlor, and which was always called Mossy'span, dear darling!

"I forgot to say that his breath was always sweet and balmy; his coatalways glossy like satin; and he never had any disease or anything tomake him disagreeable in his life. Many other things I have omitted; andso I should if I were to write a whole volume of his praise; for he wasabove all praise, sweet angel! I have inclosed some of his hair, cut offby papa after his death, and some of the hay on which he was laid out. He died Saturday, the 21st of August, 1819, at Bertram House. Heavenbless him, beloved angel!"

It is as sad as true that great natures are solitary, and thereforedoubly value the affections of their pets. 

Southey wrote a most interesting biography of the cats of Greta Hall, and on the demise of one wrote to an old friend: "Alas! Grosvenor, thisday poor old Rumpel was found dead, after as long and as happy a life ascat could wish for--if cats form wishes on that subject. There should bea court mourning in Cat-land, and if the Dragon wear a black ribbonround his neck, or a band of crape, <i>à la militaire</i>, round one of thefore paws, it will be but a becoming mark of respect. As we have notcatacombs here, he is to be decently interred in the orchard and catnipplanted on his grave. "

And so closes this catalogue of Southey's "Cattery. "

But, hark! my cats are mewing, dogs all calling for me--no--for dinner!After all, what is the highest civilization but a thin veneer overnatural appetites? What would a club be without its <i>chefs</i>, a socialaffair without refreshment, a man without his dinner, a woman withouther tea? Come to think of it, I'm hungry myself!

CHAPTER V. 

STARTING A POULTRY FARM. 

 If every hen should only raise five broods yearly of ten each, and there were ten hens to start with, at the end of two years they would number 344, 760, after the superfluous roosters were sold; and then, supposing the extra eggs to have paid for their keeping and the produce to be worth only a dollar and a half a pair, there would be a clear profit of $258, 520. Allowing for occasional deaths, this sum might be stated in round numbers at a quarter of a million, which would be a liberal increase from ten hens. Of course I did not expect to do as well as this, but merely mention what might be done with good luck and forcing. 

 ROBERT ROOSEVELT. 

Having always heard, on the best authority, that there was "money inhens, " I invested largely in prize fowls secured at State fairs andlarge poultry shows, buying as many kinds as possible to make aneffective and brilliant display in their "runs. "

There <i>is</i> a good deal of money in my hens--how to get it back is thepresent problem. These hens were all heralded as famous layers; severaldid lay in the traveling coops on the journey, great pinky-brownbeauties, just to show what they could do if they chose, then stoppedsuddenly. I wrote anxiously to former owners of this vaunted stock toexplain such disappointing behavior. Some guessed the hens were justmoulting, others thought "may be they were broody"; a few had thefrankness to agree with me that it was mighty curious, but hens alwayswere "sorter contrary critters. "

Their appetites remained normal, but, as the little girl said of her petbantam, they only lay about doing nothing. And when guests desired someof my fine fresh eggs boiled for breakfast, I used to go secretly to aneighbor and buy a dozen, but never gave away the mortifying situation. 

Seeing piles of ducks' eggs in a farmer's barn, all packed for market, and picturing the producers, thirty white Pekins, a snowy, self-supporting fleet on my reformed lakelet, I bought the whole lot, and for long weary months they were fed and pampered and coaxed andreasoned with, shut up, let out, kept on the water, forbidden to go toit, but not one egg to be seen!

It was considered a rich joke in that locality that a city woman who wastrying to farm, had applied for these ducks just as they had completedtheir labors for the season of 1888-'90; they were also extremelyvenerable, and the reticent owner rejoiced to be relieved of anexpensive burden at good rates. Knowing nothing of these facts innatural history, I pondered deeply over the double phenomenon. I saidthe hens seemed normal only as to appetite; the ducks proved abnormal inthis respect. They were always coming up to the back door, clamoringfor food--always unappeased. They preferred cake, fresh bread, hotboiled potatoes, doted on tender bits of meat, but would gobble upanything and everything, more voracious and less fastidious than theordinary hog of commerce. Bags of corn were consumed in a flash, "shorts" were never long before their eager gaze, they went for everykind of nourishment provided for the rest of the menagerie. A goat issupposed to have a champion appetite and digestion, but a duck--at leastone of my ducks--leaves a goat so far behind that he never could regainhis reputation for omniverosity. They were too antique to be eatenthemselves--their longevity entitled them to respect; they could not bedisposed of by the shrewdest market man to the least particular ofboarding-house providers; I could only regard them with amazement andhorror and let them go on eating me out of house and home andpurse-strings. 

But at last I knew. I asked an honest man from afar, who called to sellsomething, why those ducks would not lay a single egg. He looked at themcritically and wrote to me the next day:

 "DEAR MADAM: The reason your ducks won't lay is because they're too old to live and the bigest part of 'em is drakes. 

 Respectfully, JONAS HURLBERT. "

I hear that there are more ducks in the Chinese Empire than in all theworld outside of it. They are kept by the Celestials on every farm, onthe private and public roads, on streets of cities, and on all thelakes, ponds, rivers, streams, and brooks in the country. That is thesecret of their lack of progress. What time have they to advance afterthe ducks are fed and cared for? No male inhabitant could ever squeezeout a leisure half-hour to visit a barber, hence their long queues. 

About this time the statement of Mr. Crankin, of North Yeaston, RhodeIsland, that he makes a clear and easy profit of five dollars and twentycents per hen each year, and nearly forty-four dollars to every duck, and might have increased said profit if he had hatched, rather thansold, seventy-two dozen eggs, struck me as wildly apocryphal. Also thatcaring for said hens and ducks was merely an incident of his day's workon the large farm, he working with his laborers. Heart-sick andindignant, contrasting his rosy success with my leaden-hued failure, Idecided to give all my ducks away, as they wouldn't, couldn't drown, andthere would be no use in killing them. But no one wanted them! Andeverybody smiled quizzically when I proposed the gift. 

Just then, as if in direct sarcasm, a friend sent me a paper with anitem marked to the effect that a poor young girl had three ducks' eggsgiven her as the basis of a solid fortune, and actually cleared onehundred and eighteen dollars from those three eggs the first year. 

Another woman solemnly asserts in print a profit of $448. 69 from onehundred hens each year. 

The census man told me of a woman who had only eighteen hens. They gaveher sixteen hundred and ninety eggs, of which she sold eighteen dollars'worth, leaving plenty for household use. 

And my hens and my ducks! In my despair I drove a long way to consult a"duck man. " He looked like the typical Brother Jonathan, only with alonger beard, and his face was haggard, unkempt, anxious. He couldscarcely stop to converse, evidently grudged the time, devotes hisentire energies from dawn to twilight to slaving for his eight hundredducklings. He also kept an incubator going all the time. 

"Do ducks pay you?" I asked. 

"Wall, I'm gettin' to be somewhat of a bigotist, " he said; "I barely gita livin'. "

"Why Mr. Crankin--" I began. 

The name roused his jealous ire, and his voice, a low mumble before, nowburst into a loud roar. "Yes, Crankin makes money, has a sight o'incubators, makes 'em himself, sells a lot, but some say they don't actlike his do when they git off his place; most on 'em seem possessed, butCrankin, <i>he</i> can manage 'em and makes money too. "

"Do your ducks lay much?"

"Lay! I don't want 'em to lay! Sell 'em all out at nine weeks, 'fore thepin feathers come; then they're good eatin'--for them as likes 'em. I'veheard of yure old lot. Kill 'em, I say, and start new!"

"Crankin says--"

"I don't care nothing what Crankin says" (here the voice would havefilled a cathedral), "I tell ye; me and Crankin's two differentcritters!"

So I felt; but it would not do to give up. I purchased an expensiveincubator and brooder--needn't have bought a brooder. I put into theincubator at a time when eggs were scarce and high priced, two hundredeggs--hens' eggs, ducks' eggs, goose eggs. The temperature must be keptfrom 102° to 104°. The lamps blazed up a little on the first day, butafter that we kept the heat exactly right by daily watching and nightvigils. It engrossed most of the time of four able-bodied victims. 

Nothing ever was developed. The eggs were probably cooked that firstday!

Now I'm vainly seeking for a purchaser for my I. And B. Terms of salevery reasonable. Great reduction from original price; shall no doubt beforced to give them away to banish painful recollections. 

I also invested in turkeys, geese, and peacocks, and a pair of guineahens to keep hawks away. 

For long weary months the geese seemed the only fowls truly at home onmy farm. They did their level best. Satisfied that my hens would neitherlay nor set, I sent to noted poultry fanciers for "settings" of eggs atthree dollars per thirteen, then paid a friendly "hen woman" forassisting in the mysterious evolution of said eggs into variousinteresting little families old enough to be brought to me. 

Many and curious were the casualties befalling these young broods. Chickens are subject to all the infantile diseases of children and manymore of their own, and mine were truly afflicted. <i>Imprimis</i>, mostwould not hatch; the finest Brahma eggs contained the commonestbarn-yard fowls. Some stuck to the shell, some were drowned in a saucerof milk, some perished because no lard had been rubbed on their heads, others passed away discouraged by too much lard. Several ate rose bugswith fatal results; others were greedy as to gravel and agonized withdistended crops till released by death. They had more "sand" than wasgood for them. They were raised on "Cat Hill, " and five were captured byfelines, and when the remnant was brought to me they disappeared day byday in the most puzzling manner until we caught our mischievous pug, "Tiny Tim, " holding down a beautiful young Leghorn with his cruel pawand biting a piece out of her neck. 

So they left me, one by one, like the illusions of youth, until therewas no "survival of the fittest. "

In a ragged old barn opposite, a hen had stolen her nest and broughtout seventeen vigorous chicks. I paid a large bill for the care of whatmight have been a splendid collection, and meekly bought that faithfulold hen with her large family. It is now a wonder to me that anychickens arrive at maturity. Fowls are afflicted with parasiticwrigglers in their poor little throats. The disease is called "gapes, "because they try to open their bills for more air until a red worm inthe trachea causes suffocation. This horrid red worm, calledscientifically <i>Scelorostoma syngamus</i>, destroys annually <i>half amillion</i> of chickens. 

Dr. Crisp, of England, says it would be of truly national importance tofind the means of preventing its invasion. 

