My wife and I were both so fond of country life and country pursuits that month after month passed by at our little farm in a succession of delightful days. Time flew like a “limited express” train, and it was September before we knew it.
I had been working very hard at the office that summer, and was glad to think of my two weeks' vacation, which were to begin on the first Monday of the month. I had intended spending these two weeks in rural retirement at home, but an interview in the city with my family physician caused me to change my mind. I told him my plan.
“Now,” said he, “if I were you, I'd do nothing of the kind. You have been working too hard; your face shows it. You need rest and change. Nothing will do you so much good as to camp out; that will be fifty times better than going to any summer resort. You can take your wife with you. I know she'll like it. I don't care where you go so that it's a healthy spot. Get a good tent and an outfit, be off to the woods, and forget all about business and domestic matters for a few weeks.”
This sounded splendid, and I propounded the plan to Euphemia that evening. She thought very well of it, and was sure we could do it. Pomona would not be afraid to remain in the house, under the protection of Lord Edward, and she could easily attend to the cow and the chickens. It would be a holiday for her too. Old John, the man who occasionally worked for us, would come up sometimes and see after things. With her customary dexterity Euphemia swept away every obstacle to the plan, and all was settled before we went to bed.
As my wife had presumed, Pomona made no objections to remaining in charge of the house. The scheme pleased her greatly. So far, so good. I called that day on a friend who was in the habit of camping out to talk to him about getting a tent and the necessary “traps” for a life in the woods. He proved perfectly competent to furnish advice and everything else. He offered to lend me all I needed. He had a complete outfit; had done with them for the year, and I was perfectly welcome. Here was rare luck. He gave me a tent, camp-stove, dishes, pots, gun, fishing-tackle, a big canvas coat with dozens of pockets riveted on it, a canvas hat, rods, reels, boots that came up to my hips, and about a wagon-load of things in all. He was a real good fellow.
We laid in a stock of canned and condensed provisions, and I bought a book on camping out so as to be well posted on the subject. On the Saturday before the first Monday in September we would have been entirely ready to start had we decided on the place where we were to go.
We found it very difficult to make this decision. There were thousands of places where people went to camp out, but none of them seemed to be the place for us. Most of them were too far away. We figured up the cost of taking ourselves and our camp equipage to the Adirondacks, the lakes, the trout-streams of Maine, or any of those well-known resorts, and we found that we could not afford such trips, especially for a vacation of but fourteen days.
On Sunday afternoon we took a little walk. Our minds were still troubled about the spot toward which we ought to journey next day, and we needed the soothing influences of Nature. The country to the north and west of our little farm was very beautiful. About half a mile from the house a modest river ran; on each side of it were grass-covered fields and hills, and in some places there were extensive tracks of woodlands.
“Look here!” exclaimed Euphemia, stopping short in the little path that wound along by the river bank. “Do you see this river, those woods, those beautiful fields, with not a soul in them or anywhere near them; and those lovely blue mountains over there?”—as she spoke she waved her parasol in the direction of the objects indicated, and I could not mistake them. “Now what could we want better than this?” she continued. “Here we can fish, and do everything that we want to. I say, let us camp here on our own river. I can take you to the very spot for the tent. Come on!” And she was so excited about it that she fairly ran.
The spot she pointed out was one we had frequently visited in our rural walks. It was a grassy peninsula, as I termed it, formed by a sudden turn of a creek which, a short distance below, flowed into the river. It was a very secluded spot. The place was approached through a pasture-field,—we had found it by mere accident,—and where the peninsula joined the field (we had to climb a fence just there), there was a cluster of chestnut and hickory trees, while down near the point stood a wide-spreading oak.
“Here, under this oak, is the place for the tent,” said Euphemia, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling, and her dress a little torn by getting over the fence in a hurry. “What do we want with your Adirondacks and your Dismal Swamps? This is the spot for us!”
“Euphemia,” said I, in as composed a tone as possible, although my whole frame was trembling with emotion, “Euphemia, I am glad I married you!”
Had it not been Sunday, we would have set up our tent that night.
Early the next morning, old John's fifteen-dollar horse drew from our house a wagon-load of camp-fixtures. There was some difficulty in getting the wagon over the field, and there were fences to be taken down to allow of its passage; but we overcame all obstacles, and reached the camp-ground without breaking so much as a teacup. Old John helped me pitch the tent, and as neither of us understood the matter very well, it took us some time. It was, indeed, nearly noon when old John left us, and it may have been possible that he delayed matters a little so as to be able to charge for a full half-day for himself and horse. Euphemia got into the wagon to ride back with him, that she might give some parting injunctions to Pomona.
“I'll have to stop a bit to put up the fences, ma'am,” said old John, “or Misther Ball might make a fuss.”
“Is this Mr. Ball's land?” I asked.
“Oh yes, sir, it's Mr. Ball's land.”
