FRANK R. STOCKTON
POMONA'S NOVEL
It was in the latter part of August of that year that it becamenecessary for some one in the office in which I was engaged to go toSt. Louis to attend to important business. Everything seemed to pointto me as the fit person, for I understood the particular businessbetter than any one else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did notaltogether like to do it. I went home, and Euphemia and I talked overthe matter far into the regulation sleeping hours.
There were very good reasons why we should go (for of course I wouldnot think of taking such a journey without Euphemia). In the firstplace, it would be of advantage to me, in my business connection, totake the trip, and then it would be such a charming journey for us. Wehad never been west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the country wewould see would be new to us. We would come home by the Great Lakesand Niagara, and the prospect was delightful to both of us. But thenwe would have to leave Rudder Grange for at least three weeks, and howcould we do that?
This was indeed a difficult question to answer. Who could take careof our garden, our poultry, our horse, and cow, and all theircomplicated belongings? The garden was in admirable condition. Ourvegetables were coming in every day in just that fresh and satisfactorycondition--altogether unknown to people who buy vegetables--for which Ihad labored so faithfully, and about which I had had so many cheerfulanticipations. As to Euphemia's chicken-yard--with Euphemia away--thesubject was too great for us. We did not even discuss it. But we wouldgive up all the pleasures of our home for the chance of this mostdesirable excursion, if we could but think of some one who would comeand take care of the place while we were gone. Rudder Grange could notrun itself for three weeks.
We thought of every available person. Old John would not do. We did notfeel that we could trust him. We thought of several of our friends;but there was, in both our minds, a certain shrinking from the idea ofhanding over the place to any of them for such a length of time. For mypart, I said, I would rather leave Pomona in charge than any one else;but then Pomona was young and a girl. Euphemia agreed with me that shewould rather trust her than any one else, but she also agreed in regardto the disqualifications. So when I went to the office the next morningwe had fully determined to go on the trip, if we could find some one totake charge of our place while we were gone. When I returned from theoffice in the afternoon I had agreed to go to St. Louis. By this timeI had no choice in the matter unless I wished to interfere very muchwith my own interests. We were to start in two days. If in that timewe could get any one to stay at the place, very well; if not, Pomonamust assume the charge. We were not able to get any one, and Pomona didassume the charge. It is surprising how greatly relieved we felt whenwe were obliged to come to this conclusion. The arrangement was exactlywhat we wanted, and now that there was no help for it our conscienceswere easy.
We felt sure that there would be no danger to Pomona. Lord Edward wouldbe with her, and she was a young person who was extraordinary well ableto take care of herself. Old John would be within call in case sheneeded him, and I borrowed a bulldog to be kept in the house at night.Pomona herself was more than satisfied with the plan.
We made out, the night before we left, a long and minute series ofdirections for her guidance in household, garden and farm matters, anddirected her to keep a careful record of everything noteworthy thatmight occur. She was fully supplied with all the necessaries of life,and it has seldom happened that a young girl has been left in such aresponsible and independent position as that in which we left Pomona.She was very proud of it. Our journey was ten times more delightfulthan we had expected it would be, and successful in every way; and yet,although we enjoyed every hour of the trip, we were no sooner fairlyon our way home than we became so wildly anxious to get there that wereached Rudder Grange on Wednesday, whereas we had written that wewould be home on Thursday. We arrived early in the afternoon and walkedup from the station, leaving our baggage to be sent in the expresswagon. As we approached our dear home we wanted to run, we were soeager to see it.
There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch; the gate waslocked. We ran to the carriage gate; that was locked, too. Just then Inoticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed, but the letteringwas large, apparently made with ink and a brush. It read--
TO BE SOLD FOR TAXES.
We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia turned pale.
"What does this mean?" said I. "Has our landlord----?"
I could say no more. The dreadful thought arose that the place mightpass away from us. We were not yet ready to buy it. But I did not putthe thought in words. There was a field next to our lot, and I gotover the fence and helped Euphemia over. Then we climbed our sidefence. This was more difficult, but we accomplished it without thinkingmuch about its difficulties; our hearts were too full of painfulapprehensions. I hurried to the front door; it was locked. All thelower windows were shut. We went around to the kitchen. What surprisedus more than anything else was the absence of Lord Edward. Had _he_been sold?
