LOOKING ABOUT.
DINNER was on the table when Whistler arrived at Mr. Davenport’s, and he
found his uncle and aunt, and his little cousin Annie, ready to welcome
him to their hospitalities. These, with Clinton, constituted the whole
family. The young stranger soon felt quite at home in their society. He
was much pleased with his cousins at first sight, for he had never seen
either of them before. Annie, who was about seven years old, was a
beautiful child, with golden curls and fair blue eyes, and a face full
of gentleness and affection. She seemed to be the pet of the household.
Clinton, though but a month or two older than Whistler, was a stouter
and taller boy, and his browned skin and hardened hands told that he was
not unacquainted with labor and out-door exposure. He had, moreover, an
intelligent, cheerful, and frank expression of countenance, that could
not help prepossessing a stranger in his favor. The parents of these
children Whistler had previously seen at his own house, and he had
always numbered them among his favorite relatives.
Whistler’s first movement, after dinner, was to make an inspection of
the premises. He found that his uncle’s farm lay at the base of a range
of hills, and embraced a wide extent of land, a good part of which
seemed to be under skilful cultivation. The house itself was set back a
few rods from the street, and was pleasantly situated, with its front
towards the south. It was a snug, plain-looking building, a story and a
half high, with a kitchen and wood-shed attached in the rear. A noble
oak tree, in front, afforded a grateful shade; and climbing roses and
honeysuckles were trained around the front door, giving a neat and
tasteful aspect to the cottage. In the rear, upon an elevated pole, was
a perfect fac-simile of the house, in miniature, erected for the
accommodation of the birds; and there never was a spring-time when this
snug tenement failed to secure a respectable family as tenants for the
season. On the next page is a view of the premises.
The barn, which the picture is not large enough to take in, was a short
distance from the house, on the left. It was much larger than the
cottage, and attached to it were buildings for the hens and pigs.
[Illustration]
Clinton, who had been busy, now joined his cousin, and offered to
accompany him around the premises.
“This is what we call the shop,” he said, opening the door into a small
room adjoining the pantry.
“Why, what a snug little place! and what a lot of tools you have got!”
said Whistler.
“Father used to be a carpenter before he went to farming,” added
Clinton, “and he has always kept a set of tools. They are handy in such
a place as this, where carpenters are not to be had.”
“I suppose you work here some, don’t you? If I had such a place, I
should spend half my time in it,” said Whistler.
“Yes,” replied Clinton; “I use the tools a little. There’s a windmill
I’m making now; but I don’t know when it will be finished. I haven’t
much time to work in the shop in summer.”
“Clinty made this cart for me,” said Annie, who had followed the boys;
and she pointed to a neat little wagon.
“Did he? Why, he is a real nice workman,” said Whistler.
“And he made the vane on the barn, and the bird-house, too,” added
Annie.
“Can’t you think of something else that I made, Sissy?” said Clinton,
laughing at the pride Annie evidently took in his ingenuity.
“Yes,” she promptly replied; “he made the arbor over the front door.”
“Why, Clinton, you _are_ a carpenter, sure enough!” said Whistler. “I
should think you might almost build a house; I mean a real house, not a
bird-house.”
Clinton smiled at this rather extravagant estimate of his mechanical
skill, and led the way towards the barn, through which he conducted his
cousin, from the cellar almost to the ridge-pole. The hayloft was very
large, and was nearly filled with new-mown hay, the fragrance of which
was delightful. Swallows were darting in and out of the great door, and
gayly twittering among the lofty rafters, where they had made their
nests. A large quantity of unthreshed grain, bound up in sheaves, was
stacked away on the main floor, in one end of the barn.
“There’s a good lot of straw,” said Whistler, as they passed by the
grain.
“And something besides straw, too; that is rye,” replied Clinton.
“Is it rye?” said Whistler. “Well, I’m just green enough not to know
straw from grain, or one kind of grain from another. Father told me I
should make myself so verdant that the cows would chase me, and I don’t
know but that he was right.”
“They laugh about country people being green, when they go to the city,”
said Clinton; “but I guess they don’t appear much worse than city folks
sometimes do in the country. I don’t mean you, though,” he added; “for
you haven’t done anything very bad yet.”
Whistler broke off a head of rye, and found concealed beneath the
bearded points several hard, plump kernels, that had a sweet and
pleasant taste. Following his cousin, he then visited the pig-pen, which
was behind the barn, and connected with a portion of the barn cellar.
Half a dozen fat porkers were lazily stretched about, in shady places,
presenting one of those familiar groups that, if they do not appeal to
the artist’s sense of the beautiful, _do_ appeal most forcibly to the
plain farmer’s sense of lard and “middlings.” If not picturesque, they
are decidedly _baconesque_, which some people consider much better.
“Now you must go and see my biddies,” said Clinton; and he led the way
to a large hen-coop, near the piggery.
“Are these _your_ fowls?” inquired Whistler.
“Yes, they are all mine,” replied his cousin. “Father gave me all of his
fowls, five years ago, and I have managed them just as I pleased ever
since. I have to find their food, and I have all their eggs and
chickens. Even the eggs mother uses she has to buy of me.”
“That is a first-rate plan,” said Whistler. “I should think you might
make lots of money in that way.”
“This isn’t all,” added Clinton; “I have a flock of turkeys, and a lot
of ducks, besides. The turkeys are off, somewhere; they roam all over
the farm. The ducks are in that little house down by the brook; we’ll go
and see them by-and-by.”
