MONDAY AT THE OLD FARM
"I shall expect you to work with us on the farm, 'Edmund,'" grandfather
said to me after breakfast. "But you may have this forenoon, to look
about and see the place. Enjoy yourself all you can."
The robins were singing blithely in the orchard. I went thither and I
think it was four robins' nests which I found in as many different apple
trees, one with three, two with four and one with five blue eggs. Is
there anything prettier than the eggs of a robin, in the eyes of a boy?
As I climbed the orchard wall to cross the road, a milk snake was
sunning on the loose stones among the raspberry bushes, the first I had
ever seen; and I bear witness that the ancestral antipathy to the
serpent leaped within me instantly. I beat his head without remorse, ay,
pounded his tail, too, which wriggled prodigiously, and chopped his body
to pieces with sharp stones.
This sorry victory achieved, I set off across the fields to the west
pasture and thence descended to the west brook, where I saw several
trout in a deep hole beneath the decayed logs of a former bridge. With a
mental resolve to come here fishing, as soon as I could procure a hook
and line, I continued onward through a low, swampy tract overgrown with
black alder and at length reached the "colt pasture," upon a cleared
hill. Here a handsome black colt, along with a sorrel and a white one,
was feeding, and at once came racing to meet me, in the hope of a nib
of provender, or salt. Continuing my voyage of discovery, I came to a
tract of woodland beyond the pasture through which a cart road led to a
clearing where there was a small old house, deserted, and also a small
barn. This, as I had yet to learn, was the "Aunt Hannah lot," an
appendage of the farm, which had come into grandfather's possession from
a sister, my great-aunt of that name. Save a field of oats, the land
here was allowed to lie in grass and remain otherwise uncultivated.
Beyond this small outlying farm, there was a dense body of woodland,
which I did not then attempt to penetrate, but made a circuit to the
northward through pasture land and young wood for half a mile or more,
and by and by crossed the road, looking along which to the northwest, I
could see the farmhouses of several of our neighbors.
Still farther around to the north rose a bold, rocky, cleared hill which
I concluded was the sheep pasture. In a wet run along the foot of the
hill was a stretch of what looked to be low, reddish, brushy grass,
which I ascertained later was the "cranberry swale."
Beyond it to the east, a long field curved around the foot of the sheep
pasture; and on the far side of this field there was woodland again,
descending first to the valley of the east brook where lay the "Little
Sea," then ascending a rugged hill.
A boy, like a bee, must needs take his bearings before he can feel quite
at home in a new place. I crossed the valley and climbed the wooded hill
beyond, a distance of nearly a mile and a half from the farmhouse.
Formerly there had been a grand growth of pine here; and there were
still a few pine trees. Numbers of the old stumps and stubs were of
great size. This rugged ridge bore the name of Pine Hill. From the
summit I gained a fine view of the country around, with its farms and
forest tracts, and of the Pennesseewassee stretching away to the
southward; also of the White Mountains in the northwest; while on the
other side of the hill to the east and southeast, lay an extensive bog
and another smaller lake, or pond, known as North Pond.
For half an hour or more I sat upon a pine stump and pored over the
geography of the district with much boyish interest, noting various
hills, farmhouses and other landmarks concerning which I determined to
inquire of Addison.
At length, beginning to feel hungry and bethinking myself that it must
be getting toward noon, I descended from my perch of observation, and
made my way homeward, although it did not seem very much like home to me
as yet. The tramp had done me good in the way of satisfying my "bump of
location."
Reaching the house in advance of the noon hour, I went out with Theodora
to see the eaves swallows again. We counted fifty-seven nests in a row,
each resembling very much a dry cocoanut shell, with a swallow's head
looking out at a little hole on the upper side. Dora pointed out the
nest of one pair which had experienced much ill luck. Three times the
nest had fallen. No sooner would they finish it and have an egg or two,
than down it would fall on the stones below. But their misfortunes had
finally taught the little architects wisdom. They brought hair from the
barnyard and mixed it with their mud, after the manner of mortar, and so
built a nest which successfully adhered.
All this Theodora told me as we stood watching them, coming and going
with cheery, ceaseless twitterings.
