CHAPTER IV
DICK was up early Monday morning, meekly and diligently hoeing the potato patch. But his father had seen this humility and industry follow too many offenses to overlook Saturday’s disobedience; so the culprit received a severe lecture ending with the command to spend his Saturday afternoons for a month working in the garden.
A month! A whole month before he could go back to the Old Sterling Mine! All that he could do, in the meantime, to help carry out his plan of working the mine and making a fortune, was to get tools and collect candles.
He rummaged among the old irons in the blacksmith’s shed on several afternoons, under pretense of finding horseshoes.
“What’s this old tool; and that one?� he asked with assumed carelessness, pulling out one after another, until he identified and set aside some that the miners had used.
Then he chose an occasion when Mr. Mallett was busy shoeing a fractious mule and said in an offhand way: “Mr. Mallett, I want to dig ahole, where I reckon there’s rock. May I take some of the old tools out of your shed?�
“Help yourself.�
“And I needn’t bring them back right away?�
Mr. Mallett did not look up from his task. “Keep ’em long as you please. They’re there to sell for old iron. Whoa, you brute!�
“Thank you!� Dick went away then, but at dusk that evening he slipped back to the shop and got the pick and spade and sledge hammer he had set aside, and sped down the unlighted street and deposited them under the churchyard hedge.
Many an hour, during the days that followed, while he sat with a textbook in his hand, he was in fancy unearthing vast treasures and displaying them to the envy and admiration of his comrades. Slowly, oh! very slowly, the days went by that kept him chained to his tasks at home.
One pleasant afternoon in mid-April, the children drifted out of school, in the usual merry chattering groups. The Village schoolhouse was across The Street from The Roost. It was a quaint, ivy-mantled brick cottage, the old “office,� in the corner of the yard at Broad Acres. Broad Acres, once a lordly estate, was now “broad acres� in name only. Farm after farm, field after field, had passed from the family ownershipuntil the mansion, with the rambling yard and garden, was all that was left.
The house was a stately red-brick building with wide halls and spacious, high-ceilinged rooms. Mrs. Wilson, who lived there with her daughter Ruth, spent her days teaching A B C’s to babies and preparing Dick and the older boys for the university. People who were able paid her in money or wood or meal or shoes, and she accepted their pupils and fees, but oh! how she struggled to get the children whose parents were too poor to pay for schooling or to realize its value.
“I wish and I wish you weren’t going away, Anne, you precious darling Anne!� Patsy wailed for the twentieth time, giving Anne Lewis a frantic embrace.
“It’s a horrid shame!� exclaimed Ruth Wilson.
“But I’m coming back in the summer,� Anne said, to comfort them and herself. “Oh! and, Patsy, won’t we have a lovely time, going around with Dick!� she said, with a mischievous glance at Patsy’s twin.
“Bet you will—not!� declared Dick.
“And think what a good time we’ll all have at Happy Acres.�
“Let’s go to Happy Acres now,� suggested David Spotswood. “We boys will catch somefish—maybe, and you girls can get flowers, and we’ll come home by the mill.�
“Oh, yes! let’s do that,� exclaimed Anne. “You can go, can’t you, Patsy? Ruth? Alice?�
“I don’t see how I can, to stay all afternoon,� Patsy said regretfully. “Our Red Cross box is to go off next week and I’m not half done my sweater.�
“I’ve got to f-finish my scarf,� stammered Ruth.
“I want to knit another pair of socks, if I have time,� said Alice.
The Village was working and denying itself to help stricken France and Belgium. If the contributions were not large in dollars and cents, they were great in the efforts and self-sacrifice of the little country neighborhood. But the offerings came from the hands of good Samaritans, not of patriots. America had accepted the war; it had not yet come home to The Village. Later on, it was to—but we shall see what we see.
“Oh, you girls!� grumbled Stephen Tavis. “You are doing that Red Cross stuff all the time.�
“And you boys are playing while we work,� said Patsy, tossing her head.
“We are saving flour and sugar for the Belgians. Do you want us to knit and sew?� laughed Dick.
“Some of the boys in Washington are knitting,�Anne said gravely; “and lots of men, real men, like firemen and soldiers. And they—we—are all making gardens, so there will be more food to send to hungry France and Belgium.�
“Father read from the paper last night something the President said,� said Patsy. “‘Every one who makes or works a garden helps to solve the problem of feeding the nations.’�
“Yes, the President says the fate of the nation and the world rests largely on the farmer,� said David, importantly. “He wants them to plant food crops; and that’s what I am doing.�
“Oh, your old corn acre! You’re so biggity about it,� jeered Dick.
“I wouldn’t mind a little farm work or gardening; but I certainly draw the line at knitting,� said Steve.
