A lane of moderate length led from our house to the main road, and the
next day, as we were riding home, I noticed, on the trunk of a large
tree, which stood at the corner of the lane and road, a curious mark. I
drew up to see what it was, but we could not make it out. It was a very
rude device, cut deeply into the tree, and somewhat resembled a square,
a circle, a triangle, and a cross, with some smaller marks beneath it. I
felt sure that our tramp had cut it, and that it had some significance,
which would be understood by the members of his fraternity.

And it must have had, for no tramps came near us all that summer. We
were visited by a needy person now and then, but by no member of the
regular army of tramps.

One afternoon, that fall, I walked home, and at the corner of the lane
I saw a tramp looking up at the mark on the tree, which was still quite
distinct.

"What does that mean?" I said, stepping up to him.

"How do I know?" said the man, "and what do you want to know fur?"

"Just out of curiosity," I said; "I have often noticed it. I think
you can tell me what it means, and if you will do so, I'll give you a
dollar."

"And keep mum about it?" said the man.

"Yes," I replied, taking out the dollar.

"All right!" said the tramp. "That sign means that the man that lives up
this lane is a mean, stingy cuss, with a wicked dog, and it's no good to
go there."

I handed him the dollar and went away, perfectly satisfied with my
reputation.

I wish here to make some mention of Euphemia's methods of work in her
chicken-yard. She kept a book, which she at first called her "Fowl
Record," but she afterward changed the name to "Poultry Register." I
never could thoroughly understand this book, although she has often
explained every part of it to me. She had pages for registering the age,
description, time of purchase or of birth, and subsequent performances
of every fowl in her yard. She had divisions of the book for expenses,
profits, probable losses and positive losses; she noted the number of
eggs put under each setting hen; the number of eggs cracked per day, the
number spoiled, and finally, the number hatched. Each chick, on emerging
from its shell, was registered, and an account kept of its subsequent
life and adventures. There were frequent calculations regarding the
advantages of various methods of treatment, and there were statements of
the results of a great many experiments--something like this: "Set Toppy
and her sister Pinky, April 2nd 187-; Toppy with twelve eggs,--three
Brahma, four common, and five Leghorn; Pinky with thirteen eggs (as she
weighs four ounces more than her sister), of which three were Leghorn,
five common, and five Brahma. During the twenty-second and twenty-third
of April (same year) Toppy hatched out four Brahmas, two commons, and
three Leghorns, while her sister, on these days and the morning of the
day following, hatched two Leghorns, six commons, and only one Brahma.
Now, could Toppy, who had only three Brahma eggs, and hatched out four
of that breed, have exchanged eggs with her sister, thus making it
possible for her to hatch out six common chickens, when she only had
five eggs of that kind? Or, did the eggs get mixed up in some way before
going into the possession of the hens? Look into probabilities."

These probabilities must have puzzled Euphemia a great deal, but
they never disturbed her equanimity. She was always as tranquil and
good-humored about her poultry-yard as if every hen laid an egg every
day, and a hen-chick was hatched out of every egg.

For it may be remembered that the principle underlying Euphemia's
management of her poultry was what might be designated as the
"cumulative hatch." That is, she wished every chicken hatched in her
yard to become the mother of a brood of her own during the year, and
every one of this brood to raise another brood the next year, and so on,
in a kind of geometrical progression. This plan called for a great many
mother-fowls, and so Euphemia based her highest hopes on a great annual
preponderance of hens.

We ate a good many young roosters that fall, for Euphemia would not
allow all the products of her yard to go to market, and, also, a great
many eggs and fowls were sold. She had not contented herself with her
original stock of poultry, but had bought fowls during the winter, and
she certainly had extraordinary good luck, or else her extraordinary
system worked extraordinarily well.



CHAPTER XIII. POMONA'S NOVEL.


It was in the latter part of August of that year that it became
necessary for some one in the office in which I was engaged to go to St.
Louis to attend to important business. Everything seemed to point to me
as the fit person, for I understood the particular business better than
any one else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did not altogether like
to do it. I went home, and Euphemia and I talked over the matter far
into the regulation sleeping-hours.

There were very good reasons why we should go (for, of course, I would
not think of taking such a journey without Euphemia). In the first
place, it would be of advantage to me, in my business connection, to
take the trip, and then it would be such a charming journey for us. We
had never been west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the country we
would see would be new to us. We would come home by the great lakes
and Niagara, and the prospect was delightful to both of us. But then
we would have to leave Rudder Grange for at least three weeks, and how
could we do that?

This was indeed a difficult question to answer. Who could take care of
our garden, our poultry, our horse and cow, and all their complicated
belongings? The garden was in admirable condition. Our vegetables
were coming in every day in just that fresh and satisfactory
condition--altogether unknown to people who buy vegetables--for which
I had labored so faithfully, and about which I had had so many cheerful
anticipations. As to Euphemia's chicken-yard,--with Euphemia away,--the
subject was too great for us. We did not even discuss it. But we would
give up all the pleasures of our home for the chance of this most
desirable excursion, if we could but think of some one who would come
and take care of the place while we were gone. Rudder Grange could not
run itself for three weeks.

