RUDDER GRANGE

By Frank R. Stockton

CONTENTS

 CHAPTER I. 

 Treating of a Novel Style of Dwelling-house

 CHAPTER II. 

 Treating of a Novel Style of Boarder

 CHAPTER III. 

 Treating of a Novel Style of Girl

 CHAPTER IV. 

 Treating of a Novel Style of Burglar

 CHAPTER V. 

 Pomona Produces a Partial Revolution in Rudder Grange

 CHAPTER VI. 

 The New Rudder Grange

 CHAPTER VII. 

 Treating of an Unsuccessful Broker and a Dog

 CHAPTER VIII. 

 Pomona Once More

 CHAPTER IX. 

 We Camp Out

 CHAPTER X. 

 Wet Blankets

 CHAPTER XI. 

 The Boarder's Visit

 CHAPTER XII. 

 Lord Edward and the Tree-man

 CHAPTER XIII. 

 Pomona's Novel

 CHAPTER XIV. 

 Pomona takes a Bridal Trip

 CHAPTER XV. 

 In which two New Friends disport themselves

 CHAPTER XVI. 

 In which an Old Friend appears, and the Bridal Trip takes a Fresh Start

 CHAPTER XVII. 

 In which we take a Vacation and look for David Dutton

 CHAPTER XVIII. 

 Our Tavern

 CHAPTER XIX. 

 The Baby at Rudder Grange

 CHAPTER XX. 

 The Other Baby at Rudder Grange

RUDDER GRANGE. 

CHAPTER I. TREATING OF A NOVEL STYLE OF DWELLING HOUSE. 

For some months after our marriage, Euphemia and I boarded. But we didnot like it. Indeed, there was no reason why we should like it. Euphemiasaid that she never felt at home except when she was out, which feeling, indicating such an excessively unphilosophic state of mind, was enoughto make me desire to have a home of my own, where, except upon rare andexceptional occasions, my wife would never care to go out. 

If you should want to rent a house, there are three ways to find one. One way is to advertise; another is to read the advertisements of otherpeople. This is a comparatively cheap way. A third method is to apply toan agent. But none of these plans are worth anything. The proper wayis to know some one who will tell you of a house that will exactly suityou. Euphemia and I thoroughly investigated this matter, and I know thatwhat I say is a fact. 

We tried all the plans. When we advertised, we had about a dozenadmirable answers, but in these, although everything seemed to suit, theamount of rent was not named. (None of those in which the rent was namedwould do at all. ) And when I went to see the owners, or agents of thesesuitable houses, they asked much higher rents than those mentioned inthe unavailable answers--and this, notwithstanding the fact that theyalways asserted that their terms were either very reasonable or elsegreatly reduced on account of the season being advanced. (It was now thefifteenth of May. )

Euphemia and I once wrote a book, --this was just before we weremarried, --in which we told young married people how to go tohousekeeping and how much it would cost them. We knew all about it, forwe had asked several people. Now the prices demanded as yearly rentalfor small furnished houses, by the owners and agents of whom I have beenspeaking, were, in many cases, more than we had stated a house could bebought and furnished for!

The advertisements of other people did not serve any better. There wasalways something wrong about the houses when we made close inquiries, and the trouble was generally in regard to the rent. With agents wehad a little better fortune. Euphemia sometimes went with me on myexpeditions to real estate offices, and she remarked that these officeswere always in the basement, or else you had to go up to them in anelevator. There was nothing between these extremes. And it was a gooddeal the same way, she said, with their houses. They were all very lowindeed in price and quality, or else too high. 

One trouble was that we wanted a house in a country place, not very farfrom the city, and not very far from the railroad station or steamboatlanding. We also wanted the house to be nicely shaded and fullyfurnished, and not to be in a malarial neighborhood, or one infested bymosquitoes. 

"If we do go to housekeeping, " said Euphemia, "we might as well get ahouse to suit us while we are about it. Moving is more expensive than afire. "

There was one man who offered us a house that almost suited us. It wasnear the water, had rooms enough, and some--but not very much--ground, and was very accessible to the city. The rent, too, was quitereasonable. But the house was unfurnished. The agent, however, did notthink that this would present any obstacle to our taking it. He wassure that the owner would furnish it if we paid him ten per cent, on thevalue of the furniture he put into it. We agreed that if the landlordwould do this and let us furnish the house according to the plans laiddown in our book, that we would take the house. But unfortunately thisarrangement did not suit the landlord, although he was in the habit offurnishing houses for tenants and charging them ten per cent. On thecost. 

I saw him myself and talked to him about it. 

"But you see, " said he, when I had shown him our list of articlesnecessary for the furnishing of a house, "it would not pay me to buyall these things, and rent them out to you. If you only wanted heavyfurniture, which would last for years, the plan would answer, but youwant everything. I believe the small conveniences you have on this listcome to more money than the furniture and carpets. "

"Oh, yes, " said I. "We are not so very particular about furnitureand carpets, but these little conveniences are the things that makehousekeeping pleasant, and, --speaking from a common-sense point ofview, --profitable. "

"That may be, " he answered, "but I can't afford to make matters pleasantand profitable for you in that way. Now, then, let us look at one or twoparticulars. Here, on your list, is an ice-pick: twenty-five cents. Now, if I buy that ice-pick and rent it to you at two and a-half centsa year, I shall not get my money back unless it lasts you ten years. Andeven then, as it is not probable that I can sell that ice-pick afteryou have used it for ten years, I shall have made nothing at all bymy bargain. And there are other things in that list, such asfeather-dusters and lamp-chimneys, that couldn't possibly last tenyears. Don't you see my position?"

I saw it. We did not get that furnished house. Euphemia was greatlydisappointed. 

"It would have been just splendid, " she said, "to have taken our bookand have ordered all these things at the stores, one after another, without even being obliged to ask the price. "

I had my private doubts in regard to this matter of price. I am afraidthat Euphemia generally set down the lowest price and the best things. She did not mean to mislead, and her plan certainly made our bookattractive. But it did not work very well in practice. We have a friendwho undertook to furnish her house by our book, and she never could getthe things as cheaply as we had them quoted. 

"But you see, " said Euphemia, to her, "we had to put them down at verylow prices, because the model house we speak of in the book is to beentirely furnished for just so much. "

But, in spite of this explanation, the lady was not satisfied. 

We found ourselves obliged to give up the idea of a furnished house. Wewould have taken an unfurnished one and furnished it ourselves, but wehad not money enough. We were dreadfully afraid that we should have tocontinue to board. 

It was now getting on toward summer, at least there was only a part ofa month of spring left, and whenever I could get off from my businessEuphemia and I made little excursions into the country round about thecity. One afternoon we went up the river, and there we saw a sight thattransfixed us, as it were. On the bank, a mile or so above the city, stood a canal-boat. I say stood, because it was so firmly imbeddedin the ground by the river-side, that it would have been almost asimpossible to move it as to have turned the Sphinx around. This boat wesoon found was inhabited by an oyster-man and his family. They had livedthere for many years and were really doing quite well. The boat wasdivided, inside, into rooms, and these were papered and painted andnicely furnished. There was a kitchen, a living-room, a parlor andbedrooms. There were all sorts of conveniences--carpets on the floors, pictures, and everything, at least so it seemed to us, to make a homecomfortable. This was not all done at once, the oyster-man told me. Theyhad lived there for years and had gradually added this and that untilthe place was as we saw it. He had an oyster-bed out in the river andhe made cider in the winter, but where he got the apples I don't know. There was really no reason why he should not get rich in time. 

Well, we went all over that house and we praised everything so much thatthe oyster-man's wife was delighted, and when we had some stewed oystersafterward, --eating them at a little table under a tree near by, --Ibelieve that she picked out the very largest oysters she had, to stewfor us. When we had finished our supper and had paid for it, and weregoing down to take our little boat again, --for we had rowed up theriver, --Euphemia stopped and looked around her. Then she clasped herhands and exclaimed in an ecstatic undertone:

"We must have a canal-boat!"

And she never swerved from that determination. 

After I had seriously thought over the matter, I could see no goodreason against adopting this plan. It would certainly be a cheap methodof living, and it would really be housekeeping. I grew more and more infavor of it. After what the oyster-man had done, what might not we do?HE had never written a book on housekeeping, nor, in all probability, had he considered the matter, philosophically, for one moment in all hislife. 

But it was not an easy thing to find a canal-boat. There were noneadvertised for rent--at least, not for housekeeping purposes. 

We made many inquiries and took many a long walk along the water-coursesin the vicinity of the city, but all in vain. Of course, we talked agreat deal about our project and our friends became greatly interestedin it, and, of course, too, they gave us a great deal of advice, but wedidn't mind that. We were philosophical enough to know that you can'thave shad without bones. They were good friends and, by being careful inregard to the advice, it didn't interfere with our comfort. 

We were beginning to be discouraged, at least Euphemia was. Herdiscouragement is like water-cresses, it generally comes up in a veryshort time after she sows her wishes. But then it withers away rapidly, which is a comfort. One evening we were sitting, rather disconsolately, in our room, and I was reading out the advertisements of country boardin a newspaper, when in rushed Dr. Heare--one of our old friends. He wasso full of something that he had to say that he didn't even ask us howwe were. In fact, he didn't appear to want to know. 

"I tell you what it is, " said he, "I have found just the very thing youwant. "

"A canal-boat?" I cried. 

"Yes, " said he, "a canal-boat. "

"Furnished?" asked Euphemia, her eyes glistening. 

"Well, no, " answered the doctor, "I don't think you could expect that. "

"But we can't live on the bare floor, " said Euphemia; "our house MUST befurnished. "

"Well, then, I suppose this won't do, " said the doctor, ruefully, "forthere isn't so much as a boot-jack in it. It has most things thatare necessary for a boat, but it hasn't anything that you could callhouse-furniture; but, dear me, I should think you could furnish it verycheaply and comfortably out of your book. "

"Very true, " said Euphemia, "if we could pick out the cheapest thingsand then get some folks to buy a lot of the books. "

"We could begin with very little, " said I, trying hard to keep calm. 

"Certainly, " said the doctor, "you need make no more rooms, at first, than you could furnish. "

"Then there are no rooms, " said Euphemia. 

"No, there is nothing but one vast apartment extending from stem tostern. "

"Won't it be glorious!" said Euphemia to me. "We can first make akitchen, and then a dining-room, and a bedroom, and then a parlor--justin the order in which our book says they ought to be furnished. "

"Glorious!" I cried, no longer able to contain my enthusiasm; "I shouldthink so. Doctor, where is this canal-boat?"

The doctor then went into a detailed statement. The boat was strandedon the shore of the Scoldsbury river not far below Ginx's. We knew whereGinx's was, because we had spent a very happy day there, during ourhoneymoon. 

The boat was a good one, but superannuated. That, however, did notinterfere with its usefulness as a dwelling. We could get it--the doctorhad seen the owner--for a small sum per annum, and here was positivelyno end to its capabilities. 

We sat up until twenty minutes past two, talking about that house. Weceased to call it a boat at about a quarter of eleven. 

The next day I "took" the boat and paid a month's rent in advance. Threedays afterward we moved into it. 

We had not much to move, which was a comfort, looking at it from onepoint of view. A carpenter had put up two partitions in it which madethree rooms--a kitchen, a dining-room and a very long bedroom, whichwas to be cut up into a parlor, study, spare-room, etc. , as soon ascircumstances should allow, or my salary should be raised. Originally, all the doors and windows were in the roof, so to speak, but ourlandlord allowed us to make as many windows to the side of the boatas we pleased, provided we gave him the wood we cut out. It saved himtrouble, he said, but I did not understand him at the time. Accordingly, the carpenter made several windows for us, and put in sashes, whichopened on hinges like the hasp of a trunk. Our furniture did not amountto much, at first. The very thought of living in this independent, romantic way was so delightful, Euphemia said, that furniture seemed amere secondary matter. 

We were obliged indeed to give up the idea of following the plandetailed in our book, because we hadn't the sum upon which thefurnishing of a small house was therein based. 

"And if we haven't the money, " remarked Euphemia, "it would be of noearthly use to look at the book. It would only make us doubt our owncalculations. You might as well try to make brick without mortar, as thechildren of Israel did. "

"I could do that myself, my dear, " said I, "but we won't discuss thatsubject now. We will buy just what we absolutely need, and then work upfrom that. "

Acting on this plan, we bought first a small stove, because Euphemiasaid that we could sleep on the floor, if it were necessary, but wecouldn't make a fire on the floor--at least not often. Then we gota table and two chairs. The next thing we purchased was some hangingshelves for our books, and Euphemia suddenly remembered the kitchenthings. These, which were few, with some crockery, nearly brought us tothe end of our resources, but we had enough for a big easy-chair whichEuphemia was determined I should have, because I really needed it whenI came home at night, tired with my long day's work at the office. I hadalways been used to an easy-chair, and it was one of her most delightfuldreams to see me in a real nice one, comfortably smoking my pipe in myown house, after eating my own delicious little supper in company withmy own dear wife. We selected the chair, and then we were about to orderthe things sent out to our future home, when I happened to think that wehad no bed. I called Euphemia's attention to the fact. 

She was thunderstruck. 

"I never thought of that, " she said. "We shall have to give up thestove. "

"Not at all, " said I, "we can't do that. We must give up theeasy-chair. "

"Oh, that would be too bad, " said she. "The house would seem likenothing to me without the chair!"

"But we must do without it, my dear, " said I, "at least for a while. Ican sit out on deck and smoke of an evening, you know. "

"Yes, " said Euphemia. "You can sit on the bulwarks and I can sit by you. That will do very well. I'm sure I'm glad the boat has bulwarks. "

So we resigned the easy-chair and bought a bedstead and some very plainbedding. The bedstead was what is sometimes called a "scissors-bed. "We could shut it up when we did not want to sleep in it, and stand itagainst the wall. 

When we packed up our trunks and left the boarding-house Euphemia fairlyskipped with joy. 

We went down to Ginx's in the first boat, having arranged that ourfurniture should be sent to us in the afternoon. We wanted to be thereto receive it. The trip was just wildly delirious. The air was charming. The sun was bright, and I had a whole holiday. When we reached Ginx's wefound that the best way to get our trunks and ourselves to our house wasto take a carriage, and so we took one. I told the driver to drive alongthe river road and I would tell him where to stop. 

When we reached our boat, and had alighted, I said to the driver:

"You can just put our trunks inside, anywhere. "

The man looked at the trunks and then looked at the boat. Afterward helooked at me. 

"That boat ain't goin' anywhere, " said he. 

"I should think not, " said Euphemia. "We shouldn't want to live in it, if it were. "

"You are going to live in it?" said the man. 

"Yes, " said Euphemia. 

"Oh!" said the man, and he took our trunks on board, without anotherword. 

It was not very easy for him to get the trunks into our new home. In fact it was not easy for us to get there ourselves. There was agang-plank, with a rail on one side of it, which inclined from the shoreto the deck of the boat at an angle of forty-five degrees, and when theman had staggered up this plank with the trunks (Euphemia said I oughtto have helped him, but I really thought that it would be better for oneperson to fall off the plank than for two to go over together), andwe had paid him, and he had driven away in a speechless condition, wescrambled up and stood upon the threshold, or, rather, the after-deck ofour home. 

It was a proud moment. Euphemia glanced around, her eyes full of happytears, and then she took my arm and we went down stairs--at least wetried to go down in that fashion, but soon found it necessary to go oneat a time. We wandered over the whole extent of our mansion and foundthat our carpenter had done his work better than the woman whom we hadengaged to scrub and clean the house. Something akin to despair musthave seized upon her, for Euphemia declared that the floors lookeddirtier than on the occasion of her first visit, when we rented theboat. 

But that didn't discourage us. We felt sure that we should get it cleanin time. 

Early in the afternoon our furniture arrived, together with the otherthings we had bought, and the men who brought them over from thesteamboat landing had the brightest, merriest faces I ever noticed amongthat class of people. Euphemia said it was an excellent omen tohave such cheerful fellows come to us on the very first day of ourhousekeeping. 

Then we went to work. I put up the stove, which was not much trouble, as there was a place all ready in the deck for the stove-pipe to be runthrough. Euphemia was somewhat surprised at the absence of a chimney, but I assured her that boats were very seldom built with chimneys. Mydear little wife bustled about and arranged the pots and kettles onnails that I drove into the kitchen walls. Then she made the bed in thebed-room and I hung up a looking-glass and a few little pictures that wehad brought in our trunks. 

Before four o'clock our house was in order. Then we began to be veryhungry. 

"My dear, " said Euphemia, "we ought to have thought to bring somethingto cook. "

"That is very true, " said I, "but I think perhaps we had better walkup to Ginx's and get our supper to-night. You see we are so tired andhungry. "

"What!" cried Euphemia, "go to a hotel the very first day? I think itwould be dreadful! Why, I have been looking forward to this first mealwith the greatest delight. You can go up to the little store by thehotel and buy some things and I will cook them, and we will have ourfirst dear little meal here all alone by ourselves, at our own table andin our own house. "

So this was determined upon and, after a hasty counting of the fund Ihad reserved for moving and kindred expenses, and which had been sorelydepleted during the day, I set out, and in about an hour returned withmy first marketing. 

I made a fire, using a lot of chips and blocks the carpenter had left, and Euphemia cooked the supper, and we ate it from our little table, with two large towels for a table-cloth. 

It was the most delightful meal I ever ate!

And, when we had finished, Euphemia washed the dishes (the thoughtfulcreature had put some water on the stove to heat for the purpose, while we were at supper) and then we went on deck, or on the piazza, asEuphemia thought we had better call it, and there we had our smoke. Isay WE, for Euphemia always helps me to smoke by sitting by me, and sheseems to enjoy it as much as I do. 

And when the shades of evening began to gather around us, I hauled inthe gang-plank (just like a delightful old draw-bridge, Euphemia said, although I hope for the sake of our ancestors that draw-bridges wereeasier to haul in) and went to bed. 

It is lucky we were tired and wanted to go to bed early, for we hadforgotten all about lamps or candles. 

For the next week we were two busy and happy people. I rose abouthalf-past five and made the fire, --we found so much wood on the shore, that I thought I should not have to add fuel to my expenses, --andEuphemia cooked the breakfast. I then went to a well belonging to acottage near by where we had arranged for water-privileges, and filledtwo buckets with delicious water and carried them home for Euphemia'suse through the day. Then I hurried off to catch the train, for, asthere was a station near Ginx's, I ceased to patronize the steamboat, the hours of which were not convenient. After a day of work andpleasurable anticipation at the office, I hastened back to my home, generally laden with a basket of provisions and various householdnecessities. Milk was brought to us daily from the above-mentionedcottage by a little toddler who seemed just able to carry the small tinbucket which held a lacteal pint. If the urchin had been the child ofrich parents, as Euphemia sometimes observed, he would have been in hisnurse's arms--but being poor, he was scarcely weaned before he began tocarry milk around to other people. 

After I reached home came supper and the delightful evening hours, when over my pipe (I had given up cigars, as being too expensive andinappropriate, and had taken to a tall pipe and canaster tobacco) wetalked and planned, and told each other our day's experience. 

One of our earliest subjects of discussion was the name of ourhomestead. Euphemia insisted that it should have a name. I was quitewilling, but we found it no easy matter to select an appropriate title. I proposed a number of appellations intended to suggest the character ofour home. Among these were: "Safe Ashore, " "Firmly Grounded, " and someother names of that style, but Euphemia did not fancy any of them. Shewanted a suitable name, of course, she said, but it must be somethingthat would SOUND like a house and BE like a boat. 

"Partitionville, " she objected to, and "Gangplank Terrace, " did not suither because it suggested convicts going out to work, which naturally wasunpleasant. 

At last, after days of talk and cogitation, we named our house "RudderGrange. "

To be sure, it wasn't exactly a grange, but then it had such an enormousrudder that the justice of that part of the title seemed to over-balanceany little inaccuracy in the other portion. 

But we did not spend all our spare time in talking. An hour or two, every evening was occupied in what we called "fixing the house, " andgradually the inside of our abode began to look like a conventionaldwelling. We put matting on the floors and cheap but very pretty paperon the walls. We added now a couple of chairs, and now a table orsomething for the kitchen. Frequently, especially of a Sunday, we hadcompany, and our guests were always charmed with Euphemia's cunninglittle meals. The dear girl loved good eating so much that she couldscarcely fail to be a good cook. 

We worked hard, and were very happy. And thus the weeks passed on. 

CHAPTER II. TREATING OF A NOVEL STYLE OF BOARDER. 

In this delightful way of living, only one thing troubled us. We didn'tsave any money. There were so many little things that we wanted, and somany little things that were so cheap, that I spent pretty much allI made, and that was far from the philosophical plan of living that Iwished to follow. 

We talked this matter over a great deal after we had lived in our newhome for about a month, and we came at last to the conclusion that wewould take a boarder. 

We had no trouble in getting a boarder, for we had a friend, a young manwho was engaged in the flour business, who was very anxious to comeand live with us. He had been to see us two or three times, and hadexpressed himself charmed with our household arrangements. 

So we made terms with him. The carpenter partitioned off another room, and our boarder brought his trunk and a large red velvet arm-chair, andtook up his abode at "Rudder Grange. "

We liked our boarder very much, but he had some peculiarities. I supposeeverybody has them. Among other things, he was very fond of telling uswhat we ought to do. He suggested more improvements in the first threedays of his sojourn with us than I had thought of since we commencedhousekeeping. And what made the matter worse, his suggestions weregenerally very good ones. Had it been otherwise I might have borne hisremarks more complacently, but to be continually told what you ought todo, and to know that you ought to do it, is extremely annoying. 

He was very anxious that I should take off the rudder, which wascertainly useless to a boat situated as ours was, and make anironing-table of it. I persisted that the laws of symmetrical proprietyrequired that the rudder should remain where it was--that the very nameof our home would be interfered with by its removal, but he insistedthat "Ironing-table Grange" would be just as good a name, and thatsymmetrical propriety in such a case did not amount to a row of pins. 

The result was, that we did have the ironing-table, and that Euphemiawas very much pleased with it. A great many other improvements wereprojected and carried out by him, and I was very much worried. He madea flower-garden for Euphemia on the extreme forward-deck, and havingborrowed a wheelbarrow, he wheeled dozens of loads of arable dirt upour gang-plank and dumped them out on the deck. When he had coveredthe garden with a suitable depth of earth, he smoothed it off and thenplanted flower-seeds. It was rather late in the season, but most ofthem came up. I was pleased with the garden, but sorry I had not made itmyself. 

One afternoon I got away from the office considerably earlier thanusual, and I hurried home to enjoy the short period of daylight that Ishould have before supper. It had been raining the day before, and asthe bottom of our garden leaked so that earthy water trickled down atone end of our bed-room, I intended to devote a short time to stuffingup the cracks in the ceiling or bottom of the deck--whichever seems themost appropriate. 

But when I reached a bend in the river road, whence I always had theearliest view of my establishment, I did not have that view. Ihurried on. The nearer I approached the place where I lived, the morehorror-stricken I became. There was no mistaking the fact. 

The boat was not there!

In an instant the truth flashed upon me. 

The water was very high--the rain had swollen the river--my house hadfloated away!

It was Wednesday. On Wednesday afternoons our boarder came home early. 

I clapped my hat tightly on my head and ground my teeth. 

"Confound that boarder!" I thought. "He has been fooling with theanchor. He always said it was of no use, and taking advantage of myabsence, he has hauled it up, and has floated away, and has gone--gonewith my wife and my home!"

Euphemia and "Rudder Grange" had gone off together--where I knewnot, --and with them that horrible suggester!

I ran wildly along the bank. I called aloud, I shouted and hailed eachpassing craft--of which there were only two--but their crews must havebeen very inattentive to the woes of landsmen, or else they did not hearme, for they paid no attention to my cries. 

I met a fellow with an axe on his shoulder. I shouted to him before Ireached him:

"Hello! did you see a boat--a house, I mean, --floating up the river?"

"A boat-house?" asked the man. 

"No, a house-boat, " I gasped. 

"Didn't see nuthin' like it, " said the man, and he passed on, to hiswife and home, no doubt. But me! Oh, where was my wife and my home?

I met several people, but none of them had seen a fugitive canal-boat. 

How many thoughts came into my brain as I ran along that river road! Ifthat wretched boarder had not taken the rudder for an ironing table hemight have steered in shore! Again and again I confounded--as far asmental ejaculations could do it--his suggestions. 

I was rapidly becoming frantic when I met a person who hailed me. 

"Hello!" he said, "are you after a canal-boat adrift?"

"Yes, " I panted. 

"I thought you was, " he said. "You looked that way. Well, I can tell youwhere she is. She's stuck fast in the reeds at the lower end o' Peter'sPint. "

"Where's that?" said I. 

"Oh, it's about a mile furder up. I seed her a-driftin' up with thetide--big flood tide, to-day--and I thought I'd see somebody after her, afore long. Anything aboard?"

Anything!

I could not answer the man. Anything, indeed! I hurried on up the riverwithout a word. Was the boat a wreck? I scarcely dared to think of it. Iscarcely dared to think at all. 

The man called after me and I stopped. I could but stop, no matter whatI might hear. 

"Hello, mister, " he said, "got any tobacco?"

I walked up to him. I took hold of him by the lapel of his coat. It wasa dirty lapel, as I remember even now, but I didn't mind that. 

"Look here, " said I. "Tell me the truth, I can bear it. Was that vesselwrecked?"

The man looked at me a little queerly. I could not exactly interpret hisexpression. 

"You're sure you kin bear it?" said he. 

"Yes, " said I, my hand trembling as I held his coat. 

"Well, then, " said he, "it's mor'n I kin, " and he jerked his coat out ofmy hand, and sprang away. When he reached the other side of the road, heturned and shouted at me, as though I had been deaf. 

"Do you know what I think?" he yelled. "I think you're a darnedlunatic, " and with that he went his way. 

I hastened on to Peter's Point. Long before I reached it, I saw theboat. 

It was apparently deserted. But still I pressed on. I must know theworst. When I reached the Point, I found that the boat had run aground, with her head in among the long reeds and mud, and the rest of her hulllying at an angle from the shore. 

There was consequently no way for me to get on board, but to wadethrough the mud and reeds to her bow, and then climb up as well as Icould. 

This I did, but it was not easy to do. Twice I sank above my kneesin mud and water, and had it not been for reeds, masses of which Ifrequently clutched when I thought I was going over, I believe I shouldhave fallen down and come to my death in that horrible marsh. WhenI reached the boat, I stood up to my hips in water and saw no way ofclimbing up. The gang-plank had undoubtedly floated away, and if it hadnot, it would have been of no use to me in my position. 

But I was desperate. I clasped the post that they put in the bow ofcanal-boats; I stuck my toes and my finger-nails in the cracks betweenthe boards--how glad I was that the boat was an old one and hadcracks!--and so, painfully and slowly, slipping part way down once ortwice, and besliming myself from chin to foot, I climbed up that postand scrambled upon deck. In an instant, I reached the top of the stairs, and in another instant I rushed below. 

There sat my wife and our boarder, one on each side of the dining-roomtable, complacently playing checkers!

My sudden entrance startled them. My appearance startled them stillmore. 

Euphemia sprang to her feet and tottered toward me. 

"Mercy!" she exclaimed; "has anything happened?"

"Happened!" I gasped. 

"Look here, " cried the boarder, clutching me by the arm, "what acondition you're in. Did you fall in?"

"Fall in!" said I. 

Euphemia and the boarder looked at each other. I looked at them. Then Iopened my mouth in earnest. 

"I suppose you don't know, " I yelled, "that you have drifted away!"

"By George!" cried the boarder, and in two bounds he was on deck. 

Dirty as I was, Euphemia fell into my arms. I told her all. She hadn'tknown a bit of it!

The boat had so gently drifted off, and had so gently grounded amongthe reeds, that the voyage had never so much as disturbed their games ofcheckers. 

"He plays such a splendid game, " Euphemia sobbed, "and just as you came, I thought I was going to beat him. I had two kings and two pieces on thenext to last row, and you are nearly drowned. You'll get your death ofcold--and--and he had only one king. "

She led me away and I undressed and washed myself and put on my Sundayclothes. 

When I reappeared I went out on deck with Euphemia. The boarder wasthere, standing by the petunia bed. His arms were folded and he wasthinking profoundly. As we approached, he turned toward us. 

"You were right about that anchor, " he said, "I should not have hauledit in; but it was such a little anchor that I thought it would be ofmore use on board as a garden hoe. "

"A very little anchor will sometimes do very well, " said I, cuttingly, "when it is hooked around a tree. "

"Yes, there is something in that, " said he. 

It was now growing late, and as our agitation subsided we began to behungry. Fortunately, we had everything necessary on board, and, as itreally didn't make any difference in our household economy, where wehappened to be located, we had supper quite as usual. In fact, thekettle had been put on to boil during the checker-playing. 

After supper, we went on deck to smoke, as was our custom, but there wasa certain coolness between me and our boarder. 

Early the next morning I arose and went upstairs to consider what hadbetter be done, when I saw the boarder standing on shore, near by. 

"Hello!" he cried, "the tide's down and I got ashore without anytrouble. You stay where you are. I've hired a couple of mules to tow theboat back. They'll be here when the tide rises. And, hello! I've foundthe gang-plank. It floated ashore about a quarter of a mile below here. "

In the course of the afternoon the mules and two men with a long ropeappeared, and we were then towed back to where we belonged. 

And we are there yet. Our boarder remains with us, as the weather isstill fine, and the coolness between us is gradually diminishing. Butthe boat is moored at both ends, and twice a day I look to see if theropes are all right. 

The petunias are growing beautifully, but the geraniums do not seem toflourish. Perhaps there is not a sufficient depth of earth for them. Several times our boarder has appeared to be on the point of suggestingsomething in regard to them, but, for some reason or other, he saysnothing. 

CHAPTER III. TREATING OF A NOVEL STYLE OF GIRL. 

One afternoon, as I was hurrying down Broadway to catch the five o'clocktrain, I met Waterford. He is an old friend of mine, and I used to likehim pretty well. 

"Hello!" said he, "where are you going?"

"Home, " I answered. 

"Is that so?" said he. "I didn't know you had one. "

I was a little nettled at this, and so I said, somewhat brusquelyperhaps:

"But you must have known I lived somewhere. "

"Oh, yes! But I thought you boarded, " said he. "I had no idea that youhad a home. "

"But I have one, and a very pleasant home, too. You must excuse me fornot stopping longer, as I must catch my train. "

"Oh! I'll walk along with you, " said Waterford, and so we went down thestreet together. 

"Where is your little house?" he asked. 

Why in the world he thought it was a little house I could not at thetime imagine, unless he supposed that two people would not requirea large one. But I know, now, that he lived in a very little househimself. 

But it was of no use getting angry with Waterford, especially as I sawhe intended walking all the way down to the ferry with me, so I told himI didn't live in any house at all. 

"Why, where DO you live?" he exclaimed, stopping short. 

"I live in a boat, " said I. 

"A boat! A sort of 'Rob Roy' arrangement, I suppose. Well, I would nothave thought that of you. And your wife, I suppose, has gone home to herpeople?"

"She has done nothing of the kind, " I answered. "She lives with me, andshe likes it very much. We are extremely comfortable, and our boat isnot a canoe, or any such nonsensical affair. It is a large, commodiouscanal-boat. "

Waterford turned around and looked at me. 

"Are you a deck-hand?" he asked. 

"Deck-grandmother!" I exclaimed. 

"Well, you needn't get mad about it, " he said. "I didn't mean tohurt your feelings; but I couldn't see what else you could be on acanal-boat. I don't suppose, for instance, that you're captain. "

"But I am, " said I. 

"Look here!" said Waterford; "this is coming it rather strong, isn'tit?"

As I saw he was getting angry, I told him all about it, --told him how wehad hired a stranded canal-boat and had fitted it up as a house, and howwe lived so cosily in it, and had called it "Rudder Grange, " and how wehad taken a boarder. 

"Well!" said he, "this is certainly surprising. I'm coming out to seeyou some day. It will be better than going to Barnum's. "

I told him--it is the way of society--that we would be glad to see him, and we parted. Waterford never did come to see us, and I merely mentionthis incident to show how some of our friends talked about RudderGrange, when they first heard that we lived there. 

After dinner that evening, when I went up on deck with Euphemia to havemy smoke, we saw the boarder sitting on the bulwarks near the garden, with his legs dangling down outside. 

"Look here!" said he. 

I looked, but there was nothing unusual to see. 

"What is it?" I asked. 

He turned around and seeing Euphemia, said:

"Nothing. "

It would be a very stupid person who could not take such a hint as that, and so, after a walk around the garden, Euphemia took occasion to gobelow to look at the kitchen fire. 

As soon as she had gone, the boarder turned to me and said:

"I'll tell you what it is. She's working herself sick. "

"Sick?" said I. "Nonsense!"

"No nonsense about it, " he replied. 

The truth was, that the boarder was right and I was wrong. We had spentseveral months at Rudder Grange, and during this time Euphemia hadbeen working very hard, and she really did begin to look pale andthin. Indeed, it would be very wearying for any woman of culture andrefinement, unused to house-work, to cook and care for two men, and todo all the work of a canal-boat besides. 

But I saw Euphemia so constantly, and thought so much of her, and hadher image so continually in my heart, that I did not notice this untilour boarder now called my attention to it. I was sorry that he had to doit. 

"If I were in your place, " said he, "I would get her a servant. "

"If you were in my place, " I replied, somewhat cuttingly, "you wouldprobably suggest a lot of little things which would make everything veryeasy for her. "

"I'd try to, " he answered, without getting in the least angry. 

Although I felt annoyed that he had suggested it, still I made up mymind that Euphemia must have a servant. 

She agreed quite readily when I proposed the plan, and she urged meto go and see the carpenter that very day, and get him to come andpartition off a little room for the girl. 

It was some time, of course, before the room was made (for who everheard of a carpenter coming at the very time he was wanted?) and, whenit was finished, Euphemia occupied all her spare moments in getting itin nice order for the servant when she should come. I thought she wastaking too much trouble, but she had her own ideas about such things. 

"If a girl is lodged like a pig, you must expect her to behave like apig, and I don't want that kind. "

So she put up pretty curtains at the girl's window, and with a box thatshe stood on end, and some old muslin and a lot of tacks, she made atoilet-table so neat and convenient that I thought she ought to take itinto our room and give the servant our wash-stand. 

But all this time we had no girl, and as I had made up my mind about thematter, I naturally grew impatient, and at last I determined to go andget a girl myself. 

So, one day at lunch-time, I went to an intelligence office in the city. There I found a large room on the second floor, and some ladies, and oneor two men, sitting about, and a small room, back of it, crowded withgirls from eighteen to sixty-eight years old. There were also girls uponthe stairs, and girls in the hall below, besides some girls standing onthe sidewalk before the door. 

When I made known my business and had paid my fee, one of the severalproprietors who were wandering about the front room went into theback apartment and soon returned with a tall Irishwoman with a bonyweather-beaten face and a large weather-beaten shawl. This woman wastold to take a chair by my side. Down sat the huge creature and staredat me. I did not feel very easy under her scrutinizing gaze, but I boreit as best I could, and immediately began to ask her all the appropriatequestions that I could think of. Some she answered satisfactorily, andsome she didn't answer at all; but as soon as I made a pause, she beganto put questions herself. 

"How many servants do you kape?" she asked. 

I answered that we intended to get along with one, and if she understoodher business, I thought she would find her work very easy, and the placea good one. 

She turned sharp upon me and said:

"Have ye stationary wash-tubs?"

I hesitated. I knew our wash-tubs were not stationary, for I had helpedto carry them about. But they might be screwed fast and made stationaryif that was an important object. But, before making this answer, I thought of the great conveniences for washing presented by ourresidence, surrounded as it was, at high tide, by water. 

"Why, we live in a stationary wash-tub, " I said, smiling. 

The woman looked at me steadfastly for a minute, and then she roseto her feet. Then she called out, as if she were crying fish orstrawberries:

"Mrs. Blaine!"

The female keeper of the intelligence office, and the male keeper, anda thin clerk, and all the women in the back room, and all the patrons inthe front room, jumped up and gathered around us. 

Astonished and somewhat disconcerted, I rose to my feet and confrontedthe tall Irishwoman, and stood smiling in an uncertain sort of a way, asif it were all very funny; but I couldn't see the point. I think I musthave impressed the people with the idea that I wished I hadn't come. 

"He says, " exclaimed the woman, as if some other huckster were cryingfish on the other side of the street--"he says he lives in a wash-toob. "

"He's crazy!" ejaculated Mrs. Blaine, with an air that indicated"policeman" as plainly as if she had put her thought into words. 

A low murmur ran through the crowd of women, while the thin clerk edgedtoward the door. 

I saw there was no time to lose. I stepped back a little from the tallsavage, who was breathing like a hot-air engine in front of me, and mademy explanations to the company. I told the tale of "Rudder Grange, " andshowed them how it was like to a stationary wash-tub--at certain stagesof the tide. 

I was listened to with great attention. When I had finished, the tallwoman turned around and faced the assemblage. 

"An' he wants a cook to make soup! In a canal-boat!" said she, and offshe marched into the back-room, followed closely by all the other women. 

