Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
HIDDEN TREASURE
THE STORY OF A CHORE BOY WHO MADE THE OLD FARM PAY
BY
JOHN THOMAS SIMPSON
COLORED FRONTISPIECE BY E.H. SUYDAM
AND 16 ILLUSTRATIONS
PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
1919
PREFACE
A few years ago the author visited the farm in Western Pennsylvania on
which he had lived for a number of years when a boy. Much to his
surprise there was not a boy of his acquaintance still on the
neighboring farms, many of which had passed into other hands, and in
some cases even the names of the original owners had been forgotten.
He bumped over the two short miles of road, still deep with mud,
between the town and the farm, and could scarcely recognize in the
weedy fields before him, with their broken-down fences partly
concealed by undergrowth, the fertile acres of his boyhood.
The orchard, once kept so neatly pruned, was now with trees that were
gnarled and broken--while rich bottom land, so productive in years
past, was foul with all manner of rank growth. The lane leading up to
the house from the main road was in such bad repair that he had to
leave his automobile on the main road and complete his journey on
foot.
Investigation showed that many of the farms in the neighborhood were
in a similar rundown condition; that farm work was generally
considered unprofitable or uncongenial; and that the boys and girls
born in the country usually took the first opportunity to leave the
farms, often for harder and less profitable work in the cities.
In the hope that many boys and girls now living on farms, as well as
others, who, if they knew of the advantages of labor-saving machinery
and modern farm buildings (to say nothing of the interest of outdoor
work), would take up this, the most profitable and independent of all
occupations--FARMING--this story of Hidden Treasure is written.
THE AUTHOR
FEBRUARY, 1919
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author begs to acknowledge his indebtedness for valuable
information to:
A.A. Drew, Superintendent of Agencies, of the Mutual Benefit Life
Insurance Company, Newark, New Jersey, for Constructive Banking and
Life Insurance.
Bucyrus Company, South Milwaukee, Wisconsin, for Trenching with Steam
Shovels.
Waterloo Cement Machinery Company, Waterloo, Iowa, for Concrete Mixing
Machines.
Hercules Powder Company, Hazleton, Pennsylvania, for Progressive
Cultivation and Trench Digging by Dynamite.
International Harvester Company of America, Chicago, Illinois, for
Tractors and Farm Machinery.
George M. Wright, owner of Indian Hill Farm, Worcester, Massachusetts,
for Holstein Cattle, Dairy Methods and Poultry Raising.
John W. Odlin, Publicity Department, Wright Wire Company, Worcester,
Massachusetts, Wire Fencing.
C.P. Dadant, Editor American Bee Journal, Hamilton, Illinois, Bee
Culture.
The Sharpies Separator Company, West Chester, Pennsylvania, for
Milking Machines and Cream Separators.
D. & A. Post Mold Company, Three Rivers, Michigan, for Concrete Fence
Posts.
A.A. Simpson, Indiana, Pennsylvania, for much data regarding crop
production and market values in that vicinity.
The Domestic Engineering Company, Dayton, Ohio, for Electric Light and
Power for Farms.
The Portland Cement Association, Chicago, Illinois, for Concrete
Buildings and Road Construction.
United States Department of Agriculture, Washington, D.C., for
Farmers' Bulletins covering the great range of subjects referred to
throughout the story.
The Country Gentleman, Philadelphia, Pa., for much helpful data on
general farming and stock raising.
K.C. Davis, Knapp School of Country Life, Nashville, Tenn., for a
final reading of the proof sheets.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE OLD HOMESTEAD
II. A DAY'S WORK
III. A RAINY DAY
IV. DRAINING THE POND
V. SELLING TURTLES
VI. SELLING SAND
VII. THE NEW AUNT
VIII. THE SALE
IX. POWER AND BANKING
X. RUNNING WATER
XI. TONY
XII. THE DAIRY HOUSE
XIII. VISITORS
XIV. RUTH AND THE STRAW STACK
XV. NEW METHODS
XVI. RUTH AND JERRY
XVII. FILLING THE INCUBATOR
XVIII. THE NEW IMPLEMENTS
XIX. THE STORM
XX. GOOD ROADS
XXI. FILLING THE SILO
XXII. THE FAIR
XXIII. CHRISTMAS AT BROOKSIDE FARM
XXIV. COST ACCOUNTING
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Afternoon was Spent Examining the Buildings and Looking
Over the Plans for the New Barn
The Old Homestead
"Well, Son, Let's Get Down to Business. I See You're Wise
All Right to the Value of that Pit"
Bees are a Profitable Side Line
The Tractor Will do the Work of Five Men and Five Teams
Ditch Digging by Dynamite
One-Half the Herd
The Electric Milker
Comfortable Sanitary Stalls
Small, Self-Loading, Kerosene Driven, Concrete Mixers
Every Boy that Ran Away from the Farm and Many that are
Still There can Tell of the Days Wasted on Repairs to
Wooden Fences and Cleaning Out Fence Rows
Extra Profits are not the Only Things a Farmer Gets from a Herd
of Well Bred Dairy Cows
Good Seed Well Planted Lays the Foundation for a Profitable
Crop
A Well-Managed Flock of Poultry Will Return Good Profits
The Side Delivery Rake Fluffs up the Hay and Lets the Sun
do Its Work Quickly
The Self-Loader Makes Possible the Quick Storage of Properly
Cured Hay and Saves Tons of Man-Lifting Power
The Electric-Driven Laundry
Well-Built Concrete Roads Bring the Markets and Your Neighbors
Nearer
Transferring the Green Corn Crop from Field to Silo
I.
