We certainly enjoyed our second day in camp. All the morning, and a
great part of the afternoon, we “explored.” We fastened up the tent
as well as we could, and then, I with my gun, and Euphemia with the
fishing-pole, we started up the creek. We did not go very far, for it
would not do to leave the tent too long. I did not shoot anything, but
Euphemia caught two or three nice little fish, and we enjoyed the sport
exceedingly.
Soon after we returned in the afternoon, and while we were getting
things in order for supper, we had a call from two of our neighbors,
Captain Atkinson and wife. The captain greeted us hilariously.
“Hello!” he cried. “Why, this is gay. Who would ever have thought of
a domestic couple like you going on such a lark as this. We just heard
about it from old John, and we came down to see what you are up to.
You've got everything very nice. I think I'd like this myself. Why, you
might have a rifle-range out here. You could cut down those bushes on
the other side of the creek, and put up your target over there on that
hill. Then you could lie down here on the grass and bang away all day.
If you'll do that, I'll come down and practice with you. How long are
you going to keep it up?”
I told him that we expected to spend my two weeks' vacation here.
“Not if it rains, my boy,” said he. “I know what it is to camp out in
the rain.”
Meanwhile, Mrs. Atkinson had been with Euphemia examining the tent, and
our equipage generally.
“It would be very nice for a day's picnic,” she said; “but I wouldn't
want to stay out-of-doors all night.”
And then, addressing me, she asked:
“Do you have to breathe the fresh air all the time, night as well as
day? I expect that is a very good prescription, but I would not like to
have to follow it myself.”
“If the fresh air is what you must have,” said the captain, “you might
have got all you wanted of that without taking the trouble to come out
here. You could have sat out on your back porch night and day for the
whole two weeks, and breathed all the fresh air that any man could
need.”
“Yes,” said I, “and I might have gone down cellar and put my head in the
cold-air box of the furnace. But there wouldn't have been much fun in
that.”
“There are a good many things that there's no fun in,” said the captain.
“Do you cook your own meals, or have them sent from the house?”
“Cook them ourselves, of course,” said Euphemia. “We are going to have
supper now. Won't you wait and take some?”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Atkinson, “but we must go.”
“Yes, we must be going,” said the captain. “Good-bye. If it rains I'll
come down after you with an umbrella.”
“You need not trouble yourself about that,” said I. “We shall rough it
out, rain or shine.”
“I'd stay here now,” said Euphemia, when they had gone, “if it rained
pitch.”
“You mean pitchforks,” I suggested.
“Yes, anything,” she answered.
“Well, I don't know about the pitchforks,” I said, looking over the
creek at the sky; “but am very much afraid that it is going to rain
rain-water to-morrow. But that won't drive us home, will it?”
“No, indeed!” said she. “We're prepared for it. But I wish they'd staid
at home.”
Sure enough, it commenced to rain that night, and we had showers all
the next day. We staid in camp during the morning, and I smoked and
we played checkers, and had a very cosy time, with a wood fire burning
under a tree near by. We kept up this fire, not to dry the air, but to
make things look comfortable. In the afternoon I dressed myself up in
water-proof coat, boots and hat, and went out fishing. I went down to
the water and fished along the banks for an hour, but caught nothing of
any consequence. This was a great disappointment, for we had expected to
live on fresh fish for a great part of the time while we were camping.
With plenty of fish, we could do without meat very well.
We talked the matter over on my return, and we agreed that as it seemed
impossible to depend upon a supply of fish, from the waters about our
camp, it would be better to let old John bring fresh meat from the
butcher, and as neither of us liked crackers, we also agreed that he
should bring bread.
Our greatest trouble, that evening, was to make a fire. The wood, of
which there was a good deal lying about under the trees, was now all wet
and would not burn. However, we managed to get up a fire in the stove,
but I did not know what we were going to do in the morning. We should
have stored away some wood under shelter.
We set our little camp-table in the tent, and we had scarcely finished
our supper, when a very heavy rain set in, accompanied by a violent
wind. The canvas at one end of our tent must have been badly fastened,
for it was blown in, and in an instant our beds were deluged. I rushed
out to fasten up the canvas, and got drenched almost to the skin, and
although Euphemia put on her waterproof cloak as soon as she could, she
was pretty wet, for the rain seemed to dash right through the tent.
