Meanwhile, Mrs. Atkinson had been with Euphemia examining the tent, and
our equipage generally.

"It would be very nice for a day's picnic," she said; "but I wouldn't
want to stay out-of-doors all night."

And then, addressing me, she asked:

"Do you have to breathe the fresh air all the time, night as well as
day? I expect that is a very good prescription, but I would not like to
have to follow it myself."

"If the fresh air is what you must have," said the captain, "you might
have got all you wanted of that without taking the trouble to come out
here. You could have sat out on your back porch night and day for the
whole two weeks, and breathed all the fresh air that any man could
need."

"Yes," said I, "and I might have gone down cellar and put my head in the
cold-air box of the furnace. But there wouldn't have been much fun in
that."

"There are a 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 have
supper now. Won't you wait and take some?"

"Thank you," said Mrs. Atkinson, "but we must go."

"Yes, we must be going," said the captain. "Good-bye. If it rains I'll
come down after you with an umbrella."

"You need not trouble yourself about that," said I. "We shall rough it
out, rain or shine."

"I'd stay here now," said Euphemia, when they had gone, "if it rained
pitch."

"You mean pitchforks," I suggested.

"Yes, anything," she answered.

"Well, I don't know about the pitchforks," I said, looking over the
creek at the sky; "but am very much afraid that it is going to rain
rain-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 staid
at home."

Sure enough, it commenced to rain that night, and we had showers all
the next day. We staid in camp during the morning, and I smoked and
we played checkers, and had a very cosy time, with a wood fire burning
under a tree near by. We kept up this fire, not to dry the air, but to
make things look comfortable. In the afternoon I dressed myself up in
water-proof coat, boots and hat, and went out fishing. I went down to
the water and fished along the banks for an hour, but caught nothing of
any consequence. This was a great disappointment, for we had expected to
live on fresh fish for a great part of the time while we were camping.
With plenty of fish, we could do without meat very well.

We talked the matter over on my return, and we agreed that as it seemed
impossible to depend upon a supply of fish, from the waters about our
camp, it would be better to let old John bring fresh meat from the
butcher, and as neither of us liked crackers, we also agreed that he
should bring bread.

Our greatest trouble, that evening, was to make a fire. The wood, of
which there was a good deal lying about under the trees, was now all wet
and would not burn. However, we managed to get up a fire in the stove,
but I did not know what we were going to do in the morning. We should
have stored away some wood under shelter.

We set our little camp-table in the tent, and we had scarcely finished
our supper, when a very heavy rain set in, accompanied by a violent
wind. The canvas at one end of our tent must have been badly fastened,
for it was blown in, and in an instant our beds were deluged. I rushed
out to fasten up the canvas, and got drenched almost to the skin, and
although Euphemia put on her waterproof cloak as soon as she could, she
was pretty wet, for the rain seemed to dash right through the tent.

This gust of wind did not last long, and the rain soon settled down into
a steady drizzle, but we were in a sad plight. It was after nine o'clock
before we had put things 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 get
something to spread over them. I don't want to do it, but we mustn't
catch 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 left
alone. It was still raining, though not very hard, and I carried an
umbrella and a lantern. Climbing fences at night with a wife, a lantern,
and an umbrella to take care of, is not very agreeable, but we managed
to reach the house, although once or twice we had an argument in regard
to the path, which seemed to be very different at night from what it was
in the day-time.

Lord Edward came bounding to the gate to meet us, and I am happy to say
that he knew me at once, and wagged his tail in a very sociable way.

I had the key of a side-door in my pocket, for we had thought it wise to
give ourselves command of this door, and so we let ourselves in without
ringing or waking Pomona.

All was quiet within, and we went upstairs with the lantern. Everything
seemed clean and in order, and it is impossible to convey any idea of
the element of comfort which seemed to pervade the house, as we quietly
made our way upstairs, in our wet boots and heavy, damp clothes.

The articles we wanted were in a closet, and while I was making a bundle
of them, Euphemia went to look for Pomona. She soon returned, walking
softly.

"She's sound asleep," said she, "and I didn't think there was any need
of waking her. We'll send word by John that we've been here. And oh!
you can't imagine how snug and happy she did look, lying there in her
comfortable bed, in that nice, airy room. I'll tell you what it is, if
it wasn't for the neighbors, and especially the Atkinsons, I wouldn't go
back one step."

"Well," said I, "I don't know that I care so particularly about it,
myself. But I suppose I couldn't stay here and leave all Thompson's
things out there to take care of themselves."

"Oh no!" said Euphemia. "And we're not going to back down. Are you
ready?"

On our way down-stairs we had to pass the partly open door of our own
room. I could not help holding up the lantern to look in. There was the
bed, with its fair white covering and its smooth, soft pillows; there
were the easy-chairs, the pretty curtains, the neat and cheerful carpet,
the bureau, with Euphemia's work-basket on it; there was the little
table with the book that we had been reading together, turned face
downward upon it; there were my slippers; there was--

"Come!" said Euphemia, "I can't bear to look in there. It's like a dead
child."

