TWO VERY EARLY CALLERS--EACH ON BUSINESS
Except on Sunday mornings, breakfast at the farm in summer came at six.
The Old Squire himself was often astir at four; and we boys were
supposed to get up at five, so as to have milking done and other barn
chores off, ready to go into the field from the breakfast table. Gram
and the girls also rose at five, to get breakfast, take care of the milk
and look after the poultry. Everybody, in fact, rose with the birds in
that rural community. But often I was scarcely more than half awake at
breakfast; Ellen and Wealthy, too, were in much the same case.
On one of these early mornings when I had been there about three weeks,
our drowsiness at the breakfast table was dispelled by the arrival of
two early callers--each on business.
Gram was pouring the coffee, when the outer door opened and a tall,
sallow, dark-complexioned woman entered, the same whom I had met on the
Meadow Brook bridge, while leading Little Dagon. She wore a calico gown
and sun-bonnet, and may have been fifty years of age; and she walked in
quite as a matter of course, saying, "How do you do, Joseph, how do you
do, Ruth?" to the Old Squire and Gram.
"Why, how do you do, Olive?" said Gram, but not in the most cordial of
tones. "Will you have some breakfast with us?"
"I have been to breakfast, Ruth," replied this visitor, throwing back
her sun-bonnet and thereby displaying a forehead and brow that for
height and breadth was truly Websterian. "I came to get my old dress
that I left here when I cleaned house for you last spring, and I should
also like that dollar that's owing me."
"Olive," rejoined Gram severely, "I do not owe you a dollar."
"Ruth," replied the caller with equal severity, "you do owe me a
dollar."
She proceeded, as one quite familiar in the house, to the kitchen closet
and took therefrom an old soiled gingham gown.
"Olive," said the Old Squire, "are you quite sure that there is a dollar
due you here?"
"Joseph," replied the lofty-browed woman, "do you think I would say so,
if I did not know it?"
"No, Olive, I don't think you would," said the Old Squire.
"It's no such thing, Olive," cried Gram, looking somewhat heated. "I
always paid you up when you cleaned house for me and when you spun for
me."
"Always but that one time, Ruth. Then you did not--into a dollar,"
replied the sallow woman, positively.
An argument ensued. It appeared that the debated dollar was a matter of
three or four years standing. There was little doubt that both were
equally honest in their convictions concerning it, pro and con. Still,
they were a dollar apart, somehow. Furthermore, it came out, that
"Olive" when she felt periodically poor, or out of sorts, was in the
habit of calling and dunning Gram for that dollar, much to the old
lady's displeasure.
The Old Squire sat uneasily and listened to the talk, with growing
disfavor. At last he pulled out his pocketbook. "I will pay you the
dollar, Olive," he said, "if only to stop the dispute about it."
"You shan't do it, Joseph!" exclaimed Gram. "There's no dollar due
her."
But the Old Squire persisted in handing the woman a dollar.
"I do not care whether it is due or not!" he exclaimed. "I have heard
altogether too much of this."
"I thank you, Joseph, for doing me justice of my hard-handed employer,"
said the tall woman, austerely.
"Now did ever anybody hear the like!" Gram exclaimed, pink from
vexation. "Oh, Olive, you--you--you bold thing, to say that of me!"
"There, there!" cried the Old Squire. "Peace, women folks. Remember that
you are both Christians and public professors."
Gram sat and fanned herself, fast and hard. Our visitor folded the dress
into a bundle and marched slowly and austerely out.
"Olive, I hope your conscience is clear," Gram called after her
severely.
"Ruth, I hope your conscience is as clear as mine," the departing one
called back in calm tones, from the yard outside.
She left an awkward silence behind her; breakfast had come to a
standstill; and I improved the elemental sort of hush, to whisper to
Theodora, who had been at the farm a year, and ask who this portentous
disturber of the family credit really was.