THE OLD HOMESTEAD
The late afternoon sun shone full upon a boy who was perched on the
top of an old rail fence forming the dividing line between the farm
that spread out before him and the one over which he had just passed.
It was early March. The keen wind as it whirled past him, whipping the
branches of the tree together and carrying away clouds of dried leaves
from behind the fence rows, penetrated the thin clothes he wore--but
instead of making him shiver, it seemed only to add to his pleasure,
for he removed his cap and ran his fingers through his damp hair.
The boy was slender and scarcely looked the eighteen years to which he
laid claim. He had curly sandy hair, a freckled face and penetrating
blue eyes. His clothes were new, but of rather poor material and ill-
fitting, scarcely protecting him from the cutting wind. Because of his
short legs and arms, his coat sleeves and trousers, cut for the
average boy, were too long for him and were much wrinkled.
He had climbed the last and steepest hill lying between the town and
his grandfather's farm--the ancestral home of the Williams family,
which was now, for a time at least, to be his home. Since early
morning he had bumped over the rough frozen roads between his home in
a distant village and the county seat, which was situated some two
miles to the west, and from which he had just walked.
He had expected to find his grandfather or his Uncle Joe waiting for
him; in this he was disappointed, and as the sun was getting along
toward mid-afternoon, he had picked up his worn suitcase and set off
through the town by a route that he knew would bring him to a short-
cut over the hills.
Despite the wind, he sat for some minutes, cap in hand, while he
looked out over the familiar scenes. There was not one foot of ground
in the one hundred and sixty acre farm that spread out fan-shape
before him which was not familiar. Here he had spent many happy
vacations in summers past. The last two years he had attended the
State College, taking the course in agriculture, and had worked in a
grocery store in the village during the summer vacations, but this
work had been distasteful to him--he missed the freedom of outdoor
life, especially the birds and animals so plentiful on the farm. So
this year, as his father could not afford to have him complete the
course, he had asked permission to go on a farm. His two years in the
State College had opened his eyes to modern methods of farming and the
use of Portland cement for farm buildings, and he wanted a chance to
try them out.
His father had hesitated at first in giving his consent, not because
he did not wish him to be in the open country, but because he felt,
now that he had reached the age of eighteen, he should be able to earn
money and direct his attention toward permanent employment, and he
could not think of farming as a business with so many other
opportunities at hand. A letter from his Uncle Joe, saying that he had
purchased the old farm, and would like to have Bob help him with the
work on his newly acquired property, had settled the matter, and, as
his uncle was anxious to make an early start, he had left home at
once.
He could not help noticing, as he gazed at the panorama before him,
the dilapidated appearance of the buildings and tumbled-down fences
half hidden by rank growths that confronted him on every side, but
this, for the moment, was of passing interest.
Across the valley to the east, in the twenty-five acres of woods, he
had once found the nest of a great white owl, and there on "Old Round
Top," as the steep hill directly opposite him was called, they had
overturned a wagon-load of hay one summer with him on top. He even
remembered the thrill he had received as he went flying through the
air, and how they had all laughed when he landed unhurt on a hay cock
some distance down the hill, just clear of the overturned wagon. Then
in the valley, at the foot of the hill, stood the old cider mill where
neighbors for miles around would bring their apples in the late summer
for cider-making. Here, straw in mouth, he and the neighbors' boys lay
prone on their stomachs on the great beams and sucked their fill of
the freshly squeezed cider as it flowed down the smooth grooves in the
planks to the waiting barrels below.
Beyond the cider mill was the old orchard, with its Rainbow and Sheep-
nose apple trees; then the garden in one corner of which grew black
currants and yellow raspberry bushes; and near by the low red brick
smoke-house, from which many a piece of dried beef had been slyly
removed to stay his hunger between meals.
Just beyond was the white farmhouse, nestling among the apple trees,
the front to the west and facing on the lane that led up to a farm
above. The house had a one-story ell on the end toward him, containing
the kitchen and pantry--this ell projected back almost to the
smokehouse. On the opposite side, but hidden from his view, there was
a wide porch running the full length of house and ell, and in the
angle formed by the porch, stood the well with its home-made pump.
The water from this well, he recalled, had a peculiar mineral taste,
with a strong flavor of sulphur--a taste he did not like. He had never
been so tired that he would not go to the spring up on the side of
"Old Round Top" for a pail of water, rather than drink from this well.
Back of the house, but within the enclosure formed by the picket
fence, was the wood and tool shed--while just beyond stood the old-
fashioned bank barn and other farm buildings. There was a short steep
hill just beyond the barn, down which the lane wound to a mill pond
below. An old sawmill with an undershot water-wheel stood at the
extreme south-east corner of the farm, diagonally opposite.
[Illustration with caption: THE OLD HOMESTEAD] Of all the places on
which his gaze rested, this mill and pond held the most treasured
recollections. It was in this pond ten years ago his father had taught
him to swim. Here, too, the neighboring farmers brought their sheep
each spring to be washed--always a holiday and frolic for the boys.
Like many other farms in this section of Western Pennsylvania, the
buildings were set so that the barn stood between the house and the
main road, making the approach to the house past the barn and through
the barnyard. For the first time, this awkward arrangement was
apparent to him; he wondered why the buildings had been thus located,
and facing northwest.