And so we hurried out into the night and the rain. We stopped at the
wood-shed and got an armful of dry kindling, which Euphemia was obliged
to carry, as I had the bundle of bed-clothing, the umbrella, and the
lantern.

Lord Edward gave a short, peculiar bark as we shut the gate behind us,
but whether it was meant as a fond farewell, or a hoot of derision, I
cannot say.

We found everything as we left it at the camp, and we made our beds
apparently dry. But I did not sleep well. I could not help thinking that
it was not safe to sleep in a bed with a substratum of wet mattress, and
I worried Euphemia a little by asking her several times if she felt the
dampness striking through.

To our great delight, the next day was fine and clear, and I thought I
would like, better than anything else, to take Euphemia in a boat up the
river and spend the day rowing about, or resting in shady places on the
shore.

But what could we do about the tent? It would be impossible to go away
and leave that, with its contents, for a whole day.

When old John came with our water, milk, bread, and a basket of
vegetables, we told him of our desired excursion, and the difficulty in
the way. This good man, who always had a keen scent for any advantage
to himself, warmly praised the boating plan, and volunteered to send his
wife and two of his younger children to stay with the tent while we were
away.

The old woman, he said, could do her sewing here as well as anywhere,
and she would stay all day for fifty cents.

This plan pleased us, and we sent for Mrs. Old John, who came with three
of her children,--all too young to leave behind, she said,--and took
charge of the camp.

Our day proved to be as delightful as we had anticipated, and when we
returned, hungry and tired, we were perfectly charmed to find that Mrs.
Old John had our supper ready for us.

She charged a quarter, extra, for this service, and we did not begrudge
it to her, though we declined her offer to come every day and cook and
keep the place in order.

"However," said Euphemia, on second thoughts, "you may come on Saturday
and clean up generally."

The next day, which was Friday, I went out in the morning with the
gun. As yet I had shot nothing, for I had seen no birds about the camp,
which, without breaking the State laws, I thought I could kill, and so I
started off up the river-road.

I saw no game, but after I had walked about a mile, I met a man in a
wagon.

"Hello," said he, pulling up; "you'd better be careful how you go
popping around here on the public roads, frightening horses."

As I had not yet fired a single shot, I thought this was a very impudent
speech, and I think so still.

"You had better wait until I begin to pop," said I, "before you make
such a fuss about it."

"No," said he, "I'd rather make the fuss before you begin. My horse is
skittish," and he drove off.

This man annoyed me; but as I did not, of course, wish to frighten
horses, I left the road and made my way back to the tent over some very
rough fields. It was a poor day for birds, and I did not get a shot.

"What a foolish man!" said Euphemia, when I told her the above incident,
"to talk that way when you stood there with a gun in your hand. You
might have raked his wagon, fore and aft."

That afternoon, as Euphemia and I were sitting under a tree by the
tent, we were very much surprised to see Pomona come walking down the
peninsula.

I was annoyed and provoked at this. We had given Pomona positive orders
not to leave the place, under any pretense, while we were gone. If
necessary to send for anything, she could go to the fence, back of the
barn, and scream across a small field to some of the numerous members
of old John's family. Under this arrangement, I felt that the house was
perfectly safe.

Before she could reach us, I called out:

"Why did you leave the house, Pomona? Don't you know you should never
come away and leave the house empty? I thought I had made you understand
that."

"It isn't empty," said Pomona, in an entirely unruffled tone. "Your old
boarder 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 over
four years old now."

"Oh!" said Euphemia, "I know! It's his grandchild."

"Grandchild!" repeated Pomona, with her countenance more expressive of
emotion than I had ever yet seen it.

"Yes," said Euphemia; "but how long are they going to stay? Where did
you tell them we were?"

"They didn't say how long they was goin' to stay," answered Pomona. "I
told them you had gone to be with some friends in the country, and that
I didn't know whether you'd be home 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're
not your own friends, I don't know who is. And I wasn't a-goin' to tell
the boarder where you was till I found out whether you wanted me to do
it or not. And so I left 'em and run over to old John's, and then down
here."

It was impossible to find fault with the excellent management of Pomona.

"What were they doing?" asked Euphemia.

"I opened the parlor, and she was in there with the child,--putting it
to sleep on the sofa, I think. The 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 might
as well break up our camp, for we could not tell when we should be able
to come back to it.

We discussed the matter very anxiously, and finally concluded that
under the circumstances, and considering what Pomona had said about
our whereabouts, it would be well for us to stay where we were and for
Pomona to take charge of the visitors. If they returned to the city that
evening, she was to give them a good supper before they went, sending
John to the store for what was needed. If they stayed all night, she
could get breakfast for them.

