JACK FROST
Roger had been at his uncle's a week when he received a second letter
from home. It told him all the folks were well and were hoping he was
improving in health. He answered it as soon as he had read it, for
beyond the short note he had sent off telling of his safe arrival, he
had not yet written much to his mother. So in this second letter he
related all of his experiences since coming to Cardiff, from the
wrestling match to the adventure with the wild-cat and his partnership
with his cousin in the old bone and copper business.
For the next few days the two boys were busy about the farm and garden,
Roger helping Adrian as much as he could in the various tasks the
country boy had to look after, or which he undertook of his own accord.
When there was nothing else to do they gathered old bones, until they
had quite a heap back of the barn. One day the collector came from the
fertilizer factory and paid Adrian two dollars for what there was, and
the boys were as much pleased as older persons would have been over a
larger sum.
Thus the time passed for several weeks, during which the remainder of
the crops were gathered in. The potatoes were stored in bins in the
cellar, and along side of them were the beets, the turnips, the carrots,
the cabbages and onions; enough vegetables, Roger thought, to feed a
regiment. Barrels of apples were stowed away in dark corners, with the
promise of many pies and dishes of sauce. The swing shelves of the
cellar groaned and squeaked under the weight of canned fruit,--peaches,
pears, quinces, plum-sauce, apple-butter, and grape jelly,--and it was
quite a treat for the boys to go down and gaze at the rows of glass jars
which held the sweets in reserve.
The barn was well filled with hay, the oat-bin bulged with fodder, and
the silo, where the cornstalks were kept as feed for the cows, seemed
like to split apart with its rich contents. The corn-crib, through the
openings on the sides, showed a wealth of golden grains, which indicated
not only johnny-cake for the house, but plenty of eating for the
chickens. In short, there was every indication that whatever else
happened there would be no lack of meals in the Kimball home that
winter.
While grim care was not altogether absent from Mr. Kimball, owing to the
fear that his money matters were hopelessly involved, he seemed to have
lost some of his outward signs of worry. He became more cheerful, and as
the days went by and the others tried to imitate his example, the
household was a more happy place. At any rate, nothing was likely to
happen until spring, and by that time something might turn up. At least
that is what they all hoped.
The weather was getting colder now, the mornings being rather raw and
chill, though there was an invigorating feeling in the air which was
noticeably absent from the atmosphere of the city. The nights, too, had
grown frosty, though so far only a thin white coating on the ground had
greeted the boys as they crawled, shivering, out of bed. But winter was
at hand and its coming was anticipated by the animals who, in the woods
and fields, were busy laying up their food supplies.
One evening, when Roger and Adrian were returning from Hank Mack's
store, they noticed the clear brightness of the stars overhead.
"Whew!" whistled Adrian, as he turned his coat collar up, "there's going
to be a black frost to-night," and he ran on a few steps, with hops and
jumps, to warm up his blood.
"What's a black frost?" asked Roger.
"I don't know, only that's what they call it when it freezes real hard
and there ain't any white frost on the ground. A white frost is a white
frost, and a black frost is a black frost, that's all I know."
"And you think there'll be a black frost to-night?"
"I bet there will. Then we can go chestnutting to-morrow. The burs will
be down by the wagonload, and I know where we can get bushels of nuts."
"Bushels of chestnuts?" questioned Roger, who had only seen as many of
the shiny brown fellows at one time as could be heaped on some street
vendor's stand.
"Yes, sir, bushels," maintained Adrian, "and, do you know, they'll sell
for about five dollars a bushel this year."
"I should think they might, judging by the few you get from the Italians
for a dime," said Roger, thinking of how often he had bought the roasted
or boiled nuts from the stand at the corner near his home.
The boys now set off, racing towards the house. They spent the evening
reading and talking. About nine o'clock, when Adrian stepped to the
spout at the side door to get a fresh drink of water, he came back with
red cheeks and announced that it was growing much colder.
That night Jack Frost descended on Cardiff valley with all his forces.
It got colder and colder, a tingling, vigorous cold that snapped the
nails in the clapboards on the house. The morning dawned clear, and a
breath of the fresh bracing air made the blood race through the veins.
"This is suthin' like weather," observed Mr. Kimball, rubbing his hands
briskly, as he went out to the barn before breakfast to feed and water
the cows and horses. "I'm glad it didn't catch us nappin', 'ith th'
grapes not picked."
He broke a thin sheet of ice on the horse trough.
