TRIALS OF A STOCK-FARMER
“You neglected little diary,” wrote Janet that night before jumping
into bed. “I must say a word to you to let you know why I have not
written to-day. Those noisy pigs, and the dreadful chickens kept me
too busy for anything. I say ‘dreadful chickens’ advisedly, for they
scratched up poor Nat’s little garden greens and left the vegetables
in such a condition that I shall have to get up an hour before sun-up
in the morning in order to help her replant the slips that were dug
out of the soil. Rachel assured us that they would be all right again,
in a day or two, if they were planted before the warm sun shone to
wilt them. But Nat will have to place inverted flower pots over them
during the heat of the day until they are fresh again. If she knew it
was the fowl that did it what would she not do to me and to them!
“Oh, I almost forgot to say here, that Rachel when she ran at Nat’s
awful yelling, to see what had happened, forgot she had left the
potatoes boiling on the fire. When we came back to the kitchen door we
saw smoke coming from it that would have made the scouts envious. Such
a signal for trouble! No scout could ever have succeeded in warning
others in such a distinct way that simply said, ‘Supper burning—come
to rescue!’
“Phew! the whole house was filled with smoke. If you’ve ever burned
potatoes to a cinder, you’ll know what it smelled like.”
Having finished her duty to the diary, Janet jumped into bed and was
soon dreaming of giant pigs that were forever escaping from the pig
pen, and flocks of chickens which scratched pits that went down to
China.
Before breakfast the next morning, Janet and Natalie replanted the
little slips that were dug out by the fowl, and Natalie sighed in
relief when she saw the work finished. That morning while
breakfasting, Janet plied questions for anyone to answer. It was
Rachel who had the knowledge stored away because of past experiences
down “Souf’” when she was a girl on a farm.
“How long does it take little pigs to become big hogs?” was Janet’s
first query.
“Dat depen’s on how much you feeds ’em. Ef you guvs ’em all day kin
eat, den you’ll soon see what grub kin do fer ’em,” was Rachel’s
non-committal reply.
“Will three meals a day be enough?” asked Janet.
“What, t’ree! Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Rachel, shaking with amusement at
such a silly question. “Pigs eats a meal every time you will guv it to
’em. And ’tween times dey noses and grunts about in the pen rootin’
fer more to eat. It don’t matter how soon after one meal you feeds ’em
again—dey is always hungry and ready to eat.”
Mrs. James laughed at Rachel’s graphic explanation but she agreed with
her.
“I should think they’d have indigestion,” Natalie ventured.
“Dat’s an ailment dey don’t know nuttin’ of, but little pigs is easy
to die. I shoulden’ wonner but what Janet will have one er two of
her’n die on her han’s dis summer. But not f’om dyspepsy!”
“Dear me, Rachel,” was Janet’s worried reply. “If pigs die as easy as
that, where will the dividends of my investment come from? Think of
what they cost to feed? Why, I used two quarts of milk yesterday
besides that bag of cornmeal I bought off Tompkins. I figured it would
last a week, and they ate all of it at one supper!”
“Yeh, I ’grees wid you, Janet—pork is ’spensive meat, but it am so
sweet ef it’s cooked wid cabbitch an’ seasoned wid pertaters!”
Rachel’s smack and the way she rolled her round eyes ceiling-ward
caused her audience to laugh merrily at the pantomime.
Rachel ate her breakfast in the kitchen and as she ate, she planned to
help Janet with those pigs. Perhaps there would be a chance for a
feast of spare ribs and cabbage in the fall.
While Janet and she were repairing the fence directly after breakfast,
the former continued her thirst for information.
“Rachel, what did you mean when you said that pigs were hard to raise.
What can make them die easy if I feed them all they can eat, and keep
them safely in the sty?”
“I diden’ say dey died ‘easy,’ Janet, ’cuz I’ve seen ’em die orful
hard! Once hog-cholery gits ’em no one kin say dey dies easy,” was
Rachel’s lugubrious reply.
“What I meant to say was, are pigs quick to catch things?”
“It all depen’s on what you hast to cotch. Now I don’ see no spechul
reason why dese pigs mus’ get hog-cholery, toomerkolosis ner anything
what goes perwailing about the country down Souf’. Ef you-all gives
’em pure air, an’ fattenin’ grub widdout much swill, an’ scrubs the
sty once a week, why should dey get complainin’?”
“I’m sure I don’t see why they should, either, Rachel,” admitted
Janet, driving a nail so forcibly that it went half through the
decayed wood.
“Sam—dat’s my sister’s son, you know, Janet—Sam says he read in a
paper, one time, how dem orful slaughter-houses out west feeds doze
pigs wid leavin’s f’m dead cattle. Dat’s what makes fer disease, Sam
says. Jus’ think of it, Janet! Us smackin’ our lips on roas’ pork
what’s raised on sech sickenin’ clean-up affer all the cows and steers
and sof’ little lambs, is butchered!”
Janet shivered with disgust at the picture Rachel painted so vividly
for her, but Rachel was on the “Stump” and paid no attention to her
companion’s tremors.
