LIFE ON A FARM.
Tom was allowed very little time for reflection, for the shrill voice
of the mother speedily broke in upon his meditations.
“Now, boys,” said she, “where’s your manners? Get chairs an’ set down
to onct. You, Franklin Pierce, quit shakin’ your head that ar’ way.
You needn’t think that Tommy is goin’ to wrastle with you, an’ be
tumbled round in the dust an’ mud, with his fine clothes on. He’s a
gentleman, he is; an’ I want all you boys to watch him, an’ do just
as he does. I’m so glad you have come,” she added, turning to Tom,
“for maybe our boys’ll learn manners, now. They’re all good boys, but
they’re so wild an’ playful like. I have a heap of trouble to make
’em behave themselves proper, like they had oughter do.”
“Dad, dad!” screamed Zachary Taylor at this moment, scrambling up the
steps into the house; “that John Warren won’t let me ride Dobbin to
water. Make him do it, dad.”
The farmer, however, paid no attention to his son’s complaint, but
sat gazing out at the door, as if he was not aware that he had been
spoken to. The boy then appealed to his mother.
“Now, mam,” he cried, “I want to ride Dobbin.”
“You, John Warren,” screamed the mother, with all the strength of her
lungs, “let your little brother ride that ar’ hoss to onct. I’ll take
the wagon whip to you, sure an’ sartin.”
Zachary, confident that he had gained his point, ran out of the house
again; and, a few moments afterward, Tom saw him ride toward the
barn, triumphantly mounted on Dobbin. The mother, seeing that her
orders had been obeyed, again turned to Tom.
“Mr. Hayes tells me that you’re a high l’arnt boy,” said she; “an’
I’m glad to hear it, ’cause we won’t need to send our boys off to
school now. We lose their work every winter, an’ that’s something
we can’t afford to do. We want you to take ’em in hand, an’ l’arn
’em figures an’ sich. It haint never done George Washington an’ John
Warren no good to go to school; ’cause last winter, they thrashed the
teacher, an’ the deestrict committee turned ’em out doors. They haint
never been to school none since. Somehow them boys never did get
along; but they’re good boys, an’ I can manage ’em easy enough. When
you’re l’arnin’ ’em I’ll allers be ’round; an’ if they don’t behave
themselves proper, I’ll make ’em.”
“Besides,” chimed in Mr. Hayes, “you’re just the chap I want to do my
writin’ an’ figurin’. Whenever I pay out any money, or take any in, I
allers set it down in a book, so that at the eend of the year, I know
jest how much I have made. I’ll have to get you to show me how to do
it proper. I never did have much edication, but I’m bound that my
boys shall all be smart men. They’re all got good names, an’ if they
only do as well as them they are named after, I shall be satisfied.”
Tom listened to this unfolding of the farmer’s plans in utter
bewilderment. His desire to create a sensation in Mr. Hayes’s family
had been fully gratified; but he did not enjoy it as he had expected
he would, for it was more than overbalanced by two most disagreeable
features in his new home, which made him very uneasy. He did not like
the boys, for they were very different from those with whom he had
been in the habit of associating; and he was dismayed to learn that
he was expected to act as school-master. The longer he listened, the
more he became aware of the unpleasant fact, that Mr. Hayes’ object
in bringing him into the country, was not so much to teach him the
science of farming, as to secure a book-keeper for himself, and an
instructor for his boys.
The farmer and his wife, like most country people, thought that a
boy who had always lived in a village, where he had access to the
best schools, ought to be well posted in all the different branches;
but Tom himself knew that they were sadly mistaken in him. However,
he determined not to confess his inability to perform all that was
required of him; but when the time for action came, he would trust to
his wits to help him out.
“Franklin Pierce,” said the farmer, at length, “did you an’ the boys
get all that hay raked up this morning, like I told you?”
“Yes, dad, we did,” answered the boy, seizing the opportunity, when
his mother did not happen to be looking toward him, to shake his head
at Tom.
“Wal, then, Sally Ann,” continued Mr. Hayes, “if you’ll give us some
dinner, we’ll go to work.”
“Franklin Pierce!” shouted the mother, (she seemed to have been so
long in the habit of screaming at the top of her lungs, that it had
become a kind of second nature to her,) “come here an’ ’tend to
Thomas Jefferson, while I get dinner.”
While the meal was being prepared, Tom accompanied the farmer to
the barn, and then to the hay-field, followed by all the boys, who
did not seem to want to lose sight of the new-comer. They appeared
to be intensely interested in him; and Tom carried himself very
stiffly, certain that he had made a profound impression upon his new
acquaintances. But he soon found that he was mistaken in this, for
Franklin Pierce, who had followed them to the field, dragging his
little brother after him, found opportunity to whisper in his ear:
“You think you are some, don’t you? I’ll bet I can throw you
down--square hold or back hold!”
