Haskins worked like a fiend, and his wife, like the heroic woman that
she was, bore also uncomplainingly the most terrible burdens. They rose
early and toiled without intermission till the darkness fell on the
plain, then tumbled into bed, every bone and muscle aching with fatigue,
to rise with the sun next morning to the same round of the same ferocity
of labor.
The eldest boy drove a team all through the spring, ploughing and
seeding, milked the cows, and did chores innumerable, in most ways
taking the place of a man.
An infinitely pathetic but common figure--this boy on the American farm,
where there is no law against child labor. To see him in his coarse
clothing, his huge boots, and his ragged cap, as he staggered with a
pail of water from the well, or trudged in the cold and cheerless dawn
out into the frosty field behind his team, gave the city-bred visitor a
sharp pang of sympathetic pain. Yet Haskins loved his boy, and would
have saved him from this if he could, but he could not.
By June the first year the result of such Herculean toil began to show
on the farm. The yard was cleaned up and sown to grass, the garden
ploughed and planted, and the house mended.
Council had given them four of his cows.
"Take 'em an' run 'em on shares. I don't want 'o milk s' many. Ike's
away s' much now, Sat'd'ys an' Sund'ys, I can't stand the bother
anyhow."
Other men, seeing the confidence of Council in the newcomer, had sold
him tools on time; and as he was really an able farmer, he soon had
round him many evidences of his care and thrift. At the advice of
Council he had taken the farm for three years, with the privilege of
re-renting or buying at the end of the term.
"It's a good bargain, an' y' want 'o nail it," said Council. "If you
have any kind ov a crop, you c'n pay y'r debts, an' keep seed an'
bread."
The new hope which now sprang up in the heart of Haskins and his wife
grew almost as a pain by the time the wide field of wheat began to wave
and rustle and swirl in the winds of July. Day after day he would snatch
a few moments after supper to go and look at it.
"'Have ye seen the wheat t'-day, Nettie?" he asked one night as he rose
from supper.
"No, Tim, I ain't had time."
"Well, take time now. Le's go look at it."
She threw an old hat on her head--Tommy's hat--and looking almost pretty
in her thin, sad way, went out with her husband to the hedge.
"Ain't it grand, Nettie? Just look at it."
It was grand. Level, russet here and there, heavy-headed, wide as a
lake, and full of multitudinous whispers and gleams of wealth, it
stretched away before the gazers like the fabled field of the cloth of
gold.
"Oh, I think--I hope we'll have a good crop, Tim; and oh, how good the
people have been to us!"
"Yes; I don't know where we'd be t'-day if it hadn't ben f'r Council and
his wife."
"They're the best people in the world," said the little woman, with a
great sob of gratitude.
"We'll be in the field on Monday, sure," said Haskins, gripping the rail
on the fence as if already at the work of the harvest.
The harvest came, bounteous, glorious, but the winds came and blew it
into tangles, and the rain matted it here and there close to the ground,
increasing the work of gathering it threefold.
Oh, how they toiled in those glorious days! Clothing dripping with
sweat, arms aching, filled with briers, fingers raw and bleeding, backs
broken with the weight of heavy bundles, Haskins and his man toiled on.
Tommy drove the harvester, while his father and a hired man bound on the
machine. In this way they cut ten acres every day, and almost every
night after supper, when the hand went to bed, Haskins returned to the
field shocking the bound grain in the light of the moon. Many a night he
worked till his anxious wife came out at ten o'clock to call him in to
rest and lunch.
At the same time she cooked for the men, took care of the children,
washed and ironed, milked the cows at night, made the butter, and
sometimes fed the horses and watered them while her husband kept at the
shocking.
No slave in the Roman galleys could have toiled so frightfully and
lived, for this man thought himself a free man, and that he was working
for his wife and babes.
When he sank into his bed with a deep groan of relief, too tired to
change his grimy, dripping clothing, he felt that he was getting nearer
and nearer to a home of his own, and pushing the wolf of want a little
farther from his door.
There is no despair so deep as the despair of a homeless man or woman.
To roam the roads of the country or the streets of the city, to feel
there is no rood of ground on which the feet can rest, to halt weary and
hungry outside lighted windows and hear laughter and song within,--these
are the hungers and rebellions that drive men to crime and women to
shame.
It was the memory of this homelessness, and the fear of its coming
again, that spurred Timothy Haskins and Nettie, his wife, to such
ferocious labor during that first year.