"Let me see him," said I, and I walked back to the outer kitchen.

There lay the unsuccessful broker fast asleep. His face, which was
turned toward me as I entered, showed that it had been many days since
he had been shaved, and his hair had apparently been uncombed for about
the same length of time. His clothes were very old, and a good deal
torn, 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 he
said he had been cleaning his clothes with alcohol."

"They needed it, I'm sure," I remarked as I turned away. "And now," said
I, "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 for
you."

I had been rapidly revolving the matter in my mind. What was I to do
with this wretch who was now asleep in my outer kitchen? If I woke him
up and drove him off,--and I might have difficulty in doing it,--there
was every reason to believe that he would not go far, but return
at night and commit some revengeful act. I never saw a more
sinister-looking fellow. And he was certainly drunk. He must not be
allowed to wander about our neighborhood. I would go for the constable
and have him arrested.

So I locked the door from the kitchen into the house and then the
outside 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 of
our guest. She answered scarcely a word, and I hoped that she was
frightened. I think she was.

The constable, who was also coroner of our township, had gone to a
creek, three miles away, to hold an inquest, and there was nobody to
arrest the man. The nearest police-station was at Hackingford, six miles
away, 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 to
that I objected.

"However," said I, "he can't stay there;" and a happy thought just then
striking 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 to
save time, I got in and rode to my house. Euphemia went over to call on
the groceryman's wife until I returned.

I had determined that the man should be taken away, although, until I
was riding home, I had not made up my mind where to have him taken. But
on the road I settled this matter.

On reaching the house, we drove into the yard as close to the kitchen
as 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 wrapped
in the soundest slumber. Leaving the boy to watch him, I went upstairs
and got a baggage-tag which I directed to the chief of police at the
police station in Hackingford. I returned to the kitchen and fastened
this tag, conspicuously, on the lapel of the sleeper's coat. Then, with
a clothes-line, I tied him up carefully, hand and foot. To all this he
offered not the slightest opposition. When he was suitably packed, with
due regard to the probable tenderness of wrist and ankle in one brought
up 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 sleep
was not disturbed. Then we drove him to the express office. This was at
the railroad station, and the station-master was also express agent. At
first he was not inclined to receive my parcel, but when I assured him
that all sorts of live things were sent by express, and that I could see
no reason for making an exception in this case, he added my arguments
to his own disposition, as a house-holder, to see the goods forwarded to
their destination, and so gave me a receipt, and pasted a label on the
ex-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 express
agent on the train will take him."

This matter was soon settled, for, in a few minutes, the train stopped
at the station. My package was wheeled to the express car, and two
porters, who entered heartily into the spirit of the thing, hoisted it
into the car. The train-agent, who just then noticed the character of
the goods, began to declare that he would not have the fellow in his
car; but my friend the station-master shouted out that everything was
all right,--the man was properly packed, invoiced and paid for, and the
train, which was behind time, moved away before the irate agent could
take measures to get rid of his unwelcome freight.

"Now," said I, "there'll be a drunken man at the police-station in
Hackingford in about half-an-hour. His offense will be as evident there
as 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 me
some money, but I was well satisfied with my evening's work, and felt
that the township owed me, at least, a vote of thanks.

But I firmly made up my mind that Euphemia should never again be left
unprotected. I would not even trust to a servant who would agree to have
no afternoons out. I would get a dog.

The next day I advertised for a fierce watchdog, and in the course of
a 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 I
determined 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 would
crack the hind-leg of an ox, so I was informed. He was of a varied
breed, and the good Irishman of whom I bought him said he had fine blood
in him, and attempted to refer him back to the different classes of dogs
from which he had been derived. But after I had had him awhile, I made
an analysis based on his appearance and character, and concluded that he
was mainly blood-hound, shaded with wolf-dog and mastiff, and picked out
with touches of bull-dog.

The man brought him home for me, and chained him up in an unused
wood-shed, for I had no doghouse as yet.

"Now thin," said he, "all you've got to do is to keep 'im chained up
there for three or four days till he gets used to ye. An' I'll tell ye
the best way to make a dog like ye. Jist give him a good lickin'. Then
he'll know yer his master, and he'll like ye iver aftherward. There's
plenty of people that don't know that. And, by the way, sir, that
chain's none too strong for 'im. I got it when he wasn't mor'n half
grown. Ye'd bether git him a new one."

When the man had gone, I stood and looked at the dog, and could not
help hoping that he would learn to like me without the intervention of a
thrashing. Such harsh methods were not always necessary, I felt sure.

After our evening meal--a combination of dinner and supper, of which
Euphemia used to say that she did not know whether to call it dinper or
supner--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 that
immense head! I know I shall never be afraid now. I feel that that is a
dog I can rely upon. Make him stand up, please, so I can see how tall he
is."