Tom, however, very prudently declined to accept the challenge. He was
opposed to any unnecessary exertion, and it was not his ambition to
be considered the “champion wrestler.”
After Mr. Hayes had satisfied himself that the boys had performed
their work properly, and that the hay was ready to be taken into the
barn, he led the way to the house, where they found dinner waiting
for them. When the meal was finished, the farmer arose from his
chair, saying:
“Now, Sally Ann, where’s Tommy’s carpet-bag? He wants to put on his
workin’ clothes!”
“Why, these are all the working clothes I have with me,” said Tom.
“Those in my valise are better than these I have on.”
“Law sakes!” exclaimed the woman, “you aint goin’ into the hay-field
with them nice trowsers an’ boots on? You’ll ruin ’em, sure an’
sartin.”
“Wal, ’taint no ways likely that the boy knowed any thing ’bout the
work he would have to do,” said the farmer, kindly. “I’ll be goin’
to the village ag’in day after to-morrow, an’ he can go with me, an’
bring out some clothes fit to work in.”
Tom, then, in accordance with the farmer’s suggestion, pulled off his
jacket, tucked his pants into the tops of his boots, and was ready
to begin operations. The two oldest boys went to the barn to harness
the horses, while Tom, imitating the farmer’s example, shouldered
a rake and started for the hay-field. He had always thought that
raking hay was easy work, and, no doubt he would have found it so,
had he been permitted to have his own way. But the farmer and his
boys worked as if they were in a great hurry to get through, and, in
order to keep pace with them, Tom was obliged to exert himself to the
utmost. Animated by a desire to show the country boys that a village
youth could do any thing, he worked hard for fully half an hour; and
when, at the end of that time, he stopped to wipe the big drops of
perspiration from his face, he reluctantly came to the conclusion
that he had again mistaken his calling.
“I know what’s the matter,” said Tom to himself. “I made a mistake in
coming out here with Mr. Hayes. I ought to have hunted up some stock
raiser and gone home with him. I am never going to be this kind of a
farmer; so every day I stay here I am wasting time.”
“Come, Tommy,” said Mr. Hayes, “don’t you see that shower coming up?
It’s goin’ to rain afore long; an’ if this hay gets wet again, it
will be dollars out of my pocket. Handle that rake jest the least bit
faster.”
But the hay did not get wet. The farmer had a strong force, and, when
the shower came up, the last load was safely housed in the barn.
“Wal, sir, we done it, didn’t we?” said Mr. Hayes. “Now, that hay is
worth twelve dollars a ton--I’ve got ’bout thirty ton, an’ that’s
worth how much, Tommy?”
The time for action had arrived much sooner than Tom had expected it
would. He had not decided what he would do when called upon to make
an exhibition of his powers as a “lightning calculator,” and the
farmer’s question was so sudden and unexpected that, for a moment, he
did not know how to act. But it was only for a moment, for happening
to cast his eye toward Franklin Pierce, an idea struck him, and he
seized upon it at once.
“Can you tell how much it would amount to?” he asked, turning to the
“best l’arnt boy in the whole family.”
“I reckon!” replied Franklin Pierce. “But can you?”
“What a question!” answered Tom, evasively. “A two-year old boy ought
to do it. But I don’t believe you can.”
“Wal, now, I’ll mighty soon show you!” said Franklin Pierce, and,
picking up a chip, he marked the figures upon the ground, and
commenced: “Twelve times nothing is nothing,” said he. “Set down
the nothing. None to carry. Twelve times three is thirty-six. Set
down the thirty-six. Dad, your hay is worth three hundred and sixty
dollars.”
“Is that right, Tommy?” asked the farmer, gazing proudly upon his son.
“Yes, that’s correct,” said Tom; but, fearing that he had fallen in
the farmer’s estimation by not working it out himself, he continued:
“He couldn’t possibly have made a mistake in a little thing like
that. But after all, I didn’t suppose he could do it.”
“Wal, I done it all right,” said Franklin Pierce. “I can reckon up
a heap harder figures than them, an’ I haint been to school much,
nuther.”
When the hay had been pitched off upon the scaffold, the farmer and
his boys started toward the house, and, as Tom entered the door, he
discovered something that filled him with astonishment and vexation.