"I don't think we have any one here who would suit you, " said Mrs. Blaine. 

I didn't think so either. What on earth would Euphemia have done withthat volcanic Irishwoman in her little kitchen! I took up my hat andbade Mrs. Blaine good morning. 

"Good morning, " said she, with a distressing smile. 

She had one of those mouths that look exactly like a gash in the face. 

I went home without a girl. In a day or two Euphemia came to town andgot one. Apparently she got her without any trouble, but I am not sure. 

She went to a "Home"--Saint Somebody's Home--a place where they keeporphans to let, so to speak. Here Euphemia selected a light-haired, medium-sized orphan, and brought her home. 

The girl's name was Pomona. Whether or not her parents gave her thisname is doubtful. At any rate, she did not seem quite decided in hermind about it herself, for she had not been with us more than two weeksbefore she expressed a desire to be called Clare. This longing of herheart, however, was denied her. So Euphemia, who was always correct, called her Pomona. I did the same whenever I could think not to sayBologna--which seemed to come very pat for some reason or other. 

As for the boarder, he generally called her Altoona, connecting her insome way with the process of stopping for refreshments, in which she wasan adept. 

She was an earnest, hearty girl. She was always in a good humor, andwhen I asked her to do anything, she assented in a bright, cheerful way, and in a loud tone full of good-fellowship, as though she would say:

"Certainly, my high old cock! To be sure I will. Don't worry aboutit--give your mind no more uneasiness on that subject. I'll bring thehot water. "

She did not know very much, but she was delighted to learn, and she wasvery strong. Whatever Euphemia told her to do, she did instantly with abang. What pleased her better than anything else was to run up anddown the gang-plank, carrying buckets of water to water the garden. She delighted in out-door work, and sometimes dug so vigorously inour garden that she brought up pieces of the deck-planking with everyshovelful. 

Our boarder took the greatest interest in her, and sometimes watched hermovements so intently that he let his pipe go out. 

"What a whacking girl that would be to tread out grapes in the vineyardsof Italy! She'd make wine cheap, " he once remarked. 

"Then I'm glad she isn't there, " said Euphemia, "for wine oughtn't to becheap. "

Euphemia was a thorough little temperance woman. 

The one thing about Pomona that troubled me more than anything else washer taste for literature. It was not literature to which I objected, buther very peculiar taste. She would read in the kitchen every night aftershe had washed the dishes, but if she had not read aloud, it would nothave made so much difference to me. But I am naturally very sensitive toexternal impressions, and I do not like the company of people who, likeour girl, cannot read without pronouncing in a measured and distinctvoice every word of what they are reading. And when the matter thus readappeals to one's every sentiment of aversion, and there is no way ofescaping it, the case is hard indeed. 

From the first, I felt inclined to order Pomona, if she could not attainthe power of silent perusal, to cease from reading altogether; butEuphemia would not hear to this. 

"Poor thing!" said she; "it would be cruel to take from her her onlyrecreation. And she says she can't read any other way. You needn'tlisten if you don't want to. "

That was all very well in an abstract point of view; but the fact was, that in practice, the more I didn't want to listen, the more I heard. 

As the evenings were often cool, we sat in our dining-room, and thepartition between this room and the kitchen seemed to have no influencewhatever in arresting sound. So that when I was trying to read or toreflect, it was by no means exhilarating to my mind to hear from thenext room that:

"The la dy ce sel i a now si zed the weep on and all though the boor lyvil ly an re tain ed his vy gor ous hold she drew the blade through hisfin gers and hoorl ed it far be hind her dryp ping with jore. "

This sort of thing, kept up for an hour or so at a time, used to driveme nearly wild. But Euphemia did not mind it. I believe that she hadso delicate a sense of what was proper, that she did not hear Pomona'sprivate readings. 

On one occasion, even Euphemia's influence could scarcely restrain mefrom violent interference. 

It was our boarder's night out (when he was detained in town by hisbusiness), and Pomona was sitting up to let him in. This was necessary, for our front-door (or main-hatchway) had no night-latch, but wasfastened by means of a bolt. Euphemia and I used to sit up for him, butthat was earlier in the season, when it was pleasant to be out ondeck until quite a late hour. But Pomona never objected to sitting (orgetting) up late, and so we allowed this weekly duty to devolve on her. 

On this particular night I was very tired and sleepy, and soon after Igot into bed I dropped into a delightful slumber. But it was not longbefore I was awakened by the fact that:

"Sa rah did not fl inch but gras ped the heat ed i ron in her un in jured hand and when the ra bid an i mal a proach ed she thr ust the lur idpo ker in his--"

"My conscience!" said I to Euphemia, "can't that girl be stopped?"

"You wouldn't have her sit there and do nothing, would you?" said she. 

"No; but she needn't read out that way. "

"She can't read any other way, " said Euphemia, drowsily. 

"Yell af ter yell res oun ded as he wil dly spr rang--"

"I can't stand that, and I won't, " said I. "Why don't she go into thekitchen?--the dining-room's no place for her. "

"She must not sit there, " said Euphemia. "There's a window-pane out. Can't you cover up your head?"

"I shall not be able to breathe if I do; but I suppose that's nomatter, " I replied. 

The reading continued. 

"Ha, ha! Lord Mar mont thun der ed thou too shalt suf fer all that thispoor--"

I sprang out of bed. 

Euphemia thought I was going for my pistol, and she gave one bound andstuck her head out of the door. 

"Pomona, fly!" she cried. 

"Yes, sma'am, " said Pomona; and she got up and flew--not very fast, Iimagine. Where she flew to I don't know, but she took the lamp with her, and I could hear distant syllables of agony and blood, until the boardercame home and Pomona went to bed. 

I think that this made an impression upon Euphemia, for, although shedid not speak to me upon the subject (or any other) that night, the nexttime I heard Pomona reading, the words ran somewhat thus:

"The as ton ish ing che ap ness of land is ac count ed for by the wantof home mar kets, of good ro ads and che ap me ans of trans por ta ti onin ma ny sec ti ons of the State. "

CHAPTER IV. TREATING OF A NOVEL STYLE OF BURGLAR. 

I have spoken of my pistol. During the early part of our residence atRudder Grange I never thought of such a thing as owning a pistol. 

But it was different now. I kept a Colt's revolver loaded in the bureaudrawer in our bedroom. 

The cause of this change was burglars. Not that any of these unpleasantpersons had visited us, but we much feared they would. Several houses inthe vicinity had been entered during the past month, and we could nevertell when our turn would come. 

To be sure, our boarder suggested that if we were to anchor out a littlefurther at night, no burglar would risk catching his death of cold byswimming out to us; but Euphemia having replied that it would be ratherdifficult to move a canal-boat every night without paddle-wheels, orsails, or mules, especially if it were aground, this plan was consideredto be effectually disposed of. 

So we made up our minds that we must fasten up everything very securely, and I bought a pistol and two burglar-alarms. One of these I affixed tothe most exposed window, and the other to the door which opened on thedeck. These alarms were very simple affairs, but they were good enough. When they were properly attached to a window or door, and it was opened, a little gong sounded like a violently deranged clock, striking all thehours of the day at once. 

The window did not trouble us much, but it was rather irksome to haveto make the attachment to the door every night and to take it off everymorning. However, as Euphemia said, it was better to take a littletrouble than to have the house full of burglars, which was true enough. 

We made all the necessary arrangements in case burglars should make aninroad upon us. At the first sound of the alarm, Euphemia and the girlwere to lie flat on the floor or get under their beds. Then the boarderand I were to stand up, back to back, each with pistol in hand, and fireaway, revolving on a common centre the while. In this way, by aiminghorizontally at about four feet from the floor, we could rake thepremises, and run no risk of shooting each other or the women of thefamily. 

To be sure, there were some slight objections to this plan. Theboarder's room was at some distance from ours, and he would probably nothear the alarm, and the burglars might not be willing to wait whileI went forward and roused him up, and brought him to our part of thehouse. But this was a minor difficulty. I had no doubt but that, if itshould be necessary, I could manage to get our boarder into position inplenty of time. 

It was not very long before there was an opportunity of testing theplan. 

About twelve o'clock one night one of the alarms (that on the kitchenwindow) went off with a whirr and a wild succession of clangs. For amoment I thought the morning train had arrived, and then I woke up. Euphemia was already under the bed. 

I hurried on a few clothes, and then I tried to find the bureau in thedark. This was not easy, as I lost my bearings entirely. But I found itat last, got the top drawer open and took out my pistol. Then I slippedout of the room, hurried up the stairs, opened the door (setting off thealarm there, by the way), and ran along the deck (there was a cold nightwind), and hastily descended the steep steps that led into the boarder'sroom. The door that was at the bottom of the steps was not fastened, and, as I opened it, a little stray moonlight illumed the room. Ihastily stepped to the bed and shook the boarder by the shoulder. Hekept HIS pistol under his pillow. 

In an instant he was on his feet, his hand grasped my throat, andthe cold muzzle of his Derringer pistol was at my forehead. It was anawfully big muzzle, like the mouth of a bottle. 

I don't know when I lived so long as during the first minute that heheld me thus. 

"Rascal!" he said. "Do as much as breathe, and I'll pull the trigger. "

I didn't breathe. 

I had an accident insurance on my life. Would it hold good in a caselike this? Or would Euphemia have to go back to her father?

He pushed me back into the little patch of moonlight. 

"Oh! is it you?" he said, relaxing his grasp. "What do you want? Amustard plaster?"

He had a package of patent plasters in his room. You took one and dippedit in hot water, and it was all ready. 

"No, " said I, gasping a little. "Burglars. "

"Oh!" he said, and he put down his pistol and put on his clothes. 

"Come along, " he said, and away we went over the deck. 

When we reached the stairs all was dark and quiet below. 

It was a matter of hesitancy as to going down. 

I started to go down first, but the boarder held me back. 

"Let me go down, " he said. 

"No, " said I, "my wife is there. "

"That's the very reason you should not go, " he said. "She is safe enoughyet, and they would fire only at a man. It would be a bad job for her ifyou were killed. I'll go down. "

So he went down, slowly and cautiously, his pistol in one hand, and hislife in the other, as it were. 

When he reached the bottom of the steps I changed my mind. I could notremain above while the burglar and Euphemia were below, so I followed. 

The boarder was standing in the middle of the dining-room, into whichthe stairs led. I could not see him, but I put my hand against him as Iwas feeling my way across the floor. 

I whispered to him:

"Shall we put our backs together and revolve and fire?"

"No, " he whispered back, "not now; he may be on a shelf by this time, orunder a table. Let's look him up. "

I confess that I was not very anxious to look him up, but I followed theboarder, as he slowly made his way toward the kitchen door. As we openedthe door we instinctively stopped. 

The window was open, and by the light of the moon that shone in, we sawthe rascal standing on a chair, leaning out of the window, evidentlyjust ready to escape. Fortunately, we were unheard. 

"Let's pull him in, " whispered the boarder. 

"No, " I whispered in reply. "We don't want him in. Let's hoist him out. "

"All right, " returned the boarder. 

We laid our pistols on the floor, and softly approached the window. Being barefooted, out steps were noiseless. 

"Hoist when I count three, " breathed the boarder into my ear. 

We reached the chair. Each of us took hold of two of its legs. 

"One--two--three!" said the boarder, and together we gave a tremendouslift and shot the wretch out of the window. 

The tide was high, and there was a good deal of water around the boat. We heard a rousing splash outside. 

Now there was no need of silence. 

"Shall we run on deck and shoot him as he swims?" I cried. 

"No, " said the boarder, "we'll get the boat-hook, and jab him if hetries to climb up. "

We rushed on deck. I seized the boat-hook and looked over the side. ButI saw no one. 

"He's gone to the bottom!" I exclaimed. 

"He didn't go very far then, " said the boarder, "for it's not more thantwo feet deep there. "

Just then our attention was attracted by a voice from the shore. 

"Will you please let down the gang-plank?" We looked ashore, and therestood Pomona, dripping from every pore. 

We spoke no words, but lowered the gangplank. 

She came aboard. 

"Good night!" said the boarder, and he went to bed. 

"Pomona!" said I, "what have you been doing?"

"I was a lookin' at the moon, sir, when pop! the chair bounced, and outI went. "

"You shouldn't do that, " I said, sternly. 

"Some day you'll be drowned. Take off your wet things and go to bed. "

"Yes, sma'am--sir, I mean, " said she, as she went down-stairs. 

When I reached my room I lighted the lamp, and found Euphemia stillunder the bed. 

"Is it all right?" she asked. 

"Yes, " I answered. "There was no burglar. Pomona fell out of thewindow. "

"Did you get her a plaster?" asked Euphemia, drowsily. 

"No, she did not need one. She's all right now. Were you worried aboutme, dear?"

"No, I trusted in you entirely, and I think I dozed a little under thebed. "

In one minute she was asleep. 

The boarder and I did not make this matter a subject of conversationafterward, but Euphemia gave the girl a lecture on her careless ways, and made her take several Dover's powders the next day. 

An important fact in domestic economy was discovered about this time byEuphemia and myself. Perhaps we were not the first to discover it, butwe certainly did find it out, --and this fact was, that housekeepingcosts money. At the end of every week we counted up our expenditures--itwas no trouble at all to count up our receipts--and every week theresult was more unsatisfactory. 

"If we could only get rid of the disagreeable balance that has tobe taken along all the time, and which gets bigger and bigger like asnow-ball, I think we would find the accounts more satisfactory, " saidEuphemia. 

This was on a Saturday night. We always got our pencils and paper andmoney at the end of the week. 

"Yes, " said I, with an attempt to appear facetious and unconcerned, "butit would be all well enough if we could take that snow-ball to the fireand melt it down. "

"But there never is any fire where there are snow-balls, " said Euphemia. 

"No, " said I, "and that's just the trouble. "

It was on the following Thursday, when I came home in the evening, thatEuphemia met me with a glowing face. It rather surprised me to see herlook so happy, for she had been very quiet and preoccupied for the firstpart of the week. So much so, indeed, that I had thought of orderingsmaller roasts for a week or two, and taking her to a Thomas Concertwith the money saved. But this evening she looked as if she did not needThomas's orchestra. 

"What makes you so bright, my dear?" said I, when I had greeted her. "Has anything jolly happened?"

"No, " said she; "nothing yet, but I am going to make a fire to meltsnow-balls. "

Of course I was very anxious to know how she was going to do it, but shewould not tell me. It was a plan that she intended to keep to herselfuntil she saw how it worked. I did not press her, because she had so fewsecrets, and I did not hear anything about this plan until it had beencarried out. 

Her scheme was as follows: After thinking over our financial conditionand puzzling her brain to find out some way of bettering it, shehad come to the conclusion that she would make some money by her ownexertions, to help defray our household expenses. She never had made anymoney, but that was no reason why she should not begin. It was too badthat I should have to toil and toil and not make nearly enough moneyafter all. So she would go to work and earn something with her ownhands. 

She had heard of an establishment in the city, where ladies of limitedmeans, or transiently impecunious, could, in a very quiet and privateway, get sewing to do. They could thus provide for their needs withoutany one but the officers of the institution knowing anything about it. 

So Euphemia went to this place, and she got some work. It was not a verylarge bundle, but it was larger than she had been accustomed to carry, and, what was perfectly dreadful, it was wrapped up in a newspaper!When Euphemia told me the story, she said that this was too much for hercourage. She could not go on the cars, and perhaps meet people belongingto our church, with a newspaper bundle under her arm. 

But her genius for expedients saved her from this humiliation. She hadto purchase some sewing-cotton, and some other little things, and whenshe had bought them, she handed her bundle to the woman behind thecounter, and asked her if she would not be so good as to have thatwrapped up with the other things. It was a good deal to ask, she knew, and the woman smiled, for the articles she had bought would not make apackage as large as her hand. However, her request was complied with, and she took away a very decent package, with the card of the storestamped on the outside. I suppose that there are not more than half adozen people in this country who would refuse Euphemia anything that shewould be willing to ask for. 

So she took the work home, and she labored faithfully at it for abouta week, She did not suppose it would take her so long; but she was notused to such very plain sewing, and was much afraid that she would notdo it neatly enough. Besides this, she could only work on it in thedaytime--when I was away--and was, of course, interrupted a greatdeal by her ordinary household duties, and the necessity of a carefuloversight of Pomona's somewhat erratic methods of doing her work. 

But at last she finished the job and took it into the city. She did notwant to spend any more money on the trip than was absolutely necessary, and so was very glad to find that she had a remnant of pocket-moneysufficient to pay her fare both ways. 

When she reached the city, she walked up to the place where her work wasto be delivered, and found it much farther when she went on foot than ithad seemed to her riding in the street cars. She handed over her bundleto the proper person, and, as it was soon examined and approved, shereceived her pay therefor. 

It amounted to sixty cents. She had made no bargain, but she was alittle astonished. However, she said nothing, but left the place withoutasking for any more work. In fact she forgot all about it. She had anidea that everything was all wrong, and that idea engrossed her mindentirely. There was no mistake about the sum paid, for the lady clerkhad referred to the printed table of prices when she calculated theamount due. But something was wrong, and, at the moment, Euphemia couldnot tell what it was. She left the place, and started to walk back tothe ferry. But she was so tired and weak, and hungry--it was now an houror two past her regular luncheon time--that she thought she should faintif she did not go somewhere and get some refreshments. 

So, like a sensible little woman as she was, she went into a restaurant. She sat down at a table, and a waiter came to her to see what she wouldhave. She was not accustomed to eating-houses, and perhaps this wasthe first time that she had ever visited one alone. What she wantedwas something simple. So she ordered a cup of tea and some rolls, and apiece of chicken. The meal was a very good one, and Euphemia enjoyed it. When she had finished, she went up to the counter to settle. Her billwas sixty cents. She paid the money that she had just received, andwalked down to the ferry--all in a daze, she said. When she got home shethought it over, and then she cried. 

After a while she dried her eyes, and when I came home she told me allabout it. 

"I give it up, " she said. "I don't believe I can help you any. "

Poor little thing! I took her in my arms and comforted her, and beforebedtime I had convinced her that she was fully able to help me betterthan any one else on earth, and that without puzzling her brains aboutbusiness, or wearing herself out by sewing for pay. 

So we went on in our old way, and by keeping our attention on our weeklybalance, we prevented it from growing very rapidly. 

We fell back on our philosophy (it was all the capital we had), andbecame as calm and contented as circumstances allowed. 

CHAPTER V. POMONA PRODUCES A PARTIAL REVOLUTION IN RUDDER GRANGE. 

Euphemia began to take a great deal of comfort in her girl. Everyevening she had some new instance to relate of Pomona's inventiveabilities and aptness in adapting herself to the peculiarities of ourmethod of housekeeping. 

"Only to think!" said she, one afternoon, "Pomona has just done anotherVERY smart thing. You know what a trouble it has always been for usto carry all our waste water upstairs, and throw it over the bulwarks. Well, she has remedied all that. She has cut a nice little low windowin the side of the kitchen, and has made a shutter of the piece she cutout, with leather hinges to it, and now she can just open this window, throw the water out, shut it again, and there it is! I tell you she'ssmart. "

"Yes; there is no doubt of that, " I said; "but I think that there isdanger of her taking more interest in such extraordinary and novelduties than in the regular work of the house. "

"Now, don't discourage the girl, my dear, " she said, "for she is of thegreatest use to me, and I don't want you to be throwing cold water aboutlike some people. "

"Not even if I throw it out of Pomona's little door, I suppose. "

"No. Don't throw it at all. Encourage people. What would the world beif everybody chilled our aspirations and extraordinary efforts? LikeFulton's steamboat. "

"All right, " I said; "I'll not discourage her. "

It was now getting late in the season. It was quite too cool to sit outon deck in the evening, and our garden began to look desolate. 

Our boarder had wheeled up a lot of fresh earth, and had prepared alarge bed, in which he had planted turnips. They made an excellent fallcrop, he assured us. 

From being simply cool it began to be rainy, and the weather grewdecidedly unpleasant. But our boarder bade us take courage. This wasprobably the "equinoctial, " and when it was over there would be adelightful Indian summer, and the turnips would grow nicely. 

This sounded very well, but the wind blew up cold at night, and therewas a great deal of unpleasant rain. 

One night it blew what Pomona called a "whirlicane, " and we went tobed very early to keep warm. We heard our boarder on deck in the gardenafter we were in bed, and Euphemia said she could not imagine what hewas about, unless he was anchoring his turnips to keep them from blowingaway. 

During the night I had a dream. I thought I was a boy again, and wastrying to stand upon my head, a feat for which I had been famous. Butinstead of throwing myself forward on my hands, and then raising myheels backward over my head, in the orthodox manner, I was on my back, and trying to get on my head from that position. I awoke suddenly, andfound that the footboard of the bedstead was much higher than our heads. We were lying on a very much inclined plane, with our heads downward. I roused Euphemia, and we both got out of bed, when, at almost the samemoment, we slipped down the floor into ever so much water. 

Euphemia was scarcely awake, and she fell down gurgling. It was dark, but I heard her fall, and I jumped over the bedstead to her assistance. I had scarcely raised her up, when I heard a pounding at the front dooror main-hatchway, and our boarder shouted:

"Get up! Come out of that! Open the door! The old boat's turning over!"

My heart fell within me, but I clutched Euphemia. I said no word, andshe simply screamed. I dragged her over the floor, sometimes in thewater and sometimes out of it. I got the dining-room door open and sether on the stairs. They were in a topsy-turvy condition, but they weredry. I found a lantern which hung on a nail, with a match-box underit, and I struck a light. Then I scrambled back and brought her someclothes. 

All this time the boarder was yelling and pounding at the door. WhenEuphemia was ready I opened the door and took her out. 

"You go dress yourself;" said the boarder. "I'll hold her here until youcome back. "

I left her and found my clothes (which, chair and all, had tumbledagainst the foot of the bed and so had not gone into the water), andsoon reappeared on deck. The wind was blowing strongly, but it did notnow seem to be very cold. The deck reminded me of the gang-plank of aHarlem steamboat at low tide. It was inclined at an angle of more thanforty-five degrees, I am sure. There was light enough for us to seeabout us, but the scene and all the dreadful circumstances made me feelthe most intense desire to wake up and find it all a dream. There was nodoubt, however, about the boarder being wide awake. 

"Now then, " said he, "take hold of her on that side and we'll help herover here. You scramble down on that side; it's all dry just there. Theboat's turned over toward the water, and I'll lower her down to you. I'll let a rope over the sides. You can hold on to that as you go down. "

I got over the bulwarks and let myself down to the ground. Then theboarder got Euphemia up and slipped her over the side, holding to herhands, and letting her gently down until I could reach her. She saidnever a word, but screamed at times. I carried her a little way up theshore and set her down. I wanted to take her up to a house near by, where we bought our milk, but she declined to go until we had savedPomona. 

So I went back to the boat, having carefully wrapped up Euphemia, toendeavor to save the girl. I found that the boarder had so arrangedthe gang-plank that it was possible, without a very great exercise ofagility, to pass from the shore to the boat. When I first saw him, on reaching the shelving deck, he was staggering up the stairs with adining-room chair and a large framed engraving of Raphael's Dante--anugly picture, but full of true feeling; at least so Euphemia alwaysdeclared, though I am not quite sure that I know what she meant. 

"Where is Pomona?" I said, endeavoring to stand on the hill-side of thedeck. 

"I don't know, " said he, "but we must get the things out. The tide'srising and the wind's getting up. The boat will go over before we knowit. "

"But we must find the girl, " I said. "She can't be left to drown. "

"I don't think it would matter much, " said he, getting over the sideof the boat with his awkward load. "She would be of about as much usedrowned as any other way. If it hadn't been for that hole she cut in theside of the boat, this would never have happened. "

"You don't think it was that!" I said, holding the picture and the chairwhile he let himself down to the gang-plank. 

"Yes, it was, " he replied. "The tide's very high, and the water got overthat hole and rushed in. The water and the wind will finish this oldcraft before very long. "

And then he took his load from me and dashed down the gang-plank. I wentbelow to look for Pomona. The lantern still hung on the nail, and I tookit down and went into the kitchen. There was Pomona, dressed, and withher hat on, quietly packing some things in a basket. 

"Come, hurry out of this, " I cried. "Don't you know that thishouse--this boat, I mean, is a wreck?"

"Yes, sma'am--sir, I mean--I know it, and I suppose we shall soon be atthe mercy of the waves. "

"Well, then, go as quickly as you can. What are you putting in thatbasket?"

"Food, " she said. "We may need it. "

I took her by the shoulder and hurried her on deck, over the bulwark, down the gang-plank, and so on to the place where I had left Euphemia. 

I found the dear girl there, quiet and collected, all up in a littlebunch, to shield herself from the wind. I wasted no time, but hurriedthe two women over to the house of our milk-merchant. There, with somedifficulty, I roused the good woman, and after seeing Euphemia andPomona safely in the house, I left them to tell the tale, and ran backto the boat. 

The boarder was working like a Trojan. He had already a pile of ourfurniture on the beach. 

I set about helping him, and for an hour we labored at this hasty andtoilsome moving. It was indeed a toilsome business. The floors wereshelving, the stairs leaned over sideways, ever so far, and thegang-plank was desperately short and steep. 

Still, we saved quite a number of household articles. Some things webroke and some we forgot, and some things were too big to move in thisway; but we did very well, considering the circumstances. 

The wind roared, the tide rose, and the boat groaned and creaked. Wewere in the kitchen, trying to take the stove apart (the boarder wassure we could carry it up, if we could get the pipe out and the legs anddoors off), when we heard a crash. We rushed on deck and found thatthe garden had fallen in! Making our way as well as we could toward thegaping rent in the deck, we saw that the turnip-bed had gone down bodilyinto the boarder's room. He did not hesitate, but scrambled down hisnarrow stairs. I followed him. He struck a match that he had in hispocket, and lighted a little lantern that hung under the stairs. Hisroom was a perfect rubbish heap. The floor, bed, chairs, pitcher, basin--everything was covered or filled with garden mold and turnips. Never did I behold such a scene. He stood in the midst of it, holdinghis lantern high above his head. At length he spoke. 

"If we had time, " he said, "we might come down here and pick out a lotof turnips. "

"But how about your furniture?" I exclaimed. 

"Oh, that's ruined!" he replied. 

So we did not attempt to save any of it, but we got hold of his trunkand carried that on shore. 

When we returned, we found that the water was pouring through hispartition, making the room a lake of mud. And, as the water was risingrapidly below, and the boat was keeling over more and more, we thoughtit was time to leave, and we left. 

It would not do to go far away from our possessions, which were piled upin a sad-looking heap on the shore; and so, after I had gone over to themilk-woman's to assure Euphemia of our safety, the boarder and I passedthe rest of the night--there was not much of it left--in walking upand down the beach smoking some cigars which he fortunately had in hispocket. 

In the morning I took Euphemia to the hotel, about a mile away--andarranged for the storage of our furniture there, until we could findanother habitation. This habitation, we determined, was to be in asubstantial house, or part of a house, which should not be affected bythe tides. 

During the morning the removal of our effects was successfullyaccomplished, and our boarder went to town to look for a furnished room. He had nothing but his trunk to take to it. 

In the afternoon I left Euphemia at the hotel, where she was taking anap (she certainly needed it, for she had spent the night in a woodenrocking-chair at the milk-woman's), and I strolled down to the river totake a last look at the remains of old Rudder Grange. 

I felt sadly enough as I walked along the well-worn path to thecanal-boat, and thought how it had been worn by my feet more than anyother's, and how gladly I had walked that way, so often during thatdelightful summer. I forgot all that had been disagreeable, and thoughtonly of the happy times we had had. 

It was a beautiful autumn afternoon, and the wind had entirely diedaway. When I came within sight of our old home, it presented a dolefulappearance. The bow had drifted out into the river, and was almostentirely under water. The stern stuck up in a mournful and ridiculousmanner, with its keel, instead of its broadside, presented to the viewof persons on the shore. As I neared the boat I heard a voice. I stoppedand listened. There was no one in sight. Could the sounds come from theboat? I concluded that it must be so, and I walked up closer. Then Iheard distinctly the words:

"He grasp ed her by the thro at and yell ed, swear to me thou nev erwilt re veal my se cret, or thy hot heart's blood shall stain this marbel fib or; she gave one gry vy ous gasp and--"

It was Pomona!

Doubtless she had climbed up the stern of the boat and had descendedinto the depths of the wreck to rescue her beloved book, the reading ofwhich had so long been interrupted by my harsh decrees. Could I breakin on this one hour of rapture? I had not the heart to do it, and asI slowly moved away, there came to me the last words that I ever heardfrom Rudder Grange:

"And with one wild shry ik to heav en her heart's blo od spat ter edthat prynce ly home of woe--"

CHAPTER VI. THE NEW RUDDER GRANGE. 

I have before given an account of the difficulties we encountered whenwe started out house-hunting, and it was this doleful experience whichmade Euphemia declare that before we set out on a second search for aresidence, we should know exactly what we wanted. 

To do this, we must know how other people live, we must examine into theadvantages and disadvantages of the various methods of housekeeping, andmake up our minds on the subject. 

When we came to this conclusion we were in a city boarding-house, andwere entirely satisfied that this style of living did not suit us atall. 

At this juncture I received a letter from the gentleman who had boardedwith us on the canal-boat. Shortly after leaving us the previous fall, he had married a widow lady with two children, and was now keeping housein a French flat in the upper part of the city. We had called upon thehappy couple soon after their marriage, and the letter, now received, contained an invitation for us to come and dine, and spend the night. 

"We'll go, " said Euphemia. "There's nothing I want so much as to see howpeople keep house in a French flat. Perhaps we'll like it. And I mustsee those children. " So we went. 

The house, as Euphemia remarked, was anything but flat. It was very tallindeed--the tallest house in the neighborhood. We entered the vestibule, the outer door being open, and beheld, on one side of us, a rowof bell-handles. Above each of these handles was the mouth of aspeaking-tube, and above each of these, a little glazed frame containinga visiting-card. 

"Isn't this cute?" said Euphemia, reading over the cards. "Here's hisname and this is his bell and tube! Which would you do first, ring orblow?"

"My dear, " said I, "you don't blow up those tubes. We must ring thebell, just as if it were an ordinary front-door bell, and instead ofcoming to the door, some one will call down the tube to us. "

I rang the bell under the boarder's name, and very soon a voice at thetube said:

"Well?"

Then I told our names, and in an instant the front door opened. 

"Why, their flat must be right here, " whispered Euphemia. "How quicklythe girl came!"

And she looked for the girl as we entered. But there was no one there. 

"Their flat is on the fifth story, " said I. "He mentioned that in hisletter. We had better shut the door and go up. "

Up and up the softly carpeted stairs we climbed, and not a soul we sawor heard. 

"It is like an enchanted cavern, " said Euphemia. "You say the magicword, the door in the rock opens and you go on, and on, through thevaulted passages--"

"Until you come to the ogre, " said the boarder, who was standing at thetop of the stairs. He did not behave at all like an ogre, for he wasvery glad to see us, and so was his wife. After we had settled downin the parlor and the boarder's wife had gone to see about somethingconcerning the dinner, Euphemia asked after the children. 

"I hope they haven't gone to bed, " she said, "for I do so want to seethe dear little things. "

The ex-boarder, as Euphemia called him, smiled grimly. 

"They're not so very little, " he said. "My wife's son is nearly grown. He is at an academy in Connecticut, and he expects to go into a civilengineer's office in the spring. His sister is older than he is. My wifemarried--in the first instance--when she was very young--very young indeed. "

"Oh!" said Euphemia; and then, after a pause, "And neither of them is athome now?"

"No, " said the ex-boarder. "By the way, what do you think of this dado?It is a portable one; I devised it myself. You can take it away with youto another house when you move. But there is the dinner-bell. I'll showyou over the establishment after we have had something to eat. "

After our meal we made a tour of inspection. The flat, which includedthe whole floor, contained nine or ten rooms, of all shapes and sizes. The corners in some of the rooms were cut off and shaped up into closetsand recesses, so that Euphemia said the corners of every room were insome other room. 

Near the back of the flat was a dumb-waiter, with bells andspeaking-tubes. When the butcher, the baker, or the kerosene-lamp maker, came each morning, he rang the bell, and called up the tube to know whatwas wanted. The order was called down, and he brought the things in theafternoon. 

All this greatly charmed Euphemia. It was so cute, so complete. Therewere no interviews with disagreeable trades-people, none of the ordinaryannoyances of housekeeping. Everything seemed to be done with a bell, aspeaking-tube or a crank. 

"Indeed, " said the ex-boarder, "if it were not for people trippingover the wires, I could rig up attachments by which I could sit in theparlor, and by using pedals and a key-board, I could do all the work ofthis house without getting out of my easy-chair. "

One of the most peculiar features of the establishment was the servant'sroom. This was at the rear end of the floor, and as there was not muchspace left after the other rooms had been made, it was very small; sosmall, indeed, that it would accommodate only a very short bedstead. This made it necessary for our friends to consider the size of theservant when they engaged her. 

"There were several excellent girls at the intelligence office where Icalled, " said the ex-boarder, "but I measured them, and they were alltoo tall. So we had to take a short one, who is only so so. There wasone big Scotch girl who was the very person for us, and I would havetaken her if my wife had not objected to my plan for her accommodation. 

"What was that?" I asked. 

"Well, " said he, "I first thought of cutting a hole in the partitionwall at the foot of the bed, for her to put her feet through. "

"Never!" said his wife, emphatically. "I would never have allowed that. "

"And then, " continued he, "I thought of turning the bed around, andcutting a larger hole, through which she might have put her head intothe little room on this side. A low table could have stood under thehole, and her head might have rested on a cushion on the table verycomfortably. "

"My dear, " said his wife, "it would have frightened me to death to gointo that room and see that head on a cushion on a table--"

"Like John the Baptist, " interrupted Euphemia. 

"Well, " said our ex-boarder, "the plan would have had its advantages. "

"Oh!" cried Euphemia, looking out of a back window. "What a lovelylittle iron balcony! Do you sit out there on warm evenings?"

"That's a fire-escape, " said the ex-boarder. "We don't go out thereunless it is very hot indeed, on account of the house being on fire. You see there is a little door in the floor of the balcony and an ironladder leading to the balcony beneath, and so on, down to the firststory. "

"And you have to creep through that hole and go down that dreadful steepladder every time there is a fire?" said Euphemia. 

"Well, I guess we would never go down but once, " he answered. 

"No, indeed, " said Euphemia; "you'd fall down and break your neck thefirst time, " and she turned away from the window with a very graveexpression on her face. 

Soon after this our hostess conducted Euphemia to the guest-chamber, while her husband and I finished a bed-time cigar. 

When I joined Euphemia in her room, she met me with a mysteriousexpression on her face. She shut the door, and then said in a veryearnest tone:

"Do you see that little bedstead in the corner? I did not notice ituntil I came in just now, and then, being quite astonished, I said, 'Why here's a child's bed; who sleeps here?' 'Oh, ' says she, 'that'sour little Adele's bedstead. We have it in our room when she's here. ''Little Adele!' said I, 'I didn't know she was little--not small enoughfor that bed, at any rate. ' 'Why, yes, ' said she, 'Adele is only fouryears old. The bedstead is quite large enough for her. ' 'And she is nothere now?' I said, utterly amazed at all this. 'No, ' she answered, 'sheis not here now, but we try to have her with us as much as we can, andalways keep her little bed ready for her. ' 'I suppose she's with herfather's people, ' I said, and she answered, 'Oh yes, ' and bade megood-night. What does all this mean? Our boarder told us that thedaughter is grown up, and here his wife declares that she is only fouryears old! I don't know what in the world to make of this mystery!"

I could give Euphemia no clue. I supposed there was some mistake, andthat was all I could say, except that I was sleepy, and that we couldfind out all about it in the morning. But Euphemia could not dismiss thesubject from her mind. She said no more, --but I could see--until I fellasleep--that she was thinking about it. 

It must have been about the middle of the night, perhaps later, whenI was suddenly awakened by Euphemia starting up in the bed, with theexclamation:

"I have it!"

"What?" I cried, sitting up in a great hurry. "What is it? What have yougot? What's the matter?"

"I know it!" she said, "I know it. Our boarder is a GRANDFATHER! LittleAdele is the grown-up daughter's child. He was quite particular to saythat his wife married VERY young. Just to think of it! So short a timeago, he was living with us--a bachelor--and now, in four short months, he is a grandfather!"

Carefully propounded inquiries, in the morning, proved Euphemia'sconclusions to be correct. 

The next evening, when we were quietly sitting in our own room, Euphemiaremarked that she did not wish to have anything to do with French flats. 

"They seem to be very convenient, " I said. 

"Oh yes, convenient enough, but I don't like them. I would hate to livewhere everything let down like a table-lid, or else turned with a crank. And when I think of those fire-escapes, and the boarder's grandchild, itmakes me feel very unpleasantly. "

"But the grandchild don't follow as a matter of course, " said I. 

"No, " she answered, "but I shall never like French flats. "

And we discussed them no more. 

For some weeks we examined into every style of economic and respectablehousekeeping, and many methods of living in what Euphemia called"imitation comfort" were set aside as unworthy of consideration. 