"I think it would be better not to disturb him," I answered, "he may
be tired. He will get up of his own accord very soon. And indeed I
hope that he will not get up until I go to the store and get him a new
chain."

As I said this I made a step forward to look at his chain, and at that
instant a low growl, like the first rumblings of an earthquake, ran
through the dog.

I stepped back again and walked over to the village for the chain. The
dog-chains shown me at the store all seemed too short and too weak, and
I concluded to buy two chains such as used for hitching horses and to
join them so as to make a long as well as a strong one of them. I wanted
him to be able to come out of the wood-shed when it should be necessary
to show himself.

On my way home with my purchase the thought suddenly struck me, How will
you put that chain on your dog? The memory of the rumbling growl was
still vivid.

I never put the chain on him. As I approached him with it in my hand, he
rose to his feet, his eyes sparkled, his black lips drew back from his
mighty teeth, he gave one savage bark and sprang at me.

His chain held and I went into the house. That night he broke loose and
went 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 it
would be better to go and look for him or not. But I concluded to keep
up a brave heart, and found him, as I expected, at the place where I had
bought him. The Irishman took him to my house again and I had to pay for
the man's loss of time as well as for his fare on the railroad. But the
dog's old master chained him up with the new chain and I felt repaid for
my outlay.

Every morning and night I fed that dog, and I spoke as kindly and gently
to him as I knew how. But he seemed to cherish a distaste for me, and
always greeted me with a growl. He was an awful dog.

About a week after the arrival of this animal, I was astonished and
frightened on nearing the house to hear a scream from my wife. I rushed
into the yard and was greeted with a succession of screams from two
voices, that seemed to come from the vicinity of the wood-shed. Hurrying
thither, I perceived Euphemia standing on the roof of the shed in
perilous proximity to the edge, while near the ridge of the roof sat our
hired girl with her handkerchief over her head.

"Hurry, hurry!" cried Euphemia. "Climb up here! The dog is loose! Be
quick! Be quick! Oh! he's coming, he's coming!"

I asked for no explanation. There was a rail-fence by the side of the
shed and I sprang on this, and was on the roof just as the dog came
bounding and barking from the barn.

Instantly Euphemia had me in her arms, and we came very near going off
the roof together.

"I never feared to have you come home before," she sobbed. "I thought he
would 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 he
looked suspicious and didn't try to come in, and Mary was at the barn
looking for an egg, and I thought this was a good time to see whether
the 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 the
man was gone before he got there, and as he ran down the road I saw that
he 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 chain
up 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 up
here?"

"Oh no! my dear," I said.

"An' he's just the beast to go afther a stip-ladder," said the girl, in
muffled tones.

"And what are we to do?" asked Euphemia. "We can't eat and sleep up
here. Don't you think that if we were all to shout out together, we
could make some neighbor hear?"

"Oh yes!" I said, "there is no doubt of it. But then, if a neighbor
came, 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 neighbors
come and find us all up here. It would look so utterly absurd. Let me
try 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. Call
to her!"

"No, no," said I, "don't make a noise. It will only bring the dog. He
seems to have gone to the barn, or somewhere. Keep perfectly quiet, and
she may go up on the porch, and as the front door is not locked, she may
rush 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 the
house when there's no one there."

"But it's better than seeing a stranger torn to pieces before your
eyes," said Euphemia.

"Yes," I replied, "it is. Don't you think we might get down now? The dog
isn't here."

"No, no!" cried Euphemia. "There he is now, coming this way. And look at
that woman! She is coming right to this shed."

Sure enough, our visitor had passed by the front door, and was walking
toward us. Evidently she had heard our voices.

"Don't come here!" cried Euphemia. "You'll be killed! Run! run! The dog
is 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 the
canal-boat, with a crooked straw bonnet on her head, a faded yellow
parasol in her hand, a parcel done up in newspaper under her arm, and an
expression of astonishment on her face.

"Well, truly!" she ejaculated.

"Into the house, quick!" I said. "We have a savage dog!"

"And here he is!" cried Euphemia. "Oh! she will be torn to atoms."

Straight at Pomona came the great black beast, barking furiously. But
the girl did not move; she did not even turn her head to look at the
dog, who stopped before he reached her and began to rush wildly around
her, barking terribly.

We held our breath. I tried to say "get out!" or "lie down!" but my
tongue could not form the words.

"Can't you get up here?" gasped Euphemia.

"I don't want to," said the girl.

The dog now stopped barking, and stood looking at Pomona, occasionally
glancing up at us. Pomona took not the slightest notice of him.

"Do you know, ma'am," said she to Euphemia, "that if I had come here
yesterday, that dog would have had my life's blood."

"And why don't he have it to-day?" said Euphemia, who, with myself, was
utterly amazed at the behavior of the dog.