This gust of wind did not last long, and the rain soon settled down into
a steady drizzle, but we were in a sad plight. It was after nine o'clock
before we had put things into tolerable order.
“We can't sleep in those beds,” said Euphemia.
“They're as wet as sop, and we shall have to go up to the house and get
something to spread over them. I don't want to do it, but we mustn't
catch our deaths of cold.”
There was nothing to be said against this, and we prepared to start out.
I would have gone by myself, but Euphemia would not consent to be left
alone. It was still raining, though not very hard, and I carried an
umbrella and a lantern. Climbing fences at night with a wife, a lantern,
and an umbrella to take care of, is not very agreeable, but we managed
to reach the house, although once or twice we had an argument in regard
to the path, which seemed to be very different at night from what it was
in the day-time.
Lord Edward came bounding to the gate to meet us, and I am happy to say
that he knew me at once, and wagged his tail in a very sociable way.
I had the key of a side-door in my pocket, for we had thought it wise to
give ourselves command of this door, and so we let ourselves in without
ringing or waking Pomona.
All was quiet within, and we went upstairs with the lantern. Everything
seemed clean and in order, and it is impossible to convey any idea of
the element of comfort which seemed to pervade the house, as we quietly
made our way upstairs, in our wet boots and heavy, damp clothes.
The articles we wanted were in a closet, and while I was making a bundle
of them, Euphemia went to look for Pomona. She soon returned, walking
softly.
“She's sound asleep,” said she, “and I didn't think there was any need
of waking her. We'll send word by John that we've been here. And oh!
you can't imagine how snug and happy she did look, lying there in her
comfortable bed, in that nice, airy room. I'll tell you what it is, if
it wasn't for the neighbors, and especially the Atkinsons, I wouldn't go
back one step.”
“Well,” said I, “I don't know that I care so particularly about it,
myself. But I suppose I couldn't stay here and leave all Thompson's
things out there to take care of themselves.”
“Oh no!” said Euphemia. “And we're not going to back down. Are you
ready?”
On our way down-stairs we had to pass the partly open door of our own
room. I could not help holding up the lantern to look in. There was the
bed, with its fair white covering and its smooth, soft pillows; there
were the easy-chairs, the pretty curtains, the neat and cheerful carpet,
the bureau, with Euphemia's work-basket on it; there was the little
table with the book that we had been reading together, turned face
downward upon it; there were my slippers; there was--
“Come!” said Euphemia, “I can't bear to look in there. It's like a dead
child.”
And so we hurried out into the night and the rain. We stopped at the
wood-shed and got an armful of dry kindling, which Euphemia was obliged
to carry, as I had the bundle of bed-clothing, the umbrella, and the
lantern.
Lord Edward gave a short, peculiar bark as we shut the gate behind us,
but whether it was meant as a fond farewell, or a hoot of derision, I
cannot say.
We found everything as we left it at the camp, and we made our beds
apparently dry. But I did not sleep well. I could not help thinking that
it was not safe to sleep in a bed with a substratum of wet mattress, and
I worried Euphemia a little by asking her several times if she felt the
dampness striking through.
To our great delight, the next day was fine and clear, and I thought I
would like, better than anything else, to take Euphemia in a boat up the
river and spend the day rowing about, or resting in shady places on the
shore.
But what could we do about the tent? It would be impossible to go away
and leave that, with its contents, for a whole day.
When old John came with our water, milk, bread, and a basket of
vegetables, we told him of our desired excursion, and the difficulty in
the way. This good man, who always had a keen scent for any advantage
to himself, warmly praised the boating plan, and volunteered to send his
wife and two of his younger children to stay with the tent while we were
away.
The old woman, he said, could do her sewing here as well as anywhere,
and she would stay all day for fifty cents.
This plan pleased us, and we sent for Mrs. Old John, who came with three
of her children,--all too young to leave behind, she said,--and took
charge of the camp.
Our day proved to be as delightful as we had anticipated, and when we
returned, hungry and tired, we were perfectly charmed to find that Mrs.
Old John had our supper ready for us.
She charged a quarter, extra, for this service, and we did not begrudge
it to her, though we declined her offer to come every day and cook and
keep the place in order.