"My dear, " said Euphemia, one evening, "what we really ought to do is tobuild. Then we would have exactly the house we want. "

"Very true, " I replied; "but to build a house, a man must have money. "

"Oh no!" said she, "or at least not much. For one thing, you might joina building association. In some of those societies I know that you onlyhave to pay a dollar a week. "

"But do you suppose the association builds houses for all its members?"I asked. 

"Of course I suppose so. Else why is it called a building association?"

I had read a good deal about these organizations, and I explained toEuphemia that a dollar a week was never received by any of them inpayment for a new house. 

"Then build yourself, " she said; "I know how that can be done. "

"Oh, it's easy enough, " I remarked, "if you have the money. "

"No, you needn't have any money, " said Euphemia, rather hastily. "Justlet me show you. Supposing, for instance, that you want to build a houseworth--well, say twenty thousand dollars, in some pretty town near thecity. "

"I would rather figure on a cheaper house than that for a countryplace, " I interrupted. 

"Well then, say two thousand dollars. You get masons, and carpenters, and people to dig the cellar, and you engage them to build your house. You needn't pay them until it's done, of course. Then when it's allfinished, borrow two thousand dollars and give the house as security. After that you see, you have only to pay the interest on the borrowedmoney. When you save enough money to pay back the loan, the house isyour own. Now, isn't that a good plan?"

"Yes, " said I, "if there could be found people who would build yourhouse and wait for their money until some one would lend you its fullvalue on a mortgage. "

"Well, " said Euphemia, "I guess they could be found if you would onlylook for them. "

"I'll look for them, when I go to heaven, " I said. 

We gave up for the present, the idea of building or buying a house, anddetermined to rent a small place in the country, and then, as Euphemiawisely said, if we liked it, we might buy it. After she had dropped herbuilding projects she thought that one ought to know just how a housewould suit before having it on one's hands. 

We could afford something better than a canal-boat now, and therefore wewere not so restricted as in our first search for a house. But, theone thing which troubled my wife--and, indeed, caused me much anxiousthought, was that scourge of almost all rural localities--tramps. Itwould be necessary for me to be away all day, --and we could not affordto keep a man, --so we must be careful to get a house somewhere off theline of ordinary travel, or else in a well-settled neighborhood, wherethere would be some one near at hand in case of unruly visitors. 

"A village I don't like, " said Euphemia: "there is always so muchgossip, and people know all about what you have, and what you do. Andyet it would be very lonely, and perhaps dangerous, for us to liveoff somewhere, all by ourselves. And there is another objection to avillage. We don't want a house with a small yard and a garden at theback. We ought to have a dear little farm, with some fields for corn, and a cow, and a barn and things of that sort. All that would belovely. I'll tell you what we want, " she cried, seized with a suddeninspiration; "we ought to try to get the end-house of a village. Thenour house could be near the neighbors, and our farm could stretch out alittle way into the country beyond us. Let us fix our minds upon such ahouse and I believe we can get it. "

So we fixed our minds, but in the course of a week or two we unfixedthem several times to allow the consideration of places, which otherwisewould have been out of range; and during one of these intervals ofmental disfixment we took a house. 

It was not the end-house of a village, but it was in the outskirts ofa very small rural settlement. Our nearest neighbor was within vigorousshouting distance, and the house suited us so well in other respects, that we concluded that this would do. The house was small, but largeenough. There were some trees around it, and a little lawn in front. There was a garden, a small barn and stable, a pasture field, and landenough besides for small patches of corn and potatoes. The rent was low, the water good, and no one can imagine how delighted we were. 

We did not furnish the whole house at first, but what mattered it? Wehad no horse or cow, but the pasture and barn were ready for them. Wedid not propose to begin with everything at once. 

Our first evening in that house was made up of hours of unalloyed bliss. We walked from room to room; we looked out on the garden and the lawn;we sat on the little porch while I smoked. 

"We were happy at Rudder Grange, " said Euphemia; "but that was onlya canal-boat, and could not, in the nature of things, have been apermanent home. "

"No, " said I, "it could not have been permanent. But, in many respects, it was a delightful home. The very name of it brings pleasant thoughts. "

"It was a nice name, " said Euphemia, "and I'll tell you what we mightdo: Let us call this place Rudder Grange--the New Rudder Grange! Thename will do just as well for a house as for a boat. "

I agreed on the spot, and the house was christened. 

Our household was small; we had a servant--a German woman; and we hadourselves, that was all. 

I did not do much in the garden; it was too late in the season. Theformer occupant had planted some corn and potatoes, with a few othervegetables, and these I weeded and hoed, working early in the morningand when I came home in the afternoon. Euphemia tied up the rose-vines, trimmed the bushes, and with a little rake and hoe she prepared aflower-bed in front of the parlor-window. This exercise gave us splendidappetites, and we loved our new home more and more. 

Our German girl did not suit us exactly at first, and day by day shegrew to suit us less. She was a quiet, kindly, pleasant creature, anddelighted in an out-of-door life. She was as willing to weed in thegarden as she was to cook or wash. At first I was very much pleased withthis, because, as I remarked to Euphemia, you can find very few girlswho would be willing to work in the garden, and she might be made veryuseful. 

But, after a time, Euphemia began to get a little out of patience withher. She worked out-of-doors entirely too much. And what she did there, as well as some of her work in the house, was very much like certainGerman literature--you did not know how it was done, or what it was for. 

One afternoon I found Euphemia quite annoyed. 

"Look here, " she said, "and see what that girl has been at work at, nearly all this afternoon. I was upstairs sewing and thought she wasironing. Isn't it too provoking?"

It WAS provoking. The contemplative German had collected a lot of shortham-bones--where she found them I cannot imagine--and had made of thema border around my wife's flower-bed. The bones stuck up straight a fewinches above the ground, all along the edge of the bed, and the marrowcavity of each one was filled with earth in which she had planted seeds. 

"'These, ' she says, 'will spring up and look beautiful, '" said Euphemia;"they have that style of thing in her country. "

"Then let her take them off with her to her country, " I exclaimed. 

"No, no, " said Euphemia, hurriedly, "don't kick them out. It would onlywound her feelings. She did it all for the best, and thought itwould please me to have such a border around my bed. But she is tooindependent, and neglects her proper work. I will give her a week'snotice and get another servant. When she goes we can take these horridbones away. But I hope nobody will call on us in the meantime. "

"Must we keep these things here a whole week?" I asked. 

"Oh, I can't turn her away without giving her a fair notice. That wouldbe cruel. "

I saw the truth of the remark, and determined to bear with the bones andher rather than be unkind. 

That night Euphemia informed the girl of her decision, and the nextmorning, soon after I had left, the good German appeared with her bonneton and her carpet-bag in her hand, to take leave of her mistress. 

"What!" cried Euphemia. "You are not going to-day?"

"If it is goot to go at all it is goot to go now, " said the girl. 

"And you will go off and leave me without any one in the house, after myputting myself out to give you a fair notice? It's shameful!"

"I think it is very goot for me to go now, " quietly replied the girl. "This house is very loneful. I will go to-morrow in the city to see yourhusband for my money. Goot morning. " And off she trudged to the station. 

Before I reached the house that afternoon, Euphemia rushed out to tellthis story. I would not like to say how far I kicked those ham-bones. 

This German girl had several successors, and some of them suited asbadly and left as abruptly as herself; but Euphemia never forgot theungrateful stab given her by this "ham-bone girl, " as she alwayscalled her. It was her first wound of the kind, and it came in thevery beginning of the campaign when she was all unused to this domesticwarfare. 

CHAPTER VII. TREATING OF AN UNSUCCESSFUL BROKER AND A DOG. 

It was a couple of weeks, or thereabouts, after this episode thatEuphemia came down to the gate to meet me on my return from the city. I noticed a very peculiar expression on her face. She looked boththoughtful and pleased. Almost the first words she said to me werethese:

"A tramp came here to-day. "

"I am sorry to hear that, " I exclaimed. "That's the worst news I havehad yet. I did hope that we were far enough from the line of travel toescape these scourges. How did you get rid of him? Was he impertinent?"

"You must not feel that way about all tramps, " said she. "Sometimes theyare deserving of our charity, and ought to be helped. There is a greatdifference in them. "

"That may be, " I said; "but what of this one? When was he here, and whendid he go?"

"He did not go at all. He is here now. "

"Here now!" I cried. "Where is he?"

"Do not call out so loud, " said Euphemia, putting her hand on my arm. "You will waken him. He is asleep. "

"Asleep!" said I. "A tramp? Here?"

"Yes. Stop, let me tell you about him. He told me his story, and it isa sad one. He is a middle-aged man--fifty perhaps--and has been rich. He was once a broker in Wall street, but lost money by the failure ofvarious railroads--the Camden and Amboy, for one. "

"That hasn't failed, " I interrupted. 

"Well then it was the Northern Pacific, or some other one of them--atany rate I know it was either a railroad or a bank, --and he soon becamevery poor. He has a son in Cincinnati, who is a successful merchant, andlives in a fine house, with horses and carriages, and all that; and thispoor man has written to his son, but has never had any answer. So nowhe is going to walk to Cincinnati to see him. He knows he will not beturned away if he can once meet his son, face to face. He was very tiredwhen he stopped here, --and he has ever and ever so far to walk yet, youknow, --and so after I had given him something to eat, I let him lie downin the outer kitchen, on that roll of rag-carpet that is there. I spreadit out for him. It is a hard bed for one who has known comfort, but heseems to sleep soundly. "

"Let me see him, " said I, and I walked back to the outer kitchen. 

There lay the unsuccessful broker fast asleep. His face, which wasturned toward me as I entered, showed that it had been many days sincehe had been shaved, and his hair had apparently been uncombed for aboutthe same length of time. His clothes were very old, and a good dealtorn, and he wore one boot and one shoe. 

"Whew!" said I. "Have you been giving him whisky?"

"No, " whispered Euphemia, "of course not. I noticed that smell, and hesaid he had been cleaning his clothes with alcohol. "

"They needed it, I'm sure, " I remarked as I turned away. "And now, " saidI, "where's the girl?"

"This is her afternoon out. What is the matter? You look frightened. "

"Oh, I'm not frightened, but I find I must go down to the station again. Just run up and put on your bonnet. It will be a nice little walk foryou. "

I had been rapidly revolving the matter in my mind. What was I to dowith this wretch who was now asleep in my outer kitchen? If I woke himup and drove him off, --and I might have difficulty in doing it, --therewas every reason to believe that he would not go far, but returnat night and commit some revengeful act. I never saw a moresinister-looking fellow. And he was certainly drunk. He must not beallowed to wander about our neighborhood. I would go for the constableand have him arrested. 

So I locked the door from the kitchen into the house and then theoutside door of the kitchen, and when my wife came down we hurried off. On the way I told her what I intended to do, and what I thought ofour guest. She answered scarcely a word, and I hoped that she wasfrightened. I think she was. 

The constable, who was also coroner of our township, had gone to acreek, three miles away, to hold an inquest, and there was nobody toarrest the man. The nearest police-station was at Hackingford, six milesaway, on the railroad. I held a consultation with the station-master, and the gentleman who kept the grocery-store opposite. 

They could think of nothing to be done except to shoot the man, and tothat I objected. 

"However, " said I, "he can't stay there;" and a happy thought just thenstriking me, I called to the boy who drove the village express-wagon, and engaged him for a job. The wagon was standing at the station, and tosave time, I got in and rode to my house. Euphemia went over to call onthe groceryman's wife until I returned. 

I had determined that the man should be taken away, although, until Iwas riding home, I had not made up my mind where to have him taken. Buton the road I settled this matter. 

On reaching the house, we drove into the yard as close to the kitchenas we could go. Then I unlocked the door, and the boy--who was a big, strapping fellow--entered with me. We found the ex-broker still wrappedin the soundest slumber. Leaving the boy to watch him, I went upstairsand got a baggage-tag which I directed to the chief of police at thepolice station in Hackingford. I returned to the kitchen and fastenedthis tag, conspicuously, on the lapel of the sleeper's coat. Then, witha clothes-line, I tied him up carefully, hand and foot. To all this heoffered not the slightest opposition. When he was suitably packed, withdue regard to the probable tenderness of wrist and ankle in one broughtup in luxury, the boy and I carried him to the wagon. 

He was a heavy load, and we may have bumped him a little, but his sleepwas not disturbed. Then we drove him to the express office. This was atthe railroad station, and the station-master was also express agent. Atfirst he was not inclined to receive my parcel, but when I assured himthat all sorts of live things were sent by express, and that I could seeno reason for making an exception in this case, he added my argumentsto his own disposition, as a house-holder, to see the goods forwarded totheir destination, and so gave me a receipt, and pasted a label on theex-broker's shoulder. I set no value on the package, which I prepaid. 

"Now then, " said the station-master, "he'll go all right, if the expressagent on the train will take him. "

This matter was soon settled, for, in a few minutes, the train stoppedat the station. My package was wheeled to the express car, and twoporters, who entered heartily into the spirit of the thing, hoisted itinto the car. The train-agent, who just then noticed the character ofthe goods, began to declare that he would not have the fellow in hiscar; but my friend the station-master shouted out that everything wasall right, --the man was properly packed, invoiced and paid for, and thetrain, which was behind time, moved away before the irate agent couldtake measures to get rid of his unwelcome freight. 

"Now, " said I, "there'll be a drunken man at the police-station inHackingford in about half-an-hour. His offense will be as evident thereas here, and they can do what they please with him. I shall telegraph, to explain the matter and prepare them for his arrival. "

When I had done this Euphemia and I went home. The tramp had cost mesome money, but I was well satisfied with my evening's work, and feltthat the township owed me, at least, a vote of thanks. 

But I firmly made up my mind that Euphemia should never again be leftunprotected. I would not even trust to a servant who would agree to haveno afternoons out. I would get a dog. 

The next day I advertised for a fierce watchdog, and in the course ofa week I got one. Before I procured him I examined into the merits, and price, of about one hundred dogs. My dog was named Pete, but Idetermined to make a change in that respect. He was a very tall, bony, powerful beast, of a dull black color, and with a lower jaw that wouldcrack the hind-leg of an ox, so I was informed. He was of a variedbreed, and the good Irishman of whom I bought him said he had fine bloodin him, and attempted to refer him back to the different classes of dogsfrom which he had been derived. But after I had had him awhile, I madean analysis based on his appearance and character, and concluded that hewas mainly blood-hound, shaded with wolf-dog and mastiff, and picked outwith touches of bull-dog. 

The man brought him home for me, and chained him up in an unusedwood-shed, for I had no doghouse as yet. 

"Now thin, " said he, "all you've got to do is to keep 'im chained upthere for three or four days till he gets used to ye. An' I'll tell yethe best way to make a dog like ye. Jist give him a good lickin'. Thenhe'll know yer his master, and he'll like ye iver aftherward. There'splenty of people that don't know that. And, by the way, sir, thatchain's none too strong for 'im. I got it when he wasn't mor'n halfgrown. Ye'd bether git him a new one. "

When the man had gone, I stood and looked at the dog, and could nothelp hoping that he would learn to like me without the intervention of athrashing. Such harsh methods were not always necessary, I felt sure. 

After our evening meal--a combination of dinner and supper, of whichEuphemia used to say that she did not know whether to call it dinper orsupner--we went out together to look at our new guardian. 

Euphemia was charmed with him. 

"How massive!" she exclaimed. "What splendid limbs! And look at thatimmense head! I know I shall never be afraid now. I feel that that is adog I can rely upon. Make him stand up, please, so I can see how tall heis. "

"I think it would be better not to disturb him, " I answered, "he maybe tired. He will get up of his own accord very soon. And indeed Ihope that he will not get up until I go to the store and get him a newchain. "

As I said this I made a step forward to look at his chain, and at thatinstant a low growl, like the first rumblings of an earthquake, ranthrough the dog. 

I stepped back again and walked over to the village for the chain. Thedog-chains shown me at the store all seemed too short and too weak, andI concluded to buy two chains such as used for hitching horses and tojoin them so as to make a long as well as a strong one of them. I wantedhim to be able to come out of the wood-shed when it should be necessaryto show himself. 

On my way home with my purchase the thought suddenly struck me, How willyou put that chain on your dog? The memory of the rumbling growl wasstill vivid. 

I never put the chain on him. As I approached him with it in my hand, herose to his feet, his eyes sparkled, his black lips drew back from hismighty teeth, he gave one savage bark and sprang at me. 

His chain held and I went into the house. That night he broke loose andwent home to his master, who lived fully ten miles away. 

When I found in the morning that he was gone I was in doubt whether itwould be better to go and look for him or not. But I concluded to keepup a brave heart, and found him, as I expected, at the place where I hadbought him. The Irishman took him to my house again and I had to pay forthe man's loss of time as well as for his fare on the railroad. But thedog's old master chained him up with the new chain and I felt repaid formy outlay. 

Every morning and night I fed that dog, and I spoke as kindly and gentlyto him as I knew how. But he seemed to cherish a distaste for me, andalways greeted me with a growl. He was an awful dog. 

About a week after the arrival of this animal, I was astonished andfrightened on nearing the house to hear a scream from my wife. I rushedinto the yard and was greeted with a succession of screams from twovoices, that seemed to come from the vicinity of the wood-shed. Hurryingthither, I perceived Euphemia standing on the roof of the shed inperilous proximity to the edge, while near the ridge of the roof sat ourhired girl with her handkerchief over her head. 

"Hurry, hurry!" cried Euphemia. "Climb up here! The dog is loose! Bequick! Be quick! Oh! he's coming, he's coming!"

I asked for no explanation. There was a rail-fence by the side of theshed and I sprang on this, and was on the roof just as the dog camebounding and barking from the barn. 

Instantly Euphemia had me in her arms, and we came very near going offthe roof together. 

"I never feared to have you come home before, " she sobbed. "I thought hewould tear you limb from limb. "

"But how did all this happen?" said I. 

"Och! I kin hardly remember, " said the girl from under her handkerchief. 

"Well, I didn't ask you, " I said, somewhat too sharply. 

"Oh, I'll tell you, " said Euphemia. "There was a man at the gate and helooked suspicious and didn't try to come in, and Mary was at the barnlooking for an egg, and I thought this was a good time to see whetherthe dog was a good watch-dog or not, so I went and unchained him--"

"Did you unchain that dog?" I cried. 

"Yes, and the minute he was loose he made a rush at the gate, but theman was gone before he got there, and as he ran down the road I saw thathe was Mr. Henderson's man, who was coming here on an errand, I expect, and then I went down to the barn to get Mary to come and help me chainup the dog, and when she came out he began to chase me and then her;and we were so frightened that we climbed up here, and I don't know, I'm sure, how I ever got up that fence; and do you think he can climb uphere?"

"Oh no! my dear, " I said. 

"An' he's just the beast to go afther a stip-ladder, " said the girl, inmuffled tones. 

"And what are we to do?" asked Euphemia. "We can't eat and sleep uphere. Don't you think that if we were all to shout out together, wecould make some neighbor hear?"

"Oh yes!" I said, "there is no doubt of it. But then, if a neighborcame, the dog would fall on him--"

"And tear him limb from limb, " interrupted Euphemia. 

"Yes, and besides, my dear, I should hate to have any of the neighborscome and find us all up here. It would look so utterly absurd. Let metry and think of some other plan. "

"Well, please be as quick as you can. It's dreadful to be--who's that?"

I looked up and saw a female figure just entering the yard. 

"Oh, what shall we do" exclaimed Euphemia. "The dog will get her. Callto her!"

"No, no, " said I, "don't make a noise. It will only bring the dog. Heseems to have gone to the barn, or somewhere. Keep perfectly quiet, andshe may go up on the porch, and as the front door is not locked, she mayrush into the house, if she sees him coming. "

"I do hope she will do that, " said Euphemia, anxiously. 

"And yet, " said I, "it's not pleasant to have strangers going into thehouse when there's no one there. "

"But it's better than seeing a stranger torn to pieces before youreyes, " said Euphemia. 

"Yes, " I replied, "it is. Don't you think we might get down now? The dogisn't here. "

"No, no!" cried Euphemia. "There he is now, coming this way. And look atthat woman! She is coming right to this shed. "

Sure enough, our visitor had passed by the front door, and was walkingtoward us. Evidently she had heard our voices. 

"Don't come here!" cried Euphemia. "You'll be killed! Run! run! The dogis coming! Why, mercy on us! It's Pomona!"

CHAPTER VIII. POMONA ONCE MORE. 

Sure enough, it was Pomona. There stood our old servant-girl, of thecanal-boat, with a crooked straw bonnet on her head, a faded yellowparasol in her hand, a parcel done up in newspaper under her arm, and anexpression of astonishment on her face. 

"Well, truly!" she ejaculated. 

"Into the house, quick!" I said. "We have a savage dog!"

"And here he is!" cried Euphemia. "Oh! she will be torn to atoms. "

Straight at Pomona came the great black beast, barking furiously. Butthe girl did not move; she did not even turn her head to look at thedog, who stopped before he reached her and began to rush wildly aroundher, barking terribly. 

We held our breath. I tried to say "get out!" or "lie down!" but mytongue could not form the words. 

"Can't you get up here?" gasped Euphemia. 

"I don't want to, " said the girl. 

The dog now stopped barking, and stood looking at Pomona, occasionallyglancing up at us. Pomona took not the slightest notice of him. 

"Do you know, ma'am, " said she to Euphemia, "that if I had come hereyesterday, that dog would have had my life's blood. "

"And why don't he have it to-day?" said Euphemia, who, with myself, wasutterly amazed at the behavior of the dog. 

"Because I know more to-day than I did yesterday, " answered Pomona. "Itis only this afternoon that I read something, as I was coming here onthe cars. This is it, " she continued, unwrapping her paper parcel, andtaking from it one of the two books it contained. "I finished this partjust as the cars stopped, and I put my scissors in the place; I'll readit to you. "

Standing there with one book still under her arm, the newspaper halfunwrapped from it, hanging down and flapping in the breeze, she openedthe other volume at the scissors-place, turned back a page or two, andbegan to read as follows:

"Lord Edward slowly san-ter-ed up the bro-ad anc-es-tral walk, whensudden-ly from out a cop-se, there sprang a fur-i-ous hound. Themarsh-man, con-ce-al-ed in a tree expected to see the life's blood ofthe young nob-le-man stain the path. But no, Lord Edward did not stopnor turn his head. With a smile, he strode stead-i-ly on. Well he knewthat if by be-traying no em-otion, he could show the dog that he waswalking where he had a right, the bru-te would re-cog-nize that rightand let him pass un-sca-thed. Thus in this moment of peril his nob-lecourage saved him. The hound, abashed, returned to his cov-ert, and LordEdward pass-ed on. 

"Foi-led again, " mutter-ed the marsh-man. 

"Now, then, " said Pomona, closing the book, "you see I rememberedthat, the minute I saw the dog coming, and I didn't betray any emotion. Yesterday, now, when I didn't know it, I'd 'a been sure to betrayemotion, and he would have had my life's blood. Did he drive you upthere?"

"Yes, " said Euphemia; and she hastily explained the situation. 

"Then I guess I'd better chain him up, " remarked Pomona; and advancingto the dog she took him boldly by the collar and pulled him toward theshed. The animal hung back at first, but soon followed her, and shechained him up securely. 

"Now you can come down, " said Pomona. 

I assisted Euphemia to the ground, and Pomona persuaded the hired girlto descend. 

"Will he grab me by the leg?" asked the girl. 

"No; get down, gump, " said Pomona, and down she scrambled. 

We took Pomona into the house with us and asked her news of herself. 

"Well, " said she, "there ain't much to tell. I staid awhile at theinstitution, but I didn't get much good there, only I learned to readto myself, because if I read out loud they came and took the book away. Then I left there and went to live out, but the woman was awful mean. She throwed away one of my books and I was only half through it. It wasa real good book, named 'The Bridal Corpse, or Montregor's Curse, ' andI had to pay for it at the circulatin' library. So I left her quickenough, and then I went on the stage. "

"On the stage!" cried Euphemia. "What did you do on the stage?"

"Scrub, " replied Pomona. "You see that I thought if I could get anythingto do at the theayter, I could work my way up, so I was glad to getscrubbin'. I asked the prompter, one morning, if he thought there was achance for me to work up, and he said yes, I might scrub the galleries, and then I told him that I didn't want none of his lip, and I prettysoon left that place. I heard you was akeepin' house out here, and so Ithought I'd come along and see you, and if you hadn't no girl I'd liketo live with you again, and I guess you might as well take me, for thatother girl said, when she got down from the shed, that she was goin'away to-morrow; she wouldn't stay in no house where they kept such adog, though I told her I guessed he was only cuttin' 'round because hewas so glad to get loose. "

"Cutting around!" exclaimed Euphemia. "It was nothing of the kind. Ifyou had seen him you would have known better. But did you come now tostay? Where are your things?"

"On me, " replied Pomona. 

When Euphemia found that the Irish girl really intended to leave, weconsulted together and concluded to engage Pomona, and I went so far asto agree to carry her books to and from the circulating library to whichshe subscribed, hoping thereby to be able to exercise some influenceon her taste. And thus part of the old family of Rudder Grange had cometogether again. True, the boarder was away, but, as Pomona remarked, when she heard about him, "You couldn't always expect to ever regain theties that had always bound everybody. "

Our delight and interest in our little farm increased day by day. Ina week or two after Pomona's arrival I bought a cow. Euphemia wasvery anxious to have an Alderney, --they were such gentle, beautifulcreatures, --but I could not afford such a luxury. I might possiblycompass an Alderney calf, but we would have to wait a couple of yearsfor our milk, and Euphemia said it would be better to have a common cowthan to do that. 

Great was our inward satisfaction when the cow, our OWN cow, walkedslowly and solemnly into our yard and began to crop the clover on ourlittle lawn. Pomona and I gently drove her to the barn, while Euphemiaendeavored to quiet the violent demonstrations of the dog (fortunatelychained) by assuring him that this was OUR cow and that she was to livehere, and that he was to take care of her and never bark at her. Allthis and much more, delivered in the earnest and confidential tone inwhich ladies talk to infants and dumb animals, made the dog think thathe was to be let loose to kill the cow, and he bounded and leaped withdelight, tugging at his chain so violently that Euphemia became a littlefrightened and left him. This dog had been named Lord Edward, at theearnest solicitation of Pomona, and he was becoming somewhat reconciledto his life with us. He allowed me to unchain him at night and I couldgenerally chain him up in the morning without trouble if I had a goodbig plate of food with which to tempt him into the shed. 

Before supper we all went down to the barn to see the milking. Pomona, who knew all about such things, having been on a farm in her firstyouth, was to be the milkmaid. But when she began operations, she did nomore than begin. Milk as industriously as she might, she got no milk. 

"This is a queer cow, " said Pomona. 

"Are you sure that you know how to milk?" asked Euphemia anxiously. 

"Can I milk?" said Pomona. "Why, of course, ma'am. I've seen 'em milkhundreds of times. "

"But you never milked, yourself?" I remarked. 

"No, sir, but I know just how it's done. "

That might be, but she couldn't do it, and at last we had to give up thematter in despair, and leave the poor cow until morning, when Pomona wasto go for a man who occasionally worked on the place, and engage him tocome and milk for us. 

That night as we were going to bed I looked out of the window at thebarn which contained the cow, and was astonished to see that there was alight inside of the building. 

"What!" I exclaimed. "Can't we be left in peaceful possession of a cowfor a single night?" And, taking my revolver, I hurried down-stairs andout-of-doors, forgetting my hat in my haste. Euphemia screamed after meto be careful and keep the pistol pointed away from me. 

I whistled for the dog as I went out, but to my surprise he did notanswer. 

"Has he been killed?" I thought, and, for a moment, I wished that I wasa large family of brothers--all armed. 

But on my way to the barn I met a person approaching with a lantern anda dog. It was Pomona, and she had a milk-pail on her arm. 

"See here, sir, " she said, "it's mor'n half full. I just made up my mindthat I'd learn to milk--if it took me all night. I didn't go to bed atall, and I've been at the barn fur an hour. And there ain't no need ofmy goin' after no man in the mornin', " said she, hanging up the barn keyon its nail. 

I simply mention this circumstance to show what kind of a girl Pomonahad grown to be. 

We were all the time at work in some way, improving our little place. "Some day we will buy it, " said Euphemia. We intended to have some wheatput in in the fall and next year we would make the place fairly crackwith luxuriance. We would divide the duties of the farm, and, amongother things, Euphemia would take charge of the chickens. She wished todo this entirely herself, so that there might be one thing that shouldbe all her own, just as my work in town was all my own. As she wishedto buy the chickens and defray all the necessary expenses out of her ownprivate funds, I could make no objections, and, indeed, I had no desireto do so. She bought a chicken-book, and made herself mistress ofthe subject. For a week, there was a strong chicken flavor in all ourconversation. 

This was while the poultry yard was building. There was a chicken-houseon the place, but no yard, and Euphemia intended to have a good big one, because she was going into the business to make money. 

"Perhaps my chickens may buy the place, " she said, and I very much hopedthey would. 

Everything was to be done very systematically. She would have Leghorns, Brahmas, and common fowls. The first, because they laid so many eggs;the second, because they were such fine, big fowls, and the third, because they were such good mothers. 

"We will eat, and sell the eggs of the first and third classes, " shesaid, "and set the eggs of the second class, under the hens of the thirdclass. "

"There seems to be some injustice in that arrangement, " I said, "for thefirst class will always be childless; the second class will have nothingto do with their offspring, while the third will be obliged to bring upand care for the children of others. "

But I really had no voice in this matter. As soon as the carpenterhad finished the yard, and had made some coops and other necessaryarrangements, Euphemia hired a carriage and went about the country tobuy chickens. It was not easy to find just what she wanted, and she wasgone all day. 

However, she brought home an enormous Brahma cock and ten hens, whichnumber was pretty equally divided into her three classes. She was veryproud of her purchases, and indeed they were fine fowls. In theevening I made some allusion to the cost of all this carpenter work, carriage-hire, etc. , besides the price of the chickens. 

"O!" said she, "you don't look at the matter in the right light. Youhaven't studied it up as I have. Now, just let me show you how thisthing will pay, if carried on properly. " Producing a piece of papercovered with figures, she continued: "I begin with ten hens--I gotfour common ones, because it would make it easier to calculate. After awhile, I set these ten hens on thirteen eggs each; three of these eggswill probably spoil, --that leaves ten chickens hatched out. Of these, Iwill say that half die, that will make five chickens for each hen; yousee, I leave a large margin for loss. This makes fifty chickens, andwhen we add the ten hens, we have sixty fowls at the end of the firstyear. Next year I set these sixty and they bring up five chickenseach, --I am sure there will be a larger proportion than this, but I wantto be safe, --and that is three hundred chickens; add the hens, and wehave three hundred and sixty at the end of the second year. In the thirdyear, calculating in the same safe way, we shall have twenty-one hundredand sixty chickens; in the fourth year there will be twelve thousandnine hundred and sixty, and at the end of the fifth year, which is asfar as I need to calculate now, we shall have sixty-four thousand andeight hundred chickens. What do you think of that? At seventy-five centsapiece, --a very low price, --that would be forty-eight thousand andsix hundred dollars. Now, what is the petty cost of a fence, and a fewcoops, by the side of a sum like that?"

"Nothing at all, " I answered. "It is lost like a drop in the ocean. Ihate, my dear, to interfere in any way with such a splendid calculationas that, but I would like to ask you one question. "

"Oh, of course, " she said, "I suppose you are going to say somethingabout the cost of feeding all this poultry. That is to come out of thechickens supposed to die. They won't die. It is ridiculous to supposethat each hen will bring up but five chickens. The chickens that willlive, out of those I consider as dead, will more than pay for the feed. "

"That is not what I was going to ask you, although of course it ought tobe considered. But you know you are only going to set common hens, andyou do not intend to raise any. Now, are those four hens to do all thesetting and mother-work for five years, and eventually bring up oversixty-four thousand chickens?"

"Well, I DID make a mistake there, " she said, coloring a little. "I'lltell you what I'll do; I'll set every one of my hens every year. "

"But all those chickens may not be hens. You have calculated that everyone of them would set as soon as it was old enough. "

She stopped a minute to think this over. 

"Two heads are better than one, I see, " she said, directly. "I'll allowthat one-half of all the chickens are roosters, and that will make theprofits twenty-four thousand three hundred dollars--more than enough tobuy this place. "

"Ever so much more, " I cried. "This Rudder Grange is ours!"

CHAPTER IX. WE CAMP OUT. 

My wife and I were both so fond of country life and country pursuitsthat month after month passed by at our little farm in a succession ofdelightful days. Time flew like a "limited express" train, and it wasSeptember before we knew it. 

I had been working very hard at the office that summer, and was glad tothink of my two weeks' vacation, which were to begin on the firstMonday of the month. I had intended spending these two weeks inrural retirement at home, but an interview in the city with my familyphysician caused me to change my mind. I told him my plan. 

"Now, " said he, "if I were you, I'd do nothing of the kind. You havebeen working too hard; your face shows it. You need rest and change. Nothing will do you so much good as to camp out; that will be fiftytimes better than going to any summer resort. You can take your wifewith you. I know she'll like it. I don't care where you go so that it'sa healthy spot. Get a good tent and an outfit, be off to the woods, andforget all about business and domestic matters for a few weeks. "

This sounded splendid, and I propounded the plan to Euphemia thatevening. She thought very well of it, and was sure we could do it. Pomona would not be afraid to remain in the house, under the protectionof Lord Edward, and she could easily attend to the cow and the chickens. It would be a holiday for her too. Old John, the man who occasionallyworked for us, would come up sometimes and see after things. With hercustomary dexterity Euphemia swept away every obstacle to the plan, andall was settled before we went to bed. 

As my wife had presumed, Pomona made no objections to remaining incharge of the house. The scheme pleased her greatly. So far, so good. Icalled that day on a friend who was in the habit of camping out to talkto him about getting a tent and the necessary "traps" for a life in thewoods. He proved perfectly competent to furnish advice and everythingelse. He offered to lend me all I needed. He had a complete outfit; haddone with them for the year, and I was perfectly welcome. Here was rareluck. He gave me a tent, camp-stove, dishes, pots, gun, fishing-tackle, a big canvas coat with dozens of pockets riveted on it, a canvas hat, rods, reels, boots that came up to my hips, and about a wagon-load ofthings in all. He was a real good fellow. 

We laid in a stock of canned and condensed provisions, and I boughta book on camping out so as to be well posted on the subject. Onthe Saturday before the first Monday in September we would have beenentirely ready to start had we decided on the place where we were to go. 

We found it very difficult to make this decision. There were thousandsof places where people went to camp out, but none of them seemed to bethe place for us. Most of them were too far away. We figured up the costof taking ourselves and our camp equipage to the Adirondacks, the lakes, the trout-streams of Maine, or any of those well-known resorts, and wefound that we could not afford such trips, especially for a vacation ofbut fourteen days. 

On Sunday afternoon we took a little walk. Our minds were still troubledabout the spot toward which we ought to journey next day, and we neededthe soothing influences of Nature. The country to the north and west ofour little farm was very beautiful. About half a mile from the housea modest river ran; on each side of it were grass-covered fields andhills, and in some places there were extensive tracks of woodlands. 

"Look here!" exclaimed Euphemia, stopping short in the little path thatwound along by the river bank. "Do you see this river, those woods, those beautiful fields, with not a soul in them or anywhere near them;and those lovely blue mountains over there?"--as she spoke she wavedher parasol in the direction of the objects indicated, and I could notmistake them. "Now what could we want better than this?" she continued. "Here we can fish, and do everything that we want to. I say, let us camphere on our own river. I can take you to the very spot for the tent. Come on!" And she was so excited about it that she fairly ran. 

The spot she pointed out was one we had frequently visited in our ruralwalks. It was a grassy peninsula, as I termed it, formed by a suddenturn of a creek which, a short distance below, flowed into the river. It was a very secluded spot. The place was approached through apasture-field, --we had found it by mere accident, --and where thepeninsula joined the field (we had to climb a fence just there), therewas a cluster of chestnut and hickory trees, while down near the pointstood a wide-spreading oak. 

"Here, under this oak, is the place for the tent, " said Euphemia, herface flushed, her eyes sparkling, and her dress a little torn by gettingover the fence in a hurry. "What do we want with your Adirondacks andyour Dismal Swamps? This is the spot for us!"

"Euphemia, " said I, in as composed a tone as possible, although my wholeframe was trembling with emotion, "Euphemia, I am glad I married you!"

Had it not been Sunday, we would have set up our tent that night. 

Early the next morning, old John's fifteen-dollar horse drew fromour house a wagon-load of camp-fixtures. There was some difficulty ingetting the wagon over the field, and there were fences to be taken downto allow of its passage; but we overcame all obstacles, and reached thecamp-ground without breaking so much as a teacup. Old John helped mepitch the tent, and as neither of us understood the matter very well, it took us some time. It was, indeed, nearly noon when old John left us, and it may have been possible that he delayed matters a little so as tobe able to charge for a full half-day for himself and horse. Euphemiagot into the wagon to ride back with him, that she might give someparting injunctions to Pomona. 

"I'll have to stop a bit to put up the fences, ma'am, " said old John, "or Misther Ball might make a fuss. "

"Is this Mr. Ball's land?" I asked. 