The unpleasant results of hens and garden contiguous, Warner hasdescribed. They are incompatible if not antagonistic. One man wiselyadvises: "Fence the garden in and let the chickens run, as the mandivided the house with his quarrelsome wife, by taking the insidehimself and giving her the outside, that she might have room accordingto her strength. "

Looking over the long list of diseases to which fowls are subject isdispiriting. I am glad they can't read them, or they would have all atonce, as J. K. Jerome, the witty playwright, decided he had every diseasefound in a medical dictionary, except housemaid's knee. Look at thiscondensed list:

 DISEASES OF NERVOUS SYSTEM. --1. Apoplexy. 2. Paralysis. 3. Vertigo. 4. Neuralgia. 5. Debility. 

 DISEASES OF DIGESTIVE ORGANS. --99. 

 DISEASES OF LOCOMOTIVE ORGANS. --1. Rheumatism. 2. Cramp. 3. Gout. 4. Leg weakness. 5. Paralysis of legs. 6. Elephantiasis. 

 Next, diseases caused by parasites. 

 Then, injuries. 

 Lastly, miscellaneous. 

I could add a still longer list of unclassified ills: Homesickness, fits, melancholia, corns, blindness from fighting too much, etc. 

Now that I have learned to raise chickens, it is a hard and slowstruggle to get any killed. I say in an off-hand manner, with assumednonchalance: "Ellen, I want Tom to kill a rooster at once for tomorrow'sdinner, and I have an order from a friend for four more, so he mustselect five to-night. " Then begins the trouble. "Oh, " pleads Ellen, "don't kill dear Dick! poor, dear Dick! That is Tom's pet of all; so bigand handsome and knows so much! He will jump up on Tom's shoulder andeat out of his hand and come when he calls--and those big Brahmas--don'tyou know how they were brought up by hand, as you might say, and theyknow me and hang around the door for crumbs, and that beauty of aWyandock, you <i>couldn't</i> eat <i>him</i>!" When the matter is decided, as theguillotining is going on, Ellen and I sit listening to the axe thuds andthe death squaks, while she wrings her hands, saying: "O dearie me! Whata world--the dear Lord ha' mercy on us poor creatures! What a thing tolook into, that we must kill the poor innocents to eat them. And theywere so tame and cunning, and would follow me all around!" Then I tellher of the horrors of the French Revolution to distract her attentionfrom the present crisis, and alluded to the horrors of cannibalismrecently disclosed in Africa. Then I fall into a queer reverie andimagine how awful it would be if we should ever be called to submit to arace of beings as much larger than we are as we are above the fowls. Ialmost hear such a monster of a house-wife, fully ninety feet high, sayto a servant, looking sternly and critically at me:

"That fat, white creature must be killed; just eats her old headoff--will soon be too tough"--Ugh! Here Tom comes with five headlessfowls. Wasn't that a weird fancy of mine?

Truly "Me and Crankin's two different critters. "

From the following verse, quoted from a recent poultry magazine, Iconclude that I must be classed as a "chump. " As it contains the secretof success in every undertaking, it should be committed to memory by allmy readers. 

 "Grit makes the man, The want of it the chump. The men who win, Lay hold, hang on, and hump. "

CHAPTER VI. 

GHOSTS. 

 "But stop, " says the courteous and prudent reader, "are there any such things as ghosts?"

 "Any ghostesses!" cries Superstition, who settled long since in the country, near a church yard on a "rising ground, " "any ghostesses! Ay, man, lots on 'em! Bushels on 'em! Sights on 'em! Why, there's one as walks in our parish, reglar as the clock strikes twelve--and always the same round, over church-stile, round the corner, through the gap, into Shorts Spinney, and so along into our close, where he takes a drink at the pump--for ye see he died in liquor, and then arter he squenched hisself, wanishes into waper. 

 "Then there's the ghost of old Beales, as goes o' nights and sows tares in his neighbor's wheat--I've often seed 'em in seed time. They do say that Black Ben, the poacher, have riz, and what's more, walked slap through all the squire's steel traps, without springing on 'em. And then there's Bet Hawkey as murdered her own infant--only the poor little babby hadn't learned to walk, and so can't appear ag'in her. "

 THOMAS HOOD, <i>The Grimsby Ghost</i>. 

That dark little room I described as so convenient during a terrificthunderstorm or the prowling investigations of a burglar, began after awhile to get mysterious and uncanny, and I disliked, nay, dreaded toenter it after dark. It was so still, so black, so empty, so chilly witha sort of supernatural chill, so silent, that imagination conjured upsounds such as I had never heard before. I had been told of an extremelyold woman, a great-great-grandmother, bed-ridden, peevish, andweak-minded, who had occupied that room for nearly a score of years, apparently forgotten by fate, and left to drag out a monotonous, wearyexistence on not her "mattress grave" (like the poet Heine), but on animmensely thick feather bed; only a care, a burden, to her relations. 

As twilight came on, I always carefully closed that door and shut theold lady in to sleep by herself. For it seemed that she was still there, still propped up in an imaginary bed, mumbling incoherently of thepast, or moaning out some want, or calling for some one to bring alight, as she used to. 

Once in a while, they told me, she would regain her strength suddenlyand astonish the family by appearing at the door. When thegrand-daughter was enjoying a Sunday night call from her "intended" itwas rather embarrassing. 

I said nothing to my friends about this unpleasant room. But severalwere susceptible to the strange influence. One thought she should notmind so much if the door swung open, and a <i>portière</i> concealed thegloom. So a cheerful cretonne soon was hung. Then the fancy came thatthe curtain stirred and swayed as if some one or something was gropingfeebly with ghostly or ghastly fingers behind it. And one night, whensitting late and alone over the embers of my open fire, feeling a littleforlorn, I certainly heard moans coming from that direction. 

It was not the wind, for, although it was late October and the breezeswere sighing over summer's departure, this sound was entirely differentand distinct. Then (and what a shiver ran down my back!) I rememberedhearing that a woman had been killed by falling down the steep cellarstairs, and the spot on the left side where she was found unconsciousand bleeding had been pointed out to me. There, I heard it again! Was itthe wraith of the aged dame or the cries of that unfortunate creature?Hush! Ellen can't have fallen down!

I am really scared; the lamp seems to be burning dim and the last coalhas gone out. Is it some restless spirit, so unhappy that it must moanout its weary plaint? I ought to be brave and go at once and look boldlydown the cellar stairs and draw aside that waving <i>portière</i>. Oh, dear!If I only had some one to go with me and hold a light and--there itis--the third time. Courage vanished. It might be some dreadful tramphiding and trying to drive me up-stairs, so he could get the silver, andhe would gladly murder me for ten cents--

"Tom, " I cried. "Tom, come here. " But Tom, my six-footer factotum, madeno response. 

I could stand it no longer--the <i>portière</i> seemed fairly alive, and Irushed out to the kitchen where Ellen sat reading the <i>Ledger</i>, deep inthe horrors of The Forsaken Inn. "Ellen, I'm ashamed, but I'm reallyfrightened. I do believe somebody is in that horrid dark room, or in thecellar, and where <i>is</i> Tom?

"Bedad, Miss, and you've frightened the heart right out o' me. It mightbe a ghost, for there are such things (Heaven help us!), and I've seen'em in this country and in dear old Ireland, and so has Tom. "

"You've seen ghosts?"

"Yes, indeed, Miss, but I've never spoke to any, for you've no right tospeak to a ghost, and if you do you will surely die. " Tom now came inand soon satisfied me that there was no living thing in the darkness, soI sat down and listened to Ellen's experiences with ghosts. 

THE FORMER MRS. WILKES. --"Now this happened in New York city, Miss, inWest 28th Street, and is every word true, for, my dear, I saw it with myown eyes. I went to bed, about half-past nine it was this night, and Iwas lying quietly in bed, looking up to the ceiling; no light on accountof the mosquitoes, and Maud, the little girl I was caring for, a rompingdear of seven or eight, a motherless child, had been tossing aboutrestless like, and her arm was flung over me. All at once I saw a ladystanding by the side of the bed in her night dress and looking earnestlyat the child beyond me. She then came nearer, took Maud's arm off me, and gently straightened her in bed, then stroked her face, bothcheeks--fondly, you know--and then stood and looked at the child. I saidnot a word, but I wasn't one bit afraid for I thought it was a livinglady. I could tell the color of her eyes and hair and just how shelooked every way. In the morning I described her to Mrs. Wilkes, andasked, 'Is there any strange lady in the house?' 'No, Ellen. Why?' shesaid. Then I said: 'Why, there certainly was a pleasant-looking lady inmy room last night, in her night dress, and she patted Maud as if shethought a sight of her. '

"'Why, ' said my mistress, 'that is surely the former Mrs. Wilkes!'

"She said that the older daughter had seen her several times standingbefore her glass, fixing her hair and looking at herself, but if shespoke to her or tried to speak, her mother would take up something andshake it at her. And once when we were going up-stairs together Alicescreamed, and said that her mother was at the top of the stairs and blewher cold breath right down on her. The stepmother started to give herher slipper, but the father pitied her and would not allow her to bewhipped, and said 'I'll go up to bed with you, Alice. '"

"Did you ever see the lady in white again, Ellen?"

"Never, Ma'am, nor did I ever see any other ghost in this country that Iwas sure was a ghost, but--Ireland, dear old Ireland, oh, that's anancient land, and they have both ghosts and fairies and banshees too, and many's the story I've heard over there, and from my own dearmother's lips, and she would not tell a lie (Heaven rest her soul!), andI've seen them myself over there, and so has Tom and his brother too, Miss. Oh, many's the story I could tell!"

"Well, Ellen, let me have one of your own--your very best. " And I wentfor pencil and pad. 