“I wonder how he'll like our camping on it?” I said, thoughtfully.
“I'd 'a' thought, sir, you'd 'a' asked him that before you came,” said old John, in a tone that seemed to indicate that he had his doubts about Mr. Ball.
“Oh, there'll be no trouble about that,” cried Euphemia. “You can drive me past Mr. Ball's,—it's not much out of the way,—and I'll ask him.”
“In that wagon?” said I. “Will you stop at Mr. Ball's door in that?”
“Certainly,” said she, as she arranged herself on the board which served as a seat. “Now that our campaign has really commenced, we ought to begin to rough it, and should not be too proud to ride even in a—in a—”
She evidently couldn't think of any vehicle mean enough for her purpose.
“In a green-grocery cart,” I suggested.
“Yes, or in a red one. Go ahead, John.”
When Euphemia returned on foot, I had a fire in the camp-stove and the kettle was on.
“Well,” said Euphemia, “Mr. Ball says it's all right, if we keep the fence up. He don't want his cows to get into the creek, and I'm sure we don't want 'em walking over us. He couldn't understand, though, why we wanted to live out here. I explained the whole thing to him very carefully, but it didn't seem to make much impression on him. I believe he thinks Pomona has something the matter with her, and that we have come to stay out here in the fresh air so as not to take it.”
“What an extremely stupid man Mr. Ball must be!” I said.
The fire did not burn very well, and while I was at work at it, Euphemia spread a cloth upon the grass, and set forth bread and butter, cheese, sardines, potted ham, preserves, biscuits, and a lot of other things.
We did not wait for the kettle to boil, but concluded to do without tea or coffee, for this meal, and content ourselves with pure water. For some reason or other, however, the creek water did not seem to be very pure, and we did not like it a bit.
“After lunch,” said I, “we will go and look for a spring; that will be a good way of exploring the country.”
“If we can't find one,” said Euphemia, “we shall have to go to the house for water, for I can never drink that stuff.”
Soon after lunch we started out. We searched high and low, near and far, for a spring, but could not find one.
At length, by merest accident, we found ourselves in the vicinity of old John's little house. I knew he had a good well, and so we went in to get a drink, for our ham and biscuits had made us very thirsty.
We told old John, who was digging potatoes, and was also very much surprised to see us so soon, about our unexpected trouble in finding a spring.
“No,” said he, very slowly, “there is no spring very near to you. Didn't you tell your gal to bring you water?”
“No,” I replied; “we don't want her coming down to the camp. She is to attend to the house.”
“Oh, very well,” said John; “I will bring you water, morning and night,—good, fresh water,—from my well, for,—well, for ten cents a day.”
“That will be nice,” said Euphemia, “and cheap, too. And then it will be well to have John come every day; he can carry our letters.”
“I don't expect to write any letters.”
“Neither do I,” said Euphemia; “but it will be pleasant to have some communication with the outer world.”
So we engaged old John to bring us water twice a day. I was a little disappointed at this, for I thought that camping on the edge of a stream settled the matter of water. But we have many things to learn in this world.
Early in the afternoon I went out to catch some fish for supper. We agreed to dispense with dinner, and have breakfast, lunch, and a good solid supper.
For some time I had poor luck. There were either very few fish in the creek, or they were not hungry.
I had been fishing an hour or more when I saw Euphemia running toward me.
“What's the matter?” said I.
“Oh! nothing. I've just come to see how you were getting along. Haven't you been gone an awfully long time? And are those all the fish you've caught? What little bits of things they are! I thought people who camped out caught big fish and lots of them?”
“That depends a good deal upon where they go,” said I.
“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Euphemia; “but I should think a stream as big as this would have plenty of fish in it. However, if you can't catch any, you might go up to the road and watch for Mr. Mulligan. He sometimes comes along on Mondays.”
“I'm not going to the road to watch for any fish-man,” I replied, a little more testily than I should have spoken. “What sort of a camping out would that be? But we must not be talking here or I shall never get a bite. Those fish are a little soiled from jumping about in the dust. You might wash them off at that shallow place, while I go a little further on and try my luck.”
I went a short distance up the creek, and threw my line into a dark, shadowy pool, under some alders, where there certainly should be fish. And, sure enough, in less than a minute I got a splendid bite,—not only a bite, but a pull. I knew that I had certainly hooked a big fish! The thing actually tugged at my line so that I was afraid the pole would break. I did not fear for the line, for that, I knew, was strong. I would have played the fish until he was tired, and I could pull him out without risk to the pole, but I did not know exactly how the process of “playing” was conducted. I was very much excited. Sometimes I gave a jerk and a pull, and then the fish would give a jerk and a pull.
Directly I heard some one running toward me, and then I heard Euphemia cry out:
“Give him the butt! Give him the butt!”
“Give him what?” I exclaimed, without having time even to look up at her.