"We can write," said Euphemia, "and invite them to come and spend some
days with us, when we are at home and everything is all right. I want
dreadfully to see that child, but I don't see how I can do it now."

"No," said I. "They're sure to stay all night if we go up to the house,
and then I should have to have the tent and things hauled away, for I
couldn't leave them here."

"The fact is," said Euphemia, "if we were miles away, in the woods
of Maine, we couldn't leave our camp to see anybody. And this is
practically the same."

"Certainly," said I; and so Pomona went away to her new charge.



CHAPTER XI. THE BOARDER'S VISIT.


For the rest of the afternoon, and indeed far into the night, our
conversation consisted almost entirely of conjectures regarding the
probable condition of things at the house. We both thought we had done
right, but we felt badly about it. It was not hospitable, to be sure;
but then I should have no other holiday until next year, and our friends
could come at any time to see us.

The next morning old John brought a note from Pomona. It was written
with pencil on a small piece of paper torn from the margin of a
newspaper, and contained the words, "Here yit."

"So you've got company," said old John, with a smile. "That's a queer
gal 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 anything
that would cut off the nice little revenue he was making out of our
camp, and so we felt no concern on that score.

But we were very anxious for further news, and we told old John to go to
the house about ten o'clock and ask Pomona to send us another note.

We waited, in a very disturbed condition of mind, until nearly eleven
o'clock, when old John came with a verbal message from Pomona:

"She says she's a-comin' herself as soon as she can get a chance to slip
off."

This was not pleasant news. It filled our minds with a confused mass of
probabilities, and it made us feel mean. How contemptible it seemed to
be a party to this concealment and in league with a servant-girl who has
to "slip off!"

Before long, Pomona appeared, quite out of breath.

"In all my life," said she, "I never see people like them two. I thought
I 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 last
night."

"Oh, we'll have to go up to the house," said Euphemia. "It won't do to
stay away any longer."

"Well," said Pomona, fanning herself with her apron, "if you know'd all
I know, I don't think you'd think so."

"What do you mean?" said Euphemia.

"Well, ma'am, they've just settled down and taken possession of the
whole place. He says to me that he know'd you'd both want them to make
themselves at home, just as if you was there, and they thought they'd
better do it. He asked me did I think you would be home by Monday, and
I 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 till
they come. And he says he would go down to the store and order some
things, if there wasn't enough in the house, and he asked her to see
what would be needed, which she did, and he's gone down for 'em now. And
she says that, as it was Saturday, she'd see that the house was all put
to rights; and after breakfast she set me to sweepin'; and it's only by
way of her dustin' the parlor and givin' me the little girl to take for
a walk that I got off at all."

"But what have you done with the child?" exclaimed Euphemia.

"Oh, I left her at old 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?" asked
Euphemia.

"Oh, well," said Pomona, "he's no stranger, and she's real pleasant, and
if it gives you a good camp out, I don't mind."

Euphemia and I looked at each other. Here was true allegiance. We would
remember this.

Pomona now hurried off, and we seriously discussed the matter, and soon
came to the conclusion that while it might be the truest hospitality to
let our friends stay at our house for a day or two and enjoy themselves,
still it would not do for us to allow ourselves to be governed by a too
delicate sentimentality. We must go home and act our part of host and
hostess.

Mrs. Old John had been at the camp ever since breakfast-time, giving the
place a Saturday cleaning. What she had found to occupy her for so
long a time I could not imagine, but in her efforts to put in a full
half-day's work, I have no doubt she scrubbed some of the trees. We had
been so fully occupied with our own affairs that we had paid very little
attention to her, but she had probably heard pretty much all that had
been said.

At noon we paid her (giving her, at her suggestion, something extra in
lieu of the midday meal, which she did not stay to take), and told her
to send her husband, with his wagon, as soon as possible, as we intended
to break up our encampment. We determined that we would pack everything
in John's wagon, and let him take the load to his house, and keep
it there until Monday, when I would have the tent and accompaniments
expressed to their owner. We would go home and join our friends. It
would not be necessary to say where we had been.

It was hard for us to break up our camp. In many respects we had enjoyed
the novel experience, and we had fully expected, during the next week,
to make up for all our short-comings and mistakes. It seemed like losing
all our labor and expenditure, to break up now, but there was no help
for it. Our place was at home.

We did not wish to invite our friends to the camp. They would certainly
have come had they known we were there, but we had no accommodations for
them, neither had we any desire for even transient visitors. Besides,
we both thought that we would prefer that our ex-boarder and his wife
should not know that we were encamped on that little peninsula.

We set to work to pack up and get ready for moving, but the afternoon
passed away without bringing old John. Between five and six o'clock
along came his oldest boy, with a bucket of water.

"I'm to go back after the milk," he said.

"Hold up!" I cried. "Where is your father and his wagon? We've been
waiting for him for hours."

"The horse is 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 always
some one to send, in a family like yours."