"Thar'll be skatin' ef this keeps on," he added with a twinkle in his
blue eyes, as he saw Roger and Adrian racing out after him. They leaped
and bounded, for the bracing air made them feel like young colts running
in a big field. Roger seemed to have improved very much in his health in
a short time, and he was now a good second to his cousin, a most sturdy
youth.
"Reckon it's goin' t' snow," said Mr. Kimball, as he carried a pail of
water into the barn.
"To-day, dad?" asked Adrian, anxiously.
"Not afore night, I guess," said the farmer, "but I kin smell snow," and
he sniffed hard.
"Well, I'm glad you can't smell it until night," laughed Adrian. "Roger
'n' I are going after chestnuts to-day."
"Wa'al, I haint no objections," remarked Mr. Kimball, holding the pail
of water where Ned, the horse, could reach it. "Guess a trip
chestnuttin' 'll be good fer both on ye. I'm goin' t' kill hogs
t'-morrow, snow er no snow."
"That'll be lots of fun," said Adrian to Roger. "Come on, let's eat, 'n'
then we'll go."
The boys made a hurried breakfast and then, warmly clad, they started
for the woods, carrying bags in which to gather the nuts. They had about
two miles to walk, and when they reached the chestnut grove, Adrian saw
he had not been wrong in his surmise that there would be a heavy fall.
They found the ground covered with the burs, which had burst open,
showing the shining brown nuts inside.
"Hurrah!" shouted Adrian. "Get to work! Here they are! Don't let the
squirrels and chipmunks beat us."
Indeed, it was high time the boys started in, for there were scores of
red and gray squirrels and the prettily striped chipmunks scampering
about on the ground and in the trees, filling their pouch-like cheeks
with the nuts, and then leaping and bounding away to their nests with
the store of winter provender. The boys began to hustle, threshing the
burs from the nuts, and then scooping the latter into the bags they had
brought. It wasn't long before they had gathered several pecks, and they
didn't have to cover much ground to get them either.
Adrian packed nearly a bushel into his sack before he was satisfied, but
Roger was content to lug home a little more than two pecks, as he was
hardly strong enough to bear the weight of more. They tramped slowly
back, stopping frequently to rest. Emptying the nuts into baskets they
went again to the woods for more, for as Adrian said, the squirrels
would soon make short work of the harvest unless the boys were lively.
On their second trip the hired man went with them, trundling' a
wheelbarrow, and this time they brought away over three bushels, leaving
as many more piled in a heap, the hired man going after them alone
later.
"Got about seven bushels," announced Adrian, proudly, at the supper
table. "Not bad, eh, pop?"
"I should say not," replied Mr. Kimball. "'N Porter Amidown were tellin'
me yist'day they'd gone t' six dollars a bushel."
"Then we'll send out six bushels in the morning, when Porter goes to the
city," said Adrian. "One bushel'll be more than we can eat. That'll be
thirty-six dollars toward the mortgage, dad."
"Bless yer heart," exclaimed Mr. Kimball, pretending that he suddenly
had a very bad cold. "Bless yer hearts, boys, I--I--don't want yer
money."
"But you've got to take it," decided Adrian and Roger in one breath,
immensely pleased with their day's work, which had only been a pleasure,
and feeling proud that it would amount to so much in money.
There was a light flurry of snow that night, and when the boys awoke
next morning they found the ground hidden under a white, fleecy blanket.
They were not up early enough to see their chestnuts put on the stage to
be sent to Syracuse, but Mrs. Kimball told them at the breakfast table
that they went all right.
"Where's dad?" asked Adrian.
"Gittin' ready t' kill pigs," answered Mrs. Kimball.
"Hurrah! Roger! That'll be sport! Hurry up. Who's going to help him,
mother?"
"I guess old man Hounson's comin' over. I heard yer father say suthin'
'bout him."
"Well, I reckon we can lend a hand at starting the fire, or something,"
said Adrian.
The boys went out to the barnyard as soon as possible, where they found
Mr. Kimball getting ready to start a fire under a big caldron of water
that was to be used at a later stage in the proceedings.
"Let us make the fire, dad," begged Adrian, and getting permission, he
and Roger soon had a fine blaze going.
The snow was soon trampled down and melting near the fire of hickory
logs, which crackled, sputtered, and sparked, filling the cold, bracing
air with a pleasant nutty smell. The boys as well as Mr. Kimball and his
hired man had heavy boots on, and they wore their oldest clothing,
since preparing pigs for sausage and pork chops is not exactly clean
work.
