"A swarm in May is worth a load of hay.A swarm in June is worth a silver spoon,But a swarm in July is not worth a fly."
"A swarm in May is worth a load of hay.A swarm in June is worth a silver spoon,But a swarm in July is not worth a fly."
July swarms would not have time to lay up a store of honey during the season of flowers.
Between bees and neighbors the forenoon was far advanced before we reached the field and began bean-planting. Quite enough of it remained, however, to render me certain that farm work, in summer, is far from being a pastime. We planted the beans among the corn which had been planted two weeks previously and was now a finger's length above the ground. The corn hills were three feet and a half apart, and between the hills of every row we now inserted a hill of beans. Halstead and I dropped the seed, three beans to a hill, going a few steps in advance of Addison and the old Squire, who followed us with hoes and covered the beans. The process of dropping was very simple; we had only to make an imprint in the soft earth with the right heel, and then drop three beans in the hole. Yet with the sun hot above my head, I found it a sweaty task, and was but too glad to hear Ellen blow the horn for dinner.
Bean-planting was the business again after dinner, but dark clouds rose in the west, shortly before three o'clock, and soon the first thunder-shower of the season rose, rumbling upward over the White Mountains.We were compelled to run for the barn. Gramp improved the opportunity to sharpen the sheep-shears, and as soon as the shower abated, sent Halstead off to notify a man at the Corners, named Peter Glinds, a professional shearer, that his services would be required on the following day. "Old Peter," as he was called, had made shearing sheep his spring vocation for many years; he was a very tall, lean, yellow old man, who was reported to use a plug of tobacco a day, the year round.
Addison set about preparing a half-hogshead tub to hold the poke decoction for immersing the lambs after the sheep were sheared.
But singeing off caterpillars' nests in the orchard was my work for the remainder of that afternoon and the following forenoon. I went up to the west barn a number of times, however, to see Peter Glinds shear sheep, for I had a great curiosity concerning this piece of farm work.
Addison and Halstead were assisting at the shearing, the latter catching and fetching the sheep, one by one, to the shearers, while the former was attending to the fleeces, binding up each one by itself in a compact bundle with stout twine. Instead of sitting at a bench, or standing at a table, the sheep-shearer worked on his knees, extending the sheep prone upon the barn floor. Old Peter could shear a sheep in ten minutes; Gramp was less speedy with the shears; he contrived to shear about as many as Peter, however, for, after every fourth sheep, the latter would have to stop to light his pipe and refresh himself. "A bad habit! A bad habit!" he would exclaim nearly every time he lighted up. "A bad habit! but I can't seem to get along 'thout it." He also "chewed" constantly during the intervals between smokes.
Peter was not very considerate of the feelings of the sheep while under his hands, and a little careless with the shears. Naturally a sheep will get clippedoccasionally, and lose a bit of skin; but all those that Peter sheared were plentifully covered with red spots. It nettled the Old Squire, who always detested needless cruelty to domestic animals. One of the sheep, in fact, looked so badly that Gramp exclaimed, "Glinds, if you are going to skin the sheep, better take a butcher knife!"
"'Twas a bad nestly sheep; 'twouldn't keep still nowheres," replied Peter.
The old man had a thin, but rather long, gray beard; and while shearing one of the sheep, either in revenge for its cuts, or else, as is more likely, mistaking Peter's beard for a wisp of hay, it made a fitful grab at it and tweaked away a small mouthful. Peter cried out angrily and continued scolding in an undertone about it for some minutes. This vastly amused Addison, who chanced to see the incident. In addition to his duties with the wool, Addison was also "doctor." When a sheep was cut with the shears, Gramp had the spot touched up with a swab, dipped in a dish of melted tallow, to coat over the raw place and exclude the air. To be effective, however, the tallow needed to be hot, or at least quite warm, so that Addison was frequently making trips with the tallow dipper to the stove in the house kitchen.
Going in with him to tell the girls of the accident to old Peter's beard, I found them laboring and discouraged over the churn; for some reason the cream had failed to come to butter that morning in a reasonable time. They had been churning for nearly two hours. It was an old-fashioned dasher churn, and the labor was far from light. Addison could not stop to assist them; but I volunteered to do so, and soon found that I had embarked in a tiresome business, for we had to work at the dasher for as much as an hour more before the butter came.
That evening I had an ill turn. It may have been due to change of climate, or of food, or perhaps theunwonted exercise. Gram, however, was convinced that I had a "worm-turn;" and that night, for the first time, I made the acquaintance of the Vermifuge Bottle!
Now Gram was a dear old soul, but had certain fixed ideas as to the ailments of youngsters and the appropriate remedies therefor. Whenever any one of us had taken cold, or committed youthful indiscretions in diet, she was always persuaded that we were suffering from an attack of Worms—which I am spelling with a big W, since it was a very large ailment in her eyes. To her mind, and in all honesty, the average child was a kind of walking helminthic menagerie, a thin shell of flesh and skin, inclosing hundreds, if not thousands, of Worms! And drastic measures were necessary to keep this raging internal population down to the limits where a child could properly live.
For this bane of juvenile existence, Gram had one constant, sovereign remedy in which she reposed implicit faith, and which she never varied nor departed from, and that was a great spoonful of Van Tassel's Vermifuge, followed four hours later by two great spoonfuls of castor oil. Be it said, too, that the castor oil of that period was the genuine, oily, rank abomination, crude from the bean, and not the "Castoria" of present times, which children are alleged to cry for! And as for Van Tassel's Vermifuge, it resembled raw petroleum, and of all greenish-black, loathly nostrums was the most nauseous to swallow. It was my fixed belief and hope in those youthful years that, if anywhere in the next world there were a deep, dark, super-heated compartment far below all others, it would be reserved expressly for Van Tassel and his Anthelminthic.
Whenever, therefore, any one of us put in an appearance at the breakfast table, looking a little rusty and "pindling," without appetite, Gram would survey the unfortunate critically, with commiseration on herplacid countenance, and exclaim, "The Worms are at work again! Poor child, you are all eaten up by worms! You must take a dose of Vermifuge."
This diagnosis once made, excuses, prayers, sudden assumptions of liveliness, or pseudo exhibitions of ravenous appetite, availed nothing. Gram would rise from the table, walk calmly to the medicine cupboard and fetch out that awful Bottle and Spoon.