To this the boy made no answer, but again said that he would go after
the milk.

"We want you to bring no milk," I cried, now quite angry. "I want you to
go down to the station, and tell the driver of the express-wagon to come
here immediately. Do you understand? Immediately."

The boy declared he understood, and started off quite willingly. We
did not prefer to have the express-wagon, for it was too public a
conveyance, and, besides, old John knew exactly how to do what was
required. But we need not have troubled ourselves. The express-wagon did
not come.

When it became dark, we saw that we could not leave that night. Even if
a wagon did come, it would not be safe to drive over the fields in
the darkness. And we could not go away and leave the camp-equipage. I
proposed that Euphemia should go up to the house, while I remained in
camp. But she declined. We would keep together, whatever happened, she
said.

We unpacked our cooking-utensils and provisions, and had supper. There
was no milk for our coffee, but we did not care. The evening did
not pass gayly. We were annoyed by the conduct of old John and the
express-boy, though, perhaps, it was not their fault. I had given them
no notice that I should need them.

And we were greatly troubled at the continuance of the secrecy and
subterfuge which now had become really necessary, if we did not wish to
hurt 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 not
move on Sunday.

But Euphemia did not agree with me. After breakfast (we found that the
water and the milk had been brought very early, before we were up) she
stated that she did not intend to be treated in this way. She was going
up to old John's house herself; and away she went.

In less than half an hour, she returned, followed by old John and his
wife, both looking much as if they had been whipped.

"These people," said she, "have entered into a conspiracy against us. I
have questioned them thoroughly, and have made them answer me. The horse
was at home yesterday, and the boy did not go after the express-wagon.
They thought that if they could keep us here, until our company had
gone, we would stay as long as we originally intended, and they would
continue to make money out of us. But they are mistaken. We are going
home immediately."

At this point I could not help thinking that Euphemia might have
consulted me in regard to her determination, but she was very much in
earnest, and I would not have any discussion before these people.

"Now, listen!" said Euphemia, addressing the down-cast couple, "we are
going home, and you two are to stay here all this day and to-night, and
take care of these things. You can't work to-day, and you can shut up
your house, and bring your whole family here if you choose. We will pay
you for the service,--although you do not deserve a cent,--and we will
leave enough here for you to eat. You must bring your own sheets and
pillowcases, and stay here until we see you on Monday morning."

Old John and his wife agreed to this plan with the greatest alacrity,
apparently well pleased to get off so easily; and, having locked up the
smaller articles of camp-furniture, we filled a valise with our personal
baggage 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, and
before we reached the door, Pomona came running out, her face radiant.

"I'm awful glad to see you back," she said; "though I'd never have said
so while you was in camp."

I patted the dog and looked into the garden. Everything was growing
splendidly. Euphemia rushed to the chicken-yard. It was in first-rate
order, and there were two broods of little yellow puffy chicks.

Down on her knees went my wife, to pick up the little creatures, one
by one, press their downy bodies to her cheek, and call them
tootsy-wootsies, and away went I to the barn, followed by Pomona, and
soon afterward by Euphemia.

The cow was all right.

"I've been making butter," said Pomona, "though it don't look exactly
like it ought to, yet, and the skim-milk I didn't know what to do with,
so I gave it to old John. He came for it every day, and was real mad
once because I had given a lot of it to the dog, and couldn't let him
have but a pint."

"He ought to have been mad," said I to Euphemia, as we walked up to the
house. "He got ten cents a quart for that milk."

We laughed, and didn't care. We were too glad to be at home.

"But where are our friends?" I asked Pomona. We had actually forgotten
them.

"Oh! they're gone out for a walk," said she. "They started off right
after breakfast."

We were not sorry for this. It would be so much nicer to see our dear
home again when there was nobody there but ourselves. In-doors we
rushed. Our absence had been like rain on a garden. Everything now
seemed fresher and brighter and more delightful. We went from room to
room, and seemed to appreciate better than ever what a charming home we
had.

We were so full of the delights of our return that we forgot all about
the Sunday dinner and our guests, but Pomona, whom my wife was training
to be an excellent cook, did not forget, and Euphemia was summoned to a
consultation in the kitchen.

Dinner was late; but our guests were later. We waited as long as the
state of the provisions and our appetites would permit, and then we sat
down to the table and began to eat slowly. But they did not come. We
finished our meal, and they were still absent. We now became quite
anxious, and I proposed to Euphemia that we should go and look for them.

We started out, and our steps naturally turned toward the river. An
unpleasant thought began to crowd itself into my mind, and perhaps the
same thing happened to Euphemia, for, without saying anything to each
other, we both turned toward the path that led to the peninsula. We
crossed the field, climbed the fence, and there, in front of the tent
sat our old boarder splitting sticks with the camp-hatchet.

"Hurrah!" he cried, springing to his feet when he saw us. "How glad I am
to see you back! When did you return? Isn't this splendid?"