Before we reached the back part of the house Euphemia said she feltfaint and must sit down. I led her to a tree nearby, under which Ihad made a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She sat on the grass,and I ran to the pump for some water. I looked for the bright tindipper which always hung by the pump. It was not there. But I had atraveling cup in my pocket, and as I was taking it out I looked aroundme. There was an air of bareness over everything. I did not know whatit all meant, but I know that my hand trembled as I took hold of thepump-handle and began to pump.
At the first sound of the pump-handle I heard a deep bark in thedirection of the barn, and then furiously around the corner came LordEdward.
Before I had filled the cup he was bounding about me. I believe theglad welcome of the dog did more to revive Euphemia than the water. Hewas delighted to see us, and in a moment up came Pomona, running fromthe barn. Her face was radiant, too. We felt relieved. Here were twofriends who looked as if they were neither sold nor ruined.
Pomona quickly saw that we were ill at ease, and before I could put aquestion to her she divined the cause. Her countenance fell.
"You know," said she, "you said you wasn't coming till to-morrow. Ifyou only _had_ come then--I was going to have everything just exactlyright--an' now you had to climb in----"
And the poor girl looked as if she might cry, which would have been awonderful thing for Pomona to do.
"Tell me one thing," said I. "What about--those taxes?"
"Oh, that's all right," she cried. "Don't think another minute aboutthat. I'll tell you all about it soon. But come in first, and I'll getyou some lunch in a minute."
We were somewhat relieved by Pomona's statement that it was "all right"in regard to the tax-poster, but we were very anxious to know all aboutthe matter. Pomona, however, gave us little chance to ask her anyquestions.
As soon as she had made ready our lunch she asked us as a particularfavor to give her three-quarters of an hour to herself, and then, saidshe, "I'll have everything looking just as if it was to-morrow."
We respected her feelings, for, of course, it was a greatdisappointment to her to be taken thus unawares, and we remained inthe dining-room until she appeared and announced that she was readyfor us to go about. We availed ourselves quickly of the privilege, andEuphemia hurried to the chicken-yard, while I bent my steps toward thegarden and barn. As I went out I noticed that the rustic chair was inits place, and passing the pump I looked for the dipper. It was there.I asked Pomona about the chair, but she did not answer as quickly aswas her habit.
"Would you rather," said she, "hear it altogether, when you come in, orhave it in little bits, head and tail, all of a jumble?"
I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought, and she was soanxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather waitand hear it all together. We found everything in perfect order--thegarden was even free from weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it hadnot been for that c
loud on the front fence, I should have been happyenough. Pomona had said it was all right, but she could not have paidthe taxes--however, I would wait; and I went to the barn.
When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, she called me and said shewas in a hurry to hear Pomona's account of things. So I went in, and wesat on the side porch, where it was shady, while Pomona, producing somesheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper step.
"I wrote down the things of any account what happened," said she, "asyou told me to, and while I was about it I thought I'd make it like anovel. It would be jus' as true, and p'r'aps more amusin'. I supposeyou don't mind?"
No, we didn't mind. So she went on.
"I haven't got no name for my novel. I intended to think one outto-night. I wrote this all of nights. And I don't read the firstchapters, for they tell about my birth and my parentage, and my earlyadventures. I'll just come down to what happened to me while you wasaway, because you'll be more anxious to hear about that. All that'swritten here is true, jus' the same as if I told it to you, but I'veput it into novel language because it comes easier to me."
And then, in a voice somewhat different from her ordinary tones, as ifthe "novel language" demanded it, she began to read:
"'Chapter Five. The Lonely House and the Faithful Friend. Thus wasI left alone. None but two dogs to keep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed thelowing kine and water-ed and fed the steed, and then, after my fru-galrepast, I clos-ed the man-si-on, shutting out all re-collectionsof the past and also foresights into the future. That night was ame-mor-able one. I slept soundly until the break of morn, but had theevents transpired which afterward occur-red, what would have hap-pen-edto me no tongue can tell. Early the next day nothing happen-ed. Soonafter breakfast the vener-able John came to bor-row some ker-o-seneoil and a half a pound of sugar, but his attempt was foil-ed. I knewtoo well the in-sid-i-ous foe. In the very out-set of his vil-la-in-yI sent him home with a empty can. For two long days I wan-der-ed amidthe ver-dant pathways of the garden and to the barn, when-ever andanon my du-ty call-ed me, nor did I ere neg-lect the fowlery. No cloudo'erspread this happy peri-od of my life. But the cloud was ri-sing inthe horizon, although I saw it not.