With a species of fascination, the Worm-suspect would then watch her turn out the hideous, sticky liquid, till the tablespoon was full and crowning over the brim of it all around. Why, even to this day, as the picture rises in memory, I feel my stomach roll and see the hard, wild grin on the face of Halstead as he watched the ordeal approach me.
"Now shut your eyes and open your mouth," Gram would say, and, when the awful dose was in, "Swallow! Swallow hard!" Then up would come her soft, warm hand under my chin, tilting my head back like a chicken's. There was no escape.
On one occasion Halstead bolted, while the Vermifuge was being poured out, and escaped to the barn. But he had to go without his breakfast that forenoon, and when he appeared at the dinner table, Bottle, Spoon and Gram with a severe countenance were waiting for him.
Theodora used to try to take hers without murmuring, although convinced that it was a mere whim, stipulating only that she might go out in the kitchen to swallow it. But with Wealthy, who was younger, the ingestion of Vermifuge was usually preceded by an orgy of tears and supplications. Addison, who was older and generally well, long smiled in a superior way at the grimaces of us who were more "Wormy." But shortly after our first Thanksgiving Day at the farm, he, too, fell ill and failed to come down to breakfast. On his absence being noted, Gram went up-stairs to inquire into his plight; and it was witha sense of exultation rather than proper pity, I fear, that Halse and I saw the old lady come down presently and get the Vermifuge Bottle. We heard Addison expostulating and arguing in rebuttal for some minutes, but he lost the case. Wealthy, who had stolen up-stairs on tip-toe, to view the denouement, informed us later, in great glee, that Addison had attempted by a sudden movement to eject the nauseous mouthful, but that Gram had clapped one hand under his chin and pinched his nose with the thumb and finger of the other, till he was compelled to swallow, in order to breathe.
About that time it was hopefully observed that the Bottle was nearly empty. A certain cheerfulness sprang up. It proved short-lived. The next time the Old Squire went to the village, Gram sent for two more bottles. The benevolent smile with which she exhibited the fresh supply to us that night caused our hearts to sink. To have it the handier, she poured both bottlefuls into an empty demijohn and put the Spoon beside it in the cupboard.
Addison, although a pretty good boy in the main, was a crafty one. I never knew, certainly, whether or not Halstead and Ellen had any previous knowledge as to the prank Addison played with the Vermifuge, but I rather think not. There was another large flask-shaped bottle in the same cupboard, about half full of elderberry wine, old and quite thick, which Gram had made years before. It was used only "for sickness," and was always kept on the upper shelf. We knew what it was, however; by the time we had been there a year, there were not many bottles in that or any other cupboard which we had not investigated.
The Vermifuge and the old elderberry wine looked not a little alike, and what Ad must have done—though he never fairly owned up to it—was to shift the thick, dark liquids from one bottle to the other and restore the bottles to their usual places in thecupboard. Time went on and I think that it was Ellen who had next to take a dose from the Bottle. It was then remarked that she neither shed tears nor made the usual wry faces. Nor yet did she appear in haste to seize and swallow the draught of consolatory coffee from the Old Squire's sympathetic hand. "Why, Nellie girl, you are getting to be quite brave," was his approving comment; and Ellen, with a puzzled glance around the table, laughed, looked earnestly at Gram, but said nothing; I think she had caught Addison's eye fixed meaningly on her.
If recollection serves me aright, I was the next whose morning symptoms indicated the need of Vermifuge; and I remember the thrill of amazement that went through me when the Spoon upset its dark contents adown the roots of my tongue and Gram's cozy hand came up under my chin.
"Why, Gram!" I spluttered. "This isn't——!" "Here, dear boy, take a good swallow of coffee. That'll take the taste out o' your mouth," Gramp interrupted, his own face drawn into a compassionate pucker, and he clapped the cup to my mouth. I drank, but, still wondering, was about to break forth again, when a vigorous kick under the table, led me to take second thought. Addison was regarding me in a queer way, so was Ellen. Gram was placidly putting away the Bottle and Spoon; and something that tingled very agreeably was warming up my stomach. I burst out laughing, but another kick constrained me to preserve silence.
For some reason we did not say anything to each other about this, although I remember feeling very curious concerning that last dose. A species of roguish free-masonry took root among us. Once after that, when Vermifuge was mentioned, Addison winked to me; and I think we were pretty well aware that something funny had started, unbeknown to Gram. Theodora, however, knew nothing of it. Whetherthis reprehensible slyness would have continued among the rest of us, until we had taken up the whole of the elderberry wine, I cannot say; but about a month later, a dismal exposé was precipitated one Friday night by the arrival of Elder Witham. There was to be a "quarterly meeting" at the meeting-house Saturday afternoon and Sunday, and the Elder came to the Old Squire's to stay till Monday morning.
Elder Witham was getting on in years; and upon this occasion he had taken a little cold, and being a lean, tall, atra-bilious man, his appetite was affected. Gram, as usual, had prepared a good supper, largely on the Elder's account; but I remember that after we had sat down and the Elder had asked the blessing, he straightened back and said, "Sister S——, I see you've got a nice supper. But I don't believe I can eat a mouthful to-night. I'm all out of fix. I'm afraid I shan't be able to preach to-morrow. If you will not think strange, I want to go back into the sitting-room and lie down a bit on your lounge, to see if I can't feel better."
Gram was much disturbed; she followed the Elder from the table and we overheard her speak of sending for a doctor; but the Elder said no, he guessed that he should soon feel better.
"Well, but Elder Witham, isn't there something I can give you to take?" Gram asked. "Some Jamaica ginger, or something like that?"
"Oh, that is rather too fiery for me," we heard the Elder say.
"Then how would a few swallows of my elderberry wine do?" queried Gram.
"But you know, Sister S——, that I don't much approve of such things," the Elder replied.
"Still, I think really, that it would do you good," urged Gram.
"Perhaps," assented the Elder; for, truth to say, this was not his first introduction to the elderberrybottle; and we heard Gram go to the medicine cupboard.
And "about this time," as the old almanac used to have it, several of us youngsters at the supper table began to feel strangely interested. Addison glanced across at Ellen, then jumped up suddenly and took a step or two toward the sitting-room, but changed his mind and went hastily out through the kitchen into the wood-shed. After a moment or two, Ellen stole out after him. As for myself, mental confusion had fallen on me; I looked at Halse, but he was eating very fast.
