"Other refuge have I none,"
"Other refuge have I none,"
but it gained courage and persuasiveness until it filled the room and the heart of the man with,—
"Cover my defenceless head,With the shadow of Thy wing."
"Cover my defenceless head,With the shadow of Thy wing."
A gentle smile and the relaxing of closed hands completed the story of our loss, though the real weight of it came days and months later.
It was long before we could take up our daily duties with anything like the familiar happiness. Something had gone out of our lives that could never be replaced, and only time could salve the wounds. The dear man who had gone was no friend to solemn faces, and living interests must bury dead memories; but it was a long time before the click of Jane's hammer was heard in her forge; not until Laura had said, "It will pleasehim, Jane."
January, February, and March passed with more than the usual snow and rain,—fully ten inches of precipitation; but the spring proved neither cold nor late. During these three months we sold butter to the amount of $1283, and $747 worth of eggs; in all, $2030.
The ploughs were started in the highest land on the 11th of April, and were kept going steadily until they had turned over nearly 280 acres.
I decided to put the whole of the widow's field into corn, lots 8, 12, and 15 (84 acres) into oats, and 50 acres of the orchards into roots and sweet fodder corn. Number 13 was to be sown with buckwheat as soon as the rye was cut for green forage. I decided to raise more alfalfa, for we could feed more to advantage, and it was fast gaining favor in my establishment. It is so productive and so nutritious that I wonder it is not more generally used by farmers who make a specialty of feeding stock. It contains as much protein as most grains, and is wholesome and highly palatable if properly cured. It should be cut just as it is coming into flower, and should be cured in the windrow. The leaves are the most nutritious part of the plant, and they are apt to fall off if the cutting be deferred, or if the curing bedone carelessly.
Lot No. 9 was to be fitted for alfalfa as soon as the season would permit. First, it must receive a heavy dressing of manure, to be ploughed under. The ordinary plough was to be followed in this case by a subsoiler, to stir the earth as deep as possible. When the seed was sown, the land was to receive five hundred pounds an acre of high-grade fertilizer, and one hundred pounds an acre of infected soil.
The peculiar bacterium that thrives on congenial alfalfa soil is essential to the highest development of the plant. Without its presence the grass fails in its chief function—the storing of nitrogen—and makes but poor growth. When the alfalfa bacteria are abundant, the plant flourishes and gathers nitrogen in knobs and bunches in its roots and in the joints of its stems.
I sent to a very successful alfalfa grower in Ohio for a thousand pounds of soil from one of his fields, to vaccinate my field with. This is not always necessary,—indeed, it rarely is, for alfalfa seed usually carry enough bacteria to inoculate favorable soils; but I wished to see if this infected soil would improve mine. I have not been able to discover any marked advantage from its use; the reason being that my soil was so rich in humus and added manures that the colonies of bacteria on the seeds were quite sufficient to infect the whole mass. Under less favorable conditions, artificial inoculation is of great advantage.
Wonderful are the secrets of nature. The infinitely small things seem to work for us and the infinitely large ones appear suited to our use; and yet, perhaps, this is all "seeming" and "appearing." We may ourselves be simply more advanced bacteria, working blindly toward the solution of an infinite problem in which we are concerned only as means to an end.
"Why should the spirit of mortal be proud," until it has settled its relative position with both Sirius and the micro-organisms, or has estimated its stature by view-points from the bacterial world and from the constellation of Lyra. Until we have been able to compare opinions from these extremes, if indeed they be extremes, we cannot expect to make a correct estimate of our value in the economy of the universe. I fancy that we are apt to take ourselves too seriously, and that we will sometime marvel at the shadow which we did not cast.
The home lot took on a home look in the spring of 1898. The lawn lost its appearance of newness; the trees became acquainted with each other; the shrubs were on intimate terms with their neighbors, and broke into friendly rivalry of blossoms; the gardens had a settled-down look, as if they had come to stay; and even the wall flowers were enjoying themselves. These efforts of nature to make us feel at ease were thankfully received by Polly and me, and we voted that this was more like home than anything else we had ever had; and when the fruit trees put forth their promise of an autumn harvest in great masses of blossoms, we declared that we had made no mistake in transforming ourselves from city to country folk.
"Aristocracy is of the land," said Polly. "It always has been and always will be the source of dignity and stability. I feel twice as great a lady as I did in the tall house on B—— Street."
"So you don't want to go back to that tall house, madam?"
"Indeed I don't. Why should I?"
"I don't know why you should, only I remember Lot's wife looked back toward the city."
"Don't mention that woman! She didn't know what she wanted. You won't catch me looking toward the city, except once a week for three or four hours, and then I hurry back to the farm to see what has happened in my garden while I've been away."