"And I think they've got a kind of reason about such things," Theodora
added with a certain tone of candid concession. "Although Gram says it
is only instinct. She doesn't like to have any one say that animals or
birds reason; she thinks it isn't Scriptural."
Just then Ellen came out with the dinner-horn which, after several
dissonant efforts, she succeeded in sounding, to call the Old Squire and
the boys from the field. Theodora and I were so greatly amused at the
odd sound that we burst out laughing; and Ellen, hearing us, was a good
deal mortified. "I don't care!" she exclaimed. "It goes awfully hard; I
haven't got breath enough to quite 'fill' it; and my lip isn't hard
enough. Ad says it takes practice to get up a lip for horn blowing."
Theodora tried it, and elicited a horrible blare. I did not succeed much
better; something seemed to be lacking in my lip, or my lungs. It
required a tremendous head of wind to make the old tube vibrate; at
last, I got it started a-roaring and made the whole countryside hideous
with an outlandish sort of blast. Theodora begged of me to desist.
"We shall have the neighborhood aroused and coming to see what the
matter is," she said. I was so much elated with my success, however,
that I blew a final roar; and just then Addison, Halstead, grandfather
and two hired men came upon the scene, over the wall from the field
side.
"What on earth are you trying to do with that horn?" Halstead called
out. "Do you think we are deaf? I never heard such a noise!"
"It is only our new cousin getting up his lip," said Ellen, scarcely
able to speak for laughing.
Grandfather told me that if they ever organized a brass band thereabout,
I should have the big French horn to play, for I seemed to have the
makings of a tremendous lip. All these little incidents of my first few
days at the farm are enduringly fixed in my memory.
The day proved a warm one; and after dinner I went into the front
sitting-room and looked at the old family pictures: grandfather's father
and mother in silhouette, General Scott's triumphant entry into the city
of Mexico, Jesus disputing with the Doctors, Martin Luther, George
Washington and several daguerreotypes of my uncles and aunts, framed and
hung on the wall. Next I read the battle parts of a new history of the
War, by Abbott.
Erelong grandfather came in for a nap on the lounge; and I found that
Addison and Halstead were hitching up old Sol and loading bags of corn
into the farm wagon, to go to mill. They told me that the grist mill was
three miles distant and invited me to go along with them. We set off
immediately, all three of us sitting on the seat, in front of the bags.
Halstead wanted to drive; but Addison had taken possession of the reins
and kept them, although Halstead secured the whip and occasionally
touched up the horse, contrary to Addison's wishes; for it proved a very
hilly road. First we descended from the ridge on which the home farm is
located, crossed the meadow, then ascended another long ridge whence a
good view was afforded of several ponds, and of the White Mountains in
the northwest.
Descending from this height of land to the westward for half a mile, we
came to the mill, in the valley of another large brook. It was a
weathered, saddle-back old structure, situated at the foot of a huge
dam, built of rough stones, like a farm wall across the brook, and
holding back a considerable pond. A rickety sluice-way led the water
down upon the water-wheel beneath the mill floor.
When we arrived there was no one stirring about the mill; but we had no
more than driven up and hitched old Sol to a post, when two boys came
out from a small red house, a little way along the road, where lived the
miller, whose name was Harland.
"There come Jock and George," said Addison. "Maybe the old man isn't at
home to-day.
"Where's your father?" he called out, as the boys drew near.
"Gone to the village," replied the larger of the two, who was
apparently thirteen or fourteen years of age.
"We want to get a grist ground," Addison said to them.
"What is it?" they both asked.
"Corn," replied Ad.
"If it's only corn, we can grind it," they said. "Take it in so we can
toll it. Pa said we could grind corn, or oats and pease; but he won't
let us grind wheat, yet, for that has to be bolted."
We carried the bags into the mill; there were three of them, each
containing two bushels of corn; and meantime the two young millers
brought along a half-bushel measure and a two-quart measure.
"It's two quarts toll to the bushel, ye know," said Jonathan, the elder
of the two. "So I must have two two-quart measurefuls out of every bag."
He proceeded to untie the bags and toll them, dipping out a heaped
measureful.