The trouble culminated speedily, for it does not take long to turn out a small glass of elderberry wine, or drink it, for that matter. The Elder did not drink it all, however; he took one good swallow, then jumped to his feet and ran to the wood-box. "Sin o' the Jews! What! What! What stuff's this?" he spluttered, clearing his mouth as energetically as possible. "You've given me bug-pizen, by mistake!—and I've swallered a lot of it!"
Inexpressibly shocked and alarmed, Gram could hardly trust the evidence of her senses. She stared helplessly, at first, then all in a tremble, snatched up the bottle, smelled of it, then tasted it.
"My sakes, Elder Witham!" she cried, "but don't be scared, it's only Vermifuge, such as I give the children for Worms!"
"Tsssauh!" coughed the Elder. "But it's nasty stuff, ain't it?"
By this time, Gramp had appeared on the scene, and he fetched a cup of tea to take the taste out of the Elder's mouth. Halstead snatched a handful of cookies off the table and decamped. I could not find anything of Addison or Ellen, and so ventured into the sitting-room, with Theodora and Wealthy.
Gram, the Old Squire and Elder Witham were now holding a species of first-aid council. The Elder hadtaken a full swallow of Vermifuge, and after reading the "Directions," they all came to the conclusion that the only safe and proper thing to do was for him to take two tablespoonfuls of castor oil. This was accomplished during the evening; but it was a strangely hushed and completely overawed household. Gram, indeed, was nearly prostrated with mortification. How the Old Squire felt was not quite so clear; as we milked that night, I thought once that I saw him shaking strangely as he sat at his cow which stood next to mine; but I was so shocked myself that I could hardly believe, then, that he was laughing.
Addison helped milk, but immediately disappeared again, and Halse soon retired to bed. Ellen, too, had gone to bed.
Next morning, affairs had not brightened much. Nobody spoke at the breakfast table. The Elder's breakfast was carried in to him, and the net result was that he did not preach that afternoon, as was expected; another minister occupied the pulpit.
Gram gave up going to that quarterly meeting altogether. Shame was near making her ill; and the clouds of chagrin hung low for several days.
It was not till Thursday, following, that Gram recovered her spirits and temper sufficiently to inquire into it. Thursday morning she questioned the whole of us with severity.
Little actual information was elicited, however, for the reason that the most of us knew but little about it. We confessed what we knew, unless, perhaps, Ad kept back something. We all—all except Theodora—knew that we had previously taken elderberry instead of Van Tassel; and Gram gave us an earnest lecture on the meanness of such concealments of facts. The Old Squire said nothing at the time; but I think that he had some private conversation with Addison concerning the matter.
The episode put a damper on the Vermifuge Bottle, however; it was never quite so prominent afterwards. But I have digressed, and gone in advance of my narrative of events at the old farm that season.
The sheep were inclosed at the barn that night, partly that they might not take cold, owing to the sudden loss of their winter coats, partly also that, being pent up close with the lambs, all the parasites ("ticks") would leave the bare skins of the sheep and take refuge within the partly grown fleeces of the lambs—and thus the more readily fall victims to the bath which we had specially prepared for their extermination on the morrow.
Immersing one hundred lambs, one by one, in a tubful of mingled poke and tobacco juice is far from an agreeable task; it was a novelty to me then, however, and I entered into it with much zeal and curiosity. I wanted to see how the lambs would behave, and also how the parasites would enjoy it. A boy's mind is eager for all kinds of visual information.
We put on old clothes, and having set the tub containing the decoction near the lean-to door of the barn, caught and brought forth the lambs, one after another. Addison, by virtue of greater experience, undertook the business of immersion, while Halstead and I caught the lambs. They struggled vigorously, and the only practicable method of dipping them was to grasp all four of their legs, two in each hand, and then thrust them down into the tub, taking care that their noses did not go under the liquid. Each had then to be held in the bath for about a minute, giving time for the liquid to thoroughly saturate their wool. But this was not all, nor yet the most disagreeablepart of the affair. On raising them from the tub, it was necessary to dry their fleeces to some extent, by squeezing and wringing them in our hands, lest, owing to the absorbent capacity of their wool, there should soon be nothing left of our decoction in the tub. Taken with the struggles of the lambs, this proved a repulsive task. Before half the lambs were dipped, our old jacket sleeves were soaked. Withal we were nauseated, either from having our hands in the decoction, or else from the odor which arose from the tub and the wet lambs. At length, Addison was obligedto go out behind the barn, where he remained for some minutes, and returned looking very pale. "Good gracious!" he exclaimed. "I think that I shall hate the odor of tobacco juice to the end of my life."
Not long after he made another trip; and immediately I was compelled to follow him, in haste. Halse, who was not much affected, derided us; but he had not held his hands in the tub as much as Addison; besides he was known to have smoked tobacco on several occasions, and this previous experience of the weed, perhaps, stood him in stead on this occasion.
Theodora, who had come out to see how we were progressing, was distressed at our woe-begone condition and ran in to report our sufferings; and as a result of this bulletin, the Old Squire soon made his appearance upon the scene and assumed the rôle of immerser. Gram, too, came out with a dipperful of chamomile tea, of which she authoritatively exhorted us to imbibe a draught.
We judged from appearances that the lambs were also nauseated, for they were observed to stand with drooping heads; and the Old Squire told us that washing either lambs or calves in a strong solution of tobacco had been known to kill them.
Here I may add that the following year we purchased a device for burning tobacco and blowing thesmoke into the wool of the sheep and lambs, called a "fumigator." It was said to be even more destructive to the parasites than the bath of poke and tobacco juices. In point of fact, we found it quite efficacious, also less sloppy and disagreeable to use; but it rendered us even more sick, so ill in fact, that we were fully a day in recovering from the effects. None save a well-seasoned old smoker of tobacco can use the fumigator with impunity.
There had been a "sea-turn" during the morning with the wind southerly, and toward noon it set in rainy. The sheep were turned out to feed for a little while, but at nightfall were driven indoors again. The Old Squire took scrupulous care of his flock during washing and shearing week. A few weeks later we drove the flock down to the barn and touched the nostrils of all the sheep and the older lambs with tar, to prevent a certain species of fly from depositing its eggs and larvae there, causing what was known, later in the year, as "grubs in the head," an affection that often causes many deaths in neglected flocks.