When he took off his jacket before going into the field, he had,
contrary to his usual custom, hung it on a nail in the kitchen;
but what was his surprise to find it in the possession of Thomas
Jefferson, who, having succeeded in putting it on, was running
about the house in high glee, with his fat, greasy arms buried to
the elbows in the pockets. His valise, which he had placed upon a
table beside the door, had been pulled off on the floor, and one of
the young generals was engaged in overhauling its contents, while
the other was endeavoring to pull on one of Tom’s boots. The mother
evidently did not regard this as a violation of “good manners,” for
she was at work in the kitchen, where she could see all that was
going on, but she made no attempt to put a stop to it. She was
even laughing at the comical figure Thomas Jefferson presented in
Tom’s coat, the skirts of which swept the floor as he ran about. The
village boy, however, did not regard it in the light of a good joke;
for he walked up to the youngster, and endeavored to take the jacket
from him, a proceeding which Thomas Jefferson resisted with furious
yells.
“Now, dad,” shouted Franklin Pierce, who seemed ready to take his
brother’s part; “just look at that ar’ Tommy.”
The farmer, however, took no notice of what was going on. He seemed
determined to carry out his part of the contract which, as he had
informed Tom, existed between himself and wife, and leave all
difficulties that arose in the house to be settled by the “boss of
the kitchen.” But the mother, as usual, heard the appeal, and shouted:
“Now, Tommy, let him have it, that’s a good little feller; he won’t
hurt it.”
Thomas Jefferson, finding that his mother espoused his cause, and
probably knowing, by experience, that no one would dare oppose her
authority, again began marching about the house. But Tom, never
having been accustomed to such treatment at home, was not satisfied.
“Now, I want that coat, and I’m going to have it,” said he, savagely.
“Tommy,” said the woman, suddenly appearing at the kitchen door--a
movement which made Tom retreat a step or two, as if he expected to
find the wagon whip brandished over his head. “Now, Tommy, my boys is
all honest; they won’t steal your things, nor hurt ’em nuther. If I
take ’em away from ’em, there’ll be a yellin’ an’ hollerin’ here that
I can’t stand, when my head aches as it does to-day. They’ll soon
get tired of your things, an’ then you can take care on ’em.”
Tom, although he was highly enraged, was obliged to submit to this
arrangement; and, the other boys, finding that their mother was not
inclined to oppose them, joined their brothers in an examination of
the contents of Tom’s valise. The articles, one after the other, were
taken out and thrown upon the floor, and when every thing had been
closely examined and criticised, they were tumbled back again in
quite as good order as Tom had packed them in the first place. This
was certainly an unlooked-for incident in the life of a farmer, and
it served to confirm Tom in the opinion he had long entertained, that
he was the “most unlucky boy in the whole world,” and that “something
was always happening to bother him.”
The shower continued with unabated fury all the remainder of the
afternoon, putting a stop to work in the hay-field, and compelling
the farmer and his boys to remain within doors. Mr. Hayes passed
the time in nodding in his chair, unmindful of the almost deafening
noise occasioned by the boisterous games that were carried on in the
house. Occasionally the sports would be interrupted with quarrels;
and once, a rough-and-tumble fight took place between Franklin Pierce
and John Warren, which was abruptly terminated by the appearance
of the farmer’s wife, when the contestants were obliged to take to
their heels to escape punishment from the wagon whip. This wagon whip
appeared to be the symbol of the mother’s authority. She kept it hung
up behind the kitchen door, where it could be readily seized at a
moment’s warning; and, from what had just transpired, Tom regarded
this precaution as absolutely necessary to the peace of the family.
The exhibition Franklin Pierce had given of his strength and pluck
made Tom stand in awe of him, and sincerely hope that he might never
be left alone with him even for a moment; but when the boys were sent
up to bed that night, what was his dismay to discover that Franklin
Pierce was to be one of his bed-fellows.
“Me an’ you an’ Winfield Scott has got to sleep together,” said he.
“Mind you, now, no crowdin’, or I’ll tell dad.”
Much to his surprise, however, the boy did not renew his overtures
of battle; and Tom, contrary to his expectations, was allowed to
sleep in peace. But after all, he got very little rest, for the bed
was narrow, and Franklin Pierce, with a sharp eye to the comfort
of himself and brother, had compelled Tom to sleep in the middle.
The night was very warm, and when Tom endeavored to find a more
comfortable position, he always succeeded in awaking Winfield Scott,
who shouted:
“Now, dad, just look at that ar’ Tommy; he’s crowdin’ me out of bed.”
This would be followed by the caution from the room below:
“You, Tommy, quit crowdin’.”
The night was a long one to Tom, and he scarcely knew how he lived
through it. He arose the next morning cross and fretful, and, as if
to add to his discomfort, the farmer, in laying out his programme for
the day’s work, assigned Tom a most disagreeable task.
“Me an’ the boys will go to the hay-field,” said he, “an’ you, Tommy,
as you haint never been used to hard work, we’ll give you an easy
job. You may stay in the house an’ help Sally Ann. She’s got a big
day’s washin’ to do, an’ you will be of more use here than in the
field.”
