BERT'S EXPERIENCE AS A FARMER'S BOY.
Bert followed the farmer into the kitchen, in the center of which a
table was set. A bony and angular woman was just placing on it a large
pitcher of water.
"Mis' Wilson," said the farmer, "this is Bert Barton, who is helping me
about the farm work."
Bert was no stranger to Mrs. Wilson, whose pew in church was near the
one he occupied.
"How's your ma?" she inquired jerkily.
"Pretty well, thank you, Mrs. Wilson."
"I'm glad to hear it. She looks like a friend of mine, Mrs. Dusenberry,
who died of heart disease."
"I don't think her heart is affected," said Bert, not without anxiety.
"Maybe not, but you can't tell. Folks lives along for years with their
hearts out of kilter, who never find it out till some day they drop
dead."
Mrs. Wilson decidedly was not a cheerful converser. She prided herself
on detecting signs of unsuspected diseases.
"Mebbe you've got heart disease yourself, Sophia," remarked the farmer
jocosely.
"Just as likely as not," answered Mrs. Wilson calmly. "I'm sure my
liver's affected, for I feel it squirm sometimes."
"Mebbe I'd better look out for a second Mis' Wilson," suggested the
farmer smiling.
"You ain't over healthy yourself, Silas," responded his better half,
surveying her husband in a business-like manner. "It looks to me as if
your kidneys was out of order, and you're the very image of Jed
Pettibone, who died of apoplexy. He lived next door to my mother. One
day he was alive and well, and to-morrow he was as the grass of the
field."
The farmer's face wore a very uncomfortable look, and he was evidently
by no means pleased with his wife's prognostications.
"Nonsense!" he said testily. "I'm as well as any man of my age in
Lakeville."
"'Boast not thyself of to-morrow'!" quoted Mrs. Wilson solemnly.
"Come, Bert, let us set down to dinner," said Silas hastily. "What have
you got for us, Sophia?"
"I've warmed over them beans we had yesterday," answered his helpmeet,
"and there's two sausages besides. I don't want any. You'd ought to
make a dinner off of that."
"Why, to be sure! Beans and sausages is hearty, and will stand by us in
the field. The laborer is worthy of his meat."
"Where's the meat," thought Bert.
Silas Wilson put a moderate portion of beans on a large plate, flanking
it with a thin, consumptive-looking sausage.
"Help yourself to potatoes," he said, as he handed the plate to Bert.
Bert availed himself of the invitation, and helped himself to a potato
in that condition known as soggy. He tried to eat it, but, though fond
of potatoes, he left it almost entire on his plate. This, however, was
not all. There was a plate of rye-bread on the table, from which Bert
helped himself to a slice. It was apparently two or three days old, and
needed something to make it palatable.
"Please give me some butter," asked Bert, not having observed that this
was a prohibited article on the Wilsons' dinner table.
"There ain't none," answered Mrs. Wilson promptly.
"I beg pardon. I hadn't noticed," said Bert, blushing.
"We never have butter at dinner," explained Silas Wilson. "It's apt to
lead to humors, particularly in boys, isn't it, Mis' Wilson?"
"So I've always heard, Silas. Besides, as we have it at breakfast and
supper, that's enough. It goes fast enough, even then. Why, we used most
a pound last week."
"And butter twenty-seven cents a pound!" chimed in the farmer. "Why,
it's extravagant!"
"Do you know, Silas, how much butter is used in Squire Marlowe's
family?"
"No," answered the farmer, with interest.
"Hannah--Mrs. Marlowe's girl--told me they used six pounds and a half
last week, and there's only four of them, including the girl. What do
you think of that?"
"What do I think? I think it's sinful--positively sinful! Six pounds and
a half at twenty-seven cents----"
"They pay thirty-two, and get the best in the market," amended his wife.
"Worse and worse! That comes to what--Bert?"
"Two dollars and eight cents," answered Bert promptly.
"Sho! Did you ever?"
"Well, I s'pose the squire can stand it. No doubt they live on the fat
of the land. I just wish they'd invite me to tea, so I could judge for
myself. I could tell within five cents how much the supper cost."
It must be confessed that Bert did not enjoy his dinner. The sausage was
far from rich or juicy, and the beans were almost cold. The potatoes and
bread have already been referred to. However, there was to be a second
course, and to that Bert looked forward anxiously, for he had by no
means satisfied his appetite. It was a plain rice pudding, and partially
satisfactory, for it takes very little skill to boil rice, and there is
little variety in the quality. By way of sauce Mrs. Wilson provided
cheap grade of molasses. Still Bert enjoyed it better than any other
article on the table.
"There's nothing like a good dinner to strengthen us for the labors of
the field," said Silas Wilson complacently, as he rose from the table.
"Come, Bert, now let us get to work to make up for lost time."
"So Mr. Wilson considers the time spent in eating as lost time," thought
Bert. "I'd rather have one of mother's dinners than half a dozen like
this. Ugh! how nasty those potatoes were."
Bert returned to the field, and resumed his work. He found it hard to
keep up with Silas Wilson, whose energies seemed to be quickened by his
midday meal.
About four o'clock a man came along who wanted to see Silas on business,
and he went back to the house, leaving Bert to continue his work alone.
"This is about the longest day I ever passed," thought Bert, pausing to
wipe his moistened forehead. "I am afraid I shall never want to be a
farmer. I mustn't forget, though, that I am to receive sixteen cents and
a little over per day, besides board--and such board! Yet this is the
way Silas Wilson has lived all his life, and he must be sixty-five at
least. How much more enjoyment Uncle Jacob has out of life, though he is
a poor man compared to the farmer."
At this moment he heard wheels passing on the road hard by, and looking
up he recognized Percy Marlowe, neat and trim in his attire, driving a
light buggy.
"Hallo!" called out Percy, checking his horse.
"Hallo, Percy!"
"Are you working for Silas Wilson?"
"Yes, for a few days."
"I guess you'll make a fortune in that time?" said Percy laughing.
"It seems like it," responded Bert.
"How much does he pay you?"
"Fifty cents for three days and board."
Percy laughed.
"I should want fifty cents an hour, and then I wouldn't do it."
"I'd work all the year round at that price," said Bert.
"I never expect to work--with my hands," went on Percy.
"Have you decided what to do?" asked Bert curiously.
"My father wants me to be a manufacturer, but I think I shall be a
lawyer."
"I am afraid I shan't have much choice. I must take what I can get."
"You might stay with Mr. Wilson and be a farmer."
"I don't think that will suit me at any rate, unless I can work for a
different man."
"Perhaps father can take you back into the shop when you are older."
"I wish he would take me back now. I like it a great deal better than
working out in the field here."
"You mustn't get too high notions into your head, Bert. You know you are
a working boy and mustn't expect to have things all your own way."
"I am not likely to forget that I am a working boy, especially with kind
friends to remind me of it. But we live in the best country in the
world, and there is many a working boy who grows up to be a
distinguished man."
Percy laughed ironically.
"I wouldn't get such silly ideas into your head," he said.
"Why are they silly?"
"You talk as if you expected to be a distinguished man. Ha, ha!"
"I hope to be a successful man," answered Bert stoutly.
Percy laughed again and drove on. Five minutes later Bert saw the farmer
running from the house in a state of great apparent excitement.
"Have you seen anything of my wallet?" he gasped, as he came within
hearing distance.