"Because I know more to-day than I did yesterday," answered Pomona. "It
is only this afternoon that I read something, as I was coming here on
the cars. This is it," she continued, unwrapping her paper parcel, and
taking from it one of the two books it contained. "I finished this part
just as the cars stopped, and I put my scissors in the place; I'll read
it to you."

Standing there with one book still under her arm, the newspaper half
unwrapped from it, hanging down and flapping in the breeze, she opened
the other volume at the scissors-place, turned back a page or two, and
began to read as follows:


"Lord Edward slowly san-ter-ed up the bro-ad anc-es-tral walk, when
sudden-ly from out a cop-se, there sprang a fur-i-ous hound. The
marsh-man, con-ce-al-ed in a tree expected to see the life's blood of
the young nob-le-man stain the path. But no, Lord Edward did not stop
nor turn his head. With a smile, he strode stead-i-ly on. Well he knew
that if by be-traying no em-otion, he could show the dog that he was
walking where he had a right, the bru-te would re-cog-nize that right
and let him pass un-sca-thed. Thus in this moment of peril his nob-le
courage saved him. The hound, abashed, returned to his cov-ert, and Lord
Edward pass-ed on.

"Foi-led again," mutter-ed the marsh-man.


"Now, then," said Pomona, closing the book, "you see I remembered
that, the minute I saw the dog coming, and I didn't betray any emotion.
Yesterday, now, when I didn't know it, I'd 'a been sure to betray
emotion, and he would have had my life's blood. Did he drive you up
there?"

"Yes," said Euphemia; and she hastily explained the situation.

"Then I guess I'd better chain him up," remarked Pomona; and advancing
to the dog she took him boldly by the collar and pulled him toward the
shed. The animal hung back at first, but soon followed her, and she
chained him up securely.

"Now you can come down," said Pomona.

I assisted Euphemia to the ground, and Pomona persuaded the hired girl
to descend.

"Will he grab me by the leg?" asked the girl.

"No; get down, gump," said Pomona, and down she scrambled.

We took Pomona into the house with us and asked her news of herself.

"Well," said she, "there ain't much to tell. I staid awhile at the
institution, but I didn't get much good there, only I learned to read
to myself, because if I read out loud they came and took the book away.
Then I left there and went to live out, but the woman was awful mean.
She throwed away one of my books and I was only half through it. It was
a real good book, named 'The Bridal Corpse, or Montregor's Curse,' and
I had to pay for it at the circulatin' library. So I left her quick
enough, and then I went on the stage."

"On the stage!" cried Euphemia. "What did you do on the stage?"

"Scrub," replied Pomona. "You see that I thought if I could get anything
to do at the theayter, I could work my way up, so I was glad to get
scrubbin'. I asked the prompter, one morning, if he thought there was a
chance for me to work up, and he said yes, I might scrub the galleries,
and then I told him that I didn't want none of his lip, and I pretty
soon left that place. I heard you was akeepin' house out here, and so I
thought I'd come along and see you, and if you hadn't no girl I'd like
to live with you again, and I guess you might as well take me, for that
other girl said, when she got down from the shed, that she was goin'
away to-morrow; she wouldn't stay in no house where they kept such a
dog, though I told her I guessed he was only cuttin' 'round because he
was so glad to get loose."

"Cutting around!" exclaimed Euphemia. "It was nothing of the kind. If
you had seen him you would have known better. But did you come now to
stay? Where are your things?"

"On me," replied Pomona.

When Euphemia found that the Irish girl really intended to leave, we
consulted together and concluded to engage Pomona, and I went so far as
to agree to carry her books to and from the circulating library to which
she subscribed, hoping thereby to be able to exercise some influence
on her taste. And thus part of the old family of Rudder Grange had come
together again. True, the boarder was away, but, as Pomona remarked,
when she heard about him, "You couldn't always expect to ever regain the
ties that had always bound everybody."

Our delight and interest in our little farm increased day by day. In
a week or two after Pomona's arrival I bought a cow. Euphemia was
very anxious to have an Alderney,--they were such gentle, beautiful
creatures,--but I could not afford such a luxury. I might possibly
compass an Alderney calf, but we would have to wait a couple of years
for our milk, and Euphemia said it would be better to have a common cow
than to do that.

Great was our inward satisfaction when the cow, our OWN cow, walked
slowly and solemnly into our yard and began to crop the clover on our
little lawn. Pomona and I gently drove her to the barn, while Euphemia
endeavored to quiet the violent demonstrations of the dog (fortunately
chained) by assuring him that this was OUR cow and that she was to live
here, and that he was to take care of her and never bark at her. All
this and much more, delivered in the earnest and confidential tone in
which ladies talk to infants and dumb animals, made the dog think that
he was to be let loose to kill the cow, and he bounded and leaped with
delight, tugging at his chain so violently that Euphemia became a little
frightened and left him. This dog had been named Lord Edward, at the
earnest solicitation of Pomona, and he was becoming somewhat reconciled
to his life with us. He allowed me to unchain him at night and I could
generally chain him up in the morning without trouble if I had a good
big plate of food with which to tempt him into the shed.