He replaced his cap, swung his suitcase over the fence, jumped down to
the frozen ground and set off down the hill. As he trudged along,
picking his way over the rough ground, the parting words of his father
came to him: "Make yourself useful, Bob, and your Uncle Joe, I'm sure,
will pay you all you're worth, and while I'd rather have you become a
merchant, still if you find you like the farm, you may stay with your
Uncle Joe." It was not so much the prospect of making money as the
chance of being in the open air among the things that he loved that
caused him to whistle a lively tune as he crossed the fields toward
the house.
The one over which he was now passing, he observed, had been planted
in winter wheat, and that just beyond, at the edge of the meadow, was
the young orchard well grown and badly in need of pruning. The route
he had taken soon brought him out into the lane at the foot of the
hill, near the cider mill, where he stopped to drink of the cool sap
that flowed into a large tin pail, from one of the sugar-maple trees
under whose branches the mill stood. How good it tasted to the thirsty
boy, as he drank slowly from a long-handled dipper that someone had
conveniently left hanging on the tree. When he had quenched his
thirst, he picked up his suitcase again, resting it on one shoulder,
and continued up the lane to the house.
"Hello, grandma!" he shouted, as he dropped his luggage on the porch
and hurried forward to meet her as she emerged from the kitchen door,
a steaming kettle of vegetables in her hand.
"Why, Bob, where'd you come from?" she exclaimed, setting the kettle
down and kissing him.
"I looked for grandfather and Uncle Joe when I got off the bus in
town, but I couldn't see them anywhere, so I walked out," he replied.
"Why, I'm sure they expected to meet you, Bob," she replied, "but the
roads are so rough, I suppose they were late. They took some grain to
the mill and would have to wait for it to be ground, and they may have
been delayed there--but you haven't told me yet how all the folks
are."
"Oh, they're all pretty well," he replied; "but tell me, when is Uncle
Joe to be married?"
"Some time in April, I believe," she replied. "Do you know you're to
be his chore boy this summer?"
"Yes, father told me--it will be lots of fun. Just think--no more
working all cooped up in a store like the last two summers," he
replied enthusiastically.
"But it won't be all fun, you know, Bob. Your Uncle Joe has bought the
farm, although it's not all paid for yet, and I imagine he'll keep you
pretty busy--if I know Joe," she added.
"Let me get you some water, grandma," he said a moment later, seeing
her pick up the tin water-pail; "I'll start right in now and get my
hand in," he laughed.
"You always were a hustler, Bob, even if you don't grow very fast,"
she said, looking at his over-large clothes, as he left the kitchen.
"I hope your Uncle Joe will remember that you're not grown and can't
do a man's work, even if you're willing to try," she said on his
return, as she watched him set the pail of water on the kitchen table.
"Why, I'm eighteen now, grandma, and weigh one hundred and ten
pounds," he answered stoutly.
"Well, this is a big farm, Bob, and it's gotten pretty well run down
in the last few years with your Uncle Joe out West and your
grandfather feeling too poorly to do much more than look after the
crops," she said.
"Are there big fortunes to be found in the West, grandma?" he asked a
moment later.
"No bigger than right here, Bob," she replied. "It's only a matter of
work, and I'm beginning to believe that after all it is as much a
matter of managing properly as working hard. Do you know that your
grandfather and I are going to move to town as soon as your Uncle Joe
gets married?"
"Why, no, I didn't--who'll look after things here when you go away?"
asked Bob.
"Oh, your new aunt will see to that," she replied. "I hope you'll like
her, Bob."
"Who is she and what does she look like?" he inquired with boyish
eagerness.
"She used to be a school teacher and lived with us while she taught
our school," she replied; "that's how your Uncle Joe met her. She has
plenty of good looks--too many, I sometimes think, for a farmer's
wife--and she is a real New England Yankee woman, who doesn't know how
to milk cows."
"How could any one be too good-looking to be a farmer's wife,
grandma?" laughed Bob. "Why should good looks keep her from being
successful?"
"Well, you see, Bob, nice white hands are generally spoiled by rough
work," said the old lady.
"But why will she have to do the rough work when she comes here?"
persisted Bob.
"Oh, I guess she won't have any to do--at least, that's what your
Uncle Joe says," replied his grandmother with a haughty toss of her
head. "That's what he's got you down on the farm for."
"Oh," said Bob, dryly, "and so that's why he was so extremely anxious
for me to come."
"Yes, that's why, Bob--you might as well know sooner as later, that
you're going to be a pretty busy boy this summer. Your Uncle Joe is so
big and strong that he never gets tired and doesn't know when to quit,
and he expects every one else to work just as hard and as long as he
does. Besides," she added, "I don't think he'll want HIS wife to spoil
her nice white hands."
"What's her name?" inquired Bob, not in the least worried by his
grandmother's gloomy predictions.
"Betsy Atwood--but your uncle calls her Bettie," replied his
grandmother.
"Aunt Bettie," repeated Bob. "A pretty name!"
"H'm!" sniffed his grandmother. "I'm certainly glad you like it, and I
hope you'll like her as well--it will help to make the work seem
easier to you."
"Why, there's grandfather and Uncle Joe now," said Bob a moment later,
as he glanced through the kitchen window toward the barn, and catching
up his cap he rushed out to greet them.