"Oh, it is only 'Aunt Olive,'" Theodora whispered back. "She comes here
to help us every spring and fall."
"Is she our actual aunt?" I asked in some dismay.
"No, she isn't our real, kindred aunt," said Theodora, "but folks call
her Aunt Olive. She is a sister to Elder Witham; and they say she can
quote more Scripture than the Elder himself.
"And I'm sort of glad that Gramp gave her the dollar," Theodora added,
in a still lower whisper. "Maybe Gram did forget to pay her, once."
But Gram was both incensed and humiliated. She resumed the interrupted
coffee pouring and handed the Old Squire his cup, with a look of deep
reproach.
Partly to change the unpleasant subject, perhaps, he said to us briskly,
"Boys, if we have good luck and get our haying work along, so we can, we
will all make a trip over to Norridgewock and see Father Rasle's
monument.
"Ruth, wouldn't you like to take a good long drive over to Norridgewock,
after the grain is in?" he asked in pacificatory tones.
"Joseph!" replied Gram, "you make me smile! You have been talking of
driving over to Norridgewock to visit Father Rasle's monument, and of
going to Lovewell's Pond, ever since I first knew you! But you never
have been, and I haven't a thought that you ever will go!"
"Well, but something has always come up to prevent it, Ruth," Gramp
replied hastily.
"Yes, Joseph, and something will come up to prevent it this year, too."
It was at this point that the second early caller had his arrival
announced. Little Wealthy, who had stolen out to watch Aunt Olive's
departure and then gone to the barn to see to her own small brood of
chicks, came running in headlong and cried, "Oh, Gram! Gram! a great big
fox has got one of your geese--on his back--and is running away!"
"What!" exclaimed Gram, setting the heavy coffee-pot down again with a
roiling bump. "Oh, Lord, what a morning. Where, child, where?"
"Out beyond the west barn!" cried Wealthy; but by this time Addison,
Halse and I were out of doors, in pursuit.
Beyond the west barn, there was a little hollow, or swale, where a
spring issued; and a few rods below the spring, a dam had been
constructed across the swale to form a goose-pond for Gram's flock. It
was a muddy, ill-smelling place; but hither the geese would always
waddle forth of a summer morning, and spend most of the day, wading and
swimming, with occasional loud outcries.
As we turned the corner of the barn, we met the flock--minus
one--beating a retreat to the goose-shed. But the fox was not in sight.
"Which way did he go, Wealth?" cried Addison, for Wealthy had run after
us, full of her important news.
"Right across the west field," she exclaimed. "He had the old goose on
his back, and it was trying to squall, but couldn't."
"Get the gun, Halse!" exclaimed Addison. "No, it isn't loaded! Bother!
But come on. The fox cannot run far with one of those heavy geese,
without resting. He is probably behind the pasture wall."
We set off at speed across the field and heard Gram calling out to us,
"Chase him, boys! Chase the old thief. You may make him drop it."
Away through the grass, laden with dew and "hopper spits," we careered,
and came on the trail of the fox where he had brushed off the dew as he
ran. But the rogue was not behind the pasture wall.
"Keep on," cried Addison, "he cannot run fast." We crossed the pasture
and entered the sugar maple grove between the pasture and the Aunt
Hannah Lot. As it chanced, the fox was lurking in the high brakes here,
having stopped to rest, no doubt, as Addison had conjectured. We did not
come upon him here, however; for warned probably by the noise which we
made, the goose-hunter stole out silently on the farther side and ran on
across the open fields of the Aunt Hannah Lot. As we emerged from the
belt of woodland, we caught sight of him, toiling up a hillside beyond
the fields, fifty or sixty rods away.
"It is of no use to chase him any further," said Addison, pulling up.
"He will reach the woods in a few minutes more."
By this time we were all three badly out of breath. The fox had the best
of the race. We could distinguish plainly the white goose across his
back, in contrast to his butter-colored coat and great bushy tail.