“The butt! the butt!” she cried, almost breathlessly. “I know that's right! I read how Edward Everett Hale did it in the Adirondacks.”
“No, it wasn't Hale at all,” said I, as I jumped about the bank; “it was Mr. Murray.”
“Well, it was one of those fishing ministers, and I know that it caught the fish.”
“I know, I know. I read it, but I don't know how to do it.”
“Perhaps you ought to punch him with it,” said she.
“No! no!” I hurriedly replied, “I can't do anything like that. I'm going to try to just pull him out lengthwise. You take hold of the pole and go in shore as far as you can and I'll try and get hold of the line.”
Euphemia did as I bade her, and drew the line in so that I could reach it. As soon as I had a firm hold of it, I pulled in, regardless of consequences, and hauled ashore an enormous cat-fish.
“Hurrah!” I shouted, “here is a prize.”
Euphemia dropped the pole, and ran to me.
“What a horrid beast!” she exclaimed. “Throw it in again.”
“Not at all!” said I. “This is a splendid fish, if I can ever get him off the hook. Don't come near him! If he sticks that back-fin into you, it will poison you.”
“Then I should think it would poison us to eat him,” said she.
“No; it's only his fin.”
“I've eaten cat-fish, but I never saw one like that,” she said. “Look at its horrible mouth! And it has whiskers like a cat!”
“Oh! you never saw one with its head on,” I said. “What I want to do is to get this hook out.”
I had caught cat-fish before, but never one so large as this, and I was actually afraid to take hold of it, knowing, as I did, that you must be very careful how you clutch a fish of the kind. I finally concluded to carry it home as it was, and then I could decapitate it, and take out the hook at my leisure. So back to camp we went, Euphemia picking up the little fish as we passed, for she did not think it right to catch fish and not eat them. They made her hands smell, it is true; but she did not mind that when we were camping.
I prepared the big fish (and I had a desperate time getting the skin off), while my wife, who is one of the daintiest cooks in the world, made the fire in the stove, and got ready the rest of the supper. She fried the fish, because I told her that was the way cat-fish ought to be cooked, although she said that it seemed very strange to her to camp out for the sake of one's health, and then to eat fried food.
But that fish was splendid! The very smell of it made us hungry. Everything was good, and when supper was over and the dishes washed, I lighted my pipe and we sat down under a tree to enjoy the evening.
The sun had set behind the distant ridge; a delightful twilight was gently subduing every color of the scene; the night insects were beginning to hum and chirp, and a fire that I had made under a tree blazed up gayly, and threw little flakes of light into the shadows under the shrubbery.
“Now isn't this better than being cooped up in a narrow, constricted house?” said I.
“Ever so much better!” said Euphemia. “Now we know what Nature is. We are sitting right down in her lap, and she is cuddling us up. Isn't that sky lovely? Oh! I think this is perfectly splendid,” said she, making a little dab at her face,—“if it wasn't for the mosquitoes.”
“They ARE bad,” I said. “I thought my pipe would keep them off, but it don't. There must be plenty of them down at that creek.”
“Down there!” exclaimed Euphemia. “Why there are thousands of them here! I never saw anything like it. They're getting worse every minute.”
“I'll tell you what we must do,” I exclaimed, jumping up. “We must make a smudge.”
“What's that? do you rub it on yourself?” asked Euphemia, anxiously.
“No, it's only a great smoke. Come, let us gather up dry leaves and make a smoldering fire of them.”
We managed to get up a very fair smudge, and we stood to the leeward of it, until Euphemia began to cough and sneeze, as if her head would come off. With tears running from her eyes, she declared that she would rather go and be eaten alive, than stay in that smoke.
“Perhaps we were too near it,” said I.
“That may be,” she answered, “but I have had enough smoke. Why didn't I think of it before? I brought two veils! We can put these over our faces, and wear gloves.”
She was always full of expedients.
Veiled and gloved, we bade defiance to the mosquitoes, and we sat and talked for half an hour or more. I made a little hole in my veil, through which I put the mouth-piece of my pipe.
When it became really dark, I lighted the lantern, and we prepared for a well-earned night's rest. The tent was spacious and comfortable, and we each had a nice little cot-bed.
“Are you going to leave the front-door open all night?” said Euphemia, as I came in after a final round to see that all was right.
“I should hardly call this canvas-flap a front-door,” I said, “but I think it would be better to leave it open; otherwise we should smother. You need not be afraid. I shall keep my gun here by my bedside, and if any one offers to come in, I'll bring him to a full stop quick enough.”
“Yes, if you are awake. But I suppose we ought not to be afraid of burglars here. People in tents never are. So you needn't shut it.”
It was awfully quiet and dark and lonely, out there by that creek, when the light had been put out, and we had gone to bed. For some reason I could not go to sleep. After I had been lying awake for an hour or two, Euphemia spoke:
“Are you awake?” said she, in a low voice, as if she were afraid of disturbing the people in the next room.