Joe Williams was a typical farmer, tall, deep-chested and straight as
an arrow. He stood six feet in his stockings and weighed two hundred
and ten pounds, and could toss a barrel of salt on the tailboard of a
wagon without losing his happy smile. He was twenty-seven years old,
and there was not a farmer in the county who could beat him at feats
of strength or endurance, and few indeed who could keep pace with him.
He had black hair and blue eyes. Books had little attraction for him--
he loved to be in the open, for which his great size and strength
seemed to fit him. He had received little education beyond the country
school, unless could be counted the two years he had spent working on
farms in the great West, where he probably would have stayed had it
not been for the brown eyes of Bettie Atwood and an offer from his
father, now old and failing in health, to sell him the old place at
his own terms.
"Hello, Bob!" he called as his nephew came forward, "sorry we missed
you. The bus driver said you'd left on foot for the farm when you
didn't see us around. How've you been lately?"
"Oh, I'm all right," replied Bob.
"Hello, grandfather!" he called, as he went round to the side of the
wagon to greet his grandfather.
"You don't seem to grow much, Bob," he laughed, as he shook hands.
"Cooped up too much in that grocery store--you need the open air of
the country to stretch you out. Just look at your Uncle Joe there--see
what the country has done for him."
"Oh, I'll grow all right, grandfather. I like the country and the
open-air life, too, and father says I may take up farming work if I
want to."
The team was soon put away, and shortly after supper Bob, too sleepy
to keep his eyes open, went to bed.
II
A DAY'S WORK
"Bob! Bob! Time to get up and do your chores."
The sleepy boy rolled over, rubbed his eyes and sat up, trying to
remember where he was and who was calling him; then he recognized the
voice of his uncle, and jumped quickly out of bed.
"All right, Uncle Joe, I'm coming," he answered, as he felt around in
the dark for his clothes, for he had neglected to provide himself with
matches to light the oil lamp that stood near by on the dresser.
His clothes were simple, and getting up before dawn was no new
experience for him. A few moments later he hurried down to the
kitchen, where his uncle, who had just finished stirring the kitchen
fire, was filling the tea-kettle.
"Well!--are you up for all day, Bob?" he inquired cheerily.
"I will be as soon as I get awake," he answered, as he started for the
rain barrel for water to wash.
As the water in the well was hard, rain water was used for washing,
except in winter, when the barrels were frozen solidly. The early
spring rains had filled the barrels again, but as the night had been
cold, ice had frozen over the top. His uncle had been to the barrel
ahead of him and broken the ice, so he dipped up the basin full of
water, and placing it on a bench on the porch, washed his face and
hands.
Above the wash bench, summer and winter, hung the roller towel, and
near by the mirror and family horn comb. In the dark the mirror was of
doubtful use, but with a few well-directed strokes of the comb he
managed to get a semblance, at least, of neatness to his hair. He
shivered a little as he finished--just as his uncle appeared, milk
pails and lantern in hand.
"I want you to do the milking from now on, Bob, for it's not the kind
of work a woman should do," said his uncle, and handing him the pails,
they started for the barn.
"You're right, Uncle Joe," replied Bob. "I always milked our cow at
home so mother wouldn't have to do it; besides, it doesn't take so
very long."
Bob had been taught to take good care of the family cow--a well-bred
Guernsey, whose stable had a good cement floor and was neatly
whitewashed. Once or twice a week he would curry-comb and brush her
from nose to tail. Nothing gave him greater pride than to have his
father bring some one unexpectedly into the stable to look at his
charge and comment on the clean manner in which both stable and cow
were kept. His mother sold the milk they did not need for their own
use, and had no trouble in getting two cents a quart more than the
regular price--partly on account of the cow being so well bred and
giving rich milk, but principally on account of the reputation the
clean stable had made in the village.
The cow barn that Bob now entered was built under a portion of the
main barn, adjacent to the thrashing floor, and was dark, even in the
daylight. The earthen floor was foul with neglect. The cows, instead
of being secured in separate stalls with stanchions, were chained up
in a row to a long, old-fashioned manger.
Upon entering, Bob's uncle hung up the lantern; then, seeing Bob look
around and hesitate, asked:
"What are you looking for, Bob?"
"I was looking for a fork to clean the stable. I always clean the
stable and brush off the cow at home before milking," he replied.
"Well, I guess you're a little late to start that here," laughed his
uncle. "Never mind the floor; we'll back the wagon in here after
breakfast and give it a good cleaning."
"All right, Uncle Joe; but where's the brush?" asked Bob.
"Brush! What brush?" asked his uncle.
"Why, don't you brush off the cows each morning before you milk them?"
asked Bob. "Father always insisted that I brush Gurney each morning."
"Well, your father's not a farmer and you've only one cow, while we
have eight, and, besides, I've lots of other work to do without curry-
combing cows," replied his uncle in a sarcastic tone, angered at Bob's
reference to his father's greater knowledge of farm work.
"Better hurry up with your milking, Bob, while I feed the horses," he
added, as he left him staring at the cows.
He could not remember ever having seen such dirty cows or so dirty a
stable before. Then he suddenly thought that he had always visited the
farm in the summer time, when the cattle were kept in the fields and
milked in the open barn yard.
He finished the milking as best he could, and was not surprised to
find that instead of getting forty quarts from the eight cows, he
received only fifteen quarts--about three times as much as he got from
Gurney alone. He now remembered the answer he once heard his father
give a visitor at Gurney's stable.
"But, Mr. Williams," the visitor had said, "a purebred cow must be
considerably more expensive in upkeep than an ordinary one."