“Now dese pigs of your’n, dey will be sweet eatin’ and no danger in
carryin’ germs of toomerkolosis in the meat. We will keep the swill
clean and feed ’em onny what makes fer big lusty hogs,” promised the
eloquent maid-of-all-work.
“I read in a book on stock raising, that pigs should never have swill
fed them,” suggested Janet. “And you spoke of cleaning their sty once
a week to keep it clean. The book says every pig-pen should have a
sunken bath with fresh water in it daily so the pigs can bathe. It
states that pigs are the cleanliest of all animals if they are given
the chance to wash and eat as they like. It mentions the wild
boars—how they bathe in pools many times during the course of the day,
and prefer nuts or acorns to any other food.”
Rachel stood so amazed at hearing that a pig would take a bath if
given the opportunity, that she unconsciously dropped the hammer.
Unfortunately it struck on a pet bunion and made Rachel sit down on
the ground and hold her injured joint while she rocked to and fro with
the pain.
Then she got up and snarled angrily, while she shook a fist at the
innocent porkers: “Dat settles it! Yoh fix your own pen, you squeelin’
critters!” and away she went to the house.
When Natalie joined Janet at the pig pen and heard how Rachel blamed
the pigs for dropping the hammer on her inflamed joint, Natalie
laughed and said, wisely: “She was peeved, Janet, because you knew
something about pigs that she had never heard of before. I’ve learned
that Rachel loves to be referred to for information when it touches
anything she had down south. She considers pigs a personal line that
she excels in, and such a surprise as having pigs yearn for a bath was
too much for her.”
The fence had been reinforced and Janet now stood looking in at the
pen. Natalie watched her for a few moments and then said: “What are
you thinking of?”
“I was wondering if we could sink a porcelain tub in the yard where my
pigs could bathe whenever they liked. I’d want them to have every
modern convenience, you know.”
The way Janet said this made Natalie laugh. But she said: “They are
still shut up in the shed. I’d suggest that we let them out and give
them their breakfast before we decide on porcelain tubs and open
plumbing.”
“If you will get the feed, Natalie, I’ll open the door and catch them
as they come out. I think as they are so fond of bathing I will wash
their little faces to make them feel better.”
Giggling to herself but not feeling experienced enough in the matter
of raising a pig-family to say that washing their faces was a luxury
that was taxable in various ways, Natalie went for the breakfast. She
returned in time to see her best friend sprawled out in front of the
shed-door, and three lively little pigs running and jumping over her
prostrate form.
But their activities were soon concentrated when the pan of warm mush
was shoved into the pen. Such a grunting and pushing at each other as
those three pigs did, made both the girls laugh.
Then Natalie said: “Jan, Rachel told me while she was mixing this
mush, that your pigs will need from six to eight quarts of milk each
day and a peck of corn-meal, if you only feed them on this stuff.”
“Oh, Nat!” gasped Janet, quickly figuring. “And milk is fifteen cents
a quart when called for at Ames’s farmhouse!”
“You’ll simply have to feed them table-scraps, Jan.”
“When we go to Four Corners again, I’m going to ask Mr. Tompkins what
he feeds his pigs. I won’t ask Mr. Ames, because he wants to sell me
the milk, but the storekeeper will tell.”
There Janet learned that she could and should feed the pigs with bran,
boiled potatoes or the parings, all the greens that were cut from the
vegetables, wheat screenings and middlings, and whatever table-waste
was wholesome and clean for the pigs to root about in at odd times
between meals.
Janet also learned from Si Tompkins, that it was not necessary to buy
straw and bed the pigs down every night with it; but dry leaves, or
dead hay, mixed with a little straw was as good for bedding as
anything. A list of the grain was made and ordered from the mill that
stood on the road to White Plains, and then Janet felt more resigned
to stock-raising than she had been all that day.
On the way home Natalie remarked: “I should think any animal would
grow big and fat on such a diet as Tompkins suggests.”
“I was thinking that we could feed the pigs your garden greens when we
haven’t any left at the house,” was Janet’s reply.
“No siree! My garden greens stay exactly where they are—in the ground.
When they are grown enough to harvest I’ll see that we eat them
ourselves,” she said.
“Oh, I didn’t mean now—I meant that the pigs might eat the tops while
we eat the bottoms. Turnips, beets, and such,” explained Janet.
“That’s different. But remember, Jan! My vegetables mean as much to
me, and cost my spending money, too, as your stock does to you. So
don’t send your cattle over into my preserves to feast; because I’ll
shoot the first poacher I see in my garden,” threatened Natalie. But
it never dawned upon her mind that the fowl had already poached.
As the two friends approached the house they heard Rachel complaining
to Mrs. James. “Dese aigs what we got f’om Four Corners ain’t fresh a
bit. Why, I foun’ two bad ones in dat udder box and now here’s anudder
one in dis new box.”
Mrs. James took the box and examined the shells keenly. Then she said:
“Rachel, they look like old preserved eggs.”