"Oh yes, sir, it's Mr. Ball's land. "

"I wonder how he'll like our camping on it?" I said, thoughtfully. 

"I'd 'a' thought, sir, you'd 'a' asked him that before you came, " saidold John, in a tone that seemed to indicate that he had his doubts aboutMr. Ball. 

"Oh, there'll be no trouble about that, " cried Euphemia. "You can driveme past Mr. Ball's, --it's not much out of the way, --and I'll ask him. "

"In that wagon?" said I. "Will you stop at Mr. Ball's door in that?"

"Certainly, " said she, as she arranged herself on the board which servedas a seat. "Now that our campaign has really commenced, we ought tobegin to rough it, and should not be too proud to ride even in a--ina--"

She evidently couldn't think of any vehicle mean enough for her purpose. 

"In a green-grocery cart, " I suggested. 

"Yes, or in a red one. Go ahead, John. "

When Euphemia returned on foot, I had a fire in the camp-stove and thekettle was on. 

"Well, " said Euphemia, "Mr. Ball says it's all right, if we keep thefence up. He don't want his cows to get into the creek, and I'm sure wedon't want 'em walking over us. He couldn't understand, though, whywe wanted to live out here. I explained the whole thing to him verycarefully, but it didn't seem to make much impression on him. I believehe thinks Pomona has something the matter with her, and that we havecome to stay out here in the fresh air so as not to take it. "

"What an extremely stupid man Mr. Ball must be!" I said. 

The fire did not burn very well, and while I was at work at it, Euphemiaspread a cloth upon the grass, and set forth bread and butter, cheese, sardines, potted ham, preserves, biscuits, and a lot of other things. 

We did not wait for the kettle to boil, but concluded to do without teaor coffee, for this meal, and content ourselves with pure water. Forsome reason or other, however, the creek water did not seem to be verypure, and we did not like it a bit. 

"After lunch, " said I, "we will go and look for a spring; that will be agood way of exploring the country. "

"If we can't find one, " said Euphemia, "we shall have to go to the housefor water, for I can never drink that stuff. "

Soon after lunch we started out. We searched high and low, near and far, for a spring, but could not find one. 

At length, by merest accident, we found ourselves in the vicinity of oldJohn's little house. I knew he had a good well, and so we went in to geta drink, for our ham and biscuits had made us very thirsty. 

We told old John, who was digging potatoes, and was also very muchsurprised to see us so soon, about our unexpected trouble in finding aspring. 

"No, " said he, very slowly, "there is no spring very near to you. Didn'tyou tell your gal to bring you water?"

"No, " I replied; "we don't want her coming down to the camp. She is toattend to the house. "

"Oh, very well, " said John; "I will bring you water, morning andnight, --good, fresh water, --from my well, for, --well, for ten cents aday. "

"That will be nice, " said Euphemia, "and cheap, too. And then it will bewell to have John come every day; he can carry our letters. "

"I don't expect to write any letters. "

"Neither do I, " said Euphemia; "but it will be pleasant to have somecommunication with the outer world. "

So we engaged old John to bring us water twice a day. I was a littledisappointed at this, for I thought that camping on the edge of a streamsettled the matter of water. But we have many things to learn in thisworld. 

Early in the afternoon I went out to catch some fish for supper. Weagreed to dispense with dinner, and have breakfast, lunch, and a goodsolid supper. 

For some time I had poor luck. There were either very few fish in thecreek, or they were not hungry. 

I had been fishing an hour or more when I saw Euphemia running towardme. 

"What's the matter?" said I. 

"Oh! nothing. I've just come to see how you were getting along. Haven'tyou been gone an awfully long time? And are those all the fish you'vecaught? What little bits of things they are! I thought people who campedout caught big fish and lots of them?"

"That depends a good deal upon where they go, " said I. 

"Yes, I suppose so, " replied Euphemia; "but I should think a stream asbig as this would have plenty of fish in it. However, if you can'tcatch any, you might go up to the road and watch for Mr. Mulligan. Hesometimes comes along on Mondays. "

"I'm not going to the road to watch for any fish-man, " I replied, alittle more testily than I should have spoken. "What sort of a campingout would that be? But we must not be talking here or I shall never geta bite. Those fish are a little soiled from jumping about in the dust. You might wash them off at that shallow place, while I go a littlefurther on and try my luck. "

I went a short distance up the creek, and threw my line into a dark, shadowy pool, under some alders, where there certainly should be fish. And, sure enough, in less than a minute I got a splendid bite, --not onlya bite, but a pull. I knew that I had certainly hooked a big fish! Thething actually tugged at my line so that I was afraid the pole wouldbreak. I did not fear for the line, for that, I knew, was strong. Iwould have played the fish until he was tired, and I could pull him outwithout risk to the pole, but I did not know exactly how the processof "playing" was conducted. I was very much excited. Sometimes I gave ajerk and a pull, and then the fish would give a jerk and a pull. 

Directly I heard some one running toward me, and then I heard Euphemiacry out:

"Give him the butt! Give him the butt!"

"Give him what?" I exclaimed, without having time even to look up ather. 

"The butt! the butt!" she cried, almost breathlessly. "I know that'sright! I read how Edward Everett Hale did it in the Adirondacks. "

"No, it wasn't Hale at all, " said I, as I jumped about the bank; "it wasMr. Murray. "

"Well, it was one of those fishing ministers, and I know that it caughtthe fish. "

"I know, I know. I read it, but I don't know how to do it. "

"Perhaps you ought to punch him with it, " said she. 

"No! no!" I hurriedly replied, "I can't do anything like that. I'm goingto try to just pull him out lengthwise. You take hold of the pole and goin shore as far as you can and I'll try and get hold of the line. "

Euphemia did as I bade her, and drew the line in so that I could reachit. As soon as I had a firm hold of it, I pulled in, regardless ofconsequences, and hauled ashore an enormous cat-fish. 

"Hurrah!" I shouted, "here is a prize. "

Euphemia dropped the pole, and ran to me. 

"What a horrid beast!" she exclaimed. "Throw it in again. "

"Not at all!" said I. "This is a splendid fish, if I can ever get himoff the hook. Don't come near him! If he sticks that back-fin into you, it will poison you. "

"Then I should think it would poison us to eat him, " said she. 

"No; it's only his fin. "

"I've eaten cat-fish, but I never saw one like that, " she said. "Look atits horrible mouth! And it has whiskers like a cat!"

"Oh! you never saw one with its head on, " I said. "What I want to do isto get this hook out. "

I had caught cat-fish before, but never one so large as this, and I wasactually afraid to take hold of it, knowing, as I did, that you must bevery careful how you clutch a fish of the kind. I finally concluded tocarry it home as it was, and then I could decapitate it, and take outthe hook at my leisure. So back to camp we went, Euphemia picking up thelittle fish as we passed, for she did not think it right to catch fishand not eat them. They made her hands smell, it is true; but she did notmind that when we were camping. 

I prepared the big fish (and I had a desperate time getting the skinoff), while my wife, who is one of the daintiest cooks in the world, made the fire in the stove, and got ready the rest of the supper. Shefried the fish, because I told her that was the way cat-fish ought to becooked, although she said that it seemed very strange to her to camp outfor the sake of one's health, and then to eat fried food. 

But that fish was splendid! The very smell of it made us hungry. Everything was good, and when supper was over and the dishes washed, Ilighted my pipe and we sat down under a tree to enjoy the evening. 

The sun had set behind the distant ridge; a delightful twilight wasgently subduing every color of the scene; the night insects werebeginning to hum and chirp, and a fire that I had made under a treeblazed up gayly, and threw little flakes of light into the shadows underthe shrubbery. 

"Now isn't this better than being cooped up in a narrow, constrictedhouse?" said I. 

"Ever so much better!" said Euphemia. "Now we know what Nature is. Weare sitting right down in her lap, and she is cuddling us up. Isn't thatsky lovely? Oh! I think this is perfectly splendid, " said she, making alittle dab at her face, --"if it wasn't for the mosquitoes. "

"They ARE bad, " I said. "I thought my pipe would keep them off, but itdon't. There must be plenty of them down at that creek. "

"Down there!" exclaimed Euphemia. "Why there are thousands of them here!I never saw anything like it. They're getting worse every minute. "

"I'll tell you what we must do, " I exclaimed, jumping up. "We must makea smudge. "

"What's that? do you rub it on yourself?" asked Euphemia, anxiously. 

"No, it's only a great smoke. Come, let us gather up dry leaves and makea smoldering fire of them. "

We managed to get up a very fair smudge, and we stood to the leeward ofit, until Euphemia began to cough and sneeze, as if her head wouldcome off. With tears running from her eyes, she declared that she wouldrather go and be eaten alive, than stay in that smoke. 

"Perhaps we were too near it, " said I. 

"That may be, " she answered, "but I have had enough smoke. Why didn'tI think of it before? I brought two veils! We can put these over ourfaces, and wear gloves. "

She was always full of expedients. 

Veiled and gloved, we bade defiance to the mosquitoes, and we satand talked for half an hour or more. I made a little hole in my veil, through which I put the mouth-piece of my pipe. 

When it became really dark, I lighted the lantern, and we prepared for awell-earned night's rest. The tent was spacious and comfortable, and weeach had a nice little cot-bed. 

"Are you going to leave the front-door open all night?" said Euphemia, as I came in after a final round to see that all was right. 

"I should hardly call this canvas-flap a front-door, " I said, "but Ithink it would be better to leave it open; otherwise we should smother. You need not be afraid. I shall keep my gun here by my bedside, and ifany one offers to come in, I'll bring him to a full stop quick enough. "

"Yes, if you are awake. But I suppose we ought not to be afraid ofburglars here. People in tents never are. So you needn't shut it. "

It was awfully quiet and dark and lonely, out there by that creek, whenthe light had been put out, and we had gone to bed. For some reason Icould not go to sleep. After I had been lying awake for an hour or two, Euphemia spoke:

"Are you awake?" said she, in a low voice, as if she were afraid ofdisturbing the people in the next room. 

"Yes, " said I. "How long have you been awake?"

"I haven't been asleep. "

"Neither have I. "

"Suppose we light the lantern, " said she. "Don't you think it would bepleasanter?"

"It might be, " I replied; "but it would draw myriads of mosquitoes. I wish I had brought a mosquito-net and a clock. It seems so lonesomewithout the ticking. Good-night! We ought to have a long sleep, if we domuch tramping about to-morrow. "

In about half an hour more, just as I was beginning to be a littlesleepy, she said:

"Where is that gun?"

"Here by me, " I answered. 

"Well, if a man should come in, try and be sure to put it up close tohim before you fire. In a little tent like this, the shot might scattereverywhere, if you're not careful. "

"All right, " I said. "Good-night!"

"There's one thing we never thought of!" she presently exclaimed. 

"What's that, " said I. 

"Snakes, " said she. 

"Well, don't let's think of them. We must try and get a little sleep. "

"Dear knows! I've been trying hard enough, " she said, plaintively, andall was quiet again. 

We succeeded this time in going to sleep, and it was broad daylightbefore we awoke. 

That morning, old John came with our water before breakfast was ready. He also brought us some milk, as he thought we would want it. Weconsidered this a good idea, and agreed with him to bring us a quart aday. 

"Don't you want some wegetables?" said he. "I've got some nice corn andsome tomatoes, and I could bring you cabbage and peas. "

We had hardly expected to have fresh vegetables every day, but thereseemed to be no reason why old John should not bring them, as he had tocome every day with the water and milk. So we arranged that he shouldfurnish us daily with a few of the products of his garden. 

"I could go to the butcher's and get you a steak or some chops, if you'dlet me know in the morning, " said he, intent on the profits of furthercommissions. 

But this was going too far. We remembered we were camping out, anddeclined to have meat from the butcher. 

John had not been gone more than ten minutes before we saw Mr. Ballapproaching. 

"Oh, I hope he isn't going to say we can't stay!" exclaimed Euphemia. 

"How d'ye do?" said Mr. Ball, shaking hands with us. "Did you stick itout all night?"

"Oh yes, indeed, " I replied, "and expect to stick it out for a many morenights if you don't object to our occupying your land. "

"No objection in the world, " said he; "but it seems a little queer forpeople who have a good house to be living out here in the fields in atent, now, don't it?"

"Oh, but you see, " said I, and I went on and explained the whole thingto him, --the advice of the doctor, the discussion about the proper placeto go to, and the good reasons for fixing on this spot. 

"Ye-es, " said he, "that's all very well, no doubt. But how's the girl?"

"What girl?" I asked. 

"Your girl. The hired girl you left at the house. "

"Oh, she's all right, " said I; "she's always well. "

"Well, " said Mr. Ball, slowly turning on his heel, "if you say so, Isuppose she is. But you're going up to the house to-day to see abouther, aren't you?"

"Oh, no, " said Euphemia. "We don't intend to go near the house until ourcamping is over. "

"Just so, --just so, " said Mr. Ball; "I expected as much. But look here, don't you think it would be well for me to ask Dr. Ames to stop in andsee how she is gettin' along? I dare say you've fixed everything forher, but that would be safer, you know. He's coming this morning tovaccinate my baby, and he might stop there, just as well as not, afterhe has left my house. "

Euphemia and I could see no necessity for this proposed visit of thedoctor, but we could not well object to it, and so Mr. Ball said hewould be sure and send him. 

After our visitor had gone, the significance of his remarks flashed onme. He still thought that Pomona was sick with something catching, andthat we were afraid to stay in the house with her. But I said nothingabout this to Euphemia. It would only worry her, and our vacation was tobe a season of unalloyed delight. 

CHAPTER X. WET BLANKETS. 

We certainly enjoyed our second day in camp. All the morning, and agreat part of the afternoon, we "explored. " We fastened up the tentas well as we could, and then, I with my gun, and Euphemia with thefishing-pole, we started up the creek. We did not go very far, for itwould not do to leave the tent too long. I did not shoot anything, butEuphemia caught two or three nice little fish, and we enjoyed the sportexceedingly. 

Soon after we returned in the afternoon, and while we were gettingthings in order for supper, we had a call from two of our neighbors, Captain Atkinson and wife. The captain greeted us hilariously. 

"Hello!" he cried. "Why, this is gay. Who would ever have thought ofa domestic couple like you going on such a lark as this. We just heardabout it from old John, and we came down to see what you are up to. You've got everything very nice. I think I'd like this myself. Why, youmight have a rifle-range out here. You could cut down those bushes onthe other side of the creek, and put up your target over there on thathill. Then you could lie down here on the grass and bang away all day. If you'll do that, I'll come down and practice with you. How long areyou going to keep it up?"

I told him that we expected to spend my two weeks' vacation here. 

"Not if it rains, my boy, " said he. "I know what it is to camp out inthe rain. "

Meanwhile, Mrs. Atkinson had been with Euphemia examining the tent, andour equipage generally. 

"It would be very nice for a day's picnic, " she said; "but I wouldn'twant to stay out-of-doors all night. "

And then, addressing me, she asked:

"Do you have to breathe the fresh air all the time, night as well asday? I expect that is a very good prescription, but I would not like tohave to follow it myself. "

"If the fresh air is what you must have, " said the captain, "you mighthave got all you wanted of that without taking the trouble to come outhere. You could have sat out on your back porch night and day for thewhole two weeks, and breathed all the fresh air that any man couldneed. "

"Yes, " said I, "and I might have gone down cellar and put my head in thecold-air box of the furnace. But there wouldn't have been much fun inthat. "

"There are a good many things that there's no fun in, " said the captain. "Do you cook your own meals, or have them sent from the house?"

"Cook them ourselves, of course, " said Euphemia. "We are going to havesupper now. Won't you wait and take some?"

"Thank you, " said Mrs. Atkinson, "but we must go. "

"Yes, we must be going, " said the captain. "Good-bye. If it rains I'llcome down after you with an umbrella. "

"You need not trouble yourself about that, " said I. "We shall rough itout, rain or shine. "

"I'd stay here now, " said Euphemia, when they had gone, "if it rainedpitch. "

"You mean pitchforks, " I suggested. 

"Yes, anything, " she answered. 

"Well, I don't know about the pitchforks, " I said, looking over thecreek at the sky; "but am very much afraid that it is going to rainrain-water to-morrow. But that won't drive us home, will it?"

"No, indeed!" said she. "We're prepared for it. But I wish they'd staidat home. "

Sure enough, it commenced to rain that night, and we had showers allthe next day. We staid in camp during the morning, and I smoked andwe played checkers, and had a very cosy time, with a wood fire burningunder a tree near by. We kept up this fire, not to dry the air, but tomake things look comfortable. In the afternoon I dressed myself up inwater-proof coat, boots and hat, and went out fishing. I went down tothe water and fished along the banks for an hour, but caught nothing ofany consequence. This was a great disappointment, for we had expected tolive on fresh fish for a great part of the time while we were camping. With plenty of fish, we could do without meat very well. 

We talked the matter over on my return, and we agreed that as it seemedimpossible to depend upon a supply of fish, from the waters about ourcamp, it would be better to let old John bring fresh meat from thebutcher, and as neither of us liked crackers, we also agreed that heshould bring bread. 

Our greatest trouble, that evening, was to make a fire. The wood, ofwhich there was a good deal lying about under the trees, was now all wetand would not burn. However, we managed to get up a fire in the stove, but I did not know what we were going to do in the morning. We shouldhave stored away some wood under shelter. 

We set our little camp-table in the tent, and we had scarcely finishedour supper, when a very heavy rain set in, accompanied by a violentwind. The canvas at one end of our tent must have been badly fastened, for it was blown in, and in an instant our beds were deluged. I rushedout to fasten up the canvas, and got drenched almost to the skin, andalthough Euphemia put on her waterproof cloak as soon as she could, shewas pretty wet, for the rain seemed to dash right through the tent. 

This gust of wind did not last long, and the rain soon settled down intoa steady drizzle, but we were in a sad plight. It was after nine o'clockbefore we had put things into tolerable order. 

"We can't sleep in those beds, " said Euphemia. 

"They're as wet as sop, and we shall have to go up to the house and getsomething to spread over them. I don't want to do it, but we mustn'tcatch our deaths of cold. "

There was nothing to be said against this, and we prepared to start out. I would have gone by myself, but Euphemia would not consent to be leftalone. It was still raining, though not very hard, and I carried anumbrella and a lantern. Climbing fences at night with a wife, a lantern, and an umbrella to take care of, is not very agreeable, but we managedto reach the house, although once or twice we had an argument in regardto the path, which seemed to be very different at night from what it wasin the day-time. 

Lord Edward came bounding to the gate to meet us, and I am happy to saythat he knew me at once, and wagged his tail in a very sociable way. 

I had the key of a side-door in my pocket, for we had thought it wise togive ourselves command of this door, and so we let ourselves in withoutringing or waking Pomona. 

All was quiet within, and we went upstairs with the lantern. Everythingseemed clean and in order, and it is impossible to convey any idea ofthe element of comfort which seemed to pervade the house, as we quietlymade our way upstairs, in our wet boots and heavy, damp clothes. 

The articles we wanted were in a closet, and while I was making a bundleof them, Euphemia went to look for Pomona. She soon returned, walkingsoftly. 

"She's sound asleep, " said she, "and I didn't think there was any needof waking her. We'll send word by John that we've been here. And oh!you can't imagine how snug and happy she did look, lying there in hercomfortable bed, in that nice, airy room. I'll tell you what it is, ifit wasn't for the neighbors, and especially the Atkinsons, I wouldn't goback one step. "

"Well, " said I, "I don't know that I care so particularly about it, myself. But I suppose I couldn't stay here and leave all Thompson'sthings out there to take care of themselves. "

"Oh no!" said Euphemia. "And we're not going to back down. Are youready?"

On our way down-stairs we had to pass the partly open door of our ownroom. I could not help holding up the lantern to look in. There was thebed, with its fair white covering and its smooth, soft pillows; therewere the easy-chairs, the pretty curtains, the neat and cheerful carpet, the bureau, with Euphemia's work-basket on it; there was the littletable with the book that we had been reading together, turned facedownward upon it; there were my slippers; there was--

"Come!" said Euphemia, "I can't bear to look in there. It's like a deadchild. "

And so we hurried out into the night and the rain. We stopped at thewood-shed and got an armful of dry kindling, which Euphemia was obligedto carry, as I had the bundle of bed-clothing, the umbrella, and thelantern. 

Lord Edward gave a short, peculiar bark as we shut the gate behind us, but whether it was meant as a fond farewell, or a hoot of derision, Icannot say. 

We found everything as we left it at the camp, and we made our bedsapparently dry. But I did not sleep well. I could not help thinking thatit was not safe to sleep in a bed with a substratum of wet mattress, andI worried Euphemia a little by asking her several times if she felt thedampness striking through. 

To our great delight, the next day was fine and clear, and I thought Iwould like, better than anything else, to take Euphemia in a boat up theriver and spend the day rowing about, or resting in shady places on theshore. 

But what could we do about the tent? It would be impossible to go awayand leave that, with its contents, for a whole day. 

When old John came with our water, milk, bread, and a basket ofvegetables, we told him of our desired excursion, and the difficulty inthe way. This good man, who always had a keen scent for any advantageto himself, warmly praised the boating plan, and volunteered to send hiswife and two of his younger children to stay with the tent while we wereaway. 

The old woman, he said, could do her sewing here as well as anywhere, and she would stay all day for fifty cents. 

This plan pleased us, and we sent for Mrs. Old John, who came with threeof her children, --all too young to leave behind, she said, --and tookcharge of the camp. 

Our day proved to be as delightful as we had anticipated, and when wereturned, hungry and tired, we were perfectly charmed to find that Mrs. Old John had our supper ready for us. 

She charged a quarter, extra, for this service, and we did not begrudgeit to her, though we declined her offer to come every day and cook andkeep the place in order. 

"However, " said Euphemia, on second thoughts, "you may come on Saturdayand clean up generally. "

The next day, which was Friday, I went out in the morning with thegun. As yet I had shot nothing, for I had seen no birds about the camp, which, without breaking the State laws, I thought I could kill, and so Istarted off up the river-road. 

I saw no game, but after I had walked about a mile, I met a man in awagon. 

"Hello, " said he, pulling up; "you'd better be careful how you gopopping around here on the public roads, frightening horses. "

As I had not yet fired a single shot, I thought this was a very impudentspeech, and I think so still. 

"You had better wait until I begin to pop, " said I, "before you makesuch a fuss about it. "

"No, " said he, "I'd rather make the fuss before you begin. My horse isskittish, " and he drove off. 

This man annoyed me; but as I did not, of course, wish to frightenhorses, I left the road and made my way back to the tent over some veryrough fields. It was a poor day for birds, and I did not get a shot. 

"What a foolish man!" said Euphemia, when I told her the above incident, "to talk that way when you stood there with a gun in your hand. Youmight have raked his wagon, fore and aft. "

That afternoon, as Euphemia and I were sitting under a tree by thetent, we were very much surprised to see Pomona come walking down thepeninsula. 

I was annoyed and provoked at this. We had given Pomona positive ordersnot to leave the place, under any pretense, while we were gone. Ifnecessary to send for anything, she could go to the fence, back of thebarn, and scream across a small field to some of the numerous membersof old John's family. Under this arrangement, I felt that the house wasperfectly safe. 

Before she could reach us, I called out:

"Why did you leave the house, Pomona? Don't you know you should nevercome away and leave the house empty? I thought I had made you understandthat. "

"It isn't empty, " said Pomona, in an entirely unruffled tone. "Your oldboarder is there, with his wife and child. "

Euphemia and I looked at each other in dismay. 

"They came early this afternoon, " continued Pomona, "by the 1:14 train, and walked up, he carrying the child. "

"It can't be, " cried Euphemia. "Their child's married. "

"It must have married very young, then, " said Pomona, "for it isn't overfour years old now. "

"Oh!" said Euphemia, "I know! It's his grandchild. "

"Grandchild!" repeated Pomona, with her countenance more expressive ofemotion than I had ever yet seen it. 

"Yes, " said Euphemia; "but how long are they going to stay? Where didyou tell them we were?"

"They didn't say how long they was goin' to stay, " answered Pomona. "Itold them you had gone to be with some friends in the country, and thatI didn't know whether you'd be home to-night or not. "

"How could you tell them such a falsehood?" cried Euphemia. 

"That was no falsehood, " said Pomona; "it was true as truth. If you'renot your own friends, I don't know who is. And I wasn't a-goin' to tellthe boarder where you was till I found out whether you wanted me to doit or not. And so I left 'em and run over to old John's, and then downhere. "

It was impossible to find fault with the excellent management of Pomona. 

"What were they doing?" asked Euphemia. 

"I opened the parlor, and she was in there with the child, --putting itto sleep on the sofa, I think. The boarder was out in the yard, tryin'to teach Lord Edward some tricks. "

"He had better look out!" I exclaimed. 

"Oh, the dog's chained and growlin' fearful! What am I to do with 'em?"

This was a difficult point to decide. If we went to see them, we mightas well break up our camp, for we could not tell when we should be ableto come back to it. 

We discussed the matter very anxiously, and finally concluded thatunder the circumstances, and considering what Pomona had said aboutour whereabouts, it would be well for us to stay where we were and forPomona to take charge of the visitors. If they returned to the city thatevening, she was to give them a good supper before they went, sendingJohn to the store for what was needed. If they stayed all night, shecould get breakfast for them. 

"We can write, " said Euphemia, "and invite them to come and spend somedays with us, when we are at home and everything is all right. I wantdreadfully to see that child, but I don't see how I can do it now. "

"No, " said I. "They're sure to stay all night if we go up to the house, and then I should have to have the tent and things hauled away, for Icouldn't leave them here. "

"The fact is, " said Euphemia, "if we were miles away, in the woodsof Maine, we couldn't leave our camp to see anybody. And this ispractically the same. "

"Certainly, " said I; and so Pomona went away to her new charge. 

CHAPTER XI. THE BOARDER'S VISIT. 

For the rest of the afternoon, and indeed far into the night, ourconversation consisted almost entirely of conjectures regarding theprobable condition of things at the house. We both thought we had doneright, but we felt badly about it. It was not hospitable, to be sure;but then I should have no other holiday until next year, and our friendscould come at any time to see us. 

The next morning old John brought a note from Pomona. It was writtenwith pencil on a small piece of paper torn from the margin of anewspaper, and contained the words, "Here yit. "

"So you've got company, " said old John, with a smile. "That's a queergal of yourn. She says I mustn't tell 'em you're here. As if I'd tell'em!"

We knew well enough that old John was not at all likely to do anythingthat would cut off the nice little revenue he was making out of ourcamp, and so we felt no concern on that score. 

But we were very anxious for further news, and we told old John to go tothe house about ten o'clock and ask Pomona to send us another note. 

We waited, in a very disturbed condition of mind, until nearly eleveno'clock, when old John came with a verbal message from Pomona:

"She says she's a-comin' herself as soon as she can get a chance to slipoff. "

This was not pleasant news. It filled our minds with a confused mass ofprobabilities, and it made us feel mean. How contemptible it seemed tobe a party to this concealment and in league with a servant-girl who hasto "slip off!"

Before long, Pomona appeared, quite out of breath. 

"In all my life, " said she, "I never see people like them two. I thoughtI was never goin' to get away. "

"Are they there yet?" cried Euphemia. 

"How long are they going to stay?"

"Dear knows!" replied Pomona. "Their valise came up by express lastnight. "

"Oh, we'll have to go up to the house, " said Euphemia. "It won't do tostay away any longer. "

"Well, " said Pomona, fanning herself with her apron, "if you know'd allI know, I don't think you'd think so. "

"What do you mean?" said Euphemia. 

"Well, ma'am, they've just settled down and taken possession of thewhole place. He says to me that he know'd you'd both want them to makethemselves at home, just as if you was there, and they thought they'dbetter do it. He asked me did I think you would be home by Monday, andI said I didn't know, but I guessed you would. So says he to his wife, 'Won't that be a jolly lark? We'll just keep house for them here tillthey come. And he says he would go down to the store and order somethings, if there wasn't enough in the house, and he asked her to seewhat would be needed, which she did, and he's gone down for 'em now. Andshe says that, as it was Saturday, she'd see that the house was all putto rights; and after breakfast she set me to sweepin'; and it's only byway of her dustin' the parlor and givin' me the little girl to take fora walk that I got off at all. "

"But what have you done with the child?" exclaimed Euphemia. 

"Oh, I left her at old Johnses. "

"And so you think they're pleased with having the house to themselves?"I said. 

"Pleased, sir?" replied Pomona; "they're tickled to death. "

"But how do you like having strangers telling you what to do?" askedEuphemia. 

"Oh, well, " said Pomona, "he's no stranger, and she's real pleasant, andif it gives you a good camp out, I don't mind. "

Euphemia and I looked at each other. Here was true allegiance. We wouldremember this. 

Pomona now hurried off, and we seriously discussed the matter, and sooncame to the conclusion that while it might be the truest hospitality tolet our friends stay at our house for a day or two and enjoy themselves, still it would not do for us to allow ourselves to be governed by a toodelicate sentimentality. We must go home and act our part of host andhostess. 

Mrs. Old John had been at the camp ever since breakfast-time, giving theplace a Saturday cleaning. What she had found to occupy her for solong a time I could not imagine, but in her efforts to put in a fullhalf-day's work, I have no doubt she scrubbed some of the trees. We hadbeen so fully occupied with our own affairs that we had paid very littleattention to her, but she had probably heard pretty much all that hadbeen said. 

At noon we paid her (giving her, at her suggestion, something extra inlieu of the midday meal, which she did not stay to take), and told herto send her husband, with his wagon, as soon as possible, as we intendedto break up our encampment. We determined that we would pack everythingin John's wagon, and let him take the load to his house, and keepit there until Monday, when I would have the tent and accompanimentsexpressed to their owner. We would go home and join our friends. Itwould not be necessary to say where we had been. 

It was hard for us to break up our camp. In many respects we had enjoyedthe novel experience, and we had fully expected, during the next week, to make up for all our short-comings and mistakes. It seemed like losingall our labor and expenditure, to break up now, but there was no helpfor it. Our place was at home. 

We did not wish to invite our friends to the camp. They would certainlyhave come had they known we were there, but we had no accommodations forthem, neither had we any desire for even transient visitors. Besides, we both thought that we would prefer that our ex-boarder and his wifeshould not know that we were encamped on that little peninsula. 

We set to work to pack up and get ready for moving, but the afternoonpassed away without bringing old John. Between five and six o'clockalong came his oldest boy, with a bucket of water. 

"I'm to go back after the milk, " he said. 

"Hold up!" I cried. "Where is your father and his wagon? We've beenwaiting for him for hours. "

"The horse is si---- I mean he's gone to Ballville for oats. "

"And why didn't he send and tell me?" I asked. 

"There wasn't nobody to send, " answered the boy. 

"You are not telling the truth, " exclaimed Euphemia; "there is alwayssome one to send, in a family like yours. "

To this the boy made no answer, but again said that he would go afterthe milk. 

"We want you to bring no milk, " I cried, now quite angry. "I want you togo down to the station, and tell the driver of the express-wagon to comehere immediately. Do you understand? Immediately. "

The boy declared he understood, and started off quite willingly. Wedid not prefer to have the express-wagon, for it was too public aconveyance, and, besides, old John knew exactly how to do what wasrequired. But we need not have troubled ourselves. The express-wagon didnot come. 

When it became dark, we saw that we could not leave that night. Even ifa wagon did come, it would not be safe to drive over the fields inthe darkness. And we could not go away and leave the camp-equipage. Iproposed that Euphemia should go up to the house, while I remained incamp. But she declined. We would keep together, whatever happened, shesaid. 

We unpacked our cooking-utensils and provisions, and had supper. Therewas no milk for our coffee, but we did not care. The evening didnot pass gayly. We were annoyed by the conduct of old John and theexpress-boy, though, perhaps, it was not their fault. I had given themno notice that I should need them. 

And we were greatly troubled at the continuance of the secrecy andsubterfuge which now had become really necessary, if we did not wish tohurt our friends' feelings. 

The first thing that I thought of, when I opened my eyes in the morning, was the fact that we would have to stay there all day, for we could notmove on Sunday. 

But Euphemia did not agree with me. After breakfast (we found that thewater and the milk had been brought very early, before we were up) shestated that she did not intend to be treated in this way. She was goingup to old John's house herself; and away she went. 

In less than half an hour, she returned, followed by old John and hiswife, both looking much as if they had been whipped. 

"These people, " said she, "have entered into a conspiracy against us. Ihave questioned them thoroughly, and have made them answer me. The horsewas at home yesterday, and the boy did not go after the express-wagon. They thought that if they could keep us here, until our company hadgone, we would stay as long as we originally intended, and they wouldcontinue to make money out of us. But they are mistaken. We are goinghome immediately. "

At this point I could not help thinking that Euphemia might haveconsulted me in regard to her determination, but she was very much inearnest, and I would not have any discussion before these people. 

"Now, listen!" said Euphemia, addressing the down-cast couple, "we aregoing home, and you two are to stay here all this day and to-night, andtake care of these things. You can't work to-day, and you can shut upyour house, and bring your whole family here if you choose. We will payyou for the service, --although you do not deserve a cent, --and we willleave enough here for you to eat. You must bring your own sheets andpillowcases, and stay here until we see you on Monday morning. "

Old John and his wife agreed to this plan with the greatest alacrity, apparently well pleased to get off so easily; and, having locked up thesmaller articles of camp-furniture, we filled a valise with our personalbaggage and started off home. 

Our house and grounds never looked prettier than they did that morning, as we stood at the gate. Lord Edward barked a welcome from his shed, andbefore we reached the door, Pomona came running out, her face radiant. 

"I'm awful glad to see you back, " she said; "though I'd never have saidso while you was in camp. "

I patted the dog and looked into the garden. Everything was growingsplendidly. Euphemia rushed to the chicken-yard. It was in first-rateorder, and there were two broods of little yellow puffy chicks. 

Down on her knees went my wife, to pick up the little creatures, oneby one, press their downy bodies to her cheek, and call themtootsy-wootsies, and away went I to the barn, followed by Pomona, andsoon afterward by Euphemia. 

The cow was all right. 

"I've been making butter, " said Pomona, "though it don't look exactlylike it ought to, yet, and the skim-milk I didn't know what to do with, so I gave it to old John. He came for it every day, and was real madonce because I had given a lot of it to the dog, and couldn't let himhave but a pint. "

"He ought to have been mad, " said I to Euphemia, as we walked up to thehouse. "He got ten cents a quart for that milk. "

We laughed, and didn't care. We were too glad to be at home. 

"But where are our friends?" I asked Pomona. We had actually forgottenthem. 

"Oh! they're gone out for a walk, " said she. "They started off rightafter breakfast. "

We were not sorry for this. It would be so much nicer to see our dearhome again when there was nobody there but ourselves. In-doors werushed. Our absence had been like rain on a garden. Everything nowseemed fresher and brighter and more delightful. We went from room toroom, and seemed to appreciate better than ever what a charming home wehad. 

We were so full of the delights of our return that we forgot all aboutthe Sunday dinner and our guests, but Pomona, whom my wife was trainingto be an excellent cook, did not forget, and Euphemia was summoned to aconsultation in the kitchen. 

Dinner was late; but our guests were later. We waited as long as thestate of the provisions and our appetites would permit, and then we satdown to the table and began to eat slowly. But they did not come. Wefinished our meal, and they were still absent. We now became quiteanxious, and I proposed to Euphemia that we should go and look for them. 

We started out, and our steps naturally turned toward the river. Anunpleasant thought began to crowd itself into my mind, and perhaps thesame thing happened to Euphemia, for, without saying anything to eachother, we both turned toward the path that led to the peninsula. Wecrossed the field, climbed the fence, and there, in front of the tentsat our old boarder splitting sticks with the camp-hatchet. 

"Hurrah!" he cried, springing to his feet when he saw us. "How glad I amto see you back! When did you return? Isn't this splendid?"

"What?" I said, as we shook hands. 

"Why this, " he cried, pointing to the tent. "Don't you see? We'recamping out. "

"You are?" I exclaimed, looking around for his wife, while Euphemiastood motionless, actually unable to make a remark. 

"Certainly we are. It's the rarest bit of luck. My wife and Adele willbe here directly. They've gone to look for water-cresses. But I musttell you how I came to make this magnificent find. We started out for awalk this morning, and we happened to hit on this place, and here we sawthis gorgeous tent with nobody near but a little tow-headed boy. "

"Only a boy?" cried Euphemia. 

"Yes, a young shaver of about nine or ten. I asked him what he was doinghere, and he told me that this tent belonged to a gentleman who had goneaway, and that he was here to watch it until he came back. Then I askedhim how long the owner would probably be away, and he said he supposedfor a day or two. Then a splendid idea struck me. I offered the boya dollar to let me take his place: I knew that any sensible man wouldrather have me in charge of his tent, than a young codger like that. Theboy agreed as quick as lightning, and I paid him and sent him off. Yousee how little he was to be trusted! The owner of this tent will beunder the greatest obligations to me. Just look at it!" he cried. "Beds, table, stove, --everything anybody could want. I've camped out lots oftimes, but never had such a tent as this. I intended coming up thisafternoon after my valise, and to tell your girl where we are. But hereis my wife and little Adele. "

In the midst of the salutations and the mutual surprise, Euphemia cried:

"But you don't expect to camp out, now? You are coming back to ourhouse?"