"'It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven, on the morning of aThursday, that I sat pondering in my mind the ques-ti-on what to dowith the butter and the veg-et-ables. Here was butter, and here wasgreen corn and lima beans and trophy tomats, far more than I ere coulduse. And here was a horse, idly cropping the fol-i-age in the field,for as my employer had advis-ed and order-ed, I had put the steed tograss. And here was a wagon, none too new, which had it the top takenoff, or even the curtains roll-ed up, would do for a li-cen-sed vender.With the truck and butter, and mayhap some milk, I could load thewagon----'"
"Oh, Pomona," interrupted Euphemia, "you don't mean to say that youwere thinking of doing anything like that?"
"Well, I was just beginning to think of it," said Pomona. "But Icouldn't have gone away and left the house. And you'll see I didn't doit." And then she continued her novel. "'But while my thoughts werethus employ-ed, I heard Lord Edward burst into bark-ter----'"
At this Euphemia and I could not help bursting into laughter. Pomonadid not seem at all confused, but went on with her reading.
"'I hurried to the door, and, look-ing out, I saw a wagon at the gate.Re-pair-ing there, I saw a man. Said he "Wilt open the gate?" I hadfasten-ed up the gates and remov-ed every stealable ar-ticle from theyard.'"
Euphemia and I looked at each other. This explained the absence of therustic seat and the dipper.
"'Thus, with my mind at ease, I could let my faith-ful fri-end, thedog, for he it was, roam with me through the grounds, while the fi-ercebulldog guard-ed the man-si-on within. Then said I, quite bold untohim, "No. I let in no man here. My em-ploy-er and employ-er-ess are nowfrom home. What do you want?" Then says he, as bold as brass, "I'vecome to put the light-en-ing rods upon the house. Open the gate." "Whatrods?" says I. "The rods as was order-ed," says he. "Open the gate." Istood and gazed at him. Full well I saw through his pinch-beck mask. Iknew his tricks. In the ab-sence of my employer, he would put up rodsand ever so many more than was wanted, and likely, too, some miserabletrash that would attract the light-en-ing, instead of keep-ing it off.Then, as it would spoil the house to take them down, they would bekept, and pay demand-ed. "No, sir," says I. "No light-en-ing rods uponthis house whilst I stand here," and with that I walk-ed away, andlet Lord Edward loose. The man he storm-ed with pas-si-on. His eyesflash-ed fire. He would e'en have scal-ed the gate, but when he saw thedog he did forbear. As it was then near noon, I strode away to feedthe fowls; but when I did return I saw a sight which froze the bloodwith-in my veins----'"
"The dog didn't kill him?" cried Euphemia.
"Oh, no, ma'am!" said Pomona. "You'll see that that wasn't it. 'At onecor-ner of the lot, in front, a base boy, who had accompa-ni-ed thisman, was banging on the fence with a long stick, and thus attrack-ingto hisself the rage of Lord Edward, while the vile intrig-er of alight-en-ing rodder had brought a lad-der to the other side of thehouse, up which he had now as-cend-ed, and was on the roof. Whathorrors fill-ed my soul! How my form trembl-ed!' This," continuedPomona, "is the end of the novel," and she laid her foolscap pages onthe porch.
Euphemia and I exclaimed, with one voice, against this. We had justreached the most exciting part, and I added we had heard nothing yetabout that affair of the taxes.
"You see, sir," said Pomona, "it took me so long to write out thechapters about my birth, my parentage, and my early adventures, thatI hadn't time to finish up the rest. But I can tell you what happenedafter that jus' as well as if I had writ it out." And so she went on,much more glibly than before, with the account of the doings of thelightning-rod man.