“Yas’m. Dat’s what I say. In fack, I mought say dey is been pickled
down in water-glass at some remote day,” remarked Rachel.
“I’m afraid so, Rachel. Tompkins should not sell such eggs for fresh
ones,” and Mrs. James shook her head disapprovingly.
“Dat las’ box we got f’om him, I spiled a good cake when I cracked an
egg inter two more what I had in a bowl. An’ dat las’ one what Natty
and Janet lef’ after scramblin’ dem udders on a sly, dat was a bad
one, too.”
Janet and Natalie exchanged looks at this information, but the word
“water-glass” meant nothing to them so they forgot Rachel’s complaints
over the quality of the store-eggs.
The supper was very late that night, owing to the bad eggs that had
ruined the batter Rachel had mixed for cakes. That evening the girls
planned eagerly with Mrs. James about adding other interesting
creatures to Janet’s farm yard stock. But it always ended in Janet’s
sighing about her limited bank account.
“We might ask Mr. Marvin to loan us fifty dollars and take a chattel
mortgage on the stock,” said Mrs. James.
“We might, but I hate to think anyone else has a hold on my pets. If
only I could find some way to own them all myself!” was Janet’s
rejoinder.
“Well, let’s go to bed now, girls, as I am sleepy,” said Mrs. James,
getting up from the side-porch and going indoors.
Just after every one was in bed and comfortably relaxed for sleep, a
shrill cry from Janet caused them to jump up and run to her room to
learn what was wrong.
“Oh, oh, oh! The poor things!” wailed she, sitting on the edge of the
bed and wringing her hands, dramatically.
“What poor things! Are you dreaming, Jan?” asked Natalie.
“Who is it, Janet?” anxiously inquired Mrs. James while Rachel came
scuffling into the room holding a candle to light her way. Her kinky
hair was wound up in little cotton covers for the night, and she wore
the old-fashioned short sack-gown, with a flannel petticoat underneath
to keep the witches away.
Natalie had to giggle but Janet was too concerned to see what Rachel
was wearing. She turned regretful eyes up towards Mrs. James as she
confessed: “Those poor chickens! I forgot to feed them tonight,
because Nat and I spent so much time watching the pigs burrow under
the leaves and straw and then curl up to sleep!”
Mrs. James suddenly sat down upon a chair near the bed and laughed
with relief. Janet looked at her in sad disapproval. “If it was your
fortune that was fading away, you might not think it so funny! Now
those hens won’t lay an egg to-morrow and another day will be wasted.
Rachel said hens wouldn’t lay if they were not fed regularly.”
“Dat’s so, Mis James! An’ dem spechul hens ain’t had no ’tentchun,
whatever, sence Janet brought ’em to live in her barnyard,” was
Rachel’s emphatic rejoinder.
Natalie now giggled forth: “At least we can eat them if we find them
dead on their roosts in the morning.”
“It’s all right for you to laugh, but you won’t offer to go out with
me at this midnight hour and give them some supper!” wailed Janet,
picking up her sneakers and trying to pull them up on her bare feet.
“Whad you doin’ dat foh, Honey?” asked Rachel.
“Going to feed the measly chickens,” grumbled Janet.
“Tain’t no use. Go back to bed and fergit ’em.”
“Oh, do you think they are dead?” gasped Janet, fearfully.
“Nah! I betcher it ain’t de fust time dey went to baid on empty
stummicks when Farmeh Ames owned ’em. Once moh won’t kill ner cure ’em
of trouble,” chuckled Rachel, turning to go back to her room. But she
remembered something and laughingly added: “I tought dis house was on
fiah f’om the way Janet yelled. Nex’ time you fergits a pig, er a
hen’s refreshmen’s, don’t make sech a time oveh it.”
“I’ll tie a string on my finger after this so I won’t forget the poor
things again,” sighed Janet, kicking her sneakers across the room.
“I don’t see how you can forget that poor setting-hen, Janet; she has
to hatch out all those eggs for you,” was Natalie’s reproof.
“How many eggs did you place under her, Janet?” asked Mrs. James,
trying to act interested but hiding a great yawn back of her hand.
Janet counted on her fingers and then said: “Seven and nine—sixteen
altogether, Jimmy.”
But Mrs. James did not pursue the subject at that time, for she
naturally thought that Janet had taken the eggs which Farmer Ames had
brought that day. Whereas, Natalie had helped herself to nine more
eggs from the box when it came from the store, and the two girls had
shoved the extra eggs under the hen at evening-time. Then the
inspected eggs which Ames left at the house, were quietly smuggled
into the box for Rachel to use, in place of those which had been taken
out.
Soon after this the house was quiet again, and the inmates slept
soundly until the cock roused them with his loud crowing from the
handrail on the back stoop.
“Now how did he escape?” wondered Janet, as she hurriedly dressed.
She never discovered how he managed to get out, but she felt sure it
was because he was starving. So she fed the fowl an extra big
breakfast to make up for not giving them any supper.