Before supper we all went down to the barn to see the milking. Pomona,
who knew all about such things, having been on a farm in her first
youth, was to be the milkmaid. But when she began operations, she did no
more than begin. Milk as industriously as she might, she got no milk.

"This is a queer cow," said Pomona.

"Are you sure that you know how to milk?" asked Euphemia anxiously.

"Can I milk?" said Pomona. "Why, of course, ma'am. I've seen 'em milk
hundreds of times."

"But you never milked, yourself?" I remarked.

"No, sir, but I know just how it's done."

That might be, but she couldn't do it, and at last we had to give up the
matter in despair, and leave the poor cow until morning, when Pomona was
to go for a man who occasionally worked on the place, and engage him to
come and milk for us.

That night as we were going to bed I looked out of the window at the
barn which contained the cow, and was astonished to see that there was a
light inside of the building.

"What!" I exclaimed. "Can't we be left in peaceful possession of a cow
for a single night?" And, taking my revolver, I hurried down-stairs and
out-of-doors, forgetting my hat in my haste. Euphemia screamed after me
to be careful and keep the pistol pointed away from me.

I whistled for the dog as I went out, but to my surprise he did not
answer.

"Has he been killed?" I thought, and, for a moment, I wished that I was
a large family of brothers--all armed.

But on my way to the barn I met a person approaching with a lantern and
a dog. It was Pomona, and she had a milk-pail on her arm.

"See here, sir," she said, "it's mor'n half full. I just made up my mind
that I'd learn to milk--if it took me all night. I didn't go to bed at
all, and I've been at the barn fur an hour. And there ain't no need of
my goin' after no man in the mornin'," said she, hanging up the barn key
on its nail.

I simply mention this circumstance to show what kind of a girl Pomona
had grown to be.

We were all the time at work in some way, improving our little place.
"Some day we will buy it," said Euphemia. We intended to have some wheat
put in in the fall and next year we would make the place fairly crack
with luxuriance. We would divide the duties of the farm, and, among
other things, Euphemia would take charge of the chickens. She wished to
do this entirely herself, so that there might be one thing that should
be all her own, just as my work in town was all my own. As she wished
to buy the chickens and defray all the necessary expenses out of her own
private funds, I could make no objections, and, indeed, I had no desire
to do so. She bought a chicken-book, and made herself mistress of
the subject. For a week, there was a strong chicken flavor in all our
conversation.

This was while the poultry yard was building. There was a chicken-house
on the place, but no yard, and Euphemia intended to have a good big one,
because she was going into the business to make money.

"Perhaps my chickens may buy the place," she said, and I very much hoped
they 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," she
said, "and set the eggs of the second class, under the hens of the third
class."

"There seems to be some injustice in that arrangement," I said, "for the
first class will always be childless; the second class will have nothing
to do with their offspring, while the third will be obliged to bring up
and care for the children of others."

But I really had no voice in this matter. As soon as the carpenter
had finished the yard, and had made some coops and other necessary
arrangements, Euphemia hired a carriage and went about the country to
buy chickens. It was not easy to find just what she wanted, and she was
gone all day.

However, she brought home an enormous Brahma cock and ten hens, which
number was pretty equally divided into her three classes. She was very
proud of her purchases, and indeed they were fine fowls. In the
evening I made some allusion to the cost of all this 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. You
haven't studied it up as I have. Now, just let me show you how this
thing will pay, if carried on properly." Producing a piece of paper
covered with figures, she continued: "I begin with ten hens--I got
four common ones, because it would make it easier to calculate. After a
while, I set these ten hens on thirteen eggs each; three of these eggs
will probably spoil,--that leaves ten chickens hatched out. Of these, I
will say that half die, that will make five chickens for each hen; you
see, I leave a large margin for loss. This makes fifty chickens, and
when we add the ten hens, we have sixty fowls at the end of the first
year. Next year I set these sixty and they bring up five chickens
each,--I am sure there will be a larger proportion than this, but I want
to be safe,--and that is three hundred chickens; add the hens, and we
have three hundred and sixty at the end of the second year. In the third
year, calculating in the same safe way, we shall have twenty-one hundred
and sixty chickens; in the fourth year there will be twelve thousand
nine hundred and sixty, and at the end of the fifth year, which is as
far as I need to calculate now, we shall have sixty-four thousand and
eight hundred chickens. What do you think of that? At seventy-five cents
apiece,--a very low price,--that would be forty-eight thousand and
six hundred dollars. Now, what is the petty cost of a fence, and a few
coops, by the side of a sum like that?"