"Here, here," said Addison, "you must _strict_ those measures with a
square; you're getting a good pint too much on every one."
"All right," they assented, and producing a piece of straight-edged
board, _stricted_ them.
"Have to watch these millers a little," Addison remarked. "And I guess,
Jock, you had better not toll all the bags till you see whether there's
water enough to grind all of it."
"O, there's water enough," said they. "There's a whole damful."
They then poured the first bagful into the hopper over the millstones,
and went to hoist the gate. It was a very primitive, worn piece of
mechanism, and hoisting it proved a difficult task. Addison and Halstead
went to help them. At length they heaved the gate up; the water-wheel
began to turn and the other gear to revolve, making a tremendous noise.
I climbed down beneath the mill, at the lower end, to see the
water-wheel operate. The wheel and big mill post turned ponderously
around, wabbling somewhat and creaking ominously. By the time I went
back into the mill, above, the first bagful of corn was nearly ground
into yellow meal, which came out of the stones into the meal-box quite
hot from the molinary process. Addison was dipping the meal out and
putting it up in the empty bag.
"Is it fine enough?" Jock called out. "I can drop the stone a little, if
ye say so. We will grind it just as ye want it."
Presently something went through the millstones that made an odd noise;
and the young miller, George, accused Halstead of throwing a pebble into
the hopper. They had a dispute about it, and George complained that such
a trick might spoil the millstones.
Another bagful was poured into the hopper and ground out; and then
Addison and I brought along the third bagful.
"Hold on there," said Jock. "I haven't tolled that bag."
We thought that he had tolled it.
"No," said both Jock and George. "You said not to toll that last bag
till we saw whether there was water enough to grind it."
"But you declared that there was water enough, and tolled it!" cried
Halstead.
Addison and I could not say positively whether they had tolled it or
not; and they appeared to think that it had not been tolled. The point
was argued for some moments; finally it was agreed to compromise on it
and let them have one measure of toll out of it. So there was two quarts
of loss or gain, whichever party was in error.
When the last bagful was nearly ground and the hopper empty, all save a
pint or so, Jock and George ran to shut the gate and stop the mill.
"Hold on!" cried Addison. "That isn't fair. There's two quarts in the
stones yet; we shall lose all that on top of toll."
"But we must shut down before the corn is all through the stones!" cried
Jock, "or they'll get to running fast and grind themselves. 'Twon't do
to let them get to running fast, with no corn in."
"Well, don't be in such haste about it," urged Addison. "Wait a bit till
our grist is nearer out."
They waited a few moments, but were very uneasy about the stones, and
soon after the last kernels of corn had disappeared from the hopper,
they pulled the ash pin to let the gate fall. It was then discovered
that from some cause the gate would not drop. The boys thumped and
rattled it. But the water still poured down on the wheel. By this time
the meal had run nearly all out of the millstones and they revolved more
rapidly. The young millers were now a good deal alarmed, and, running
out, climbed up the dam and looked into the flume, to see what was the
matter with their gate.
"It's an old shingle-bolt!" shouted Jock, "that's floated down the pond!
It's got sucked in under the gate and holds it up! Fetch the pike-pole,
George!"
George ran to get the pike-pole; and for some moments they tried to
push, or pull, the block out. But it was wedged fast and the in-draught
of the water held it firmly in the aperture beneath the gate. It was
impossible to reach it with anything save the pike-pole, for the water
in the flume over it was four or five feet deep.
Meantime the old mill was running amuck inside. The water-wheel was
turning swiftly and the millstone was whirling like a buzz saw. After
every few seconds we could hear it graze down against the nether stone
with an ugly sound; and then there would fly up a powerful odor of
ozone.
Jock and George, finding that they could not shut the gate, came
rushing into the mill again in still greater excitement.
"The stones'll be spoilt!" Jock exclaimed. "We must get them to grinding
something."
He ran to the little bin of about a bushel of corn where the old miller
kept his toll and where they had put the toll from our bags. This was
hurriedly flung into the hopper and came through into the meal-box at a
great rate. It checked the speed in a measure, however, and we took
breath a little.