A rainy day is often a farm boy's only holiday. In the afternoon we talked of going down to the lake to fish for pickerel. It came on to rain too heavily, however. Halstead had gone up-stairs to our room, and was hammering at something or other, making a great noise. We heard Addison, who was trying to read in his room, which adjoined, repeatedly begging Halse to desist. Theodora and I played a few games at checkers in the sitting-room, then went up to see Addison. He was reading from Audubon's work on American birds (Ornithological Biography), of which he had three volumes that had been his father's; but he did not own the great volumes of engravings which should accompany them, the want of which he often lamented. I remember that he read to us a number of little anecdotes of wild geese, among others how a certain "mighty miller," with a great gun loadedwith rifle balls, had shot geese clean across the Ohio River. He then turned to the description of the heron. "Herons build their nests down in the pines near the lake," said he. "I have asked the Old Squire about making a trip there. He says I can go Saturday afternoon. I would like to have you two and Ellen go with me, but I do not want Halstead. You know how he always cuts up."
"But he will feel hurt if we go without him," Theodora said.
"If he would go and behave himself, I wouldn't say a word against it," replied Addison.
"Perhaps he would this time," said Theodora.
"I don't believe it."
"But he is our cousin, you know."
"The more's the pity, I say."
"But do not say it."
"We shall all say it before long, I'm afraid. Do you know where he goes Sundays?"
"No," said Theodora, with a sigh.
"Well, I do not, but there is something wrong going on. I've thought so for some time. The Old Squire does not know of it."
"I thought he seemed to suspect something last Sunday," said Theodora.
"Yes, but he doesn't see as much as I do."
"Couldn't you find out more about it?" asked Theodora.
"Very likely; but then I do not like to go spying after Halse."
"But perhaps you ought."
"I don't know about that."
They both seemed perplexed. Addison was turning over leaves in the book; and Theodora sat looking at the birds, absently.
"Let's not make any secret about going to see the herons," she said at length. "Even if you don't want to ask Halstead to go, let him know we are going,and if he wants to go with us, do not say anything against it. We must not shun him, or have him think we do."
It was left like that.
The Old Squire spoke of our going at breakfast the next morning, and I heard Halstead asking Theodora about it afterwards. I knew from what he said that night after we had gone up to bed, that he meant to go.
Saturday was fair. After dinner Addison went up to his room a few minutes, then came down with the gun. Theodora had put on her hat and came out under the trees where I was standing. Seeing us, Addison came along and asked if we were ready. Ellen and little Wealthy also joined us. Halstead was sitting at the front door, and as we started off, he came along, saying, "I guess I'll go, too. Ad forgot to invite me, I suppose."
Addison did not reply, and we went on for some time without speaking.
Leaving the road at the turn by the school-house, we went through the pastures toward the valley of Foy Brook. The great pines in which the herons built stand a little up from the lake. There are several groves of them; many of the trees were gnarled, for which reason the lumbermen had rejected them; some of them were four and five feet in diameter and crooked into fantastic shapes.
Very agreeably and somewhat to our surprise, Halstead was on his good behavior. He was polite to the girls and helped them over the brush fences; and when, on coming nearer the pines, Addison asked us to go in as quietly as we could, he complied, not even allowing a twig to snap under his feet.
Addison wished to see the herons undisturbed; and the rest of us kept a little to the rear while he went on cautiously. Presently he stopped, then turned and whispered to us to come up quietly behind him andlook over his shoulder. "Up there," said he, pointing into the top of one of the pines. In a fork, formed by the very highest branches, there was a great mass of sticks and reeds as large as a two-bushel basket.
"That's one of the nests," whispered Addison. "And see that head and long, pointed beak, just over the top of it! The old hen heron is brooding."
"But look there!" whispered Halstead, pointing into another tree.
On a high, dead limb stood a heron on one long leg, perfectly motionless. The other foot was drawn up so as to be hidden in the feathers of the under part of its body. Its neck was crooked back so far that its long bill rested on its breast. It was seemingly asleep, and looked so ungainly that Ellen laughed outright, despite Addison's injunctions to be quiet.
Several other nests were presently discovered, high up among the green boughs.
"If you want to shoot one, to stuff," whispered Halstead, "you will not get a better chance than that," pointing to the one asleep. "He is just in good easy range."
"It seems too bad to shoot him, while he is sleeping," said Theodora.
"Once let him wake up and see us, and he will make himself scarce in a hurry," said Halstead. "Better make sure of him, Ad."
Addison cocked the gun, and, raising it slowly, fired. The great bird uttered a hoarse squawk, straightened up, then toppled over and fell to the ground. Instantly there arose a deafening chorus of squawks. Herons flew up from the tree tops all about us. The tops of the pines fairly rocked. Great sticks, dirt and cones came rattling down. Upward they soared in a great flock, several hundred feet above the trees, then flew around and around overhead, uttering hoarse cries.
We ran to the place where the wounded heron hadfallen. He lay extended on the ground; but a bright sinister eye was turned up, watching us with silent defiance.
"Don't go too near," said Addison. "He will strike with his beak. You know I read to you, from Audubon, how a gentleman came near losing an eye from the sudden stroke of a wounded heron. They always aim for the eye."
He put out the butt of the gun, extending it slowly toward the bird. The heron watched it till within a couple of feet, then struck quick as thought, darting its bill against the hard walnut of the gunstock.
Meanwhile the other herons had flown off to the side of the mountain, half a mile away. Now and then one would come back and circle about over the pines.
Addison desired to examine a nest. One of the pines had low knots on the trunk, within six feet of the ground, and a little higher up drooping branches. There was a nest near the top. Halstead offered to climb up to it. Addison and I lifted him up to the knots. He climbed up by these to the lowest limbs, and then went on from branch to branch toward the top.
"Two eggs!" he shouted, peeping over into the great nest.
"Don't break them!" cried Addison. "Bring them down if you can!"