"You see, " said the ex-boarder, "we should never have thought of doinganything so rude, had we supposed you would have returned so soon. Butyour girl gave us to understand that you would not be back for days, andso we felt free to go at any time; and I did not hesitate to make thisarrangement. And now that I have really taken the responsibility of thetent and fixtures on myself, I don't think it would be right to go awayand leave the place, especially as I don't know where to find that boy. The owner will be back in a day or two, and I would like to explainmatters to him and give up the property in good order into his hands. And, to tell the truth, we both adore camping-out, and we may never havesuch a chance again. We can live here splendidly. I went out to foragethis morning, and found an old fellow living near by who sold me a lotof provisions--even some coffee and sugar--and he's to bring us somemilk. We're going to have supper in about an hour; won't you stay andtake a camp-meal with us? It will be a novelty for you, at any rate. "

We declined this invitation, as we had so lately dined. I looked atEuphemia with a question in my eye. She understood me, and gently shookher head. It would be a shame to make any explanations which might putan end to this bit of camp-life, which evidently was so eagerly enjoyedby our old friend. But we insisted that they should come up to thehouse and see us, and they agreed to dine with us the next evening. OnTuesday, they must return to the city. 

"Now, this is what I call real hospitality, " said the ex-boarder, warmlygrasping my hand. I could not help agreeing with him. 

As we walked home, I happened to look back and saw old John going overthe fields toward the camp, carrying a little tin-pail and a waterbucket. 

The next day, toward evening, a storm set in, and at the hour fixed forour dinner, the rain was pouring down in such torrents that we did notexpect our guests. After dinner the rain ceased, and as we supposed thatthey might not have made any preparations for a meal, Euphemia packed upsome dinner for them in a basket, and I took it down to the camp. 

They were glad to see me, and said they had a splendid time all day. They were up before sunrise, and had explored, tramped, boated, and Idon't know what else. 

My basket was very acceptable, and I would have stayed awhile with them, but as they were obliged to eat in the tent, there was no place for meto sit, it being too wet outside, and so I soon came away. 

We were in doubt whether or not to tell our friends the true historyof the camp. I thought that it was not right to keep up the deception, while Euphemia declared that if they were sensitive people, they wouldfeel very badly at having broken up our plans by their visit, and thenhaving appropriated our camp to themselves. She thought it would be thepart of magnanimity to say nothing about it. 

I could not help seeing a good deal of force in her arguments, althoughI wished very much to set the thing straight, and we discussed thematter again as we walked down to the camp, after breakfast nextmorning. 

There we found old John sitting on a stump. He said nothing, but handedme a note written in lead-pencil on a card. It was from our ex-boarder, and informed me that early that morning he had found that there was atug lying in the river, which would soon start for the city. He alsofound that he could get passage on her for his party, and as this wassuch a splendid chance to go home without the bother of getting up tothe station, he had just bundled his family and his valise on board, andwas very sorry they did not have time to come up and bid us good-bye. The tent he left in charge of a very respectable man, from whom he hadhad supplies. 

That morning I had the camp-equipage packed up and expressed to itsowner. We did not care to camp out any more that season, but thought itwould be better to spend the rest of my vacation at the sea-shore. 

Our ex-boarder wrote to us that he and his wife were anxious that weshould return their visit during my holidays; but as we did not seeexactly how we could return a visit of the kind, we did not try to doit. 

CHAPTER XII. LORD EDWARD AND THE TREE-MAN. 

It was winter at Rudder Grange. The season was the same at other places, but that fact did not particularly interest Euphemia and myself. It waswinter with us, and we were ready for it. That was the great point, and it made us proud to think that we had not been taken unawares, notwithstanding the many things that were to be thought of on a littlefarm like ours. 

It is true that we had always been prepared for winter, wherever we hadlived; but this was a different case. In other days it did not mattermuch whether we were ready or not; but now our house, our cow, ourpoultry, and indeed ourselves, might have suffered, --there is no wayof finding out exactly how much, --if we had not made all possiblepreparations for the coming of cold weather. 

But there was a great deal yet to be thought of and planned out, although we were ready for winter. The next thing to think of wasspring. 

We laid out the farm. We decided where we would have wheat, corn, potatoes, and oats. We would have a man by the day to sow and reap. Theintermediate processes I thought I could attend to myself. 

Everything was talked over, ciphered over, and freely discussed bymy wife and myself, except one matter, which I planned and worked outalone, doing most of the necessary calculations at the office, so as notto excite Euphemia's curiosity. 

I had determined to buy a horse. This would be one of the most importantevents of our married life, and it demanded a great deal of thought, which I gave it. 

The horse was chosen for me by a friend. He was an excellent beast (thehorse), excelling, as my friend told me, in muscle and wit. Nothingbetter than this could be said about a horse. He was a sorrel animal, quite handsome, gentle enough for Euphemia to drive, and not toohigh-minded to do a little farm-work, if necessary. He was exactly theanimal I needed. 

The carriage was not quite such a success. The horse having cost a gooddeal more than I expected to pay, I found that I could only afford asecond-hand carriage. I bought a good, serviceable vehicle, which wouldhold four persons, if necessary, and there was room enough to pack allsorts of parcels and baskets. It was with great satisfaction thatI contemplated this feature of the carriage, which was a ratherrusty-looking affair, although sound and strong enough. The harness wasnew, and set off the horse admirably. 

On the afternoon when my purchases were completed, I did not come homeby the train. I drove home in my own carriage, drawn by my own horse!The ten miles' drive was over a smooth road, and the sorrel traveledsplendidly. If I had been a line of kings a mile long, all in theirchariots of state, with gold and silver, and outriders, and music, andbanners waving in the wind, I could not have been prouder than when Idrew up in front of my house. 

There was a wagon-gate at one side of the front fence which had neverbeen used except by the men who brought coal, and I got out and openedthis, very quietly, so as not to attract the attention of Euphemia. Itwas earlier than I usually returned, and she would not be expectingme. I was then about to lead the horse up a somewhat grass-growncarriage-way to the front door, but I reflected that Euphemia might belooking out of some of the windows and I had better drive up. So I gotin and drove very slowly to the door. 

However, she heard the unaccustomed noise of wheels, and looked out ofthe parlor window. She did not see me, but immediately came aroundto the door. I hurried out of the carriage so quickly that, not beingfamiliar with the steps, I barely escaped tripping. 

When she opened the front door she was surprised to see me standing bythe horse. 

"Have you hired a carriage?" she cried. "Are we going to ride?"

"My dear, " said I, as I took her by the hand, "we are going to ride. ButI have not hired a carriage. I have bought one. Do you see this horse?He is ours--our own horse. "

If you could have seen the face that was turned up to me, --all you othermen in the world, --you would have torn your hair in despair. 

Afterward she went around and around that horse; she patted his smoothsides; she looked, with admiration, at his strong, well-formed legs; shestroked his head; she smoothed his mane; she was brimful of joy. 

When I had brought the horse some water in a bucket--and what a pleasureit was to water one's own horse!--Euphemia rushed into the house and gother hat and cloak, and we took a little drive. 

I doubt if any horse ever drew two happier people. Euphemia said butlittle about the carriage. That was a necessary adjunct, and it was goodenough for the present. But the horse! How nobly and with what vigorhe pulled us up the hills and how carefully and strongly he held thecarriage back as we went down! How easily he trotted over the levelroad, caring nothing for the ten miles he had gone that afternoon! Whata sensation of power it gave us to think that all that strength andspeed and endurance was ours, that it would go where we wished, that itwould wait for us as long as we chose, that it was at our service dayand night, that it was a horse, and we owned it!

When we returned, Pomona saw us drive in, --she had not known of ourride, --and when she heard the news she was as wild with proud delight asanybody. She wanted to unharness him, but this I could not allow. We didnot wish to be selfish, but after she had seen and heard what we thoughtwas enough for her, we were obliged to send her back to the kitchen forthe sake of the dinner. 

Then we unharnessed him. I say we, for Euphemia stood by and I explainedeverything, for some day, she said, she might want to do it herself. Then I led him into the stable. How nobly he trod, and how finely hishoofs sounded on the stable floor!

There was hay in the mow and I had brought a bag of oats under the seatof the carriage. 

"Isn't it just delightful, " said Euphemia, "that we haven't any man?If we had a man he would take the horse at the door, and we should bedeprived of all this. It wouldn't be half like owning a horse. "

In the morning I drove down to the station, Euphemia by my side. Shedrove back and Old John came up and attended to the horse. This he wasto do, for the present, for a small stipend. In the afternoon Euphemiacame down after me. How I enjoyed those rides! Before this I had thoughtit ever so much more pleasant and healthful to walk to and from thestation than to ride, but then I did not own a horse. At night Iattended to everything, Euphemia generally following me about the stablewith a lantern. When the days grew longer we would have delightful ridesafter dinner, and even now we planned to have early breakfasts, and goto the station by the longest possible way. 

One day, in the following spring, I was riding home from the stationwith Euphemia, --we seldom took pleasure-drives now, we were so busyon the place, --and as we reached the house I heard the dog barkingsavagely. He was loose in the little orchard by the side of the house. As I drove in, Pomona came running to the carriage. 

"Man up the tree!" she shouted. 

I helped Euphemia out, left the horse standing by the door, and ran tothe dog, followed by my wife and Pomona. Sure enough, there was a manup the tree, and Lord Edward was doing his best to get at him, springingwildly at the tree and fairly shaking with rage. 

I looked up at the man, he was a thoroughbred tramp, burly, dirty, generally unkempt, but, unlike most tramps, he looked very muchfrightened. His position, on a high crotch of an apple-tree, was notaltogether comfortable, and although, for the present, it was safe, thefellow seemed to have a wavering faith in the strength of apple-treebranches, and the moment he saw me, he earnestly besought me to takethat dog away, and let him down. 

I made no answer, but turning to Pomona, I asked her what this allmeant. 

"Why, sir, you see, " said she, "I was in the kitchen bakin' pies, andthis fellow must have got over the fence at the side of the house, forthe dog didn't see him, and the first thing I know'd he was stickin' hishead in the window, and he asked me to give him somethin' to eat. Andwhen I said I'd see in a minute if there was anything for him, he saysto me, 'Gim me a piece of one of them pies, '--pies I'd just baked andwas settin' to cool on the kitchen table! 'No, sir, ' says I, 'I'mnot goin' to cut one of them pies for you, or any one like you. ' 'Allright!' says he. 'I'll come in and help myself. ' He must have knownthere was no man about, and, comin' the way he did, he hadn't seen thedog. So he come round to the kitchen door, but I shot out before he gotthere and unchained Lord Edward. I guess he saw the dog, when he got tothe door, and at any rate he heard the chain clankin', and he didn't goin, but just put for the gate. But Lord Edward was after him so quickthat he hadn't no time to go to no gates. It was all he could do toscoot up this tree, and if he'd been a millionth part of a minute laterhe'd 'a' been in another world by this time. "

The man, who had not attempted to interrupt Pomona's speech, now beganagain to implore me to let him down, while Euphemia looked pitifully athim, and was about, I think, to intercede with me in his favor, but myattention was drawn off from her, by the strange conduct of the dog. Believing, I suppose, that he might leave the tramp for a moment, nowthat I had arrived, he had dashed away to another tree, where he wasbarking furiously, standing on his hind legs and clawing at the trunk. 

"What's the matter over there?" I asked. 

"Oh, that's the other fellow, " said Pomona. "He's no harm. " And then, as the tramp made a movement as if he would try to come down, and makea rush for safety, during the absence of the dog, she called out, "Here, boy! here, boy!" and in an instant Lord Edward was again raging at hispost, at the foot of the apple-tree. 

I was grievously puzzled at all this, and walked over to the other tree, followed, as before, by Euphemia and Pomona. 

"This one, " said the latter, "is a tree-man--"

"I should think so, " said I, as I caught sight of a person in graytrowsers standing among the branches of a cherry-tree not very far fromthe kitchen door. The tree was not a large one, and the branches werenot strong enough to allow him to sit down on them, although theysupported him well enough, as he stood close to the trunk just out ofreach of Lord Edward. 

"This is a very unpleasant position, sir, " said he, when I reachedthe tree. "I simply came into your yard, on a matter of business, andfinding that raging beast attacking a person in a tree, I had barelytime to get up into this tree myself, before he dashed at me. LuckilyI was out of his reach; but I very much fear I have lost some of myproperty. "

"No, he hasn't, " said Pomona. "It was a big book he dropped. I pickedit up and took it into the house. It's full of pictures of pears andpeaches and flowers. I've been lookin' at it. That's how I knew what hewas. And there was no call for his gittin' up a tree. Lord Edward neverwould have gone after him if he hadn't run as if he had guilt on hissoul. "

"I suppose, then, " said I, addressing the individual in the cherry-tree, "that you came here to sell me some trees. "

"Yes, sir, " said he quickly, "trees, shrubs, vines, evergreens, --everything suitable for a gentleman's country villa. Ican sell you something quite remarkable, sir, in the way ofcherry-trees, --French ones, just imported; bear fruit three timesthe size of anything that could be produced on a tree like this. Andpears--fruit of the finest flavor and enormous size--"

"Yes, " said Pomona. "I seen them in the book. But they must grow on aground-vine. No tree couldn't hold such pears as them. "

Here Euphemia reproved Pomona's forwardness, and I invited thetree-agent to get down out of the tree. 

"Thank you, " said he; "but not while that dog is loose. If you willkindly chain him up, I will get my book, and show you specimens of someof the finest small fruit in the world, all imported from the firstnurseries of Europe--the Red-gold Amber Muscat grape, --the--"

"Oh, please let him down!" said Euphemia, her eyes beginning to sparkle. 

I slowly walked toward the tramp-tree, revolving various matters in mymind. We had not spent much money on the place during the winter, andwe now had a small sum which we intended to use for the advantage of thefarm, but had not yet decided what to do with it. It behooved me to becareful. 

I told Pomona to run and get me the dog-chain, and I stood under thetree, listening, as well as I could, to the tree-agent talking toEuphemia, and paying no attention to the impassioned entreaties of thetramp in the crotch above me. When the chain was brought, I hooked oneend of it in Lord Edward's collar, and then I took a firm grasp of theother. Telling Pomona to bring the tree-agent's book from the house, Icalled to that individual to get down from his tree. He promptly obeyed, and taking the book from Pomona, began to show the pictures to Euphemia. 

"You had better hurry, sir, " I called out. "I can't hold this dog verylong. " And, indeed, Lord Edward had made a run toward the agent, whichjerked me very forcibly in his direction. But a movement by the tramphad quickly brought the dog back to his more desired victim. 

"If you will just tie up that dog, sir, " said the agent, "and come thisway, I would like to show you the Meltinagua pear, --dissolves in themouth like snow, sir; trees will bear next year. "

"Oh, come look at the Royal Sparkling Ruby grape!" cried Euphemia. "Itglows in the sun like a gem. "

"Yes, " said the agent, "and fills the air with fragrance during thewhole month of September--"

"I tell you, " I shouted, "I can't hold this dog another minute! Thechain is cutting the skin off my hands. Run, sir, run! I'm going to letgo!"

"Run! run!" cried Pomona. "Fly for your life!"

The agent now began to be frightened, and shut up his book. 

"If you only could see the plates, sir, I'm sure--"

"Are you ready?" I cried, as the dog, excited by Pomona's wild shouts, made a bolt in his direction. 

"Good-day, if I must--" said the agent, as he hurried to the gate. Butthere he stopped. 

"There is nothing, sir, " he said, "that would so improve your place asa row of the Spitzenberg Sweet-scented Balsam fir along this fence. I'llsell you three-year-old trees--"

"He's loose!" I shouted, as I dropped the chain. 

In a second the agent was on the other side of the gate. Lord Edwardmade a dash toward him; but, stopping suddenly, flew back to the tree ofthe tramp. 

"If you should conclude, sir, " said the tree-agent, looking over thefence, "to have a row of those firs along here--"

"My good sir, " said I, "there is no row of firs there now, and the fenceis not very high. My dog, as you see, is very much excited and I cannotanswer for the consequences if he takes it into his head to jump over. "

The tree-agent turned and walked slowly away. 

"Now, look-a-here, " cried the tramp from the tree, in the voice of avery ill-used person, "ain't you goin' to fasten up that dog, and let megit down?"

I walked up close to the tree and addressed him. 

"No, " said I, "I am not. When a man comes to my place, bullies a younggirl who was about to relieve his hunger, and then boldly determinesto enter my house and help himself to my property, I don't propose tofasten up any dog that may happen to be after him. If I had another dog, I'd let him loose, and give this faithful beast a rest. You can do asyou please. You can come down and have it out with the dog, or you canstay up there, until I have had my dinner. Then I will drive down to thevillage and bring up the constable, and deliver you into his hands. Wewant no such fellows as you about. "

With that, I unhooked the chain from Lord Edward, and walked off to putup the horse. The man shouted after me, but I paid no attention. I didnot feel in a good humor with him. 

Euphemia was much disturbed by the various occurrences of the afternoon. She was sorry for the man in the tree; she was sorry that the agent forthe Royal Ruby grape had been obliged to go away; and I had a good dealof trouble during dinner to make her see things in the proper light. ButI succeeded at last. 

I did not hurry through dinner, and when we had finished I went to mywork at the barn. Tramps are not generally pressed for time, and Pomonahad been told to give our captive something to eat. 

I was just locking the door of the carriage-house, when Pomona camerunning to me to tell me that the tramp wanted to see me about somethingvery important--just a minute, he said. I put the key in my pocket andwalked over to the tree. It was now almost dark, but I could see thatthe dog, the tramp, and the tree still kept their respective places. 

"Look-a-here, " said the individual in the crotch, "you don't know howdreadful oneasy these limbs gits after you've been settin up hereas long as I have. And I don't want to have nuthin to do with noconstables. I'll tell you what I'll do if you'll chain up that dog, andlet me go, I'll fix things so that you'll not be troubled no more by notramps. "

"How will you do that?" I asked. 

"Oh, never you mind, " said he. "I'll give you my word of honor I'll doit. There's a reg'lar understandin' among us fellers, you know. "

I considered the matter. The word of honor of a fellow such as he wascould not be worth much, but the merest chance of getting rid oftramps should not be neglected. I went in to talk to Euphemia about it, although I knew what she would say. I reasoned with myself as much aswith her. 

"If we put this one fellow in prison for a few weeks, " I said, "thebenefit is not very great. If we are freed from all tramps, for theseason, the benefit is very great. Shall we try for the greatest good?"

"Certainly, " said Euphemia; "and his legs must be dreadfully stiff. "

So I went out, and after a struggle of some minutes, I chained LordEdward to a post at a little distance from the apple-tree. When he wassecure, the tramp descended nimbly from his perch, notwithstanding hisstiff legs, and hurried out of the gate. He stopped to make no remarksover the fence. With a wild howl of disappointed ambition, Lord Edwardthrew himself after him. But the chain held. 

A lane of moderate length led from our house to the main road, and thenext day, as we were riding home, I noticed, on the trunk of a largetree, which stood at the corner of the lane and road, a curious mark. Idrew up to see what it was, but we could not make it out. It was a veryrude device, cut deeply into the tree, and somewhat resembled a square, a circle, a triangle, and a cross, with some smaller marks beneath it. Ifelt sure that our tramp had cut it, and that it had some significance, which would be understood by the members of his fraternity. 

And it must have had, for no tramps came near us all that summer. Wewere visited by a needy person now and then, but by no member of theregular army of tramps. 

One afternoon, that fall, I walked home, and at the corner of the laneI saw a tramp looking up at the mark on the tree, which was still quitedistinct. 

"What does that mean?" I said, stepping up to him. 

"How do I know?" said the man, "and what do you want to know fur?"

"Just out of curiosity, " I said; "I have often noticed it. I thinkyou can tell me what it means, and if you will do so, I'll give you adollar. "

"And keep mum about it?" said the man. 

"Yes, " I replied, taking out the dollar. 

"All right!" said the tramp. "That sign means that the man that lives upthis lane is a mean, stingy cuss, with a wicked dog, and it's no good togo there. "

I handed him the dollar and went away, perfectly satisfied with myreputation. 

I wish here to make some mention of Euphemia's methods of work in herchicken-yard. She kept a book, which she at first called her "FowlRecord, " but she afterward changed the name to "Poultry Register. " Inever could thoroughly understand this book, although she has oftenexplained every part of it to me. She had pages for registering the age, description, time of purchase or of birth, and subsequent performancesof every fowl in her yard. She had divisions of the book for expenses, profits, probable losses and positive losses; she noted the number ofeggs put under each setting hen; the number of eggs cracked per day, thenumber spoiled, and finally, the number hatched. Each chick, on emergingfrom its shell, was registered, and an account kept of its subsequentlife and adventures. There were frequent calculations regarding theadvantages of various methods of treatment, and there were statements ofthe results of a great many experiments--something like this: "Set Toppyand her sister Pinky, April 2nd 187-; Toppy with twelve eggs, --threeBrahma, four common, and five Leghorn; Pinky with thirteen eggs (as sheweighs four ounces more than her sister), of which three were Leghorn, five common, and five Brahma. During the twenty-second and twenty-thirdof April (same year) Toppy hatched out four Brahmas, two commons, andthree Leghorns, while her sister, on these days and the morning of theday following, hatched two Leghorns, six commons, and only one Brahma. Now, could Toppy, who had only three Brahma eggs, and hatched out fourof that breed, have exchanged eggs with her sister, thus making itpossible for her to hatch out six common chickens, when she only hadfive eggs of that kind? Or, did the eggs get mixed up in some way beforegoing into the possession of the hens? Look into probabilities. "

These probabilities must have puzzled Euphemia a great deal, butthey never disturbed her equanimity. She was always as tranquil andgood-humored about her poultry-yard as if every hen laid an egg everyday, and a hen-chick was hatched out of every egg. 

For it may be remembered that the principle underlying Euphemia'smanagement of her poultry was what might be designated as the"cumulative hatch. " That is, she wished every chicken hatched in heryard to become the mother of a brood of her own during the year, andevery one of this brood to raise another brood the next year, and so on, in a kind of geometrical progression. This plan called for a great manymother-fowls, and so Euphemia based her highest hopes on a great annualpreponderance of hens. 

We ate a good many young roosters that fall, for Euphemia would notallow all the products of her yard to go to market, and, also, a greatmany eggs and fowls were sold. She had not contented herself with heroriginal stock of poultry, but had bought fowls during the winter, andshe certainly had extraordinary good luck, or else her extraordinarysystem worked extraordinarily well. 

CHAPTER XIII. POMONA'S NOVEL. 

It was in the latter part of August of that year that it becamenecessary for some one in the office in which I was engaged to go to St. Louis to attend to important business. Everything seemed to point to meas the fit person, for I understood the particular business better thanany one else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did not altogether liketo do it. I went home, and Euphemia and I talked over the matter farinto the regulation sleeping-hours. 

There were very good reasons why we should go (for, of course, I wouldnot think of taking such a journey without Euphemia). In the firstplace, it would be of advantage to me, in my business connection, totake the trip, and then it would be such a charming journey for us. Wehad never been west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the country wewould see would be new to us. We would come home by the great lakesand Niagara, and the prospect was delightful to both of us. But thenwe would have to leave Rudder Grange for at least three weeks, and howcould we do that?

This was indeed a difficult question to answer. Who could take care ofour garden, our poultry, our horse and cow, and all their complicatedbelongings? The garden was in admirable condition. Our vegetableswere coming in every day in just that fresh and satisfactorycondition--altogether unknown to people who buy vegetables--for whichI had labored so faithfully, and about which I had had so many cheerfulanticipations. As to Euphemia's chicken-yard, --with Euphemia away, --thesubject was too great for us. We did not even discuss it. But we wouldgive up all the pleasures of our home for the chance of this mostdesirable excursion, if we could but think of some one who would comeand take care of the place while we were gone. Rudder Grange could notrun itself for three weeks. 

We thought of every available person. Old John would not do. We did notfeel that we could trust him. We thought of several of our friends;but there was, in both our minds, a certain shrinking from the idea ofhanding over the place to any of them for such a length of time. For mypart, I said, I would rather leave Pomona in charge than any one else;but, then, Pomona was young and a girl. Euphemia agreed with me that shewould rather trust her than any one else, but she also agreed inregard to the disqualifications. So, when I went to the office the nextmorning, we had fully determined to go on the trip, if we could findsome one to take charge of our place while we were gone. When I returnedfrom the office in the afternoon, I had agreed to go to St. Louis. Bythis time, I had no choice in the matter, unless I wished to interferevery much with my own interests. We were to start in two days. If inthat time we could get any one to stay at the place, very well; if not, Pomona must assume the charge. We were not able to get any one, andPomona did assume the charge. It is surprising how greatly relieved wefelt when we were obliged to come to this conclusion. The arrangementwas exactly what we wanted, and now that there was no help for it, ourconsciences were easy. 

We felt sure that there would be no danger to Pomona. Lord Edward wouldbe with her, and she was a young person who was extraordinarily wellable to take care of herself. Old John would be within call in case sheneeded him, and I borrowed a bull-dog to be kept in the house at night. Pomona herself was more than satisfied with the plan. 

We made out, the night before we left, a long and minute series ofdirections for her guidance in household, garden and farm matters, anddirected her to keep a careful record of everything note worthy thatmight occur. She was fully supplied with all the necessaries of life, and it has seldom happened that a young girl has been left in such aresponsible and independent position as that in which we left Pomona. She was very proud of it. 

Our journey was ten times more delightful than we had expected it wouldbe, and successful in every way; and yet, although we enjoyed every hourof the trip, we were no sooner fairly on our way home than we became sowildly anxious to get there, that we reached Rudder Grange on Wednesday, whereas we had written that we would be home on Thursday. We arrivedearly in the afternoon and walked up from the station, leaving ourbaggage to be sent in the express wagon. As we approached our dear home, we wanted to run, we were so eager to see it. 

There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch; the gate waslocked. We ran to the carriage-gate; that was locked too. Just then Inoticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed, but the letteringwas large, apparently made with ink and a brush. It read:

 TO BE SOLD

 For TAXES. 

We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia turned pale. 

"What does this mean?" said I. "Has our landlord--"

I could say no more. The dreadful thought arose that the place mightpass away from us. We were not yet ready to buy it. But I did not putthe thought in words. There was a field next to our lot, and I got overthe fence and helped Euphemia over. Then we climbed our side-fence. Thiswas more difficult, but we accomplished it without thinking much aboutits difficulties; our hearts were too full of painful apprehensions. I hurried to the front door; it was locked. All the lower windowswere shut. We went around to the kitchen. What surprised us more thananything else was the absence of Lord Edward. Had HE been sold?

Before we reached the back part of the house, Euphemia said she feltfaint and must sit down. I led her to a tree near by, under which I hadmade a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She sat on the grass and I ranto the pump for some water. I looked for the bright tin dipper whichalways hung by the pump. It was not there. But I had a traveling-cup inmy pocket, and as I was taking it out I looked around me. There was anair of bareness over everything. I did not know what it all meant, butI know that my hand trembled as I took hold of the pump-handle and beganto pump. 

At the first sound of the pump-handle I heard a deep bark in thedirection of the barn, and then furiously around the corner came LordEdward. Before I had filled the cup he was bounding about me. I believethe glad welcome of the dog did more to revive Euphemia than the water. He was delighted to see us, and in a moment up came Pomona, running fromthe barn. Her face was radiant, too. We felt relieved. Here were twofriends who looked as if they were neither sold nor ruined. 

Pomona quickly saw that we were ill at ease, and before I could put aquestion to her, she divined the cause. Her countenance fell. 

"You know, " said she, "you said you wasn't comin' till to-morrow. Ifyou only HAD come then--I was goin' to have everything just exactlyright--an' now you had to climb in--"

And the poor girl looked as if she might cry, which would have been awonderful thing for Pomona to do. 

"Tell me one thing, " said I. "What about--those taxes?"

"Oh, that's all right, " she cried. "Don't think another minute aboutthat. I'll tell you all about it soon. But come in first, and I'll getyou some lunch in a minute. "

We were somewhat relieved by Pomona's statement that it was "all right"in regard to the tax-poster, but we were very anxious to know allabout the matter. Pomona, however, gave us little chance to ask her anyquestions. As soon as she had made ready our lunch, she asked us, as aparticular favor, to give her three-quarters of an hour to herself, and then, said she, "I'll have everything looking just as if it wasto-morrow. "

We respected her feelings, for, of course, it was a great disappointmentto her to be taken thus unawares, and we remained in the dining-roomuntil she appeared, and announced that she was ready for us to go about. We availed ourselves quickly of the privilege, and Euphemia hurried tothe chicken-yard, while I bent my steps toward the garden and barn. AsI went out I noticed that the rustic chair was in its place, and passingthe pump I looked for the dipper. It was there. I asked Pomona about thechair, but she did not answer as quickly as was her habit. 

"Would you rather, " said she, "hear it all together, when you come in, or have it in little bits, head and tail, all of a jumble?"

I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought, and she was soanxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather waitand hear it all together. We found everything in perfect order, --thegarden was even free from weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it hadnot been for that cloud on the front fence, I should have been happyenough. Pomona had said it was all right, but she could not have paidthe taxes--however, I would wait; and I went to the barn. 

When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, she called me and said shewas in a hurry to hear Pomona's account of things. So I went in, and wesat on the side porch, where it was shady, while Pomona, producing somesheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper step. 

"I wrote down the things of any account what happened, " said she, "asyou told me to, and while I was about it, I thought I'd make it like anovel. It would be jus' as true, and p'r'aps more amusin'. I suppose youdon't mind?"

No, we didn't mind. So she went on. 

"I haven't got no name for my novel. I intended to think one outto-night. I wrote this all of nights. And I don't read the firstchapters, for they tell about my birth and my parentage and my earlyadventures. I'll just come down to what happened to me while you wasaway, because you'll be more anxious to hear about that. All that'swritten here is true, jus' the same as if I told it to you, but I've putit into novel language because it seems to come easier to me. "

And then, in a voice somewhat different from her ordinary tones, as ifthe "novel language" demanded it, she began to read:

"Chapter Five. The Lonely house and the Faithful friend. Thus was I leftalone. None but two dogs to keep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed the lowing kineand water-ed and fed the steed, and then, after my fru-gal repast, Iclos-ed the man-si-on, shutting out all re-collections of the past andalso foresights into the future. That night was a me-mor-able one. Islept soundly until the break of morn, but had the events transpiredwhich afterward occur-red, what would have hap-pen-ed to me no tonguecan tell. Early the next day nothing hap-pened. Soon after breakfast, the vener-able John came to bor-row some ker-osene oil and a halfa pound of sugar, but his attempt was foil-ed. I knew too well thein-sid-ious foe. In the very out-set of his vil-li-an-y I sent himhome with a empty can. For two long days I wander-ed amid the ver-dantpathways of the gar-den and to the barn, whenever and anon my du-tycall-ed me, nor did I ere neg-lect the fowlery. No cloud o'er-spreadthis happy pe-ri-od of my life. But the cloud was ri-sing in the horizonalthough I saw it not. 

"It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven, on the morning of aThursday, that I sat pondering in my mind the ques-ti-on what to do withthe butter and the veg-et-ables. Here was butter, and here was greencorn and lima-beans and trophy tomats, far more than I ere could use. And here was a horse, idly cropping the fol-i-age in the field, for asmy employer had advis-ed and order-ed I had put the steed to grass. Andhere was a wagon, none too new, which had it the top taken off, or eventhe curtains roll-ed up, would do for a li-cen-ced vender. With thetruck and butter, and mayhap some milk, I could load that wagon--"

"O, Pomona, " interrupted Euphemia. "You don't mean to say that you werethinking of doing anything like that?"

"Well, I was just beginning to think of it, " said Pomona, "but of courseI couldn't have gone away and left the house. And you'll see I didn't doit. " And then she continued her novel. "But while my thoughts were thusemploy-ed, I heard Lord Edward burst into bark-ter--"

At this Euphemia and I could not help bursting into laughter. Pomona didnot seem at all confused, but went on with her reading. 

"I hurried to the door, and, look-ing out, I saw a wagon at the gate. Re-pair-ing there, I saw a man. Said he, 'Wilt open this gate?' I hadfasten-ed up the gates and remov-ed every steal-able ar-ticle from theyard. "

Euphemia and I looked at each other. This explained the absence of therustic seat and the dipper. 

"Thus, with my mind at ease, I could let my faith-ful fri-end, the dog(for he it was), roam with me through the grounds, while the fi-ercebull-dog guard-ed the man-si-on within. Then said I, quite bold, untohim, 'No. I let in no man here. My em-ploy-er and employ-er-ess are nowfrom home. What do you want?' Then says he, as bold as brass, 'I'vecome to put the light-en-ing rods upon the house. Open the gate. ' 'Whatrods?' says I. 'The rods as was ordered, ' says he, 'open the gate. ' Istood and gaz-ed at him. Full well I saw through his pinch-beck mask. Iknew his tricks. In the ab-sence of my em-ployer, he would put up rods, and ever so many more than was wanted, and likely, too, some miser-abletrash that would attrack the light-ening, instead of keep-ing it off. Then, as it would spoil the house to take them down, they would be kept, and pay demand-ed. 'No, sir, ' says I. 'No light-en-ing rods upon thishouse whilst I stand here, ' and with that I walk-ed away, and let LordEdward loose. The man he storm-ed with pas-si-on. His eyes flash-edfire. He would e'en have scal-ed the gate, but when he saw the dog hedid forbear. As it was then near noon, I strode away to feed the fowls;but when I did return, I saw a sight which froze the blood with-in myveins--"

"The dog didn't kill him?" cried Euphemia. 

"Oh no, ma'am!" said Pomona. "You'll see that that wasn't it. At onecorn-er of the lot, in front, a base boy, who had accompa-ni-ed thisman, was bang-ing on the fence with a long stick, and thus attrack-ingto hisself the rage of Lord Edward, while the vile intrig-er of alight-en-ing rod-der had brought a lad-der to the other side of thehouse, up which he had now as-cend-ed, and was on the roof. What horrorsfill-ed my soul! How my form trembl-ed! This, " continued Pomona, "is theend of the novel, " and she laid her foolscap pages on the porch. 

Euphemia and I exclaimed, with one voice, against this. We had justreached the most exciting part, and, I added, we had heard nothing yetabout that affair of the taxes. 

"You see, sir, " said Pomona, "it took me so long to write out thechapters about my birth, my parentage, and my early adventures, thatI hadn't time to finish up the rest. But I can tell you what happenedafter that jus' as well as if I had writ it out. " And so she went on, much more glibly than before, with the account of the doings of thelightning-rod man. 

"There was that wretch on top of the house, a-fixin' his old rods andhammerin' away for dear life. He'd brought his ladder over the sidefence, where the dog, a-barkin' and plungin' at the boy outside, couldn't see him. I stood dumb for a minute, an' then I know'd I hadhim. I rushed into the house, got a piece of well-rope, tied it to thebull-dog's collar, an' dragged him out and fastened him to the bottomrung of the ladder. Then I walks over to the front fence with LordEdward's chain, for I knew that if he got at that bull-dog there'd betimes, for they'd never been allowed to see each other yet. So says I tothe boy, 'I'm goin' to tie up the dog, so you needn't be afraid of hisjumpin' over the fence, '--which he couldn't do, or the boy would havebeen a corpse for twenty minutes, or may be half an hour. The boy kinderlaughed, and said I needn't mind, which I didn't. Then I went to thegate, and I clicked to the horse which was standin' there, an' offhe starts, as good as gold, an' trots down the road. The boy, he saidsomethin' or other pretty bad, an' away he goes after him; but the horsewas a-trottin' real fast, an' had a good start. "

"How on earth could you ever think of doing such things?" saidEuphemia. "That horse might have upset the wagon and broken all thelightning-rods, besides running over I don't know how many people. "

"But you see, ma'am, that wasn't my lookout, " said Pomona. "I wasa-defendin' the house, and the enemy must expect to have things happento him. So then I hears an awful row on the roof, and there was the manjust coming down the ladder. He'd heard the horse go off, and whenhe got about half-way down an' caught a sight of the bull-dog, he wasmadder than ever you seed a lightnin'-rodder in all your born days. 'Take that dog off of there!' he yelled at me. 'No, I wont, says I. 'Inever see a girl like you since I was born, ' he screams at me. 'I guessit would 'a' been better fur you if you had, ' says I; an' then he wasso mad he couldn't stand it any longer, and he comes down as low as hecould, and when he saw just how long the rope was, --which was prettyshort, --he made a jump, and landed clear of the dog. Then he went ondreadful because he couldn't get at his ladder to take it away; and Iwouldn't untie the dog, because if I had he'd 'a' torn the tendons outof that fellow's legs in no time. I never see a dog in such a boilingpassion, and yet never making no sound at all but blood-curdlin' grunts. An' I don't see how the rodder would 'a' got his ladder at all if thedog hadn't made an awful jump at him, and jerked the ladder down. Itjust missed your geranium-bed, and the rodder, he ran to the other endof it, and began pullin' it away, dog an' all. 'Look-a-here, ' says I, 'we can fix him now; and so he cooled down enough to help me, and Iunlocked the front door, and we pushed the bottom end of the ladderin, dog and all; an' then I shut the door as tight as it would go, an'untied the end of the rope, an' the rodder pulled the ladder out while Iheld the door to keep the dog from follerin', which he came pretty neardoin', anyway. But I locked him in, and then the man began stormin'again about his wagon; but when he looked out an' see the boy comin'back with it, --for somebody must 'a' stopped the horse, --he stoppedstormin' and went to put up his ladder ag'in. 'No, you don't, ' says I;'I'll let the big dog loose next time, and if I put him at the foot ofyour ladder, you'll never come down. ' 'But I want to go and take downwhat I put up, ' he says; 'I aint a-goin' on with this job. ' 'No, ' saysI, 'you aint; and you can't go up there to wrench off them rods and makerain-holes in the roof, neither. ' He couldn't get no madder than he wasthen, an' fur a minute or two he couldn't speak, an' then he says, 'I'llhave satisfaction for this. ' An' says I, 'How? 'An' says he, 'You'll seewhat it is to interfere with a ordered job. ' An' says I, 'There wasn'tno order about it;' an' says he, 'I'll show you better than that;' an'he goes to his wagon an' gits a book. 'There, ' says he, 'read that. ''What of it? 'says I 'there's nobody of the name of Ball lives here. 'That took the man kinder aback, and he said he was told it was the onlyhouse on the lane, which I said was right, only it was the next lane heoughter 'a' gone to. He said no more after that, but just put his ladderin his wagon, and went off. But I was not altogether rid of him. He lefta trail of his baleful presence behind him. 