"What?" I said, as we shook hands.

"Why this," he cried, pointing to the tent. "Don't you see? We're
camping out."

"You are?" I exclaimed, looking around for his wife, while Euphemia
stood motionless, actually unable to make a remark.

"Certainly we are. It's the rarest bit of luck. My wife and Adele will
be here directly. They've gone to look for water-cresses. But I must
tell you how I came to make this magnificent find. We started out for a
walk this morning, and we happened to hit on this place, and here we saw
this gorgeous tent with nobody near but a little tow-headed boy."

"Only a boy?" cried Euphemia.

"Yes, a young shaver of about nine or ten. I asked him what he was doing
here, and he told me that this tent belonged to a gentleman who had gone
away, and that he was here to watch it until he came back. Then I asked
him how long the owner would probably be away, and he said he supposed
for a day or two. Then a splendid idea struck me. I offered the boy
a dollar to let me take his place: I knew that any sensible man would
rather have me in charge of his tent, than a young codger like that. The
boy agreed as quick as lightning, and I paid him and sent him off. You
see how little he was to be trusted! The owner of this tent will be
under the greatest obligations to me. Just look at it!" he cried. "Beds,
table, stove,--everything anybody could want. I've camped out lots of
times, but never had such a tent as this. I intended coming up this
afternoon after my valise, and to tell your girl where we are. But here
is my wife and little Adele."

In the midst of the salutations and the mutual surprise, Euphemia cried:

"But you don't expect to camp out, now? You are coming back to our
house?"

"You see," said the ex-boarder, "we should never have thought of doing
anything so rude, had we supposed you would have returned so soon. But
your girl gave us to understand that you would not be back for days, and
so we felt free to go at any time; and I did not hesitate to make this
arrangement. And now that I have really taken the responsibility of the
tent and fixtures on myself, I don't think it would be right to go away
and leave the place, especially as I don't know where to find that boy.
The owner will be back in a day or two, and I would like to explain
matters to him and give up the property in good order into his hands.
And, to tell the truth, we both adore camping-out, and we may never have
such a chance again. We can live here splendidly. I went out to forage
this morning, and found an old fellow living near by who sold me a lot
of provisions--even some coffee and sugar--and he's to bring us some
milk. We're going to have supper in about an hour; won't you stay and
take a camp-meal with us? It will be a novelty for you, at any rate."

We declined this invitation, as we had so lately dined. I looked at
Euphemia with a question in my eye. She understood me, and gently shook
her head. It would be a shame to make any explanations which might put
an end to this bit of camp-life, which evidently was so eagerly enjoyed
by our old friend. But we insisted that they should come up to the
house and see us, and they agreed to dine with us the next evening. On
Tuesday, they must return to the city.

"Now, this is what I call real hospitality," said the ex-boarder, warmly
grasping my hand. I could not help agreeing with him.

As we walked home, I happened to look back and saw old John going over
the fields toward the camp, carrying a little tin-pail and a water
bucket.

The next day, toward evening, a storm set in, and at the hour fixed for
our dinner, the rain was pouring down in such torrents that we did not
expect our guests. After dinner the rain ceased, and as we supposed that
they might not have made any preparations for a meal, Euphemia packed up
some dinner for them in a basket, and I took it down to the camp.

They were glad to see me, and said they had a splendid time all day.
They were up before sunrise, and had explored, tramped, boated, and I
don't know what else.

My basket was very acceptable, and I would have stayed awhile with them,
but as they were obliged to eat in the tent, there was no place for me
to sit, it being too wet outside, and so I soon came away.

We were in doubt whether or not to tell our friends the true history
of the camp. I thought that it was not right to keep up the deception,
while Euphemia declared that if they were sensitive people, they would
feel very badly at having broken up our plans by their visit, and then
having appropriated our camp to themselves. She thought it would be the
part of magnanimity to say nothing about it.

I could not help seeing a good deal of force in her arguments, although
I wished very much to set the thing straight, and we discussed the
matter again as we walked down to the camp, after breakfast next
morning.

There we found old John sitting on a stump. He said nothing, but handed
me a note written in lead-pencil on a card. It was from our ex-boarder,
and informed me that early that morning he had found that there was a
tug lying in the river, which would soon start for the city. He also
found that he could get passage on her for his party, and as this was
such a splendid chance to go home without the bother of getting up to
the station, he had just bundled his family and his valise on board, and
was very sorry they did not have time to come up and bid us good-bye.
The tent he left in charge of a very respectable man, from whom he had
had supplies.

That morning I had the camp-equipage packed up and expressed to its
owner. We did not care to camp out any more that season, but thought it
would 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 we
should return their visit during my holidays; but as we did not see
exactly how we could return a visit of the kind, we did not try to do
it.