Halstead took them out and put them into his loose frock, then, before we guessed what he was going to do, he had upset the nest from the branches in which it rested, and it came bumping down through the boughs to the ground. The fall shook it to pieces considerably, yet we could see what its shape had been. There were some sticks in it three and four feet long, as thick as a man's wrist. The inside was lined with dry grass. It was large enough to allow the old heron to double its long legs and sit in it comfortably. Halse now came down with the eggs. Theywere of a dirty white color, the shells rough and uneven. Theodora imagined that they would be as large as goose-eggs; they were not larger than those of a turkey,—about two and a half inches in length by one and a half in width.
"I shall carry them home and hatch them under a hen," said Addison.
"I guess the old hen will cackle when she sees what she has hatched," exclaimed Ellen, laughing.
While we were looking at them, a noise in the brush startled us, and, turning hastily, we saw a young man wearing a glazed cap standing at the border of alders, near the brook. His appearance startled us somewhat. Presently we noticed that he was beckoning, evidently to Halstead, and that the latter seemed very uneasy; he bent over the eggs and pretended not to see any one. But the fellow continued loitering there; and at last Halse jumped up, saying, "I'll see what he wants, I guess," and went out to the alders. The man stepped back and they both disappeared among the bushes.
We stood waiting for some minutes, then started to go slowly out through the pines into the pasture and homeward with our trophies.
"Who could that have been?" Ellen exclaimed to Addison in a low voice; but Addison merely shook his head.
Somewhat to our surprise, we found Halstead at home in advance of us; he had already sat down to supper with Gramp and Gram.
That night, after milking was done and we had gone up-stairs to our room, Halstead said to me, "I suppose you saw that fellow that came to see me down at the pines this afternoon."
I said yes.
"That was a poor chap I promised to buy some seed-corn for," Halse went on, hastily. "He came around to get the money; and I'm going to try to make itup somehow, though I haven't got the money just now. Couldn't let me have seventy-five cents, could you?"
I said that I could, for I felt relieved to think that the mysterious person was merely a poor farmer.
Halstead regarded me for some moments. "I wish you would ask Doad and Nell if they won't lend me a quarter apiece," he said at length. "I can just make it up, if you would. I hate to ask them myself. But I will give it back to you in the course of a month.
"I wouldn't say anything to Ad about it," Halstead went on; "Ad don't like me and I don't want to feel beholden to him for anything."
I replied that I did not feel quite well enough acquainted with Theodora and Ellen yet, to ask such a favor; but as Halstead seemed to feel hurt that I hesitated about it, I finally promised to speak to them, although I disliked the errand.
Next day was Sunday, and after breakfast we all set off, except Ellen and Gram, to go to the old meeting-house, called the "chapel," three miles distant, on a road leading westward from the farm. It was a very hilly road, and we three boys walked; but Theodora and Wealthy rode with the Old Squire in the two-seated wagon.
I had been accustomed to go to church in a more handsomely furnished edifice, and the old chapel seemed, at first, very rude to me. It was a weather-beaten structure, having a high gallery across one end and an almost equally high pulpit at the other. The floor was bare, and the box-shaped pews were not many of them provided with cushions. There was a great clatter of feet when the people came in, and the roof gave back hollow echoes.
The Old Squire and Gram were nominally Congregationalists, and the old meeting-house had once belonged to that sect; but becoming reduced in numbers, and being unable to support a clergyman of thatdenomination during the entire year, they had allowed the Methodists, and finally the Second Adventists, to hold meetings there.
The Old Squire, indeed, was by no means a strict sectarian; he attended the Methodist service and sometimes, not often, the Adventist. Gram was more conservative and did not go, as a rule, except when there was a Congregationalist minister, although she always spoke well of the Methodists; and the Methodist Elder Witham (the same who took the Vermifuge) frequently visited at the farm.
"All Christians are good people," Gramp was accustomed to say.
"Well," Gram would reply, placidly, "I cannot help believing that we (meaning the Congregationalists) are in the right."
The Old Squire's chief objection to the Adventists was, that their preachers had come into the place uninvited, and, by their zealous efforts, had caused a considerable number to withdraw from the church, thus breaking up the Congregationalist Society in that town.
"I do not take it upon me to say who is right and who is wrong on these great religious questions," the old gentleman used to remark, when the subject came up. "But I disapprove of sowing the seeds of dissension in any church." However, he used sometimes to go to hear the Adventists' ministers.
It was Elder Witham's turn to preach that Sunday. He was a tall, spare man, and he preached in a long linen "duster." For one I became quite a good deal interested in the sermon, for the preacher began very pleasantly by telling us several short anecdotes. Toward the close of his discourse, he became very earnest and raised his voice quite near the shouting pitch.
During intermission, there was an attempt made to organize a Sunday school. The boys and girls wereseated in classes in the pews, and teachers were appointed from the older members of the church.
There was a small Sunday-school library, consisting of quaint little books with marbled covers. Each of us was permitted to carry home one of these small volumes; and I recollect that my book that Sabbath was entitledHerman's Repentance.
The Elder rode home with our folks to tea, and Theodora walked with us boys. There were six or eight others walking with us, the sons and daughters of neighbors, to whom Theodora kindly introduced me: Georgie and Elsie Wilbur, very pretty girls of about Ellen's age, also their brother Edgar, near my own age, and a large, awkward but smiling youngster, whose name was Henry Sylvester, whom the others called "Bub." An older boy of rather swaggering manners overtook us on our way, and began talking patronizingly to me, without an introduction. His name was Alfred Batchelder. We also overtook a boy named Willis Murch, who had stopped to sit, waiting for us, on a large rock beside the road. The Murch family lived a mile beyond the Old Squire's to the northwest.
The quiet of the walk homeward was somewhat broken in upon, however, by a scuffle and some hard words betwixt Halstead and Alfred Batchelder.
As we came near the great gate opening into our lane, Theodora walked up to the house with me, a little behind the others, and told me, confidentially—for my good, I suppose—that Alfred Batchelder was deemed a reckless chap whose character was not above reproach. I, on my part, seized the opportunity to proffer Halstead's petition for the loan of twenty-five cents.
"I could lend it to him," she replied, "and so can Ellen, I think."
But she seemed thoughtful, and by and by asked me to tell her all that Halstead had said. I did so,and added that he did not wish Addison to know about it.
"I am sorry for that," she said, "for I should like to ask Ad's advice. But I suppose we had better not tell him, if Halse is unwilling."
Later that evening she gave me the money, along with twenty-five cents from Ellen. I handed it to Halstead that night, a dollar and a quarter in all. He appeared much pleased.