"That's where you're mistaken," his father had replied, "for a well-
bred cow eats no more than a common one--in fact, Gurney eats less,
and the difference in the amount and quality of the milk soon pays for
the difference in the first cost. Then, there's the pleasure that Bob
gets out of the care he gives to an animal that is worth while, and
assuredly that's something not to be lightly lost sight of."
Dawn was breaking when Bob finished. On the way to the house he met
his uncle coming out of the yard, a huge pail of swill for the pigs in
each hand.
"Thought I'd feed the pigs for you this morning," he said, as Bob set
down his milk pails and held the gate open for his uncle to pass
through. "It will take you a day or two to get your hand in," he
added.
Bob made no reply, but he noticed the swill was full of broken ice,
like the rain barrel from which he had taken the water to wash that
morning, and he was wondering how much good a cold breakfast like that
would do even for a pig.
He carried the milk pails into the kitchen, where he found his
grandmother busy preparing breakfast. "Shall I take the milk to the
cellar?" he asked, as he set the pails on the floor to rest his arms.
"No, thank you, Bob; I usually strain it here in the kitchen before
taking it down," she replied; "but you may feed the calves--that's
their warm milk there by the stove. You'll find four of them in the
orchard, back of the smokehouse. Divide the milk among them, and hurry
back to breakfast."
Bob disappeared with the milk, but was back in a few minutes. The tin
wash basin was put into service again--this time hot water from the
boiling tea kettle took the chill off, and in a few minutes, he joined
his uncle who, having already washed, had that moment seated himself
at the breakfast table.
"Will you feed the chickens for me, Bob?" asked his grandmother, as he
rose from the table after breakfast. "You'll find some shell corn in a
feed box on the thrashing floor. Give them two measures."
"Come around to the wagon shed when you get through with feeding the
chickens, Bob," called his uncle, as he started for the barn. "I'll
get the team and we'll clean out the cow stable to-day."
Bob filled the small wooden box he found in the feed bin, then
stepping out into the barnyard, he called the chickens around him. He
could not help observing what a nondescript lot of chickens they were
--not a purebred among them; besides, he noticed many were old, and
some had frozen feet and combs. No wonder, he thought, as he glanced
at the poorly built hen house that faced the east instead of south--a
lean-to built against the side of the barn, with only one small
window, and that one on the north end, while the cracks between the
upright boards, of which the coop was constructed, were not even
covered by strips.
With these fowls he contrasted his own prize-winning white leghorns,
with their well-built and ventilated pen, with its two large windows
to the south. He wondered how long they would have averaged four eggs
a day for the eight hens through the entire winter, if he had fed them
with only cold grain instead of carefully prepared feed, and had kept
them in such a cheerless home. No wonder his grandmother, who got the
money from the sale of the eggs, said chickens didn't pay, and that
the few eggs the hens did lay in the winter were usually frozen before
they could be collected.
He now joined his uncle and they began the annual cleaning of the cow
stable and barnyard. The stable was not hard work, although the long
corn stalks that were tramped deep into the floor were troublesome and
required much labor to pry loose. They finished the cleaning of the
cow stable by noon, but when they started on the barnyard in the
afternoon they found it was frozen almost solid, so they made slow
headway and Bob's arms and back ached from the unaccustomed heavy
work.
"When shall I quit to do the milking?" he inquired, as he noticed the
sun getting low.
"Oh, we'll be knocking off pretty soon," was his uncle's indefinite
answer.
It was nearly six o'clock and getting dark when his uncle finally
decided they had done enough work for one day.
"Guess you'd better hustle, Bob," he said. "I didn't notice it was so
late. Your grandmother will wait supper for you."
Bob jumped down stiffly from the seat of the wagon and, after cleaning
his shoes, went to the house, as his uncle had directed, and washed
up.
"Are you tired?" asked his grandmother, as he came into the kitchen
where she was busy cooking by lamp light. "Your Uncle Joe's starting
right in to have you do all the work on the farm in a day; he should
have let you stop an hour ago to do the milking."
Bob made no reply. He took his pails and lantern and started for the
barn. His hands were stiff and blistered from using the fork all day,
and it was with difficulty that he finished his task in the ill-
smelling and badly ventilated barn. His back ached, too, as he carried
the pails to the house.
"Why were you so long?" asked his uncle impatiently, as Bob entered.
"Your grandmother wouldn't let us eat till you came in, so I fed the
calves and pigs for you while we were waiting."
"At home, Uncle Joe," replied Bob, as they seated themselves at the
table, "we always milk at five o'clock and don't let anything else
interfere with it. Father says a cow should be milked early and
regularly."
"Well, Bob, your father's not a farmer, and if he wants you to quit in
the middle of the afternoon to milk your cow, you can do so, but we'll
milk ours after the day's work's done," was the stern answer.
"Probably that's the reason Gurney gives nearly as much milk as any
three of yours," replied Bob quietly, to which remark his uncle made
no reply.
III
A RAINY DAY
"Bob," said his uncle one rainy Saturday morning, a week later, "it's
such a bad day we can't do anything outdoors, so we'd better sharpen
up the tools; there's a lot of them that need grinding."
"All right," said Bob, and he got a can of water for the grindstone--
an ancient model, turned by hand.
His uncle gathered up the tools and piled them beside the stone. There
were two double-bitted axes and one pole axe, two brush hooks, three
mowing scythes, a hatchet, a meat cleaver, half a dozen knives, both
long and short--to say nothing of a drawing knife, some chisels and
planes, which were added to the pile as an afterthought.