We thought of every available person. Old John would not do. We did not
feel that we could trust him. We thought of several of our friends;
but there was, in both our minds, a certain shrinking from the idea of
handing over the place to any of them for such a length of time. For my
part, I said, I would rather leave Pomona in charge than any one else;
but, then, Pomona was young and a girl. Euphemia agreed with me that she
would rather trust her than any one else, but she also agreed in
regard to the disqualifications. So, when I went to the office the next
morning, we had fully determined to go on the trip, if we could find
some one to take charge of our place while we were gone. When I returned
from the office in the afternoon, I had agreed to go to St. Louis. By
this time, I had no choice in the matter, unless I wished to interfere
very much with my own interests. We were to start in two days. If in
that time we could get any one to stay at the place, very well; if not,
Pomona must assume the charge. We were not able to get any one, and
Pomona did assume the charge. It is surprising how greatly relieved we
felt when we were obliged to come to this conclusion. The arrangement
was exactly what we wanted, and now that there was no help for it, our
consciences were easy.

We felt sure that there would be no danger to Pomona. Lord Edward would
be with her, and she was a young person who was extraordinarily well
able to take care of herself. Old John would be within call in case she
needed him, and I borrowed a bull-dog to be kept in the house at night.
Pomona herself was more than satisfied with the plan.

We made out, the night before we left, a long and minute series of
directions for her guidance in household, garden and farm matters, and
directed her to keep a careful record of everything note worthy that
might occur. She was fully supplied with all the necessaries of life,
and it has seldom happened that a young girl has been left in such a
responsible and independent position as that in which we left Pomona.
She was very proud of it.

Our journey was ten times more delightful than we had expected it would
be, and successful in every way; and yet, although we enjoyed every hour
of the trip, we were no sooner fairly on our way home than we became so
wildly anxious to get there, that we reached Rudder Grange on Wednesday,
whereas we had written that we would be home on Thursday. We arrived
early in the afternoon and walked up from the station, leaving our
baggage to be sent in the express wagon. As we approached our dear home,
we wanted to run, we were so eager to see it.

There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch; the gate was
locked. We ran to the carriage-gate; that was locked too. Just then I
noticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed, but the lettering
was large, apparently made with ink and a brush. It read:


     TO BE SOLD

      For TAXES.


We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia turned pale.

"What does this mean?" said I. "Has our landlord--"

I could say no more. The dreadful thought arose that the place might
pass away from us. We were not yet ready to buy it. But I did not put
the thought in words. There was a field next to our lot, and I got over
the fence and helped Euphemia over. Then we climbed our side-fence. This
was more difficult, but we accomplished it without thinking much about
its difficulties; our hearts were too full of painful apprehensions.
I hurried to the front door; it was locked. All the lower windows
were shut. We went around to the kitchen. What surprised us more than
anything else was the absence of Lord Edward. Had HE been sold?

Before we reached the back part of the house, Euphemia said she felt
faint and must sit down. I led her to a tree near by, under which I had
made a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She sat on the grass and I ran
to the pump for some water. I looked for the bright tin dipper which
always hung by the pump. It was not there. But I had a traveling-cup in
my pocket, and as I was taking it out I looked around me. There was an
air of bareness over everything. I did not know what it all meant, but
I know that my hand trembled as I took hold of the pump-handle and began
to pump.

At the first sound of the pump-handle I heard a deep bark in the
direction of the barn, and then furiously around the corner came Lord
Edward. Before I had filled the cup he was bounding about me. I believe
the glad welcome of the dog did more to revive Euphemia than the water.
He was delighted to see us, and in a moment up came Pomona, running from
the barn. Her face was radiant, too. We felt relieved. Here were two
friends who looked as if they were neither sold nor ruined.

Pomona quickly saw that we were ill at ease, and before I could put a
question to her, she divined the cause. Her countenance fell.

"You know," said she, "you said you wasn't comin' till to-morrow. If
you only HAD come then--I was goin' to have everything just exactly
right--an' now you had to climb in--"

And the poor girl looked as if she might cry, which would have been a
wonderful thing for Pomona to do.

"Tell me one thing," said I. "What about--those taxes?"

"Oh, that's all right," she cried. "Don't think another minute about
that. I'll tell you all about it soon. But come in first, and I'll get
you some lunch in a minute."

We were somewhat relieved by Pomona's statement that it was "all right"
in regard to the tax-poster, but we were very anxious to know all
about the matter. Pomona, however, gave us little chance to ask her any
questions. As soon as she had made ready our lunch, she asked us, as a
particular favor, to give her three-quarters of an hour to herself,
and then, said she, "I'll have everything looking just as if it was
to-morrow."

We respected her feelings, for, of course, it was a great disappointment
to her to be taken thus unawares, and we remained in the dining-room
until she appeared, and announced that she was ready for us to go about.
We availed ourselves quickly of the privilege, and Euphemia hurried to
the chicken-yard, while I bent my steps toward the garden and barn. As
I went out I noticed that the rustic chair was in its place, and passing
the pump I looked for the dipper. It was there. I asked Pomona about the
chair, but she did not answer as quickly as was her habit.

"Would you rather," said she, "hear it all together, when you come in,
or have it in little bits, head and tail, all of a jumble?"

I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought, and she was so
anxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather wait
and hear it all together. We found everything in perfect order,--the
garden was even free from weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it had
not been for that cloud on the front fence, I should have been happy
enough. Pomona had said it was all right, but she could not have paid
the taxes--however, I would wait; and I went to the barn.

When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, she called me and said she
was in a hurry to hear Pomona's account of things. So I went in, and we
sat on the side porch, where it was shady, while Pomona, producing some
sheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper step.

"I wrote down the things of any account what happened," said she, "as
you told me to, and while I was about it, I thought I'd make it like a
novel. It would be jus' as true, and p'r'aps more amusin'. I suppose you
don't mind?"

No, we didn't mind. So she went on.

"I haven't got no name for my novel. I intended to think one out
to-night. I wrote this all of nights. And I don't read the first
chapters, for they tell about my birth and my parentage and my early
adventures. I'll just come down to what happened to me while you was
away, because you'll be more anxious to hear about that. All that's
written here is true, jus' the same as if I told it to you, but I've put
it into novel language because it seems to come easier to me."

