THE MILL AT ERRING’S FORD.
During the latter part of a certain week a little more than three years
after we removed to the town, I was given a holiday, and determined at
once to spend it in Fairview, for I had not seen Jo in a great many
weeks, nor Agnes in as many months. I remember I earned it by working at
night by the light of candles for a long while, and that a certain
carpenter’s son read the copy while I set the type, while another boy
kept the night bugs away with a fan. It was a part of the contract with
my father that for the extra work I was to have the use of his horses in
addition to the vacation, both of which I fully earned, and Martin
understood the situation so well that he said if I did not get back
until Monday he would see that the work was not behind.
I started very early in the morning, and the road led over gentle hills
and through light woods for a few miles, when the great prairie began
which ended at Erring’s Ford. It was a very pretty country, and though
we frequently referred to it in the “Union of States” as the garden spot
of the world, I knew it was not necessarily true, for every paper coming
in exchange to the office said exactly the same thing of the different
localities in which it was published. But it pleased the people who did
not see the exchanges, and who no doubt regarded it as a very neat
compliment.
It looked unusually attractive that morning, and in riding slowly along
I admired it so much that I did not notice the approach of a horseman,
who was riding very rapidly, and going in the same direction. When he
came so close that the noise of the animal’s hoofs attracted my
attention, I turned and saw that it was Lytle Biggs, who had by this
time become an old acquaintance, for he frequently wrote letters to the
paper in a very bad hand, signed “Pro Bono Publico,” “Tax-Payer,”
“Citizen,” or “Farmer,” and which I was usually compelled to put in
type. He was a very sociable fellow, and I was pleased with the prospect
of his company. I said as much, to which he replied:--
“If you have no objection, I will tie the horse behind, and ride with
you, for I detest riding on a horse’s back. It may do for exercise, as
you swing dumb-bells on the advice of a physician, but I am surprised I
did not have better sense than to attempt it with a serious intention of
travelling.”
I replied that I should be delighted, and when he got down I could not
help wondering how he ever got on, he was such a little man, and the
horse so uncommonly large. As he climbed into the buggy, and took a seat
beside me, I noticed he was as faultlessly dressed as ever, and that he
seemed to be growing shorter and thinner.
“You are going to Jo Erring’s, of course,” he said, after seeing that
the horse led well. “It is a remarkable coincidence--so am I. I suppose
you are not old enough to know it, but it only happens once in a
lifetime that when you are walking a long road--or riding on a horse’s
back, which I think is worse--you overtake an easy-riding buggy going in
the same direction, and containing but one person, although you meet a
great many vehicles going the other way. It is on the same principle
that if you go up stairs to strike a light, and take but one match, it
is certain to go out, but if you take half a dozen, the first one
answers every purpose.”
His good spirits were rapidly returning by reason of release from the
hard-trotting horse’s back, and after finishing this speech he occupied
himself for a while in brushing the dust from his clothing with a small
wisp he took from his pocket.
“I am on my way to see Jo Erring with reference to the mill,” he began
at once. “I have charge of the fund being raised to help him, and I
shall be able to report that the amount is subscribed. I am acting for
Damon Barker, as you may, or may not, happen to know, and although our
friend believes the Fairview farmers are very enthusiastic to help him,
they are really very slow, and I have had some difficulty in convincing
them that it was to their interest. I shall also recommend that he build
the mill as soon as possible. There is no reason why it should drag
through another year, and that is the promise I gave in securing these
papers.”
He significantly tapped a pocket-book, almost as large as himself, in an
outside pocket, and which no doubt contained the obligations to pay
certain sums of money at an agreed date. He always carried this book in
a conspicuous way, and handled it as though it contained great sums of
money, but as he looked through it for something I saw there was nothing
in it except the obligations, a great many newspaper scraps, a few old
letters, one or two postage stamps, and a piece of court plaster.