Bob looked dubiously at the tools as his uncle deposited them near at
hand.
"Are we going to sharpen them all, Uncle Joe?" he inquired, as he took
hold of the handle and set the stone turning.
"Oh, this is only a short job," laughed his uncle, as he picked up a
dull axe and pressed the bit so heavily against the stone that it
stopped.
"Why, what's the matter, Bob--not tired before you get started, are
you?" he laughed.
Bob made no reply. He needed all his strength to turn the stone. After
a few minutes' work against his uncle's weight, he was compelled to
quit.
"Can't we oil or grease it up or do something to make it turn easier,
Uncle Joe?" he asked as he straightened up.
"Bah, who ever heard of oiling a grindstone?" answered his uncle,
throwing some water on the bearings, which caused a lot of rust to
work out at the ends.
"I guess you'd like to go fishing to-day, instead of working?" he
observed.
"No, Uncle Joe, I'm willing to work," replied Bob, "but you don't know
how hard this old stone turns."
"Oh, I don't, don't I?" said his uncle. "Well, I turned this stone,
Bob, before you were born, and your father turned it before me."
"And you never put any oil or grease on it all that time?" inquired
Bob.
"Of course not," said his uncle, "only elbow grease. We boys always
had enough of that to keep the stone running in those days," he
continued with a sarcastic smile.
"Well, there might have been an excuse in those days, Uncle Joe, for
using a hand-power grindstone, but there certainly is none in these
days, with water power, electricity and gasoline," he added, between
breaths, as he began tugging away again at the handle.
"If you wouldn't waste your energy talking nonsense and turn faster,
we would get done sooner," said his uncle bearing down harder than
ever.
Bob stopped turning and stood up as straight as his aching back would
allow him, and looking his uncle square in the eyes, said:
"Suppose you turn a while, Uncle Joe, and I'll hold the axe."
"No, you just keep on turning--you don't know how to grind an axe,"
replied his uncle; "besides, that's the boy's job."
"Perhaps you could teach me how it's done, while you're turning," said
Bob, not offering to continue.
"That's only fair, Joe," said his grandfather, coming up suddenly
behind them and overhearing what was said. "The old stone does seem to
turn harder than ever these days."
"Well, I'll show you how easy it turns," said his uncle, starting the
stone spinning, but looked up quickly a moment later as it suddenly
slowed down to a dead stop, for his father, instead of Bob, was
holding the axe against it.
"Go on, Joe; don't stop; it's only a boy's job," he laughed, as he
bore down so hard on the axe that the stone could not be started.
"Where are you going, Bob?" asked his uncle, as Bob started in the
direction of the barn.
"I'm going to the wagon shed, Uncle Joe, to get some axle grease and
see if we can't make the stone turn easier."
The metal plates covering the bearings were removed, and the caked
rust pried out from between the rollers, for the stone had been
mounted on small cast-iron wheels or rollers, but the wheels had been
allowed to become rusted and finally had ceased to revolve.
When the rust had all been cleaned out and the wheels removed and
cleaned, they were well greased and replaced.
"Now try it, Bob," said his grandfather, smiling; "it's a poor rain
that doesn't bring some good."
The stone now spun around easily in the hands of the willing boy, and
by noon all the tools had been ground, including some additional ones
that his grandfather, seeing the work going so fast, had added to the
pile. When all were finished, Bob wiped them off with a greasy rag,
while his grandfather stood watching him keenly.
"You'll make a good farmer some day, Bob," he said a little later,
"for I see you use your head as well as your muscle. All my life I've
been grinding farm tools, but I never once greased them to keep them
from getting rusty, and they were mostly rusty, too, when I wanted to
use them," he added with a dry smile.
"How'd you like to have the afternoon off, Bob, to fish?" asked his
uncle after dinner, looking at the rain.
"Fine, Uncle Joe! Perhaps I could catch a mess for supper," the boy
replied, and without waiting for any further suggestions started for
the woodshed to get his rod and line.
He was soon sitting on the end of the log carriage under the shelter
of the saw-mill roof, his line dangling into the water of the forebay,
waiting for a bite. He had been seated only a few moments when his
attention was attracted by a small automobile bouncing over the deep-
rutted road, a few yards to the south of the mill. When it got nearly
opposite, one of the rear tires, with a loud report, blew out, and it
came to a sudden stop. Two men got out of the car, but after looking
up at the sky decided to wait until the shower was over before making
the repairs. So, turning up their coat collars, they ran over to the
shelter of the mill.
They did not seem to notice Bob as they came up a plank at the
opposite end, but sat down on a log with their back to him. As they
seated themselves, one of the men took out his cigar case and passed
it to the other.
"We'd better be careful about smoking in a saw mill, John, don't you
think?" remarked the other, as he hesitated to take the proffered
cigar.
"Oh, that's all right, Al," said his friend. "Just be careful where
you throw the match."
"This must be a pretty old mill, John," said the one called "Al," a
few moments later, as, his cigar lighted, he gazed around at the
structure.
"Well, it's been here for some time, that's sure," his friend replied.
"Don't they ever use it any more? Don't look as though they have cut
any lumber here in years," remarked Al.
"No, the timber's pretty well cut down around here, Al, and one
doesn't haul it very far in these days of portable steam mills. In the
old days, you know, they hauled the tree to the mill; nowadays, they
take the mill to the tree. It's the modern idea."
