When the pounding was at an end my wife and child came home. But the
season continued dry, and even their presence could not counteract the
feeling of aridity which seemed to permeate everything which belonged
to us, material or immaterial. We had a great deal of commiseration
from our neighbors. I think even Mrs. Betty Perch began to pity us a
little, for her spring had begun to trickle again in a small way, and
she sent word to me that if we were really in need of water she would
be willing to divide with us. Phineas Colwell was sorry for us, of
course, but he could not help feeling and saying that if I had
consulted him the misfortune would have been prevented.
It was late in the summer when my wife returned, and when she made her
first visit of inspection to the grounds and gardens, her eyes, of
course, fell upon the unfinished well. She was shocked.
"I never saw such a scene of wreckage," she said. "It looks like a
Western town after a cyclone. I think the best thing you can do is to
have this dreadful litter cleared up, the ground smoothed and raked,
the wall mended, and the roof put back on that little house, and then
if we can make anybody believe it is an ice-house, so much the better."
This was good advice, and I sent for a man to put the vicinity of the
well in order and give it the air of neatness which characterizes the
rest of our home.
The man who came was named Mr. Barnet. He was a contemplative fellow
with a pipe in his mouth. After having worked at the place for half a
day he sent for me and said:
"I'll tell you what I would do if I was in your place. I'd put that
pump-house in order, and I'd set up the engine, and put the pump down
into that thirty-foot well you first dug, and I'd pump water into my
house."