“O, now, I didn’t come to the country to learn to do washing,”
drawled Tom, as soon as he had recovered from his astonishment. “I
can’t do such work as that. I came here to--”
“Now, Tommy,” interrupted Mrs. Hayes, “you can stay here just as well
as not. Somebody has to help me, for I can’t wash all them clothes,
an’ pack all the water from the spring, an’ take care of Thomas
Jefferson besides. You can’t mow or spread hay, so you can just stay
here an’ help me.”
Tom raised no more objections to this arrangement, for he knew that
the farmer’s wife sometimes had a very unpleasant way of enforcing
her arguments; so, when Mr. Hayes and his boys started for the field,
he remained at the house.
“Now, then, Tommy,” said the woman, “we haint got no time to waste.
While I am washing up the breakfast dishes, you take them two
buckets, an’ bring water from the spring. Run along lively, now, for
we’ve got lots of work to do.”
Tom, fearing to disobey, reluctantly picked up the pails and left the
house. He walked slowly down the path that led to the spring, and
reaching a spot where some bushes hid him from the house, he seated
himself on the ground to think over the situation, and, if possible,
conjure up some plan by which he might avoid performing the work that
had been laid out for him.
“I might as well hire myself out for a washer-woman at once,” said
he to himself. “What would Gus Miller, and Johnny Harding, and
the other fellows say if they knew I had helped wash clothes and
take care of children? O, I can’t do such work. I’d rather take a
whipping.”
“You, Tommy!” came the shrill voice of the farmer’s wife, breaking in
upon his meditations; “have you gone to Newport after that water?”
Tom jumped up from the ground as if some one had suddenly pricked him
with a pin. He had been gone from the house fully ten minutes, and
the farmer’s wife had begun to grow impatient. He had not yet decided
what he would do; but the sound of the woman’s voice seemed to
quicken his ideas, for he suddenly made a desperate resolve. Hastily
casting his eye back to the house, and then toward the hay-field, to
satisfy himself that no one was observing his movements, he dropped
the buckets as if they had been coals of fire, and started for the
road at the top of his speed. Tom’s playmates had never looked
upon him as a very swift runner, but could they have witnessed the
exhibition of speed he made at that moment, no doubt they would have
thought it something extraordinary. He was but a very few moments in
crossing the field and reaching the fence, over which he bounded as
lightly as a cat; and, finding himself in the road, he started toward
Newport with redoubled speed. He did not waste time in looking back;
neither did he slacken his pace, until he reached the foot of a hill
about half a mile from the house, when he turned off into the woods,
and after concealing himself behind some bushes, sat down on a log to
recover his breath.
“Thank goodness, I’m free once more!” said he, wiping his flushed
face with his handkerchief, and panting hard after his long run. “I
wouldn’t go back there for a hundred dollars a month. Wash clothes
and help take care of children! I don’t want to learn to be that
kind of a farmer. What would the boys say, if they knew that I had
got myself into such a scrape? Now, I wish I had my valise; but I
wouldn’t go back after it if those were all the clothes I had in the
world.”
Tom remained in his concealment but a very few moments, for, so
fearful was he that the farmer, or one of his big boys, would follow
him, and carry him back to the house, that he was anxious to reach
home as soon as possible. It was sixteen miles to the village,
and, under ordinary circumstances, Tom would have hesitated before
attempting to walk such a long distance; but there was no alternative
between that and returning to the house, and, of the two evils, he
thought the task of making the journey to Newport, on foot, was
the least. So, after looking cautiously down the road, to be sure
that no one was following him, he came out of the woods and again
set out. For the next two miles he continued to cast uneasy glances
along the road behind him, holding himself in readiness to take to
his heels again if he should discover any of the farmer’s family
following him, and finally he saw a wagon approaching. A close and
careful examination satisfied him that it did not belong to Mr.
Hayes; so he seated himself beside the road to wait until the team
came up. The driver proved to be a man whom Tom had often seen in
the village, and, as soon as he came within speaking distance, he
asked if he might be allowed to ride. Receiving an answer in the
affirmative, he climbed up on the wagon, and was immediately assailed
with innumerable questions by the farmer, who seemed very anxious
to know what he had been doing, and where he intended to go. But
Tom, although he had no fear that the man would take him back to Mr.
Hayes’, still thought it prudent to keep his own counsel, and gave
evasive answers to all his questions.
The road to Newport seemed to have lengthened considerably since
Tom last traveled over it; but they reached the village about two
o’clock; and Tom, after thanking the farmer for his kindness, sprang
down from the wagon, and made the best of his way homeward. He kept
the back streets as much as possible, for his boots and clothes were
dusty, and he did not wish to meet any of his acquaintances in that
condition. He reached home at last, and, as he entered the hall, he
met his father, who had returned from the office earlier than usual.