While Father sowed the grain, Almanzo followed him over the fields with Bess and Beauty, harrowing the seeds into the earth. Almanzo could not sow grain yet; he must practice a long time before he could spread the seeds evenly. That is hard to do.
The heavy sack of grain hung from a strap over Father’s left shoulder. As he walked, he took handfuls of grain from the sack. With a sweep of his arm and a bend of his wrist he let the little grains fly from his fingers. The sweep of his arm kept time with his steps, and when Father finished sowing a field every inch of ground had its evenly scattered seeds, nowhere too many or too few.
The seeds were too small to be seen on the ground, and you could not know how skillful a sower a man was, till the seeds came up. Father told Almanzo about a lazy, worthless boy who had been sent to sow a field. This boy did not want to work, so he poured the seeds out of his sack and went swimming. Nobody saw him. Afterward he harrowed the field, and no one knew what he had done. But the seeds knew, and the earth knew, and when even the boy had forgotten his wickedness, they told it. Weeds took that field.
When all the grain was sowed, Almanzo and Alice planted the carrots. They had sacks full of the little, red, round carrot seeds hanging from their shoulders, like Father’s big seed-sack. Father had marked the carrot field lengthwise, with a marker whose teeth were only eighteen inches apart. Almanzo and Alice, with the carrot seeds, went up and down the long field, straddling the little furrows.
Now the weather was so warm that they could go barefooted. Their bare feet felt good in the air and the soft dirt. They dribbled the carrot seeds into the furrows, and with their feet they pushed the dirt over the seeds and pressed it down.
Almanzo could see his feet, but of course Alice’s were hidden under her skirts. Her hoops rounded out, and she had to pull them back and stoop to drop the seeds neatly into the furrow.
Almanzo asked her if she didn’t want to be a boy. She said yes, she did. Then she said no, she didn’t.
“Boys aren’t pretty like girls, and they can’t wear ribbons.”
“I don’t care how pretty I be,” Almanzo said. “And I wouldn’t wear ribbons anyhow.”
“Well, I like to make butter and I like to patch quilts. And cook, and sew, and spin. Boys can’t do that. But even if I be a girl, I can drop potatoes and sow carrots and drive horses as well as you can.”
“You can’t whistle on a grass stem,” Almanzo said.
At the end of the row he looked at the ash tree’s crumpled new leaves, and asked Alice if she knew when to plant corn. She didn’t, so he told her. Corn-planting time is when the ash leaves are as big as squirrel’s ears.
“How big a squirrel?” Alice asked.
“Just an ordinary squirrel.”
“Well, those leaves are as big as a baby squirrel’s ears. And it isn’t corn-planting time.”
For a minute Almanzo didn’t know what to think. Then he said:
“A baby squirrel isn’t a squirrel; it’s a kitten.”
“But it’s just as much a squirrel—”
“No it isn’t. It’s a kitten. Little cats are kittens, and little foxes are kittens, and little squirrels are kittens. A kitten isn’t a cat, and a kitten isn’t a squirrel, either.”
“Oh,” Alice said.
When the ash leaves were big enough, Almanzo helped to plant corn. The field had been marked with the potato marker, and Father and Royal and Almanzo planted it together.
They wore bags of seed corn tied around their waists like aprons, and they carried hoes. At the corner of each square, where the furrows crossed, they stirred up the soil with the hoe, and made a shallow hollow in it, dropped two grains of corn into the hollow, and covered them with dirt and patted the dirt firm.
Father and Royal worked fast. Their hands and their hoes made exactly the same movements every time. Three quick slashes and a dab with the hoe, a flash of the hand, then a scoop and two pats with the hoe, and that hill of corn was planted. Then they made one quick stride forward, and did it again.
But Almanzo had never planted corn before. He did not handle the hoe so well. He had to trot two steps where Royal or Father took one, because his legs were shorter. Father and Royal were ahead of him all the time; he could not keep up. One of them finished out his row each time, so that he could start out even again. But he knew he would plant corn as fast as anybody, when his legs were longer.