"That horrid bull-dog wouldn't let me come into the house! No matterwhat door I tried, there he was, just foamin' mad. I let him stay tillnearly night, and then went and spoke kind to him; but it was no good. He'd got an awful spite ag'in me. I found something to eat down cellar, and I made a fire outside an' roasted some corn and potatoes. That nightI slep' in the barn. I wasn't afraid to be away from the house, for Iknew it was safe enough, with that dog in it and Lord Edward outside. For three days, Sunday an' all, I was kep' out of this here house. I gotalong pretty well with the sleepin' and the eatin', but the drinkin'was the worst. I couldn't get no coffee or tea; but there was plenty ofmilk. "

"Why didn't you get some man to come and attend to the dog?" I asked. "It was dreadful to live that way. "

"Well, I didn't know no man that could do it, " said Pomona. "The dogwould 'a' been too much for Old John, and besides, he was mad about thekerosene. Sunday afternoon, Captain Atkinson and Mrs. Atkinson and theirlittle girl in a push-wagon, come here, and I told 'em you was goneaway; but they says they would stop a minute, and could I give them adrink; an' I had nothin' to give it to them but an old chicken-bowl thatI had washed out, for even the dipper was in the house, an' I told 'emeverything was locked up, which was true enough, though they must 'a'thought you was a queer kind of people; but I wasn't a-goin' to saynothin' about the dog, fur, to tell the truth, I was ashamed to do it. So as soon as they'd gone, I went down into the cellar, --and it's luckythat I had the key for the outside cellar door, --and I got a piece offat corn-beef and the meat-axe. I unlocked the kitchen door and went in, with the axe in one hand and the meat in the other. The dog might takehis choice. I know'd he must be pretty nigh famished, for there wasnothin' that he could get at to eat. As soon as I went in, he camerunnin' to me; but I could see he was shaky on his legs. He looked asort of wicked at me, and then he grabbed the meat. He was all rightthen. "

"Oh, my!" said Euphemia, "I am so glad to hear that. I was afraid younever got in. But we saw the dog--is he as savage yet?"

"Oh no!" said Pomona; "nothin' like it. "

"Look here, Pomona, " said I, "I want to know about those taxes. When dothey come into your story?"

"Pretty soon, sir, " said she, and she went on:

"After that, I know'd it wouldn't do to have them two dogs so thatthey'd have to be tied up if they see each other. Just as like as notI'd want them both at once, and then they'd go to fightin', and leave meto settle with some blood-thirsty lightnin'-rodder. So, as I know'd ifthey once had a fair fight and found out which was master, they'd begood friends afterwards, I thought the best thing to do would be to let'em fight it out, when there was nothin' else for 'em to do. So I fixedup things for the combat. "

"Why, Pomona!" cried Euphemia, "I didn't think you were capable of sucha cruel thing. "

"It looks that way, ma'am, but really it aint, " replied the girl. "Itseemed to me as if it would be a mercy to both of 'em to have thething settled. So I cleared away a place in front of the wood-shed andunchained Lord Edward, and then I opened the kitchen door and called thebull. Out he came, with his teeth a-showin', and his blood-shot eyes, and his crooked front legs. Like lightnin' from the mount'in blast, hemade one bounce for the big dog, and oh! what a fight there was! Theyrolled, they gnashed, they knocked over the wood-horse and sent chipsa-flyin' all ways at wonst. I thought Lord Edward would whip in a minuteor two; but he didn't, for the bull stuck to him like a burr, and theywas havin' it, ground and lofty, when I hears some one run up behind me, and turnin' quick, there was the 'Piscopalian minister, 'My! my! my!'he hollers; 'what a awful spectacle! Aint there no way of stoppin' it?''No, sir, ' says I, and I told him how I didn't want to stop it, and thereason why. Then says he, 'Where's your master?' and I told him how youwas away. 'Isn't there any man at all about?' says he. 'No, ' saysI. 'Then, ' says he, 'if there's nobody else to stop it, I must do itmyself. ' An' he took off his coat. 'No, ' says I, 'you keep back, sir. Ifthere's anybody to plunge into that erena, the blood be mine;' an' Iput my hand, without thinkin', ag'in his black shirt-bosom, to hold himback; but he didn't notice, bein' so excited. 'Now, ' says I, 'jist waitone minute, and you'll see that bull's tail go between his legs. He'sweakenin'. ' An' sure enough, Lord Edward got a good grab at him, and wasa-shakin' the very life out of him, when I run up and took Lord Edwardby the collar. 'Drop it!' says I, and he dropped it, for he know'd he'dwhipped, and he was pretty tired hisself. Then the bull-dog, he trottedoff with his tail a-hangin' down. 'Now, then, ' says I, 'them dogs willbe bosom friends forever after this. ' 'Ah me!' says he, 'I'm sorryindeed that your employer, for who I've always had a great respect, should allow you to get into such habits. ' That made me feel real bad, and I told him, mighty quick, that you was the last man in the world tolet me do anything like that, and that, if you'd 'a' been here, you'd'a' separated them dogs, if they'd a-chawed your arms off; that you wasvery particular about such things; and that it would be a pity if he wasto think you was a dog-fightin' gentleman, when I'd often heard you saythat, now you was fixed an' settled, the one thing you would like mostwould be to be made a vestryman. "

I sat up straight in my chair. 

"Pomona!" I exclaimed, "you didn't tell him that?"

"That's what I said, sir, for I wanted him to know what you really was;an' he says, 'Well, well, I never knew that. It might be a very goodthing. I'll speak to some of the members about it. There's two vacanciesnow in our vestry. "

I was crushed; but Euphemia tried to put the matter into the brightestlight. 

"Perhaps it may all turn out for the best, " she said, "and you may beelected, and that would be splendid. But it would be an awfully funnything for a dog-fight to make you a vestry-man. "

I could not talk on this subject. "Go on, Pomona, " I said, trying tofeel resigned to my shame, "and tell us about that poster on the fence. "

"I'll be to that almost right away, " she said. "It was two or three daysafter the dog-fight that I was down at the barn, and happenin' to lookover to Old John's, I saw that tree-man there. He was a-showin' hisbook to John, and him and his wife and all the young ones was a-standin'there, drinkin' down them big peaches and pears as if they was all real. I know'd he'd come here ag'in, for them fellers never gives you up; andI didn't know how to keep him away, for I didn't want to let the dogsloose on a man what, after all, didn't want to do no more harm than totalk the life out of you. So I just happened to notice, as I came to thehouse, how kind of desolate everything looked, and I thought perhapsI might make it look worse, and he wouldn't care to deal here. So Ithought of puttin' up a poster like that, for nobody whose place wasa-goin' to be sold for taxes would be likely to want trees. So I run inthe house, and wrote it quick and put it up. And sure enough, the man hecome along soon, and when he looked at that paper, and tried the gate, an' looked over the fence an' saw the house all shut up an' not a livin'soul about, --for I had both the dogs in the house with me, --he shook hishead an' walked off, as much as to say, 'If that man had fixed his placeup proper with my trees, he wouldn't 'a' come to this!' An' then, as Ifound the poster worked so good, I thought it might keep other peoplefrom comin' a-botherin' around, and so I left it up; but I was a-goin'to be sure and take it down before you came. "

As it was now pretty late in the afternoon, I proposed that Pomonashould postpone the rest of her narrative until evening. She said thatthere was nothing else to tell that was very particular; and I did notfeel as if I could stand anything more just now, even if it was veryparticular. 

When we were alone, I said to Euphemia:

"If we ever have to go away from this place again--"

"But we wont go away, " she interrupted, looking up to me with as brighta face as she ever had, "at least not for a long, long, long time tocome. And I'm so glad you're to be a vestryman. "

CHAPTER XIV. POMONA TAKES A BRIDAL TRIP. 

Our life at Rudder Grange seemed to be in no way materially changed bymy becoming a vestryman. The cow gave about as much milk as before, andthe hens laid the usual number of eggs. Euphemia went to church with alittle more of an air, perhaps, but as the wardens were never absent, and I was never, therefore, called upon to assist in taking up thecollection, her sense of my position was not inordinately manifested. 

For a year or two, indeed, there was no radical change in anything aboutRudder Grange, except in Pomona. In her there was a change. She grew up. 

She performed this feat quite suddenly. She was a young girl when shefirst came to us, and we had never considered her as anything else, whenone evening she had a young man to see her. Then we knew she had grownup. 

We made no objections to her visitors, --she had several, from time totime, --"for, " said Euphemia, "suppose my parents had objected to yourvisits. " I could not consider the mere possibility of anything likethis, and we gave Pomona all the ordinary opportunities for entertainingher visitors. To tell the truth, I think we gave her more than theordinary opportunities. I know that Euphemia would wait on herself toalmost any extent, rather than call upon Pomona, when the latter wasentertaining an evening visitor in the kitchen or on the back porch. 

"Suppose my mother, " she once remarked, in answer to a mild remonstrancefrom me in regard to a circumstance of this nature, --"suppose my motherhad rushed into our presence when we were plighting our vows, and hadtold me to go down into the cellar and crack ice!"

It was of no use to talk to Euphemia on such subjects; she always had ananswer ready. 

"You don't want Pomona to go off and be married, do you?" I asked, oneday as she was putting up some new muslin curtains in the kitchen. "Youseem to be helping her to do this all you can, and yet I don't knowwhere on earth you will get another girl who will suit you so well. "

"I don't know, either, " replied Euphemia, with a tack in her mouth, "andI'm sure I don't want her to go. But neither do I want winter to come, or to have to wear spectacles; but I suppose both of these things willhappen, whether I like it or not. "

For some time after this Pomona had very little company, and we began tothink that there was no danger of any present matrimonial engagement onher part, --a thought which was very gratifying to us, although wedid not wish in any way to interfere with her prospects, --when, oneafternoon, she quietly went up into the village and was married. 

Her husband was a tall young fellow, a son of a farmer in the county, who had occasionally been to see her, but whom she must have frequentlymet on her "afternoons out. "

When Pomona came home and told us this news we were certainly wellsurprised. 

"What on earth are we to do for a girl?" cried Euphemia. 

"You're to have me till you can get another one, " said Pomona quietly. "I hope you don't think I'd go 'way, and leave you without anybody. "

"But a wife ought to go to her husband, " said Euphemia, "especially sorecent a bride. Why didn't you let me know all about it? I would havehelped to fit you out. We would have given you the nicest kind of alittle wedding. "

"I know that, " said Pomona; "you're jus' good enough. But I didn't wantto put you to all that trouble--right in preserving-time too. An' hewanted it quiet, for he's awful backward about shows. An' as I'm togo to live with his folks, --at least in a little house on the farm, --Imight as well stay here as anywhere, even if I didn't want to, for Ican't go there till after frost. "

"Why not?" I asked. 

"The chills and fever, " said she. "They have it awful down in thatvalley. Why, he had a chill while we was bein' married, right at thebridal altar. "

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Euphemia. "How dreadful!"

"Yes, indeed, " said Pomona. "He must 'a' forgot it was his chill-day, and he didn't take his quinine, and so it come on him jus' as he wasapromisin' to love an' pertect. But he stuck it out, at the minister'shouse, and walked home by his-self to finish his chill. "

"And you didn't go with him?" cried Euphemia, indignantly. 

"He said, no. It was better thus. He felt it weren't the right thingto mingle the agur with his marriage vows. He promised to take sixteengrains to-morrow, and so I came away. He'll be all right in a month orso, an' then we'll go an' keep house. You see it aint likely I couldhelp him any by goin' there an' gettin' it myself. "

"Pomona, " said Euphemia, "this is dreadful. You ought to go and take abridal tour and get him rid of those fearful chills. "

"I never thought of that, " said Pomona, her face lighting upwonderfully. 

Now that Euphemia had fallen upon this happy idea, she never droppedit until she had made all the necessary plans, and had put them intoexecution. In the course of a week she had engaged another servant, andhad started Pomona and her husband off on a bridal-tour, stipulatingnothing but that they should take plenty of quinine in their trunk. 

It was about three weeks after this, and Euphemia and I were sitting onour front steps, --I had come home early, and we had been potting someof the tenderest plants, --when Pomona walked in at the gate. She lookedwell, and had on a very bright new dress. Euphemia noticed this themoment she came in. We welcomed her warmly, for we felt a great interestin this girl, who had grown up in our family and under our care. 

"Have you had your bridal trip?" asked Euphemia. 

"Oh yes!" said Pomona. "It's all over an' done with, an' we're settledin our house. "

"Well, sit right down here on the steps and tell us all about it, " saidEuphemia, in a glow of delightful expectancy, and Pomona, nothing loth, sat down and told her tale. 

"You see, " said she, untying her bonnet strings, to give an easiermovement to her chin, "we didn't say where we was goin' when we startedout, for the truth was we didn't know. We couldn't afford to take no bigtrip, and yet we wanted to do the thing up jus' as right as we could, seein' as you had set your heart on it, an' as we had, too, for thatmatter. Niagery Fall was what I wanted, but he said that it cost so muchto see the sights there that he hadn't money to spare to take us therean' pay for all the sight-seein', too. We might go, he said, withoutseein' the sights, or, if there was any way of seein' the sights withoutgoin', that might do, but he couldn't do both. So we give that up, andafter thinkin' a good deal, we agreed to go to some other falls, whichmight come cheaper, an' may-be be jus' as good to begin on. So wethought of Passaic Falls, up to Paterson, an' we went there, an' took aroom at a little hotel, an' walked over to the falls. But they wasn'tno good, after all, for there wasn't no water runnin' over em. Therewas rocks and precipicers, an' direful depths, and everything for a goodfalls, except water, and that was all bein' used at the mills. 'Well, Miguel, ' says I, 'this is about as nice a place for a falls as ever Isee, ' but--"

"Miguel!" cried Euphemia. "Is that your husband's name?"

"Well, no, " said Pomona, "it isn't. His given name is Jonas, but I hatedto call him Jonas, an' on a bridal trip, too. He might jus' as well havehad a more romantic-er name, if his parents had 'a' thought of it. SoI determined I'd give him a better one, while we was on our journey, anyhow, an' I changed his name to Miguel, which was the name of aSpanish count. He wanted me to call him Jiguel, because, he said, thatwould have a kind of a floating smell of his old name, but I didn'tnever do it. Well, neither of us didn't care to stay about no dry falls, so we went back to the hotel and got our supper, and begun to wonderwhat we should do next day. He said we'd better put it off and dreamabout it, and make up our minds nex' mornin', which I agreed to, an', that evenin', as we was sittin' in our room I asked Miguel to tell methe story of his life. He said, at first, it hadn't none, but when Iseemed a kinder put out at this, he told me I mustn't mind, an' he wouldreveal the whole. So he told me this story:

"'My grandfather, ' said he, 'was a rich and powerful Portugee, a-livin'on the island of Jamaica. He had heaps o' slaves, an' owned a blackbrigantine, that he sailed in on secret voyages, an', when he comeback, the decks an' the gunnels was often bloody, but nobody knew why orwherefore. He was a big man with black hair an' very violent. He couldnever have kept no help, if he hadn't owned 'em, but he was so rich, that people respected him, in spite of all his crimes. My grandmotherwas a native o' the Isle o' Wight. She was a frail an' tender woman, with yeller hair, and deep blue eyes, an' gentle, an' soft, an' good tothe poor. She used to take baskits of vittles aroun' to sick folks, an'set down on the side o' their beds an' read "The Shepherd o' SalisburyPlains" to 'em. She hardly ever speaked above her breath, an' alwayswore white gowns with a silk kerchief a-folded placidly aroun' herneck. ' 'Them was awful different kind o' people, ' I says to him, 'Iwonder how they ever come to be married. ' 'They never was married, ' sayshe. 'Never married!' I hollers, a-jumpin' up from my chair, 'and you sitthere carmly an' look me in the eye. ' 'Yes, ' says he, 'they was nevermarried. They never met; one was my mother's father, and the other onemy father's mother. 'Twas well they did not wed. ' 'I should think so, 'said I, 'an' now, what's the good of tellin' me a thing like that?'

"'It's about as near the mark as most of the stories of people's lives, I reckon, ' says he, 'an' besides I'd only jus' begun it. '

"'Well, I don't want no more, ' says I, an' I jus' tell this story of histo show what kind of stories he told about that time. He said they waspleasant fictions, but I told him that if he didn't look out he'd hear'em called by a good deal of a worse kind of a name than that. The nex'mornin' he asked me what was my dream, an' I told him I didn't haveexactly no dream about it, but my idea was to have somethin' realromantic for the rest of our bridal days. 

"'Well, ' says he, 'what would you like? I had a dream, but it wasn't noways romantic, and I'll jus' fall in with whatever you'd like best. '

"'All right, ' says I, 'an' the most romantic-est thing that I canthink of is for us to make-believe for the rest of this trip. We canmake-believe we're anything we please, an' if we think so in realearnest it will be pretty much the same thing as if we really was. Weaint likely to have no chance ag'in of being jus' what we've a mind to, an' so let's try it now. '

"'What would you have a mind to be?' says he. 

"'Well, ' says I, 'let's be an earl an' a earl-ess. '

"'Earl-ess'? says he, 'there's no such a person. '

"'Why, yes there is, of course, ' I says to him. 'What's a she-earl ifshe isn't a earl-ess?'

"'Well, I don't know, ' says he, 'never havin' lived with any of 'em, butwe'll let it go at that. An' how do you want to work the thing out?'

"'This way, ' says I. 'You, Miguel--'

"'Jiguel, ' says he. 

"'The earl, ' says I, not mindin' his interruption, 'an' me, your nobleearl-ess, will go to some good place or other--it don't matter much jus'where, and whatever house we live in we'll call our castle an' we'llconsider it's got draw-bridges an' portcullises an' moats an' secritdungeons, an' we'll remember our noble ancesters, an' behave accordin'. An' the people we meet we can make into counts and dukes and princes, without their knowin' anything about it; an' we can think our clothes issilk an' satin an' velwet, all covered with dimuns an' precious stones, jus' as well as not. '

"'Jus' as well, ' says he. 

"'An' then, ' I went on, 'we can go an' have chi-VAL-rous adventures, --ormake believe we're havin' 'em, --an' build up a atmosphere ofromanticness aroun' us that'll carry us back--'

"'To ole Virginny, ' says he. 

"'No, ' says I, 'for thousands of years, or at least enough back for thetimes of tournaments and chi-VAL-ry. '

"'An' so your idea is that we make believe all these things, an' don'tpay for none of 'em, is it?' says he. 

"'Yes, ' says I; 'an' you, Miguel--'

"'Jiguel, ' says he. 

"'Can ask me, if you don't know what chi-VAL-ric or romantic thing youought to do or to say so as to feel yourself truly an' reely a earl, forI've read a lot about these people, an' know jus' what ought to be did. '

"Well, he set himself down an' thought a while, an' then he says, 'Allright. We'll do that, an' we'll begin to-morrow mornin', for I've gota little business to do in the city which wouldn't be exactly the rightthing for me to stoop to after I'm a earl, so I'll go in an' do it whileI'm a common person, an' come back this afternoon, an you can walk aboutan' look at the dry falls, an' amuse yourself gen'rally, till I comeback. '

"'All right, ' says I, an' off he goes. 

"He come back afore dark, an' the nex' mornin' we got ready to startoff. 

"'Have you any particular place to go?' says he. 

"'No, ' says I, 'one place is as likely to be as good as another for ourstyle o' thing. If it don't suit, we can imagine it does. '

"'That'll do, ' says he, an' we had our trunk sent to the station, andwalked ourselves. When we got there, he says to me, "Which number will you have, five or seven?'

"'Either one will suit me, Earl Miguel, ' says I. 

"'Jiguel, ' says he, 'an' we'll make it seven. An' now I'll go an' lookat the time-table, an' we'll buy tickets for the seventh station fromhere. The seventh station, ' says he, comin' back, 'is Pokus. We'll go toPokus. '

"So when the train come we got in, an' got out at Pokus. It was a prettysort of a place, out in the country, with the houses scattered a longways apart, like stingy chicken-feed. 

"'Let's walk down this road, ' says he, 'till we come to a good house fora castle, an' then we can ask 'em to take us to board, an' if they wontdo it we'll go to the next, an' so on. '

"'All right, ' says I, glad enough to see how pat he entered into thething. 

"We walked a good ways, an' passed some little houses that neither of usthought would do, without more imaginin' than would pay, till we came toa pretty big house near the river, which struck our fancy in a minute. It was a stone house, an' it had trees aroun' it, there was a gardenwith a wall, an' things seemed to suit first-rate, so we made up ourminds right off that we'd try this place. 

"'You wait here under this tree, ' says he, 'an' I'll go an' ask 'em ifthey'll take us to board for a while. '

"So I waits, an' he goes up to the gate, an' pretty soon he comes outan' says, 'All right, they'll take us, an' they'll send a man with awheelbarrer to the station for our trunk. ' So in we goes. The man wasa country-like lookin' man, an' his wife was a very pleasant woman. Thehouse wasn't furnished very fine, but we didn't care for that, an'they gave us a big room that had rafters instid of a ceilin', an' a bigfire-place, an' that, I said, was jus' exac'ly what we wanted. The roomwas almos' like a donjon itself, which he said he reckoned had oncebeen a kitchin, but I told him that a earl hadn't nothin' to do withkitchins, an' that this was a tapestry chamber, an' I'd tell him allabout the strange figgers on the embroidered hangin's, when the shaddersbegun to fall. 

"It rained a little that afternoon, an' we stayed in our room, an' hungour clothes an' things about on nails an' hooks, an' made believethey was armor an' ancient trophies an' portraits of a long line ofancesters. I did most of the make-believin' but he agreed to ev'rything. The man who kep' the house's wife brought us our supper about dark, because she said she thought we might like to have it together cozy, an'so we did, an' was glad enough of it; an' after supper we sat before thefire-place, where we made-believe the flames was a-roarin' an' cracklin'an' a-lightin' up the bright places on the armor a-hangin' aroun', whilethe storm--which we made-believe--was a-ragin' an' whirlin' outside. Itold him a long story about a lord an' a lady, which was two or threestories I had read, run together, an' we had a splendid time. It allseemed real real to me. "

CHAPTER XV. IN WHICH TWO NEW FRIENDS DISPORT THEMSELVES. 

"The nex' mornin' was fine an' nice, " continued Pomona, "an' after ourbreakfast had been brought to us, we went out in the grounds to take awalk. There was lots of trees back of the house, with walks among 'em, an' altogether it was so ole-timey an' castleish that I was as happy asa lark. 

"'Come along, Earl Miguel, ' I says; 'let us tread a measure 'neath thesemantlin' trees. '

"'All right, ' says he. 'Your Jiguel attends you. An' what might ournoble second name be? What is we earl an' earl-ess of?'

"'Oh, anything, ' says I. 'Let's take any name at random. '

"'All right, ' says he. 'Let it be random. Earl an' Earl-ess Random. Comealong. '

"So we walks about, I feelin' mighty noble an' springy, an' afore longwe sees another couple a-walkin' about under the trees. 

"'Who's them?' says I. 

"'Don't know, ' says he, 'but I expect they're some o' the otherboarders. The man said he had other boarders when I spoke to him abouttakin' us. '

"'Let's make-believe they're a count an' count says I. 'Count an'Countess of--'

"'Milwaukee, ' says he. 

"I didn't think much of this for a noble name, but still it would dowell enough, an' so we called 'em the Count an' Countess of Milwaukee, an' we kep' on a meanderin'. Pretty soon he gets tired an' says he wasagoin' back to the house to have a smoke because he thought it was timeto have a little fun which weren't all imaginations, an' I says to himto go along, but it would be the hardest thing in this world for me toimagine any fun in smokin'. He laughed an' went back, while I walked on, a-makin'-believe a page, in blue puffed breeches, was a-holdin' up mytrain, which was of light-green velvet trimmed with silver lace. Pretty soon, turnin' a little corner, I meets the Count and Countess ofMilwaukee. She was a small lady, dressed in black, an' he was a big fatman about fifty years old, with a grayish beard. They both wore littlestraw hats, exac'ly alike, an' had on green carpet-slippers. 

"They stops when they sees me, an' the lady she bows and says'good-mornin', ' an' then she smiles, very pleasant, an' asks if I wasa-livin' here, an' when I said I was, she says she was too, for thepresent, an' what was my name. I had half a mind to say the Earl-essRandom, but she was so pleasant and sociable that I didn't like to seemto be makin' fun, an' so I said I was Mrs. De Henderson. 

"'An' I, ' says she, 'am Mrs. General Andrew Jackson, widow of theex-President of the United States. I am staying here on businessconnected with the United States Bank. This is my brother, ' says she, pointin' to the big man. 

"'How d'ye do?' says he, a-puttin' his hands together, turnin' his toesout an' makin' a funny little bow. 'I am General Tom Thumb, ' he saysin a deep, gruff voice, 'an' I've been before all the crown-ed heads ofEurope, Asia, Africa, America an' Australia, --all a's but one, --an' I'mwaitin' here for a team of four little milk-white oxen, no bigger thantall cats, which is to be hitched to a little hay-wagon, which I am toride in, with a little pitch-fork an' real farmer's clothes, onlysmall. This will come to-morrow, when I will pay for it an' ride away toexhibit. It may be here now, an' I will go an' see. Good-bye. '

"'Good-bye, likewise, ' says the lady. 'I hope you'll have all you'rethinkin' you're havin', an' more too, but less if you'd like it. Farewell. ' An' away they goes. 

"Well, you may be sure, I stood there amazed enough, an' mad too when Iheard her talk about my bein' all I was a-thinkin' I was. I was sure myhusband--scarce two weeks old, a husband--had told all. It was too bad. I wished I had jus' said I was the Earl-ess of Random an' brassed itout. 

"I rushed back an' foun' him smokin' a pipe on a back porch. I chargedhim with his perfidy, but he vowed so earnest that he had not told thesepeople of our fancies, or ever had spoke to 'em, that I had to believehim. 

"'I expec', ' says he, 'that they're jus' makin'-believe--as we are. There aint no patent on make-believes. '

"This didn't satisfy me, an' as he seemed to be so careless about it Iwalked away, an' left him to his pipe. I determined to go take a walkalong some of the country roads an' think this thing over for myself. I went aroun' to the front gate, where the woman of the house wasa-standin' talkin' to somebody, an' I jus' bowed to her, for I didn'tfeel like sayin' anything, an' walked past her. 

"'Hello!' said she, jumpin' in front of me an' shuttin' the gate. 'You can't go out here. If you want to walk you can walk about in thegrounds. There's lots of shady paths. '

"'Can't go out!' says I. 'Can't go out! What do you mean by that?'

"'I mean jus' what I say, ' said she, an' she locked the gate. 

"I was so mad that I could have pushed her over an' broke the gate, butI thought that if there was anything of that kind to do I had a husbandwhose business it was to attend to it, an' so I runs aroun' to him totell him. He had gone in, but I met Mrs. Jackson an' her brother. 

"'What's the matter?' said she, seein' what a hurry I was in. 

"'That woman at the gate, ' I said, almost chokin' as I spoke, 'wont letme out. '

"'She wont?' said Mrs. Jackson. 'Well, that's a way she has. Four timesthe Bank of the United States has closed its doors before I was able toget there, on account of that woman's obstinacy about the gate. Indeed, I have not been to the Bank at all yet, for of course it is of no use togo after banking hours. '

"'An' I believe, too, ' said her brother in his heavy voice, 'that shehas kept out my team of little oxen. Otherwise it would be here now. '

"I couldn't stand any more of this an' ran into our room where myhusband was. When I told him what had happened, he was real sorry. 

"'I didn't know you thought of going out, ' he said, 'or I would havetold you all about it. An' now sit down an' quiet yourself, an' I'lltell you jus' how things is. ' So down we sits, an' says he, jus' ascarm as a summer cloud, 'My dear, this is a lunertic asylum. Now, don'tjump, ' he says; 'I didn't bring you here, because I thought you wascrazy, but because I wanted you to see what kind of people they was whoimagined themselves earls and earl-esses, an' all that sort o' thing, an' to have an idea how the thing worked after you'd been doing it agood while an' had got used to it. I thought it would be a good thing, while I was Earl Jiguel and you was a noble earl-ess, to come to a placewhere people acted that way. I knowed you had read lots o' books aboutknights and princes an' bloody towers, an' that you knowed all aboutthem things, but I didn't suppose you did know how them same thingslooked in these days, an' a lunertic asylum was the only place whereyou could see 'em. So I went to a doctor I knowed, ' he says, 'an' gota certificate from him to this private institution, where we could stayfor a while an' get posted on romantics. '

"'Then, ' says I, 'the upshot was that you wanted to teach a lesson. '

"'Jus' that, ' says he. 

"'All right, ' says I; 'it's teached. An' now let's get out of this asquick as we kin. '

"'That'll suit me, ' he says, 'an' we'll leave by the noon train. I'll goan' see about the trunk bein' sent down. '

"So off he went to see the man who kept the house, while I falls topackin' up the trunk as fast as I could. "

"Weren't you dreadfully angry at him?" asked Euphemia, who, having aromantic streak in her own composition, did not sympathize altogetherwith this heroic remedy for Pomona's disease. 

"No, ma'am, " said Pomona, "not long. When I thought of Mrs. GeneralJackson and Tom Thumb, I couldn't help thinkin' that I must have lookedpretty much the same to my husband, who, I knowed now, had only beenmakin'-believe to make-believe. An' besides, I couldn't be angry verylong for laughin, for when he come back in a minute, as mad as a Marchhare, an' said they wouldn't let me out nor him nuther, I fell tolaughin' ready to crack my sides. 

"'They say, ' said he, as soon as he could speak straight, 'that we can'tgo out without another certificate from the doctor. I told 'em I'd gomyself an' see him about it but they said no, I couldn't, for if theydid that way everybody who ever was sent here would be goin' out thenext day to see about leavin'. I didn't want to make no fuss, so I toldthem I'd write a letter to the doctor and tell him to send an orderthat would soon show them whether we could go out or not. They saidthat would be the best thing to do, an so I'm goin' to write it thisminute, '--which he did. 

"'How long will we have to wait?' says I, when the letter was done. 

"'Well, ' says he, 'the doctor can't get this before to-morrow mornin', an' even if he answers right away, we won't get our order to go outuntil the next day. So we'll jus' have to grin an' bear it for a day an'a half. '

"'This is a lively old bridal-trip, ' said I, --'dry falls an' a lunerticasylum. '

"'We'll try to make the rest of it better, ' said he. 

"But the next day wasn't no better. We staid in our room all day, for wedidn't care to meet Mrs. Jackson an' her crazy brother, an' I'm sure wedidn't want to see the mean creatures who kept the house. We knew wellenough that they only wanted us to stay so that they could get moreboard-money out of us. "

"I should have broken out, " cried Euphemia. "I would never have staidan hour in that place, after I found out what it was, especially on abridal trip. "

"If we'd done that, " said Pomona, "they'd have got men after us, an'then everybody would have thought we was real crazy. We made up ourminds to wait for the doctor's letter, but it wasn't much fun. An' Ididn't tell no romantic stories to fill up the time. We sat down an'behaved like the commonest kind o' people. You never saw anybody sickerof romantics than I was when I thought of them two loons that calledthemselves Mrs. Andrew Jackson and General Tom Thumb. I dropped Miguelaltogether, an' he dropped Jiguel, which was a relief to me, an' I tookstrong to Jonas, even callin' him Jone, which I consider a good dealuglier an' commoner even than Jonas. He didn't like this much, but saidthat if it would help me out of the Miguel, he didn't care. 

"Well, on the mornin' of the next day I went into the little front roomthat they called the office, to see if there was a letter for us yet, an' there wasn't nobody there to ask. But I saw a pile of letters undera weight on the table, an' I jus' looked at these to see if one of 'emwas for us, an' if there wasn't the very letter Jone had written to thedoctor! They'd never sent it! I rushes back to Jone an' tells him, an'he jus' set an' looked at me without sayin' a word. I didn't wonder hecouldn't speak. 

"'I'll go an' let them people know what I think of 'em, ' says I. 

"'Don't do that, ' said Jone, catchin' me by the sleeve. 'It wont do nogood. Leave the letter there, an' don't say nothin' about it. We'll stayhere till afternoon quite quiet, an' then we'll go away. That gardenwall isn't high. '

"'An' how about the trunk?' says I. 

"'Oh, we'll take a few things in our pockets, an' lock up the trunk, an'ask the doctor to send for it when we get to the city. '

"'All right, ' says I. An' we went to work to get ready to leave. 

"About five o'clock in the afternoon, when it was a nice time to take awalk under the trees, we meandered quietly down to a corner of the backwall, where Jone thought it would be rather convenient to get over. Hehunted up a short piece of board which he leaned up ag'in the wall, an'then he put his foot on the top of that an' got hold of the top of thewall an' climbed up, as easy as nuthin'. Then he reached down to help mestep onto the board. But jus' as he was agoin' to take me by the hand:'Hello!' says he. 'Look a-there!' An' I turned round an' looked, an' ifthere wasn't Mrs. Andrew Jackson an' General Tom Thumb a-walkin' downthe path. 

"'What shall we do?' says I. 

"'Come along, ' says he. 'We aint a-goin' to stop for them. Get up, allthe same. '

"I tried to get up as he said, but it wasn't so easy for me on accountof my not bein' such a high stepper as Jone, an' I was a good whilea-gettin' a good footin' on the board. 

"Mrs. Jackson an' the General, they came right up to us an' set down ona bench which was fastened between two trees near the wall. An' therethey set, a-lookin' steady at us with their four little eyes, like fourempty thimbles. 

"'You appear to be goin' away, ' says Mrs. Jackson. 

"'Yes, ' says Jone from the top of the wall. We're a-goin' to take aslight stroll outside, this salu-brious evenin'. '

"'Do you think, ' says she, 'that the United States Bank would be openthis time of day?'

"'Oh no, ' says Jone, 'the banks all close at three o'clock. It's a gooddeal after that now. '

"'But if I told the officers who I was, wouldn't that make adifference?' says she. 'Wouldn't they go down an' open the bank?'

"'Not much, ' says Jone, givin' a pull which brought me right up to thetop o' the wall an' almost clean down the other side, with one jerk. 'Inever knowed no officers that would do that. But, ' says he, a kind o'shuttin' his eyes so that she shouldn't see he was lyin', 'we'll talkabout that when we come back. '

"'If you see that team of little oxen, ' says the big man, 'send 'em'round to the front gate. '

"'All right, ' says Jone; an' he let me down the outside of the wall asif I had been a bag o' horse-feed. 

"'But if the bank isn't open you can't pay for it when it does come, ' weheard the old lady a-sayin' as we hurried off. 

"We didn't lose no time agoin' down to that station, an' it's lucky wedidn't, for a train for the city was comin' jus' as we got there, an' wejumped aboard without havin' no time to buy tickets. There wasn't manypeople in our car, an we got a seat together. 

"'Now then, ' says Jone, as the cars went abuzzin' along, 'I feel as ifI was really on a bridal-trip, which I mus' say I didn't at that thereasylum. '

"An' then I said: 'I should think not, ' an' we both bust out a-laughin', as well we might, feelin' sich a change of surroundin's. 

"'Do you think, ' says somebody behind us, when we'd got throughlaughin', 'that if I was to send a boy up to the cashier he would eithercome down or send me the key of the bank?'

"We both turned aroun' as quick as lightnin', an' if there wasn't themtwo lunertics in the seat behind us!

"It nearly took our breaths away to see them settin' there, staring atus with their thimble eyes, an' a-wearin' their little straw hats, bothalike. 

"'How on the livin' earth did you two got here?' says I, as soon as Icould speak. 