"But how about your friends, Polly?"
"You know as well as I that we haven't lost a friend by living out here, and that we've tied some of them closer. No, sir! No more city life for me. It may do for young people, who don't know better, but not for me. It's too restricted, and there's not enough excitement."
"Country life fits us like paper on the wall," said I, "but how about the youngsters? If we insist on keeping children, we must take them into our scheme of life."
"Of course we must, but children are an unknown quantity. They arexin the domestic problem, and we cannot tell what they stand for until the problem is worked out. I don't see why we can't find the value ofxin the country as easily as in the city. They have had city and school life, now let them see country life; thexwill stand for wide experience at least."
"Jane likes it thus far," said I, "and I think she will continue; but I don't feel so sure about Jack."
"You're as blind as a bat—or a man. Jane loves country life because she's young and growing; but there's a subconscious sense which tells her that she's simply fitting herself to be carried off by that handsome giant, Jim Jarvis. She doesn't know it, but it's the truth all the same, and it will come as sure as tide; and when it does come, her life will be run into other moulds than we have made, no matter how carefully."
"I wonder where this modern Hercules is most vulnerable. I'll slay him if I find him mousing around my Jane."
"You will slay nothing, Mr. Headman, and you know it; you will just take what's coming to you, as others have done since the world was young."
"Well, I give fair warning; it's 'hands off Jane,' for lo, these many years, or some one will be brewing 'harm tea' for himself."
"You bark so loud no one will believe you can bite," said this saucy, match-making mother.
"How about Jack?" said I. "Have you settled the moulds he is to be run in?"
"Not entirely; but I am not as one without hope. Jack will be through college in June, and will go abroad with us for July and August; he will be as busy as possible with the miners from the moment he comes back; he is much in love with Jessie, the Gordon's have no other child, the property is large, Homestead Farm is only three miles, and—"
"Slow up, Polly! Slow up! Your main line is all right, but your terminal facilities are bad. Jack is to be educated, travelled, employed, engaged, married, endowed with Homestead Farm, and all that; but you mustn't kill off the Gordons. I swing the red lantern in front of that train of thought. Let Jack and Jessie wait till we are through with Four Oaks and the Gordons have no further use for Homestead Farm, before thinking of coupling that property on to this."
"Don't be a greater goose than you can help," said Polly. "You know what I mean. Men are so short-sighted! Laura says, 'the Headman ought to have a small dog and a long stick'; but no matter, I'll keep an eye on the children, and you needn't worry about country life for them. They'll take to it kindly."
"Well, they ought to, if they have any appreciation of the fitness of things. Did you ever see weather made to order before? I feel as if I had been measured for it."
"It suits my garden down to the ground," said Polly, who hates slang.
"It was planned for the farmer, madam. If it happens to fit the rose-garden mistress, it is a detail for you to note and be thankful for, but the great things are outside the rose gardens. Look at that corn-field! A crow could hide in it anywhere."
"What have crows hiding got to do with corn, I'd like to know?"
"When I was a boy the farmers used to say, 'If it will cover a crow's back on the Fourth of July, it will make good corn,' and I am farmering with old saws when I can't find new ones."
"It's all of three weeks yet to the Fourth of July, and your corn will cover a turkey by that time."
"I hope so, but we shan't be here to see it, more's the pity, as Sir Tom would say."
"Do you know, Kate says she won't go over. She doesn't think it would pay for so short a trip. Why do you insist upon eight weeks?"
"Well, now, I like that! When did I ever insist on anything, Mrs. Williams? Not since I knew you well, did I? But be honest, Polly. Who has done the cutting down of this trip? You and the youngsters may stay as long as you please, but I will be back here September 1st unless theNormaniabreaks a shaft."
"I wish we could gooveron a German boat. I hate the Cunarders."
"So do I, but we must land at Queenstown. We must put Sir Tom under the sod at that little castle out from Sligo. Then we can do Holland and Belgium, and have a week or ten days in London."
"That will be enough. I do hope Johnson will take good care of my flowers; it's the very most important time, you know, and if he neglects them—"
"He won't neglect them, Polly; even if he does, they can be easily replaced. But the hay harvest, now, that's different; if they spoil the timothy or cut the alfalfa too late!"
"Bother your alfalfa! What do I care for that? Kate's coming out with the babies, and I'm going to put her in full charge of the gardens. She'll look after them, I'm sure. I'll tell you another bit of news: Jim Jarvis is bound to go with us, Jack says, and he has asked if we'll let him."
"How long have you had that up your sleeve, young woman? I don't like it a little bit! That is why you talked so like an oracle a little while ago! What does Jane say?"
"She doesn't say much, but I think she wouldn't object."