Chapter 12
Tin-Peddler
One evening after sunset Almanzo saw a white horse pulling a large, bright-red cart up the road, and he yelled:
“The tin-peddler’s coming! The tin-peddler’s coming!”
Alice ran out of the henhouse with her apron full of eggs. Mother and Eliza Jane came to the kitchen door. Royal popped out of the pump-house. And the young horses put their heads through the windows of their stalls and whinnied to the big white horse.
Nick Brown, the tin-peddler, was a jolly, fat man, who told stories and sang songs. In the springtime he went driving along all the country roads, bringing news from far and near.
His cart was like a little house, swinging on stout leather straps between four high wheels. It had a door on either side, and from its rear a platform slanted upward like a bird’s tail, held in place by straps that went to the cart’s top. There was a fancy railing all around the top of the cart, and the cart and the platform and the wheels were all painted bright red, with beautiful scrolls painted bright yellow. High in front rode Nick Brown, on a red seat above the rump of the sturdy white horse.
Almanzo and Alice and Royal and even Eliza Jane were waiting when the cart stopped by the kitchen porch, and Mother was smiling in the doorway.
“How do you do, Mr. Brown!” she called. “Put up your horse and come right in, supper’s almost ready!” And Father called from the barn, “Drive into the Buggy-House, Nick, there’s plenty of room!”
Almanzo unhitched the sleek, big horse and led him to water, then put him in a stall and gave him a double feed of oats and plenty of hay. Mr. Brown carefully currycombed and brushed him, and rubbed him down with clean cloths. He was a good horseman. After that he looked at all the stock and gave his opinion of it. He admired Star and Bright and praised Father’s colts.
“You ought to get a good price for those coming four-year-olds,” he said to Father. “Over by Saranac, the New York buyers are looking for driving-horses. One of them paid two hundred dollars apiece last week for a team not a mite better than these.”
Almanzo could not speak while grown-ups were talking, of course. But he could listen. He didn’t miss anything that Mr. Brown said. And he knew that the best time of all was coming after supper.
Nick Brown could tell more funny stories and sing more songs than any other man. He said so himself, and it was true.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I’ll back myself, not alone against any man, but against any crowd of men. I’ll tell story for story and sing song for song, as long as you’ll bring men up against me, and when they’re all done, I’ll tell the last story and sing the last song.”
Father knew this was true. He had heard Nick Brown do it, in Mr. Case’s store in Malone.
So after supper they all settled down by the heater, and Mr. Brown began. It was after nine o’clock before anyone went to bed, and Almanzo’s sides ached with laughing.
Next morning after breakfast Mr. Brown hitched the white horse to the cart and drove it up to the kitchen porch, and he opened the red doors.
Inside the cart was everything ever made of tin. On shelves along the walls were nests of bright tin pails, and pans, and basins, cake-pans, pie-pans, bread-pans, and dishpans. Overhead dangled cups and dippers, skimmers and strainers, steamers, colanders, and graters. There were tin horns, tin whistles, toy tin dishes and patty-pans, there were all kinds of little animals made of tin and brightly painted.
Mr. Brown had made all these himself, in the winter-time, and every piece was made of good thick tin, well made and solidly soldered.
Mo
ther brought the big rag-bags from the attic, and emptied on the porch floor all the rags she had saved during the last year. Mr. Brown examined the good, clean rags of wool and linen, while Mother looked at the shining tinware, and they began to trade.
For a long time they talked and argued. Shining tinware and piles of rags were all over the porch. For every pile of rags that Nick Brown added to the big pile, Mother asked more tinware than he wanted to trade her. They were both having a good time, joking and laughing and trading. At last Mr. Brown said:
“Well, ma’am, I’ll trade you the milk-pans and pails, the colander and the skimmer, and the three baking-pans, but not the dishpan, and that’s my final offer.”