"'Oh, we come by the same way you come--by the tem-per-ary stairs, ' saysMrs. Jackson. 'We thought if it was too late to draw any money to-night, it might be well to be on hand bright an' early in the mornin'. An' sowe follered you two, as close as we could, because we knew you couldtake us right to the very bank doors, an' we didn't know the wayourselves, not never havin' had no occasion to attend to nothin' of thiskind before. '

"Jone an' I looked at each other, but we didn't speak for a minute. 

"'Then, ' says I, 'here's a pretty kittle o' fish. '

"'I should kinder say so, ' says Jone. 'We've got these here twolunertics on our hands, sure enough, for there ain't no train back toPokus tonight, an' I wouldn't go back with 'em if there was. We mustkeep an eye on 'em till we can see the doctor to-morrow. '

"'I suppose we must, ' said I, 'but this don't seem as much like abridal-trip as it did a while ago. '

"'You're right there, ' says Jone. 

"When the conductor came along we had to pay the fare of them twolunertics, besides our own, for neither of 'em had a cent about 'em. When we got to town we went to a smallish hotel, near the ferry, whereJone knowed the man who kep' it, who wouldn't bother about none of ushavin' a scrap of baggage, knowin' he'd get his money all the same, outof either Jone or his father. The General an' his sister looked a kindo' funny in their little straw hats an' green carpet-slippers, an' theclerk didn't know whether he hadn't forgot how to read writin' when thebig man put down the names of General Tom Thumb and Mrs. Ex-PresidentAndrew Jackson, which he wasn't ex-President anyway, bein' dead; butJone he whispered they was travelin' under nommys dess plummys (I toldhim to say that), an' he would fix it all right in the mornin'. An' thenwe got some supper, which it took them two lunertics a long time to eat, for they was all the time forgettin' what particular kind o' businessthey was about, an' then we was showed to our rooms. They had two roomsright across the hall from ours. We hadn't been inside our room fiveminutes before Mrs. General Jackson come a-knockin' at the door. 

"'Look a-here, ' she says to me, 'there's a unforeseen contingency in myroom. An' it smells. '

"So I went right in, an' sure enough it did smell, for she had turned onall the gases, besides the one that was lighted. 

"'What did you do that for?' says I, a-turnin' them off as fast as Icould. 

"'I'd like to know what they're made for, ' says she, 'if they isn't tobe turned on. '

"When I told Jone about this he looked real serious, an' jus' then awaiter came upstairs an' went into the big man's room. In a minute hecome out an' says to Jone an' me, a-grinnin':

"'We can't suit him no better in this house. '

"'What does he want?' asks Jone. 

"'Why, he wants a smaller bed, ' says the waiter. 'He says he can't sleepin a bed as big as that, an' we haven't none smaller in this house, which he couldn't get into if we had, in my opinion, ' says he. 

"'All right, ' says Jone. 'Jus' you go downstairs, an' I'll fix him. ' Sothe man goes off, still a-grinnin'. 'I tell you what it is, ' says Jone, 'it wont do to let them two lunertics have rooms to themselves. They'llset this house afire or turn it upside down in the middle of the night, if they has. There's nuthin' to be done but for you to sleep with thewoman an' for me to sleep with the man, an' to keep 'em from cuttin' uptill mornin'. '

"So Jone he went into the room where General Tom Thumb was a-settin'with his hat on, a-lookin' doleful at the bed, an' says he:

"'What's the matter with the bed?'

"'Oh, it's too large entirely, ' says the General. 'It wouldn't do forme to sleep in a bed like that. It would ruin my character as a genuineThumb. '

"'Well, ' says Jone, 'it's nearly two times too big for you, but if youan' me was both to sleep in it, it would be about right, wouldn't it?'

"'Oh yes, ' says the General. An' he takes off his hat, an' Jone saysgood-night to me an' shuts the door. Our room was better than Mrs. General Jackson's, so I takes her in there, an' the fust thing she doesis to turn on all the gases. 

"'Stop that!' I hollers. 'If you do that again, --I'll--I'll break theUnited States Bank tomorrow!'

"'How'll you do that?' says she. 

"'I'll draw out all my capital, ' says I. 

"'I hope really you wont, ' says she, 'till I've been there, ' an' sheleans out of the open winder to look into the street, but while shewas a-lookin' out I see her left hand a-creepin' up to the gas by thewinder, that wasn't lighted. I felt mad enough to take her by the feetan' pitch her out, as you an the boarder, " said Pomona, turning to me, "h'isted me out of the canal-boat winder. "

This, by the way, was the first intimation we had had that Pomona knewhow she came to fall out of that window. 

"But I didn't do it, " she continued, "for there wasn't no soft waterunderneath for her to fall into. After we went to bed I kep' awake fora long time, bein' afraid she'd get up in the night an' turn on all thegases and smother me alive. But I fell asleep at last, an' when I wokeup, early in the mornin', the first thing I did was to feel for thatlunertic. But she was gone!"

CHAPTER XVI. IN WHICH AN OLD FRIEND APPEARS AND THE BRIDAL TRIP TAKES AFRESH START. 

"Gone?" cried Euphemia, who, with myself, had been listening mostintently to Pomona's story. 

"Yes, " continued Pomona, "she was gone. I give one jump out of bedand felt the gases, but they was all right. But she was gone, an' herclothes was gone. I dressed, as pale as death, I do expect, an' hurriedto Jone's room, an' he an' me an' the big man was all ready in no timeto go an' look for her. General Tom Thumb didn't seem very anxious, butwe made him hurry up an' come along with us. We couldn't afford to leavehim nowheres. The clerk down-stairs--a different one from the chap whowas there the night before--said that a middle-aged, elderly lady camedown about an hour before an' asked him to tell her the way to theUnited States Bank, an' when he told her he didn't know of any suchbank, she jus' stared at him, an' wanted to know what he was put therefor. So he didn't have no more to say to her, an' she went out, an' hedidn't take no notice which way she went. We had the same opinion abouthim that Mrs. Jackson had, but we didn't stop to tell him so. We huntedup an' down the streets for an hour or more; we asked every policeman wemet if he'd seen her; we went to a police station; we did everything wecould think of, but no Mrs. Jackson turned up. Then we was so tired an'hungry that we went into some place or other an' got our breakfast. Whenwe started out ag'in, we kep' on up one street an' down another, an'askin' everybody who looked as if they had two grains of sense, --whichmost of 'em didn't look as if they had mor'n one, an' that was in useto get 'em to where they was goin. ' At last, a little ways down a smallstreet, we seed a crowd, an' the minute we see it Jone an' me bothsaid in our inside hearts: 'There she is!' An' sure enough, when we gotthere, who should we see, with a ring of street-loafers an' boys aroundher, but Mrs. Andrew Jackson, with her little straw hat an' her greencarpet-slippers, a-dancin' some kind of a skippin' fandango, an'a-holdin' out her skirts with the tips of her fingers. I was jus' agoin'to rush in an' grab her when a man walks quick into the ring and touchesher on the shoulder. The minute I seed him I knowed him. It was our oldboarder!"

"It was?" exclaimed Euphemia. 

"Yes it was truly him, an' I didn't want him to see me there in suchcompany, an' he most likely knowin' I was on my bridal-trip, an' so Imade a dive at my bonnet to see if I had a vail on; an' findin' one, Ihauled it down. 

"'Madam, ' says the boarder, very respectful, to Mrs. Jackson, 'wheredo you live? Can't I take you home?' 'No, sir, ' says she, 'at least notnow. If you have a carriage, you may come for me after a while. I amwaiting for the Bank of the United States to open, an' until which timeI must support myself on the light fantastic toe, ' an' then she tukup her skirts, an' begun to dance ag'in. But she didn't make mor'n twoskips before I rushed in, an' takin' her by the arm hauled her out o'the ring. An' then up comes the big man with his face as red as fire. 'Look' here!' says he to her, as if he was ready to eat her up. 'Did youdraw every cent of that money?' 'Not yet, not yet, ' says she. 'You did, you purse-proud cantalope, ' says he. 'You know very well you did, an'now I'd like to know where my ox-money is to come from. ' But Jone an'me didn't intend to wait for no sich talk as this, an' he tuk the manby the arm, and I tuk the old woman, an' we jus' walked 'em off. Theboarder he told the loafers to get out an' go home, an' none of 'emfollered us, for they know'd if they did he'd a batted 'em over thehead. But he comes up alongside o' me, as I was a' walkin' behind withMrs. Jackson, an' says he: 'How d'ye do, Pomona?' I must say I felt asif I could slip in between two flagstones, but as I couldn't get away, Isaid I was pretty well. 'I heared you was on your bridal trip, ' says heag'in; 'is this it?' It was jus' like him to know that, an' as there wasno help for it, I said it was. 'Is that your husband?' says he, pointin'to Jone. 'Yes, ' says I. 'It was very good in him to come along, ' sayshe. 'Is these two your groomsman and bridesmaid?' 'No sir, ' says I. 'They're crazy. ' 'No wonder, ' says he. 'It's enough to drive 'em so, tosee you two, ' an' then he went ahead an' shook hands with Jone, an' toldhim he'd know'd me a long time; but he didn't say nuthin' about havin'histed me out of a winder, for which I was obliged to him. An' then hecome back to me an' says he, 'Good-mornin', I must go to the office. Ihope you'll have a good time for the rest of your trip. If you happento run short o' lunertics, jus' let me know, and I'll furnish you withanother pair. ' 'All right, ' says I; 'but you mustn't bring your littlegirl along. '

"He kinder laughed at this, as we walked away, an' then he turnedaround an' come back, and says he, 'Have you been to any the-ay-ters, oranything, since you've been in town?' 'No, ' says I, 'not one. ' 'Well, 'says he, 'you ought to go. Which do you like best, the the-ay-ter, thecir-cus, or wild-beasts?' I did really like the the-ay-ter best, havin'thought of bein' a play-actor, as you know, but I considered I'd betterlet that kind o' thing slide jus' now, as bein' a little too romantic, right after the 'sylum, an' so I says, 'I've been once to a circus, an'once to a wild-beast garden, an' I like 'em both. I hardly know which Ilike best--the roarin' beasts, a-prancin' about in their cages, with thesmell of blood an' hay, an' the towerin' elephants; or the horses, an'the music, an' the gauzy figgers at the circus, an' the splendid knightsin armor an' flashin' pennants, all on fiery steeds, a-plungin' ag'inthe sides of the ring, with their flags a-flyin' in the grand entry, 'says I, real excited with what I remembered about these shows. 

"'Well, ' says he, 'I don't wonder at your feelin's. An' now, here's twotickets for to-night, which you an' your husband can have, if youlike, for I can't go. They're to a meetin' of the Hudson CountyEnter-mo-logical Society, over to Hoboken, at eight o'clock. '

"'Over to Hoboken!' says I; 'that's a long way. '

"'Oh no, it isn't, ' says he. 'An' it wont cost you a cent, but theferry. They couldn't have them shows in the city, for, if the creatureswas to get loose, there's no knowin' what might happen. So take 'em, an'have as much fun as you can for the rest of your trip. Good-bye!' An'off he went. 

"Well, we kep' straight on to the doctor's, an' glad we was when we gotthere, an' mad he was when we lef' Mrs. Jackson an' the General on hishands, for we wouldn't have no more to do with 'em, an' he couldn't helpundertaking' to see that they got back to the asylum. I thought at firsthe wouldn't lift a finger to get us our trunk; but he cooled down aftera bit, an' said he hoped we'd try some different kind of institution forthe rest of our trip, which we said we thought we would. 

"That afternoon we gawked around, a-lookin' at all the outside shows, for Jone said he'd have to be pretty careful of his money now, an' hewas glad when I told him I had two free tickets in my pocket for a showin the evenin. '

"As we was a-walkin' down to the ferry, after supper, says he:

"'Suppose you let me have a look at them tickets. '

"So I hands 'em to him. He reads one of 'em, and then he reads theother, which he needn't 'a' done, for they was both alike, an' then heturns to me, an' says he:

"'What kind of a man is your boarder-as-was?'

"It wasn't the easiest thing in the world to say jus' what he was, but Igive Jone the idea, in a general sort of way, that he was pretty lively. 

"'So I should think, ' says he. 'He's been tryin' a trick on us, andsendin' us to the wrong place. It's rather late in the season for a showof the kind, but the place we ought to go to is a potato-field. '

"'What on earth are you talkin' about?' says I, dumbfoundered. 

"'Well, ' says he, 'it's a trick he's been playin'. He thought a bridaltrip like ours ought to have some sort of a outlandish wind-up, an' sohe sent us to this place, which is a meetin' of chaps who are agoin'to talk about insec's, --principally potato-bugs, I expec'--an' anythingstupider than that, I s'pose your boarder-as-was couldn't think of, without havin' a good deal o' time to consider. '

"'It's jus' like him, ' says I. 'Let's turn round and go back, ' which wedid, prompt. 

"We gave the tickets to a little boy who was sellin' papers, but I don'tbelieve he went. 

"'Now then, ' says Jone, after he'd been thinkin' awhile, 'there'll be nomore foolin' on this trip. I've blocked out the whole of the rest of it, an' we'll wind up a sight better than that boarder-as-was has any ideaof. To-morrow we'll go to father's an' if the old gentleman has got anymoney on the crops, which I expec' he has, by this time, I'll take upa part o' my share, an' we'll have a trip to Washington, an' see thePresident, an' Congress, an' the White House, an' the lamp alwaysa-burnin' before the Supreme Court, an'--'

"'Don't say no more, says I, 'it's splendid!'

"So, early the nex' day, we goes off jus' as fast as trains would takeus to his father's, an' we hadn't been there mor'n ten minutes, beforeJone found out he had been summoned on a jury. 

"'When must you go?' says I, when he come, lookin' a kind o' pale, totell me this. 

"'Right off, ' says he. 'The court meets this mornin'. If I don't hurryup, I'll have some of 'em after me. But I wouldn't cry about it. I don'tbelieve the case'll last more'n a day. '

"The old man harnessed up an' took Jone to the court-house, an' I wenttoo, for I might as well keep up the idea of a bridal-trip as not. Iwent up into the gallery, and Jone, he was set among the other men inthe jury-box. 

"The case was about a man named Brown, who married the half-sister of aman named Adams, who afterward married Brown's mother, and sold Browna house he had got from Brown's grandfather, in trade for half agrist-mill, which the other half of was owned by Adams's half-sister'sfirst husband, who left all his property to a soup society, in trust, till his son should come of age, which he never did, but left a willwhich give his half of the mill to Brown, and the suit was between Brownand Adams and Brown again, and Adams's half-sister, who was divorcedfrom Brown, and a man named Ramsey, who had put up a new over-shot wheelto the grist-mill. "

"Oh my!" exclaimed Euphemia. "How could you remember all that?"

"I heard it so often, I couldn't help remembering it, " replied Pomona. And she went on with her narrative. 

"That case wasn't a easy one to understand, as you may see foryourselves, and it didn't get finished that day. They argyed over it afull week. When there wasn't no more witnesses to carve up, one lawyermade a speech, an' he set that crooked case so straight, that youcould see through it from the over-shot wheel clean back to Brown'sgrandfather. Then another feller made a speech, and he set the wholething up another way. It was jus' as clear, to look through, but it wasanother case altogether, no more like the other one than a apple-pie islike a mug o' cider. An' then they both took it up, an' they swung itaround between them, till it was all twisted an' knotted an' wound up, an' tangled, worse than a skein o' yarn in a nest o' kittens, an' thenthey give it to the jury. 

"Well, when them jurymen went out, there wasn't none of 'em, as Jonetole me afterward, as knew whether is was Brown or Adams as was dead, or whether the mill was to grind soup, or to be run by soup-power. Ofcourse they couldn't agree; three of 'em wanted to give a verdict forthe boy that died, two of 'em was for Brown's grandfather, an' the restwas scattered, some goin' in for damages to the witnesses, who ought toget somethin' for havin' their char-ac-ters ruined. Jone he jus' heldback, ready to jine the other eleven as soon as they'd agree. But theycouldn't do it, an' they was locked up three days and four nights. You'dbetter believe I got pretty wild about it, but I come to court every dayan' waited an' waited, bringin' somethin' to eat in a baskit. 

"One day, at dinner-time, I seed the judge astandin' at the court-roomdoor, a-wipin' his forrid with a handkerchief, an' I went up to him an'said, 'Do you think, sir, they'll get through this thing soon?'

"'I can't say, indeed, ' said he. 'Are you interested in the case?'

"'I should think I was, ' said I, an' then I told him about Jone's bein'a juryman, an' how we was on our bridal-trip. 

"'You've got my sympathy, madam, ' says he, 'but it's a difficult case todecide, an' I don't wonder it takes a good while. '

"'Nor I nuther, ' says I, 'an' my opinion about these things is, that ifyou'd jus' have them lawyers shut up in another room, an' make 'em dotheir talkin' to theirselves, the jury could keep their minds clear, andsettle the cases in no time. '

"'There's some sense in that, madam, ' says he, an' then he went intocourt ag'in. 

"Jone never had no chance to jine in with the other fellers, for theycouldn't agree, an' they were all discharged, at last. So the wholething went for nuthin. 

"When Jone come out, he looked like he'd been drawn through a pump-log, an' he says to me, tired-like, "'Has there been a frost?'

"'Yes, ' says I, 'two of 'em. '

"'All right, then, ' says he. 'I've had enough of bridal-trips, withtheir dry falls, their lunatic asylums, and their jury-boxes. Let'sgo home and settle down. We needn't be afraid, now that there's been afrost. '"

"Oh, why will you live in such a dreadful place?" cried Euphemia. "Youought to go somewhere where you needn't be afraid of chills. "

"That's jus' what I thought, ma'am, " returned Pomona. "But Jone an' megot a disease-map of this country an' we looked all over it careful, an'wherever there wasn't chills there was somethin' that seemed a good dealwuss to us. An' says Jone, 'If I'm to have anything the matter with me, give me somethin' I'm used to. It don't do for a man o' my time o' lifeto go changin' his diseases. '"

"So home we went. An' there we is now. An' as this is the end of thebridal-trip story, I'll go an' take a look at the cow an' the chickensan' the horse, if you don't mind. "

Which we didn't, --and we gladly went with her over the estate. 

CHAPTER XVII. IN WHICH WE TAKE A VACATION AND LOOK FOR DAVID DUTTON. 

It was about noon of a very fair July day, in the next summer, whenEuphemia and myself arrived at the little town where we were to take thestage up into the mountains. We were off for a two weeks' vacation andour minds were a good deal easier than when we went away before, andleft Pomona at the helm. We had enlarged the boundaries of RudderGrange, having purchased the house, with enough adjoining land to makequite a respectable farm. Of course I could not attend to the manifoldduties on such a place, and my wife seldom had a happier thought thanwhen she proposed that we should invite Pomona and her husband to comeand live with us. Pomona was delighted, and Jonas was quite willingto run our farm. So arrangements were made, and the young couple wereestablished in apartments in our back building, and went to work as iftaking care of us and our possessions was the ultimate object of theirlives. Jonas was such a steady fellow that we feared no trouble fromtree-man or lightning rodder during this absence. 

Our destination was a country tavern on the stage-road, not far from thepoint where the road crosses the ridge of the mountain-range, and aboutsixteen miles from the town. We had heard of this tavern from a friendof ours, who had spent a summer there. The surrounding country waslovely, and the house was kept by a farmer, who was a good soul, andtried to make his guests happy. These were generally passing farmers andwagoners, or stage-passengers, stopping for a meal, but occasionally aperson from the cities, like our friend, came to spend a few weeks inthe mountains. 

So hither we came, for an out-of-the-world spot like this was just whatwe wanted. When I took our places at the stage-office, I inquired forDavid Dutton, the farmer tavern-keeper before mentioned, but the agentdid not know of him. 

"However, " said he, "the driver knows everybody on the road, and he'llset you down at the house. "

So, off we started, having paid for our tickets on the basis that wewere to ride about sixteen miles. We had seats on top, and the trip, although slow, --for the road wound uphill steadily, --was a delightfulone. Our way lay, for the greater part of the time, through the woods, but now and then we came to a farm, and a turn in the road often gave uslovely views of the foot-hills and the valleys behind us. 

But the driver did not know where Dutton's tavern was. This we found outafter we had started. Some persons might have thought it wiser to settlethis matter before starting, but I am not at all sure that it would havebeen so. We were going to this tavern, and did not wish to go anywhereelse. If people did not know where it was, it would be well for us togo and look for it. We knew the road that it was on, and the locality inwhich it was to be found. 

Still, it was somewhat strange that a stage-driver, passing alongthe road every week-day, --one day one way, and the next the otherway, --should not know a public-house like Dutton's. 

"If I remember rightly, " I said, "the stage used to stop there for thepassengers to take supper. "

"Well, then, it aint on this side o' the ridge, " said the driver; "westop for supper, about a quarter of a mile on the other side, at PeteLowry's. Perhaps Dutton used to keep that place. Was it called the'Ridge House'?"

I did not remember the name of the house, but I knew very well that itwas not on the other side of the ridge. 

"Then, " said the driver, "I'm sure I don't know where it is. But I'veonly been on the road about a year, and your man may 'a' moved awayafore I come. But there aint no tavern this side the ridge, arter yeleave Delhi, and, that's nowhere's nigh the ridge. "

There were a couple of farmers who were sitting by the driver, and whohad listened with considerable interest to this conversation. Presently, one of them turned around to me and said:

"Is it Dave Dutton ye're askin' about?"

"Yes, " I replied, "that's his name. "

"Well, I think he's dead, " said he. 

At this, I began to feel uneasy, and I could see that my wife shared mytrouble. 

Then the other farmer spoke up. 

"I don't believe he's dead, Hiram, " said he to his companion "I heeredof him this spring. He's got a sheep-farm on the other side o' themountain, and he's a livin' there. That's what I heered, at any rate. But he don't live on this road any more, " he continued, turning to us. "He used to keep tavern on this road, and the stages did used to stopfur supper--or else dinner, I don't jist ree-collect which. But he don'tkeep tavern on this road no more. "

"Of course not, " said his companion, "if he's a livin' over themountain. But I b'lieve he's dead. "

I asked the other farmer if he knew how long it had been since Duttonhad left this part of the country. 

"I don't know fur certain, " he said, "but I know he was keeping tavernhere two year' ago, this fall, fur I came along here, myself, andstopped there to git supper--or dinner, I don't jist ree-collect which. "

It had been three years since our friend had boarded at Dutton's house. There was no doubt that the man was not living at his old place now. My wife and I now agreed that it was very foolish in us to come so farwithout making more particular inquiries. But we had had an idea that aman who had a place like Dutton's tavern would live there always. 

"What are ye goin' to do?" asked the driver, very much interested, for it was not every day that he had passengers who had lost theirdestination. "Ye might go on to Lowry's. He takes boarders sometimes. "

But Lowry's did not attract us. An ordinary country-tavern, wherestage-passengers took supper, was not what we came so far to find. 

"Do you know where this house o' Dutton's is?" said the driver, to theman who had once taken either dinner or supper there. 

"Oh yes! I'd know the house well enough, if I saw it. It's the fusthouse this side o' Lowry's. "

"With a big pole in front of it?" asked the driver. 

"Yes, there was a sign-pole in front of it. "

"An a long porch?"

"Yes. "

"Oh! well!" said the driver, settling himself in his seat. "I know allabout that house. That's a empty house. I didn't think you meant thathouse. There's nobody lives there. An' yit, now I come to remember, Ihave seen people about, too. I tell ye what ye better do. Since ye're soset on staying on this side the ridge, ye better let me put ye downat Dan Carson's place. That's jist about quarter of a mile from whereDutton used to live. Dan's wife can tell ye all about the Duttons, an'about everybody else, too, in this part o' the country, and if thereaint nobody livin' at the old tavern, ye can stay all night at Carson's, and I'll stop an' take you back, to-morrow, when I come along. "

We agreed to this plan, for there was nothing better to be done, and, late in the afternoon, we were set down with our small trunk--for wewere traveling under light weight--at Dan Carson's door. The stage wasrather behind time, and the driver whipped up and left us to settle ourown affairs. He called back, however, that he would keep a good lookoutfor us to-morrow. 

Mrs. Carson soon made her appearance, and, very naturally, was somewhatsurprised to see visitors with their baggage standing on her littleporch. She was a plain, coarsely dressed woman, with an apron fullof chips and kindling wood, and a fine mind for detail, as we soondiscovered. 

"Jist so, " said she, putting down the chips, and inviting us to seats ona bench. "Dave Dutton's folks is all moved away. Dave has a good farmon the other side o' the mountain, an' it never did pay him to keep thattavern, 'specially as he didn't sell liquor. When he went away, his sonAl come there to live with his wife, an' the old man left a good dealo' furniter and things fur him, but Al's wife aint satisfied here, and, though they've been here, off an' on, the house is shet up most o' thetime. It's fur sale an' to rent, both, ef anybody wants it. I'm sorryabout you, too, fur it was a nice tavern, when Dave kept it. "

We admitted that we were also very sorry, and the kind-hearted womanshowed a great deal of sympathy. 

"You might stay here, but we haint got no fit room where you two couldsleep. "

At this, Euphemia and I looked very blank. "But you could go up to thehouse and stay, jist as well as not, " Mrs. Carson continued. "There'splenty o' things there, an' I keep the key. For the matter o' that, yemight take the house for as long as ye want to stay; Dave 'd be gladenough to rent it; and, if the lady knows how to keep house, it wouldn'tbe no trouble at all, jist for you two. We could let ye have all thevictuals ye'd want, cheap, and there's plenty o' wood there, cut, andeverything handy. "

We looked at each other. We agreed. Here was a chance for a rare goodtime. It might be better, perhaps, than anything we had expected. 

The bargain was struck. Mrs. Carson, who seemed vested with all thenecessary powers of attorney, appeared to be perfectly satisfied withour trustworthiness, and when I paid on the spot the small sum shethought proper for two weeks' rent, she evidently considered she haddone a very good thing for Dave Dutton and herself. 

"I'll jist put some bread, an' eggs, an' coffee, an' pork, an' things ina basket, an' I'll have 'em took up fur ye, with yer trunk, an' I'll gowith ye an' take some milk. Here, Danny!" she cried, and directly herhusband, a long, thin, sun-burnt, sandy-headed man, appeared, and tohim she told, in a few words, our story, and ordered him to hitch up thecart and be ready to take our trunk and the basket up to Dutton's oldhouse. 

When all was ready, we walked up the hill, followed by Danny andthe cart. We found the house a large, low, old-fashioned farm-house, standing near the road with a long piazza in front, and a magnificentview of mountain-tops in the rear. Within, the lower rooms were largeand low, with quite a good deal of furniture in them. There was noearthly reason why we should not be perfectly jolly and comfortablehere. The more we saw, the more delighted we were at the odd experiencewe were about to have. Mrs. Carson busied herself in getting things inorder for our supper and general accommodation. She made Danny carryour trunk to a bedroom in the second story, and then set him to workbuilding a fire in a great fire-place, with a crane for the kettle. 

When she had done all she could, it was nearly dark, and after lightinga couple of candles, she left us, to go home and get supper for her ownfamily. 

As she and Danny were about to depart in the cart, she ran back to askus if we would like to borrow a dog. 

"There aint nuthin to be afeard of, " she said; "for nobody hardly evertakes the trouble to lock the doors in these parts, but bein' cityfolks, I thought ye might feel better if ye had a dog. "

We made haste to tell her that we were not city folks, but declined thedog. Indeed, Euphemia remarked that she would be much more afraid of astrange dog than of robbers. 

After supper, which we enjoyed as much as any meal we ever ate in ourlives, we each took a candle, and after arranging our bedroom for thenight, we explored the old house. There were lots of curious thingseverywhere, --things that were apparently so "old timey, " as my wiferemarked, that David Dutton did not care to take them with him to hisnew farm, and so left them for his son, who probably cared for them evenless than his father did. There was a garret extending over the wholehouse, and filled with old spinning-wheels, and strings of onions, andall sorts of antiquated bric-a-brac, which was so fascinating to methat I could scarcely tear myself away from it; but Euphemia, who wasdreadfully afraid that I would set the whole place on fire, at lengthprevailed on me to come down. 

We slept soundly that night, in what was probably the best bedroom ofthe house, and awoke with a feeling that we were about to enter on aperiod of some uncommon kind of jollity, which we found to be truewhen we went down to get breakfast. I made the fire, Euphemia made thecoffee, and Mrs. Carson came with cream and some fresh eggs. The goodwoman was in high spirits. She was evidently pleased at the idea ofhaving neighbors, temporary though they were, and it had probably beena long time since she had had such a chance of selling milk, eggs andsundries. It was almost the same as opening a country store. We boughtgroceries and everything of her. 

We had a glorious time that day. We were just starting out for amountain stroll when our stage-driver came along on his down trip. 

"Hello!" he called out. "Want to go back this morning?"

"Not a bit of it, " I cried. "We wont go back for a couple of weeks. We've settled here for the present. "

The man smiled. He didn't seem to understand it exactly, but he wasevidently glad to see us so well satisfied. If he had had time to stopand have the matter explained to him, he would probably have been bettersatisfied; but as it was, he waved his whip to us and drove on. He was agood fellow. 

We strolled all day, having locked up the house and taken our lunchwith us; and when we came back, it seemed really like coming home. Mrs. Carson with whom we had left the key, had brought the milk and wasmaking the fire. This woman was too kind. We determined to try and repayher in some way. After a splendid supper we went to bed happy. 

The next day was a repetition of this one, but the day after itrained. So we determined to enjoy the old tavern, and we rummaged abouteverywhere. I visited the garret again, and we went to the old barn, with its mows half full of hay, and had rare times climbing about there. We were delighted that it happened to rain. In a wood-shed, near thehouse, I saw a big square board with letters on it. I examined theboard, and found it was a sign, --a hanging sign, --and on it was paintedin letters that were yet quite plain:

 "FARMERS' AND MECHANICS' HOTEL. "

I called to Euphemia and told her that I had found the old tavern sign. She came to look at it, and I pulled it out. 

"Soldiers and sailors!" she exclaimed; "that's funny. "

I looked over on her side of the sign, and, sure enough, there was theinscription:

 "SOLDIERS AND SAILORS' HOUSE. "

"They must have bought this comprehensive sign in some town, " I said. "Such a name would never have been chosen for a country tavern likethis. But I wish they hadn't taken it down. The house would look morelike what it ought to be with its sign hanging before it. "

"Well, then, " said Euphemia, "let's put it up. " I agreed instantly tothis proposition, and we went to look for a ladder. We found one in thewagon-house, and carried it out to the sign-post in the front of thehouse. It was raining, gently, during these performances, but we had onour old clothes, and were so much interested in our work that we did notcare for a little rain. I carried the sign to the post, and then, at theimminent risk of breaking my neck, I hung it on its appropriate hooks onthe transverse beam of the sign-post. Now our tavern was really what itpretended to be. We gazed on the sign with admiration and content. 

"Do you think we had better keep it up all the time?" I asked of mywife. 

"Certainly, " said she. "It's a part of the house. The place isn'tcomplete without it. "

"But suppose some one should come along and want to be entertained?"

"But no one will. And if people do come, I'll take care of the soldiersand sailors, if you will attend to the farmers and mechanics. "

I consented to this, and we went in-doors to prepare dinner. 

CHAPTER XVIII. OUR TAVERN. 

The next day was clear again, and we rambled in the woods until the sunwas nearly down, and so were late about supper. We were just takingour seats at the table when we heard a footstep on the front porch. Instantly the same thought came into each of our minds. 

"I do believe, " said Euphemia, "that's somebody who has mistaken thisfor a tavern. I wonder whether it's a soldier or a farmer or a sailor;but you had better go and see. "

I went to see, prompted to move quickly by the new-comer pounding hiscane on the bare floor of the hall. I found him standing just insideof the front door. He was a small man, with long hair and beard, anddressed in a suit of clothes of a remarkable color, --something of thehue of faded snuff. He had a big stick, and carried a large flat valisein one hand. 

He bowed to me very politely. 

"Can I stop here to-night?" he asked, taking off his hat, as my wife puther head out of the kitchen-door. 

"Why, --no, sir, " I said. "This is not a tavern. "

"Not a tavern!" he exclaimed. "I don't understand that. You have a signout. "

"That is true, " I said; "but that is only for fun, so to speak. We arehere temporarily, and we put up that sign just to please ourselves. "

"That is pretty poor fun for me, " said the man. "I am very tired, andmore hungry than tired. Couldn't you let me have a little supper at anyrate?"

Euphemia glanced at me. I nodded. 

"You are welcome to some supper, " she said, "Come in! We eat in thekitchen because it is more convenient, and because it is so much morecheerful than the dining-room. There is a pump out there, and here is atowel, if you would like to wash your hands. "

As the man went out the back door I complimented my wife. She was reallyan admirable hostess. 

The individual in faded snuff-color was certainly hungry, and he seemedto enjoy his supper. During the meal he gave us some account of himself. He was an artist and had traveled, mostly on foot it would appear, over a great part of the country. He had in his valise some very prettylittle colored sketches of scenes in Mexico and California, which heshowed us after supper. Why he carried these pictures--which were doneon stiff paper--about with him I do not know. He said he did not careto sell them, as he might use them for studies for larger pictures someday. His valise, which he opened wide on the table, seemed to be filledwith papers, drawings, and matters of that kind. I suppose he preferredto wear his clothes, instead of carrying them about in his valise. 

After sitting for about half an hour after supper, he rose, withan uncertain sort of smile, and said he supposed he must be movingon, --asking, at the same time, how far it was to the tavern over theridge. 

"Just wait one moment, if you please, " said Euphemia. And she beckonedme out of the room. 

"Don't you think, " said she, "that we could keep him all night? There'sno moon, and it would be a fearful dark walk, I know, to the other sideof the mountain. There is a room upstairs that I can fix for him in tenminutes, and I know he's honest. "

"How do you know it?" I asked. 

"Well, because he wears such curious-colored clothes. No criminal wouldever wear such clothes. He could never pass unnoticed anywhere; andbeing probably the only person in the world who dressed that way, hecould always be detected. "

"You are doubtless correct, " I replied. "Let us keep him. "

When we told the good man that he could stay all night, he was extremelyobliged to us, and went to bed quite early. After we had fastened thehouse and had gone to our room, my wife said to me, "Where is your pistol?"

I produced it. 

"Well, " said she, "I think you ought to have it where you can get atit. "

"Why so?" I asked. "You generally want me to keep it out of sight andreach. "

"Yes; but when there is a strange man in the house we ought to takeextra precautions. "

"But this man you say is honest, " I replied. "If he committed a crime hecould not escape, --his appearance is so peculiar. "

"But that wouldn't do us any good, if we were both murdered, " saidEuphemia, pulling a chair up to my side of the bed, and laying thepistol carefully thereon, with the muzzle toward the bed. 

We were not murdered, and we had a very pleasant breakfast with theartist, who told us more anecdotes of his life in Mexico and otherplaces. When, after breakfast, he shut up his valise, preparatory tostarting away, we felt really sorry. When he was ready to go, he askedfor his bill. 

"Oh! There is no bill, " I exclaimed. "We have no idea of charging youanything. We don't really keep a hotel, as I told you. "

"If I had known that, " said he, looking very grave, "I would not havestayed. There is no reason why you should give me food and lodgings, andI would not, and did not, ask it. I am able to pay for such things, andI wish to do so. "

We argued with him for some time, speaking of the habits of countrypeople and so on, but he would not be convinced. He had asked foraccommodation expecting to pay for it, and would not be content until hehad done so. 

"Well, " said Euphemia, "we are not keeping this house for profit, andyou can't force us to make anything out of you. If you will be satisfiedto pay us just what it cost us to entertain you, I suppose we shall haveto let you do that. Take a seat for a minute, and I will make out yourbill. "

So the artist and I sat down and talked of various matters, whilemy wife got out her traveling stationery-box, and sat down to thedining-table to make out the bill. After a long, long time, as itappeared to me, I said:

"My dear, if the amount of that bill is at all proportioned to thelength of time it takes to make it out, I think our friend here willwish he had never said anything about it. "

"It's nearly done, " said she, without raising her head, and, in aboutten or fifteen minutes more, she rose and presented the bill to ourguest. As I noticed that he seemed somewhat surprised at it, I asked himto let me look over it with him. The bill, of which I have a copy, readas follows:

July 12th, 187- ARTIST, To the S. And S. Hotel and F. And M. House. 

 To 1/3 one supper, July 11th, which supper consisted of:

 1/14 lb. Coffee, at 35 cts. 2 cts. 

 " " sugar, " 14 " 1 "

 1/6 qt. Milk, " 6 " 1 "

 1/2 loaf bread " 6 " 3 "

 1/8 lb. Butter " 25 " 3 1/8 "

 1/2 " bacon " 25 " 12 1/2 "

 1/16 pk. Potatoes at 60 cts. Per bush 15/16 "

 1/2 pt. Hominy at 6 cts 3 " -------- 27 1/16

 1/3 of total 09 1/48 cts. 

 To 1/3 one breakfast, July 12th (same as above, with exception of eggs instead of bacon, and with hominy omitted), -------- 24 1/6

 1/3 total 08 1/48 "

 To rent of one room and furniture, for one night, in furnished house of fifteen rooms at $6. 00 per week for whole house 05 3/8 " ------------ Amount due 22 17/24 cts. 