"Of course she can't object. You sick a big brute of a man on to a little girl, and she don't dare object; but I'll feed him to the fishes if he worries her."
"To be sure you will, Mr. Ogre. Anybody would be sure of that to hear you talk."
"Don't chaff me, Polly. This is a serious business. If you sell my girl, I'm going to buy a new one. I'll ask Jessie Gordon to go with us and, if Jack is half the man I take him to be, he'll replenish our stock of girls before we get back."
"Who is match-making now?"
"I don't care what you call it. I shall take out letters of marque and reprisal. I won't raise girls to be carried off by the first privateer that makes sail for them, without making some one else suffer. If Jarvis goes, Jessie goes, that's flat."
"I think it will be an excellent plan, Mr. Bad Temper, and I've no doubt that we can manage it."
"Don't say 'we' when you talk of managing it. I tell you I'm entirely on the defensive until some one robs me, then I'll take what is my neighbor's if I can get it. If it were not for my promise to Sir Tom, I wouldn't leave the farm for a minute! And I would establish a quarantine against all giants for at least five years."
"You know you like Jarvis. He is one of the best."
"That's all right, Polly. He's as fine as silk, but he isn't fine enough for our Jane yet."
It may be the limitless horizon, it may be the comradery of confinement, it may be the old superstition of a plank between one and eternity, or it may be some occult influence of ship and ocean; but certain it is that there is no such place in all the world as a deck of a transatlantic liner for softening young hearts, until they lose all semblance of shape, and for melting them into each other so that out of twain there comes but one. I think Polly was pleased to watch this melting process, as it began to show itself in our young people, from the safe retreat of her steamer chair and behind the covers of her book. I couldn't find that she read two chapters from any book during the whole voyage, or that she was miserable or discontented. She just watched with a comfortable "I told you so" expression of countenance; and she never mentioned home lot or garden or roses, from dock to dock.
It is as natural for a woman to make matches as for a robin to build nests, and I suppose I had as much right to find fault with the one as with the other. I did not find fault with her, but neither could I understand her; so I fretted and fumed and smoked, and walked the deck and bet on everything in sight and out of sight, until the soothing influence of the sea took hold of me, and then I drifted like the rest of them.
No, I will not say "like the rest of them," for I could not forgive this waste of space given over to water. In other crossings I had not noted the conspicuous waste with any feeling of loss or regret; but other crossings had been made before I knew the value of land. I could not get away from the thought that it would add much to the wealth of the world if the mountains were removed and cast into the sea. Not only that, but it would curb to some extent the ragings of this same turbulent sea, which was rolling and tossing us about for no really good reason that I could discover. The Atlantic had lost much of its romance and mystery for me, and I wondered if I had ever felt the enthusiasm which I heard expressed on all sides.
"There she spouts!" came from a dozen voices, and the whole passenger list crowded the port rail, just to see a cow whale throwing up streams of water, not immensely larger than the streams of milk which my cow Holsteins throw down. The crowd seemed to take great pleasure in this sight, but to me it was profitless.
I have known the day when I could watch the graceful leaps and dives of a school of porpoises, as it kept with easy fin, alongside of our ocean greyhound, with pleasure unalloyed by any feeling of non-utility. But now these "hogs of the sea" reminded me of my Chester Whites, and the comparison was so much in favor of the hogs of the land, that I turned from these spectacular, useless things, to meditate upon the price of pork. Even Mother Carey's chickens gave me no pleasure, for they reminded me of a far better brood at home, and I cheerfully thanked the noble Wyandottes who were working every third day so that I could have a trip to Europe. To be sure, I had European trips before I had Wyandottes; to have them both the same year was the marvel.
Before we reached Queenstown, Jarvis had gained some ground by twice picking me out of the scuppers; but as I resented his steadiness of foot and strength of hand, it was not worth mentioning. I could see, however, that these feats were great in Jane's eyes. The double rescue of a beloved parent, from, not exactly a watery grave, but a damp scupper, would never be forgotten. The giant let her adore his manly strength and beauty, and I could only secretly hope that some wave—tidal if necessary—would take him off his feet and send him into the scuppers. But he had played football too long to be upset by a watery wave, and I was balked of my revenge.
Jack and Jessie were rather a pleasure to me than otherwise. They settled right down to the heart-softening business in such matter-of-fact fashion that their hearts must have lost contour before the voyage was half over. Polly dismissed them from her mind with a sigh of satisfaction, and I then hoped that she would find some time to devote to me, but I was disappointed. She assured me that those two were safely locked in the fold, but that she could not "set her mind at rest" until the other two were safe. After that she promised to take me in hand; whether for reward or for punishment left me guessing.