“Oh! oh! oh!� Anne jumped up and down, uttering little squeals of excitement. “Steve! David! Dick! Why don’t you have a school war garden?�
“A school garden?� questioned Steve.
“Yes; like we have in Washington, that all the pupils work in,� said Anne.
“Thank you! I get enough gardening at home,� said Dick, sourly. “I don’t want to spend all my life hung to one end of a stick with a hoe at the other end.�
“Oh! but this is fun, and good war work too.It takes just a few hours a week from each of us. The more there are to help, the less there is for each one to do.� Then Anne went on indignantly: “It seems to me you’d want to help, you boys, when you think about all those poor people over there, old folks and children and women with babies, homeless and without food. Hundreds and thousands of them stand in line for hours every day to get a little soup and a piece of bread; and if we in America don’t provide that bread and soup, they’ll starve.�
“I’ll make a garden for them,� said a high, sweet voice, quavering on the verge of tears. “If I had a hoe and a place to work, I’d begin right away. I ain’t quite as big as Dick, but father says I’ve got mighty good muscle. Just you feel it, Anne,� said Sweet William. “Where’s a hoe? And where’s the garden going to be?�
“Yes; where could we have a garden?� said Steve. “I don’t mind working a little, enough to keep up with Sweet William, if we had a good place.�
There was a pause.
“There isn’t any place. You see we can’t have it,� Dick said triumphantly.
“There is; you can,� Anne declared vehemently. “You may have my Happy Acres that Cousin Rodney gave me. I’ll—yes, I’ll be willingand glad to dig up the flowers for potatoes and things.� Her voice broke and she winked back her tears.
“O-oh!�
“Why, Anne!�
“Of course you wouldn’t!�
“What’s this about digging up flowers?� Mrs. Wilson, coming out of the schoolroom, with her hands full of papers, heard Anne’s last words and the horrified exclamations they excited. “Surely you aren’t talking about dear Happy Acres?�
“Anne wants us to have a garden, a sort of war garden,� explained Patsy.
“We have them in Washington, you know, Cousin Agnes,� Anne said. “We raise lots of vegetables, and it isn’t hard work, with so many to help; and anyway, it’s worth working hard for, to help feed the world when it’s hungry and starving.�
“And Steve asked where the garden could be,� Patsy continued her explanation. “Anne says it can be Happy Acres, even if they have to dig up the flowers.�
“That would be dreadful!� exclaimed Alice Blair.
“It’s dreadfuller for people to be starving,� said Anne.
“Shucks! We couldn’t work a garden atHappy Acres,� said Dick. “By the time we walked there after school, it would be time to walk back to do our home work.�
“We could run,� suggested Sweet William.
Mrs. Wilson laughed with the others; then she said: “Possibly you are right, Dick; and certainly Anne is. Let me think a minute. If you boys are willing to give part of your time to work for the hungry, I will give part of my garden and my help. What do you say?�
“Yes, ma’am, thank you!� screeched Sweet William.
“I’m Sweet William’s partner,� said Steve.
“I’ll help,� said Tom Walthall, “if you don’t ask me to do too much.�
“So will I,� said Tom Mallett.
“I’ll help when pa can spare me,� promised Joe Spencer.
“I will, if Baldie will,� said John Eppes, who never wished to do anything without his brother Archibald.
“Oh! I’ll be in it with the others,� said Archie.
“Of course you will, David?� Anne appealed to the silent boy whose voice she had expected to hear first.
“There’s my corn acre——� David began hesitatingly.
“Of course!� laughed Dick.
“That’s just it,� Anne said eagerly. “You’ve done such splendid work, raising such fine corn and winning prizes. You know so much more than the rest of us about working crops that—why, we need you dreadfully.�
David tried not to look pleased. “I’ll do what I can,� he agreed. “But I just tell you, I’m not going to neglect my corn acre for anything; that I’m not.�
“Of course not,� said Mrs. Wilson. “And you, Dick—you’ll help, of course?�
“No; no, Cousin Agnes,� Dick answered positively. “I’m getting enough garden work to last my lifetime. And besides, I’ve got something else to do, if I ever get a chance at it.�
“What part of the garden are you going to give us, Cousin Agnes?� asked David.
“Let’s go and look over the ground,� said Mrs. Wilson. “I’ve just had it plowed and harrowed, ready for planting.�
She led the way to the big, old-fashioned garden. In front were beds of hardy flowers, and arbors and summerhouses covered with roses and jasmine and honeysuckle. Back of the flowers were vegetable beds and rows of raspberries and gooseberries and fig bushes. And in a far corner, hedged by boxwood and carpeted withblue-starred periwinkle, rose the lichened marble slabs of the family burying-ground.
