With the coming of winter I thought the life of a farmer might lose
something of its charm. So much interest lies in the growth not only of
crops but of trees, vines, flowers, sentiments and emotions. In the
summer the world is busy, concerned with many things and full of gossip:
in the winter I anticipated a cessation of many active interests and
enthusiasms. I looked forward to having time for my books and for the
quiet contemplation of the life around me. Summer indeed is for
activity, winter for reflection. But when winter really came every day
discovered some new work to do or some new adventure to enjoy. It is
surprising how many things happen on a small farm. Examining the book
which accounts for that winter, I find the history of part of a
forenoon, which will illustrate one of the curious adventures of a
farmer's life. It is dated January 5.
* * * * *
I went out this morning with my axe and hammer to mend the fence along
the public road. A heavy frost fell last night and the brown grass and
the dry ruts of the roads were powdered white. Even the air, which was
perfectly still, seemed full of frost crystals, so that when the sun
came up one seemed to walk in a magic world. I drew in a long breath and
looked out across the wonderful shining country and I said to myself:
"Surely, there is nowhere I would rather be than here." For I could have
travelled nowhere to find greater beauty or a better enjoyment of it
than I had here at home.
As I worked with my axe and hammer, I heard a light wagon come rattling
up the road. Across the valley a man had begun to chop a tree. I could
see the axe steel flash brilliantly in the sunshine before I heard the
sound of the blow.
The man in the wagon had a round face and a sharp blue eye. I thought he
seemed a businesslike young man.
"Say, there," he shouted, drawing up at my gate, "would you mind holding
my horse a minute? It's a cold morning and he's restless."
"Certainly not," I said, and I put down my tools and held his horse.
He walked up to my door with a brisk step and a certain jaunty poise of
the head.
"He is well contented with himself," I said. "It is a great blessing for
any man to be satisfied with what he has got."
I heard Harriet open the door--how every sound rang through the still
morning air!
The young man asked some question and I distinctly heard Harriet's
answer:
"He's down there."
The young man came back: his hat was tipped up, his quick eye darted
over my grounds as though in a single instant he had appraised
everything and passed judgment upon the cash value of the inhabitants.
He whistled a lively little tune.
"Say," he said, when he reached the gate, not at all disconcerted, "I
thought you was the hired man. Your name's Grayson, ain't it? Well, I
want to talk with you."
After tying and blanketing his horse and taking a black satchel from his
buggy he led me up to my house. I had a pleasurable sense of excitement
and adventure. Here was a new character come to my farm. Who knows, I
thought, what he may bring with him: who knows what I may send away by
him? Here in the country we must set our little ships afloat on small
streams, hoping that somehow, some day, they will reach the sea.
It was interesting to see the busy young man sit down so confidently in
our best chair. He said his name was Dixon, and he took out from his
satchel a book with a fine showy cover. He said it was called "Living
Selections from Poet, Sage and Humourist."
"This," he told me, "is only the first of the series. We publish six
volumes full of literchoor. You see what a heavy book this is?"