"And are ye going to pin down my story. Well, Miss, if ye take it justas I say, and then fix it proper to be read, they'll like it, for peopleare crazy now to get the true ghost stories of dear old Ireland. O Miss, when you go over, don't forget my native place. It has a real castle anda part of it is haunted, and the master doesn't like to live there--onlycomes once a year or so, for hunting--and the rabbits there are as thickas they can be and the river chuck full of fish, but no one can touchany game, or even take out one fish, or they would be punished. "

"Yes, Ellen it's hard, and all wrong, but we are wandering away fromyour ghosts, and you know I am going to take notes. So begin. "

"Well, Miss, I was a sort of companion or maid to a blind lady in my owntown. I slept in a little room just across the landing from hers, so asto always be within reach of her. I was just going to bed, when shecalled for me to come in and see if there was something in theroom--something alive, she thought, that had been hopping, hopping allaround her bed, and frightened her dreadfully, poor thing, for, youremember, she was stone blind, Miss, which made it worse. So I hurriedin and I shook the curtains, looked behind the bureau and under the bed, and tried everywhere for whatever might be hopping around, but couldfind nothing and heard not a sound. While I was there all was still. Then I went into my room again, and left the door open, as I thoughtMiss Lacy would feel more comfortable about it, and I was hardly in mybed when she called again and screamed out with fear, for It was hoppinground the bed. She said I must go down-stairs and bring a candle. So Ihad to go down-stairs to the pantry all alone and get the candle. ThenI searched as before, but found nothing--not a thing. Well, my dear, Iwent into my room and kept my candle lighted this time. The third timeshe called me she was standing on her pillow, shivering with fright, andbegged me to bring the light. It was sad, because she was stone blind. She told me how It went hopping around the room, with its legs tiedlike. And after looking once more and finding nothing, she said I'd haveto sleep in the bed with her and bring a chair near the bed and put thelighted candle on it. For a long time we kept awake, and watched andlistened, but nothing happened, nothing appeared. We kept awake as longas we could, but at last our eyes grew very heavy, and the lady seemedto feel more easy. So I snuffed out the candle. Out It hopped and kept ajumping on one leg like from one side to the other. We were so muchafraid we covered our faces; we dreaded to see It, so we hid our eyesunder the sheet, and she clung on to me all shaking; she felt worsebecause she was blind. 

"We fell asleep at daylight, and when I told Monk, the butler, he saidit was a corpse, sure--a corpse whose legs had been tied to keep themstraight and the cords had not been taken off, the feet not beingloosened. Why my own dear mother, that's dead many a year (Heaven blessher departed spirit!)--she would never tell a word that was nottrue--she saw a ghost hopping in that way, tied-like, jumping around abed--blue as a blue bag; just after the third day she was buried, and mymother (the Lord bless her soul!) told me the sons went to her grave andloosened the cords and she never came back any more. Isn't it awful?And, bedad, Miss, it's every word true. I can tell you of a young man Iknew who looked into a window at midnight (after he had been playingcards, Miss, gambling with the other boys) and saw something awfulstrange, and was turned by ghosts into a <i>shadow</i>. "

This seemed to be a thrilling theme, such as Hawthorne would have beenable to weave into the weirdest of weird tales, and I said, "Go on. "

"Well, he used to go playing cards about three miles from his home witha lot of young men, for his mother wouldn't have cards played in herhouse, and she thought it was wicked, and begged him not to play. It's ahabit with the young men of Ireland--don't know as it's the same inother countries--and they play for a goose or a chicken. They go to somevacant house to get away from their fathers, they're so against it athome. Why, my brother-in-law used to go often to such a house on theside of a country road. Each man would in turn provide the candles toplay by, and as this house was said to be haunted, bedad they had itall to themselves. Well, this last night that ever they played there--itwas Tom's own brother that told me this--just as they were going to dealthe cards, a tall gentleman came out from a room that had been thekitchen. He walked right up to them--he was dressed in black clothclothes, and wore a high black hat--and came right between two of themen and told them to deal out the cards. They were too frightened evento speak, so the stranger took the cards himself and dealt around toeach man. And afterward he played with them; then he looked at every manin turn and walked out of the room. As soon as he cleared out of theplace, the men all went away as quick as ever they could, and didn'tstop to put out the lights. Each man cleared with himself and neverstopped to look behind. And no one cared to play cards in that houseafterward any more. That was Tom's own brother; and now the poor youngman who was going home at midnight saw a light in one of the houses bythe road, so he turned toward it, thinking to light his pipe. Justbefore knocking, he looked in at the window. As soon as he peeped in thelight went out on him, and still he could see crowds of people, as thickas grass, just as you see 'em at a fair--so thick they hadn't room tostand--and they kept swaying back and forth, courtesying like. Thekitchen was full, and looking through a door he saw a lot more of fineladies and gentlemen; they were laughing and having great fun, runninground the table setting out cups and saucers, just as if they werehaving a ball. Just then a big side-board fell over with a great crash, and all the fine people scampered away, and all was dark. So he turnedaway on his heel and was so frightened, his mother said, he could hardlyget home from fear, and he had three whole miles to go. Next day he wasthrashing corn in the barn and something upset him and pitched him headforemost across the flail. He rose, and three times he was pitched likethat across the flail, so he gave up and went home. His mother askedhim: 'Johnny, what is the matter with you? You do look very bad!' So heup and told her what had happened to him in the barn, and what he sawthe night before. And he took suddenly sick and had to keep his bed fornine weeks, and when he got up and was walking around, he wasn't himselfany more, and the sister says to the mother: 'Mother, I'm sure that itisn't Johnny that's there. It's only his shadow, for when I look at him, it isn't his features or face, but the face of another thing. He used tobe so pleasant and cheerful, but now he looks like quite another man. Mother, ' said she, 'we haven't Johnny at all. ' Soon he got a littlestronger and went to the capital town with corn. Several other men wentalso to get their corn ground. They were all coming home together a verycold night, and the men got up and sat on their sacks of corn. The otherhorses walked on all right with them, but Johnny's horses wouldn't move, not one step while he was on top of the load. Well, my dear, he calledfor the rest to come and help him--to see if the horses would go forthem. But they would not move one step, though they whipped them andshouted at them to start on, for Johnny he was as heavy as lead. And hehad to get down. Soon as he got down, the horses seemed glad and wentoff on a gallop after the rest of the train. So they all went offtogether, and Johnny wandered away into the bogs. His friends supposed, of course, he was coming on, thought he was walking beside his load; thesnow was falling down, and perhaps they were a little afraid. He wasleft behind. They scoured the country for him next day, and, bedad, theyfound him, stiff dead, sitting against a fence. There's where they foundhim. They brought him on a door to his mother. Oh, it was a sad thing tosee--to see her cry and hear her mourn!"

"And what more?" I asked. 

"That's all. He was waked and buried, and that's what he got for playingcards! And that's all as true as ever could be true, for it's myselfknew the old mother, and she told me it her very self, and she criedmany tears for her son. "

CHAPTER VII. 

DAILY DISTRACTIONS. 

 But the sheep shearing came, and the hay season next, and then the harvest of small corn ... Then the sweating of the apples, and the turning of the cider mill and the stacking of the firewood, and netting of the wood-cocks, and the springes to be mended in the garden and by the hedgerows, where the blackbirds hop to the molehills in the white October mornings and gray birds come to look for snails at the time when the sun is rising. It is wonderful how Time runs away when all these things, and a great many others, come in to load him down the hill, and prevent him from stopping to look about. And I, for my part, can never conceive how people who live in towns and cities, where neither lambs nor birds are (except in some shop windows), nor growing corn, nor meadow grass, nor even so much as a stick to cut, or a stile to climb and sit down upon--how these poor folk get through their lives without being utterly weary of them, and dying from pure indolence, is a thing God only knows, if his mercy allows him to think of it. 

 LORNA DOONE. 

A farm-house looks on the outside like a quiet place. No men are seenabout, front windows are closely shaded, front door locked. Go round tothe back door; nobody seems to be at home. If by chance you do find, after long bruising of knuckles, that you have roused an inmate, it issome withered, sad-faced old dame, who is indifferent and hopelesslydeaf, or a bare-footed, stupid urchin, who stares as if you had droppedfrom another planet, and a cool "Dunno" is the sole response to allinquiries. 

All seems at a dead standstill. In reality everything and everybody isgoing at full speed, transpiring and perspiring to such a degree that, like a swiftly whirling top, it does not appear to move. 

Friends think of me as not living, but simply existing, and marvel thatI can endure such monotony. On the contrary, I live in a constant stateof excitement, hurry, and necessity for immediate action. 

The cows were continually getting out of pasture and into the corn; thepigs, like the chickens, evinced decided preference for the garden. Thehorse would break his halter and dart down the street, or, if inpasture, would leap the barbed-wire fence, at the risk of laming hislegs for life, and dash into a neighbor's yard where children and babieswere sunning on the grass. 

Rival butchers and bakers would drive up simultaneously from differentdirections and plead for patronage and instant attention. 

The vegetables must be gathered and carried to market; every animal wasravenously hungry at all hours, and didn't hesitate to speak of it. Themagnificent peacock would wander off two miles, choosing the railroadtrack for his rambles, and loved to light on Si Evans's barn; then a boymust be detailed to recover the prize bird, said boy depending on areward. His modest-hued consort would seek the deep hedges back of adistant swamp. 

Friends would come from a distance to surprise and cheer me in my lonelyretreat just at the time that the butter must positively be made, whilethe flowers were choking for water, smothered with weeds, "pus'ley, " ofcourse, pre-eminent. Then a book agent would appear, blind, but doublypersistent, with a five-dollar illustrated volume recounting minutelythe Johnstown horror. And one of my dogs would be apt at this crisis topursue and slay a chicken or poison himself with fly-paper. Everylaboring man for miles around would come with an air of great importanceto confidentially warn me against every other man that could beemployed, with the stereotyped phrase in closing: "Well, whatever youdo" (as if I might be left to do anything) "don't hire John Smallpate orBill Storer. I've known him, man and boy, for thirty years; you'll dowell not to trust <i>him</i>!"

Yet these same men who had so villified each other could be seen nightlylounging in front of the grocery, discussing politics and spitting insweet unison. 

The general animosity of my entire family to each other caused constantinterruptions. 

"Sandy, " the handsome setter, loathed the pug, and tried to bite hisneck in a fatal way. He also chased the rabbits, trod on young turkeysso that they were no more, drove the cat out of the barn and up a tree, barked madly at the cows, enraging those placid animals, and doted onfrightening the horse. 