"Wouldn't Gram fume to see that!" Halse exclaimed. "Her best old goose
is taking its last ride."
"I think I know where that fox is going," remarked Addison. "I was in
those woods, gunning, one day last fall, and I came to a fox burrow, in
the side of a knoll, among trees. There was no end of yellow dirt, dug
out, and there seemed to be two or three holes, leading back into the
side-hill. I told the Old Squire about it. He said it was a fox-hole,
and that there had been one there for years. When he was a young man, he
once saw six foxes playing around that knoll, and, first and last, he
trapped a number there."
We went back to our interrupted breakfast. Gram heard our tidings with
much vexation. Gramp laughed. "If the foxes got every goose, I shouldn't
cry," said he. "Nasty creatures! Worse than a parcel of pigs about the
farm."
"But you like to put your head on a soft pillow as well as any one,"
replied Gram calmly. "If you know of anything that makes better pillows
than _live_ geese feathers, I shall be glad to hear about it."
The Old Squire not having any proper substitute to offer, Gram went on
to say that she wished some of us possessed the energy (I believe she
said _spunk_) to make an end of that fox; for now that it had achieved
the capture of a goose from her flock, it would be quite likely to come
back for another, in the course of a day or two.
This appeal stirred our pride, and after we had gone out to hoe corn
that forenoon, Addison asked the Old Squire whether he thought it likely
we could unearth the fox, if, as we suspected, it had its haunt in the
burrow on the hillside of the Aunt Hannah Lot.
"Maybe," replied the Old Squire, "by digging hard enough and long
enough. But 'tis no easy job."
Addison did not say anything more for ten or fifteen minutes, when he
observed that as Gram seemed a good deal disturbed, he for one would not
mind an hour or two of digging, if it would save her geese.
"Oh, I have nothing against her geese, boys," replied the old gentleman
with a kind of apologetic laugh. "I like to hear her stand up for them
once in a while.
"I wanted to get this corn hoed by to-morrow," he continued. "Let's see,
to-morrow is Saturday. We will take the crowbar and some shovels and
make a little trip over to that burrow, later this afternoon. Don't say
anything about it at dinner; for likely as not we shall not find the fox
there."
After we had hoed for some time longer, Addison said, "What if we have
Halse run over to Edwardses', right after dinner, and ask Tom to take a
bar, or shovel, and go with us. Tom is a good hand at digging,--and that
fox may trouble them, too."
The Old Squire laughed. "You are a pretty crafty boy, Addison," said he.
Ad looked a little confused. "I knew Tom would like to go first rate,"
said he; "and as there may be considerable hard digging before us, I
thought it would be all right to have somebody who could take his turn
at it."
"Quite right," replied Gramp, still laughing. "Craft is a good thing and
often helps along famously. But don't grow too crafty.
"I am quite willing for you to send for Thomas," he added. "I think it
is a good idea."
Accordingly, at noon Halse went to the Edwards homestead, bearing an
invitation to a fox-digging bee. They, too, were busy with their hoeing,
but Mr. Edwards, who was a very good-humored man, gave Thomas permission
to join us at two o'clock. When we went out from dinner to our own
hoeing, we took along an axe, two spades, a hog-hook to pull out the
fox, and a crowbar, also the gun; and after working two hours in the
corn-field, we set off across the fields and pastures for the fox
burrow, just as Thomas came running across lots to join us.
"Mother's glad to have me go," said he. "She lost a turkey last week;
and father says there's a fox over in that burrow, this summer, no
mistake. Father gets up at half-past three every morning now, and he
says he has heard a fox bark over that way at about sunrise for a
fortnight. But we will end his fun for him."
Thomas was such a resolute boy that it was always a treat to hear him
talk.
Crossing the pasture, we climbed the hillside of the Aunt Hannah lot,
and again entering the maple woods, went on for forty or fifty rods over
rather rough ground.