“I should think I was rich, if I owned so many creatures,” said
Whistler. “But you have to buy corn for them,—I suppose that takes off
the profit, doesn’t it?”
“I haven’t bought a bushel of corn since the first year I had them,”
replied Clinton. “Do you see that cornfield, just beyond the brook? That
is _my_ field. I planted and hoed it myself, and I shall have all the
corn that grows there.”
“But how did you come by it?—did you buy the land?” inquired Whistler,
more astonished than ever.
“No, I don’t own the land,” replied Clinton. “Father has got more than
he can cultivate, and he lets me have the use of that piece for nothing.
He helps me plough and harrow it, too; but I have to do everything else
myself. If I want any manure, I pay him for it. If the corn does well, I
shall have enough to carry all my fowls through another year. There will
be a lot of corn fodder too, that I shall sell to father for the cows;
and I have a lot of pumpkins scattered in among the corn, that will be
worth something in the fall.”
“Well, you’re a real farmer, as well as a carpenter, that’s a fact,”
said his cousin. “How I should like to be in your shoes!—and not in
yours, either, but in another pair just like them. Come, don’t you want
a partner? I’ll buy in, and we’ll start a new firm—‘C. & W. Davenport,
Farmers, Poultry Dealers and Carpenters.’ Won’t that sound tall! What
will you sell out one half of your business for? I haven’t much capital,
and don’t know much about the business; but I’ll try to make myself
useful.”
“I’m afraid you would get sick of the bargain,” replied Clinton. “You’d
find it pretty tough work to hoe an acre of corn down there in the sun,
when the thermometer is up to ninety in the shade. It’s a good deal of
trouble, too, to take care of so many fowls every day, in summer and
winter. I like to do it, to be sure; but a great many boys would think
they were real slaves if they had to do what I do.”
“It doesn’t take all your time, does it?” inquired Whistler.
“O, no,” replied Clinton. “I suppose it doesn’t take me more than two
hours a day, on an average, to take care of my fowls and cornfield; but
I do other work besides. I have had the whole care of the garden this
summer. Come and look at it.”
They proceeded to a large patch of ground in the rear of the house,
which was devoted to a kitchen garden. It had been sown with peas,
beans, radishes, lettuce, onions, early potatoes, sweet corn, cucumbers,
and other vegetables. Some of the crops had already been gathered, such
as the lettuce, radishes, and green peas; and the others seemed to be in
a flourishing condition.
“After we had planted the garden last spring,” resumed Clinton, “father
told me that if I would take the whole care of it, I might have one
fourth of all the profits. I thought it was a pretty good offer, and so
I took it up, and I’ve never been sorry for it yet. The garden has done
very well, so far. We keep an account of everything that is raised; and
next fall I can tell just how much my share will come to. I haven’t had
to work so hard as I expected I should, either. I do a little every day,
and the weeds don’t have a chance to get the upper hand of me. That is
the way to manage a garden. If I should let my work get behindhand, I
suppose I should very soon be discouraged.”
“Mr. Preston told us that you did almost as much work as a man,” said
Whistler; “and I think he was about right. One thing is pretty certain:
you can’t have much time to play.”
“O, no, I don’t work so hard as a man,” replied Clinton. “It only takes
about one half of my time to do all my work; but then I have some
errands to do, and my lessons to study.”
“I heard about your studying at home, and reciting to your mother: is
that the way you do?” inquired Whistler.
“Yes,” replied Clinton; “our school doesn’t keep in the summer, and, as
I have some spare time, I study a little at home. Last summer my rule
was to study two hours a day; but this year I have had more work to do,
and haven’t studied quite so much.”
“What do you study?” inquired his cousin.
“Arithmetic and grammar, principally,” replied Clinton; “but I write a
composition once a fortnight and now and then get a spelling or a
geography lesson.”
The boys now proceeded towards the duck-house. This was a small, rough
shed; but it answered the purpose for which it was intended very well.
It was situated near a small brook, and there was a little artificial
pond connected with it, in which the ducks could swim when the water in
the brook was low. Clinton himself made both the pond and the
duck-house, the summer previous. There were about a dozen ducks in the
pond, several of which were very small, being but a few weeks old. They
gracefully sailed off as the boys approached; but when Clinton spoke to
them they recognized his voice, and wheeled about towards him.
Having visited the principal objects of interest on the farm, Whistler
began to manifest some curiosity about the geography of Brookdale. He
got a pretty good idea of the natural features of the town, by ascending
a high hill back of his uncle’s house. Before him lay a beautiful lake,
or pond, as the Brookdale people called it, which looked like a bright
mirror set in emerald. A narrow river, glistening in the sunlight like a
silver thread, stole along through the meadows towards the southwest.
There were but a few widely scattered houses in sight, for Brookdale was
only a small farming settlement. On the north and east the view was
hemmed in by high hills, covered with trees; but in other directions the
prospect was extensive. Clinton pointed out to his cousin a mountain
which he said was twenty miles distant. It looked like a faint cloud on
the horizon.
[Illustration]
But I can give you a better idea of the geography of Brookdale by the
aid of a little map, which will show you at a glance an outline of the
objects which Whistler saw from the hill, and also some things which he
could not see from that position. The house numbered 1 is Mr.
Davenport’s, and behind it is the hill from which Whistler obtained his
view. No. 2 is Mr. Preston’s house, and No. 3 is the schoolhouse. The
map shows the position of the lake, the river, and the brook near Mr.
Davenport’s house. It also shows the Cross Roads village, and the
principal roads passing through the town.
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