And then, in a voice somewhat different from her ordinary tones, as if
the "novel language" demanded it, she began to read:

"Chapter Five. The Lonely house and the Faithful friend. Thus was I left
alone. None but two dogs to keep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed the lowing kine
and water-ed and fed the steed, and then, after my fru-gal repast, I
clos-ed the man-si-on, shutting out all re-collections of the past and
also foresights into the future. That night was a me-mor-able one. I
slept soundly until the break of morn, but had the events transpired
which afterward occur-red, what would have hap-pen-ed to me no tongue
can tell. Early the next day nothing hap-pened. Soon after breakfast,
the vener-able John came to bor-row some ker-osene oil and a half
a pound of sugar, but his attempt was foil-ed. I knew too well the
in-sid-ious foe. In the very out-set of his vil-li-an-y I sent him
home with a empty can. For two long days I wander-ed amid the ver-dant
pathways of the gar-den and to the barn, whenever and anon my du-ty
call-ed me, nor did I ere neg-lect the fowlery. No cloud o'er-spread
this happy pe-ri-od of my life. But the cloud was ri-sing in the horizon
although I saw it not.

"It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven, on the morning of a
Thursday, that I sat pondering in my mind the ques-ti-on what to do with
the butter and the veg-et-ables. Here was butter, and here was green
corn and lima-beans and trophy tomats, far more than I ere could use.
And here was a horse, idly cropping the fol-i-age in the field, for as
my employer had advis-ed and order-ed I had put the steed to grass. And
here was a wagon, none too new, which had it the top taken off, or even
the curtains roll-ed up, would do for a li-cen-ced vender. With the
truck and butter, and mayhap some milk, I could load that wagon--"

"O, Pomona," interrupted Euphemia. "You don't mean to say that you were
thinking of doing anything like that?"

"Well, I was just beginning to think of it," said Pomona, "but of course
I couldn't have gone away and left the house. And you'll see I didn't do
it." And then she continued her novel. "But while my thoughts were thus
employ-ed, I heard Lord Edward burst into bark-ter--"

At this Euphemia and I could not help bursting into laughter. Pomona did
not seem at all confused, but went on with her reading.

"I hurried to the door, and, look-ing out, I saw a wagon at the gate.
Re-pair-ing there, I saw a man. Said he, 'Wilt open this gate?' I had
fasten-ed up the gates and remov-ed every steal-able ar-ticle from the
yard."

Euphemia and I looked at each other. This explained the absence of the
rustic seat and the dipper.

"Thus, with my mind at ease, I could let my faith-ful fri-end, the dog
(for he it was), roam with me through the grounds, while the fi-erce
bull-dog guard-ed the man-si-on within. Then said I, quite bold, unto
him, 'No. I let in no man here. My em-ploy-er and employ-er-ess are now
from home. What do you want?' Then says he, as bold as brass, 'I've
come to put the light-en-ing rods upon the house. Open the gate.' 'What
rods?' says I. 'The rods as was ordered,' says he, 'open the gate.' I
stood and gaz-ed at him. Full well I saw through his pinch-beck mask. I
knew his tricks. In the ab-sence of my em-ployer, he would put up rods,
and ever so many more than was wanted, and likely, too, some miser-able
trash that would attrack the light-ening, instead of keep-ing it off.
Then, as it would spoil the house to take them down, they would be kept,
and pay demand-ed. 'No, sir,' says I. 'No light-en-ing rods upon this
house whilst I stand here,' and with that I walk-ed away, and let Lord
Edward loose. The man he storm-ed with pas-si-on. His eyes flash-ed
fire. He would e'en have scal-ed the gate, but when he saw the dog he
did forbear. As it was then near noon, I strode away to feed the fowls;
but when I did return, I saw a sight which froze the blood with-in my
veins--"

"The dog didn't kill him?" cried Euphemia.

"Oh no, ma'am!" said Pomona. "You'll see that that wasn't it. At one
corn-er of the lot, in front, a base boy, who had accompa-ni-ed this
man, was bang-ing on the fence with a long stick, and thus attrack-ing
to hisself the rage of Lord Edward, while the vile intrig-er of a
light-en-ing rod-der had brought a lad-der to the other side of the
house, up which he had now as-cend-ed, and was on the roof. What horrors
fill-ed my soul! How my form trembl-ed! This," continued Pomona, "is the
end of the novel," and she laid her foolscap pages on the porch.

Euphemia and I exclaimed, with one voice, against this. We had just
reached the most exciting part, and, I added, we had heard nothing yet
about that affair of the taxes.

"You see, sir," said Pomona, "it took me so long to write out the
chapters about my birth, my parentage, and my early adventures, that
I hadn't time to finish up the rest. But I can tell you what happened
after that jus' as well as if I had writ it out." And so she went on,
much more glibly than before, with the account of the doings of the
lightning-rod man.

"There was that wretch on top of the house, a-fixin' his old rods and
hammerin' away for dear life. He'd brought his ladder over the side
fence, where the dog, a-barkin' and plungin' at the boy outside,
couldn't see him. I stood dumb for a minute, an' then I know'd I had
him. I rushed into the house, got a piece of well-rope, tied it to the
bull-dog's collar, an' dragged him out and fastened him to the bottom
rung of the ladder. Then I walks over to the front fence with Lord
Edward's chain, for I knew that if he got at that bull-dog there'd be
times, for they'd never been allowed to see each other yet. So says I to
the boy, 'I'm goin' to tie up the dog, so you needn't be afraid of his
jumpin' over the fence,'--which he couldn't do, or the boy would have
been a corpse for twenty minutes, or may be half an hour. The boy kinder
laughed, and said I needn't mind, which I didn't. Then I went to the
gate, and I clicked to the horse which was standin' there, an' off
he starts, as good as gold, an' trots down the road. The boy, he said
somethin' or other pretty bad, an' away he goes after him; but the horse
was a-trottin' real fast, an' had a good start."