David, the star member of the county Corn Club, looked admiringly at the fertile vegetable beds. “Gee!� he exclaimed. “I’d beat the record if my corn acre was like this; it’s rich as cream.�
“It has been a garden more than a hundred years,� said Mrs. Wilson. “Broad Acres was the first clearing in the wilderness where The Village is now. Here, boys, I am going to give you this sunny southeast square. Now, let’s see who are our gardeners. You’ll join, won’t you, Albert?� she said kindly to Albert Smith, who stood uncomfortably apart from any of the friendly groups.
“No. I can’t,� he said abruptly. Then he turned his head with a queer little gesture as if he were listening to hear how his speech sounded. He added confusedly: “My uncle needs me to come home. I came to ask the arithmetic page lesson.�
Mrs. Wilson indicated the page and then, as he slipped away, she turned to the other boys. All except Dick Osborne enrolled as members of The Village War-Garden Club. Meanwhile, the girls were whispering together, and Patsy became their spokeswoman.
“Cousin Agnes,� she said, “we want to war-garden, too.�
“Y-yes, mother,� said Ruth. “We’ve been having flower gardens; why c-can’t we raise real things, beans and potatoes?�
“You can; of course you can,� said her mother.
There was a howl from the boys.
“We don’t want girls bothering around,� said Archie. “Let them stay in the house and sew.�
“They’ve got their Red Cross stuff,� said Steve. “That’s enough for them.�
“We girls have Red Cross work in Washington, and we do war gardening, too. And who suggested this garden, I’d like to know?� Anne asked.
“That’s all right; suggest,� said Joe. “Girls are good at talking; but we don’t want them around in our way when we are working.�
There was a clamor of indignation from the girls.
“Boys! Girls!� Mrs. Wilson said in her schoolroom voice. In the silence that it brought, she went on: “Of course the girls may have a garden, if they wish. I’ll give them the strip of land by the rose garden.�
But the girls scornfully rejected this offer.
“We don’t want a little ribbon like that,� said Patsy. “We want a real garden or none at all.We don’t care if you give us a bigger place than the boys have—I’m sure we can manage it—but we don’t want an inch less. There are more of us than there are of them; two more, counting Anne, who’s coming back in June.�
“Give us the square by the one the b-b-boys have,� said Ruth.
“Oh, you greedy!� said David. “That would be taking nearly all of Cousin Agnes’s garden, these two big squares.�
“Make the boys divide their square with us, Cousin Agnes,� suggested Patsy.
“No! no! no!� the boys objected loudly.
“Who’s greedy now?� Patsy inquired scornfully.
“G-g-give us that s-southwest square, mother,� urged Ruth. “You and I don’t need such a big garden. Let’s l-l-let the Belgians have it.�
“Well,� Mrs. Wilson agreed. She and Ruth did need the garden; it was their main support; but in this time of world need, they must give not only all they were able, but more and still more. She and Ruth would get on, somehow. “You girls may have the square next to the boys,� she said.
There were groans and cheers.
“We’ll see which do the best work. To-morrow morning let’s meet here and start theplanting. Bring hoes and rakes. I,� she added, “will supply seeds.�
That meant another sacrifice. She and Ruth would stint themselves to give for seed the peas and beans and potatoes they had stored for food.
On the way home, Dick and some of the others stopped at the post office. It occupied a corner of Mr. Blair’s general merchandise shop and it was, Black Mayo said, the Village club where young and old gathered in the afternoons for mail and gossip.
When Dick went in, there were a dozen villagers and countrymen lounging in the room, Mr. Blair was sorting the mail, and Black Mayo was perched on the counter, reading the news in Mr. Blair’s paper the only daily that came to The Village.
“The British are holding Vimy Ridge,� he said.
“What about Congress and army plans?� asked Red Mayo.
“Congress is still discussing, discussing. Why doesn’t it go ahead and put a draft bill in shape? The President’s right; that’s the way to raise an army.�
“Hey, Black Mayo! Here’s a letter for Polly,� said Mr. Blair. “And here are two letters for Mr. Carl Schmidt.� He looked around.
The man who lived at the old Tolliver place came forward. “I guess they are for me,� he said, “from somebody that did not know my name; it’s Smith, good American Charley Smith.�
“Carl Schmidt; that’s a queer-sounding name. What is it?� asked Mr. Jones, a stout, red-faced countryman.
“It is a German name,� Black Mayo said crisply.
“My father did from Germany come,� the man who called himself Smith said hastily, darting an angry glance at Black Mayo and then looking around without meeting any one’s eyes. “He was sensible, and he did come to America. I was here born. I am an American citizen.�
“I’d hate to be one of them low-down Germans,� said Pete Walthall, taking a chew of tobacco.
“Ach!so would I,� Smith proclaimed loudly. “They are bad people. Awful bad people.� He met defiantly Black Mayo’s quizzical eyes. “I got no use for them German peoples.�
“Nobody has,� said Mr. Tavis.
