Back to the Farm
Judging from the entries in a small diary of this date, I was neither an
introspective youth nor one given to precocious literary subtleties.
On March 27th, 1877, I made this entry; "Today we move back upon the
farm."
This is all of it! No more, no less. Not a word to indicate whether I
regretted the decision or welcomed it, and from subsequent equally bald
notes, I derive the information that my father retained his position as
grain buyer, and that he drove back and forth daily over the five miles
which lay between the farm and the elevator. There is no mention of my
mother, no hint as to how she felt, although the return to the
loneliness and drudgery of the farm must have been as grievous to her as
to her sons.
Our muscles were soft and our heads filled with new ambitions but there
was no alternative. It was "back to the field," or "out into the cold,
cold world," so forth we went upon the soil in the old familiar way,
there to plod to and fro endlessly behind the seeder and the harrow. It
was harder than ever to follow a team for ten hours over the soft
ground, and early rising was more difficult than it had ever been
before, but I discovered some compensations which helped me bear these
discomforts. I saw more of the beauty of the landscape and I now had an
aspiration to occupy my mind.
My memories of the Seminary, the echoes of the songs we had heard, gave
the morning chorus of the prairie chickens a richer meaning than before.
The west wind, laden with the delicious smell of uncovered earth, the
tender blue of the sky, the cheerful chirping of the ground sparrows,
the jocund whistling of the gophers, the winding flight of the prairie
pigeons--all these sights and sounds of spring swept back upon me,
bringing something sweeter and more significant than before. I had
gained in perception and also in the power to assimilate what I
perceived.
This year in town had other far-reaching effects. It tended to warp us
from our father's designs. It placed the rigorous, filthy drudgery of
the farm-yard in sharp contrast with the carefree companionable
existence led by my friends in the village, and we longed to be of their
condition. We had gained our first set of comparative ideas, and with
them an unrest which was to carry us very far away.
True, neither Burton nor I had actually shared the splendors of
Congressman Deering's house but we had obtained revelatory glimpses of
its well-kept lawn, and through the open windows we had watched the
waving of its lace curtains. We had observed also how well Avery Brush's
frock coat fitted and we comprehended something of the elegant leisure
which the sons and daughters of Wm. Petty's general store enjoyed.
Over against these comforts, these luxurious conditions, we now set our
ugly little farmhouse, with its rag carpets, its battered furniture, its
barren attic, and its hard, rude beds.--All that we possessed seemed
very cheap and deplorably commonplace.
My brother, who had passed a vivid and wonderful year riding race
horses, clerking in an ice cream parlor, with frequent holidays of
swimming and baseball, also went groaning and grumbling to the fields.
He too resented the curry-comb and the dung fork. We both loathed the
smell of manure and hated the greasy clothing which our tasks made
necessary. Secretly we vowed that when we were twenty-one we would leave
the farm, never to return to it. However, as the ground dried off, and
the grass grew green in the door-yard some part of this bitterness, this
resentment, faded away, and we made no further complaint.
My responsibilities were now those of a man. I was nearly full grown,
quick and powerful of hand, and vain of my strength, which was, in fact,
unusual and of decided advantage to me. Nothing ever really tired me
out. I could perform any of my duties with ease, and none of the men
under me ever presumed to question my authority. As harvest came on I
took my place on our new Marsh harvester, and bound my half of over one
hundred acres of heavy grain.
The crop that year was enormous. At times, as I looked out over the
billowing acres of wheat which must not only be reaped and bound and
shocked and stacked but also threshed, before there was the slightest
chance of my returning to the Seminary, my face grew long and my heart
heavy.
Burton shared this feeling, for he, too, had become profoundly
interested in the Seminary and was eager to return, eager to renew the
friendships he had gained. We both wished to walk once more beneath the
maple trees in clean well-fitting garments, and above all we hungered to
escape the curry-comb and the cow.
Both of us retained our membership in the Adelphian Debating Society,
and occasionally drove to town after the day's work to take part in the
Monday meetings. Having decided, definitely, to be an orator, I now went
about with a copy of Shakespeare in my pocket and ranted the immortal
soliloquies of _Hamlet_ and _Richard_ as I held the plow, feeling
certain that I was following in the footprints of Lincoln and
Demosthenes.