The cat allowed mice to roam merrily through the grain bins, preferringrobins and sparrows, especially young and happy mothers, to a properdiet; was fond of watching the chickens with wicked, malicious, greedy, dangerous eyes, and was always ready to make a sly spring for mycanaries. 

The rabbits (pretty innocent little creatures I had thought them, as Igazed at their representatives of white canton flannel, solidly stuffed, with such charming eyes of pink beads) girded all my young trees andkilled them before I dreamed of such mischief, nibbled at every tendersprout, every swelling bud, were so agile that they could not becaptured, and became such a maddening nuisance that I hired a boy totake them away. I fully understand the recent excitement of theAustralians over the rabbit scourge which threatened to devastate theirland. 

The relations were strained between my cows; mother and daughter of anoble line; they always fed at opposite corners of the field, indulgingin serious fights when they met. 

My doves! I am almost ready to say that they were more annoying thanall the rest of my motley collection, picked all seeds out of the groundfaster than they could be put in, so large spaces sowed with rye laybare all summer, and ate most of the corn and grain that was intended tofatten and stimulate my fowls. 

Doves are poetical and pleasing, pigeons ditto--in literature, and at asafe distance from one's own barn. It's a pretty sight at sunset on asummer's eve to see them poising, wheeling, swirling, round a neighbor'sbarn. Their rainbow hues gleam brightly in the sun as they preen theirfeathers or gently "coo-oo, I love oo, " on the ridge pole. I alwayslonged to own some, but now the illusion is past. They have been admiredand petted for ages, consecrated as emblems of innocence and peace andsanctity, regarded as almost sacred from the earliest antiquity. Theyhave been idealized and praised from Noah to Anacreon, both inclined toinebriety! But in reality they are a dirty, destructive, greedy lot, andthough fanciers sell them at high prices, they only command twenty-fivecents per pair when sold for the market!

The hens lost half their feathers, often an eye, occasionally a life, indeadly feuds. My spunky little bantam game cock was always challengingone of my monster roosters and laying him low, so he had to be sentaway. 

John, my eccentric assistant, could abide no possible rival, insultedevery man engaged to help him, occasionally indulging in a free fightafter too frequent visits to the cider barrels of my next neighbor, sohe had to follow the bantam. 

Another distress was the constant calls of natives with the mostundesirable things for me to buy; two or three calls daily for a longtime. Boys with eager, ingenuous faces bringing carrier pigeons--prettycreatures--and I had been told there was money in pigeons. I paid themextortionate prices on account of extreme ignorance; and the birds, ofcourse, flew home as soon as released, to be bought again by somegullible amateur. I had omitted to secure the names and addresses ofthese guileless lads. 

A sandy-haired, lisping child with chronic catarrh offered me a lot ofpet <i>rats</i>!

"I hear you like pets, " she said, "Well, I've got some tame rats, afather and mother and thirteen little ones, and a mother with four. They're orful cunning. Hope you'll take 'em. "

A big, red-faced, black-bearded, and determined man drove one day intothe yard with an immense wagon, in which was standing a stupid, viciousold goat, and almost insisted on leaving it at a most ridiculously highprice. 

"Heard that the woman that had come to live here wanted most everyanimal that Noah got into the ark; was sure she'd like a goat. " It waswith considerable difficulty that he could be induced to take it away. 

Dogs, dogs, dogs--from mastiff to mongrel, from St. Bernard to toypoodle--the yard really swarmed with them just before the first of May, when dog taxes must be paid!

A crow that could talk, but rather objectionably, was offered me. 

A pert little boy, surrounded by his equally pert mates, said, aftercoming uninvited to look over my assortment: "Got most everything, hain't ye? Got a monkey?"

Then his satellites all giggled. 

"No, not yet. Will not <i>you</i> come in?"

Second giggle, less hearty. 

A superannuated clergyman walked three miles and a quarter in a heavyrain, minus umbrella, to bring me a large and common pitcher, badlycracked and of no original value; heard I was collecting old china. Then, after making a long call, drew out a tiny package from his vestpocket and offered for sale two time-worn cheap rings taken from hismother's dead hand. They were mere ghosts of rings that had once meantso much of joy or sorrow, pathetic souvenirs, one would think, to aloving son. He would also sell me his late father's old sermons for agood sum!

This reminded me of Sydney Smith's remark to an old lady who was sorelyafflicted with insomnia: "Have you ever tried one of my sermons?"

Perhaps I have said enough to prove that life in a bucolic solitude maybe something more varied than is generally--don't let that old peddlercome into the house, say we want nothing, and then tell the ladies I'llbe down directly--and, O <i>Ellen</i>, call Tom! Those ducks are devouringhis new cabbage-plants and one of the calves has got over the stone walland--what?

"He's gone to Dog Corner for the cow-doctor. "

--Yes, more varied than is generally supposed!

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE PROSE OF NEW ENGLAND FARM LIFE

 A life whose parlors have always been closed. 

 IK MARVEL. 

 Sunshine is tabooed in the front room of the house. The "damp dignity" of the best-room has been well described: "Musty smells, stiffness, angles, absence of sunlight. What is there to talk about in a room dark as the Domdaniel, except where one crack in a reluctant shutter reveals a stand of wax flowers under glass, and a dimly descried hostess who evidently waits only your departure to extinguish that solitary ray?"

At a recent auction I obtained twenty-one volumes of State AgriculturalReports for seventeen cents; and what I read in them of the Advantagesof Rural Pursuits, The Dignity of Labor, The Relation of Agriculture toLongevity and to Nations, and, above all, of the Golden Egg, seemdecidedly florid, unpractical, misleading, and very little permanentpopularity can be gained by such self-interested buncombe from theseeloquent orators. 

The idealized farmer, as he is depicted by these white-handedrhetoricians who, like John Paul, "would never lay hand to a plow, unless said plow should actually pursue him to a second story, and thenlay hands on it only to throw it out of the window, " and the phlegmatic, overworked, horny-handed tillers of the soil are no more alike thanFenimore Cooper's handsome, romantic, noble, and impressive red man ofthe forest and the actual Sioux or Apache, as regarded by the cowboy ofthe West. 

It's all work, with no play and no proper pay, for Western competitionnow prevents all chance of decent profits. Little can be laid up for oldage, except by the most painful economy and daily scrimping; and howcan the children consent to stay on, starving body and soul? <i>That</i>explains the 3, 318 abandoned farms in Maine at present. And the farmers'wives! what monotonous, treadmill lives! Constant toil with no wages, noallowance, no pocket money, no vacations, no pleasure trips to the citynearest them, little of the pleasures of correspondence; no time towrite, unless a near relative is dead or dying. Some one says that theironly chance for social life is in going to some insane asylum! Therehave been four cases of suicide in farmers' families near me withineighteen months. 

This does not apply to the fortunate farmer who inherited money and isshrewd enough to keep and increase it. Nor to the market gardener, whoraises vegetables under glass; nor to the owners of large nurseries. These do make a good living, and are also able to save something. 

In general, it is all one steady rush of work from March to November;unceasing, uncomplaining activity for the barest support, followed bythree months of hibernation and caring for the cattle. Horace Greeleysaid: "If our most energetic farmers would abstract ten hours each perweek from their incessant drudgery and devote them to reading andreflection in regard to their noble calling, they would live to a betterpurpose and bequeath better examples to their children. "

It may have been true long years ago that no shares, factory, bank, orrailroad paid better dividends than the plowshare, but it is the veriestnonsense now. 

Think of the New England climate in summer. Rufus Choate describes iteloquently: "Take the climate of New England in summer, hot to-day, coldto-morrow, mercury at eighty degrees in the shade in the morning, with asultry wind southwest. In three hours more a sea turn, wind at east, athick fog from the bottom of the ocean, and a fall of forty degrees. Nowso dry as to kill all the beans in New Hampshire, then floods carryingoff all the dams and bridges on the Penobscot and Androscoggin. Snow inPortsmouth in July, and the next day a man and a yoke of oxen killed bylightning in Rhode Island. You would think the world was coming to anend. But we go along. Seed time and harvest never fail. We have theearly and the latter rains; the sixty days of hot corn weather arepretty sure to be measured out to us; the Indian summer, with its blandsouth winds and mitigated sunshine, brings all up, and about the 25th ofNovember, being Thursday, a grateful people gather about theThanksgiving board, with hearts full of gratitude for the blessings thathave been vouchsafed to them. "

Poets love to sing of the sympathy of Nature. I think she is decidedlyat odds with the farming interests of the country. At any rate, herantipathy to me was something intense and personal. That mysteriousstepmother of ours was really riled by my experiments and determined tocircumvent every agricultural ambition. 

She detailed a bug for every root, worms to build nests on every tree, others to devour every leaf, insects to attack every flower, drought ordeluge to ruin the crops, grasshoppers to finish everything that wasleft. 

Potato bugs swooped down on my fields by tens of thousands, and whensomewhat thinned in ranks by my unceasing war, would be re-enforced froma neighbor's fields, once actually fording my lakelet to get to myprecious potato patch. The number and variety of devouring pestsconnected with each vegetable are alarming. Here are a few connectedclosely with the homely cabbage, as given by a noted helminthologistunder the head of "Cut-worms":

"Granulated, " "shagreened, " "white, " "marked, " "greasy, " "glassy, ""speckled, " "variegated, " "wavy, " "striped, " "harlequin, " "imbricated, ""tarnished. " The "snout beetle" is also a deadly foe. 

To realize this horror, this worse than Pharaoh plague, you must eithertry a season of farming or peruse octavo volumes on Insects injurious toVegetation, fully illustrated. 

In those you may gain a faint idea of the "skippers, " "stingers, ""soothsayers, " "walking sticks or specters, " "saw flies and slugs, ""boring caterpillars, " "horn-tailed wood wasps, " etc. , etc. , etc. , etc. , etc. --a never-ending list. The average absolute loss of the farmers ofthis country from such pests is fully one million dollars per annum. 