"Nothing at all," I answered. "It is lost like a drop in the ocean. I
hate, my dear, to interfere in any way with such a splendid calculation
as that, but I would like to ask you one question."

"Oh, of course," she said, "I suppose you are going to say something
about the cost of feeding all this poultry. That is to come out of the
chickens supposed to die. They won't die. It is ridiculous to suppose
that each hen will bring up but five chickens. The chickens that will
live, out of those I consider as dead, will more than pay for the feed."

"That is not what I was going to ask you, although of course it ought to
be considered. But you know you are only going to set common hens, and
you do not intend to raise any. Now, are those four hens to do all the
setting and mother-work for five years, and eventually bring up over
sixty-four thousand chickens?"

"Well, I DID make a mistake there," she said, coloring a little. "I'll
tell you what I'll do; I'll set every one of my hens every year."

"But all those chickens may not be hens. You have calculated that every
one of them would set as soon as it was old enough."

She stopped a minute to think this over.

"Two heads are better than one, I see," she said, directly. "I'll allow
that one-half of all the chickens are roosters, and that will make the
profits twenty-four thousand three hundred dollars--more than enough to
buy this place."

"Ever so much more," I cried. "This Rudder Grange is ours!"



CHAPTER IX. WE CAMP OUT.


My wife and I were both so fond of country life and country pursuits
that month after month passed by at our little farm in a succession of
delightful days. Time flew like a "limited express" train, and it was
September before we knew it.

I had been working very hard at the office that summer, and was glad to
think of my two weeks' vacation, which were to begin on the first
Monday of the month. I had intended spending these two weeks in
rural retirement at home, but an interview in the city with my family
physician caused me to change my mind. I told him my plan.

"Now," said he, "if I were you, I'd do nothing of the kind. You have
been working too hard; your face shows it. You need rest and change.
Nothing will do you so much good as to camp out; that will be fifty
times better than going to any summer resort. You can take your wife
with you. I know she'll like it. I don't care where you go so that it's
a healthy spot. Get a good tent and an outfit, be off to the woods, and
forget all about business and domestic matters for a few weeks."

This sounded splendid, and I propounded the plan to Euphemia that
evening. She thought very well of it, and was sure we could do it.
Pomona would not be afraid to remain in the house, under the protection
of Lord Edward, and she could easily attend to the cow and the chickens.
It would be a holiday for her too. Old John, the man who occasionally
worked for us, would come up sometimes and see after things. With her
customary dexterity Euphemia swept away every obstacle to the plan, and
all was settled before we went to bed.

As my wife had presumed, Pomona made no objections to remaining in
charge of the house. The scheme pleased her greatly. So far, so good. I
called that day on a friend who was in the habit of camping out to talk
to him about getting a tent and the necessary "traps" for a life in the
woods. He proved perfectly competent to furnish advice and everything
else. He offered to lend me all I needed. He had a complete outfit; had
done with them for the year, and I was perfectly welcome. Here was rare
luck. He gave me a tent, camp-stove, dishes, pots, gun, fishing-tackle,
a big canvas coat with dozens of pockets riveted on it, a canvas hat,
rods, reels, boots that came up to my hips, and about a wagon-load of
things in all. He was a real good fellow.

We laid in a stock of canned and condensed provisions, and I bought
a book on camping out so as to be well posted on the subject. On
the Saturday before the first Monday in September we would have been
entirely ready to start had we decided on the place where we were to go.

We found it very difficult to make this decision. There were thousands
of places where people went to camp out, but none of them seemed to be
the place for us. Most of them were too far away. We figured up the cost
of taking ourselves and our camp equipage to the Adirondacks, the lakes,
the trout-streams of Maine, or any of those well-known resorts, and we
found that we could not afford such trips, especially for a vacation of
but fourteen days.

On Sunday afternoon we took a little walk. Our minds were still troubled
about the spot toward which we ought to journey next day, and we needed
the soothing influences of Nature. The country to the north and west of
our little farm was very beautiful. About half a mile from the house
a modest river ran; on each side of it were grass-covered fields and
hills, and in some places there were extensive tracks of woodlands.

"Look here!" exclaimed Euphemia, stopping short in the little path that
wound 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 waved
her parasol in the direction of the objects indicated, and I could not
mistake them. "Now what could we want better than this?" she continued.
"Here we can fish, and do everything that we want to. I say, let us camp
here on our own river. I can take you to the very spot for the tent.
Come on!" And she was so excited about it that she fairly ran.