Sundays brought a special sweet relief that summer, a note of finer
poetry into all our lives, for often after a bath behind the barn we put
on clean shirts and drove away to Osage to meet George and Mitchell, or
went to church to see some of the girls we had admired at the Seminary.
On other Sabbaths we returned to our places at the Burr Oak
school-house, enjoying as we used to do, a few hours' forgetfulness of
the farm.
My father, I am glad to say, never insisted upon any religious
observance on the part of his sons, and never interfered with any
reasonable pleasure even on Sunday. If he made objection to our trips it
was usually on behalf of the cattle. "Go where you please," he often
said, "only get back in time to do the milking." Sometimes he would ask,
"Don't you think the horses ought to have a rest as well as yourselves?"
He was a stern man but a just man, and I am especially grateful to him
for his non-interference with my religious affairs.
All that summer and all the fall I worked like a hired man, assuming in
addition the responsibilities of being boss. I bound grain until my arms
were raw with briars and in stacking-time I wallowed round and round
upon my knees, building great ricks of grain, taking obvious pride in
the skill which this task required until my trousers, reinforced at the
knees, bagged ungracefully and my hands, swollen with the act of
grappling the heavy bundles as they were thrown to me, grew horny and
brown and clumsy, so that I quite despaired of ever being able to write
another letter. I was very glad not to have my Seminary friends see me
in this unlovely condition.
However, I took a well-defined pride in stacking, for it was a test of
skill. It was clean work. Even now, as I ride a country lane, and see
men at work handling oats or hay, I recall the pleasurable sides of work
on the farm and long to return to it.
The radiant sky of August and September on the prairie was a never
failing source of delight to me. Nature seemed resting, opulent,
self-satisfied and honorable. Every phase of the landscape indicated a
task fulfilled. There were still and pulseless days when slaty-blue
clouds piled up in the west and came drifting eastward with thunderous
accompaniment, to break the oppressive heat and leave the earth cool and
fresh from having passed. There were misty, windy days when the
sounding, southern breeze swept the yellow stubble like a scythe; when
the sky, without a cloud, was whitened by an overspreading haze; when
the crickets sang sleepily as if in dream of eternal summer; and the
grasshoppers clicked and buzzed from stalk to stalk in pure delight of
sunshine and the harvest.
Another humbler source of pleasure in stacking was the watermelon which,
having been picked in the early morning and hidden under the edge of the
stack, remained deliciously cool till mid-forenoon, when at a signal,
the men all gathered in the shadow of the rick, and leisurely ate their
fill of juicy "mountain sweets." Then there was the five o'clock supper,
with its milk and doughnuts and pie which sent us back to our
task--replete, content, ready for another hour of toil.
Of course, there were unpleasant days later in the month, noons when the
skies were filled with ragged, swiftly moving clouds, and the winds blew
the sheaves inside out and slashed against my face the flying grain as
well as the leaping crickets. Such days gave prophecy of the passing of
summer and the coming of fall. But there was a mitigating charm even in
these conditions, for they were all welcome promises of an early return
to school.
Crickets during stacking time were innumerable and voracious as rust or
fire. They ate our coats or hats if we left them beside the stack. They
gnawed the fork handles and devoured any straps that were left lying
about, but their multitudinous song was a beautiful inwrought part of
the symphony.
That year the threshing was done in the fields with a traction engine.
My uncle David came no more to help us harvest. He had almost passed out
of our life, and I have no recollection of him till several years later.
Much of the charm, the poetry of the old-time threshing vanished with
the passing of horse power and the coming of the nomadic hired hand.
There was less and less of the "changing works" which used to bring the
young men of the farms together. The grain was no longer stacked round
the stable. Most of it we threshed in the field and the straw after
being spread out upon the stubble was burned. Some farmers threshed
directly from the shock, and the new "Vibrator" took the place of the
old Buffalo Pitts Separator with its ringing bell-metal pinions. Wheeled
plows were common and self-binding harvesters were coming in.