The six and a half days finally came to an end, and we debarked for Queenstown. The journey across Ireland was made as quickly as slow trains and a circuitous route would permit, and we reached Sligo on the second day. Sir Thomas's agent met us, and we drove at once to the "little castle out from Sligo." It proved to be a very old little castle, four miles out, overlooking the bay. It was low and flat, with thick walls of heavy stone pierced by a few small windows, and a broad door made of black Irish oak heavily studded with iron. From one corner rose a square tower, thirty feet or more in height, covered with wild vines that twined in and out through the narrow, unglazed windows.
Within was a broad, low hall, from which opened four rooms of nearly equal size. There was little evidence that the castle had been inhabited during recent years, though there was an ancient woman care-taker who opened the great door for us, and then took up the Irish peasant's wail for the last of the O'Haras. She never ceased her crooning except when she spoke to us, which was seldom; but she placed us at table in the state dining room, and served us with stewed kid, potatoes, and goat's milk. The walls of the dining room were covered with ancient pictures of the O'Haras, but none so recent as a hundred years. We could well believe Sir Tom's words, "the sod has known us for a thousand years," when we looked upon the score of pictures, each of which stood for at least one generation.
The agent told us that our friend had never lived at the castle, but that he had visited the place as a child, and again just before leaving for America. A wall-enclosed lot about two hundred feet square was "the kindest sod in all the world to an O'Hara," and here we placed our dear friend at rest with the "lucky ones" of his race. No one of the race ever deserved more "luck" than did our Sir Tom. The young clergyman who read the service assured us that he had found it; and our minds gave the same evidence, and our hearts said Amen, as we turned from his peaceful resting-place by the green waters of Sligo Bay.
Two days later we were comfortably lodged at The Hague, from which we intended to "do" the little kingdom of Holland by rail, by canal, or on foot, as we should elect.
Leaving Holland with regret, we crossed the Schelde into Belgium, the cockpit of Europe. It is here that one sees what intensive farming is like. No fences to occupy space, no animals roaming at large, nothing but small strips of land tilled to the utmost, chiefly by hand. Little machinery is used, and much of the work is done after primitive fashions; but the land is productive, and it is worked to the top of its bent.
The peasant-farmer soils his cows, his sheep, his swine, in a way that is economical of space and food, if not of labor, and manages to make a living and to pay rent for his twenty-acre strip of land. His methods do not appeal to the American farmer, who wastes more grain and forage each year than would keep the Netherlander, his family, and his stock; but there is a lesson to be learned from this subdivision and careful cultivation of land. Belgian methods prove that Mother Earth can care for a great many children if she be properly husbanded, and that the sooner we recognize her capacity the better for us.
Abandoned farms are not known in Belgium and France, though the soil has been cultivated for a thousand years, and was originally no better than our New England farms, and not nearly so good as hundreds of those which are practically given over to "old fields" in Virginia.
It is neglect that impoverishes land, not use. Intelligent use makes land better year by year. The only way to wear out land is to starve and to rob it at the same time. Food for man and beast may be taken from the soil for thousands of years without depleting it. All it asks in return is the refuse, carefully saved, properly applied, and thoroughly worked in to make it available. If, in addition to this, a cover crop of some leguminous plant be occasionally turned under, the soil may actually increase in fertility, though it be heavily cropped each year.
It would pay the young American farmer to study Belgian methods, crude though they are, for the insight he could gain into the possibilities of continuous production. The greatest number of people to the square mile in the inhabited globe live in this little, ill-conditioned kingdom, and most of them get their living from the soil. It has been the battle-field of Europe: a thousand armies have harrowed it; human blood has drenched it from Liège to Ostend; it has been depopulated again and again. But it springs into new life after each catastrophe, simply because the soil is prolific of farmers, and they cannot be kept down. Like the poppies on the field of Waterloo, which renew the blood-red strife each year, the Belgian peasant-farmer springs new-born from the soil, which is the only mother he knows.
After two weeks in Holland, two in Belgium, and two in London, we were ready to turn our faces toward home.
We took the train to Southampton, and a small side-wheel steamer carried us outside Southampton waters, where we tossed about for thirty minutes before theNormaniacame to anchor. The wind was blowing half a gale from the north, and we were glad to get under the lee of the great vessel to board her.
The transfer was quickly made, and we were off for New York. The wind gained strength as the day grew old, but while we were in the Solent the bluff coast of Devon and Cornwall broke its force sufficiently to permit us to be comfortable on the port side of the ship.
As night came on, great clouds rolled up from the northwest and the wind increased. Darkness, as of Egypt, fell upon us before we passed the Lizard, and the only things that showed above the raging waters were the beacon lights, and these looked dim and far away. Occasionally a flash of lightning threw the waters into relief, and then made the darkness more impenetrable. As we steamed beyond the Lizard and the protecting Cornish coast, the full force of the gale, from out the Irish Sea, struck us. We were going nearly with it, and the good ship pitched and reared like an angry horse, but did not roll much. Pitching is harder to bear than rolling, and the decks were quickly vacated.
