A WELL.
“If ’twere well done when ’twere done, ’twere well ’twere done
quickly.”
Some of the incidents connected with digging our well have already been
referred to, but good water is so necessary to a country place that the
mode of obtaining it deserves a separate chapter. Well-digging is a
profession, and the most cultivated master of the art to be found in the
neighborhood had been engaged, immediately after the foundation of the
house was commenced, to dig the well. It was strange, however, how many
people at about the same time had determined to do the same thing; it
seemed as though the entire village had been seized with a mania for
sinking wells. He was exceedingly busy, and was compelled, much against
his wishes, to demand an exorbitant price for his services. He regretted
it deeply, but he would have to ask four dollars and a half a foot. As
the ordinary price was about a dollar, it was certainly honest of him to
explain beforehand the necessities of his situation; and although it
was inconvenient that the villagers should have been stricken with this
fancy at so inopportune a moment, it was certainly fortunate that the
man was so honest. He was employed at once, and strongly impressed with
the necessity of the utmost haste.
It is probable that his other engagements engrossed much of his time.
The well did not progress rapidly; but, as it soon appeared that the
house would not be completed for occupation before the ensuing summer,
the immediate necessity for drinking-water was done away with. There is
a wonderful romance about the “old oaken bucket.” Many a time in
youthful days have I plunged my nose into its liquid contents, and
choked myself, and poured the water down my shirt-front, in frantic
endeavors to drink from its thick rim; often have I lowered the empty
vessel far into the bowels of the earth, and jumped it up and down at
the risk of dashing it to pieces against the stone sides, in order to
fill it, and then puffed over the heavy pull of bringing it, laden with
the cooling crystal, to the surface. With due reverence have I studied
the many poetical things which have been said in its honor; but the days
of oaken buckets are numbered; they have been succeeded by force-pumps,
and chain-pumps, and iron pumps, that save the muscles, but offend the
sensibilities.
Were it not that I was subject to the dominion of several Irish maidens,
denominated servants, I should certainly have sacrificed utility to
beauty; but, under the force of a ukase from them, I was compelled to
buy a pump. Of the various patterns of these, a pretty iron one had
taken my fancy, and no sooner was the well completed than it was
purchased. Unfortunately, the entire village of Flushing was then
putting in pumps, and there was no possibility of having it set up for
two entire weeks. We had just occupied the house opposite, which had no
well, and we depended for water upon our own.
Header, have you ever hauled up water from a well in a pail? If you have
not, you should learn to do it; it requires skill and courage. You must
balance yourself carefully on a few loose planks, and, peering down
giddily into the dark hole that yawns beneath, you must lower the pail
with a long rope for what seems an endless distance, and when it reaches
the bottom, will have to jerk it about vigorously, as it obstinately
refuses for a long time to fill; and then you must draw up carefully the
heavy weight that threatens to pull you in, instead of your pulling it
out; and manage not to let it touch the sides, as that will spill the
contents. All the while the slipping of board, or earth, or foot will
necessitate the calling together of a coroner’s jury.
It is a pity that there is no way of falling down a well comfortably. If
you go down head foremost, your feet stick out above the water, it is
true, but you do not breathe through that portion of the body; if you
strike feet foremost, the climb back is such a long and uncertain
journey; and if you go down doubled up, you are apt to find trouble in
straightening out. Every time a maid went to the well I speculated as to
which of these modes she would follow, and feared that the case of the
broken pitcher would be illustrated.
This state of things lasted some time, as the pump-maker found his
Flushing customers more exacting than even he expected; or possibly his
workmen had gone on more sprees than he allowed for. Three weeks had
gone by, and we were still drawing water; and, what is more, the water
which we did with such infinite pains draw up was far from good. We had
been warned that for some time after its completion the well would be
dirty; that before it was finished one or more Irishmen would have to
work waist deep in the water, which would not recover from their
presence for a long while; but, instead of improving, it became worse
and worse. At first it tasted badly, but it soon smelt unendurably.
There was a great deal of house-cleaning and washing to do, but the
women finally rebelled, and flatly refused to use the odoriferous stuff
any longer, even for such base purposes, and it had been from the first
utterly undrinkable.
Weeville had always boasted of the purity of the water-bed that underlay
this entire tract of land, and in his comparisons had placed it a long
way ahead of the Croton. Of course he was called in. “It was useless to
tell him any thing against the water; he was not going to believe any
visionary stories originated by Irish servant-girls--he must taste it.”
This he did not do, however; the smell was enough.
“Pheugh!” he burst forth as it approached his nose. “I will tell you
what is the matter--the well has never been cleaned out; that infernal
well-digger has taken advantage of you, and left the pieces of dirt and
rubbish that fall in--old bits of dinner, fragments of meat and cheese,
perhaps--and which must always be removed, or they will decay, and spoil
the water for a long time.”