Although my laconic little diary does not show it, I was fiercely
resolved upon returning to the Seminary. My father was not very
sympathetic. In his eyes I already had a very good equipment for the
battle of life, but mother, with a woman's ready understanding, divined
that I had not merely set my heart on graduating at the Seminary, but
that I was secretly dreaming of another and far more romantic career
than that of being a farmer. Although a woman of slender schooling
herself, she responded helpfully to every effort which her sons made to
raise themselves above the commonplace level of neighborhood life.
All through the early fall whenever Burton and I met the other boys of a
Sunday our talk was sure to fall upon the Seminary, and Burton stoutly
declared that he, too, was going to begin in September. As a matter of
fact the autumn term opened while we were still hard at work around a
threshing machine with no definite hope of release till the plowing and
corn-husking were over. Our fathers did not seem to realize that the men
of the future (even the farmers of the future) must have a considerable
amount of learning and experience, and so October went by and November
was well started before parole was granted and we were free to return to
our books.
With what sense of liberty, of exultation, we took our way down the road
on that gorgeous autumn morning! No more dust, no more grime, no more
mud, no more cow milking, no more horse currying! For five months we
were to live the lives of scholars, of boarders.--Yes, through some
mysterious channel our parents had been brought to the point of engaging
lodgings for us in the home of a townsman named Leete. For two dollars a
week it was arranged that we could eat and sleep from Monday night to
Friday noon, but we were not expected to remain for supper on Friday;
and Sunday supper, was of course, extra. I thought this a great deal of
money then, but I cannot understand at this distance how our landlady
was able to provide, for that sum, the raw material of her kitchen, to
say nothing of bed linen and soap.
The house, which stood on the edge of the town, was small and without
upstairs heat, but it seemed luxurious to me, and the family straightway
absorbed my interest. Leete, the nominal head of the establishment, was
a short, gray, lame and rather inefficient man of changeable temper who
teamed about the streets with a span of roans almost as dour and
crippled as himself. His wife, who did nearly all the housework for five
boarders as well as for the members of her own family, was a soul of
heroic pride and most indomitable energy. She was a tall, dark, thin
woman who had once been handsome. Poor creature--how incessantly she
toiled, and how much she endured!
She had three graceful and alluring daughters,--Ella, nineteen, Cora,
sixteen, and Martha, a quiet little mouse of about ten years of age.
Ella was a girl of unusual attainment, a teacher, self-contained and
womanly, with whom we all, promptly, fell in love. Cora, a moody,
dark-eyed, passionate girl who sometimes glowed with friendly smiles and
sometimes glowered in anger, was less adored. Neither of them considered
Burton or myself worthy of serious notice. On the contrary, we were
necessary nuisances.
To me Ella was a queen, a kindly queen, ever ready to help me out with
my algebra. Everything she did seemed to me instinct with womanly grace.
No doubt she read the worship in my eyes, but her attitude was that of
an older sister. Cora, being nearer my own age, awed me not at all. On
the contrary, we were more inclined to battle than to coo. Her coolness
toward me, I soon discovered, was sustained by her growing interest in a
young man from Cerro Gordo County.
We were a happy, noisy gang, and undoubtedly gave poor Mrs. Leete a
great deal of trouble. There was Boggs (who had lost part of one ear in
some fracas with Jack Frost) who paced up and down his room declining
Latin verbs with painful pertinacity, and Burton who loved a jest but
never made one, and Joe Pritchard, who was interested mainly in politics
and oratory, and finally that criminally well-dressed young book agent
(with whom we had very little in common) and myself. In cold weather we
all herded in the dining room to keep from freezing, and our weekly
scrub took place after we got home to our own warm kitchens and the
family wash-tubs.
Life was a pure joy to Burton as to me. Each day was a poem, each night
a dreamless sleep! Each morning at half past eight we went to the
Seminary and at four o'clock left it with regret. I should like to say
that we studied hard every night, burning a great deal of kerosene oil,
but I cannot do so.--We had a good time. The learning, (so far as I can
recall) was incidental.
