Sure enough, it was Pomona. There stood our old servant-girl, of the
canal-boat, with a crooked straw bonnet on her head, a faded yellow
parasol in her hand, a parcel done up in newspaper under her arm, and an
expression of astonishment on her face.
“Well, truly!” she ejaculated.
“Into the house, quick!” I said. “We have a savage dog!”
“And here he is!” cried Euphemia. “Oh! she will be torn to atoms.”
Straight at Pomona came the great black beast, barking furiously. But
the girl did not move; she did not even turn her head to look at the
dog, who stopped before he reached her and began to rush wildly around
her, barking terribly.
We held our breath. I tried to say “get out!” or “lie down!” but my
tongue could not form the words.
“Can't you get up here?” gasped Euphemia.
“I don't want to,” said the girl.
The dog now stopped barking, and stood looking at Pomona, occasionally
glancing up at us. Pomona took not the slightest notice of him.
“Do you know, ma'am,” said she to Euphemia, “that if I had come here
yesterday, that dog would have had my life's blood.”
“And why don't he have it to-day?” said Euphemia, who, with myself, was
utterly amazed at the behavior of the dog.
“Because I know more to-day than I did yesterday,” answered Pomona. “It
is only this afternoon that I read something, as I was coming here on
the cars. This is it,” she continued, unwrapping her paper parcel, and
taking from it one of the two books it contained. “I finished this part
just as the cars stopped, and I put my scissors in the place; I'll read
it to you.”
Standing there with one book still under her arm, the newspaper half
unwrapped from it, hanging down and flapping in the breeze, she opened
the other volume at the scissors-place, turned back a page or two, and
began to read as follows:
“Lord Edward slowly san-ter-ed up the bro-ad anc-es-tral walk, when
sudden-ly from out a cop-se, there sprang a fur-i-ous hound. The
marsh-man, con-ce-al-ed in a tree expected to see the life's blood of
the young nob-le-man stain the path. But no, Lord Edward did not stop
nor turn his head. With a smile, he strode stead-i-ly on. Well he knew
that if by be-traying no em-otion, he could show the dog that he was
walking where he had a right, the bru-te would re-cog-nize that right
and let him pass un-sca-thed. Thus in this moment of peril his nob-le
courage saved him. The hound, abashed, returned to his cov-ert, and Lord
Edward pass-ed on.
“Foi-led again,” mutter-ed the marsh-man.
“Now, then,” said Pomona, closing the book, “you see I remembered
that, the minute I saw the dog coming, and I didn't betray any emotion.
Yesterday, now, when I didn't know it, I'd 'a been sure to betray
emotion, and he would have had my life's blood. Did he drive you up
there?”
“Yes,” said Euphemia; and she hastily explained the situation.
“Then I guess I'd better chain him up,” remarked Pomona; and advancing
to the dog she took him boldly by the collar and pulled him toward the
shed. The animal hung back at first, but soon followed her, and she
chained him up securely.
“Now you can come down,” said Pomona.
I assisted Euphemia to the ground, and Pomona persuaded the hired girl
to descend.
“Will he grab me by the leg?” asked the girl.
“No; get down, gump,” said Pomona, and down she scrambled.
We took Pomona into the house with us and asked her news of herself.
“Well,” said she, “there ain't much to tell. I staid awhile at the
institution, but I didn't get much good there, only I learned to read
to myself, because if I read out loud they came and took the book away.
Then I left there and went to live out, but the woman was awful mean.
She throwed away one of my books and I was only half through it. It was
a real good book, named 'The Bridal Corpse, or Montregor's Curse,' and
I had to pay for it at the circulatin' library. So I left her quick
enough, and then I went on the stage.”
“On the stage!” cried Euphemia. “What did you do on the stage?”
“Scrub,” replied Pomona. “You see that I thought if I could get anything
to do at the theayter, I could work my way up, so I was glad to get
scrubbin'. I asked the prompter, one morning, if he thought there was a
chance for me to work up, and he said yes, I might scrub the galleries,
and then I told him that I didn't want none of his lip, and I pretty
soon left that place. I heard you was akeepin' house out here, and so I
thought I'd come along and see you, and if you hadn't no girl I'd like
to live with you again, and I guess you might as well take me, for that
other girl said, when she got down from the shed, that she was goin'
away to-morrow; she wouldn't stay in no house where they kept such a
dog, though I told her I guessed he was only cuttin' 'round because he
was so glad to get loose.”
