_Monday, May 11th. In the Mud._
To you, and you alone, little diary, will I confess a sense of deep
discouragement. Mud! Mud! Seas of mud and oceans of rain!
We have been out eight full days and have covered but sixty-five miles.
The appetite that I have developed is truly amazing. As I sit by a
fence, waiting for Dan to investigate those streaks of ooze and slush
called roads, I’m hungry enough to eat Limburger cheese, which is saying
a good deal for me. Yet I finished a hearty breakfast but an hour or so
ago. I am ravenous, morning, noon and night, and Dan is nearly as bad.
When I compare the size of our appetites with the cost of bread and eggs
at farmhouses, the dollar and a half that Dan sweat like a stevedore to
earn, looks woefully inadequate.
Saturday afternoon we cycled through the town of Morris, stopping long
enough to purchase a few supplies. Two miles from town we passed a neat
farmhouse, and just beyond found a most beautiful meadow surrounded by
trees. The long shadows of late afternoon lay across the thick green
sward which rose in a gentle slope.
Delighted with the spot, we cooked our evening meal and lay down to
enjoy the glory of the moon, which, floating above the trees, bathed the
earth with its soft radiance. The peaceful chorus of night insects and
the gentle whisper of the wind in the tree tops soon lulled us to sleep.
I dreamed that we were riding over a long bridge that suddenly gave way
with a deafening crash, precipitating us into the rushing stream below.
I wakened with a start. Alas, it was more than a dream. The night was
like ink. Lightning crackled, thunder crashed and rolled, rain descended
in torrents and a fine young rivulet was bounding down the hillside and
pouring directly over our bed.
Bewildered, we stumbled around in the darkness, collecting such clothing
as came to hand.
“Come on,” cried Dan, “let’s make for the big barn up the road.”
Guided by the flashes of lightning, we hastened across the field and
approached the barn from above. A momentary gleam disclosed a black
opening before me. I made a dive for the shelter within. Followed a
sickening sense of falling, and I spreadeagled onto some yielding, hairy
object which heaved and scrambled madly with much blowing and bellowing.
Thus I was made aware that my unseemly arrival had disturbed the gentle
slumbers of a cow. At least I sincerely hoped that the creature belonged
to the gentler sex as I backed out of the stall with more haste than
elegance.
Dan, meanwhile, had located the hayloft and, guided by his voice, I
groped my way to him, and notwithstanding the stimulating companionship
of barley-beards and thistles, contrived to snatch a few hours’ sleep.
The rain ceased about daybreak, and we returned to the scene of the
evening before to collect our scattered utensils and spread the soaked
bedding in the brilliant sunshine. Most of our recent purchases were
ruined, the bread especially being reduced to a soggy mass, so Dan
sought the farmhouse to renew our supply. He returned rather indignant
with less than a half loaf of bread, for which he had paid ten cents. It
then developed that the bacon had disappeared and our dozen eggs were
badly scrambled, so Dan reluctantly went back to buy eggs and bacon if
possible.
In a few minutes he was back empty-handed, angry right through. The
farmer had demanded twenty-five cents for a half dozen eggs, which had
cost us twenty cents a dozen in Morris the day before, and when Dan
declined to buy had grown insulting.
We made coffee and were drinking it when a roughly dressed man
approached.
“Say, folks,” he began, “you better clear out of here. The boss up there
is hitchin’ up a team to go to Morris after the constable. I hearn him
vow to have you run in for trespassin’ on his land.”
We looked at one another in alarm. Hastily swallowing the last crumbs of
bread, we rolled up our wet blankets and made ready for the road, the
stranger doing all he could to help. Once on the highway we found riding
out of the question because of the mud, and what to do we didn’t know,
especially as our friend said that the constable would be glad enough to
arrest us for the fee.
“But if your wife don’t mind,” he concluded, “you might come down to the
river with me. We’re choppin’ wood down there and the bunch’ll hide you
till the constable gets tired nosin’ around and goes back to town.”
No sooner said than done. The men took the wheel, and away we went
through the underbrush to the woodchopper’s shack. There were four men
there, washing clothes, shaving and attending to the usual Sunday
chores. Our adherent explained the situation and they all hustled around
to make us comfortable. One built up the fire to dry our things, another
hid the wheel, one went out to the road to keep watch, while the fourth
arranged a place of concealment for us in the rear of the room. Hardly
were the preparations complete, when the watcher reported the coming of
the farmer and the constable.
We ducked to cover, the door was shut, and after a bit we heard our
hosts parleying with the newcomers and demonstrating their skill in the
art of graceful lying. Soon they announced that the coast was clear, but
advised us to remain in retirement for an hour or two at least, and, to
pass the time, suggested a trip on the river. One got out some fishing
tackle, another dug bait, while a third cut rods from the willows. We
all followed a winding path to the river where row boats were tied, and
stepping in, were off for a little fishing excursion.
The hours flew by on the wings of delight, while the men fished in cool,
shady coves or rowed up stream with the oars glinting in the sun. We had
a good catch, when dark shadows athwart our course and a gusty breeze
that set the water rippling proclaimed the coming of another shower.
Returning to the shanty, the men prepared the glistening spoils, and
before the savoury dish was ready for the table, the rain was pounding
on the roof.
As the day waned, I became the prey of serious misgivings, but about an
hour before sundown the rain slackened and four of the men declared
their intention of going to town to see a show, adding that they did not
expect to return till morning. Our first acquaintance cooked a hearty
meal, then rigged a blanket curtain across one end of the room, and
warmed and dried and fed, we retired to rest, giving thanks for the
spirit of true brotherhood which often manifests itself in unlikely
places.
Next morning our benefactor packed a substantial lunch and started us on
our journey. But so far we have made poor progress.
Dan has just come up with the news that our one chance to proceed lies
in following the railroad track, so I must up and away.
Well, we are making a little better time along the track than in the
slush of the road, though this method of travel is far from ideal. We
push the wheel between the rails, and the poor thing goes bump, bump,
bump over the ties, while the cooking outfit jingles and clinks and the
whole load threatens to fall off. When nerves can stand the strain no
longer, we try the path at the side of the track. This we essayed to
ride, but a shelving ledge where the path almost disappeared nearly sent
us down the embankment, so we trundle the wheel and walk. The pedal
barks my shins and I feel like saying something wicked. I hear Dan
muttering under his breath and fully second what he is thinking. Just
when I can no longer endure the pangs of starvation, he declares that it
is time to stop for lunch. Sweet sound!
Luncheon over, I throw myself face down on the gravelled siding. When I
consider the lack of money, the scarcity of work, the wretched roads and
never-ending storms, my beloved California seems very far away.