“I don’t mind confessing to you,” Mr. Biggs continued, with delightful
candor, “that I flattered them into it. In case you do not become
disgusted with the ignorance which renders such a thing possible, you
can flatter men into anything. When I go into a new neighborhood to
organize an Alliance, I get the prompt assistance of every man I meet
by telling him that I can’t hope to do any thing without HIS aid, as HE
has the popular confidence, and the people will follow wherever HE
leads. ‘YOU are a man of intelligence,’ I say. ‘YOU can readily
understand what I have to offer, and will see its benefit at once. But
your neighbors are slower, and I will not attempt an organization here
without your assistance.’ That kind of argument never fails, and as I
talk to all of them in the same way, there is a great deal of
enthusiasm, each one imagining that the others went into it on his
recommendation. I worked up the mill subscription in that way.”
I doubt if this statement was true, for the people originated the idea
themselves, but to illustrate a great truth Mr. Biggs did not hesitate
to tell a great lie.
“I make a great deal of money in organizing Alliances, but sometimes I
think of going out of the business because I meet so many silly men that
it disgusts me, and I become ashamed of my sex. But I suppose every
business has that draw back, for every man I have ever talked with was
of the opinion that his business developed more silly men, more
contemptible men, and more mean men than any other calling, and I am
forced to conclude that these qualities are so common that they are met
with everywhere.”
When he spoke of retiring from the business of organizing Alliances, I
was about to say that publishing a newspaper collected about all the
objectionable men within reach, but from what he said afterwards I
judged the observation would not be well received. As if he understood
that I was about to say something, which he did not allow, he
continued:--
“I was about to say, however, when you interrupted me (I had not spoken
at all), that the way to get rich is to go in debt, and work out,
therefore I shall recommend that Jo Erring complete his mill at once. No
matter if he goes in debt; he has health and can pay it. The people of
the country through which we are passing believe it the best to pay as
you go. That party over in the field, for instance, is ploughing his
corn with a single shovel plough, whereas there are dealers in town who
would readily take his note for a cultivator with four shovels and a
riding seat. His library no doubt consists of a book warning him against
counting his chickens before they are hatched--as pointless a suggestion
as I ever heard in my life, by the way (for why do we set eggs if not to
bring forth chickens)--but it is regarded as fine logic here. The man
will die some of these days with his single shovel plough, his slab
house, his cow, his two horses, and his handful of land paid for, worth
altogether from three to seven hundred dollars, but if he has a neighbor
who sets a good many hens with care, AND counts the number of chickens
they can reasonably be expected to hatch, he will attend the funeral in
a carriage, and look at his remains through gold-rimmed spectacles.”
I had regarded this pay-as-you-go principle as a very good one, but he
convinced me that I was mistaken, as usual, for I could never dispute
his philosophy until I had thought over it a day or two, when its
sophistry seemed quite clear. I had remarked of Mr. Biggs before that he
seemed to understand what was in my mind, and attack it. I was thinking
that the man he was talking about--his name was McJohn, and a local
curiosity because his voice was uncertain, and jumped from a high
falsetto to a guttural bass--had the reputation of being the hardest
working man in Fairview, when my companion said:--
“I never knew a man, I believe, who didn’t boast occasionally that he
worked harder than his neighbor; I wonder it never occurs to them that
it is to their discredit, unless they are more prosperous than any of
those around them, for if their neighbors work less, and succeed as well
or better, it is an indication that they have more sense. I have no
doubt that McJohn, as he spends his time in ploughing a field which
could be done in one-fourth the time with common sense and a cultivator,
thinks that no other man’s lot is as hard as his, and that he is a
martyr to hard work. Before I became a philosopher--when I was a fool,
in short--I boasted that no man worked as hard as I did, but now I boast
that no man works so little. But simply because a man says he is the
hardest-working man in the country, it does not follow that it is true.
Every traveller who crosses the ocean says that the captain (who had
been at sea continuously for thirty years) came into the cabin during
the storm, and said it was the worst he had ever experienced. I have no
doubt the captains say so (there is no reason why sea captains should
not lie as well as other men), but only to impress the passengers with
their remarkable skill in managing the vessel under such critical
circumstances. You may have noticed that every winter is the coldest
ever known, and every summer the hottest; the people seem to expect
picnics in December and skating in July, but the facts are that it is
always cold in December and always warm in July.”
