Boys in general would be very good farmers if the current notions
about farming were not so very different from those they entertain.
What passes for laziness is very often an unwillingness to farm in a
particular way. For instance, some morning in early summer John is
told to catch the sorrel mare, harness her into the spring wagon, and
put in the buffalo and the best whip, for father is obliged to drive
over to the "Corners, to see a man" about some cattle, to talk with
the road commissioner, to go to the store for the "women folks," and
to attend to other important business; and very likely he will not be
back till sundown. It must be very pressing business, for the old
gentleman drives off in this way somewhere almost every pleasant day,
and appears to have a great deal on his mind.
Meantime, he tells John that he can play ball after he has done up
the chores. As if the chores could ever be "done up" on a farm. He
is first to clean out the horse-stable; then to take a bill-hook and
cut down the thistles and weeds from the fence corners in the home
mowing-lot and along the road towards the village; to dig up the
docks round the garden patch; to weed out the beet-bed; to hoe the
early potatoes; to rake the sticks and leaves out of the front yard;
in short, there is work enough laid out for John to keep him busy, it
seems to him, till he comes of age; and at half an hour to sundown he
is to go for the cows "and mind he don't run 'em!"
"Yes, sir," says John, "is that all?"
"Well, if you get through in good season, you might pick over those
potatoes in the cellar; they are sprouting; they ain't fit to eat."
John is obliged to his father, for if there is any sort of chore more
cheerful to a boy than another, on a pleasant day, it is rubbing the
sprouts off potatoes in a dark cellar. And the old gentleman mounts
his wagon and drives away down the enticing road, with the dog
bounding along beside the wagon, and refusing to come back at John's
call. John half wishes he were the dog. The dog knows the part of
farming that suits him. He likes to run along the road and see all
the dogs and other people, and he likes best of all to lie on the
store steps at the Corners--while his master's horse is dozing at the
post and his master is talking politics in the store--with the other
dogs of his acquaintance, snapping at mutually annoying flies, and
indulging in that delightful dog gossip which is expressed by a wag
of the tail and a sniff of the nose. Nobody knows how many dogs'
characters are destroyed in this gossip, or how a dog may be able to
insinuate suspicion by a wag of the tail as a man can by a shrug of
the shoulders, or sniff a slander as a man can suggest one by raising
his eyebrows.
John looks after the old gentleman driving off in state, with the
odorous buffalo-robe and the new whip, and he thinks that is the sort
of farming he would like to do. And he cries after his departing
parent,
"Say, father, can't I go over to the farther pasture and salt the
cattle?" John knows that he could spend half a day very pleasantly
in going over to that pasture, looking for bird's nests and shying at
red squirrels on the way, and who knows but he might "see" a sucker
in the meadow brook, and perhaps get a "jab" at him with a sharp
stick. He knows a hole where there is a whopper; and one of his
plans in life is to go some day and snare him, and bring him home in
triumph. It is therefore strongly impressed upon his mind that the
cattle want salting. But his father, without turning his head,
replies,
"No, they don't need salting any more 'n you do!" And the old
equipage goes rattling down the road, and John whistles his
disappointment. When I was a boy on a farm, and I suppose it is so
now, cattle were never salted half enough!
John goes to his chores, and gets through the stable as soon as he
can, for that must be done; but when it comes to the out-door work,
that rather drags. There are so many things to distract the
attention--a chipmunk in the fence, a bird on a near-tree, and a
hen-hawk circling high in the air over the barnyard. John loses a
little time in stoning the chipmunk, which rather likes the sport, and
in watching the bird, to find where its nest is; and he convinces
himself that he ought to watch the hawk, lest it pounce upon the
chickens, and therefore, with an easy conscience, he spends fifteen
minutes in hallooing to that distant bird, and follows it away out of
sight over the woods, and then wishes it would come back again. And
then a carriage with two horses, and a trunk on behind, goes along the
road; and there is a girl in the carriage who looks out at John, who
is suddenly aware that his trousers are patched on each knee and in
two places behind; and he wonders if she is rich, and whose name is on
the trunk, and how much the horses cost, and whether that nice-looking
man is the girl's father, and if that boy on the seat with the driver
is her brother, and if he has to do chores; and as the gay sight
disappears, John falls to thinking about the great world beyond the
farm, of cities, and people who are always dressed up, and a great
many other things of which he has a very dim notion. And then a boy,
whom John knows, rides by in a wagon with his father, and the boy
makes a face at John, and John returns the greeting with a twist of
his own visage and some symbolic gestures. All these things take
time. The work of cutting down the big weeds gets on slowly, although
it is not very disagreeable, or would not be if it were play. John
imagines that yonder big thistle is some whiskered villain, of whom he
has read in a fairy book, and he advances on him with "Die, ruffian!"
and slashes off his head with the bill-hook; or he charges upon the
rows of mullein-stalks as if they were rebels in regimental ranks, and
hews them down without mercy. What fun it might be if there were only
another boy there to help. But even war, single handed, gets to be
tiresome. It is dinner-time before John finishes the weeds, and it is
cow-time before John has made much impression on the garden.
This garden John has no fondness for. He would rather hoe corn all
day than work in it. Father seems to think that it is easy work that
John can do, because it is near the house! John's continual plan in
this life is to go fishing. When there comes a rainy day, he
attempts to carry it out. But ten chances to one his father has
different views. As it rains so that work cannot be done out-doors,
it is a good time to work in the garden. He can run into the house
between the heavy showers. John accordingly detests the garden; and
the only time he works briskly in it is when he has a stent set, to
do so much weeding before the Fourth of July. If he is spry, he can
make an extra holiday the Fourth and the day after. Two days of
gunpowder and ball-playing! When I was a boy, I supposed there was
some connection between such and such an amount of work done on the
farm and our national freedom. I doubted if there could be any
Fourth of July if my stent was not done. I, at least, worked for my
Independence.