“Very well, Mr. Brown,” Mother said, unexpectedly. She had got exactly what she wanted. Almanzo knew she did not need the dishpan; she had set it out only to bargain with. Mr. Brown knew that, too, now. He looked surprised, and he looked respectfully at Mother. Mother was a good, shrewd trader. She had bested Mr. Brown. But he was satisfied, too, because he had got plenty of good rags for his tinware.
He gathered up the rags and tied them into a bale, and heaved the bale onto the slanting platform behind his cart. The platform and the railing around the top of the cart were made to hold the rags he took in trade.
Then Mr. Brown rubbed his hands together and looked around, smiling.
“Well now,” he said, “I wonder what these young folks would like!”
He gave Eliza Jane six little diamond-shaped patty-pans to bake little cakes in, and he gave Alice six heart-shaped ones, and he gave Almanzo a tin horn painted red. They all said:
“Thank you, Mr. Brown!”
Then Mr. Brown climbed to his high seat and took up the reins. The big white horse stepped out eagerly, well fed and brushed and rested. The red cart went past the house and lurched into the road, and Mr. Brown began to whistle.
Mother had her tinware for that year, and Almanzo had his loud-squawking horn, and Nick Brown rode whistling away between the green trees and the fields. Until he came again next spring they would remember his news and laugh at his jokes, and behind the horses in the field, Almanzo would whistle the songs he had sung.
Chapter 13
The Strange Dog
Dick Brown had said that New York horse-buyers were in the neighborhood, so every night Father gave the four-year-old colts a special, careful grooming. The four-year-olds were already perfectly broken, and Almanzo wanted so much to help groom them that Father let him. But he was allowed to go into their stalls only when Father was there.
Carefully Almanzo currycombed and brushed their shining brown sides, and their smooth round haunches and slender legs. Then he rubbed them down with clean cloths. He combed and braided their black manes and their long black tails. With a little brush he oiled their curved hoofs, till they shone black as Mother’s polished stove.
He was careful never to move suddenly and startle them. He talked to them while he worked, in a gentle, low voice. The colts nibbled his sleeve with their lips, and nuzzled at his pockets for the apples he brought them. They arched their necks when he rubbed their velvety noses, and their soft eyes shone.
Almanzo knew that in the whole world there was nothing so beautiful, so fascinating, as beautiful horses. When he thought that it would be years and years before he could have a little colt to teach and take care of, he could hardly bear it.
One evening the horse-buyer came riding into the barnyard. He was a strange horse-buyer; Father had never seen him before. He was dressed in city clothes, of machine-made cloth, and he tapped his shining tall boots with a little red whip. His black eyes were close to his thin nose; his black beard was trimmed into a point, and the ends of his mustache were waxed and twisted.
He looked very strange, standing in the barnyard and thoughtfully twisting one end of his mustache into a sharper point.
Father led out the colts. They were perfectly matched Morgans, exactly the same size, the same shape, the same bright brown all over, with the same white stars on their foreheads. They arched their necks and picked up their little feet daintily.
“Four years old in May, sound in wind and limb, not a blemish on them,” Father said. “Broken to drive double or single. They’re high-spirited, full of ginger, and gentle as kittens. A lady can drive them.”
Almanzo listened. He was excited, but he remembered carefully everything that Father and the horse-buyer said. Some day he would be trading horses, himself.
The buyer felt the colts’ legs, he opened their mouths and looked at their teeth. Father had nothing to fear from that; he had told the truth about the colts’ age. Then the buyer stood back and watched, while Father took each colt on a long rope and made it walk, trot, and gallop in a circle around him.
“Look at that action,” Father said.
The shining black manes and tails rippled in the air. Brown lights flowed over their smooth bodies, and their delicate feet seemed hardly to touch the ground. Round and round they went, like a tune.
The buyer looked. He tried to find fault, but he couldn’t. The colts stood still, and Father waited. Finally the buyer offered $175 apiece.
Father said he couldn’t take less than $225. Almanzo knew he said that, because he wanted $200. Nick Brown had told him that horse-buyers were paying that much.