I turned into my stateroom soon after ten o'clock, and then happened a thing which will hold a place in my memory so long as I have one. I did not feel sleepy, but I was nervous, restless, and half sick. I lay on my lounge for perhaps half an hour, and then felt impelled to go on deck. I wrapped myself in a great waterproof ulster, pulled my storm cap over my ears, and climbed the companionway. Two or three electric bulbs in sheltered places on deck only served to make the darkness more intense. I crawled forward of the ladies' cabin, and, supporting myself against the donkey-engine, peered at the light above the crow's-nest and tried to think that I could see the man on watch in the nest. I did see him for an instant, when the next flash of lightning came, and also two officers on the bridge; and I knew that Captain Bahrens was in the chart house. When the next flash came, I saw the other lookout man making his short turns on the narrow space of bow deck, and was tempted to join him; why, I do not know. I crept past the donkey-engine, holding fast to it as I went, until I reached the iron gate that closes the narrow passage to the bow deck. With two silver dollars in my teeth I staggered across this rail-guarded plank, and when the next flash came I was sitting at the feet of the lookout man with the two silver dollars in my outstretched hand. He took the money, and let me crawl forward between the anchors and the high bulwark of the bows.
The sensations which this position gave me were strange beyond description. Darkness was thick around me; at one moment I was carried upward until I felt that I should be lost in the black sky, and the next moment the downward motion was so terrible that the blacker water at the bottom of the sea seemed near. I cannot say that I enjoyed it, but I could not give it up.
When the great bow rose, I stood up, and, looking over the bulwark, tried to see either sky or water, but tried in vain, save when the lightning revealed them both. When the bow fell, I crouched under the bulwark and let the sea comb over me. How long I remained at this weird post, I do not know; but I was driven from it in such terror as I hope never to feel again.
An unusually large wave carried me nearer the sky than I liked to be, and just as the sharp bow of the great iron ship was balancing on its crest for the desperate plunge, a glare of lightning made sky and sea like a sheet of flame and curdled the blood in my veins. In the trough of the sea, under the very foot of the immense steamship, lay a delicate pleasure-boat, with its mast broken flush with its deck, and its helpless body the sport of the cruel waves.
The light did not last longer than it would take me to count five, but in that time I saw four figures that will always haunt me. Two sailors in yachting costume were struggling hopelessly with the tiller, and the wild terror of their faces as they saw the huge destruction that hung over them is simply unforgettable.
The other two were different. A strong, blond man, young, handsome, and brave I know, stood bareheaded in front of the cockpit. With a sudden, vehement motion he drew the head of a girl to his breast and held it there as if to shut out the horrible world. There was no fear in his face,—just pain and distress that he was unable to do more. I am thankful that I did not see the face of the girl. Her brown hair has floated in my dreams until I have cried out for help; what would her face have done?
In the twinkling of an eye it was over. I heard a sound as when one breaks an egg on the edge of a cup,—no more. I screamed with horror, ran across the guarded plank, climbed the gate, and fell headlong and screaming over the donkey-engine. Picking up my battered self, I shouted:
"Bahrens! Bahrens! for God's sake, help! Man overboard! Stop the ship!"
I reached the ladder to the bridge just as the captain came out of the chart house.
"For God's sake, stop the ship! You've run down a boat with four people! Stop her, can't you!"
"It can't be done, man. If we've run down a boat, it's all over with it and all in it. I can't risk a thousand lives without hope of saving one. This is a gale, Doctor, and we have our hands full."
I turned from him in horror and despair. I stumbled to my stateroom, dropped my wet clothing in the middle of the floor, and knew no more until the trumpet called for breakfast. The rush of green waters was pounding at my porthole; the experience of the night came back to me with horror; the reek of my wet clothes sickened my heart, and I rang for the steward.
"Take these things away, Gustav, and don't bring them back until they are dry and pressed."
"What things does the Herr Doctor speak for?"
"The wet things there on the floor."
"Excuse me, but I have seen no things wet."
"You Dutch chump!" said I, half rising, "what do you mean by saying—Well, I'll be damned!" There were my clothes, dry and folded, on the couch, and my ulster and cap on their hook, without evidence of moisture or use.
"Gustav, remind me to give you three rix-dollars at breakfast."
"Danke, Herr Doctor."
Of such stuff are dreams made. But I will know those terror-stricken sailors if I do not see them for a hundred years; and I am glad the dark-haired girl did not realize the horror, but simply knew that the man loved her; and I often think of the man who did the nice thing when no one was looking, and whose face was not terrorized by the crack of doom.