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 was
winter with us, and we were ready for it. That was the great point,
and it made us proud to think that we had not been taken unawares,
notwithstanding the many things that were to be thought of on a little
farm like ours.

It is true that we had always been prepared for winter, wherever we had
lived; but this was a different case. In other days it did not matter
much whether we were ready or not; but now our house, our cow, our
poultry, and indeed ourselves, might have suffered,--there is no way
of finding out exactly how much,--if we had not made all possible
preparations for the coming of cold weather.

But there was a great deal yet to be thought of and planned out,
although we were ready for winter. The next thing to think of was
spring.

We laid out the farm. We decided where we would have wheat, corn,
potatoes, and oats. We would have a man by the day to sow and reap. The
intermediate processes I thought I could attend to myself.

Everything was talked over, ciphered over, and freely discussed by
my wife and myself, except one matter, which I planned and worked out
alone, doing most of the necessary calculations at the office, so as not
to excite Euphemia's curiosity.

I had determined to buy a horse. This would be one of the most important
events of our married life, and it demanded a great deal of thought,
which I gave it.

The horse was chosen for me by a friend. He was an excellent beast (the
horse), excelling, as my friend told me, in muscle and wit. Nothing
better than this could be said about a horse. He was a sorrel animal,
quite handsome, gentle enough for Euphemia to drive, and not too
high-minded to do a little farm-work, if necessary. He was exactly the
animal I needed.

The carriage was not quite such a success. The horse having cost a good
deal more than I expected to pay, I found that I could only afford a
second-hand carriage. I bought a good, serviceable vehicle, which would
hold four persons, if necessary, and there was room enough to pack all
sorts of parcels and baskets. It was with great satisfaction that
I contemplated this feature of the carriage, which was a rather
rusty-looking affair, although sound and strong enough. The harness was
new, and set off the horse admirably.

On the afternoon when my purchases were completed, I did not come home
by 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 traveled
splendidly. If I had been a line of kings a mile long, all in their
chariots of state, with gold and silver, and outriders, and music, and
banners waving in the wind, I could not have been prouder than when I
drew up in front of my house.

There was a wagon-gate at one side of the front fence which had never
been used except by the men who brought coal, and I got out and opened
this, very quietly, so as not to attract the attention of Euphemia. It
was earlier than I usually returned, and she would not be expecting
me. I was then about to lead the horse up a somewhat grass-grown
carriage-way to the front door, but I reflected that Euphemia might be
looking out of some of the windows and I had better drive up. So I got
in and drove very slowly to the door.

However, she heard the unaccustomed noise of wheels, and looked out of
the parlor window. She did not see me, but immediately came around
to the door. I hurried out of the carriage so quickly that, not being
familiar with the steps, I barely escaped tripping.

When she opened the front door she was surprised to see me standing by
the horse.

"Have you hired a carriage?" she cried. "Are we going to ride?"

"My dear," said I, as I took her by the hand, "we are going to ride. But
I have not hired a carriage. I have bought one. Do you see this horse?
He is ours--our own horse."

If you could have seen the face that was turned up to me,--all you other
men in the world,--you would have torn your hair in despair.

Afterward she went around and around that horse; she patted his smooth
sides; she looked, with admiration, at his strong, well-formed legs; she
stroked 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 pleasure
it was to water one's own horse!--Euphemia rushed into the house and got
her hat and cloak, and we took a little drive.

I doubt if any horse ever drew two happier people. Euphemia said but
little about the carriage. That was a necessary adjunct, and it was good
enough for the present. But the horse! How nobly and with what vigor
he pulled us up the hills and how carefully and strongly he held the
carriage back as we went down! How easily he trotted over the level
road, caring nothing for the ten miles he had gone that afternoon! What
a sensation of power it gave us to think that all that strength and
speed and endurance was ours, that it would go where we wished, that it
would wait for us as long as we chose, that it was at our service day
and night, that it was a horse, and we owned it!

When we returned, Pomona saw us drive in,--she had not known of our
ride,--and when she heard the news she was as wild with proud delight as
anybody. She wanted to unharness him, but this I could not allow. We did
not wish to be selfish, but after she had seen and heard what we thought
was enough for her, we were obliged to send her back to the kitchen for
the sake of the dinner.

Then we unharnessed him. I say we, for Euphemia stood by and I explained
everything, 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 his
hoofs sounded on the stable floor!

There was hay in the mow and I had brought a bag of oats under the seat
of the carriage.

"Isn't it just 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 be
deprived 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. She
drove back and Old John came up and attended to the horse. This he was
to do, for the present, for a small stipend. In the afternoon Euphemia
came down after me. How I enjoyed those rides! Before this I had thought
it ever so much more pleasant and healthful to walk to and from the
station than to ride, but then I did not own a horse. At night I
attended to everything, Euphemia generally following me about the stable
with a lantern. When the days grew longer we would have delightful rides
after dinner, and even now we planned to have early breakfasts, and go
to the station by the longest possible way.