"You had better keep the mill grinding till the pond runs out," Addison
advised.
"I would," replied Jock, "but that's all the grain there is here."
It was evident that the mill must be kept grinding at something or
other, or it would grind itself. It would not answer to put in pebbles.
Ad suggested chips from the wood yard; and George set off on a run to
fetch a basketful of chips to grind; but while he was gone, Jock
bethought himself of a pile of corncobs in one corner of the mill; and
we hastily gathered up a half-bushel measureful. They were old dry cobs
and very hard.
"Not too fast with them!" Jock cautioned. "Only a few at a time!"
By throwing in a handful at a time, we reduced the speed of the stones
gradually, and then suddenly piling in a peck or more slowed it down
till it fairly came to a standstill, glutted with cobs. The water-wheel
had stopped, although the water was still pouring down upon it; and in
that condition we left it, with the miller boys peeping about the flume
and the millstones and exclaiming to each other, "What'll Pa say when he
gets back!"
That was my first experience in active milling business, and it made a
profound impression on my mind.
But we were not yet home with our grist, by a great deal! Halstead had
resented it because he had not been able to drive the horse on the
outward trip. While Addison and I were throwing in the last bag, he
jumped into the wagon and secured the reins. Not to have trouble,
Addison said nothing against his driving; and we two walked up the long
hill from the mill, behind the wagon. Reaching the summit, we got in and
Halstead started to drive down the hill on the other side. As I was a
stranger, he wished me to think that he was a fine driver and told me of
some of his exploits managing horses. "There's no use," said he, "in
letting a horse lag along down hill the way the old mossbacks do around
here. They are scared to death if a horse does more than walk. Ad won't
let a horse trot a single step on a hill, but mopes and mopes along.
I've seen horses driven in places where they know something, and I know
how a horse ought to go."
In earnest of this opinion, he touched old Sol up, and we went down the
first hill at such a pace, that I was glad to hold to the seat.
"You had better be careful," said Addison. "Drive with more sense, if
you are going to drive at all--which you are not fit to do," he added.
Out of bravado, I suppose, Halstead again applied the whip and we
trundled along down the next hill at a still more rapid rate.
"Now Halse, if you are going to drive like this, just haul up and let me
walk," Addison remonstrated, more seriously. But Halstead would not
stop, and, touching the horse again, set off down the last hill before
reaching the meadow, at an equally smart pace.
It is likely, however, that we might have got down without accident; but
the road, like most country roads, was rather narrow and as we drew near
the foot of the hill, we suddenly espied a horse and wagon emerging from
amongst the alder clumps through which the road across the meadow wound
its way, and saw, too, that a woman was driving.
"Give us half the road!" Halstead shouted. But the woman seemed
confused, as not knowing on which side of the road to turn out; she
hesitated and stopped in the middle of the road.
Perceiving that we were in danger of a collision, Addison snatched the
reins and turned our horse clean out into the alders; and the off hind
wheel coming violently in contact with an old log, the transient bolt of
the wagon broke. The forward wheels parted from the wagon body, and we
were all pitched out into the brush, in a heap together. The bags of
meal came on top of us.
Halstead had his nose scratched; I sprained one of my thumbs; and we
were all three shaken up smartly. Addison, however, regained his feet in
time to capture old Sol who was making off with the forward wheels.
The woman sat in her wagon and looked quite dazed by the spectacle of
boys and bags tumbling over each other.
"Dear hearts," said she, "are you all killed?"
"Why didn't you turn out!" exclaimed Halstead.
"I know I ought to," said the woman, humbly, "but you came down the hill
so fast, I thought your horse had run away. I was so scared I didn't
know what to do."
"You were not at all to blame, madam," said Ad. "It was we who were at
fault. We were driving too fast."
We contrived at length to patch up the wagon by tying the "rocker" of
the wagon body to the forward axle with the rope halter, and reloading
our meal bags, drove slowly home without further incident. Addison,
having captured the reins, retained possession of them, much to my
mental relief. Halstead laid the blame alternately to the woman and to
Addison's effort to grab the reins. "Now I suppose you will go home and
tell the old gent that I did it!" he added bitterly. "If you had let the
reins alone, I should have got along all right."