The spot she pointed out was one we had frequently visited in our rural
walks. It was a grassy peninsula, as I termed it, formed by a sudden
turn of a creek which, a short distance below, flowed into the river.
It was a very secluded spot. The place was approached through a
pasture-field,--we had found it by mere accident,--and where the
peninsula joined the field (we had to climb a fence just there), there
was a cluster of chestnut and hickory trees, while down near the point
stood a wide-spreading oak.

"Here, under this oak, is the place for the tent," said Euphemia, her
face flushed, her eyes sparkling, and her dress a little torn by getting
over the fence in a hurry. "What do we want with your Adirondacks and
your Dismal Swamps? This is the spot for us!"

"Euphemia," said I, in as composed a tone as possible, although my whole
frame was trembling with emotion, "Euphemia, I am glad I married you!"

Had it not been Sunday, we would have set up our tent that night.

Early the next morning, old John's fifteen-dollar horse drew from
our house a wagon-load of camp-fixtures. There was some difficulty in
getting the wagon over the field, and there were fences to be taken down
to allow of its passage; but we overcame all obstacles, and reached the
camp-ground without breaking so much as a teacup. Old John helped me
pitch the tent, and as neither of us understood the matter very well,
it took us some time. It was, indeed, nearly noon when old John left us,
and it may have been possible that he delayed matters a little so as to
be able to charge for a full half-day for himself and horse. Euphemia
got into the wagon to ride back with him, that she might give some
parting injunctions to Pomona.

"I'll have to stop a bit to put up the fences, ma'am," said old John,
"or 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," said
old John, in a tone that seemed to indicate that he had his doubts about
Mr. Ball.

"Oh, there'll be no trouble about that," cried Euphemia. "You can drive
me past Mr. Ball's,--it's not much out of the way,--and I'll ask him."

"In that wagon?" said I. "Will you stop at Mr. Ball's door in that?"

"Certainly," said she, as she arranged herself on the board which served
as a seat. "Now that our campaign has really commenced, we ought to
begin to rough it, and should not be too proud to ride even in a--in
a--"

She evidently couldn't think of any vehicle mean enough for her purpose.

"In a green-grocery cart," I suggested.

"Yes, or in a red one. Go ahead, John."

When Euphemia returned on foot, I had a fire in the camp-stove and the
kettle was on.

"Well," said Euphemia, "Mr. Ball says it's all right, if we keep the
fence up. He don't want his cows to get into the creek, and I'm sure we
don't want 'em walking over us. He couldn't understand, though, why
we wanted to live out here. I explained the whole thing to him very
carefully, but it didn't seem to make much impression on him. I believe
he thinks Pomona has something the matter with her, and that we have
come to stay out here in the fresh air so as not to take it."

"What an extremely stupid man Mr. Ball must be!" I said.

The fire did not burn very well, and while I was at work at it, Euphemia
spread a cloth upon the grass, and set forth bread and butter, cheese,
sardines, potted ham, preserves, biscuits, and a lot of other things.

We did not wait for the kettle to boil, but concluded to do without tea
or coffee, for this meal, and content ourselves with pure water. For
some reason or other, however, the creek water did not seem to be very
pure, and we did not like it a bit.

"After lunch," said I, "we will go and look for a spring; that will be a
good way of exploring the country."

"If we can't find one," said Euphemia, "we shall have to go to the house
for water, for I can never drink that stuff."

Soon after lunch we started out. We searched high and low, near and far,
for a spring, but could not find one.

At length, by merest accident, we found ourselves in the vicinity of old
John's little house. I knew he had a good well, and so we went in to get
a drink, for our ham and biscuits had made us very thirsty.

We told old John, who was digging potatoes, and was also very much
surprised to see us so soon, about our unexpected trouble in finding a
spring.

"No," said he, very slowly, "there is no spring very near to you. Didn't
you tell your gal to bring you water?"

"No," I replied; "we don't want her coming down to the camp. She is to
attend to the house."

"Oh, very well," said John; "I will bring you water, morning and
night,--good, fresh water,--from my well, for,--well, for ten cents a
day."

"That will be nice," said Euphemia, "and cheap, too. And then it will be
well to have John come every day; he can carry our letters."

"I don't expect to write any letters."

"Neither do I," said Euphemia; "but it will be pleasant to have some
communication with the outer world."

So we engaged old John to bring us water twice a day. I was a little
disappointed at this, for I thought that camping on the edge of a stream
settled the matter of water. But we have many things to learn in this
world.

Early in the afternoon I went out to catch some fish for supper. We
agreed to dispense with dinner, and have breakfast, lunch, and a good
solid supper.

For some time I had poor luck. There were either very few fish in the
creek, or they were not hungry.

I had been fishing an hour or more when I saw Euphemia running toward
me.

"What's the matter?" said I.

"Oh! nothing. I've just come to see how you were getting along. Haven't
you been gone an awfully long time? And are those all the fish you've
caught? What little bits of things they are! I thought people who camped
out caught big fish and lots of them?"