Even Polly was satisfied with our young people before we entered New York Bay. If anything in their "left pulmonaries" had remained unsoftened during the voyage out and the comradery of the Netherlands, it was melted into non-resistance by the homeward trip. I could not long hold out against the evidence of happiness that surrounded me, and I gave a half-grudging consent that Jarvis and Jane might play together for the next three or four years, if they would not ask to play "for keeps" until those years had passed. They readily gave the promise, but every one knows how such promises are kept. The children wore me out in time, as all children do in all kinds of ways, and got their own ways in less than half the contract period. I cannot put my finger on any punishment that has befallen them for this lack of filial consideration, and I am fifteen-sixteenths reconciled.
I was downright glad that Jack "made good" with Jessie Gordon. She was the sort of girl to get out the best that was in him, and I was glad to have her begin early. Try as I might, I could not feel unhappy that beautiful September morning as we steamed up the finest waterway to the finest city in the world. Deny it who will, I claim that our Empire City and its environments make the most impressive human show. There is more life, vigor, utility, gorgeousness about it than can be found anywhere else; and it has the snap and elasticity of youth, which are so attractive. No man who claims the privilege of American citizenship can sail up New York Bay without feeling pride in his country and satisfaction in his birthright. One doesn't disparage other cities and other countries when he claims that his own is the best.
We were not specially badly treated at the custom-house,—no worse, indeed, than smugglers, thieves, or pirates would have been; and we escaped, after some hours of confinement, without loss of life or baggage, but with considerable loss of dignity. How can a self-respecting, middle-aged man (to be polite to myself) stand for hours in a crowded shed, or lean against a dirty post, or sit on the sharp edge of his open trunk, waiting for a Superior Being with a gilt band around his hat, without losing some modicum of dignity? And how, when this Superior Being calls his number and kicks his trunk, is he to know that he is a free-born American citizen and a lineal descendant of Roger Williams? The evidence is entirely from within. How is he to support a countenance and mien of dignity while the secrets of his chest are laid bare and the contents of his trunk dumped on the dirty floor? And how must his eyes droop and his face take on a hang-dog look when his second-best coat is searched for diamonds, and his favorite (though worn) pajamas punched for pearls.
There are concessions to be made for one's great and glorious country, and the custom-house is one of them. Perhaps we will do better sometime, and perhaps, though this is unlikely, the customs inspectors of the future will disguise themselves as gentlemen. We finally passed the inquisition, and, with stuffed trunks and ruffled spirits, took cabs for the station, and were presently within the protecting walls at Four Oaks, there to forget lost dignities in the cultivation of land and new ones.
Kate declared that she had had the time of her life during her nine weeks' stay at Four Oaks. "People here every day, and the house full over Sunday. We've kept the place humming," said she, "and you may be thankful if you find anything here but a mortgage. When Tom and I get rich, we are going to be farm people."
"Don't wait for that, daughter. Start your country home early and let it grow up with the children. It doesn't take much money to buy the land and to get fruit trees started. If Tom will give it his care for three hours a week, he will make it at least pay interest and taxes, and it will grow in value every year until you are ready to live on it. Think how our orchards would look now if we had started them ten years ago! They would be fit to support an average family."
"There, Dad, don't mount your hobby as soon as ever you get home. But wehavehad a good time out here. Do you really think farming is all beer and skittles?"
"It has been smooth sailing for me thus far, and I believe it is simply a business with the usual ups and downs; but I mean to make the ups the feature in this case."
"Are you really glad to get back to it? Didn't you want to stay longer?"
"I had a fine trip, and all that, but I give you this for true; I don't think it would make me feel badly if I were condemned to stay within forty miles of this place for the rest of my life."
"I can't go so far as that with you, Dad, but perhaps I may when I'm older."
"Yes, age makes a difference. At forty a man is a fool or a farmer, or both; at fifty the pull of the land is mighty; at sixty it has full possession of him; at seventy it draws him down with other forces than that which Newton discovered, and at eighty it opens for him and kindly tucks the sod around him. Mother Earth is no stepmother, but warm and generous to all, and I think a fellow is lucky who comes to her for long years of bounty before he is compelled to seek her final hospitality."
"But, Dad, we can't all be farmers."