"Does Ad know it, or the old gent?" he asked me, and cried, "Good!" when I said they did not.
He sat on the side of the bed and tossed up the five quarter pieces, catching them as they fell.
"I know a way to get plenty of these fellers," he remarked to me at length.
"What makes you borrow of the girls, then?" I asked.
"O, you needn't be scared. I'll soon pay you all," he retorted.
But I had begun to doubt that the money was to pay for a poor farmer's seed-corn.
Monday morning dawned bright and very warm. As we were about to sit down to breakfast, Catherine Edwards called at the door and left a letter for me, from my mother, which had arrived at the Corners post-office on Saturday, but which Neighbor Edwards, who had brought the mail for us late that evening, had overlooked; my letter had consequently lain over, in his coat pocket, until that morning, when he had chanced to discover it.
My mother had written me a very nice letter, as such letters go, exhorting me to good behavior in general; and if she had stopped short at that point, it would have been better. She went on, however, to tell me of affairs at home, of what she was doing, of "Bush," our cat, of the canary, of three or four boys and girls with whom I was acquainted, and also of a grand parade of returned soldiers.
I had not half finished it, when I was seized with such a pang of homesickness as I hope never to feel again; in fact, I do not believe that I ever could feel another such pang. It penetrated my entire being; I could not swallow a mouthful of breakfast. It seemed to me that I should choke and die right there, if I did not get up and start for home that very minute;—and I knew I could not go. Blue is no adequate word with which to describe such sensations. In the course of an hour, however, this first fit passed off for the most part, but left me very pensive and melancholy.I was aware, too, that the Old Squire had noticed my mood.
As we hoed corn that forenoon, a boy came driving a horse and "drag" into the field; it was Edgar Wilbur, one of the lads whom I had seen the day before while coming from church. The Wilburs lived at the farm next beyond the Edwardses, about three-quarters of a mile distant from us. Mr. Wilbur was not a wholly thrifty farmer, and often borrowed tools at the Old Squire's. Edgar had now come for the "cultivator," for their corn.
While we were loading it on the drag for him, Edgar told us boys that he had to go to the back pasture to salt their sheep that afternoon, and asked us to go with him. Addison replied that we were too busy with our hoeing; but the Old Squire, who had overheard what was said, looked at me with a compassionate smile, and said that I might go if I liked. I suppose he hoped that the trip with Edgar would cheer me up. Accordingly, after dinner, I was given my liberty, and set off for the Wilburs, leaving Halstead grumbling over what he deemed my unmerited good fortune.
The Wilburs lived in a one-story red house; and their barn was a somewhat weather-beaten, infirm old structure, yet the place had a cozy appearance; there were beds of flowers by the house door, and a great bunch of pink hedge roses on one side of the way leading into the yard, with a thick bush of lilacs on the other. Elsie and Georgie were at the district school; but Mrs. Wilbur, a fresh-faced, pleasant woman, came to the door and very kindly asked me in, offering me presently a glass of spruce beer which had a queer flavor, I thought, and which I was not quite able to finish.
Meantime Edgar—or Ned, as his mother called him—had filled a six-quart pail with salt, and we set off immediately for the sheep pasture. Thedistance was considerable, fully a mile; we first crossed their hay fields, then a cow pasture and then a belt of woodland, through which ran a cart road. Gradually ascending a considerable slope of the woodland, we came out upon the cleared crest of a long ridge. This was the "back pasture;" it was inclosed by a high hedge fence, made of short, dry, spruce shrubs. This fence we climbed, and then Edgar began calling the sheep,—"Ca-day, ca-day, ca-day, ca-day," stopping at intervals to give me various items of information as to their flock and the extent of the pasture. The Murches, who lived on the farm next beyond the Wilburs, pastured their sheep with them, in this same back pasture; they had a flock of thirty-eight, while the Wilburs had thirty-three, but there were over a hundred lambs. Every spring the two farmers and the boys repaired, or rebuilt, the high hedge fence in company. The pasture was of seventy-five acres extent, Edgar said; but it was much broken by crags and grown up to patches of dark, low spruce.
Altogether it was a very wild locality, wholly inclosed by somber forests; and from the top of one of the ledges, which I climbed, I could see no cleared land, far or near, save on the side next to their farms, and that at quite a distance. This ledge, I recollect, had a vein of white quartz running across it, displaying at one point a trace of rose-color; and I remember thinking that some time I would come here and break out specimens of this handsome stone.
At length in response to Ned's calls, we heard a faintba-a-a, toward the north end of the pasture, and going in that direction, past a number of spruce copses and many other ledges, we came in sight of the flock of sheep, feeding in a hollow near a spring. A great mob of lambs were following their mothers and frisking about the rocks; and there was one black sheep and one black lamb which, at first sight, I thought were dogs or some other animals. "That black sheep isMurches'," Ned said. "She's got two lambs; but that black lamb is in our flock. There's South Down blood in a good many of them. You can tell the South Downs by their black fore legs and smut faces. There's fifteen pairs of twins in our flock and about as many in Murches'. Ca-day, ca-day, ca-day."
Catching sight of us and the salt pail, the flock now came crowding eagerly about us. The ovine odor was very strong. Black flies troubled the poor creatures grievously, and another larger, evil-looking fly was buzzing about their noses.
"We are coming up in a day or two and tar all their noses," said Ned, dealing out the salt in numerous handfuls, throwing it down on smooth spots upon the grass, and running backwards to avoid the onward rush of the sheep.
"Now let's count 'em," he continued. "We always count 'em when we salt 'em. Let's see, can you reckon good? Murches have got thirty-eight sheep and fifty-three lambs, and we've got thirty-three sheep and forty-eight lambs. How many does that make in all?"
After some cogitation, we agreed that there must be seventy-one sheep and a hundred and one lambs, or a hundred and seventy-two all told. That was what there should be; and we now set out to ascertain by counting if all were there.
This was a greater feat than would appear at first thought, the flock was so crowded together and so constantly running about. We made several attempts, but as many times lost the count, or grew confused. At length, we drove the sheep apart, and the salt being eaten by this time, we contrived to enumerate eighty-two on one side and eighty-seven on the other.