Addison did not reply to this accusation, except to say that he was
thankful our necks were not broken. As we drove into the carriage house,
Gramp came out and seeing the rope in so odd a position, asked what was
the matter.
"The transient bolt broke, coming down the Sylvester hill," Addison
replied. "It was badly worn, I see. If you think it best, sir, I will
take it to the blacksmith's shop after work, to-morrow."
"Very well," Gramp assented; and that was all there was said about the
accident.
It had been a long day, but my new experiences were far from being over.
A boy can live a great deal during one long May day. After supper I went
out to assist the boys with the farm chores, and took my first lesson,
milking a cow and feeding the calves. The latter were kept tied in the
long, now empty hay-bay of the east barn. I had already been there to
see them; there were ten of them, tied with ropes and neck-straps along
the sides of the bay to keep them apart.
Weaned, or unweaned, they were fed but twice a day, and from six o'clock
in the morning to six at night is a very long time for a young and
rapidly growing calf to wait between meals. As early as four o'clock in
the afternoon those calves would begin to bawl for their supper; by half
past five one could hardly make himself heard in the barn, unless there
chanced to fall a moment's silence, while the hungry little fellows were
all catching breath to bleat again. Then they would all peal forth
together on ten different keys.
How those old bare walls and high beams would resound! Blar-r-rt!
Blaw-ar-ar-ah-ahrt! Blah-ah-aht! Bul-ar-ah-ahrt! There were eager little
altos, soaring sopranos, high and importunate tenors that rose to the
roof and drowned the twitter of the happy barn-swallows.
Addison, Halstead, Theodora and Ellen, who had come to the farm before
me, knew all the calves by sight and had named them. There was Little
Star, Phil Sheridan, Black Betty, Hooker, Nut, Little Dagon, Andy
Johnson and Babe. I do not recollect the others, but have particular
reason to remember Little Dagon.
At the time I made the acquaintance of this broad-headed Hereford calf
he was five weeks old, and the soft buds of his horns were beginning to
show in the curly hair of his forehead. His color was dark red, except
for a milk-white face, two white feet, a white tassel on his tail, and a
little belt of white under his body. Grandfather had unexpectedly sold
this calf's mother, a fine, large, line-backed cow, to a friend at the
village on that very morning.
The old gentleman kindly showed me how to milk and how to hold the pail,
then gave me a milking-stool and sat me down to milk "Lily-Whiteface."
She was not a hard milker, but it did seem to me that after I had
extracted about three quarts of milk, my hands were getting paralyzed.
Halstead, who sat milking a few yards away, had, meanwhile, been adding
to my troubles by squirting streams of milk at my left ear, till Gramp
caught him in the act and bade him desist.
The old gentleman presently finished with his two cows, and went away
with his buckets of milk toward the house. Then, with soothing guile
which I had not yet learned to detect, Halstead offered to finish
milking my cow for me. I was glad to accept the offer. My untrained
fingers were aching so painfully that I could now hardly draw a drop of
milk. My knees, too, were tremulous from my efforts to clasp the pail
between them.
"It made mine ache at first," said Halstead with comforting sympathy as
he sat down on my stool and took my pail between his knees. I stood
gratefully by, and after a few moments he looked up and said, "While I
finish milking your cow, you run over to the west barn and get Little
Dagon. He is dreadfully hungry. His mother was sold this morning, and we
have got to teach him to drink his milk to-night."
"He had better not try to lead that calf!" Addison called out from his
stool, at a distance.
"Why not?" Halse exclaimed. "Oh, he can lead him all right. All he has
to do is to untie the calf's rope from the staple in the barn post. He
will come right along, himself."
It seemed very simple as Halstead put it, and I started off at once.
Addison said no more; he gave me an odd look as I hastened past him, but
I hardly noticed it at the time.
Little Dagon was making the rafters re-echo as I entered the bay. When
he saw me, he jumped to the end of his rope and fairly went into the
air. He had sucked the bow-knot of the rope till it was as slippery as
if soaped, and when I strove to untie it, he grabbed my hands in his
mouth. At length I untied him and then with a clatter on the loose
boards, we went out of the hay-bay, pranced across the barn floor and
out at the great doors.