"That depends a good deal upon where they go," said I.

"Yes, I suppose so," replied Euphemia; "but I should think a stream as
big as this would have plenty of fish in it. However, if you can't
catch any, you might go up to the road and watch for Mr. Mulligan. He
sometimes comes along on Mondays."

"I'm not going to the road to watch for any fish-man," I replied, a
little more testily than I should have spoken. "What sort of a camping
out would that be? But we must not be talking here or I shall never get
a bite. Those fish are a little soiled from jumping about in the dust.
You might wash them off at that shallow place, while I go a little
further 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 only
a bite, but a pull. I knew that I had certainly hooked a big fish! The
thing actually tugged at my line so that I was afraid the pole would
break. I did not fear for the line, for that, I knew, was strong. I
would have played the fish until he was tired, and I could pull him out
without risk to the pole, but I did not know exactly how the process
of "playing" was conducted. I was very much excited. Sometimes I gave a
jerk and a pull, and then the fish would give a jerk and a pull.

Directly I heard some one running toward me, and then I heard Euphemia
cry out:

"Give him the butt! Give him the butt!"

"Give him what?" I exclaimed, without having time even to look up at
her.

"The butt! the butt!" she cried, almost breathlessly. "I know that's
right! I read how Edward Everett Hale did it in the Adirondacks."

"No, it wasn't Hale at all," said I, as I jumped about the bank; "it was
Mr. Murray."

"Well, it was one of those fishing ministers, and I know that it caught
the fish."

"I know, I know. I read it, but I don't know how to do it."

"Perhaps you ought to punch him with it," said she.

"No! no!" I hurriedly replied, "I can't do anything like that. I'm going
to try to just pull him out lengthwise. You take hold of the pole and go
in 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 reach
it. As soon as I had a firm hold of it, I pulled in, regardless of
consequences, 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 him
off the hook. Don't come near him! If he sticks that back-fin into you,
it will poison you."

"Then I should think it would 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 at
its horrible mouth! And it has whiskers like a cat!"

"Oh! you never saw one with its head on," I said. "What I want to do is
to get this hook out."

I had caught cat-fish before, but never one so large as this, and I was
actually afraid to take hold of it, knowing, as I did, that you must be
very careful how you clutch a fish of the kind. I finally concluded to
carry it home as it was, and then I could decapitate it, and take out
the hook at my leisure. So back to camp we went, Euphemia picking up the
little fish as we passed, for she did not think it right to catch fish
and not eat them. They made her hands smell, it is true; but she did not
mind that when we were camping.

I prepared the big fish (and I had a desperate time getting the skin
off), while my wife, who is one of the daintiest cooks in the world,
made the fire in the stove, and got ready the rest of the supper. She
fried the fish, because I told her that was the way cat-fish ought to be
cooked, although she said that it seemed very strange to her to camp out
for the sake of one's health, and then to eat fried food.

But that fish was splendid! The very smell of it made us hungry.
Everything was good, and when supper was over and the dishes washed, I
lighted my pipe and we sat down under a tree to enjoy the evening.

The sun had set behind the distant ridge; a delightful twilight was
gently subduing every color of the scene; the night insects were
beginning to hum and chirp, and a fire that I had made under a tree
blazed up gayly, and threw little flakes of light into the shadows under
the shrubbery.

"Now isn't this better than being cooped up in a narrow, constricted
house?" said I.

"Ever so much better!" said Euphemia. "Now we know what Nature is. We
are sitting right down in her lap, and she is cuddling us up. Isn't that
sky lovely? Oh! I think this is perfectly splendid," said she, making a
little dab at her face,--"if it wasn't for the mosquitoes."

"They ARE bad," I said. "I thought my pipe would keep them off, but it
don't. There must be plenty of them down at that creek."

"Down there!" exclaimed Euphemia. "Why there are thousands of them 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 make
a smudge."

"What's that? do you rub it on yourself?" asked Euphemia, anxiously.

"No, it's only a great smoke. Come, let us gather up dry leaves and make
a smoldering fire of them."

We managed to get up a very fair smudge, and we stood to the leeward of
it, until Euphemia began to cough and sneeze, as if her head would
come off. With tears running from her eyes, she declared that she would
rather go and be 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't
I think of it before? I brought two veils! We can put these over our
faces, and wear gloves."

She was always full of expedients.

Veiled and gloved, we bade defiance to the mosquitoes, and we sat
and talked for half an hour or more. I made a little hole in my veil,
through which I put the mouth-piece of my pipe.

When it became really dark, I lighted the lantern, and we prepared for a
well-earned night's rest. The tent was spacious and comfortable, and we
each had a nice little cot-bed.

"Are you going to leave the front-door open all night?" said Euphemia,
as I came in after a final round to see that all was right.