"That's the knoll," said Addison, pointing to a hillock among the trees.
"Yes, that's the place," the Old Squire corroborated.
On the side of the knoll next us as we drew near, there was a large
hole, leading downwards and backwards into the bank side. A quantity of
yellow earth had been thrown out quite recently, looking as if dogs had
tried to dig out the fox. Tom looked into the hole.
"Yes, siree," he exclaimed. "There's a fox lives here; I know by these
flies in the mouth of the hole. You'll always see two or three of these
flies at a hole where there's a fox or a wood-chuck."
Farther around the knoll there were two other holes, one beside a rock
and the other under a birch-tree root, which manifestly led into the
same burrow, deep back in the knoll.
"And only look here!" cried Addison. "See these bones and these
feathers."
"Oho!" said the Old Squire. "'Tis a female fox with her cubs that has
taken up her abode in the old burrow this summer. That accounts for her
raids on the turkeys and geese; she's got a young family to look out
for."
After some discussion, it was agreed to begin our assault at the hole
where the bones and feathers had been brought out; and while Addison and
I went to block up the entrance to the other two holes with stones, the
Old Squire threw off his coat, and seizing the crowbar, commenced to
break down the rooty ground over the hole, while Thomas and Halse
cleared it away with their shovels. We worked by turns, or all together,
as opportunity offered. It was no light task for a warm June afternoon,
and we were soon perspiring freely. Gradually we removed the top of the
knoll, following the hole inward, and came to the intersection of this
one with another farther around to the west side. There was a
considerable cavity here, matted underfoot with feathers and small
bones. From this point the burrow crooked around a large rock down in
the ground.
Listening now at this opening, we could hear faint sounds farther back
in the earth, and an occasional slight sneeze.
"Digging to get away, or get out!" exclaimed Thomas.
While we were resting and listening, a sharp, querulous bark came
suddenly to our ears from out in the woods behind us.
"'Tis the old fox!" said Addison. "She's been away. She isn't in the
hole. But she has come back in sight, and she don't like the looks of us
here." He seized the gun and went cautiously off in the direction of the
sound, but could not again catch sight of the fox.
We resumed our digging, and soon broke into a still larger cavity,
leading off from which were three passages. Fresh earth was flying back
out of one of them.
"We are close hauls on the fox inside!" cried Thomas. "Stand ready with
the gun, Ad; he may make a bolt out by us."
The Old Squire plied the crowbar again, and breaking down a part of the
bank over the passage, we caught sight of three fox cubs, all making the
dirt fly, digging away for dear life, to get farther back. As the bank
broke down and the light fell in upon them, they turned for a moment
from their labors, and casting a foxy eye up at us, "yapped" sharply and
bristled themselves.
"Oh, the little rogues!" cried Addison. "Only look at them! Look at
their little paws and their little noses all covered with yellow dirt!
There they go at it again, digging!"
"Aren't they cunning!" exclaimed Thomas. "Fox all over, too. Regular
little rascals. See the white of those eyes, will you, when they turn
them up at us! Isn't that a rogue's eye now?"
"We will catch them and carry them home, and put them in a pen," said
Addison. "By next November their skins will be worth something."
"They will make you lots of work, to tend them and get meat for them,"
said the Old Squire. "Their pelts will not half pay you for your
trouble."
These cubs were several weeks old, I suppose, but they were not larger
than half-grown kittens.
"It won't answer for you to grab them with your bare hands," the Old
Squire warned us. "I did that once, when a boy, and found that a fox cub
is sharp-bitten."
They were of rather lighter yellow tint than a full-grown fox, but
otherwise much like, although their legs, we thought, were not yet as
long in proportion as they would become; nor yet were their tails in
full bush.
It was not quite as far across lots to the Edwards farm as it was to the
Old Squire's, and at length Addison and Thomas set off to go there for a
basket to put the foxes in, and some old thick gloves with which to
catch them.