One day, in the following spring, I was riding home from the station
with Euphemia,--we seldom took pleasure-drives now, we were so busy
on the place,--and as we reached the house I heard the dog barking
savagely. He was loose in the little orchard by the side of the house.
As I drove in, Pomona came running to the carriage.

"Man up the tree!" she shouted.

I helped Euphemia out, left the horse standing by the door, and ran to
the dog, followed by my wife and Pomona. Sure enough, there was a man
up the tree, and Lord Edward was doing his best to get at him, springing
wildly at the tree and fairly shaking with rage.

I looked up at the man, he was a thoroughbred tramp, burly, dirty,
generally unkempt, but, unlike most tramps, he looked very much
frightened. His position, on a high crotch of an apple-tree, was not
altogether comfortable, and although, for the present, it was safe, the
fellow seemed to have a wavering faith in the strength of apple-tree
branches, and the moment he saw me, he earnestly besought me to take
that dog away, and let him down.

I made no answer, but turning to Pomona, I asked her what this all
meant.

"Why, sir, you see," said she, "I was in the kitchen bakin' pies, and
this fellow must have got over the fence at the side of the house, for
the dog didn't see him, and the first thing I know'd he was stickin' his
head in the window, and he asked me to give him somethin' to eat. And
when I said I'd see in a minute if there was anything for him, he says
to me, 'Gim me a piece of one of them pies,'--pies I'd just baked and
was settin' to cool on the kitchen table! 'No, sir,' says I, 'I'm
not goin' to cut one of them pies for you, or any one like you.' 'All
right!' says he. 'I'll come in and help myself.' He must have known
there was no man about, and, comin' the way he did, he hadn't seen the
dog. So he come round to the kitchen door, but I shot out before he got
there and unchained Lord Edward. I guess he saw the dog, when he got to
the door, and at any rate he heard the chain clankin', and he didn't go
in, but just put for the gate. But Lord Edward was after him so quick
that he hadn't no time to go to no gates. It was all he could do to
scoot up this tree, and if he'd been a millionth part of a minute later
he'd 'a' been in another world by this time."

The man, who had not attempted to interrupt Pomona's speech, now began
again to implore me to let him down, while Euphemia looked pitifully at
him, and was about, I think, to intercede with me in his favor, but my
attention was drawn off from her, by the strange conduct of the dog.
Believing, I suppose, that he might leave the tramp for a moment, now
that I had arrived, he had dashed away to another tree, where he was
barking furiously, standing on his hind legs and clawing at the trunk.

"What's the matter over there?" I asked.

"Oh, that's the other fellow," said Pomona. "He's no harm." And then,
as the tramp made a movement as if he would try to come down, and make
a rush for safety, during the absence of the dog, she called out, "Here,
boy! here, boy!" and in an instant Lord Edward was again raging at his
post, at the foot of the apple-tree.

I was grievously puzzled at all this, and walked over to the other tree,
followed, as before, by Euphemia and Pomona.

"This one," said the latter, "is a tree-man--"

"I should think so," said I, as I caught sight of a person in gray
trowsers standing among the branches of a cherry-tree not very far from
the kitchen door. The tree was not a large one, and the branches were
not strong enough to allow him to sit down on them, although they
supported him well enough, as he stood close to the trunk just out of
reach of Lord Edward.

"This is a very unpleasant position, sir," said he, when I reached
the tree. "I simply came into your yard, on a matter of business, and
finding that raging beast attacking a person in a tree, I had barely
time to get up into this tree myself, before he dashed at me. Luckily
I was out of his reach; but I very much fear I have lost some of my
property."

"No, he hasn't," said Pomona. "It was a big book he dropped. I picked
it up and took it into the house. It's full of pictures of pears and
peaches and flowers. I've been lookin' at it. That's how I knew what he
was. And there was no call for his gittin' up a tree. Lord Edward never
would have gone after him if he hadn't run as if he had guilt on his
soul."

"I suppose, then," said I, addressing the individual in the cherry-tree,
"that you came here to sell me some trees."

"Yes, sir," said he quickly, "trees, shrubs, vines,
evergreens,--everything suitable for a gentleman's country villa. I
can sell you something quite remarkable, sir, in the way of
cherry-trees,--French ones, just imported; bear fruit three times
the size of anything that could be produced on a tree like this. And
pears--fruit of the finest flavor and enormous size--"

"Yes," said Pomona. "I seen them in the book. But they must grow on a
ground-vine. No tree couldn't hold such pears as them."

Here Euphemia reproved Pomona's forwardness, and I invited the
tree-agent to get down out of the tree.

"Thank you," said he; "but not while that dog is loose. If you will
kindly chain him up, I will get my book, and show you specimens of some
of the finest small fruit in the world, all imported from the first
nurseries of Europe--the Red-gold Amber 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 my
mind. We had not spent much money on the place during the winter, and
we now had a small sum which we intended to use for the advantage of the
farm, but had not yet decided what to do with it. It behooved me to be
careful.