"There was that wretch on top of the house, a-fixin' his old rodsand hammerin' away for dear life. He'd brought his ladder over theside fence, where the dog, a-barkin' and plungin' at the boy outside,couldn't see him. I stood dumb for a minute, and then I know'd I hadhim. I rushed into the house, got a piece of well-rope, tied it to thebulldog's collar, an' dragged him out and fastened him to the bottomrung of the ladder. Then I walks over to the front fence with LordEdward's chain, for I knew that if he got at that bulldog there'd betimes, for they'd never been allowed to see each other yet. So says Ito the boy, 'I'm goin' to tie up the dog, so you needn't be afraid ofhis jumpin' over the fence'--which he couldn't do, or the boy wouldhave been a corpse for twenty minutes, or maybe half an hour. The boykinder laughed, and said I needn't mind, which I didn't. Then I went tothe gate, and I clicked to the horse which was standin' there, an' offhe starts, as good as gold, an' trots down the road. The boy, he saidsomethin' or other pretty bad an' away he goes after him; but the horsewas a-trottin' real fast, an' had a good start."
"How on earth could you ever think of doing such things?" saidEuphemia. "That horse might have upset the wagon and broken all thelightning-rods, besides running over I don't know how many people."
"But you see, ma'am, that wasn't my lookout," said Pomona. "I wasa-defendin' the house, and the enemy must expect to have things happento him. So then I hears an awful row on the roof, and there was theman just coming down the ladder. He'd heard the horse go off, and whenhe got about half-way down an' caught a sight of the bulldog, he wasmadder than ever you seed a lightnin-rodder in all your born days.'Take that dog off of there!' he yelled at me. 'No, I won't,' says I.'I never see a girl like you since I was born,' he screams at me. 'Iguess it would 'a' been better fur you if you had,' says I; an' then hewas so mad he couldn't stand it any longer, and he comes down as low ashe could, and when he saw just how long the rope was--which was prettyshort--he made a jump and landed clear of the dog. Then he went ondreadful because he couldn't get at his ladder to take it away; and Iwouldn't untie the dog, because if I had he'd 'a' torn the tendons outof that fellow's legs in no time. I never see a dog in such a boilingpassion, and yet never making no sound at all but bloodcurdlin' grunts.An' I don't see how t
he rodder would 'a' got his ladder at all if thedog hadn't made an awful jump at him, and jerked the ladder down. Itjust missed your geranium-bed, and the rodder, he ran to the other endof it, and began pulling it away, dog and all. 'Look a-here,' says I,'we can fix him now;' and so he cooled down enough to help me, and Iunlocked the front door, and we pushed the bottom end of the ladderin, dog and all; an' then I shut the door as tight as it would goan' untied the end of the rope, an' the rodder pulled the ladder outwhile I held the door to keep the dog from follerin', which he camepretty near doin', anyway. But I locked him in, and then the man beganstormin' again about his wagon; but when he looked out an' see theboy comin' back with it--for somebody must 'a' stopped the horse--hestopped stormin' and went to put up his ladder ag'in. 'No, you don't,'says I; 'I'll let the big dog loose next time, and if I put him at thefoot of your ladder you'll never come down.' 'But I want to go and takedown what I put up,' he says; 'I ain't a-goin' on with this job.' 'No,'says I, 'you ain't; and you can't go up there to wrench off them rodsand make rain-holes in the roof, neither.' He couldn't get no madderthan he was then, an' fur a minute or two he couldn't speak, an' thenhe says, 'I'll have satisfaction for this.' An' says I, 'How?' An' sayshe, 'You'll see what it is to interfere with a ordered job.' An' saysI, 'There wasn't no order about it;' an' says he, 'I'll show you betterthan that;' an' he goes to his wagon an' gits a book, 'There,' says he,'read that.' 'What of it?' says I; 'there's nobody of the name of Balllives here.' That took the man kinder back, and he said he was told itwas the only house on the lane, which I said was right, only it was thenext lane he oughter 'a' gone to. He said no more after that, but justput his ladder in his wagon and went off. But I was not altogether ridof him. He left a trail of his baleful presence behind him.