"How on earth could you ever think of doing such things?" said
Euphemia. "That horse might have upset the wagon and broken all the
lightning-rods, besides running over I don't know how many people."

"But you see, ma'am, that wasn't my lookout," said Pomona. "I was
a-defendin' the house, and the enemy must expect to have things happen
to him. So then I hears an awful row on the roof, and there was the man
just coming down the ladder. He'd heard the horse go off, and when
he got about half-way down an' caught a sight of the bull-dog, he was
madder than ever you seed a lightnin'-rodder in all your born days.
'Take that dog off of there!' he yelled at me. 'No, I wont, says I. 'I
never see a girl like you since I was born,' he screams at me. 'I guess
it would 'a' been better fur you if you had,' says I; an' then he was
so mad he couldn't stand it any longer, and he comes down as low as he
could, and when he saw just how long the rope was,--which was pretty
short,--he made a jump, and landed clear of the dog. Then he went on
dreadful because he couldn't get at his ladder to take it away; and I
wouldn't untie the dog, because if I had he'd 'a' torn the tendons out
of that fellow's legs in no time. I never see a dog in such a boiling
passion, and yet never making no sound at all but blood-curdlin' grunts.
An' I don't see how the rodder would 'a' got his ladder at all if the
dog hadn't made an awful jump at him, and jerked the ladder down. It
just missed your geranium-bed, and the rodder, he ran to the other end
of it, and began pullin' it away, dog an' all. 'Look-a-here,' says I,
'we can fix him now; and so he cooled down enough to help me, and I
unlocked the front door, and we pushed the bottom end of the ladder
in, dog and all; an' then I shut the door as tight as it would go, an'
untied the end of the rope, an' the rodder pulled the ladder out while I
held the door to keep the dog from follerin', which he came pretty near
doin', anyway. But I locked him in, and then the man began stormin'
again about his wagon; but when he looked out an' see the boy comin'
back with it,--for somebody must 'a' stopped the horse,--he stopped
stormin' and went to put up his ladder ag'in. 'No, you don't,' says I;
'I'll let the big dog loose next time, and if I put him at the foot of
your ladder, you'll never come down.' 'But I want to go and take down
what I put up,' he says; 'I aint a-goin' on with this job.' 'No,' says
I, 'you aint; and you can't go up there to wrench off them rods and make
rain-holes in the roof, neither.' He couldn't get no madder than he was
then, an' fur a minute or two he couldn't speak, an' then he says, 'I'll
have satisfaction for this.' An' says I, 'How? 'An' says he, 'You'll see
what it is to interfere with a ordered job.' An' says I, 'There wasn't
no order about it;' an' says he, 'I'll show you better than that;' an'
he goes to his wagon an' gits a book. 'There,' says he, 'read that.'
'What of it? 'says I 'there's nobody of the name of Ball lives here.'
That took the man kinder aback, and he said he was told it was the only
house on the lane, which I said was right, only it was the next lane he
oughter 'a' gone to. He said no more after that, but just put his ladder
in his wagon, and went off. But I was not altogether rid of him. He left
a trail of his baleful presence behind him.

"That horrid bull-dog wouldn't let me come into the house! No matter
what door I tried, there he was, just foamin' mad. I let him stay till
nearly night, and then went and spoke kind to him; but it was no good.
He'd got an awful spite ag'in me. I found something to eat down cellar,
and I made a fire outside an' roasted some corn and potatoes. That night
I slep' in the barn. I wasn't afraid to be away from the house, for I
knew it was safe enough, with that dog in it and Lord Edward outside.
For three days, Sunday an' all, I was kep' out of this here house. I got
along pretty well with the sleepin' and the eatin', but the drinkin'
was the worst. I couldn't get no coffee or tea; but there was plenty of
milk."

"Why didn't you get some man to come and attend to the dog?" I asked.
"It was dreadful to live that way."

"Well, I didn't know no man that could do it," said Pomona. "The dog
would 'a' been too much for Old John, and besides, he was mad about the
kerosene. Sunday afternoon, Captain Atkinson and Mrs. Atkinson and their
little girl in a push-wagon, come here, and I told 'em you was gone
away; but they says they would stop a minute, and could I give them a
drink; an' I had nothin' to give it to them but an old chicken-bowl that
I had washed out, for even the dipper was in the house, an' I told 'em
everything was locked up, which was true enough, though they must 'a'
thought you was a queer kind of people; but I wasn't a-goin' to say
nothin' about the dog, fur, to tell the truth, I was ashamed to do it.
So as soon as they'd gone, I went down into the cellar,--and it's lucky
that I had the key for the outside cellar door,--and I got a piece of
fat corn-beef and the meat-axe. I unlocked the kitchen door and went in,
with the axe in one hand and the meat in the other. The dog might take
his choice. I know'd he must be pretty nigh famished, for there was
nothin' that he could get at to eat. As soon as I went in, he came
runnin' to me; but I could see he was shaky on his legs. He looked a
sort of wicked at me, and then he grabbed the meat. He was all right
then."

"Oh, my!" said Euphemia, "I am so glad to hear that. I was afraid you
never got in. But we saw the dog--is he as savage yet?"

"Oh no!" said Pomona; "nothin' like it."