“Cutting around!” exclaimed Euphemia. “It was nothing of the kind. If
you had seen him you would have known better. But did you come now to
stay? Where are your things?”
“On me,” replied Pomona.
When Euphemia found that the Irish girl really intended to leave, we
consulted together and concluded to engage Pomona, and I went so far as
to agree to carry her books to and from the circulating library to which
she subscribed, hoping thereby to be able to exercise some influence
on her taste. And thus part of the old family of Rudder Grange had come
together again. True, the boarder was away, but, as Pomona remarked,
when she heard about him, “You couldn't always expect to ever regain the
ties that had always bound everybody.”
Our delight and interest in our little farm increased day by day. In
a week or two after Pomona's arrival I bought a cow. Euphemia was
very anxious to have an Alderney,--they were such gentle, beautiful
creatures,--but I could not afford such a luxury. I might possibly
compass an Alderney calf, but we would have to wait a couple of years
for our milk, and Euphemia said it would be better to have a common cow
than to do that.
Great was our inward satisfaction when the cow, our OWN cow, walked
slowly and solemnly into our yard and began to crop the clover on our
little lawn. Pomona and I gently drove her to the barn, while Euphemia
endeavored to quiet the violent demonstrations of the dog (fortunately
chained) by assuring him that this was OUR cow and that she was to live
here, and that he was to take care of her and never bark at her. All
this and much more, delivered in the earnest and confidential tone in
which ladies talk to infants and dumb animals, made the dog think that
he was to be let loose to kill the cow, and he bounded and leaped with
delight, tugging at his chain so violently that Euphemia became a little
frightened and left him. This dog had been named Lord Edward, at the
earnest solicitation of Pomona, and he was becoming somewhat reconciled
to his life with us. He allowed me to unchain him at night and I could
generally chain him up in the morning without trouble if I had a good
big plate of food with which to tempt him into the shed.
Before supper we all went down to the barn to see the milking. Pomona,
who knew all about such things, having been on a farm in her first
youth, was to be the milkmaid. But when she began operations, she did no
more than begin. Milk as industriously as she might, she got no milk.
“This is a queer cow,” said Pomona.
“Are you sure that you know how to milk?” asked Euphemia anxiously.
“Can I milk?” said Pomona. “Why, of course, ma'am. I've seen 'em milk
hundreds of times.”
“But you never milked, yourself?” I remarked.
“No, sir, but I know just how it's done.”
That might be, but she couldn't do it, and at last we had to give up the
matter in despair, and leave the poor cow until morning, when Pomona was
to go for a man who occasionally worked on the place, and engage him to
come and milk for us.
That night as we were going to bed I looked out of the window at the
barn which contained the cow, and was astonished to see that there was a
light inside of the building.
“What!” I exclaimed. “Can't we be left in peaceful possession of a cow
for a single night?” And, taking my revolver, I hurried down-stairs and
out-of-doors, forgetting my hat in my haste. Euphemia screamed after me
to be careful and keep the pistol pointed away from me.
I whistled for the dog as I went out, but to my surprise he did not
answer.
“Has he been killed?” I thought, and, for a moment, I wished that I was
a large family of brothers--all armed.
But on my way to the barn I met a person approaching with a lantern and
a dog. It was Pomona, and she had a milk-pail on her arm.
“See here, sir,” she said, “it's mor'n half full. I just made up my mind
that I'd learn to milk--if it took me all night. I didn't go to bed at
all, and I've been at the barn fur an hour. And there ain't no need of
my goin' after no man in the mornin',” said she, hanging up the barn key
on its nail.
I simply mention this circumstance to show what kind of a girl Pomona
had grown to be.
We were all the time at work in some way, improving our little place.