"I should hardly call this canvas-flap a front-door," I said, "but I
think it would be better to leave it open; otherwise we should smother.
You need not be afraid. I shall keep my gun here by my bedside, and if
any 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 of
burglars 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, when
the light had been put out, and we had gone to bed. For some reason I
could not go to sleep. After I had been lying awake for an hour or two,
Euphemia spoke:

"Are you awake?" said she, in a low voice, as if she were afraid of
disturbing the people in the next room.

"Yes," said I. "How long have you been awake?"

"I haven't been asleep."

"Neither have I."

"Suppose we light the lantern," said she. "Don't you think it would be
pleasanter?"

"It might be," I replied; "but it would draw myriads of mosquitoes.
I wish I had brought a mosquito-net and a clock. It seems so lonesome
without the ticking. Good-night! We ought to have a long sleep, if we do
much tramping about to-morrow."

In about half an hour more, just as I was beginning to be a little
sleepy, she said:

"Where is that gun?"

"Here by me," I answered.

"Well, if a man should come in, try and be sure to put it up close to
him before you fire. In a little tent like this, the shot might scatter
everywhere, if you're not careful."

"All right," I said. "Good-night!"

"There's one thing we never thought of!" she presently 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, and
all was quiet again.

We succeeded this time in going to sleep, and it was broad daylight
before we awoke.

That morning, old John came with our water before breakfast was ready.
He also brought us some milk, as he thought we would want it. We
considered this a good idea, and agreed with him to bring us a quart a
day.

"Don't you want some wegetables?" said he. "I've got some nice corn and
some tomatoes, and I could bring you cabbage and peas."

We had hardly expected to have fresh vegetables every day, but there
seemed to be no reason why old John should not bring them, as he had to
come every day with the water and milk. So we arranged that he should
furnish us daily with a few of the products of his garden.

"I could go to the butcher's and get you a steak or some chops, if you'd
let me know in the morning," said he, intent on the profits of further
commissions.

But this was going too far. We remembered we were camping out, and
declined to have meat from the butcher.

John had not been gone more than ten minutes before we saw Mr. Ball
approaching.

"Oh, I hope he isn't going to say we can't stay!" exclaimed Euphemia.

"How d'ye do?" said Mr. Ball, shaking hands with us. "Did you stick it
out all night?"

"Oh yes, indeed," I replied, "and expect to stick it out for a many more
nights if you don't object to our occupying your land."

"No objection in the world," said he; "but it seems a little queer for
people who have a good house to be living out here in the fields in a
tent, now, don't it?"

"Oh, but you see," said I, and I went on and explained the whole thing
to him,--the advice of the doctor, the discussion about the proper place
to go 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, I
suppose she is. But you're going up to the house to-day to see about
her, aren't you?"

"Oh, no," said Euphemia. "We don't intend to go near the house until our
camping is over."

"Just so,--just so," said Mr. Ball; "I expected as much. But look here,
don't you think it would be well for me to ask Dr. Ames to stop in and
see how she is gettin' along? I dare say you've fixed everything for
her, but that would be safer, you know. He's coming this morning to
vaccinate my baby, and he might stop there, just as well as not, after
he has left my house."

Euphemia and I could see no necessity for this proposed visit of the
doctor, but we could not well object to it, and so Mr. Ball said he
would be sure and send him.

After our visitor had gone, the significance of his remarks flashed on
me. He still thought that Pomona was sick with something catching, and
that we were afraid to stay in the house with her. But I said nothing
about this to Euphemia. It would only worry her, and our vacation was to
be a season of unalloyed delight.



CHAPTER X. WET BLANKETS.


We certainly enjoyed our second day in camp. All the morning, and a
great part of the afternoon, we "explored." We fastened up the tent
as well as we could, and then, I with my gun, and Euphemia with the
fishing-pole, we started up the creek. We did not go very far, for it
would not do to leave the tent too long. I did not shoot anything, but
Euphemia caught two or three nice little fish, and we enjoyed the sport
exceedingly.

Soon after we returned in the afternoon, and while we were getting
things in order for supper, we had a call from two of our neighbors,
Captain Atkinson and wife. The captain greeted us hilariously.

"Hello!" he cried. "Why, this is gay. Who would ever have thought of
a domestic couple like you going on such a lark as this. We just heard
about it from old John, and we came down to see what you are up to.
You've got everything very nice. I think I'd like this myself. Why, you
might have a rifle-range out here. You could cut down those bushes on
the other side of the creek, and put up your target over there on that
hill. Then you could lie down here on the grass and bang away all day.
If you'll do that, I'll come down and practice with you. How long are
you going to keep it up?"

I told him that we expected to spend my two weeks' vacation here.

"Not if it rains, my boy," said he. "I know what it is to camp out in
the rain."