"Look here, Pomona," said I, "I want to know about those taxes. When do
they come into your story?"

"Pretty soon, sir," said she, and she went on:

"After that, I know'd it wouldn't do to have them two dogs so that
they'd have to be tied up if they see each other. Just as like as not
I'd want them both at once, and then they'd go to fightin', and leave me
to settle with some blood-thirsty lightnin'-rodder. So, as I know'd if
they once had a fair fight and found out which was master, they'd be
good friends afterwards, I thought the best thing to do would be to let
'em fight it out, when there was nothin' else for 'em to do. So I fixed
up things for the combat."

"Why, Pomona!" cried Euphemia, "I didn't think you were capable of such
a cruel thing."

"It looks that way, ma'am, but really it aint," replied the girl. "It
seemed to me as if it would be a mercy to both of 'em to have the
thing settled. So I cleared away a place in front of the wood-shed and
unchained Lord Edward, and then I opened the kitchen door and called the
bull. Out he came, with his teeth a-showin', and his blood-shot eyes,
and his crooked front legs. Like lightnin' from the mount'in blast, he
made one bounce for the big dog, and oh! what a fight there was! They
rolled, they gnashed, they knocked over the wood-horse and sent chips
a-flyin' all ways at wonst. I thought Lord Edward would whip in a minute
or two; but he didn't, for the bull stuck to him like a burr, and they
was havin' it, ground and lofty, when I hears some one run up behind me,
and turnin' quick, there was the 'Piscopalian minister, 'My! my! my!'
he hollers; 'what a awful spectacle! Aint there no way of stoppin' it?'
'No, sir,' says I, and I told him how I didn't want to stop it, and the
reason why. Then says he, 'Where's your master?' and I told him how you
was away. 'Isn't there any man at all about?' says he. 'No,' says
I. 'Then,' says he, 'if there's nobody else to stop it, I must do it
myself.' An' he took off his coat. 'No,' says I, 'you keep back, sir. If
there's anybody to plunge into that erena, the blood be mine;' an' I
put my hand, without thinkin', ag'in his black shirt-bosom, to hold him
back; but he didn't notice, bein' so excited. 'Now,' says I, 'jist wait
one minute, and you'll see that bull's tail go between his legs. He's
weakenin'.' An' sure enough, Lord Edward got a good grab at him, and was
a-shakin' the very life out of him, when I run up and took Lord Edward
by the collar. 'Drop it!' says I, and he dropped it, for he know'd he'd
whipped, and he was pretty tired hisself. Then the bull-dog, he trotted
off with his tail a-hangin' down. 'Now, then,' says I, 'them dogs will
be bosom friends forever after this.' 'Ah me!' says he, 'I'm sorry
indeed that your employer, for who I've always had a great respect,
should allow you to get into such habits.' That made me feel real bad,
and I told him, mighty quick, that you was the last man in the world to
let me do anything like that, and that, if you'd 'a' been here, you'd
'a' separated them dogs, if they'd a-chawed your arms off; that you was
very particular about such things; and that it would be a pity if he was
to think you was a dog-fightin' gentleman, when I'd often heard you say
that, now you was fixed an' settled, the one thing you would like most
would be to be made a vestryman."

I sat up straight in my chair.

"Pomona!" I exclaimed, "you didn't tell him that?"

"That's what I said, sir, for I wanted him to know what you really was;
an' he says, 'Well, well, I never knew that. It might be a very good
thing. I'll speak to some of the members about it. There's two vacancies
now in our vestry."

I was crushed; but Euphemia tried to put the matter into the brightest
light.

"Perhaps it may all turn out for the best," she said, "and you may be
elected, and that would be splendid. But it would be an awfully funny
thing for a dog-fight to make you a vestry-man."

I could not talk on this subject. "Go on, Pomona," I said, trying to
feel resigned to my shame, "and tell us about that poster on the fence."

"I'll be to that almost right away," she said. "It was two or three days
after the dog-fight that I was down at the barn, and happenin' to look
over to Old John's, I saw that tree-man there. He was a-showin' his
book to John, and him and his wife and all the young ones was a-standin'
there, drinkin' down them big peaches and pears as if they was all real.
I know'd he'd come here ag'in, for them fellers never gives you up; and
I didn't know how to keep him away, for I didn't want to let the dogs
loose on a man what, after all, didn't want to do no more harm than to
talk the life out of you. So I just happened to notice, as I came to the
house, how kind of desolate everything looked, and I thought perhaps
I might make it look worse, and he wouldn't care to deal here. So I
thought of puttin' up a poster like that, for nobody whose place was
a-goin' to be sold for taxes would be likely to want trees. So I run in
the house, and wrote it quick and put it up. And sure enough, the man he
come along soon, and when he looked at that paper, and tried the gate,
an' looked over the fence an' saw the house all shut up an' not a livin'
soul about,--for I had both the dogs in the house with me,--he shook his
head an' walked off, as much as to say, 'If that man had fixed his place
up proper with my trees, he wouldn't 'a' come to this!' An' then, as I
found the poster worked so good, I thought it might keep other people
from comin' a-botherin' around, and so I left it up; but I was a-goin'
to be sure and take it down before you came."

As it was now pretty late in the afternoon, I proposed that Pomona
should postpone the rest of her narrative until evening. She said that
there was nothing else to tell that was very particular; and I did not
feel as if I could stand anything more just now, even if it was very
particular.

When we were alone, I said to Euphemia:

"If we ever have to go away from this place again--"

"But we wont go away," she interrupted, looking up to me with as bright
a face as she ever had, "at least not for a long, long, long time to
come. And I'm so glad you're to be a vestryman."