Then Father hitched both colts to the buggy. He and the buyer climbed in, and away they went down the road. The colts’ heads were high, their noses stretched out; their manes and tails blew in the wind of their speed, and their flashing legs moved all together, as though the colts were one colt. The buggy was gone out of sight in a minute.
Almanzo knew he must go on with the chores. He went into the barn and took the pitchfork; then he put it down and came out to watch for the colts’ return.
When they came back, Father and the buyer had not agreed on the price. Father tugged at his beard, and the buyer twisted his mustache. The buyer talked about the expense of taking the colts to New York, and about the low prices there. He had to think of his profit. The best he could offer was $175.
Father said: “I’ll split the difference. Two hundred dollars, and that’s my last price.”
The buyer thought, and answered, “I don’t see my way clear to pay that.”
“All right,” Father said. “No hard feelings, and we’ll be glad to have you stay to supper.”
He began to unhitch the colts. The buyer said:
“Over by Saranac they’re selling better horses than these for one hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
Father didn’t answer. He unhitched the colts and led them toward their stalls. Then the buyer said:
“All right, two hundred it is. I’ll lose money by it, but here you are.” He took a fat wallet out of his pocket and gave Father $200 to bind the bargain. “Bring them to town tomorrow, and get the rest.”
The colts were sold, at Father’s price.
The buyer would not stay to supper. He rode away, and Father took the money to Mother in the kitchen. Mother exclaimed:
“You mean to say we must keep all that money in the house overnight!”
“It’s too late to take it to the bank,” Father said. “We’re safe enough. Nobody but us knows the money’s here.”
“I declare I sha’n’t sleep a wink!”
“The Lord will take care of us,” Father said.
“The Lord helps them that help themselves,” Mother replied. “I wish to goodness that money was safe in the bank.”
It was already past chore-time, and Almanzo had to hurry to the barn with the milk-pails. If cows are not milked at exactly the same time, night and morning, they will not give so much milk. Then there were the mangers and stalls to clean and all the stock to feed. It was almost eight o’clock before everything was done, and Mother was keeping supper warm.
Supper-time was not as cheerful as usual. There was a dark, heavy feeling about that money. Mother had hidden it in the pantry, then she hid it in the linen-closet. After supper sh
e began setting the sponge for tomorrow’s baking, and worrying again about the money. Her hands flew, the bread sponge made little plopping sounds under her spoon, and she was saying:
“It don’t seem as though anybody’d think to look between sheets in the closet, but I declare I—What’s that!”
They all jumped. They held their breaths and listened.
“Something or somebody’s prowling round this house!” Mother breathed.
All you could see when you looked at the windows was blackness outside.
“Pshaw! ’Twa’n’t anything,” Father said.
“I tell you I heard something!”
“I didn’t,” Father said.
“Royal,” said Mother, “you go look.”
Royal opened the kitchen door and peered into the dark. After a minute he said:
“It’s nothing but a stray dog.”
“Drive it away!” said Mother. Royal went out and drove it away.
Almanzo wished he had a dog. But a little dog digs up the garden and chases hens and sucks eggs, and a big dog may kill sheep. Mother always said there was stock enough on the place, without a dirty dog.
She set away the bread sponge. Almanzo washed his feet. He had to wash his feet every night, when he went barefoot. He was washing them when they all heard a stealthy sound on the back porch.
Mother’s eyes were big. Royal said:
“It’s only that dog.”
He opened the door. At first they saw nothing, and Mother’s eyes got bigger. Then they saw a big, thin dog cringing away in the shadows. His ribs showed under his fur.
“Oh, Mother, the poor dog!” Alice cried. “Please, Mother, can’t I give him just a little bit to eat?”
“Goodness, child, yes!” Mother said. “You can drive him away in the morning, Royal.”
Alice set out a pan of food for the dog. He dared not come near it while the door was open, but when Almanzo shut the door they heard him chewing. Mother tried the door twice to make sure it was locked.
The dark came into the kitchen when they left it with the candles, and the dark looked in through the dining-room windows. Mother locked both dining-room doors, and she even went into the parlor and tried the parlor door, though it was always kept locked.