"But I should think they would use the power for other things," his
friend persisted. "For one thing, the water would be able to run a
small generator and supply the farm with electric lights."
"Electric light! Ha! Ha! Joe Williams using electric lights on his
farm--that's a good one, Al."
"Well, why not?" demanded his friend. "Electricity is not a new thing,
even in the country, and there certainly are enough uses for power on
a farm that would pay for a plant in a very short time."
"Yes, but you don't know Joe Williams, Al," persisted his friend.
"Well, who is he, then, that he never heard of electricity?" demanded
Al.
"Oh, he's heard of electricity all right; but you see he's not
progressive--he has no 'git up and git,' as they say around here. Of
course, he expects to find electric lights and concrete sidewalks in
town, but electric lights on his farm and good roads from here to town
would never enter his head," was the reply.
"Has he always lived here? Doesn't he ever get far enough away from
home to know what the rest of the world is doing, or is he just plain
lazy?" asked his friend.
"Neither, Al. In fact, he spent two years on the big farms in the
West, and I had hoped he would wake up our farmers with new ideas when
he came back and bought the old homestead. But I've been disappointed.
He's one of those powerful men, who thinks that farming is a matter of
physical strength rather than thoughtful planning. He doesn't seem to
see the advantage of headwork. True, it's going to take a lot of hard
work to redeem this old place with its dilapidated buildings and
broken-down fences, but headwork will help a lot. Why, do you know,
Al, the acreage wasted by rail fences on this farm alone would raise
enough corn each year to send a boy to college."
"Yes, and what's more," he continued, "here's an old pond full of the
richest soil in the whole county--soil that's been washed down from
the fertile fields for years--to say nothing of the drainage from
three big barns; and what does it produce?--nothing. Do you know, if I
owned this farm, I'd open the gates and let the water out, put in some
drain tile and plant this bottom land in corn. Why, when that corn got
ripe, you couldn't find a ladder long enough in the county to reach up
to the ears, the stalks would grow so high."
"Well, that would be some tall corn, John," laughed his friend, "but
I've no doubt it's just as you say--this bottom would raise fine corn.
Speaking of that, you ought to see some of the corn I've seen in the
bottom lands out in Illinois and Iowa, But what about electricity if
you do away with the dam?"
"Do you see those two beech trees down there, near the fence where the
brook cuts in between the two steep banks?" asked John pointing.
"Yes, I do," said his friend.
"Well, do you notice how the banks approach each other at that point?
A thirty-or forty-foot dam built across there would back up the water
over an acre or two of ground in there--that land is unfit for
anything else--and it would give them all the water they'd need for
cutting ice in the winter and swimming in the summer; and as for
electricity, a little direct-connection unit run by gasoline and
setting in one corner of the garage, where it would be near at hand,
would do the trick nicely. You know, Al," he continued, "the trouble
with our farmers is they don't manage right. Now take Joe Williams
here for an example. Here's wasted water power; he's still turning the
old grind-stone by hand, and probably will all his life, unless
someone wakes him up. Then here's this good bottom land wasted. Why,
it was only last week he came in to see me at the bank to borrow a
thousand dollars--said he was going to get married and needed some
money to set himself up in housekeeping, as he's put all his money
into buying the farm. Said he's going to marry a woman who's used to a
little better than farm life, and, now that he's got his brother's boy
helping him, he would like to put on another team."
"Did you loan him the money, John?" asked his friend, keenly
interested.
"No, I didn't, Al. I told him I'd think it over. In fact, it was to
look things over that I came out here to-day," he replied.
"I don't know whether I mentioned to you, John," remarked his friend,
"but the Farmers' Mutual Life Insurance Company, which I represent, is
seeking all the farm loans they can find. We consider them the best
loans to-day."
"How's that, Al?" asked the banker.
"Well, it's like this. You loan a farmer a thousand dollars and in
nearly every case the money goes to improve the land, hence makes the
value that much greater. Then a wide-awake farmer generally wakes up
his neighbors and the value of all the farms goes up, which naturally
makes our risk less. We don't care how bad a farm may be run down,
John, if the farmer is a live one--one who has the 'git up and git,'
as you say--we'll advance him any reasonable amount of money to help
him. And that, by the way, brings me around to tell you why I dropped
off to see you this morning. We want to place some of our surplus
funds in farm loans in your section and would like to have your bank
handle them for us."
"Why, Al, that's fine. I've a small policy myself in your company, and
it's certainly good of you to pick out the First National to place
these loans. I'll be a real booster for your company now.
"But referring to wasted opportunities, Al, do you see that sand and
gravel pit over there on the other side of the pond? There's enough
sand and gravel there, I've no doubt, to supply this entire county
with concrete fence posts, silos, barns and all manner of buildings,
to say nothing of building fine concrete roads throughout the whole
county. And I'll tell you something more: Joe Williams hasn't waked up
to the fact that there's a railroad coming through about three miles
below his farm that will require thousands of yards of sand and gravel
for concrete bridges, and that this is the only sand and gravel pit
within a reasonable haul that's worth while. Why, do you know, Al, for
years and years they've been letting people drive in here and haul
away sand and gravel free of charge.
"You don't say!" exclaimed his friend.