CHAPTER XIV. POMONA TAKES A BRIDAL TRIP.


Our life at Rudder Grange seemed to be in no way materially changed by
my becoming a vestryman. The cow gave about as much milk as before, and
the hens laid the usual number of eggs. Euphemia went to church with a
little more of an air, perhaps, but as the wardens were never absent,
and I was never, therefore, called upon to assist in taking up the
collection, her sense of my position was not inordinately manifested.

For a year or two, indeed, there was no radical change in anything about
Rudder Grange, except in Pomona. In her there was a change. She grew up.

She performed this feat quite suddenly. She was a young girl when she
first came to us, and we had never considered her as anything else, when
one evening she had a young man to see her. Then we knew she had grown
up.

We made no objections to her visitors,--she had several, from time to
time,--"for," said Euphemia, "suppose my parents had objected to your
visits." I could not consider the mere possibility of anything like
this, and we gave Pomona all the ordinary opportunities for entertaining
her visitors. To tell the truth, I think we gave her more than the
ordinary opportunities. I know that Euphemia would wait on herself to
almost any extent, rather than call upon Pomona, when the latter was
entertaining an evening visitor in the kitchen or on the back porch.

"Suppose my mother," she once remarked, in answer to a mild remonstrance
from me in regard to a circumstance of this nature,--"suppose my mother
had rushed into our presence when we were plighting our vows, and had
told me to go down into the cellar and crack ice!"

It was of no use to talk to Euphemia on such subjects; she always had an
answer ready.

"You don't want Pomona to go off and be married, do you?" I asked, one
day as she was putting up some new muslin curtains in the kitchen. "You
seem to be helping her to do this all you can, and yet I don't know
where on earth you will get another girl who will suit you so well."

"I don't know, either," replied Euphemia, with a tack in her mouth, "and
I'm sure I don't want her to go. But neither do I want winter to come,
or to have to wear spectacles; but I suppose both of these things will
happen, whether I like it or not."

For some time after this Pomona had very little company, and we began to
think that there was no danger of any present matrimonial engagement on
her part,--a thought which was very gratifying to us, although we
did not wish in any way to interfere with her prospects,--when, one
afternoon, she quietly went up into the village and was married.

Her husband was a tall young fellow, a son of a farmer in the county,
who had occasionally been to see her, but whom she must have frequently
met on her "afternoons out."

When Pomona came home and told us this news we were certainly well
surprised.

"What on earth are we to do for a girl?" cried Euphemia.

"You're to have me till you can get another one," said Pomona quietly.
"I hope you don't think I'd go 'way, and leave you without anybody."

"But a wife ought to go to her husband," said Euphemia, "especially so
recent a bride. Why didn't you let me know all about it? I would have
helped to fit you out. We would have given you the nicest kind of a
little wedding."

"I know that," said Pomona; "you're jus' good enough. But I didn't want
to put you to all that trouble--right in preserving-time too. An' he
wanted it quiet, for he's awful backward about shows. An' as I'm to
go to live with his folks,--at least in a little house on the farm,--I
might as well stay here as anywhere, even if I didn't want to, for I
can't go there till after frost."

"Why not?" I asked.

"The chills and fever," said she. "They have it awful down in that
valley. Why, he had a chill while we was bein' married, right at the
bridal altar."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Euphemia. "How dreadful!"

"Yes, indeed," said Pomona. "He must 'a' forgot it was his chill-day,
and he didn't take his quinine, and so it come on him jus' as he was
apromisin' to love an' pertect. But he stuck it out, at the minister's
house, and walked home by his-self to finish his chill."

"And you didn't go with him?" cried Euphemia, indignantly.

"He said, no. It was better thus. He felt it weren't the right thing
to mingle the agur with his marriage vows. He promised to take sixteen
grains to-morrow, and so I came away. He'll be all right in a month or
so, an' then we'll go an' keep house. You see it aint likely I could
help him any by goin' there an' gettin' it myself."

"Pomona," said Euphemia, "this is dreadful. You ought to go and take a
bridal tour and get him rid of those fearful chills."

"I never thought of that," said Pomona, her face lighting up
wonderfully.

Now that Euphemia had fallen upon this happy idea, she never dropped
it until she had made all the necessary plans, and had put them into
execution. In the course of a week she had engaged another servant, and
had started Pomona and her husband off on a bridal-tour, stipulating
nothing but that they should take plenty of quinine in their trunk.

It was about three weeks after this, and Euphemia and I were sitting on
our front steps,--I had come home early, and we had been potting some
of the tenderest plants,--when Pomona walked in at the gate. She looked
well, and had on a very bright new dress. Euphemia noticed this the
moment she came in. We welcomed her warmly, for we felt a great interest
in this girl, who had grown up in our family and under our care.

"Have you had your bridal trip?" asked Euphemia.

"Oh yes!" said Pomona. "It's all over an' done with, an' we're settled
in our house."

"Well, sit right down here on the steps and tell us all about it," said
Euphemia, in a glow of delightful expectancy, and Pomona, nothing loth,
sat down and told her tale.