Gail Hamilton said of her squashes:

"They appeared above-ground, large-lobed and vigorous. Large andvigorous appeared the bugs, all gleaming in green and gold, like thewolf on the fold, and stopped up all the stomata and ate up all theparenchyma, till my squash-leaves looked as if they had grown for thesole purpose of illustrating net-veined organizations. A universal bugdoes not indicate a special want of skill in any one. "

Not liking to crush the bug between thumb and finger as advised, shetried drowning them. She says: "The moment they touched the water theyall spread unseen wings and flew away. I should not have been much moresurprised to see Halicarnassus soaring over the ridge pole. I had notthe slightest idea they could fly. "

Then the aphides! Exhausters of strength--vine fretters--plantdestroyers! One aphis, often the progenitor of over five thousandmillion aphides in a single season. This seems understated, but I acceptit as the aphidavit of another noted helminthologist. I might haveimagined Nature had a special grudge against me if I had not recalledEmerson's experience. He says: "With brow bent, with firm intent, I gomusing in the garden walk. I stoop to pick up a weed that is choking thecorn, find there were two; close behind is a third, and I reach out myarm to a fourth; behind that there are four thousand and one!

"Rose bugs and wasps appear best when flying. I admired them most whenflying away from my garden. "

Horace Greeley said that "No man who harbors caterpillars has any moralright to apples. " But one sees whole orchards destroyed in this way forlack of time to attack such a big job. Farmers have been unjustlyattacked by city critics who do not understand the situation. There wasmuch fine writing last year in regard to the sin and shame of cuttingdown the pretty, wild growth of shrubs, vines, and flowers along thewayside, so picturesque to the summer tourist. The tangle of wild grape, clematis, and woodbine is certainly pretty, but underneath is sure to befound a luxuriant growth of thistle, wild carrot, silk weed, mullein, chickweed, tansy, and plantain, which, if allowed to seed anddisseminate themselves, would soon ruin the best farms. There is adeadly foe, an army of foes, hiding under these luxuriant festoons andmasses of cheerful flowers. 

Isn't it strange and sad and pitiful, that it is the summer guest whoalone enjoys the delights of summering in the country? There is no timefor rest, for recreation, for flowers, for outdoor pleasures, for theaverage farmer and his family. You seldom see any bright faces at thewindows, which are seldom opened--only a glimpse here and there of asad, haggard creature, peering out for curosity. Strange would it be tohear peals of merry laughter; stranger still to see a family enjoying ameal on the piazza or a game on the grass. As for flowers, they arevalued no more than weeds; the names of the most common are unknown. Iasked in vain a dozen people last summer, what that flower was called, pointing to the ubiquitous Joe Rye weed or pink motherwort. At last Iasked one man, who affected to know everything--

"Oh, yes, I know it. "

"What is it?" I persisted. 

"Well, I know it just as well, but can't just now get the name out. " Apause, then, with great superiority: "I'd rather see a potato field infull bloom, than all the flowers in the world. "

Perhaps some of Tolstoi's disciples may yet solve the problem of NewEngland's abandoned farms. He believes that every able-bodied man shouldlabor with his own hands and in "the sweat of his brow" to produce hisown living direct from the soil. He dignifies agriculture above allother means of earning a living, and would have artificial employmentsgiven up. "Back to the land, " he cries; and back he really goes, dailyworking with the peasants. But 'tis a solemn, almost tragicalexperience, not much better than the fate of the Siberian exile. Rise atdawn; work till dark; eat--go to bed too tired to read a paper;--and nomoney in it. 

Let these once prosperous farms be given up to Swedish colonies, hardworking and industrious, who can do better here than in their owncountry and have plenty of social life among themselves, or let wealthymen purchase half a dozen of these places to make a park, or two scorefor a hunting ground--or let unattached women of middle age occupy themand support themselves by raising poultry. Men are making handsomeincomes from this business--women can do the same. The language of thepoultry magazines, by the way, is equally sentimental and efflorescentwith that of the speeches at agricultural fairs, sufficiently so tosicken one who has once accepted it as reliable, as for instance: "Theindividual must be very abnormal in his tastes if they can not becatered to by our feathered tribe. " "To their owner they are a thing ofbeauty and a joy forever. Their ways are interesting, their languagefascinating, and their lives from the egg to the mature fowl repletewith constant surprises. "[1]

[Footnote 1: This clause is true. ]

"To simply watch them as they pass from stage to stage of developmentfills the mind of every sane person with pleasure. " One poultry crankinsists that each hen must be so carefully studied that she can beunderstood and managed as an individual, and speaks of his hens havingat times an "anxious nervous expression!"

"Yes, it is where the hens sing all the day long in the barn-yard thatthrows off the stiff ways of our modern civilization and makes us feelthat we are home and can rest and play and grow young once more. Howmany men and women have regained lost health and spirits in keepinghens, in the excitement of finding and gathering eggs!"

"It is not the natural laying season when snows lie deep on field andhill, when the frost tingles in sparkling beads from every twig, whenthe clear streams bear up groups of merry skaters, " etc. 

After my pathetic experience with chickens, who after a few days ofdowny content grew ill, and gasped until they gave up the ghost;ducklings, who progressed finely for several weeks, then turned over ontheir backs and flopped helplessly unto the end; or, surviving thatcritical period, were found in the drinking trough, "drowned, dead, because they couldn't keep their heads above water"; turkeys whoflourished to a certain age, then grew feeble and phantom-like and fadedout of life, I weary of gallinaceous rhodomontade, and crave "pointers"for my actual needs. 

I still read "Crankin's" circulars with a thrill of enthusiasm becausehis facts are so cheering. For instance, from his latest: "We have somesix thousand ducklings out now, confined in yards with wire nettingeighteen inches high. The first lot went to market May 10th and nettedforty cents per pound. These ducklings were ten weeks old and dressed onan average eleven pounds per pair. One pair dressed fourteen pounds. "Isn't that better than selling milk at two and a half cents per quart?And no money can be made on vegetables unless they are raised underglass in advance of the season. I know, for did I not begin with "pieplant, " with which every market was glutted, at one cent per pound, andtry the entire list, with disgustingly low prices, exposed to depressingcomparison and criticism? When endeavoring to sell, one of the visitingbutchers, in reply to my petition that he would buy some of myvegetables, said: "Well now, Marm, you see just how it is; I've gotmore'n I can sell now, and women keep offering more all the way along. Itell 'em I can't buy 'em, but I'll <i>haul 'em off for ye</i> if ye want toget rid of 'em!" So much for market gardening at a distance from citydemands. 

But ducks! Sydney Smith, at the close of his life, said he "had but oneillusion left, and that was the Archbishop of Canterbury. " I stillbelieve in Crankin and duck raising. Let me see: "One pair dressedfourteen pounds, netted forty cents per pound. " I'll order one ofCrankin's "Monarch" incubators and begin a poultry farm anew. 

"<i>Dido et dux</i>, " and so do Boston epicures. I'll sell at private sales, not for hotels! I used to imagine myself supplying one of the largehotels and saw on the <i>menu</i>:

"Tame duck and apple sauce (from the famous 'Breezy Meadows' farm). " ButI inquired of one of the proprietors what he would give, and "fifteencents per pound for poultry dressed and delivered" gave me a combinedattack of chills and hysterics. 

Think of <i>my</i> chickens, from those prize hens (three dollars each)--<i>my</i>chickens, fed on eggs hard boiled, milk, Indian meal, cracked corn, sun-flower seed, oats, buckwheat, the best of bread, selling at fifteencents per pound, and I to pay express charges! Is there, is there any"money in hens?"

To show how a child would revel in a little rational enjoyment on afarm, read this dear little poem of James Whitcomb Riley's:

 AT AUNTY'S HOUSE. 

 One time when we's at aunty's house-- 'Way in the country--where They's ist but woods and pigs and cows, An' all's outdoors and air! An orchurd swing; an' churry trees, An' <i>churries</i> in 'em! Yes, an' these Here red-head birds steal all they please An' tech 'em if you dare! W'y wunst, one time when we wuz there, <i>We et out on the porch!</i>

 Wite where the cellar door wuz shut The table wuz; an' I Let aunty set by me an' cut My wittles up--an' pie. Tuz awful funny! I could see The red heads in the churry tree; An' bee-hives, where you got to be So keerful going by; An' comp'ny there an' all! An' we-- <i>We et out on the porch!</i>

 An'--I ist et <i>p'surves</i> an' things 'At ma don't 'low me to-- An' chickun gizzurds (don't like wings Like parunts does, do you?) An' all the time the wind blowed there An' I could feel it in my hair, An' ist smell clover ever'where! An' a old red head flew Purt' nigh wite over my high chair, <i>When we et out on the porch!</i>

CHAPTER IX. 

THE PASSING OF THE PEACOCKS. 

 I would rather look at a peacock than eat him. The feathers of an angel and the voice of a devil. 

The story of this farm would not be complete without a brief rehearsalof my experiences, exciting, varied, and tragic, resulting from thepurchase of a magnificent pair of peacocks. 

My honest intention on leasing my forty-dollars-a-year paradise wassimply to occupy the quaint old house for a season or two as a relieffrom the usual summer wanderings. I would plant nothing but a few hardyflowers of the old-fashioned kind--an economical and prolonged picnic. In this way I could easily save in three years sufficient funds to makea grand <i>tour du monde</i>. 

<i>That was my plan!</i>

For some weeks I carried out this resolution, until an event occurred, which changed the entire current of thought, and transformed a quiet, rural retreat into a scene of frantic activity and gigantic undertaking. 

In the early summer I attended a poultry show at Rooster, Mass. , and, ina moment of impulsive enthusiasm, was so foolish as to pause and admireand long for a prize peacock, until I was fairly and hopelesslyhypnotized by its brilliant plumage. 

I reasoned: Anybody can keep hens, "me and Crankin" can raise ducks, geese thrive naturally with me, but a peacock is a rare and gloriouspossession. The proud scenes he is associated with in mythology, history, and art rushed through my mind with whirlwind rapidity as Istood debating the question. The favorite bird of Juno--she called themetallic spots on its tail the eyes of Argus--imported by Solomon toPalestine, essentially regal. Kings have used peacocks as their crests, have worn crowns of their feathers. Queens and princesses have flirtedgorgeous peacock fans; the pavan, a favorite dance in the days of Louisle Grand, imitated its stately step. In the days of chivalry the mostsolemn oath was taken on the peacock's body, roasted whole and adornedwith its gay feathers, as Shallow swore "by cock and pie. " I saw thefairest of all the fair dames at a grand mediaeval banquet proudlybearing the bird to the table. The woman who hesitates is lost. I boughtthe pair, and ordered them boxed for "Breezy Meadows. "

On the arrival of the royal pair at my 'umble home, all its surroundingsbegan to lose the charm of rustic simplicity, and appear shabby, inappropriate, and unendurable. It became evident that the entire placemust be raised, and at once, to the level of those peacocks. 