The worthy artist burst out laughing when he read this bill, and so didI. 

"You needn't laugh, " said Euphemia, reddening a little. "That is exactlywhat your entertainment cost, and we do not intend to take a cent more. We get things here in such small quantities that I can tell quite easilywhat a meal costs us, and I have calculated that bill very carefully. "

"So I should think, madam, " said the artist, "but it is not quite right. You have charged nothing for your trouble and services. "

"No, " said my wife, "for I took no additional trouble to get your meals. What I did, I should have done if you had not come. To be sure Idid spend a few minutes preparing your room. I will charge you seventwenty-fourths of a cent for that, thus making your bill twenty-threecents--even money. "

"I cannot gainsay reasoning like yours, madam, " he said, and he tooka quarter from a very fat old pocket-book, and handed it to her. Shegravely gave him two cents change, and then taking the bill, receiptedit, and handed it back to him. 

We were sorry to part with our guest, for he was evidently a goodfellow. I walked with him a little way up the road, and got him to letme copy his bill in my memorandum-book. The original, he said, he wouldalways keep. 

A day or two after the artist's departure, we were standing on the frontpiazza. We had had a late breakfast--consequent upon a long tramp theday before--and had come out to see what sort of a day it was likelyto be. We had hardly made up our minds on the subject when the morningstage came up at full speed and stopped at our gate. 

"Hello!" cried the driver. He was not our driver. He was a tall man inhigh boots, and had a great reputation as a manager of horses--so DannyCarson told me afterward. There were two drivers on the line, and eachof them made one trip a day, going up one day in the afternoon, and downthe next day in the morning. 

I went out to see what this driver wanted. 

"Can't you give my passengers breakfast?" he asked. 

"Why, no!" I exclaimed, looking at the stage loaded inside and out. "This isn't a tavern. We couldn't get breakfast for a stage-load ofpeople. "

"What have you got a sign up fur, then?" roared the driver, getting redin the face. 

"That's so, " cried two or three men from the top of the stage. "If itaint a tavern, what's that sign doin' there?"

I saw I must do something. I stepped up close to the stage and looked inand up. 

"Are there any sailors in this stage?" I said. There was no response. "Any soldiers? Any farmers or mechanics?"

At the latter question I trembled, but fortunately no one answered. 

"Then, " said I, "you have no right to ask to be accommodated; for, asyou may see from the sign, our house is only for soldiers, sailors, farmers, and mechanics. "

"And besides, " cried Euphemia from the piazza, "we haven't anything togive you for breakfast. "

The people in and on the stage grumbled a good deal at this, and lookedas if they were both disappointed and hungry, while the driver rippedout an oath, which, had he thrown it across a creek, would soon havemade a good-sized millpond. 

He gathered up his reins and turned a sinister look on me. 

"I'll be even with you, yit, " he cried as he dashed off. 

In the afternoon Mrs. Carson came up and told us that the stage hadstopped there, and that she had managed to give the passengers somecoffee, bread and butter and ham and eggs, though they had had towait their turns for cups and plates. It appeared that the driver hadquarreled with the Lowry people that morning because the breakfast wasbehindhand and he was kept waiting. So he told his passengers that therewas another tavern, a few miles down the road, and that he would takethem there to breakfast. 

"He's an awful ugly man, that he is, " said Mrs. Carson, "an' he'd better'a' stayed at Lowry's, fur he had to wait a good sight longer, afterall, as it turned out. But he's dreadful mad at you, an' says he'llbring ye farmers, an' soldiers, and sailors, an' mechanics, ifthat's what ye want. I 'spect he'll do his best to git a load of themparticular people an' drop 'em at yer door. I'd take down that sign, efI was you. Not that me an' Danny minds, fur we're glad to git a stage tofeed, an' ef you've any single man that wants lodgin' we've fixed up aroom and kin keep him overnight. "

Notwithstanding this warning, Euphemia and I decided not to take in oursign. We were not to be frightened by a stage-driver. The next day ourown driver passed us on the road as he was going down. 

"So ye're pertickler about the people ye take in, are ye?" said he, smiling. "That's all right, but ye made Bill awful mad. "

It was quite late on a Monday afternoon that Bill stopped at our houseagain. He did not call out this time. He simply drew up, and a man witha big black valise clambered down from the top of the stage. Then Billshouted to me as I walked down to the gate, looking rather angry Isuppose:

"I was agoin' to git ye a whole stage-load, to stay all night, but thatone'll do ye, I reckon. Ha, ha!" And off he went, probably fearing thatI would throw his passenger up on the top of the stage again. 

The new-comer entered the gate. He was a dark man, with black hair andblack whiskers and mustache, and black eyes. He wore clothes that hadbeen black, but which were now toned down by a good deal of dust, and, as I have said, he carried a black valise. 

"Why did you stop here?" said I, rather inhospitably. "Don't you knowthat we do not accommodate--"

"Yes, I know, " he said, walking up on the piazza and setting down hisvalise, "that you only take soldiers, sailors, farmers, and mechanics atthis house. I have been told all about it, and if I had not thoroughlyunderstood the matter I should not have thought of such a thing asstopping here. If you will sit down for a few moments I will explain. "Saying this, he took a seat on a bench by the door, but Euphemia and Icontinued to stand. 

"I am, " he continued, "a soldier, a sailor, a farmer, and a mechanic. Do not doubt my word; I will prove it to you in two minutes. When butseventeen years of age, circumstances compelled me to take charge of afarm in New Hampshire, and I kept up that farm until I was twenty-five. During this time I built several barns, wagon-houses, and edifices ofthe sort on my place, and, becoming expert in this branch of mechanicalart, I was much sought after by the neighboring farmers, who employedme to do similar work for them. In time I found this new business soprofitable that I gave up farming altogether. But certain unfortunatespeculations threw me on my back, and finally, having gone from bad toworse, I found myself in Boston, where, in sheer desperation, I wenton board a coasting vessel as landsman. I remained on this vessel fornearly a year, but it did not suit me. I was often sick, and did notlike the work. I left the vessel at one of the Southern ports, andit was not long after she sailed that, finding myself utterly withoutmeans, I enlisted as a soldier. I remained in the army for some years, and was finally honorably discharged. So you see that what I said wastrue. I belong to each and all of these businesses and professions. Andnow that I have satisfied you on this point, let me show you a book forwhich I have the agency in this country. " He stooped down, opened hisvalise, and took out a good-sized volume. "This book, " said he, "is the'Flora and Fauna of Carthage County;' it is written by one of the firstscientific men of the country, and gives you a description, withan authentic wood-cut, of each of the plants and animals of thecounty--indigenous or naturalized. Owing to peculiar advantages enjoyedby our firm, we are enabled to put this book at the very low price ofthree dollars and seventy-five cents. It is sold by subscription only, and should be on the center-table in every parlor in this county. If youwill glance over this book, sir, you will find it as interesting as anovel, and as useful as an encyclopaedia--"

"I don't want the book, " I said, "and I don't care to look at it. "

"But if you were to look at it you would want it, I'm sure. "

"That's a good reason for not looking at it, then, " I answered. "If youcame to get us to subscribe for that book we need not take up any moreof your time, for we shall not subscribe. "

"Oh, I did not come for that alone, " he said. "I shall stay hereto-night and start out in the morning to work up the neighborhood. Ifyou would like this book--and I'm sure you have only to look at it to dothat--you can deduct the amount of my bill from the subscription price, and--"

"What did you say you charged for this book?" asked Euphemia, steppingforward and picking up the volume. 

"Three seventy-five is the subscription price, ma'am, but that book isnot for sale. That is merely a sample. If you put your name down onmy list you will be served with your book in two weeks. As I told yourhusband, it will come very cheap to you, because you can deduct what youcharge me for supper, lodging, and breakfast. "

"Indeed!" said my wife, and then she remarked that she must go in thehouse and get supper. 

"When will supper be ready?" the man asked, as she passed him. 

At first she did not answer him, but then she called back:

"In about half an hour. "

"Good, " said the man; "but I wish it was ready now. And now, sir, if youwould just glance over this book, while we are waiting for supper--"

I cut him very short and went out into the road. I walked up and down infront of the house, in a bad humor. I could not bear to think of my wifegetting supper for this fellow, who was striding about on the piazza, as if he was very hungry and very impatient. Just as I returned to thehouse, the bell rang from within. 

"Joyful sound!" said the man, and in he marched. I followed close behindhim. On one end of the table, in the kitchen, supper was set for oneperson, and, as the man entered, Euphemia motioned him to the table. Thesupper looked like a remarkably good one. A cup of coffee smoked by theside of the plate; there was ham and eggs and a small omelette; therewere fried potatoes, some fresh radishes, a plate of hot biscuit, andsome preserves. The man's eyes sparkled. 

"I am sorry, " said he, "that I am to eat alone, for I hoped to have yourgood company; but, if this plan suits you, it suits me, " and he drew upa chair. 

"Stop!" said Euphemia, advancing between him and the table. "You are notto eat that. This is a sample supper. If you order a supper like it, onewill be served to you in two weeks. "

At this I burst into a roar of laughter; my wife stood pale anddetermined, and the man drew back, looking first at one of us, and thenat the other. 

"Am I to understand--?" he said. 

"Yes, " I interrupted, "you are. There is nothing more to be said on thissubject. You may go now. You came here to annoy us, knowing that we didnot entertain travelers, and now you see what you have made by it, " andI opened the door. 

The man evidently thought that a reply was not necessary, and he walkedout without a word. Taking up his valise, which he had put in the hall, he asked if there was any public-house near by. 

"No, " I said; "but there is a farm-house a short distance down the road, where they will be glad to have you. " And down the road he went to Mrs. Carson's. I am sorry to say that he sold her a "Flora and Fauna" beforehe went to bed that night. 

We were much amused at the termination of this affair, and I became, ifpossible, a still greater admirer of Euphemia's talents for management. But we both agreed that it would not do to keep up the sign any longer. We could not tell when the irate driver might not pounce down upon uswith a customer. 

"But I hate to take it down, " said Euphemia; "it looks so much like asurrender. "

"Do not trouble yourself, " said I. "I have an idea. "

The next morning I went down to Danny Carson's little shop, --he wasa wheelwright as well as a farmer, --and I got from him two pots ofpaint--one black and one white--and some brushes. I took down our sign, and painted out the old lettering, and, instead of it, I painted, inbold and somewhat regular characters, new names for our tavern. 

On one side of the sign I painted:

 "SOAP-MAKER'S AND BOOK-BINDER'S HOTEL. "

And on the other side:

 "UPHOLSTERERS' AND DENTISTS' HOUSE. "

"Now then, " I said, "I don't believe any of those people will betraveling along the road while we are here, or, at any rate, they won'twant to stop. "

We admired this sign very much, and sat on the piazza, that afternoon, to see how it would strike Bill, as he passed by. It seemed to strikehim pretty hard, for he gazed with all his eyes at one side of it, as heapproached, and then, as he passed it, he actually pulled up to read theother side. 

"All right!" he called out, as he drove off. "All right! All right!"

Euphemia didn't like the way he said "all right. " It seemed to her, shesaid, as if he intended to do something which would be all right forhim, but not at all so for us. I saw she was nervous about it, for thatevening she began to ask me questions about the traveling propensitiesof soap-makers, upholsterers, and dentists. 

"Do not think anything more about that, my dear, " I said. "I will takethe sign down in the morning. We are here to enjoy ourselves, and not tobe worried. "

"And yet, " said she, "it would worry me to think that that driverfrightened us into taking down the sign. I tell you what I wish youwould do. Paint out those names, and let me make a sign. Then I promiseyou I will not be worried. "

The next day, therefore, I took down the sign and painted out myinscriptions. It was a good deal of trouble, for my letters werefresh, but it was a rainy day, and I had plenty of time, and succeededtolerably well. Then I gave Euphemia the black-paint pot and the freedomof the sign. 

I went down to the creek to try a little fishing in wet weather, andwhen I returned the new sign was done. On one side it read:

 FLIES' AND WASPS' HOTEL. 

On the other:

 HUNDRED-LEGGERS' AND RED-ANTS' HOUSE. 

"You see, " said euphemia, "if any individuals mentioned thereon applyfor accommodation, we can say we are full. "

This sign hung triumphantly for several days, when one morning, just aswe had finished breakfast, we were surprised to hear the stage stop atthe door, and before we could go out to see who had arrived, into theroom came our own stage-driver, as we used to call him. He had actuallyleft his team to come and see us. 

"I just thought I'd stop an' tell ye, " said he, "that ef ye don't lookout, Bill'll get ye inter trouble. He's bound to git the best o' ye, an'I heared this mornin', at Lowry's, that he's agoin' to bring the countyclerk up here to-morrow, to see about yer license fur keepin' a hotel. He says ye keep changin' yer signs, but that don't differ to him, forhe kin prove ye've kept travelers overnight, an' ef ye haven't got nolicense he'll make the county clerk come down on ye heavy, I'm sure o'that, fur I know Bill. An' so, I thought I'd stop an' tell ye. "

I thanked him, and admitted that this was a rather serious view of thecase. Euphemia pondered a moment. Then said she:

"I don't see why we should stay here any longer. It's going to rainagain, and our vacation is up to-morrow, anyway. Could you wait a littlewhile, while we pack up?" she said to the driver. 

"Oh yes!" he replied. "I kin wait, as well as not. I've only got onepassenger, an' he's on top, a-holdin' the horses. He aint in any hurry, I know, an' I'm ahead o' time. "

In less than twenty minutes we had packed our trunk, locked up thehouse, and were in the stage, and, as we drove away, we cast a lastadmiring look at Euphemia's sign, slowly swinging in the wind. I wouldmuch like to know if it is swinging there yet. I feel certain there hasbeen no lack of custom. 

We stopped at Mrs. Carson's, paid her what we owed her, and engaged herto go up to the tavern and put things in order. She was very sorry wewere going, but hoped we would come back again some other summer. Wesaid that it was quite possible that we might do so; but that, nexttime, we did not think we would try to have a tavern of our own. 

CHAPTER XIX. THE BABY AT RUDDER GRANGE. 

For some reason, not altogether understood by me, there seemed to be acontinued series of new developments at our home. I had supposed, whenthe events spoken of in the last chapter had settled down to theirproper places in our little history, that our life would flow on inan even, commonplace way, with few or no incidents worthy of beingrecorded. But this did not prove to be the case. After a time, theuniformity and quiet of our existence was considerably disturbed. 

This disturbance was caused by a baby, not a rude, imperious baby, buta child who was generally of a quiet and orderly turn of mind. But itdisarranged all our plans; all our habits; all the ordinary dispositionof things. 

It was in the summer-time, during my vacation, that it began to exertits full influence upon us. A more unfortunate season could not havebeen selected. At first, I may say that it did not exert its fullinfluence upon me. I was away, during the day, and, in the evening, itsinfluence was not exerted, to any great extent, upon anybody. As I havesaid, its habits were exceedingly orderly. But, during my vacation, thethings came to pass which have made this chapter necessary. 

I did not intend taking a trip. As in a former vacation, I proposedstaying at home and enjoying those delights of the country which mybusiness in town did not allow me to enjoy in the working weeks andmonths of the year. I had no intention of camping out, or of doinganything of that kind, but many were the trips, rides, and excursions Ihad planned. 

I found, however, that if I enjoyed myself in this wise, I must do it, for the most part, alone. It was not that Euphemia could not go withme--there was really nothing to prevent--it was simply that she hadlost, for the time, her interest in everything except that baby. 

She wanted me to be happy, to amuse myself, to take exercise, to dowhatever I thought was pleasant, but she, herself, was so much engrossedwith the child, that she was often ignorant of what I intended to do, orhad done. She thought she was listening to what I said to her, but, inreality, she was occupied, mind and body, with the baby, or listeningfor some sound which should indicate that she ought to go and beoccupied with it. 

I would often say to her: "Why can't you let Pomona attend to it? Yousurely need not give up your whole time and your whole mind to thechild. "

But she would always answer that Pomona had a great many things to do, and that she couldn't, at all times, attend to the baby. Suppose, forinstance, that she should be at the barn. 

I once suggested that a nurse should be procured, but at this shelaughed. 

"There is very little to do, " she said, "and I really like to do it. "

"Yes, " said I, "but you spend so much of your time in thinking how gladyou will be to do that little, when it is to be done, that you can'tgive me any attention, at all. "

"Now you have no cause to say that, " she exclaimed. "You know verywell--, there!" and away she ran. It had just begun to cry!

Naturally, I was getting tired of this. I could never begin a sentenceand feel sure that I would be allowed to finish it. Nothing wasimportant enough to delay attention to an infantile whimper. 

Jonas, too, was in a state of unrest. He was obliged to wear his goodclothes, a great part of the time, for he was continually going onerrands to the village, and these errands were so important that theytook precedence of everything else. It gave me a melancholy sort ofpleasure, sometimes, to do Jonas's work when he was thus sent away. 

I asked him, one day, how he liked it all?

"Well, " said he, reflectively, "I can't say as I understand it, exactly. It does seem queer to me that such a little thing should take up prettynigh all the time of three people. I suppose, after a while, " this hesaid with a grave smile, "that you may be wanting to turn in and help. "I did not make any answer to this, for Jonas was, at that moment, summoned to the house, but it gave me an idea. In fact, it gave me twoideas. 

The first was that Jonas's remark was not entirely respectful. He was myhired man, but he was a very respectable man, and an American man, andtherefore might sometimes be expected to say things which a foreigner, not known to be respectable, would not think of saying, if he wishedto keep his place. The fact that Jonas had always been very careful totreat me with much civility, caused this remark to make more impressionon me. I felt that he had, in a measure, reason for it. 

The other idea was one which grew and developed in my mind until Iafterward formed a plan upon it. I determined, however, before I carriedout my plan, to again try to reason with Euphemia. 

"If it was our own baby, " I said, "or even the child of one of us, by aformer marriage, it would be a different thing; but to give yourselfup so entirely to Pomona's baby, seems, to me, unreasonable. Indeed, Inever heard of any case exactly like it. It is reversing all the usagesof society for the mistress to take care of the servant's baby. "

"The usages of society are not worth much, sometimes, " said Euphemia, "and you must remember that Pomona is a very different kind of aperson from an ordinary servant. She is much more like a member of thefamily--I can't exactly explain what kind of a member, but I understandit myself. She has very much improved since she has been married, andyou know, yourself, how quiet and--and, nice she is, and as for thebaby, it's just as good and pretty as any baby, and it may grow up tobe better than any of us. Some of our presidents have sprung from lowlyparents. "

"But this one is a girl, " I said. 

"Well then, " replied Euphemia, "she may be a president's wife. "

"Another thing, " I remarked, "I don't believe Jonas and Pomona like yourkeeping their baby so much to yourself. "

"Nonsense!" said Euphemia, "a girl in Pomona's position couldn't helpbeing glad to have a lady take an interest in her baby, and help bringit up. And as for Jonas, he would be a cruel man if he wasn't pleasedand grateful to have his wife relieved of so much trouble. Pomona!is that you? You can bring it here, now, if you want to get at yourclear-starching. "

I don't believe that Pomona hankered after clear-starching, but shebrought the baby and I went away. I could not see any hope ahead. Ofcourse, in time, it would grow up, but then it couldn't grow up duringmy vacation. 

Then it was that I determined to carry out my plan. 

I went to the stable and harnessed the horse to the little carriage. Jonas was not there, and I had fallen out of the habit of calling him. I drove slowly through the yard and out of the gate. No one called to meor asked where I was going. How different this was from the old times!Then, some one would not have failed to know where I was going, and, in all probability, she would have gone with me. But now I drove away, quietly and undisturbed. 

About three miles from our house was a settlement known as New Dublin. It was a cluster of poor and doleful houses, inhabited entirely by Irishpeople, whose dirt and poverty seemed to make them very contented andhappy. The men were generally away, at their work, during the day, butthere was never any difficulty in finding some one at home, no matter atwhat house one called. I was acquainted with one of the matrons of thislocality, a Mrs. Duffy, who had occasionally undertaken some odd jobs atour house, and to her I made a visit. 

She was glad to see me, and wiped off a chair for me. 

"Mrs. Duffy, " said I, "I want to rent a baby. "

At first, the good woman could not understand me, but when I made plainto her that I wished for a short time, to obtain the exclusive use andcontrol of a baby, for which I was willing to pay a liberal rental, sheburst into long and violent laughter. It seemed to her like a personcoming into the country to purchase weeds. Weeds and children were soabundant in New Dublin. But she gradually began to see that I was inearnest, and as she knew I was a trusty person, and somewhat notedfor the care I took of my live stock, she was perfectly willing toaccommodate me, but feared she had nothing on hand of the age I desired. 

"Me childther are all agoin' about, " she said. "Ye kin see a poile uv'em out yon, in the road, an' there's more uv 'em on the fince. Butye nade have no fear about gittin' wan. There's sthacks of 'em in theplace. I'll jist run over to Mrs. Hogan's, wid ye. She's got sixteen orsiventeen, mostly small, for Hogan brought four or five wid him when hemarried her, an' she'll be glad to rint wan uv 'em. " So, throwing herapron over her head, she accompanied me to Mrs. Hogan's. 

That lady was washing, but she cheerfully stopped her work while Mrs. Duffy took her to one side and explained my errand. Mrs. Hogan did notappear to be able to understand why I wanted a baby-especially for solimited a period, --but probably concluded that if I would take good careof it and would pay well for it, the matter was my own affair, forshe soon came and said, that if I wanted a baby, I'd come to the rightplace. Then she began to consider what one she would let me have. Iinsisted on a young one--there was already a little baby at our house, and the folks there would know how to manage it. 

"Oh, ye want it fer coompany for the ither one, is that it?" said Mrs. Hogan, a new light breaking in upon her. "An' that's a good plan, sure. It must be dridful lownly in a house wid ownly wan baby. Now there'sone--Polly--would she do?"

"Why, she can run, " I said. "I don't want one that can run. "

"Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Hogan, with a sigh, "they all begin to run, veryairly. Now Polly isn't owld, at all, at all. "

"I can see that, " said I, "but I want one that you can put in acradle--one that will have to stay there, when you put it in. "

It was plain that Mrs. Hogan's present stock did not contain exactlywhat I wanted, and directly Mrs. Duffy exclaimed! "There's MaryMcCann--an' roight across the way!"

Mrs. Hogan said "Yis, sure, " and we all went over to a little house, opposite. 

"Now, thin, " said Mrs. Duffy, entering the house, and proudly drawing asmall coverlid from a little box-bed in a corner, "what do you think ofthat?"

"Why, there are two of them, " I exclaimed. 

"To be sure, " said Mrs. Duffy. "They're tweens. There's always two uvem, when they're tweens. An' they're young enough. "

"Yes, " said I, doubtfully, "but I couldn't take both. Do you think theirmother would rent one of them?"

The women shook their heads. "Ye see, sir, " said Mrs. Hogan, "MaryMcCann isn't here, bein' gone out to a wash, but she ownly has four orfoive childther, an' she aint much used to 'em yit, an' I kin spake ferher that she'd niver siparate a pair o' tweens. When she gits a dozenhersilf, and marries a widow jintleman wid a lot uv his own, she'llbe glad enough to be lettin' ye have yer pick, to take wan uv 'em fercoompany to yer own baby, at foive dollars a week. Moind that. "

I visited several houses after this, still in company with Mrs. Hoganand Mrs. Duffy, and finally secured a youngish infant, who, having beenleft motherless, had become what Mrs. Duffy called a "bottle-baby, " andwas in charge of a neighboring aunt. It seemed strange that this child, so eminently adapted to purposes of rental, was not offered to me, atfirst, but I suppose the Irish ladies, who had the matter in charge, wanted to benefit themselves, or some of their near friends, beforegiving the general public of New Dublin a chance. 

The child suited me very well, and I agreed to take it for as many daysas I might happen to want it, but to pay by the week, in advance. It wasa boy, with a suggestion of orange-red bloom all over its head, and whatlooked, to me, like freckles on its cheeks; while its little nose turnedup, even more than those of babies generally turn--above a very longupper lip. His eyes were blue and twinkling, and he had the very mouth"fer a leetle poipe, " as Mrs. Hogan admiringly remarked. 

He was hastily prepared for his trip, and when I had arranged thenecessary business matters with his aunt, and had assured her that shecould come to see him whenever she liked, I got into the carriage, andhaving spread the lap-robe over my knees, the baby, carefully wrapped ina little shawl, was laid in my lap. Then his bottle, freshly filled, forhe might need a drink on the way, was tucked between the cushions on theseat beside me, and taking the lines in my left hand, while I steadiedmy charge with the other, I prepared to drive away. 

"What's his name?" I asked. 

"It's Pat, " said his aunt, "afther his dad, who's away in the moines. "

"But ye kin call him onything ye bike, " Mrs. Duffy remarked, "fer hedon't ansther to his name yit. "

"Pat will do very well, " I said, as I bade the good women farewell, and carefully guided the horse through the swarms of youngsters who hadgathered around the carriage. 

CHAPTER XX. THE OTHER BABY AT RUDDER GRANGE. 

I drove slowly home, and little Pat lay very quiet, looking up steadilyat me with his twinkling blue eyes. For a time, everything went verywell, but happening to look up, I saw in the distance a carriageapproaching. It was an open barouche, and I knew it belonged to a familyof our acquaintance, in the village, and that it usually containedladies. 

Quick as thought, I rolled up Pat in his shawl and stuffed him under theseat. Then rearranging the lap-robe over my knees, I drove on, tremblinga little, it is true. 

As I supposed, the carriage contained ladies, and I knew them all. Thecoachman instinctively drew up, as we approached. We always stopped andspoke, on such occasions. 

They asked me after my wife, apparently surprised to see me alone, andmade a number of pleasant observations, to all of which I replied withas unconcerned and easy an air as I could assume. The ladies were inexcellent spirits, but in spite of this, there seemed to be an air ofrepression about them, which I thought of when I drove on, but could notaccount for, for little Pat never moved or whimpered, during the wholeof the interview. 

But when I took him again in my lap, and happened to turn, as I arrangedthe robe, I saw his bottle sticking up boldly by my side from betweenthe cushions. Then I did not wonder at the repression. 

When I reached home, I drove directly to the barn. Fortunately, Jonaswas there. When I called him and handed little Pat to him I never sawa man more utterly amazed. He stood, and held the child without aword. But when I explained the whole affair to him, he comprehended itperfectly, and was delighted. I think he was just as anxious for my planto work as I was myself, although he did not say so. 

I was about to take the child into the house, when Jonas remarked thatit was barefooted. 

"That won't do, " I said. "It certainly had socks on, when I got it. Isaw them. "

"Here they are, " said Jonas, fishing them out from the shawl, "he'skicked them off. "

"Well, we must put them on, " I said, "it won't do to take him in, thatway. You hold him. "

So Jonas sat down on the feed-box, and carefully taking little Pat, heheld him horizontally, firmly pressed between his hands and knees, withhis feet stuck out toward me, while I knelt down before him and tried toput on the little socks. But the socks were knit or worked very loosely, and there seemed to be a good many small holes in them, so thatPat's funny little toes, which he kept curling up and uncurling, werecontinually making their appearance in unexpected places through thesock. But, after a great deal of trouble, I got them both on, with theheels in about the right places. 

"Now they ought to be tied on, " I said, "Where are his garters?"

"I don't believe babies have garters, " said Jonas, doubtfully, "but Icould rig him up a pair. "

"No, " said I; "we wont take the time for that. I'll hold his legs apart, as I carry him in. It's rubbing his feet together that gets them off. "

As I passed the kitchen window, I saw Pomona at work. She looked at me, dropped something, and I heard a crash. I don't know how much that crashcost me. Jonas rushed in to tell Pomona about it, and in a moment Iheard a scream of laughter. At this, Euphemia appeared at an upperwindow, with her hand raised and saying, severely: "Hush-h!" But themoment she saw me, she disappeared from the window and came down-stairson the run. She met me, just as I entered the dining-room. 

"What IN the world!" she breathlessly exclaimed. 

"This, " said I, taking Pat into a better position in my arms, "is mybaby. "

"Your--baby!" said Euphemia. "Where did you get it? what are you goingto do with it?"

"I got it in New Dublin, " I replied, "and I want it to amuse and occupyme while I am at home. I haven't anything else to do, except things thattake me away from you. "

"Oh!" said Euphemia. 

At this moment, little Pat gave his first whimper. Perhaps he felt thesearching glance that fell upon him from the lady in the middle of theroom. 

I immediately began to walk up and down the floor with him, and to singto him. I did not know any infant music, but I felt sure that asoothing tune was the great requisite, and that the words were of smallimportance. So I started on an old Methodist tune, which I rememberedvery well, and which was used with the hymn containing the lines:

 "Weak and wounded, sick and sore, "

and I sang, as soothingly as I could:

 "Lit-tle Pat-sy, Wat-sy, Sat-sy, Does he feel a lit-ty bad? Me will send and get his bot-tle He sha'n't have to cry-wy-wy. "

"What an idiot!" said Euphemia, laughing in spite of her vexation. 

 "No, we aint no id-i-otses What we want's a bot-ty mik. "

So I sang as I walked to the kitchen door, and sent Jonas to the barnfor the bottle. 

Pomona was in spasms of laughter in the kitchen, and Euphemia was tryingher best not to laugh at all. 

"Who's going to take care of it, I'd like to know?" she said, as soon asshe could get herself into a state of severe inquiry. 

 "Some-times me, and some-times Jonas, "

I sang, still walking up and down the room with a long, slow step, swinging the baby from side to side, very much as if it were grass-seedin a sieve, and I were sowing it over the carpet. 

When the bottle came, I took it, and began to feed little Pat. Perhapsthe presence of a critical and interested audience embarrassed us, forJonas and Pomona were at the door, with streaming eyes, while Euphemiastood with her handkerchief to the lower part of her face, or it mayhave been that I did not understand the management of bottles, but, atany rate, I could not make the thing work, and the disappointed littlePat began to cry, just as the whole of our audience burst into a wildroar of laughter. 

"Here! Give me that child!" cried Euphemia, forcibly taking Pat and thebottle from me. "You'll make it swallow the whole affair, and I'm sureits mouth's big enough. "

"You really don't think, " she said, when we were alone, and little Pat, with his upturned blue eyes serenely surveying the features of thegood lady who knew how to feed him, was placidly pulling away at hisindia-rubber tube, "that I will consent to your keeping such a creatureas this in the house? Why, he's a regular little Paddy! If you kept himhe'd grow up into a hod-carrier. "

"Good!" said I. "I never thought of that. What a novel thing it would beto witness the gradual growth of a hod-carrier! I'll make him a littlehod, now, to begin with. He couldn't have a more suitable toy. "

"I was talking in earnest, " she said. "Take your baby, and please carryhim home as quick as you can, for I am certainly not going to take careof him. "

"Of course not, " said I. "Now that I see how it's done, I'm going to doit myself. Jonas will mix his feed and I will give it to him. He lookssleepy now. Shall I take him upstairs and lay him on our bed?"

"No, indeed, " cried Euphemia. "You can put him on a quilt on the floor, until after luncheon, and then you must take him home. "

I laid the young Milesian on the folded quilt which Euphemia preparedfor him, where he turned up his little pug nose to the ceiling and wentcontentedly to sleep. 

That afternoon I nailed four legs on a small packing-box and made abedstead for him. This, with a pillow in the bottom of it, was verycomfortable, and instead of taking him home, I borrowed, in the evening, some baby night-clothes from Pomona, and set about preparing Pat for thenight. 

This Euphemia would not allow, but silently taking him from me, she puthim to bed. 

"To-morrow, " she said, "you must positively take him away. I wont standit. And in our room, too. "

"I didn't talk in that way about the baby you adopted, " I said. 

To this she made no answer, but went away to attend, as usual, toPomona's baby, while its mother washed the dishes. 

That night little Pat woke up, several times, and made things unpleasantby his wails. On the first two occasions, I got up and walked him about, singing impromptu lines to the tune of "weak and wounded, " but the thirdtime, Euphemia herself arose, and declaring that that doleful tune wasa great deal worse than the baby's crying, silenced him herself, andarranging his couch more comfortably, he troubled us no more. 

In the morning, when I beheld the little pad of orange fur in the box, my heart almost misgave me, but as the day wore on, my courage roseagain, and I gave myself up, almost entirely, to my new charge, composing a vast deal of blank verse, while walking him up and down thehouse. 

Euphemia scolded and scolded, and said she would put on her hat and gofor the mother. But I told her the mother was dead, and that seemed tobe an obstacle. She took a good deal of care of the child, for she saidshe would not see an innocent creature neglected, even if it wasan incipient hod-carrier, but she did not relax in the least in herattention to Pomona's baby. 

The next day was about the same, in regard to infantile incident, but, on the day after, I began to tire of my new charge, and Pat, on hisside, seemed to be tired of me, for he turned from me when I went totake him up, while he would hold out his hands to Euphemia, and grindelightedly when she took him. 

That morning I drove to the village and spent an hour or two there. Onmy return I found Euphemia sitting in our room, with little Pat on herlap. I was astonished at the change in the young rascal. He was dressed, from head to foot, in a suit of clothes belonging to Pomona's baby; theglowing fuzz on his head was brushed and made as smooth as possible, while his little muslin sleeves were tied up with blue ribbon. 

I stood speechless at the sight. 

"Don't he look nice?" said Euphemia, standing him up on her knees. "Itshows what good clothes will do. I'm glad I helped Pomona make up somany. He's getting ever so fond of me, ze itty Patsy, watsy! See howstrong he is! He can almost stand on his legs! Look how he laughs! He'sjust as cunning as he can be. And oh! I was going to speak about thatbox. I wouldn't have him sleep in that old packing-box. There are littlewicker cradles at the store--I saw them last week--they don't cost much, and you could bring one up in the carriage. There's the other baby, crying, and I don't know where Pomona is. Just you mind him a minute, please!" and out she ran. 

I looked out of the window. The horse still stood harnessed to thecarriage, as I had left him. I saw Pat's old shawl lying in a corner. I seized it, and rolling him in it, new clothes and all, I hurrieddown-stairs, climbed into the carriage, hastily disposed Pat in my lap, and turned the horse. The demeanor of the youngster was very differentfrom what it was when I first took him in my lap to drive away with him. There was no confiding twinkle in his eye, no contented munching of hislittle fists. He gazed up at me with wild alarm, and as I drove out ofthe gate, he burst forth into such a yell that Lord Edward came boundingaround the house to see what was the matter. Euphemia suddenly appearedat an upper window and called out to me, but I did not hear what shesaid. I whipped up the horse and we sped along to New Dublin. Pat soonstopped crying, but he looked at me with a tear-stained and reproachfulvisage. 

The good women of the settlement were surprised to see little Pat returnso soon. 

"An' wasn't he good?" said Mrs. Hogan as she took him from my hands. 

"Oh, yes!" I said. "He was as good as he could be. But I have no furtherneed of him. "

I might have been called upon to explain this statement, had not thewhole party of women, who stood around burst into wild expressions ofdelight at Pat's beautiful clothes. 

"Oh! jist look at 'em!" cried Mrs. Duffy. "An' see thim leetlepittycoots, thrimmed wid lace! Oh, an' it was good in ye, sir, to givehim all thim, an' pay the foive dollars, too. "

"An' I'm glad he's back, " said the fostering aunt, "for I was a coomin'over to till ye that I've been hearin' from owle Pat, his dad, an' he'sa coomin' back from the moines, and I don't know what he'd a' said ifhe'd found his leetle Pat was rinted. But if ye iver want to borry him, for a whoile, after owle Pat's gone back, ye kin have him, rint-free;an' it's much obloiged I am to ye, sir, fur dressin' him so foine. "

I made no encouraging remarks as to future transactions in this line, and drove slowly home. 

Euphemia met me at the door. She had Pomona's baby in her arms. Wewalked together into the parlor. 

"And so you have given up the little fellow that you were going to do somuch for?" she said. 

"Yes, I have given him up, " I answered. 

"It must have been a dreadful trial to you, " she continued. 

"Oh, dreadful!" I replied. 

"I suppose you thought he would take up so much of your time andthoughts, that we couldn't be to each other what we used to be, didn'tyou?" she said. 

"Not exactly, " I replied. "I only thought that things promised to betwice as bad as they were before. "

She made no answer to this, but going to the back door of the parlor sheopened it and called Pomona. When that young woman appeared, Euphemiastepped toward her and said: "Here, Pomona, take your baby. "

They were simple words, but they were spoken in such a way that theymeant a good deal. Pomona knew what they meant. Her eyes sparkled, andas she went out, I saw her hug her child to her breast, and cover itwith kisses, and then, through the window, I could see her running tothe barn and Jonas. 

"Now, then, " said Euphemia, closing the door and coming toward me, withone of her old smiles, and not a trace of preoccupation about her, "Isuppose you expect me to devote myself to you. "

I did expect it, and I was not mistaken. 

Since these events, a third baby has come to Rudder Grange. It is notPomona's, nor was it brought from New Dublin. It is named after a littleone, who died very young, before this story was begun, and the strangestthing about it is that never, for a moment, does it seem to come betweenEuphemia and myself.