"Yes, but speaking of concrete, Al, just think what a saving in
horseflesh a twenty-foot smooth concrete road all the way from here to
town would mean to these farmers--recent tests with a three-ton auto
truck show that while it could make only 3.6 miles per hour over dirt
roads, it could make twelve miles per hour over unsurfaced concrete
roads, which would represent in the United States a saving of nearly
two and one-half million dollars on auto-truck hauling alone, to say
nothing of horse-drawn vehicles--just think of it, Al. But there's
that old dirt road, same as it's been for years, hub deep with mud in
spring and winter, and so dusty in summer that there is no pleasure in
driving over it, and a dead loss in both time and money every time a
farmer drives over it."
"It's surely the roughest road I've ever traveled on, John," laughed
his friend, "and I've no doubt what you say is right. If farmers would
only take to using lead pencils and figure a little they would soon
discover where their losses are."
"You know the old way of repairing roads, Al. They dig the dirt out of
the gutters in the springtime and fill up the rut holes, and then the
next spring do the same thing over again, from 'generation to
generation,' as the good Book says. I'm satisfied myself," he
continued, "that our county will never go ahead until we begin putting
down good roads. I was telling our Commissioners only yesterday that
the First National Bank would guarantee the bond issue for any road-
building work they would undertake in any part of the county."
The two men sat in silence for a time, looking out at the rain. Then
they got up and started to walk to the other end of the mill.
"Why, hello, boy! Fishing?" remarked Al, as he noticed Bob for the
first time.
"Yes," replied Bob.
"Catching anything, are you?" asked the banker.
"Well, you never can tell what you can catch on a rainy day," the boy
replied slowly. "Uncle Joe greased the grindstone to-day for the first
time in its history."
"You don't say!" laughed the banker; "who put him up to that, I'd like
to know?"
Bob only grinned and remained silent.
"Well, it looks as though the rain were going to pass over," said the
banker a few minutes later, as he looked out at his stranded
automobile.
"What's your name, young man?" inquired the insurance man.
"Bob Williams," he replied.
"Oh, then you are Billy Williams' son, who's working here this
summer," said the banker. "Well, how does it happen that you're
fishing instead of working to-day, I'd like to know? Couldn't your
Uncle Joe find anything for you to do?"
"Yes, he did; but we greased the grindstone and got through at noon,"
Bob replied smiling.
"Well, he was square in letting you have the afternoon off after you
showed him how to save it," the banker replied. "Some time, Bob, when
you're in town, drop in and see me at the bank, and, by the way, if
you ever catch any turtles, bring them to me. I'll be glad to pay you
fifty cents each for all you can catch. I'm rather fond of a good
snapper."
"What are you going to do now?" inquired the insurance man, seeing Bob
winding up his fishing line.
"Guess I'll go up to the barn and look for some lumber to build a long
ladder," the boy replied grinning.
"Well, so long, Bob," said the insurance man with a smile. "Good luck
to you! I see you've good ears."
IV
DRAINING THE POND
It was quite evident to Bob the next morning that his uncle was
worrying about something; he was not only absent-minded, but he was
short and crusty and found fault with everything that Bob did.
It was Sunday, and after the chores were finished, Bob walked down
back of the barn and stood looking at the pond for quite a while,
pondering over what the banker and insurance man had said. Then he
walked over to the west slope which ran along the side of the small
hill where the house and barn stood and examined the contour of the
ground carefully.
"What are you trying to discover in the hog lot, Bob?" asked his
uncle, suddenly coming up behind him.
Bob's face was very serious, and he looked up at his uncle a moment
before replying.
"I was just wondering how much it would cost to hire a man to grade a
road up the side of this slope and get rid of the steep hill in front
of the barn."
"What an idea!" exclaimed his uncle. "Hire a man, indeed! You must be
crazy. We don't hire any men to work on this farm."
"Oh, yes, you do--you hired me, Uncle Joe."
"Well, but that's different, Bob," said his uncle, half smiling. "You
don't get paid."
"Oh, yes, I do, Uncle Joe. Father said you told him you'd pay me
whatever I was worth to you, and I'm willing to wait till you find
out, but I certainly expect to be paid money for my work."
"Your father shouldn't have told you I'd give you money. Of course,"
he added quickly, seeing Bob's face cloud, "I expect to get you some
new clothes in the fall."
"But father said I'm old enough now to buy my own clothes and that
this year he'd let me do it. You just keep account of how much work
and other things I do for you and pay me what I'm worth," Bob
answered.
"What do you mean about other things?" asked his uncle quickly.
"Well, for instance," said Bob, looking him squarely in the eyes, "you
want to borrow a thousand dollars at the First National Bank and they
haven't told you whether they'd give it to you or not."
"Who told you that?" demanded his uncle coloring.
"I don't care to say," replied Bob, "but it wasn't grandmother or
grandfather," he added quickly, to clear them of any suspicion of
having violated a confidence.
"Of course, they didn't," said his uncle. "They don't know anything
about it."
"I can tell you how you can get all the money you want--enough even to
build a new house and a new barn, with silos, new fences, and other
buildings. Also a concrete road from the house to the main road and
put a bathroom and electric lights in the house, too," Bob added.
"Have you gone crazy?" demanded his uncle, scarcely able to believe
his ears. "What nonsense are you talking this morning?"
"Well, you want to find out how it can be done, don't you?" he asked.
"Well, it won't do any harm to tell me," replied his uncle, suddenly
remembering his approaching marriage and how far his slender purse
would go toward fixing up the place and making it presentable to his
bride.
"Drain the pond and plant it in corn," said Bob triumphantly.
"What's that?" asked his uncle again, not sure he heard correctly.