I immediately went after the well-digger in an intense state of wrath,
and rated him soundly for his conduct; but he not only swore by all that
was truthful that he had cleaned out the well, but called up the man
that did it. A severe cross-examination having convinced me that they
both told the truth, I returned home wondering how long it would take to
learn to like stinking, as the Mississippians have learned to like
dirty, water. I have always had a weakness for water. Whisky is the
natural American drink; lager bier is admirably suited to the Teutonic
mistiness of intellect; the frothy Champagne is adapted to the volatile
Frenchman, and the thick ale to the muddled Englishman. Brandy is
suitable for men, if we are to believe high authority. Gin, in the shape
of schnapps, was the daily potation of our respectable Dutch ancestors.
Both are irreproachable liquors, and rum deserves a better reputation;
but pure, cold, transparent spring or well water, fresh from its
bubbling fountain, or drawn from the cold recesses of its deep
receptacle, has always been very attractive to me, and for washing
purposes it has no equal. The prospect, therefore, of doing without
water was unpleasant. Cows, and horses, and pigs have not learned to
appreciate strong drinks; they prefer the native element; and to draw
for half a mile from the nearest good pump as much as a cow and a horse
can swallow would require pretty nearly the entire time of the latter.
In the midst of our troubles, the rope broke--not the golden cord,
fortunately, of any member of the household, but the cord that was
fastened to the pail. Here was a dilemma! To fish up a bucket out of
forty feet of darkness was difficult; to use another pail till the first
was removed was impossible. I began to think it would be necessary to
dig a new well, when I was informed that a man could climb down the
present one. This seemed to me a feat worthy of Hanlon; but I was
prepared for the last extremities, even death itself--provided it was
not my own--and simply said, “Let him do it,” as though seeing men cling
to a slippery wall of stones, like a fly on a pane of glass, had been
the commonest experience of my life. How he managed I did not care to
see; but that he did go to the bottom was proved by what he brought up,
which was, not the pail, but--a dead cat!
Cats are a singular and unreliable race; they never possess the
intelligence of dogs, and are given to strange vagaries. They roam about
continually, and wander no one knows whither; but what should take a cat
to the bottom of my well I can not understand. They are graceful
creatures, and old maids and little children think them handsome; but,
after they have been in water for three weeks, and become much puffed
up with their position, they are not handsome. Still, I was very glad to
see that cat.
[Illustration]
The well-water visibly improved, and the pump was finally completed. To
be sure, the maker could not spare time to put it up, but other men were
readily engaged, and one evening, on my return from the city, I found it
duly installed in its place, looking very attractive. It was a neat and
appropriate pump, and, remembering the inconveniences and dangers of
drawing water with a pail, I joyfully seized the handle and commenced to
pump. I worked away right manfully for a few moments, but did not manage
to bring up any water. When I stopped for an instant, a long sigh seemed
to express the thing’s regret that it could not accommodate me, or the
sufferings to which my exertions put it. I recommenced, and appeared to
gain for a little distance, to judge by the effort required, but at a
certain point success deserted me; the pump evidently was not equal to
the occasion. I worked away on that hot August afternoon till the
perspiration ran freely, if the water did not; and, when entirely
convinced, if not satisfied, I indulged in as little strong language as
the circumstances would admit, and sent for the pump-maker.
His bill had not been paid, and he came at once. When informed of the
difficulty, he seized the pump-handle with amusing alacrity, but a few
strokes changed his confidence to doubt. When he paused, the same
appalling sigh that had greeted me announced a similar result, and I
smiled amid my misery to see his manner change as he recommenced. After
two or three attempts, he stopped suddenly and inquired,
“How deep is your well?”
He was not going to get off by any subterfuge if I could help it, so I
answered promptly,
“Never mind that; the well is deep enough.”
“But what is the depth? It is essential to know.”
“Don’t worry yourself about that now; fix your pump first,” was the
ready response.
“I can not do so till I know the depth of the well.”
“Well, then, if you are so anxious to be informed, it is forty-five feet
deep--deep enough, in all conscience.”
“That is the trouble, of course; the pump won’t suck.”
“Of course it is, that is plain enough; and I expect you to give me one
that will suck.”
“But how can I?”
“That is your affair, not mine,” beginning to be put out at the coolness
of the fellow. “I want a pump that will suck!”
“Why,” he replied, “don’t you know that no pump will draw at over thirty
feet?”
Suddenly the remembrance of school-days and their instruction came back
to me; a vacuum and its properties, the weight of a column of air, and
all that, returned to my mind after a long absence. I recalled the rule
of fifteen pounds to a square inch, the power of suction--which for
many years I had only tested with a straw and a julep--and the
comparative specific gravity of water. Early education is a good thing,
and the natural sciences are almost as practical as the learned
classics. Without a remark, I left that pump-maker and his pump, and
retired to the cool privacy of my neighboring dwelling. A wooden pump
with a long rod is in my well, and it not only sucks, but lifts; the
water is very fine.
[Illustration]