I would have made oath, if necessary, that I had heard Mr. Biggs many a
time complaining of the excessively hot and cold days, and declaring
that there was never before anything like it.
“The people here learn nothing by experience,” he proceeded. “Since I
have lived in the West, every spring has been made gloomy by the
lamentations of the farmers that crops were ruined, but just before the
crops were burned up--as the tooth came just before the doctor killed
the boy--the rains come, and the crops do very well. You will find that
the men who carry the fate of the country around on their shoulders do
not get on so well as the country. I have always found it safe to trust
the country to take care of itself, for the country usually does very
well.”
We were riding on the high prairie now, with Fairview church in sight,
and the little man regarded the big building with a show of the contempt
I had seen him exhibit on looking at big men.
“Although the fact is as old as the world itself”--Mr. Biggs waved his
hand around majestically to give me to understand that although the
world was very large, and very old, he was perfectly familiar with every
part of it--“it does not seem to be generally known that the weather is
governed by cycles. To illustrate: It was very rainy and wet two years
ago; it was rainy and wet last year, but not so rainy and wet as the
year before; there has been plenty of rain this summer, but not so much
as during the two previous years. Next year will be so dry as to excite
comment, but still very fair for crops; the year after that, and the
year following, there will probably be a partial drouth, but the seventh
year, which completes the cycle, will be a general and complete drouth.
The winter following will be very mild or very severe, but in any event
the next summer will be extremely wet again, to be followed by the seven
years of decreasing rain I have mentioned, and the drouth the seventh
year. I don’t know how it is in the East; it is as I have stated in the
West. It would seem that everybody ought to be familiar with this fact,
but they are not. Hard times and good times run in cycles the same way,
and the panic and the drouth are about the same distance apart, though
fortunately they never come together, for, strange as it may seem, the
panics come in seasons of great crop prosperity, and times are sometimes
very good when crops are very bad. It is the easiest thing in the world
to get rich after you are familiar with these cycle theories. You have
only to invest your money when times are hard; when everybody believes
the country is down, and can never get up again. In a year or two,
however, the country will get up and shake itself, and you find your
investments doubled. It is the simplest thing in the world, and I am
surprised there are so many poor men. We might as well all be rich if we
would take advantage of the opportunities around us.”
I wondered to myself why Biggs himself was so poor, since he had
discovered the secret of riches, and thought some of putting the
question to him, but he didn’t give me opportunity, for immediately he
went on to explain:--
“When I came to the country I was foolish enough to buy land because
everybody else was buying, and paid too much. I warn you against this
mistake--never buy anything when there is a brisk demand for it, for the
price will inevitably be too high, but buy when no one else is buying,
and SELL when there is a disposition on the part of everybody else to
buy. I bought when I should have sold, in other words, for I was not
then a philosopher. Result: The tract is worth no more to-day than what
I paid for it. Since then I have never had money enough at one time to
take advantage of my knowledge, and am still poor. Agnes says the
principal objection to you is that you are young, but I tell her that
you will outgrow it, therefore I hope you will make use of this
important suggestion. Avoid the mistakes of others; let your neighbors
try the doubtful experiments, and benefit by the result. A great many
men are only of use to teach others by their failures, but never repeat
their mistakes.”
By this time we had arrived at the Ford, and, as I had hoped, Jo was at
work at his mill, aided by a half dozen stout young men of the
neighborhood. Since I had visited the place last Jo had completed the
dam and the foundation, and the timbers were being raised. Several were
already up, and held by long ropes until the others could be put in
position and fastened. I noticed that Jo was helping in everything, and
directing with the judgment and good sense of a man of twice his years.
His father was also assisting, and it seemed important that all the
frames be put up before night, for they were very busy. Jo gayly waved
his hand to me from the high place to which he had climbed to pin a
timber, and after he had come down again he shook hands with me in his
old hearty way, and said he hoped I would understand it was not neglect
if he kept at his work, for he had determined to push the mill to
completion as speedily as possible, as it was necessary to prevent the
building of another one further up the stream.