No one has ever explained satisfactorily what that instinct is which
guides young animals unerringly back home, or in the direction of their
kin. Hungry Little Dagon, tied up in the barn, could hardly have noted
with eyes or ears the direction in which his mother had been driven
away; but as soon as we were out at the barn doors, instead of rushing
to the other barn, where he had hitherto found his mother night and
morning, the rampant little beast headed straight past the house and
down the lane to take the road for the village.
A man could have held him without difficulty. I was in my thirteenth
year, and may have weighed seventy-five pounds, but did not have weight
enough. In the exuberance of his young muscle, Little Dagon erected his
tail and made a bolt in the direction which instinct bade him take.
My one chance of holding him would have been to noose the rope about his
nose and seize him close by the neck, at the start; but this I did not
understand, and, in fact, had no time to study the problem. I clung to
the end of the rope, and away we went. I was not leading the calf.
Little Dagon was leading me. First I took one long step, and then such
strides as I had never made before.
Halstead and Addison had jumped up from their milking-stools and come to
the barnyard bars. "Hold him! Hold him!" they shouted. "Don't let him
get away!"
Grandfather, too, had now come to the kitchen door. "Hold him! Hold that
calf!" he called out, and I clung to the knot in the end of the rope,
with determination.
In a moment Little Dagon was towing me down the long lane to the road.
The gate stood open, and out we went into the highway, on the jump.
There, however, the calf pulled up short, to smell the road. I tried to
catch the strap round his neck and turn him back, but he seized my arm
in his mouth to suck it; and being unused to calves, I was afraid he
would bite me. When I attempted to lead him about, that eager impulse to
find his mother again possessed him, and away he ran down the long
orchard hill.
I do not now see how I contrived to hold on to the rope, but I remember
thinking that if I let go Addison and Halstead would laugh at me, and
that Gramp would blame me.
We raced down that long hill, my feet seeming hardly to touch the
ground, and struck a level, sandy stretch at the foot of it. The sand
felt queer to the calf's feet, and he stopped to smell it. By this
time I was badly out of breath, but I turned his head homeward and began
towing him back. He sulked, but took a few steps with me. Then he gave a
sudden wild prance into the air, headed round and started again. I could
not hold him, and on we went, a long run this time, until we came to the
bridge over the meadow brook. There the planks proved a new wonderment
to the calf, and he pulled up to smell them.
[Illustration: WHEN I LED LITTLE DAGON.]
Just then there appeared in the road ahead Theodora and "Aunt Olive
Witham," a working woman, who came every spring and fall to help
grandmother clean house and to do the year's spinning. Theodora had been
to the Corners that evening, to summon her.
"Oh, help me stop him!" I panted. "For pity's sake, catch hold of this
rope! He is running away with me! I can't hold him!"
Theodora edged across the bridge to bear a hand; but "Aunt Olive" knew
calves, or thought she did.
"Boss-boss-boss!" she crooned to the calf, and extending her hand,
walked straight to his head to get him by the ears. This may have been
the proper thing to do, but it did not work well that time. Little Dagon
suddenly looked up from his snuffing of the planks, and for some reason
his young eyes distrusted "Aunt Olive."
He bounded aside and began again to run. I was clinging fast to the
rope, and Aunt Olive and I collided. Aunt Olive, in truth, recoiled
nearly off the end of the bridge; I was jerked onward. Little Dagon had
learned that he could pull me, and I might as well have tried to hold a
locomotive. Theodora ran a few steps after us, trying loyally to succor
me. Aunt Olive stood endeavoring to recover her breath; ordinarily she
was energy personified, but for the instant stood gasping.
Beyond the meadow there was a hill, and going up that hill I came very
near mastering the calf; but after a hard tussle he gained the top in
spite of me and ran on, over descending ground, where the road passed
through woodland. We were now fully a mile and a half from home. Thus
far I had held on, but strength and breath were about gone. I was
panting hard, and actually crying from mortification.
Now, however, I saw a horse drawing a light wagon coming along the road.