“Oh, yes!� Black Mayo declared. “I have. One of my best friends is a German, a fine fellow named Kuno Kleist that I spent months with, in Mexico, helping him collect bugs and butterflies.�
“Why, Mr. Mayo!� said Pete. “You mean to say you don’t hate Germany?�
“I hate the Germany of Prussianism, power-mad Junkerism, the ‘blood and iron’ of Frederick the Great and Bismarck and Kaiser William,� said Black Mayo; “but I love the Germany of Goethe and Schiller and Luther and Beethoven.�
“Germany is one!� Mr. Smith’s voice rang out. “It is one, I say.�
“So are we all, all one.� Black Mayo looked around with a sudden winning smile. “Remember that first Christmas when German and British soldiers came out of the trenches to exchange food and to talk together. ‘You are of the same religion as we, and to-day is the Day of Peace,’ a German said to a Scottish officer. And those men had to be transferred to other parts of the line; they were enemies no longer, but friends; they could not fight one another.
“Facts come out now and then that show the difference in spirit between people and war lords. A German paper recently announced that the people of a certain town had been jailed for improper conduct to prisoners and their names were printed, to make their shame known to coming generations.
“An American consul investigated the case. He found that a trainload of Canadian prisonershad been sidetracked in the little town, and the citizens had found out they were thirsty and starving; so they brought food and drink. This was the crime for which they were imprisoned and held up to shame!
“Oh! the war lords are trying to carry out their policy of frightfulness. But they have studied history to little purpose if they think Edith Cavell and theLusitaniavictims and the murdered Belgians and the tortured prisoners are dead.�
“What do you mean, Cousin Mayo,� asked Dick.
“Are the Greeks of Thermopylæ dead? Or Roland and King Arthur, who perhaps never lived?� Leaving Dick to make his own explanation, Mr. Osborne turned to Mr. Blair. “Will, give me two pounds of nails, please. I must be going.�
“Going!� said Mr. Blair, in surprise. It was an unwritten law that when a man came to the post office he was to loaf there until night drove him home.
“I’m busy making a new pigeon cote.�
“So you’ve gone back to the amusement of your boyhood, eh?� said Mr. Blair, as he weighed the nails.
There had always been pigeons at Larkland, Black Mayo Osborne’s home. When the housewas built, the master, the first Osborne in Virginia, erected a dovecote and stocked it with birds from the family home in England. There they had been ever since. Sometimes they were carefully bred; sometimes they were neglected; but always they were there, flying, cooing, nesting in the quiet old country place.
As a boy, Black Mayo took great interest in raising and training them. And this spring he had sent to a famous breeder for new stock and had begun again to train carrier pigeons.
He answered Mr. Blair with a smile and a nod, and started out. “Hey, Dickon!� he said. “It’s a long time since you came to see the pigeons. Have you lost interest in them?�
“No; no, sir,� answered Dick, looking embarrassed. “I—I—that I haven’t.�
“Richard is—h’m!—keeping bounds this month,� Red Mayo said austerely. “He diso——�
“I understand.� Black Mayo spared Dick a public explanation. “Well, come when you can. I’ll bring you one of my young birds to-morrow, to turn loose for a trial flight.�
“Oh, thank you, Cousin Mayo!�
Mr. Smith sidled to the door and looked after Mr. Osborne, with a malignant scowl.
“He, the one you call ‘Black Mayo,’ is—isn’the queer?� he said to Jake Andrews and Mac Hight, who were sitting on the porch.
“What do you mean?� asked Jake Andrews.
“He takes up for the Germans; says they are such good, kind people and he loves them. It sounds to me strange to hear a man call himself now a friend of the German peoples.�
“Shucks! Black Mayo ain’t said that; is he, Mr. Tavis?� Jake appealed to the old man who now came shuffling out on the porch.
“Yes, he did,� said Mr. Tavis. “He explained at it somehow; but he certainly said he loved them Germans that are tearing the world to pieces over yonder.�
“And here, too,� said Jake. “Ain’t they been blowing up railroad bridges, and factories, and public buildings? Why, they’ve got soldiers guarding the warehouses at South City; near us as that!�
“That’s what South City gets for being on the railroad where all sorts of folks go traipsing up and down,� said Mr. Tavis. “I stand to what I’ve always said, I’m glad the railroad don’t come a-nigh The Village.�
“It’s good that Mr. Osborne so talks here where you permit him what he pleases to say,� said Mr. Smith. “In New York State a man for that talk would be arrested and punished.�
“Shucks!� said Mr. Tavis. “Black Mayo didn’t mean no harm. He always had a funny way of talking.�
“You heard him say he loves the Germans; not so?� insisted Mr. Smith.
“Well, yes; he certainly said that,� admitted Mr. Tavis again.
“H-m-m! That’s mighty curious talk,� said Jake.