"You see," said she, untying her bonnet strings, to give an easier
movement to her chin, "we didn't say where we was goin' when we started
out, for the truth was we didn't know. We couldn't afford to take no big
trip, and yet we wanted to do the thing up jus' as right as we could,
seein' as you had set your heart on it, an' as we had, too, for that
matter. Niagery Fall was what I wanted, but he said that it cost so much
to see the sights there that he hadn't money to spare to take us there
an' pay for all the sight-seein', too. We might go, he said, without
seein' the sights, or, if there was any way of seein' the sights without
goin', that might do, but he couldn't do both. So we give that up, and
after thinkin' a good deal, we agreed to go to some other falls, which
might come cheaper, an' may-be be jus' as good to begin on. So we
thought of Passaic Falls, up to Paterson, an' we went there, an' took a
room at a little hotel, an' walked over to the falls. But they wasn't
no good, after all, for there wasn't no water runnin' over em. There
was rocks and precipicers, an' direful depths, and everything for a good
falls, except water, and that was all bein' used at the mills. 'Well,
Miguel,' says I, 'this is about as nice a place for a falls as ever I
see,' but--"

"Miguel!" cried Euphemia. "Is that your husband's name?"

"Well, no," said Pomona, "it isn't. His given name is Jonas, but I hated
to call him Jonas, an' on a bridal trip, too. He might jus' as well have
had a more romantic-er name, if his parents had 'a' thought of it. So
I determined I'd give him a better one, while we was on our journey,
anyhow, an' I changed his name to Miguel, which was the name of a
Spanish count. He wanted me to call him Jiguel, because, he said, that
would have a kind of a floating smell of his old name, but I didn't
never do it. Well, neither of us didn't care to stay about no dry falls,
so we went back to the hotel and got our supper, and begun to wonder
what we should do next day. He said we'd better put it off and dream
about it, and make up our minds nex' mornin', which I agreed to, an',
that evenin', as we was sittin' in our room I asked Miguel to tell me
the story of his life. He said, at first, it hadn't none, but when I
seemed a kinder put out at this, he told me I mustn't mind, an' he would
reveal the whole. So he told me this story:

"'My grandfather,' said he, 'was a rich and powerful Portugee, a-livin'
on the island of Jamaica. He had heaps o' slaves, an' owned a black
brigantine, that he sailed in on secret voyages, an', when he come
back, the decks an' the gunnels was often bloody, but nobody knew why or
wherefore. He was a big man with black hair an' very violent. He could
never have kept no help, if he hadn't owned 'em, but he was so rich,
that people respected him, in spite of all his crimes. My grandmother
was a native o' the Isle o' Wight. She was a frail an' tender woman,
with yeller hair, and deep blue eyes, an' gentle, an' soft, an' good to
the poor. She used to take baskits of vittles aroun' to sick folks, an'
set down on the side o' their beds an' read "The Shepherd o' Salisbury
Plains" to 'em. She hardly ever speaked above her breath, an' always
wore white gowns with a silk kerchief a-folded placidly aroun' her
neck.' 'Them was awful different kind o' people,' I says to him, 'I
wonder how they ever come to be married.' 'They never was married,' says
he. 'Never married!' I hollers, a-jumpin' up from my chair, 'and you sit
there carmly an' look me in the eye.' 'Yes,' says he, 'they was never
married. They never met; one was my mother's father, and the other one
my father's mother. 'Twas well they did not wed.' 'I should think so,'
said I, 'an' now, what's the good of tellin' me a thing like that?'

"'It's about as near the mark as most of the stories of people's lives,
I reckon,' says he, 'an' besides I'd only jus' begun it.'

"'Well, I don't want no more,' says I, an' I jus' tell this story of his
to show what kind of stories he told about that time. He said they was
pleasant fictions, but I told him that if he didn't look out he'd hear
'em called by a good deal of a worse kind of a name than that. The nex'
mornin' he asked me what was my dream, an' I told him I didn't have
exactly no dream about it, but my idea was to have somethin' real
romantic for the rest of our bridal days.

"'Well,' says he, 'what would you like? I had a dream, but it wasn't no
ways romantic, and I'll jus' fall in with whatever you'd like best.'

"'All right,' says I, 'an' the most romantic-est thing that I can
think of is for us to make-believe for the rest of this trip. We can
make-believe we're anything we please, an' if we think so in real
earnest it will be pretty much the same thing as if we really was. We
aint likely to have no chance ag'in of being jus' what we've a mind to,
an' so let's try it now.'

"'What would you have a mind to be?' says he.

"'Well,' says I, 'let's be an earl an' a earl-ess.'

"'Earl-ess'? says he, 'there's no such a person.'

"'Why, yes there is, of course,' I says to him. 'What's a she-earl if
she isn't a earl-ess?'

"'Well, I don't know,' says he, 'never havin' lived with any of 'em, but
we'll let it go at that. An' how do you want to work the thing out?'

"'This way,' says I. 'You, Miguel--'

"'Jiguel,' says he.

"'The earl,' says I, not mindin' his interruption, 'an' me, your noble
earl-ess, will go to some good place or other--it don't matter much jus'
where, and whatever house we live in we'll call our castle an' we'll
consider it's got draw-bridges an' portcullises an' moats an' secrit
dungeons, an' we'll remember our noble ancesters, an' behave accordin'.
An' the people we meet we can make into counts and dukes and princes,
without their knowin' anything about it; an' we can think our clothes is
silk an' satin an' velwet, all covered with dimuns an' precious stones,
jus' as well as not.'

"'Jus' as well,' says he.

"'An' then,' I went on, 'we can go an' have chi-VAL-rous adventures,--or
make believe we're havin' 'em,--an' build up a atmosphere of
romanticness aroun' us that'll carry us back--'

"'To ole Virginny,' says he.

"'No,' says I, 'for thousands of years, or at least enough back for the
times of tournaments and chi-VAL-ry.'

"'An' so your idea is that we make believe all these things, an' don't
pay for none of 'em, is it?' says he.

"'Yes,' says I; 'an' you, Miguel--'

"'Jiguel,' says he.