A well-dressed elderly man was driving. I called out to him to aid me.
If I had known who he was, I might have been less unceremonious. "Oh,
help me stop him!" I cried. "Do help me stop him! I can't hold him!"
The stranger reined his horse half round across the road, and Little
Dagon ran full against the horse's fore legs and stopped to sniff again.
The elderly gentleman got out quickly.
"Did the calf run away with you, my son?" he asked, smiling at my heated
and tearful appearance.
"Yes, sir," I replied, panting.
"Well, well, you have had a hot run, haven't you?" and he gave me
several sympathetic pats on the shoulder. "How far have you come, all so
fast?"
"I came from Grandpa S.'s," I replied, as steadily as I could, for I was
sadly out of breath.
"Your grandfather is Joseph S.?" queried the elderly man.
"Yes, sir," I replied. "I have just come there to live."
"Ah, yes," commented my new acquaintance. "I know your grandpa very
well. I am on my way to call on him. Now let's see. How shall we manage?
Do you think that you could sit in the back part of my wagon and lead
the calf, if I were to drive slowly?"
"I'm afraid he would pull me out!" I exclaimed.
"Not if we both hold the rope, I think," remarked the elderly man, still
smiling broadly. "I will reach back with one hand and help you hold
him."
After much pulling, hauling and manoeuvring, Little Dagon was brought
to the back of the wagon. I then sat in the rear, with my feet hanging
out, and took the line; and my new friend gave hand to the rope over the
back of the seat. The horse started to walk, and Little Dagon was drawn
after; but the perverse little creature settled back in his strap till
his tongue hung out. The stranger laughed.
"It seems that we cannot lead a calf unless the calf pleases," he said.
"Can you think of any better way, my son?"
I thought hard, for I was ashamed to put my new acquaintance to so much
trouble and have nothing to suggest. At last, I said, with some
diffidence, that we might tie the calf's legs with the rope and put him
in the rear of the wagon, while I walked behind.
"That appears to be a practical suggestion," the stranger remarked. "Do
you think you can tie his legs?"
I answered that I believed I could if I had the calf on the ground.
"Well, sir," said he, with a whimsical glance at me, "I think I can
capsize the calf and hold him down, if you will agree to tie his legs
within a reasonable time."
I said I would try; and while I held the rope the stranger alighted,
seized the calf suddenly by the legs, and threw it down on its side.
Little Dagon struggled pluckily, but my new ally held fast and called on
me to do my part. After some hard picking at the knot, I untied the rope
from the neck-strap, then tied the calf's legs into a bunch and
crisscrossed the rope.
"Pretty well done, my son, pretty well done," was the encouraging
comment of my new friend. "Now I will take him by the head while you
seize him by the tail, and we will hoist him into the wagon."
Before we could do so, however, we heard a sudden rattle of wheels close
at hand, and glancing around, I saw Gramp and Addison with old Sol in
the express wagon. They had harnessed and given chase; Theodora and
Aunt Olive, whom they met, had adjured them to drive fast if they hoped
ever to overtake me. Grandfather, on seeing who was helping me,
exclaimed, "Why, Senator, how do you do, sir! My calf appears to be
making you a great deal of trouble."
In fact, my friend in need was none other than Hon. Lot M. Morrill, who
had been Governor of Maine for three terms in succession, and was now
United States Senator. Grandfather and he had been acquaintances for
forty years or more; and I have inferred since that the object of Mr.
Morrill's visit on this occasion was in part political. At this
particular time the Senator was "looking after his political
fences"--although this phrase had not yet come into vogue.
Grandfather and Mr. Morrill immediately drove home together, leaving
Addison and me to put the calf in the express wagon and follow more
slowly.
Senator Morrill at this time gave me the impression of being a man
oppressed by not a little anxiety, and inclined to be dissatisfied with
his career. As distinctly as if it were yesterday, I recall what he said
to me the next morning as he was about to drive away. "My son," said he
impressively, "don't you be a politician. Be a farmer like your
grandfather. He has had a happier life than I have had."
As it chanced, I was soon to have further experience with headstrong
young cattle.