"Wa'al, I see yer gettin' ready fer me," spoke a high-pitched voice
suddenly, and a tall, spare man, with a much wrinkled face and a little
bunch of gray beard on his chin, walked up the driveway to where Mr.
Kimball and the boys were gathered about the heat. He too wore boots and
an old overcoat. His arms were long and his hands bony and knotted.
"Yep, we're prepared fer ye, Hounson," said Mr. Kimball. "I see ye've
got yer instruments a' death 'n' destruction 'ith ye," noting some hooks
and a number of long, shining, sharp knives which the old man laid on
the rough plank bench near the boiling water.
"Good nippin' weather fer th' middle a' November," observed Hounson,
warming his hands at the crackling blaze and nodding to the boys.
"'T is thet," replied Mr. Kimball, while he tried the temperature of the
water with his finger. "Hot 'nuff," he said, as he drew his hand
hurriedly away from the boiling fluid. "Might's well start in," and he
motioned to the hired man. Hounson took up a long sharp knife, and the
three men started for the pig-sty, which contained half a dozen
squealing porkers, all unconscious of the fate in store for them.
Then came a busy period. While Mr. Kimball and his hired man held the
hog down on its back, old man Hounson skilfully and quickly killed it by
cutting its throat. Cruel as it seemed to Roger, the animals really
suffered very little pain, so rapidly was the knife thrust into a vital
part. Then the carcass was dragged over to the incline, made of planks,
which led down into a barrel of hot water filled from the steaming
caldron, and soused up and down in this until the bristles were
softened, so they could easily be removed by the three-sided iron
scraper. Next the pig was cleaned and made ready for the market, or for
storing away for winter. The boys got the bladders, which they carefully
preserved, as Adrian said he could sell them to the Indians at the
Reservation, who put dried corn in them and rattled them at their
dances.
It was hard work for the three men, this business of pig killing and
cutting up and preparing the meat for winter use, and it took the most
of the day. The next two were spent in separating the various portions
of the hogs, while preparations were made for smoking the hams, with a
fire started in the smoke-house, the smouldering blaze being fed with
hickory chips, sawdust, and corncobs.
Next Mrs. Kimball, Clara, and Mrs. Hounson, who had been called in to
help, got ready to make sausage into links. This work was kept up late
one night, when several neighbors dropped in to give assistance. Roger
and Adrian took spells at turning the crank of the machine which ground
the meat up, and then they worked the lever which forced the plunger
down and shoved the sausage into the links. Mrs. Kimball stood near as
the long slender skin was filled. About every four inches she gave the
skin a twist, which separated the sausage into the familiar lengths.
Clara held a big needle, and whenever an air bubble appeared on the
surface of the skin, she skilfully pricked it, that the sausage might
last better, the admission of air to the meat hindering it from keeping
well. It was a new and interesting experience to the city boy, and he
enjoyed it very much.
When the work was finished there was a lunch of doughnuts, cheese,
cookies, apples, cider, and nuts, and the boys listened while the
womenfolks talked of the doings in Cardiff.
Thus was the long, cold, severe winter provided against in the Kimball
homestead, which now held a bountiful supply of the various meats that
pigs are noted for,--sausage, hams, bacon, salt pork, and spare-ribs.
Never was there such sweet cured hams, never such clean, cunning,
appetizing links of sausage, never such evenly streaked bacon, and never
such lean pork chops, with just enough fat on. There might come great
blizzards, but in the big farmhouse none would be hungry.
The days passed swiftly now, and the weather grew more severe.
Preparations for enduring the winter went on in all the Cardiff homes,
and Roger began to anticipate the delights of this season in the
country, where the snow comes down to stay for months at a time.
It was the end of November, and a cold, blustery night, with banks of
big gray clouds blowing up from the west.
"Thar's snow in 'em," prophesied Mr. Kimball.
And so it proved, for the next morning when the boys peered from the
frost-encrusted window, they saw the air full of swirling, feathery
flakes which covered the ground to a depth of two feet.
"This is fine!" shouted Adrian. "This means coasting on Lafayette hill."
The boys hurried into their clothes, for there was no fire in their
bedrooms, and the only heat upstairs came from the stove-pipe, which
passed up through the chambers. From the kitchen came the smell of
hickory wood burning in the range. It mingled with the odor of buckwheat
cakes, fried sausage, and hot coffee.
"My! But that smells good!" cried Roger.
"You bet!" agreed Adrian, earnestly. "I can eat a dozen cakes this
morning, with the maple syrup and the sausage gravy mother makes."