Meantime the rest of us remained hard by, to watch the burrow, lest the
cubs should escape. Once, while the boys were gone, we heard the mother
fox bark. Halse went after her with the gun; she was evidently lingering
about, but he could not catch sight of her.
The boys returned with a bushel basket and an old potato sack, to tie
over the top of it. A little more of the bank was then broken down, when
Addison, reaching in with his hands, protected by a pair of buckskin
gloves, seized first one, then another, of the snapping, snarling little
vulpines and popped them into the basket. It was agreed that Thomas
should have one of them; and in furtherance of this division of the
spoils, Halse and Addison went around by way of the Edwards farm, with
Tom and the basket, while the Old Squire and I loaded ourselves with the
tools and took the direct route homeward.
Supper was ready and Theodora had been blowing the horn for us, long and
loud; in fact, we met her by the corn-field, whither she had at length
come in search of us. I hastily told her of the capture, but the Old
Squire said, "Don't tell your grandmother till the boys come with the
cubs, then we will show them to her."
So we went into the house and leisurely got ready for supper. At length,
Addison and Halse came to the kitchen door with their basket; and Gramp
said, "Come here, Ruth, and see two little fellows who helped eat your
old goose."
Gram came out looking pretty stern at the word goose, and when Ad pulled
the bag partly away and showed the two fox cubs, casting up the whites
of their roguish eyes at her, she exclaimed harshly, "Ah, you little
scamps!"
"But, oh, aren't they cunning! Aren't they pretty!" exclaimed Theodora
and Ellen.
"Well, they are sort of pretty," admitted Gram, softening a little as
she looked at them. "I suppose they are not to blame for their sinful
natures, more than the rest of us."
We then told her of our exploit, digging them out of the burrow. The Old
Squire thought that the mother fox would not trouble the farm-yard
further, now that her family was disposed of.
After supper, Addison gathered up boards about the premises and built a
pen out behind the west barn, in which to inclose the young foxes. As
nearly as I can now remember, the pen was about fifteen feet long by
perhaps six feet in width, with board sides four feet high. We also
covered the top of it with boards upon which we laid stones. A pan for
water was set inside the pen, and we gave them, for food, the various
odds and ends of meat and other waste from the kitchen. For a day or two
we enjoyed watching them very much.
They did not thrive well, but grew poor and mangy; and I may as well go
on to relate what became of them. After we had kept them in the pen
about a month, a dog, or else a fox, came around one night and dug under
the side of the pen, as if making an attempt to get in and attack them.
The outsider, apparently, was not successful in breaking in, and
probably went away after a time, but it had dug a sufficiently large
hole for the two young foxes to escape; they were discovered to be
missing in the morning. Addison thought that it might possibly have been
the mother fox.
One of these cubs--as we believed--came back to the pen under singular
circumstances eight or nine months later. Having no use either for the
old boards, or for the ground on which the pen stood, it was not taken
away, but remained there throughout the autumn and following winter.
One day in April we heard two hounds baying, and as it proved, they were
out hunting on their own account and had started a fox. We heard them
from noon till near four in the afternoon, when Ellen, who was in the
kitchen at one of the back windows, saw them, and, at a distance of
twenty rods or less in advance of them, a small fox, coming at speed
across the field, heading toward the west barn.
Addison and I were working up fire-wood in the yard at the time, and
Ellen ran out to tell us what she had seen. We now heard the hounds
close behind the barn, and getting the gun, ran out there. The fox, hard
pressed evidently, had run straight to that old pen and taken refuge in
it, through a hole in the top where the covering boards were off. But
before we reached the spot, one of the hounds had also got in and shaken
the life out of the refugee.
We could not positively identify the fox, yet it was a young fox, and we
all thought that it resembled one of the cubs which we had kept in the
pen. I am inclined to think that, finding itself in sore straits, it
came to the old pen where, though a captive, it had once been safe from
dogs which came about the place.