"'Can ask me, if you don't know what chi-VAL-ric or romantic thing you
ought to do or to say so as to feel yourself truly an' reely a earl, for
I've read a lot about these people, an' know jus' what ought to be did.'

"Well, he set himself down an' thought a while, an' then he says, 'All
right. We'll do that, an' we'll begin to-morrow mornin', for I've got
a little business to do in the city which wouldn't be exactly the right
thing for me to stoop to after I'm a earl, so I'll go in an' do it while
I'm a common person, an' come back this afternoon, an you can walk about
an' look at the dry falls, an' amuse yourself gen'rally, till I come
back.'

"'All right,' says I, an' off he goes.

"He come back afore dark, an' the nex' mornin' we got ready to start
off.

"'Have you any particular place to go?' says he.

"'No,' says I, 'one place is as likely to be as good as another for our
style o' thing. If it don't suit, we can imagine it does.'

"'That'll do,' says he, an' we had our trunk sent to the station, and
walked ourselves. When we got there, he says to me,

"Which number will you have, five or seven?'

"'Either one will suit me, Earl Miguel,' says I.

"'Jiguel,' says he, 'an' we'll make it seven. An' now I'll go an' look
at the time-table, an' we'll buy tickets for the seventh station from
here. The seventh station,' says he, comin' back, 'is Pokus. We'll go to
Pokus.'

"So when the train come we got in, an' got out at Pokus. It was a pretty
sort of a place, out in the country, with the houses scattered a long
ways apart, like stingy chicken-feed.

"'Let's walk down this road,' says he, 'till we come to a good house for
a castle, an' then we can ask 'em to take us to board, an' if they wont
do it we'll go to the next, an' so on.'

"'All right,' says I, glad enough to see how pat he entered into the
thing.

"We walked a good ways, an' passed some little houses that neither of us
thought would do, without more imaginin' than would pay, till we came to
a pretty big house near the river, which struck our fancy in a minute.
It was a stone house, an' it had trees aroun' it, there was a garden
with a wall, an' things seemed to suit first-rate, so we made up our
minds right off that we'd try this place.

"'You wait here under this tree,' says he, 'an' I'll go an' ask 'em if
they'll take us to board for a while.'

"So I waits, an' he goes up to the gate, an' pretty soon he comes out
an' says, 'All right, they'll take us, an' they'll send a man with a
wheelbarrer to the station for our trunk.' So in we goes. The man was
a country-like lookin' man, an' his wife was a very pleasant woman. The
house wasn't furnished very fine, but we didn't care for that, an'
they gave us a big room that had rafters instid of a ceilin', an' a big
fire-place, an' that, I said, was jus' exac'ly what we wanted. The room
was almos' like a donjon itself, which he said he reckoned had once
been a kitchin, but I told him that a earl hadn't nothin' to do with
kitchins, an' that this was a tapestry chamber, an' I'd tell him all
about the strange figgers on the embroidered hangin's, when the shadders
begun to fall.

"It rained a little that afternoon, an' we stayed in our room, an' hung
our clothes an' things about on nails an' hooks, an' made believe
they was armor an' ancient trophies an' portraits of a long line of
ancesters. I did most of the make-believin' but he agreed to ev'rything.
The man who kep' the house's wife brought us our supper about dark,
because she said she thought we might like to have it together cozy, an'
so we did, an' was glad enough of it; an' after supper we sat before the
fire-place, where we made-believe the flames was a-roarin' an' cracklin'
an' a-lightin' up the bright places on the armor a-hangin' aroun', while
the storm--which we made-believe--was a-ragin' an' whirlin' outside. I
told him a long story about a lord an' a lady, which was two or three
stories I had read, run together, an' we had a splendid time. It all
seemed real real to me."



CHAPTER XV. IN WHICH TWO NEW FRIENDS DISPORT THEMSELVES.


"The nex' mornin' was fine an' nice," continued Pomona, "an' after our
breakfast had been brought to us, we went out in the grounds to take a
walk. There was lots of trees back of the house, with walks among 'em,
an' altogether it was so ole-timey an' castleish that I was as happy as
a lark.

"'Come along, Earl Miguel,' I says; 'let us tread a measure 'neath these
mantlin' trees.'

"'All right,' says he. 'Your Jiguel attends you. An' what might our
noble second name be? What is we earl an' earl-ess of?'

"'Oh, anything,' says I. 'Let's take any name at random.'

"'All right,' says he. 'Let it be random. Earl an' Earl-ess Random. Come
along.'

"So we walks about, I feelin' mighty noble an' springy, an' afore long
we sees another couple a-walkin' about under the trees.

"'Who's them?' says I.

"'Don't know,' says he, 'but I expect they're some o' the other
boarders. The man said he had other boarders when I spoke to him about
takin' us.'

"'Let's make-believe they're a count an' count says I. 'Count an'
Countess of--'

"'Milwaukee,' says he.

"I didn't think much of this for a noble name, but still it would do
well enough, an' so we called 'em the Count an' Countess of Milwaukee,
an' we kep' on a meanderin'. Pretty soon he gets tired an' says he was
agoin' back to the house to have a smoke because he thought it was time
to have a little fun which weren't all imaginations, an' I says to him
to go along, but it would be the hardest thing in this world for me to
imagine any fun in smokin'. He laughed an' went back, while I walked on,
a-makin'-believe a page, in blue puffed breeches, was a-holdin' up my
train, which was of light-green velvet trimmed with silver lace.
Pretty soon, turnin' a little corner, I meets the Count and Countess of
Milwaukee. She was a small lady, dressed in black, an' he was a big fat
man about fifty years old, with a grayish beard. They both wore little
straw hats, exac'ly alike, an' had on green carpet-slippers.