"Of course not, and there's the pity of it; but almost every man can have a plot of ground on which each year he can grow some new thing, if only a radish or a leaf of lettuce, to add to the real wealth of the world. I tell you, young lady, that all wealth springs out of the ground. You think that riches are made in Wall Street, but they are not; they are only handled and manipulated. Stop the work of the farmer from April to October of any year, and Wall Street would be a howling wilderness. The Street makes it easier to exchange a dozen eggs for three spools of silk, or a pound of butter for a hat pin, but that's all; it never created half the intrinsic value of twelve eggs or sixteen ounces of butter. It's only the farmer who is a wealth producer, and it's high time that he should be recognized as such. He's the husbandman of all life; without him the world would be depopulated in three years. You don't half appreciate the profession which your Dad has taken up in his old age."
"That sounds all right, but I don't think the farmer would recognize himself from that description. He doesn't live up to his possibilities, does he?"
"Mighty few people do. A farmer may be what he chooses to be. He's under no greater limitations than a business or a professional man. If he be content to use his muscle blindly, he will probably fall under his own harrow. So, too, would the merchant or the lawyer who failed to use his intelligence in his business. The farmer who cultivates his mind as well as his land, uses his pencil as often as his plough, and mixes brains with brawn, will not fall under his own harrow or any other man's. He will never be the drudge of soil or of season, for to a large extent he can control the soil and discount the season. No other following gives such opportunity for independence and self-balance."
"Almost thou persuadest me to become a farmer," said Kate, as we left the porch, where I had been admiring my land while I lectured on the advantages of husbandry.
Polly came out of the rose garden, where she had been examining her flowers and setting her watch, and said:—
"Kate, you and the grand-girls must stay this month out, anyway. It seems an age since we saw you last."
"All right, if Dad will agree not to fire farm fancies and figures at me every time he catches me in an easy-chair."
"I'll promise, but you don't know what you're missing."
Four Oaks looked great, and I was tempted to tramp over every acre of it, saying to each, "You are mine"; but first I had a little talk with Thompson.
"Everything has been greased for us this summer," said Thompson. "We got a bumper crop of hay, and the oats and corn are fine! I allow you've got fifty-five bushels of oats to the acre in those shocks, and the corn looks like it stood for more than seventy. We sold nine more calves the end of June, for $104. Mr. Tom must have a lot of money for you, for in August we sold the finest bunch of shoates you ever saw,—312 of them. They were not extra heavy, but they were fine as silk. Mr. Tom said they netted $4.15 per hundred, and they averaged a little over 260 pounds. I went down with them, and the buyers tumbled over each other to get them. I was mighty proud of the bunch, and brought back a check for $3407."
"Good for you, Thompson! That's the best sale yet."
"Some of the heifers will be coming in the last of this month or the first of next. Don't you want to get rid of those five scrub cows?"
"Better wait six weeks, and then you may sell them. Do you know where you can place them?"
"Jackson was looking at them a few days ago, and said he would give $35 apiece for them; but they are worth more."
"Not for us, Thompson, and not for him, either, if he saw things just right. They're good for scrubs; but they don't pay well enough for us, and if he wants them he can have them at that price about the middle of October."
The credit account for the second quarter of 1898 stood:—
23 calves$270.00Eggs637.00Butter1314.00----------Total$2221.00
September added a new item to our list of articles sold; small, indeed, but the beginning of the fourth and last product of our factory farm,—fruit from our newly planted orchards. The three hundred plum trees in the chicken runs gave a moderate supply for the colony, and the dwarf-pear trees yielded a small crop; but these were hardly included in our scheme. I expected to be able, by and by, to sell $200 or $300 worth of plums; but the chief income from fruit would come from the fifty acres of young apple orchards.
I hope to live to see the time when these young orchards will bring me at least $5 a year for each tree; and if I round out my expectancy (as the life-insurance people figure it), I may see them do much better. In the interim the day of small things must not be despised. In our climate the Yellow Transparent and the Duchess do not ripen until early September, and I was therefore at home in time to gather and market the little crop from my six hundred trees. The apples were carefully picked, for they do not bear handling well, and the perfect ones were placed in half-bushel boxes and sent to my city grocer. Not one defective apple was packed, for I was determined that the Four Oaks stencil should be as favorably known for fruit as for other products.
The grocer allowed me fifty cents a box. "The market is glutted with apples, but not your kind," said he. "Can you send more?" I could not send more, for my young trees had done their best in producing ninety-six boxes of perfect fruit. Boxes and transportation came to ten cents for each box, and I received $38 for my first shipment of fruit.
I cannot remember any small sum of money that ever pleased me more,—except the $28 which I earned by seven months of labor in my fourteenth year; for it was "first fruits" of the last of our interlacing industries.
Thirty-eight dollars divided among my trees would give one cent to each; but four years later these orchards gave net returns of ninety cents for each tree, and in four years from now they will bring more than twice that amount. At twelve years of age they will bring an annual income of $3 each, and this income will steadily increase for ten or fifteen years. At the time of writing, February, 1903, they are good for $1 a year, which is five per cent of $20.