"Now how many's that?" said Ned. I could not make but a hundred and sixty-nine from it; but Ned said that he guessed 'twas more. After studying on it awhile, however, he agreed with me; and we thencounted the flock again, twice more, in fact, before we were both satisfied that there were but a hundred and sixty-nine present.
"Now that's bad," said Ned.
"What suppose has become of them?" I asked.
"Dogs, maybe," replied Ned, "or else a 'lucivee,' or a bear."
"Perhaps 'twas men," I suggested.
"O no, I don't think that," said Ned. "If 'twas in the fall, I should think it might be, for there are some folks down at the Corners that have been laid in stealing sheep. But let's see whether it's sheep or lambs that's gone, and whose 'tis, whether it's ours or Murches'. Now all our sheep have got two slits in the right ear and a crop off the left; but Murches' have a crop off both ears; and all our lambs have got red paint across the fore shoulders, but Murches' have got red on the rump." This necessitated a new count and a much more difficult one.
"I'll count the ones with slits and crops," said Ned; "and you count the ones with two crops." But we were nearly half an hour establishing the fact that one of the "two crops" was missing.
"It is one of Murches' sheep that's gone," said Ned; "I'm glad it isn't ours." We then counted the lambs and found also that the missing ones were two of the Murches'.
"It's an old sheep with twins," said Ned.
"Isn't she off by herself somewheres?" I asked.
"Not very likely to be unless she's got hung; they always keep together," replied Ned. "But she may have got hung in the brush, or else has tumbled in between big rocks and can't get out. I suppose we ought to look her up if that's so.
"I'll tell you what we will do," continued Ned; "we will walk clean round the pasture, in the first place, keeping where we can see the fence, for she may be hung in it."
Thereupon we set off to walk around the pasture, going along the farther side to the northwest and the southwest first. The fence skirted the thick bushes and woods. Toward the southwest corner there was a long, craggy ledge a little within the pasture fence. It fell off, rough, rocky and almost perpendicular on that side, from a height of fifteen or twenty feet, and about the foot of the crag were many of the low, black spruces, but from the upper side one could walk out on the bare, smooth rocks to the very brink of the ledge. We approached from this upper side, and as we came out on it, to look down into the corner of the pasture, a crow cawed suddenly and sharply, and we saw three crows rise, flapping, off the ground, below the crag.
"Hoh!" Ned exclaimed. "What are those black chaps up to there?"
We stopped and looked down attentively into the partly open plat of pasture, inclosed around on the lower side by the seared, reddish line of the now dried hedge fence.
"Why, Ned, see the wool down there on the ground!" I cried, as a white mass caught my eye.
"Something's killed the sheep there!" replied Ned, in a low tone. "See the head there and the meat and bones strung along. Something's killed her and eaten her half up; and there looks to be part of a lamb farther along by that little fir."
A very strange sensation, partly fear, stole over me, as we stood there looking down upon the torn remains of the sheep and lamb. The place was far off in the woods and the surroundings were wild and somber. There was something uncanny, too, in the way those crows rose up and went flapping away. In less degree, I think Ned experienced similar sensations, for he stood without speaking for a moment, then said, "O it may have been done by a dog, or maybe she died.
"Let's climb down and see what we can see," he continued.
"We can see that the sheep is dead from up here," I replied, for I did not like the idea of going down there very well.
"Come along," said Ned, laughing. "You needn't be afraid."
"I'm not afraid," said I. "But it is a kind of lonesome looking place."
"Yes, 'tis," replied Ned, stopping for a little to look again. "But let's go down and see. They'll ask us all about it, and we've got to find out what we can."
He walked along the top of the ledge, and, coming to a place where we could descend between some large split rocks, began to climb down. I followed after him, a little in the rear. Ned had got down among the small spruces, at the foot of the crag, when he suddenly called back to me that one of the lambs was there. "Poor little chap, he's hid here, under the brush," he continued; and on getting down, I saw the lamb standing far under the thick, dark boughs.
"I never saw a lamb hide in that way before," said Ned. "He's been awful scared by something."
We crept around and tried to catch the lamb; it ran along the foot of the rocks among the evergreens, but did not bleat, nor behave at all as lambs generally do.
"He's got blood on his side there," remarked Ned. "But he may have got that off the old sheep."
After looking at the lamb a moment, Ned started to go down where the carcass of the sheep lay, but I felt a little timid and stood still, near the foot of the rocks.
It was not far to go, not more than a hundred feet, I think, being about half way down to the thick, reddish hedge of recently cut spruce. Ned approached within a few yards and after looking at the fleece and bones a minute, stopped to pick up a wisp of wool,when from right at hand there burst forth the most frightful growl that I ever heard. It broke on the utter stillness of that quiet nook like a thunder peal and it so wrought on my already alert senses that I yelled outright from sudden terror!
For the moment I could not have told from what quarter the terrible sound came, for the high rocks behind me reverberated it. Following instantly upon the growl, however, we heard a cracking of the brush in the thicket below the hedge fence; and next moment there issued through a hole in it a large black animal of terrific aspect, that to my startled eyes looked as large as an ox!
Not that I stopped to estimate its size. I was on the move by the time it had issued from the hole of the hedge fence;—but a boy's eye will take in a good deal at one glance, under such circumstances. It was a steep ascent betwixt the rocks to the top of the ledge; but if I had possessed wings, I could not have got up much more quickly. As I gained the top, I thought of striking off for the upper side of the pasture, and thence running for my life toward the farms; but at the same instant my eye fell on a low-growing oak, a few rods away, the lower limbs of which I thought that I could jump up and seize. I had started for it, but had taken only a bound or two, when I heard Ned say, "Hold on," behind me. I looked back. He had gained the top of the ledge almost as quickly as I had, but had stopped there. "Hold on," he exclaimed in a low voice. I stopped and stood, half breathless and panting, ready to bound away again and half inclined to do so.
Ned was looking down from the ledge and motioned to me with his hand to return. After some hesitation, I tiptoed back to him.
"See him?" he whispered to me. "He's right there behind that little spruce, close beside the sheep. He's looking up here and harking!" The blackanimal was half hidden by the spruce boughs, yet I could see him, and experienced a curious nervous thrill as I made out its shaggy outlines.
"Isn't it a bear?" I whispered.
"Cracky, yes," whispered Ned. "A big one, too!"
"But won't he chase us?"