During the forenoon I learned from Gran Erring, from Biggs, and from Jo
himself, that my father had given Jo the money promised, two or three
hundred dollars; that Barker had loaned him a small amount, and that
with the sum he had saved this was deemed sufficient to complete the
building ready for the machinery, which was to be purchased with the
money raised in the neighborhood, and a mortgage on the completed mill;
that Jo had quit at Barker’s, though he was there occasionally, and
helped when he could; that he was to be married to Mateel the day before
Christmas, and that the mill must be in operation for the fall business;
that he had written for the machinery, detailing the terms on which he
wanted it, and that it would be shipped at once; that a deed to the
little farm had been delivered to him in consideration of certain
payments in money, and promises to pay certain amounts annually during
the lifetime of his father and mother, and that after the mill was
completed they would move to a country below Fairview, a step they had
long contemplated, as they had relatives there, leaving the house of
hewn logs to be fixed over for the occupancy of Jo and Mateel; that Jo
now slept at home, in the middle bed, and that he expected to be so busy
the next few months that he had written Mateel a note saying that if she
wished to see him during that time to stop at the little shed below the
mill on her way to church on Sunday, where she would find him at work,
and always glad to see her. All of this pleased me exceedingly, and
caused me to watch opportunity to shake the brave fellow’s hand
occasionally as he hurried past me, which seemed very agreeable to him,
although I doubt if he understood what it meant.
As I watched the men at their work I saw that Jo had a troubled, weary
look, and I thought for the first time that his strength might not prove
equal to his ambition, for I knew that there were yet several years of
hard work ahead of him, but as I saw how eagerly he went at everything,
as though the delay was more disagreeable than the work, I was
reassured, and felt that he would accomplish all he had set out to do.
I do not remember who told me, but I learned from some source that
Mateel often complained of being lonely and of having nothing to do, and
I thought that this industrious man must soon overtake and pass her in
learning and ability, and that she would regret in her future that she
had not improved the opportunities of womanhood as he had improved the
opportunities of manhood. While Mateel was a pretty and amiable woman,
there was not the depth to her that Jo was acquiring, and I wondered if
it ever occurred to her that Jo would finally be a man worthy to be the
husband of any woman; a man self-reliant and self-taught, and expecting
a return for everything he gave. I wondered if she ever thought Jo had
been raised at a hard school, and would tire of simple amiability. If he
was anything at all, he was an example of what well-directed effort
would do, and I thought the day would come when he could not understand
why Mateel was not his equal, although she was older, and had every
opportunity, while he had none. I thought that as Jo had been friendless
all his life he would hope for a great deal of considerate affection
from his wife, and that he would be disappointed if he were compelled to
continue his old habit of being thoughtful of every one, but having to
regret that no one was thoughtful of him. I wondered if Mateel knew that
Jo was no longer the rough, awkward boy she had met during her first
week in Fairview, and that he was now a growing, vigorous man, ahead of
all his companions in ability and intelligence, and that every year he
would throw away old ideas for better ones. Jo had told her in his manly
love that she was a perfect woman, and that it would require his efforts
for a lifetime to become her equal, and I think she was pleased with
this, and believed it. I am certain she never said to Jo that he was a
remarkable fellow, and that he deserved more credit than she could give
him for his manly love for her--which was no more than the truth--but
rather thought herself worthy of the toil he had undergone; not that she
was selfish, perhaps, but because Jo had told her so, or maybe she had
never thought about it at all except that Jo was very fond of her, and
was anxious to please her. I would have given a great deal to know that
she frequently gave Jo a word of encouragement, but if she ever did he
never told me of it, and for this reason I was convinced that she never
did.