It happened that my closest friends, aside from Burton, were pupils of
the public school and for that reason I kept my membership in the
Adelphian Society which met every Monday evening. My activities there, I
find, made up a large part of my life during this second winter. I not
only debated furiously, disputing weighty political questions, thus
advancing the forensic side of my education, but later in the winter I
helped to organize a dramatic company which gave a play for the benefit
of the Club Library.
Just why I should have been chosen "stage director" of our "troupe," I
cannot say, but something in my ability to declaim _Regulus_ probably
led to this high responsibility. At any rate, I not only played the
leading juvenile, I settled points of action and costume without the
slightest hesitation. Cora was my _ingenue_ opposite, it fell out, and
so we played at love-making, while meeting coldly at the family dining
table.
Our engagement in the town hall extended through two March evenings and
was largely patronized. It would seem that I was a dominant figure on
both occasions, for I declaimed a "piece" on the opening night, one of
those resounding orations (addressed to the Carthaginians), which we all
loved, and which permitted of thunderous, rolling periods and passionate
gestures. If my recollection is not distorted, I was masterful that
night--at least, Joe Pritchard agreed that I was "the best part of the
show." Joe was my friend, and I hold him in especial affection for his
hearty praise of my effort.
On this same night I also appeared in a little sketch representing the
death of a veteran of the Revolutionary War, in which the dying man
beholds in a vision his beloved Leader. Walter Blakeslee was the
"Washington" and I, with heavily powdered hair, was the veteran. On the
second night I played the juvenile lover in a drama called _His
Brother's Keeper_. Cora as "Shellie," my sweetheart, was very lovely in
pink mosquito netting, and for the first time I regretted her interest
in the book agent from Cerro Gordo. Strange to say I had no fear at all
as I looked out over the audience which packed the town hall to the
ceiling. Father and mother were there with Frank and Jessie, all quite
dazed (as I imagined) by my transcendent position behind the foot
lights.
It may have been this very night that Willard Eaton, the county
attorney, spoke to my father saying, "Richard, whenever that boy of
yours finishes school and wants to begin to study law, you send him
right to me," which was, of course, a very great compliment, for the
county attorney belonged to the best known and most influential firm of
lawyers in the town. At the moment his offer would have seemed very dull
and commonplace to me. I would have refused it.
Our success that night was so great that it appeared a pity not to
permit other towns to witness our performance, hence we boldly organized
a "tour." We booked a circuit which included St. Ansgar and Mitchell,
two villages, one four, the other ten miles to the north. Audacious as
this may seem, it was deliberately decided upon, and one pleasant day
Mitchell and George and I loaded all our scenery into a wagon and drove
away across the prairie to our first "stand" very much as Moliere did in
his youth, leaving the ladies to follow (in the grandeur of hired
buggies) later in the day.
That night we played with "artistic success"--that is to say, we lost
some eighteen dollars, which so depressed the management that it
abandoned the tour, and the entire organization returned to Osage in
diminished glory. This cut short my career as an actor. I never again
took part in a theatrical performance.
Not long after this disaster, "Shellie," as I now called Cora, entered
upon some mysterious and romantic drama of her own. The travelling man
vanished, and soon after she too disappeared. Where she went, what she
did, no one seemed to know, and none of us quite dared to ask. I never
saw her again but last year, after nearly forty years of wandering, I
was told that she is married and living in luxurious ease near London.
Through what deep valleys she has travelled to reach this height, with
what loss or gain, I cannot say, but I shall always remember her as she
was that night in St. Ansgar, in her pink-mosquito-bar dress, her eyes
shining with excitement, her voice vibrant with girlish gladness.
Our second winter at the Seminary passed all too quickly, and when the
prairie chickens began to boom from the ridges our hearts sank within
us. For the first time the grouse's cheery dance was unwelcome for it
meant the closing of our books, the loss of our pleasant companions, the
surrender of our leisure, and a return to the mud of the fields.
It was especially hard to say good-bye to Ella and Maud, for though they
were in no sense sweethearts they were very pleasant companions. There
were others whom it was a pleasure to meet in the halls and to emulate
in the class-rooms, and when early in April, we went home to enter upon
the familiar round of seeding, corn-planting, corn plowing, harvesting,
stacking and threshing, we had only the promise of an occasional trip to
town to cheer us.