“Yes,” said I. “How long have you been awake?”
“I haven't been asleep.”
“Neither have I.”
“Suppose we light the lantern,” said she. “Don't you think it would be pleasanter?”
“It might be,” I replied; “but it would draw myriads of mosquitoes. I wish I had brought a mosquito-net and a clock. It seems so lonesome without the ticking. Good-night! We ought to have a long sleep, if we do much tramping about to-morrow.”
In about half an hour more, just as I was beginning to be a little sleepy, she said:
“Where is that gun?”
“Here by me,” I answered.
“Well, if a man should come in, try and be sure to put it up close to him before you fire. In a little tent like this, the shot might scatter everywhere, if you're not careful.”
“All right,” I said. “Good-night!”
“There's one thing we never thought of!” she presently exclaimed.
“What's that,” said I.
“Snakes,” said she.
“Well, don't let's think of them. We must try and get a little sleep.”
“Dear knows! I've been trying hard enough,” she said, plaintively, and all was quiet again.
We succeeded this time in going to sleep, and it was broad daylight before we awoke.
That morning, old John came with our water before breakfast was ready. He also brought us some milk, as he thought we would want it. We considered this a good idea, and agreed with him to bring us a quart a day.
“Don't you want some wegetables?” said he. “I've got some nice corn and some tomatoes, and I could bring you cabbage and peas.”
We had hardly expected to have fresh vegetables every day, but there seemed to be no reason why old John should not bring them, as he had to come every day with the water and milk. So we arranged that he should furnish us daily with a few of the products of his garden.
“I could go to the butcher's and get you a steak or some chops, if you'd let me know in the morning,” said he, intent on the profits of further commissions.
But this was going too far. We remembered we were camping out, and declined to have meat from the butcher.
John had not been gone more than ten minutes before we saw Mr. Ball approaching.
“Oh, I hope he isn't going to say we can't stay!” exclaimed Euphemia.
“How d'ye do?” said Mr. Ball, shaking hands with us. “Did you stick it out all night?”
“Oh yes, indeed,” I replied, “and expect to stick it out for a many more nights if you don't object to our occupying your land.”
“No objection in the world,” said he; “but it seems a little queer for people who have a good house to be living out here in the fields in a tent, now, don't it?”
“Oh, but you see,” said I, and I went on and explained the whole thing to him,—the advice of the doctor, the discussion about the proper place to go to, and the good reasons for fixing on this spot.
“Ye-es,” said he, “that's all very well, no doubt. But how's the girl?”
“What girl?” I asked.
“Your girl. The hired girl you left at the house.”
“Oh, she's all right,” said I; “she's always well.”
“Well,” said Mr. Ball, slowly turning on his heel, “if you say so, I suppose she is. But you're going up to the house to-day to see about her, aren't you?”
“Oh, no,” said Euphemia. “We don't intend to go near the house until our camping is over.”
“Just so,—just so,” said Mr. Ball; “I expected as much. But look here, don't you think it would be well for me to ask Dr. Ames to stop in and see how she is gettin' along? I dare say you've fixed everything for her, but that would be safer, you know. He's coming this morning to vaccinate my baby, and he might stop there, just as well as not, after he has left my house.”
Euphemia and I could see no necessity for this proposed visit of the doctor, but we could not well object to it, and so Mr. Ball said he would be sure and send him.
After our visitor had gone, the significance of his remarks flashed on me. He still thought that Pomona was sick with something catching, and that we were afraid to stay in the house with her. But I said nothing about this to Euphemia. It would only worry her, and our vacation was to be a season of unalloyed delight.
We certainly enjoyed our second day in camp. All the morning, and a great part of the afternoon, we “explored.” We fastened up the tent as well as we could, and then, I with my gun, and Euphemia with the fishing-pole, we started up the creek. We did not go very far, for it would not do to leave the tent too long. I did not shoot anything, but Euphemia caught two or three nice little fish, and we enjoyed the sport exceedingly.
Soon after we returned in the afternoon, and while we were getting things in order for supper, we had a call from two of our neighbors, Captain Atkinson and wife. The captain greeted us hilariously.
“Hello!” he cried. “Why, this is gay. Who would ever have thought of a domestic couple like you going on such a lark as this. We just heard about it from old John, and we came down to see what you are up to. You've got everything very nice. I think I'd like this myself. Why, you might have a rifle-range out here. You could cut down those bushes on the other side of the creek, and put up your target over there on that hill. Then you could lie down here on the grass and bang away all day. If you'll do that, I'll come down and practice with you. How long are you going to keep it up?”
I told him that we expected to spend my two weeks' vacation here.
“Not if it rains, my boy,” said he. “I know what it is to camp out in the rain.”
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.