In the afternoon I rode over to Fairview church, where Agnes was
teaching the school, and although I half expected to find the building
surrounded by young men on their knees with proposals of marriage,
begging her to accept one of the number, and permit the others to drown
their grief in the nearest deep water, only the smaller boys and girls
were in attendance, the older ones being at home busy with the summer’s
work. Agnes was prettier than ever, I thought, and although I knew the
style had only reached Twin Mounds the week before, she wore a dress cut
in what was then known as the “Princess” pattern. She greeted me with so
much genuine pleasure that I was ashamed to acknowledge that I had been
in the neighborhood since morning, and felt guilty that I had not driven
directly to Fairview; and leading me through the rows of benches, she
seated me in a chair in front of her rude desk, which the children had
adorned with wild flowers.
I sat there nearly an hour before school was dismissed, very
uncomfortable from being looked at so steadily by the scholars. Two or
three of The. Meek’s family, who had come on since I left Fairview, were
there, and I readily picked them out by their white heads and good
humor. I could tell who nearly all of them were by characteristics of
one kind and another, though I did not know any of them, but there was
one boy--evidently the son of a renter lately arrived, for I could not
imagine who he was--who made me particularly uncomfortable by mimicking
me when I was not looking. He created a great deal of merriment, I
remember, by pasting his hair down on his forehead as mine was (I had
visited the barber’s just before starting, and the barbers oiled and
combed their customers’ hair then as they do now, for barbers never
improve), and I caught him puffing at a pen-holder, intimating that in
the community where I lived the cigar habit was evidently common. I wore
a very flashy necktie, and he made one out of the back of a blue
copy-book to represent it, which he pasted on his chin, then on his
neck, and then on his breast. I thought of going out into the yard to
get rid of him, but I knew the impudent boy would mimic my walk, and
make me ridiculous again, so I stood it in silence until the children
were called up in a row for the final spelling class, in which I was
invited to participate, and where I triumphed over my enemy by correctly
spelling all the words he missed. Then they all read a chapter in chorus
from the Bible, and were dismissed. I was afraid the renter’s boy would
stay around until I handed Agnes into the buggy, but he walked to the
door in a manner which intimated that I was bow-legged, and disappeared
with a whoop.
After they had gone Agnes sat down at a desk near the door, where she
had bid the last one good-bye, and looked at me curiously.
“Are you glad to see me?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.
“Yes,” she replied, with her pretty laugh, “but you don’t seem to be the
same boy who came to school here a few years ago. You have grown so much
that you seem like a stranger instead of an old friend.”
She laughed merrily at my look of astonishment, and pretended to be
frightened when I went over and sat beside her.
“Why didn’t you say when you came in,” she asked, “‘This school is
dismissed; I am a friend of the teacher’s.’ I expected you to say that,
but instead you waited patiently until I should dismiss it myself. When
I knew Ned Westlock he was a boy of spirit. But I am as glad to see you
as I can be. This is my week at Theodore Meek’s, and you may drive me
there as slowly as your horses can walk.”
I am sure I felt like dismissing the school when I came in, but I never
thought of it. I never felt more at a loss in my life for something to
say, and sat looking at her in a sort of blind astonishment, blushing
like a child. I wanted to tell her how much pleasure the contemplation
of this visit had afforded me, but I could not; and finally, tiring of
being stared at, she got up and went to collecting the books and other
articles she intended to take home. I could think of nothing else to do,
so I went out and brought the buggy around to the door, and after
helping her in as awkwardly as I had stared at her, we drove away.
In my desperation I could only confess that I had been thinking for
weeks how polished and agreeable I would be in my manner on meeting her,
but that her pretty face and easy way had scared it all out of me; that
I came to Fairview expressly to see her, and that I hoped there would
never be a misunderstanding between us with reference to our friendship.
“There never will be,” she said, in her innocent and earnest way,
putting her arm through mine, and seeming reassured and pleased. “There
could be no misunderstanding between you and me, and there never has
been. Why should there be?”
She spoke as though I were still a boy, though I was now larger than she
was, and nearly sixteen. I felt sure she would always treat me as a boy,
no difference how old I became.