Would I take $20 apiece for these trees? Not much, though that would mean $70,000. I do not know where I could place $70,000 so that it would pay five per cent this year, six per cent next year, and twenty per cent eight or ten years from now. Of course, $70,000 would be an exorbitant price to pay for an orchard like mine; but it must be remembered that I am old and cannot wait for trees to grow.
If a man will buy land at $50 or $60 an acre, plant it to apple trees (not less than sixty-five to the acre), and bring these trees to an age when they will produce fruit to the value of $1.50 each, they will not have cost more than $1.50 per tree for the land, the trees, and the labor.
I am too old to begin over again, and I wish to see a handsome income from my experiment before my eyes are dim; but why on earth young men do not take to this kind of investment is more than I can see. It is as safe as government bonds, and infinitely safer than most mercantile ventures. It is a dignified employment, free from the ordinary risks of business; and it is not likely to be overdone. All one needs is energy, a little money, and a good bit of well-directed intelligence. This combination is common enough to double our rural population, relieve the congestion in trades and underpaid employments, and add immensely to the wealth of the country. If we can only get the people headed for the land, it will do much toward solving the vexing labor problems, and will draw the teeth of the communists and the anarchists; for no one is so willing to divide as he who cannot lose by division. To the man who has a plot of ground which he calls his own, division doesn't appeal with any but negative force. Neither should it, until all available lands are occupied. Then he must move up and make room for another man by his side.
The sales for the quarter ending September 30 were as follows:—
96 half-bushel boxes of apples$38.009 calves104.00Eggs543.00Butter1293.00Hogs3407.00----------Total$5385.00
This was the best total for any three months up to date, and it made me feel that I was getting pretty nearly out of the woods, so far as increasing my investment went.
Including my new hog-house and ten thousand bushels of purchased grain, the investment, thought I, must represent quite a little more than $100,000, and I hoped not to go much beyond that sum, for Polly looked serious when I talked of six figures, though she was reconciled to any amount which could be stated in five.
My buildings were all finished, and were good for many years; and if they burned, the insurance would practically replace them. My granary was full enough of oats and corn to provide for deficits of years to come; and my flocks and herds were now at their maximum, since Sam had turned more than eight hundred pullets into the laying pens. I began to feel that the factory would soon begin to run full time and to make material returns for its equipment. It would, of course, be several years before the fruit would make much showing, but I am a patient man, and could wait.
"Polly," said I, on the evening of December 31, "let's settle the accounts for the year, and see how much we must credit to 'experience' to make the figures balance."
"Aren't you going to credit anything to health, and good times generally? If not, you don't play fair."
"We'll keep those things in reserve, to spring on the enemy at a critical moment; perhaps they won't be needed."
"I fancy you will have to bring all your reserves into action this time, Mr. Headman, for you promised to make a good showing at the end of the third year."
"Well, so I will; at least, according to my own estimate; but others may not see it as I do."
"Don't let others see it at all, then. The experiment is yours, isn't it?"
"Yes, for us; but it's more than a personal matter. I want to prove that a factory farm is sound in theory and safe in practice, and that it will fit the needs of a whole lot of farmers."
"I hardly think that 'a whole lot of farmers,' or of any other kind of people, will put $100,000 into a farm on any terms. Don't you think you've been a little extravagant?"
"Only on the home forty, Polly. I will expound this matter to you some time until you fall asleep, but not to-day. We have other business on hand. I want to give you this warning to begin with: you are not to jump to a conclusion or on to my figures until you have fairly considered two items which enter into this year's expense account. I've built an extra hog-house and have bought ten thousand bushels of grain, at a total expense of about $6000. Neither of these items was really needed this year; but as they are our insurance against disease and famine, I secured them early and at low prices. They won't appear in the expense account again,—at least, not for many years,—and they give me a sense of security that is mighty comforting."
"But what if Anderson sets fire to your piggery, or lightning strikes your granary,—how about the expense account then?"
"What do you suppose fire insurance policies are for? To paper the wall? No, madam, they are to pay for new buildings if the old ones burn up. I charge the farm over $200 a year for this security, and it's a binding contract."
"Well, I'll try and forget the $6000 if you'll get to the figures at once."
"All right. First, let me go over the statement for the last quarter of the year. The sales were: apples, from 150 old trees at $3 per tree, $450; 10 calves, $115; 360 hens and 500 cockerels, $430; 5 cows (the common ones, to Jackson) at $35 each, $175; eggs, $827; butter, $1311; and 281 hogs, rushed to market in December when only about eight months old and sold for $3.70 per hundred to help swell this account, $2649; making a total for the fourth quarter of $5957.
"The items of expense for the year were:—