The house and barn were painted (colonial yellow) without a moment'sdelay. An ornamental piazza was added, all the paths were broadened andgraveled, and even terraces were dreamed of, as I recalled the terraceswhere Lord Beaconsfield's peacocks used to sun themselves and displaytheir beauties--Queen Victoria now has a screen made of their feathers. 

My expensive pets felt their degradation in spite of my best efforts anddetermined to sever their connection with such a plebeian place. 

Beauty (I ought to have called him Absalom or Alcibiades), as soon aslet out of his traveling box, displayed to an admiring crowd a tail solong it might be called a "serial, " gave one contemptuous glance at thepremises, and departed so rapidly, by running and occasional flights, that three men and a boy were unable to catch up with him for severalhours. Belle was not allowed her liberty, as we saw more trouble ahead. A large yard, inclosed top and sides with wire netting, at lastrestrained their roving ambition. But they were not happy. Peacocksdisdain a "roost" and seek the top of some tall tree; they are alsorovers by nature and hate confinement. They pined and failed, and seemedslowly dying; so I had to let them out. Total cost of peacock hunts bythe boys of the village, $11. 33. I found that Beauty was happy only whenadmiring himself, or deep in mischief. His chief delight was to mountthe stone wall, and utter his raucous note, again and again, as acarriage passed, often scaring the horses into dangerous antics, andcausing severe, if not profane criticism. Or he would steal slyly into aneighbor's barn and kill half a dozen chickens at a time. He was awakeevery morning by four o'clock, and would announce the glories of thecoming dawn by a series of ear-splitting notes, disturbing not only allmy guests, but the various families within range, until complaints andpetitions were sent in. He became a nuisance--but how could he bemuzzled?

And he was so gloriously handsome! Visitors from town would comeexpressly to see him. School children would troop into my yard onSaturday afternoons, "to see the peacock spread his tail, " which heoften capriciously refused to do. As soon as they departed, somewhatdisappointed in "my great moral show, " Beauty would go to a large windowon the ground floor of the barn and parade up and down, displaying hisbeauties for his own gratification. At last he fancied he saw a rival inthis brilliant, irridescent reflection and pecked fiercely at the glass, breaking several panes. 

Utterly selfish, he would keep all dainty bits for himself, leaving thescraps for his devoted mate, who would wait meekly to eat what he choseto leave. She made up for this wifely self-abnegation by frequenting thehen houses. She would watch patiently by the side of a hen on her nest, and as soon as an egg was deposited, would remove it for her luncheon. She liked raw eggs, and six were her usual limit. 

There is a deal of something closely akin to human nature in barn-yardfowls. It was irresistibly ludicrous to see the peacock strutting aboutin the sunshine, his tail expanded in fullest glory, making a curiousrattle of triumph as he paraded, while my large white Holland turkeygobbler, who had been molting severely and was almost denuded as to tailfeathers, would attempt to emulate his display, and would follow himclosely, his wattles swelling and reddening with fancied success, making all this fuss about what had been a fine array, but now wasreduced to five scrubby, ragged, very dirty remnants of feathers. Hefancied himself equally fine, and was therefore equally happy. 

Next came the molting period. 

Pliny said long ago of the peacock: "When he hath lost his taile, hehath no delight to come abroad, " but I knew nothing of this peculiarity, supposing that a peacock's tail, once grown, was a permanent ornament. On the contrary, if a peacock should live one hundred and twenty years(and his longevity is something phenomenal) he would have one hundredand seventeen new and interesting tails--enough to start a circulatinglibrary. Yes, Beauty's pride and mine had a sad fall as one by one thelong plumes were dropped in road and field and garden. He should havebeen caught and confined, and the feathers, all loose at once, shouldhave been pulled out at one big pull and saved intact for fans and dustbrushes, and adornment of mirrors and fire-places. Soon every one wasgone, and the mortified creature now hid away in the corn, and behindshrubbery, disappearing entirely from view, save as hunger necessitateda brief emerging. 

This tailless absentee was not what I had bought as the champion prizewinner. And Belle, after laying four eggs, refused to set. But I putthem under a turkey, and, to console myself and re-enforce my positionas an owner of peacocks, I began to study peacock lore and literature. Iread once more of the throne of the greatest of all the moguls at Delhi, India. 

"The under part of the canopy is embroidered with pearls and diamonds, with a fringe of pearls round about. On the top of the canopy, which ismade like an arch with four panes, stands a peacock with his tailspread, consisting all of sapphires and other proper-colored stones;the body is of beaten gold enchased with several jewels, and a greatruby upon his breast, at which hangs a pearl that weighs fifty carats. On each side of the peacock stand two nosegays as high as the bird, consisting of several sorts of flowers, all of beaten gold enameled. When the king seats himself upon the throne, there is a transparentjewel with a diamond appendant, of eighty or ninety carats, encompassedwith rubies and emeralds, so hung that it is always in his eye. Thetwelve pillars also that support the canopy are set with rows of fairpearls, round, and of an excellent water, that weigh from six to tencarats apiece. At the distance of four feet upon each side of the throneare placed two parasols or umbrellas, the handles whereof are abouteight feet high, covered with diamonds; the parasols themselves are ofcrimson velvet, embroidered and stringed with pearls. " This is thefamous throne which Tamerlane began and Shah Jahan finished, which isreally reported to have cost a hundred and sixty million five hundredthousand livres (thirty-two million one hundred thousand dollars). 

I also gloated over the description of that famous London dining-room, known to the art world as the "Peacock Room, " designed by Whistler. Panels to the right and left represent peacocks with their tails spreadfan-wise, advancing in perspective toward the spectator, one behind theother, the peacocks in gold and the ground in blue. 

I could not go so extensively into interior decoration, and my mania formaking the outside of the house and the grounds highly decorative hadreceived a severe lesson in the verdict, overheard by me, as I stood inthe garden, made by a gawky country couple who were out for a Sundaydrive. 

As Warner once said to me, "young love in the country is a very solemnthing, " and this shy, serious pair slowed up as they passed, to see myplace. The piazza was gay with hanging baskets, vines, strings of beadsand bells, lanterns of all hues; there were tables, little and big, andlounging chairs and a hammock and two canaries. The brightest geraniumsblossomed in small beds through the grass, and several long flower bedswere one brilliant mass of bloom, while giant sun-flowers reared theirgolden heads the entire length of the farm. 

It was gay, but I had hoped to please Beauty. 

"What is that?" said the girl, straining her head out of the carriage. 

"Don't know, " said the youth, "guess it's a store. "

The girl scrutinized the scene as a whole, and said decisively:

"No, 'taint, Bill--it's a saloon!"

That was a cruel blow! I forgot my flowers, walked in slowly and sadlyand carried in two lanterns to store in the shed chamber. I alsoresolved to have no more flower beds in front of the house, star shapedor diamond--they must all be sodded over. 

That opinion of my earnest efforts to effect a renaissance atGooseville--to show how a happy farm home should look to thepasser-by--in short, my struggle to "live up to" the peacocks revealed, as does a lightning flash on a dark night, much that I had notperceived. I had made as great a mistake as the farmer who abjuresflowers and despises "fixin' up. "

The pendulum of emotion swung as far back, and I almost disliked theinnocent cause of my decorative folly. I began to look over my accounts, to study my check books, to do some big sums in addition, and it made meeven more depressed. Result of these mental exercises as follows: Rent, $40 per year; incidental expenses to date, $5, 713. 85. Was there any goodin this silly investment of mine? Well, if it came to the very worst, Icould kill the couple and have a rare dish. Yet Horace did not think itsflesh equal to an ordinary chicken. He wrote:

 I shall ne'er prevail To make our men of taste a pullet choose, And the gay peacock with its train refuse. For the rare bird at mighty price is sold, And lo! What wonders from its tail unfold! But can these whims a higher gusto raise Unless you eat the plumage that you praise? Or do its glories when 'tis boiled remain? No; 'tis the unequaled beauty of its train, Deludes your eye and charms you to the feast, For hens and peacocks are alike in taste. 

Then peacocks have been made useful in a medicinal way. The doctors onceprescribed peacock broth for pleurisy, peacocks' tongues for epilepsy, peacocks' fat for colic, peacocks' galls for weak eyes, peahens' eggsfor gout. 

It is always darkest just before dawn, and only a week from thathumiliating Sunday episode I was called by my gardener to look at thedearest little brown something that was darting about in the poultryyard. It was a baby peacock, only one day old. He got out of the nest insome way, and preferred to take care of himself. How independent, howcaptivating he was! As not one other egg had hatched, he was lamentably, desperately alone, with dangers on every side, "homeless andorphanless. " Something on that Sabbath morning recalled Melchizedec, thepriest without father or mother, of royal descent, and of great lengthof days. Earnestly hoping for longevity for this feathered mite ofprincely birth, I called him "Melchizedec. "

I caught him and was in his toils. He was a tiny tyrant; I was but aslave, an attendant, a nurse, a night-watcher. Completely under hisclaw!

No more work, no more leisure, no more music or tennis; my life career, my sphere, was definitely settled. I was Kizzie's attendant--nothingmore. People have cared for rather odd pets, as the leeches tamed andtrained by Lord Erskine; others have been deeply interested in toads, crickets, mice, lizards, alligators, tortoises, and monkeys. Wolsey wason familiar terms with a venerable carp; Clive owned a pet tortoise; SirJohn Lubbock contrived to win the affections of a Syrian wasp; CharlesDudley Warner devoted an entire article in the Atlantic Monthly to thepraises of his cat Calvin; but did you ever hear of a peacock as ahousehold pet?