“Some day we will buy it,” said Euphemia. We intended to have some wheat
put in in the fall and next year we would make the place fairly crack
with luxuriance. We would divide the duties of the farm, and, among
other things, Euphemia would take charge of the chickens. She wished to
do this entirely herself, so that there might be one thing that should
be all her own, just as my work in town was all my own. As she wished
to buy the chickens and defray all the necessary expenses out of her own
private funds, I could make no objections, and, indeed, I had no desire
to do so. She bought a chicken-book, and made herself mistress of
the subject. For a week, there was a strong chicken flavor in all our
conversation.
This was while the poultry yard was building. There was a chicken-house
on the place, but no yard, and Euphemia intended to have a good big one,
because she was going into the business to make money.
“Perhaps my chickens may buy the place,” she said, and I very much hoped
they would.
Everything was to be done very systematically. She would have Leghorns,
Brahmas, and common fowls. The first, because they laid so many eggs;
the second, because they were such fine, big fowls, and the third,
because they were such good mothers.
“We will eat, and sell the eggs of the first and third classes,” she
said, “and set the eggs of the second class, under the hens of the third
class.”
“There seems to be some injustice in that arrangement,” I said, “for the
first class will always be childless; the second class will have nothing
to do with their offspring, while the third will be obliged to bring up
and care for the children of others.”
But I really had no voice in this matter. As soon as the carpenter
had finished the yard, and had made some coops and other necessary
arrangements, Euphemia hired a carriage and went about the country to
buy chickens. It was not easy to find just what she wanted, and she was
gone all day.
However, she brought home an enormous Brahma cock and ten hens, which
number was pretty equally divided into her three classes. She was very
proud of her purchases, and indeed they were fine fowls. In the
evening I made some allusion to the cost of all this carpenter work,
carriage-hire, etc., besides the price of the chickens.
“O!” said she, “you don't look at the matter in the right light. You
haven't studied it up as I have. Now, just let me show you how this
thing will pay, if carried on properly.” Producing a piece of paper
covered with figures, she continued: “I begin with ten hens--I got
four common ones, because it would make it easier to calculate. After a
while, I set these ten hens on thirteen eggs each; three of these eggs
will probably spoil,--that leaves ten chickens hatched out. Of these, I
will say that half die, that will make five chickens for each hen; you
see, I leave a large margin for loss. This makes fifty chickens, and
when we add the ten hens, we have sixty fowls at the end of the first
year. Next year I set these sixty and they bring up five chickens
each,--I am sure there will be a larger proportion than this, but I want
to be safe,--and that is three hundred chickens; add the hens, and we
have three hundred and sixty at the end of the second year. In the third
year, calculating in the same safe way, we shall have twenty-one hundred
and sixty chickens; in the fourth year there will be twelve thousand
nine hundred and sixty, and at the end of the fifth year, which is as
far as I need to calculate now, we shall have sixty-four thousand and
eight hundred chickens. What do you think of that? At seventy-five cents
apiece,--a very low price,--that would be forty-eight thousand and
six hundred dollars. Now, what is the petty cost of a fence, and a few
coops, by the side of a sum like that?”
“Nothing at all,” I answered. “It is lost like a drop in the ocean. I
hate, my dear, to interfere in any way with such a splendid calculation
as that, but I would like to ask you one question.”
“Oh, of course,” she said, “I suppose you are going to say something
about the cost of feeding all this poultry. That is to come out of the
chickens supposed to die. They won't die. It is ridiculous to suppose
that each hen will bring up but five chickens. The chickens that will
live, out of those I consider as dead, will more than pay for the feed.”
“That is not what I was going to ask you, although of course it ought to
be considered. But you know you are only going to set common hens, and
you do not intend to raise any. Now, are those four hens to do all the
setting and mother-work for five years, and eventually bring up over
sixty-four thousand chickens?”
“Well, I DID make a mistake there,” she said, coloring a little. “I'll
tell you what I'll do; I'll set every one of my hens every year.”
“But all those chickens may not be hens. You have calculated that every
one of them would set as soon as it was old enough.”
She stopped a minute to think this over.
“Two heads are better than one, I see,” she said, directly. “I'll allow
that one-half of all the chickens are roosters, and that will make the
profits twenty-four thousand three hundred dollars--more than enough to
buy this place.”
“Ever so much more,” I cried. “This Rudder Grange is ours!”