"Guess not," replied Ned. "Ye see, 'tis the sheep he felt so mad about. He'd killed the sheep and that lamb last night, I expect, and eaten them part up. And he had only gone down there a little way into the firs behind the fence and was kinder watching till he got hungry again. He saw and heard us come along, but he kept still and didn't say a word till he saw me stoop down to touch it. Then, sir, he just spoke right out in meetin'! Told me to get out and let his meat alone. O, don't I wish I had a good gun, loaded with a ball!"
"Would you dare to fire at him, Ned?" I said.
"Well," replied Ned, doubtfully, looking around and seeing the oak, and then glancing down the rocks, "I dunno, but I believe I would get good aim and let strip at him. If I hit him and hurt him, but didn't kill him, he might come for us, lickety switch. But he couldn't get up here very quick. We should have time to climb that tree."
"I wish we could shoot him!" I whispered, beginning to wax warlike.
"I've a great mind to let a stone go down there," said Ned, looking about. "Let's both get stones and throw at once, and see what he will do. If he starts up here, we'll put for that tree."
This was an extremely exciting proposition, but I was getting bolder. We found each a stone as big as a coffee-cup.
"Now both together," whispered Ned, and we flung them with all our power. We did not hit our mark, but they struck the ground near the spruce and bounced past it, quite closely. The bear growledagain, savagely, and started stiffly out from his covert, past the remains of the sheep. We both turned to run, but noticing that the creature had stopped, we pulled up again. The bear saw us and growled repeatedly, yet did not come far past his jealously guarded treasure. He shuffled about, keeping his head drawn down in a peculiar manner, but we could see that his eye was on us. After a few moments, he drew back behind the spruce again. Thereupon we threw more stones; and again the beast rushed out, growling and scratching up the grass in an odd manner; he did not appear inclined to pursue us, however, and we now noticed that there was something clumsy in its gait, like a limp.
"Gracious!" Ned suddenly exclaimed. "That's old 'Three-Legs!' He's come round again!"
"What, the bear that lost his foot in a trap?" I asked, remembering what Ellen and Theodora had told me a few days before.
"Yes, siree!" cried Ned. "He's an awful old sheep-killer! He comes round once in a while. But he's mighty cunning! He's a savage one, too, but he can't run very fast."
"Then let's pelt him!" I exclaimed.
"No, no," said Ned. "We must hurry back home and raise a crew. That bear must be killed, you know. If we don't, he will come round every week and take a sheep all summer."
We therefore set off in haste, to run to the Wilbur farm, where we arrived very hot and out of breath just as the family was sitting down to supper. "Old 'Three-Legs' is in the sheep pasture!" shouted Ned at the door. "Get the gun, pa! I'm going to tell the Murches!"
Mr. Wilbur owned a gun, but it was not in shooting condition. We then ran down the hill to the Murch farm, and there our story created considerable excitement. Ben and Willis at once brought out a double-barrelledgun, which their father proceeded to load, but they lacked bullets and heavy shot. Willis and Ned and I therefore ran to the Edwardses to notify Thomas and his father and procure ammunition. At the Edwardses they had both shot and also a musket which carried balls. This latter weapon was at once charged for bear.
Mr. Edwards, however, advised me to go home and notify the Old Squire and Addison, in order that they, too, might join the hunt, if disposed.
I set off at a run again; but by this time I had become not a little leg-weary; night, too, was at hand. The boys were milking, and I met the Old Squire coming toward the house with two brimming pailfuls. "Old 'Three-Legs' has just killed one of Murches' sheep and a lamb, too!" I shouted.
"Is that so?" said the old gentleman, but the intelligence did not excite him so much as I had expected it would. He looked at me and said, "You look badly heated. You have run too hard."
"But that old bear's killed a sheep!" I exclaimed. "They are all going after him. They sent me to get you and the boys."
By this time Addison and Halstead had risen off their milking stools to hear the tidings, and exhibited signs of interest.
"Did you see the bear, my son?" the Old Squire asked.
"Yes, siree!" I exclaimed, and thereupon I poured forth all the particulars. "They want all of us to load our guns and go with them," I cried expectantly.
"Well," remarked the Old Squire, with what seemed to me a very provoking lack of enthusiasm. "If they are all going, I guess they will not need us. You had better go to the well and wash your face and head in some cold water, then rest a while and have your supper; it has been a very hot day."
"But old Three-Legs!" I exclaimed. "He may get away!"
"Yes, he may," said Gramp, laughing. "I should not wonder if he did.
"I will tell you something about bears, my son," he went on, good-naturedly. "A bear is quite a knowing animal, and sometimes very cunning. This one they call old 'Three-Legs' is remarkably so. I'm very sure that, if we all went over there as quick as we could, and stayed around all night, we shouldn't find him. That bear knew just as well as you did that you had gone to get help and would be back with it; and I shouldn't wonder if by this time he was three miles away—and still going. What that bear did after you and Ned left was to listen awhile, till he made sure you were gone, then stuff himself with as much more of that mutton as he could hold, and leave the place as fast as he could go. He's gone, you may depend upon it;—and he will not come near that place again for a week or two probably. That is bear nature and bear wit. They seem to know some things almost as well as men. They know when they kill sheep that men will make a fuss about it. That bear was lying quiet there, with his ears open for trouble; he wasn't much afraid of two boys, but he knows there are men and guns not far off."
I was really very tired and after hearing this view of the case was not much sorry to rest and have my supper. We learned next day that Thomas and his father, and Ned and the Murches went over to the pasture with their guns, but they failed to find the bear. The Murches set a trap at the place where the sheep had been killed, and kept it there for ten days. A hound was caught in it, but no bear.
I remember that my sleep that night was somewhat disturbed by exciting dreams of hunting. At the breakfast table next morning I told the story of our adventure over again, and described the uglydemonstrations of the bear at such length, that I presently saw grandfather smiling, and detected Addison giving a sly wink to Theodora. This confused me so much that I stopped in haste and was more cautious about my realistic descriptions in future. Halstead began hectoring me that forenoon concerning my adventure, and nicknamed me "the great bear hunter." Much incensed, I retorted by asking him whether he had paid for that seed-corn. Hearing that, Addison, who was near us, cast an inquiring look at Halstead, and the latter hurriedly changed the subject; he was unusually polite to me for several days afterwards.