“However,” said Euphemia, on second thoughts, “you may come on Saturday
and clean up generally.”
The next day, which was Friday, I went out in the morning with the
gun. As yet I had shot nothing, for I had seen no birds about the camp,
which, without breaking the State laws, I thought I could kill, and so I
started off up the river-road.
I saw no game, but after I had walked about a mile, I met a man in a
wagon.
“Hello,” said he, pulling up; “you'd better be careful how you go
popping around here on the public roads, frightening horses.”
As I had not yet fired a single shot, I thought this was a very impudent
speech, and I think so still.
“You had better wait until I begin to pop,” said I, “before you make
such a fuss about it.”
“No,” said he, “I'd rather make the fuss before you begin. My horse is
skittish,” and he drove off.
This man annoyed me; but as I did not, of course, wish to frighten
horses, I left the road and made my way back to the tent over some very
rough fields. It was a poor day for birds, and I did not get a shot.
“What a foolish man!” said Euphemia, when I told her the above incident,
“to talk that way when you stood there with a gun in your hand. You
might have raked his wagon, fore and aft.”
That afternoon, as Euphemia and I were sitting under a tree by the
tent, we were very much surprised to see Pomona come walking down the
peninsula.
I was annoyed and provoked at this. We had given Pomona positive orders
not to leave the place, under any pretense, while we were gone. If
necessary to send for anything, she could go to the fence, back of the
barn, and scream across a small field to some of the numerous members
of old John's family. Under this arrangement, I felt that the house was
perfectly safe.
Before she could reach us, I called out:
“Why did you leave the house, Pomona? Don't you know you should never
come away and leave the house empty? I thought I had made you understand
that.”
“It isn't empty,” said Pomona, in an entirely unruffled tone. “Your old
boarder is there, with his wife and child.”
Euphemia and I looked at each other in dismay.
“They came early this afternoon,” continued Pomona, “by the 1:14 train,
and walked up, he carrying the child.”
“It can't be,” cried Euphemia. “Their child's married.”
“It must have married very young, then,” said Pomona, “for it isn't over
four years old now.”
“Oh!” said Euphemia, “I know! It's his grandchild.”
“Grandchild!” repeated Pomona, with her countenance more expressive of
emotion than I had ever yet seen it.
“Yes,” said Euphemia; “but how long are they going to stay? Where did
you tell them we were?”
“They didn't say how long they was goin' to stay,” answered Pomona. “I
told them you had gone to be with some friends in the country, and that
I didn't know whether you'd be home to-night or not.”
“How could you tell them such a falsehood?” cried Euphemia.
“That was no falsehood,” said Pomona; “it was true as truth. If you're
not your own friends, I don't know who is. And I wasn't a-goin' to tell
the boarder where you was till I found out whether you wanted me to do
it or not. And so I left 'em and run over to old John's, and then down
here.”
It was impossible to find fault with the excellent management of Pomona.
“What were they doing?” asked Euphemia.
“I opened the parlor, and she was in there with the child,--putting it
to sleep on the sofa, I think. The boarder was out in the yard, tryin'
to teach Lord Edward some tricks.”
“He had better look out!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, the dog's chained and growlin' fearful! What am I to do with 'em?”
This was a difficult point to decide. If we went to see them, we might
as well break up our camp, for we could not tell when we should be able
to come back to it.
We discussed the matter very anxiously, and finally concluded that
under the circumstances, and considering what Pomona had said about
our whereabouts, it would be well for us to stay where we were and for
Pomona to take charge of the visitors. If they returned to the city that
evening, she was to give them a good supper before they went, sending
John to the store for what was needed. If they stayed all night, she
could get breakfast for them.
“We can write,” said Euphemia, “and invite them to come and spend some
days with us, when we are at home and everything is all right. I want
dreadfully to see that child, but I don't see how I can do it now.”
“No,” said I. “They're sure to stay all night if we go up to the house,
and then I should have to have the tent and things hauled away, for I
couldn't leave them here.”
“The fact is,” said Euphemia, “if we were miles away, in the woods
of Maine, we couldn't leave our camp to see anybody. And this is
practically the same.”
“Certainly,” said I; and so Pomona went away to her new charge.