It would seem that our interest in the girls of Burr Oak had diminished,
for we were less regular in our attendance upon services in the little
school-house, and whenever we could gain consent to use a horse, we
hitched up and drove away to town. These trips have golden,
unforgettable charm, and indicate the glamor which approaching manhood
was flinging over my world.
My father's world was less jocund, was indeed filled with increasing
anxiety, for just before harvest time a new and formidable enemy of the
wheat appeared in the shape of a minute, ill-smelling insect called the
chinch bug. It already bore an evil reputation with us for it was
reported to have eaten out the crops of southern Wisconsin and northern
Illinois, and, indeed, before barley cutting was well under way the
county was overrun with laborers from the south who were anxious to get
work in order to recoup them for the loss of their own harvest. These
fugitives brought incredible tales of the ravages of the enemy and
prophesied our destruction but, as a matter of fact, only certain dry
ridges proclaimed the presence of the insect during this year.
The crop was rather poor for other reasons, and Mr. Babcock, like my
father, objected to paying board bills. His attitude was so unpromising
that Burton and I cast about to see how we could lessen the expense of
upkeep during our winter term of school.
Together we decided to hire a room and board ourselves (as many of the
other fellows did) and so cut our expenses to a mere trifle. It was
difficult, even in those days, to live cheaper than two dollars per
week, but we convinced our people that we could do it, and so at last
wrung from our mothers a reluctant consent to our trying it. We got away
in October, only two weeks behind our fellows.
I well remember the lovely afternoon on which we unloaded our scanty
furniture into the two little rooms which we had hired for the term. It
was still glorious autumn weather, and we were young and released from
slavery. We had a table, three chairs, a little strip of carpet, and a
melodeon, which belonged to Burton's sister, and when we had spread our
carpet and put up our curtains we took seats, and cocking our feet upon
the window sill surveyed our surroundings with such satisfaction as only
autocrats of the earth may compass. We were absolute masters of our
time--that was our chiefest joy. We could rise when we pleased and go to
bed when we pleased. There were no stables to clean, no pigs to feed,
nothing marred our days. We could study or sing or dance at will. We
could even wrestle at times with none to molest or make us afraid.
My photograph shows the new suit which I had bought on my own
responsibility this time, but no camera could possibly catch the glow of
inward satisfaction which warmed my heart. It was a brown cassimere,
coat, trousers and vest all alike,--and the trousers fitted me!
Furthermore as I bought it without my father's help, my selection was
made for esthetic reasons without regard to durability or warmth. It was
mine--in the fullest sense--and when I next entered chapel I felt not
merely draped, but defended. I walked to my seat with confident
security, a well-dressed person. I had a "boughten" shirt also, two
boxes of paper cuffs, and two new ties, a black one for every day and a
white one for Sunday.
I don't know that any of the girls perceived my new suit, but I hoped
one or two of them did. The boys were quite outspoken in their approval
of it.
I had given up boots, also, for most of the townsmen wore shoes, thus
marking the decline of the military spirit. I never again owned a pair
of those man-killing top-boots--which were not only hard to get on and
off but pinched my toes, and interrupted the flow of my trouser-legs.
Thus one great era fades into another. The Jack-boot period was over,
the shoe, commonplace and comfortable, had won.
Our housekeeping was very simple. Each of us brought from home on Monday
morning a huge bag of doughnuts together with several loaves of bread,
and (with a milkman near at hand) our cooking remained rudimentary. We
did occasionally fry a steak and boil some potatoes, and I have a dim
memory of several disastrous attempts to make flapjacks out of flour and
sweet milk. However we never suffered from hunger as some of the other
fellows actually did.
Pretty Ethel Beebe comes into the record of this winter, like a quaint
illustration to an old-fashioned story, for she lived near us and went
to school along the same sidewalk. Burton was always saying, "Some day I
am going to brace up and ask Ethel to let me carry her books, and I'm
going to walk beside her right down Main Street." But he never did.
Ultimately I attained to that incredible boldness, but Burton only
followed along behind.