I told Pomona to run and get me the dog-chain, and I stood under the
tree, listening, as well as I could, to the tree-agent talking to
Euphemia, and paying no attention to the impassioned entreaties of the
tramp in the crotch above me. When the chain was brought, I hooked one
end of it in Lord Edward's collar, and then I took a firm grasp of the
other. Telling Pomona to bring the tree-agent's book from the house, I
called to that individual to get down from 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 very
long." And, indeed, Lord Edward had made a run toward the agent, which
jerked me very forcibly in his direction. But a movement by the tramp
had quickly brought the dog back to his more desired victim.

"If you will just tie up that dog, sir," said the agent, "and come this
way, I would like to show you the Meltinagua pear,--dissolves in the
mouth like snow, sir; trees will bear next year."

"Oh, come look at the Royal Sparkling Ruby grape!" cried Euphemia. "It
glows in the sun like a gem."

"Yes," said the agent, "and fills the air with fragrance during the
whole month of September--"

"I tell you," I shouted, "I can't hold this dog another minute! The
chain is cutting the skin off my hands. Run, sir, run! I'm going to let
go!"

"Run! run!" cried Pomona. "Fly for your life!"

The agent now began to be frightened, and shut up his book.

"If you 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. But
there he stopped.

"There is nothing, sir," he said, "that would so improve your place as
a row of the Spitzenberg Sweet-scented Balsam fir along this fence. I'll
sell you three-year-old trees--"

"He's loose!" I shouted, as I dropped the chain.

In a second the agent was on the other side of the gate. Lord Edward
made a dash toward him; but, stopping suddenly, flew back to the tree of
the tramp.

"If you should conclude, sir," said the tree-agent, looking over the
fence, "to have a row of those firs along here--"

"My good sir," said I, "there is no row of firs there now, and the fence
is not very high. My dog, as you see, is very much excited and I cannot
answer for the consequences if he takes it into his head to jump over."

The tree-agent turned and walked slowly away.

"Now, look-a-here," cried the tramp from the tree, in the voice of a
very ill-used person, "ain't you goin' to fasten up that dog, and let me
git down?"

I walked up close to the tree and addressed him.

"No," said I, "I am not. When a man comes to my place, bullies a young
girl who was about to relieve his hunger, and then boldly determines
to enter my house and help himself to my property, I don't propose to
fasten up any dog that may happen to be after him. If I had another dog,
I'd let him loose, and give this faithful beast a rest. You can do as
you please. You can come down and have it out with the dog, or you can
stay up there, until I have had my dinner. Then I will drive down to the
village and bring up the constable, and deliver you into his hands. We
want no such fellows as you about."

With that, I unhooked the chain from Lord Edward, and walked off to put
up the horse. The man shouted after me, but I paid no attention. I did
not feel in a good humor with him.

Euphemia was much disturbed by the various occurrences of the afternoon.
She was sorry for the man in the tree; she was sorry that the agent for
the Royal Ruby grape had been obliged to go away; and I had a good deal
of trouble during dinner to make her see things in the proper light. But
I succeeded at last.

I did not hurry through dinner, and when we had finished I went to my
work at the barn. Tramps are not generally pressed for time, and Pomona
had been told to give our captive something to eat.

I was just locking the door of the carriage-house, when Pomona came
running to me to tell me that the tramp wanted to see me about something
very important--just a minute, he said. I put the key in my pocket and
walked over to the tree. It was now almost dark, but I could see that
the dog, the tramp, and the tree still kept their respective places.

"Look-a-here," said the individual in the crotch, "you don't know how
dreadful oneasy these limbs gits after you've been settin up here
as long as I have. And I don't want to have nuthin to do with no
constables. I'll tell you what I'll do if you'll chain up that dog, and
let me go, I'll fix things so that you'll not be troubled no more by no
tramps."

"How will you do that?" I asked.

"Oh, never you mind," said he. "I'll give you my word of honor I'll do
it. 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 was
could not be worth much, but the merest chance of getting rid of
tramps should not be neglected. I went in to talk to Euphemia about it,
although I knew what she would say. I reasoned with myself as much as
with her.

"If we put this one fellow in prison for a few weeks," I said, "the
benefit is not very great. If we are freed from all tramps, for the
season, the benefit is very great. Shall we try for the greatest good?"

"Certainly," said Euphemia; "and his legs must be dreadfully stiff."

So I went out, and after a struggle of some minutes, I chained Lord
Edward to a post at a little distance from the apple-tree. When he was
secure, the tramp descended nimbly from his perch, notwithstanding his
stiff legs, and hurried out of the gate. He stopped to make no remarks
over the fence. With a wild howl of disappointed ambition, Lord Edward
threw himself after him. But the chain held.