As it is the correct thing now to lie down all of a summer afternoon, hidden by trees, and closely watch every movement of a pair of littlebirds, or spend hours by a frog pond studying the sluggish life there, and as mothers are urged by scientific students to record daily thedevelopment of their infants in each apparently unimportant matter, Ithink I may be excused for a brief sketch of my charge, for no motherever had a child so precocious, so wise, so willful, so affectionate, sopersistent, as Kizzie <i>at the same age</i>. Before he was three days old, he would follow me like a dog up and down stairs and all over the house, walk behind me as I strolled about the grounds, and when tired, he wouldcry and "peep, weep" for me to sit down. Then he would beg to be takenon my lap, thence he would proceed to my arm, then my neck, where hewould peck and scream and flutter, determined to nestle there for a nap. My solicitude increased as he lived on, and I hoped to "raise" him. Heliterally demanded every moment of my time, my entire attention duringthe day, and, alas! at night also, until I seemed to be living a tragicfarce!

If put down on carpet or matting, he at once began to pick up everythinghe could spy on the floor, and never before did I realize how much couldbe found there. I had a dressmaker in the house, and Kizzie was alwaysgoing for a deadly danger--here a pin, there a needle, just a step awaya tack or a bit of thread or a bead of jet. 

Outdoors it was even worse. With two bird dogs ready for anything butbirds, the pug that had already devoured all that had come to me of myexpensive importations, a neighbor's cat often stealing over to hunt forher dinner, a crisis seemed imminent every minute. Even his own fatherwould destroy him if they met, as the peacock allows no possible rival. And Kizzie kept so close to my heels that I hardly dared step. If mydays were distracting, the nights were inexpressibly awful. I supposedhe would be glad to go to sleep in a natural way after a busy day. No, indeed! He would not stay in box or basket, or anywhere but cradledclose in my neck. There he wished to remain, twittering happily, givingnow and then a sweet, little, tremulous trill, indicative of content, warmth, and drowsiness; if I dared to move ever so little, showing by asharp scratch from his claws that he preferred absolute quiet. Onenight, when all worn out, I rose and put him in a hat box and covered itclosely, but his piercing cries of distress and anger prevented thebriefest nap, reminding me of the old man who said, "Yes, it's prettydangerous livin' anywheres. " I was so afraid of hurting him that Iscarcely dared move. Each night we had a prolonged battle, but he nevergave in for one instant until he could roost on my outstretched fingeror just under my chin. Then he would settle down, the conflict over, heas usual the victor, and the sweet little lullaby would begin. 

One night I rose hastily to close the windows in a sudden shower. Kizziewakened promptly, and actually followed me out of the room anddown-stairs. Alas! it was not far from his breakfast hour, for hepreferred his first meal at four o'clock A. M. You see how he influencedme to rise early and take plenty of exercise. 

I once heard of a wealthy Frenchman, nervous and dyspeptic, who wasordered by his eccentric physician to buy a Barbary ostrich and imitatehim as well as care for him. And he was quickly cured!

On the other hand, it is said that animals and birds grow to be likethose who train and pet them. Christopher North (John Wilson) used tocarry a sparrow in his coat pocket. And his friends averred that thebird grew so large and impressive that it seemed to be changing into an<i>eagle</i>. 

But Kizzie was the stronger influence. I really grew afraid of him, ashe liked to watch my eyes, and once picked at them, as he always pickedat any shining bit. 

What respect I now feel for a sober, steady-going, successful old hen, who raises brood after brood of downy darlings without mishaps! Herinstinct is an inspiration. Kizzie liked to perch on my finger and catchflies for his dinner. How solemn, wise, and bewitching he did look as hesnapped at and swallowed fifteen flies, uttering all the time asatisfied little note, quite distinct from his musical slumber song!

How he enjoyed lying on one side, stretched out at full length, to baskin the sun, a miniature copy of his magnificent father! Very careful washe of his personal appearance, pruning and preening his pretty feathersmany times each day, paying special attention to his tail--not more thanan inch long--but what a prophecy of the future! As mothers care mostfor the most troublesome child, so I grew daily more fond of cute littleKizzie, more anxious that he should live. 

I could talk all day of his funny ways, of his fondness for me, of hisdaily increasing intelligence, of his hair-breadth escapes, etc. 

The old story--the dear gazelle experience came all too soon. 

Completely worn out with my constant vigils, I intrusted him for onenight to a friend who assured me that she was a most quiet sleeper, andthat he could rest safely on her fingers. I was too tired to say no. 

She came to me at daybreak, with poor Kizzie dead in her hands. He diedlike Desdemona, smothered with pillows. All I can do in his honor hasbeen done by this inadequate recital of his charms and his capacity. After a few days of sincere grief I reflected philosophically that if hehad not passed away I must have gone soon, and naturally felt itpreferable that I should be the survivor. 

A skillful taxidermist has preserved as much of Kizzie as possible forme, and he now adorns the parlor mantel, a weak, mute reminder of threeweeks of anxiety. 

And his parents--

The peahen died suddenly and mysteriously. There was no apparent reasonfor her demise, but the autopsy, which revealed a large and irregularfragment of window glass lodged in her gizzard, proved that she was avictim of Beauty's vanity. A friend who was present said, as he tenderlyheld the glass between thumb and finger: "It is now easy to see throughthe cause of her death; under the circumstances, it would be idle tospeak of it as pane-less!" Beauty had never seemed very devoted to her, but he mourned her long and sincerely. Now that she had gone heappreciated her meek adoration, her altruistic devotion. 

Another touch like human nature. 

And when, after a decent period of mourning, another spouse was securedfor him he refused to notice her and wandered solitary and sad to aneighbor's fields. The new madam was not allowed to share the high rooston the elm. She was obliged to seek a less elevated and airy dormitory. His voice, always distressingly harsh, was now so awful that it wasfascinating. The notes seemed cracked by grief or illness. At last, growing feebler, he succumbed to some wasting malady and no longerstrutted about in brilliant pre-eminence or came to the piazza callingimperiously for dainties, but rested for hours in some quiet corner. Thephysician who was called in prescribed for his liver. He showedsymptoms of poisoning, and I began to fear that in his visit to aneighbor's potato fields he had indulged in Paris green, possibly withsuicidal intent. 

There was something heroic in his way of dying. No moans, no cries; justa dignified endurance. From the western window of the shed chamber wherehe lay he could see the multitude of fowls below, in the yards where hehad so lately reigned supreme. Occasionally, with a heroic effort, hewould get on his legs and gaze wistfully on the lively crowd sounmindful of his wretchedness, then sink back exhausted, reminding me ofsome grand old monarch, statesman, or warrior looking for the last timeon the scenes of his former triumphs. I should have named him Socrates. At last he was carried to a cool resting place in the deep grass, covered with pink mosquito netting, and one kind friend after anotherfanned him and watched over his last moments. After he was really dead, and Tom with tears rolling down his face carried him tenderly away, Iwoke from my ambitious dream and felt verily guilty of aviscide. 

But for my vainglorious ambition Beauty would doubtless be alive andresplendent; his consort, modest hued and devoted, at his side, and mybank account would have a better showing. 

There is a motto as follows, "Let him keep peacock to himself, " derivedin this way:

When George III had partly recovered from one of his attacks, hisministers got him to read the king's speech, but he ended every sentencewith the word "peacock. "

The minister who drilled him said that "peacock" was an excellent wordfor ending a sentence, only kings should not let subjects hear it, butshould whisper it softly. 

The result was a perfect success; the pause at the close of eachsentence had such a fine elocutionary effect. 

In future, when longing to indulge in some new display, yield to anothertemptation, let me whisper "peacock" and be saved. 

CHAPTER X. 

LOOKING BACK. 

 Then you seriously suppose, doctor, that gardening is good for the constitution?

 I do. For kings, lords, and commons. Grow your own cabbages. Sow your own turnips, and if you wish for a gray head, cultivate carrots. 

 THOMAS HOOD. 

Conceit is not encouraged in the country. Your level is decided for you, and the public opinion is soon reported as something you should know. 

As a witty spinster once remarked: "It's no use to fib about your age inyour native village. Some old woman always had a calf born the samenight you were!"

Jake Corey was refreshingly frank. He would give me a quizzical look, shift his quid, and begin:

"Spent a sight o' money on hens, hain't ye? Wall, by next year I guessyou'll find out whether ye want to quit foolin' with hens or not. Now, my hens doan't git no condition powder, nor sun-flower seeds, nor nosuch nonsense, and I ain't got no bone cutter nor fancy fountains for'em; but I let 'em scratch for themselves and have their liberty, andmine look full better'n your'n. I'll give ye one p'int. You could save alot by engagin' an old hoss that's got to be killed. I'm allers lookinground in the fall of the year for some old critter just ready to drop. Wait till cold weather, and then, when he's killed, hang half of him upin the hen house and see how they'll pick at it. It's the best feedgoing for hens, and makes 'em lay right along. Doan't cost nothin'either. "

I had been asked to give a lecture in a neighboring town, and, to changethe subject, inquired if he thought many would attend. Jake lookedrather blank, took off his cap, scratched his head, and then said:

"I dunno. Ef you was a Beecher or a Gough you could fill the hall, ormay be ef your more known like, and would talk to 'em free, you mightgit 'em, or if you's going to sing or dress up to make 'em larf; but <i>as'tis</i>, I dunno. " After the effort was over I tried to sound him as to mysuccess. He was unusually reticent, and would only say: "Wall, the onlyman I heard speak on't, said 'twas different from anything he everheard. " This reminded me of a capital story told me by an old familydoctor many years ago. It was that sort of anecdote now out of fashionwith <i>raconteurs</i>--a long preamble, many details, a gradual increase ofinterest, and a vivid climax, and when told by a sick bed wouldsometimes weary the patient. A man not especially well known had given alecture in a New Hampshire town without rousing much enthusiasm in hisaudience, and as he rode away on the top of the stage coach next morninghe tried to get some sort of opinion from Jim Barker, the driver. Afterpumping in vain for a compliment the gentleman inquired: "Did you hearnothing about my lecture from any of the people? I should like very muchto get some idea of how it was received. "

"Wall, no, stranger, I can't say as I heerd much. I guess the folks waspurty well pleased. No one seemed to be ag'in it but Square Lothrop. "

"And may I ask what he said?"