Ethel was a slender, smiling, brown-eyed girl with a keen appreciation
of the ridiculous, and I have no doubt she catalogued all our
peculiarities, for she always seemed to be laughing at us, and I think
it must have been her smiles that prevented any romantic attachment. We
walked and talked without any deeper interest than good comradeship.
Mrs. Babcock was famous for her pies and cakes, and Burton always
brought some delicious samples of her skill. As regularly as the clock,
on every Tuesday evening he said, in precisely the same tone, "Well,
now, we'll have to eat these pies right away or they'll spoil," and as I
made no objection, we had pie for luncheon, pie and cake for supper, and
cake and pie for breakfast until all these "goodies" which were intended
to serve as dessert through the week were consumed. By Thursday morning
we were usually down to dry bread and butter.
We simplified our housework in other ways in order that we might have
time to study and Burton wasted a good deal of time at the fiddle,
sawing away till I was obliged to fall upon him and roll him on the
floor to silence him.
I still have our ledger which gives an itemized account of the cost of
this experiment in self board, and its footings are incredibly small.
Less than fifty cents a day for both of us! Of course our mothers,
sisters and aunts were continually joking us about our housekeeping, and
once or twice Mrs. Babcock called upon us unexpectedly and found the
room "a sight." But we did not mind her very much. We only feared the
bright eyes of Ethel and Maude and Carrie. Fortunately they could not
properly call upon us, even if they had wished to do so, and we were
safe. It is probable, moreover, that they fully understood our methods,
for they often slyly hinted at hasty dish-washing and primitive cookery.
All of this only amused us, so long as they did not actually discover
the dirt and disorder of which our mothers complained.
Our school library at that time was pitifully small and ludicrously
prescriptive, but its shelves held a few of the fine old classics,
Scott, Dickens and Thackeray--the kind of books which can always be had
in sets at very low prices--and in nosing about among these I fell, one
day, upon two small red volumes called _Mosses from an Old Manse_. Of
course I had read of the author, for these books were listed in my
_History of American Literature_, but I had never, up to this moment,
dared to open one of them. I was a discoverer.
I turned a page or two, and instantly my mental horizon widened. When I
had finished the _Artist of the Beautiful_, the great Puritan romancer
had laid his spell upon me everlastingly. Even as I walked homeward to
my lunch, I read. I ate with the book beside my plate. I neglected my
classes that afternoon, and as soon as I had absorbed this volume I
secured the other and devoted myself to it with almost equal intensity.
The stately diction, the rich and glowing imagery, the mystical
radiance, and the aloofness of the author's personality all united to
create in me a worshipful admiration which made all other interests pale
and faint. It was my first profound literary passion and I was dazzled
by the glory of it.
It would be a pleasant task to say that this book determined my
career--it would form a delightful literary assumption, but I cannot
claim it. As a realist I must remain faithful to fact. I did not then
and there vow to be a romantic novelist like Hawthorne. On the contrary,
I realized that this great poet (to me he was a poet) like Edgar Allan
Poe, was a soul that dwelt apart from ordinary mortals.
To me he was a magician, a weaver of magic spells, a dreamer whose
visions comprehended the half-lights, the borderlands, of the human
soul. I loved the roll of his words in _The March of Time_ and the
quaint phrasing of the _Rill from the Town Pump_; _Rappacini's Daughter_
whose breath poisoned the insects in the air, uplifted me. _Drowne and
His Wooden Image_, the _Great Stone Face_--each story had its special
appeal. For days I walked amid enchanted mist, my partner--(even the
maidens I most admired), became less appealing, less necessary to me.
Eager to know more of this necromancer I searched the town for others of
his books, but found only _American Notes_ and _the Scarlet Letter_.
Gradually I returned to something like my normal interests in baseball
and my classmates, but never again did I fall to the low level of _Jack
Harkaway_. I now possessed a literary touchstone with which I tested the
quality of other books and other minds, and my intellectual arrogance, I
fear, sometimes made me an unpleasant companion. The fact that Ethel did
not "like" Hawthorne, sank her to a lower level in my estimation.