As we drove along slowly, I thought that if a stranger should see us he
would think we were lovers, but Agnes evidently did not think of it, for
she confessed her friendship for me in a hundred different ways, which I
am sure she would not have done had she thought of me as her lover. She
was in unusual spirits, and though I felt very proud to think that I was
the cause of it, I thought that the arrival of a pretty baby of which
she had once been fond would have made her as happy. I hinted gravely,
once or twice, that we were “growing older,” and that we “could not
always be children,” but she would only say that we were friends, and
enjoyed the friendship. I think she was content with that, and did not
look beyond it.
“I had almost forgotten it,” she said, when we neared The. Meek’s
premises; “but your old friend Damon Barker comes to see me every week
now, at the school. Sometimes he comes at noon, at other times in the
evening, but he never fails to appear at least once a week. The first
time he came the children were dismissed for the day; I was alone, and
although he is a black-whiskered, fierce-looking man I was not afraid of
him, and he walked part way home with me. Since then he comes
frequently, and although he pretends that he only stops in while
passing, I believe he comes all the way from the mill to see me.”
While Barker was a little old, I was not surprised that he had fallen in
love with Agnes; I only wondered that every one did not. But after I
thought more of it I became convinced that wise, good, sensible Barker
only admired her sweet, pretty face, and was not in love.
“What does he say to you?” I asked.
“Nothing, except to question me about the school and make sensible
suggestions with reference to its management. He never tires in
listening to me, but says little himself.”
I then told her what I knew about Barker, his curious home, and how
much I admired him. I was glad that he had taken an interest in her, for
he would see that she was never subjected to wrong nor injustice from
any source, and Agnes was greatly pleased when I said that, when
opportunity offered, we would visit him at the mill together.
The enthusiasm in The. Meek’s family over my arrival reminded me of the
feeling in a mass-meeting when a popular speaker gets up, for they were
all at home, and made quite an army. The white-headed boys, who had not
grown much, except in good-humor, reminded me of the jack-oaks on the
Twin Mounds hills, which perceptibly grew older, but not larger, and
The. Meek and his wife welcomed me as though I were an old friend who
had gone out into the world and greatly distinguished himself. Before I
was fairly in the house it was arranged that I should remain until after
supper, and return by moonlight to my grandfather’s, which suited me
very well, as I had not yet seen enough of Agnes. I had noticed before
that there was always so much to do around The. Meek’s house that
members of his family no sooner finished their day’s work than they went
to bed, and in the preparation for my entertainment they were busier
than ever, so that Agnes and I were alone for an hour, which we both
enjoyed, though we were not so easy as we pretended to be, for I caught
her looking stealthily at me, and I am quite sure I was often admiring
her.
When I started to return to the mill--which I did after a long religious
service and a light supper--Agnes proposed to ride a short distance with
me, and then I brought her back, and she went part way with me again, so
that it was quite late when I finally got away. The country being
familiar to me, I drove through the field paths to shorten the distance,
and hurried along as rapidly as I could, for I knew they would be
waiting for me. As I came out into the main road, and was closing a
gate, a horseman dashed by me, riding toward the mill, and I saw with
some surprise that it was Clinton Bragg, on the wicked, vicious horse. I
followed leisurely, preferring to avoid him, but probably knowing who it
was he stopped beside the road, allowing me to pass so closely that I
could have touched him with my hand had I wished. Then he would run by,
as if to frighten my horses, and this performance he repeated so many
times that I would have pulled him off his horse and beaten him had I
the strength. When I arrived at the Ford he was there before me,
allowing his vicious horse to drink below the dam, and while I stood on
the hill looking at him he rode out and galloped off through the dark
woods, as though he could see better by night than by day. I could not
help thinking that the place where he disappeared would be a favorable
one for a murder, and that if Bragg had a desperate enemy it would not
be safe for him to ride through such a dark wood at night.
I believe he wanted me to know he had taken the road to the Shepherds,
with the hope that I would tell Jo, and annoy him; but for once he went
to his trouble for nothing, for when I went into the house Jo was sound
asleep in the middle bed, and resting easily and quietly.