"Wall, I wouldn't mind it, if I'se you, what he said. He says just whathe thinks--right out with it, no matter who's hurt--and he usually getsthe gist on't. But I wouldn't mind what he said, the public was purtygenerally pleased. " And the long whip lash cracks and Jim shouts, "Getan, Dandy. "

"Yes, " persisted the tortured man; "but I do want very much to knowwhat Squire Lothrop's opinion was. "

"Now, stranger, I wouldn't think any more about the Square. He's gotgood common sense and allers hits the nail on the head, but as I said, you pleased 'em fust rate. "

"Yes, but I must know what Squire Lothrop did say. "

"Wall, if you will have it, he did say (and he's apt to get the giston't) he did say that <i>he</i> thought 'twas <i>awful shaller</i>!"

Many epigrammatic sayings come back to me, and one is too good to beomitted, An old woman was fiercely criticising a neighbor and ended inthis way: "Folks that pretend to be somebody, and don't act like nobody, ain't anybody!"

Another woman reminded me of Mrs. Partington. She told blood-curdlingtales of the positive reappearance of departed spirits, and when I said, "Do you really believe all this?" she replied, "Indeed, I do, and yetI'm not an <i>imaginary</i> woman!" Her dog was provoked into a conflict withmy setters, and she exclaimed: "Why, I never saw him so completely<i>ennervated</i>. "

Then the dear old lady who said she was a free thinker and wasn'tashamed of it; guessed she knew as much as the minister 'bout this worldor the next; liked nothing better than to set down Sunday afternoonsafter she'd fed her hens and read Ingersoll. "What books of his haveyou?" I asked. 

She handed me a small paper-bound volume which did not look like any of"Bob's" productions. It was a Guide Book through Picturesque Vermont byErnest Ingersoll!

And I must not omit the queer sayings of a simple-hearted hired man on afriend's farm. 

Oh, for a photo of him as I saw him one cold, rainy morning tendingJason Kibby's dozen cows. He had on a rubber coat and cap, but histrouser legs were rolled above the knee and he was barefoot, "Hannibal, "I shouted, "you'll take cold with your feet in that wet grass!"

"Gueth not, Marm, " he lisped back cheerily. "I never cared for shoothmythelf. "

He was always shouting across the way to inquire if "<i>thith</i> wath hotenough or cold enough to thute <i>me</i>?" As if I had expressed a strongdesire for phenomenal extremes of temperature. One morning he suddenlydeparted. I met him trudging along with three hats jammed on to his headand a rubber coat under his arm, for 'twas a fine day. 

"Why, Hanny!" I exclaimed, "where are you going in such haste?"

"Mithter Kibby told me to go to Halifax, and--I'm going!"

Next, the man who was anxious to go into partnership with me. He wouldwork my farm at halves, or I could buy his farm, cranberry bog, andwoodland, and he would live right on there and run that place at halves;urged me to buy twelve or fourteen cows cheap in the fall and start amilk route, he to be the active partner; then he had a chance to buy alot of "essences" cheap, and if I'd purchase a peddling-wagon, he'd putin his old horse, and we'd go halves on that business, or I could buy upa lot of calves or young pigs and he'd feed 'em and we'd go halves. 

But I will not take you through my entire picture-gallery, as I have twogood stories to tell you before saying good-by. 

Depressing remarks have reached me about my "lakelet, " which at firstwas ridiculed by every one. The struggle of evolution from the "springhole" was severe and protracted. Experts were summoned, their estimatesof cost ranging from four hundred to one thousand dollars, and no onethought it worth while to touch it. It was discouraging. Venerable andenormous turtles hid in its muddy depths and snapped at the legs of theducks as they dived, adding a limp to the waddle; frogs croaked theredismally; mosquitoes made it a camping ground and head center; big blackwater snakes often came to drink and lingered by the edge; the ugly hornpout was the only fish that could live there. Depressing, in contrastwith my rosy dreams! But now the little lake is a charming reality, andthe boat is built and launched. Turtles, pout, lily roots as big assmall trees, and two hundred loads of "alluvial deposit" are no longer"in it, " while carp are promised me by my friend Commissioner Blackford. The "Tomtoolan"[2] is not a large body of water--one hundred and fiftyfeet long, seventy-five feet wide--but it is a delight to me and hasbeen grossly traduced by ignorant or envious outsiders. The day afterthe "Katy-Did" was christened (a flat-bottomed boat, painted prettilywith blue and gold) I invited a lady to try it with me. Flags werefluttering from stem and stern. We took a gayly colored horn to toot aswe went, and two dippers to bail, if necessary. It was not exactly"Youth at the prow and Pleasure at the helm, " but we were very jolly andnot a little proud. 

[Footnote 2: Named in honor of the amateur engineers. ]

A neglected knot-hole soon caused the boat to leak badly. We had madebut one circuit, when we were obliged to "hug the shore" and devote ourentire energies to bailing. "Tip her a little more, " I cried, and thenext instant we were both rolled into the water. It was an absurdexperience, and after scrambling out, our clothes so heavy we couldscarcely step, we vowed, between hysteric fits of laughter, to keep ourtip-over a profound secret. 

But the next time I went to town, friends began to smile mysteriously, asked me if I had been out on the lake yet, made sly and jocoseallusions to a sudden change to Baptistic faith, and if I cordiallyinvited them to join me in a row, would declare a preference for surfand salt water, or, if pressed, would murmur in the meanest waysomething about having a bath-tub at home. 

It is now nearly a year since that little adventure, but it is still asubject of mirth, even in other towns. A friend calling yesterday toldme the version he had just heard at Gillford, ten miles away!

"You bet they have comical goings-on at that woman's farm by theGooseville depot! She got a regular menagerie, fust off--everything shesee or could hear of. Got sick o' the circus bizness, and went intopotatoes deep. They say she was actually up and outdoors by day-break, working and worrying over the tater bugs!

"She's a red-headed, fleshy woman, and some of our folks going by in thecars would tell of seeing her tramping up and down the long furrows, with half a dozen boys hired to help her. Soon as she'd killed most ofher own, a million more just traveled over from the field opposite wherethey had had their own way and cleaned out most everything. Then, whatthe bugs spared, the long rains rotted. So I hear she's giv' uppotatoes. 

"Then she got sot on scooping out a seven by nine mud hole to make apond, and had a boat built to match. 

"Well, by darn, she took a stout woman in with her, and, as I heerd it, that boat just giv' one groan, and sunk right down!"

As to the potatoes, I might never have escaped from that terrificthralldom, if a city friend, after hearing my woful experience, had notinquired quietly:

"Why have potatoes? It's much cheaper to buy all you need!"

I had been laboring under a strange spell--supposed I <i>must</i> plantpotatoes; the relief is unspeakable. 

Jennie June once said, "The great art of life is to <i>eliminate</i>. " Iadmired the condensed wisdom of this, but, like experience, it onlyserves to illume the path over which I have passed. 

One little incident occurred this spring which is too funny to withhold. Among the groceries ordered from Boston was a piece of extra finecheese. A connoisseur in cheese had advised me to try it. It recommendeditself so strongly that I placed it carefully under glass, in a placeall by itself. It <i>was</i> strong--strong enough to sew buttons on, strongas Sampson, strong enough to walk away alone. One warm morning itseemed to have gained during the night. Its penetrating, permeatingpower was something, almost supernatural. I carried it from one place toanother, each time more remote. It would not be lonely if segregrated, doubtless it had ample social facilities within itself! At last I becamedesperate. "Ellen, " I exclaimed, "just bring in that cheese and burn it. It comes high, too high. I can not endure it. " She opened the top of therange and, as the cremation was going on, I continued my comments. "Why, in all my life, I never knew anything like it; wherever I put it--inpantry, swing cupboard, on the cellar stairs, in a tin box, on top ofthe refrigerator--way out on that--" Just then Tom opened the door andsaid:

"Miss, your fertilizer's come!"

I have told you of my mistakes, failures, losses, but have you any ideaof my daily delights, my lasting gains?

From invalidism to health, from mental depression to exuberant spirits, that is the blessed record of two years of amateur farming. What hasdone this? Exercise, actual hard work, digging in the dirt. We are madeof dust, and the closer our companionship with Mother Earth in summertime the longer we shall keep above ground. Then the freedom fromconventional restraints of dress; no necessity for "crimps, " no need offoreign hirsute adornment, no dresses with tight arm holes and trailingskirts, no high-heeled slippers with pointed toes, but comfort, clearcomfort, indoors and out. 

Plenty of rocking chairs, lounges that make one sleepy just to look atthem, open fires in every room, and nothing too fine for the sun toglorify; butter, eggs, cream, vegetables, poultry--simply perfect, andthe rare, ecstatic privilege of eating onions--onions raw, boiled, baked, and fried at any hour or all hours. I said comfort; it is luxury!

Dr. Holmes says: "I have seen respectability and amiability grouped overthe air-tight stove, I have seen virtue and intelligence hovering overthe register, but I have never seen true happiness in a family circlewhere the faces were not illuminated by the blaze of an open fireplace. "And nature! I could fill pages with glowing descriptions of DaysOutdoors. In my own homely pasture I have found the dainty wild rose, the little field strawberries so fragrant and spicy, the blue berrieshigh and low, so desirable for "pie-fodder, " and daisies and ferns inabundance, and, in an adjoining meadow by the brookside, the cardinalflower and the blue gentian. All these simple pleasures seem better tome than sitting in heated, crowded rooms listening to interminablemusic, or to men or women who never know when to stop, or rushing roundto gain more information on anything and everything from Alaska toZululand, and wildly struggling to catch up with "social duties. "

City friends, looking at the other side of the shield, marvel at mycontentment, and regard me as buried alive. But when I go back for ashort time to the old life I am fairly homesick. I miss my daily visitto the cows and the frolic with the dogs. All that has been unpleasantfades like a dream. 

I think of the delicious morning hours on the broad vine-covered piazza, the evenings with their starry splendor or witching moonlight, thenights of sound sleep and refreshing rest, the all-day picnics, thejolly drives with friends as charmed with country life as myself, and Iweary of social functions and overpowering intellectual privileges, andevery other advantage of the metropolis, and long to migrate once morefrom Gotham to Gooseville. 

 "Dear country life of child and man! For both the best, the strongest, That with the earliest race began, And hast outlived the longest, Their cities perished long ago; Who the first farmers were we know. "

THE END.