"That horrid bulldog wouldn't let me come into the house! No matterwhat door I tried, there he was, just foamin' mad. I let him stay tillnearly night, and then went and spoke kind to him; but it was no good.He'd got an awful spite ag'in me. I found something to eat down cellar,and I made a fire outside an' roasted some corn and potatoes. Thatnight I slep' in the barn. I wasn't afraid to be away from the housefor I knew it was safe enough, with that dog in it, and Lord Edwardoutside. For three days, Sunday an all, I was kep' out of this herehouse. I got along pretty well with the sleepin' and the eatin', butthe drinkin' was the worst. I couldn' get no coffee or tea; but therewas plenty of milk."
"Why didn't you get some man to come and attend to the dog?" I asked."It was dreadful to live in that way."
"Well, I didn't know no man that could do it," said Pomona. "The dogwould 'a' been too much for old John, and besides, he was mad aboutthe kerosene. Sunday afternoon, Captain Atkinson and Mrs. Atkinson andtheir little girl in a push-wagon come here, and I told 'em you wasgone away; but they says they would stop a minute, and could I givethem a drink; an' I had nothin' to give it them but an old chicken-bowlthat I had washed out, for even the dipper was in the house, an' I told'em everything was locked up, which was true enough, though they must'a' thought you was a queer kind of people; but I wasn't a-goin' to saynothin' about the dog, fur, to tell the truth, I was ashamed to do it.So as soon as they'd gone, I went down into the cellar--and it's luckythat I had the key for the outside cellar door--and I got a piece offat corn-beef and the meat ax. I unlocked the kitchen door and wentin, with the ax in one hand and the meat in the other. The dog mighttake his choice. I know'd he must be pretty nigh famished, for therewas nothin' that he could get at to eat. As soon as I went in, he camerunnin' to me; but I could see he was shaky on his legs. He looked asort of wicked at me, and then he grabbed the meat. He was all rightthen."
"Oh, my!" said Euphemia, "I am so glad to hear that. I was afraid younever got in. But we saw the dog--is he as savage yet?"
"Oh, no!" said Pomona; "nothin' like it."
"Look here, Pomona," said I, "I want to know about those taxes. When dothey come into your story?"
"Pretty soon, sir," said she, and she went on:
"After that, I know'd it wouldn't do to have them two dogs so thatthey'd have to be tied up if they see each other. Just as like as notI'd want them both at once, and then they'd go to fighting, and leaveme to settle with some bloodthirsty lightnin'-rodder. So, as I know'dif they once had a fair fight and found out which was master, they'd begood friends afterward, I thought the best thing to do would be to let'em fight it out, when there was nothin' else for 'em to do. So I fixedup things for the combat."
"Why, Pomona!" cried Euphemia, "I didn't think you were capable of sucha cruel thing."
"It looks that way, ma'am, but really it ain't," replied the girl."It seemed to me as if it would be a mercy to both of 'em to have thething settled. So I cleared away a place in front of the woodshed andunchained Lord Edward, and then I opened the kitchen door and calledthe bull. Out he came, with his teeth a-showin', and his bloodshoteyes, and his crooked front legs. Like lightnin' from the mount'inblast, he made one bounce for the big dog, and oh! what a fight therewas! They rolled, they gnashed, they knocked over the wood-horse andsent chips a-flyin' all ways at onst. I thought Lord Edward would whipin a minute or two; but he didn't, for the bull stuck to him like aburr, and they was havin' it, ground and lofty, when I hears someone run up behind me, an' turnin' quick, there was the 'piscopalianminister. 'My! my! my!' he hollers, 'what an awful spectacle! Ain'tthere no way of stoppin' it?' 'No, sir,' says I, and I told him how Ididn't want to stop it and the reason why. 'Then,' says he, 'where'syour master?' and I told him how you was away. 'Isn't there any man atall about?' says he. 'No,' says I. 'Then,' says he, 'if there's nobodyelse to stop it, I must do it myself.' An' he took off his coat. 'No,'says I, 'you keep back, sir. If there's anybody to plunge into thaterena, the blood be mine;' an' I put my hand, without thinkin', ag'inhis black shirt-bosom, to hold him back; but he didn't notice, bein'so excited. 'Now,' says I, jist wait one minute, and you'll see thatbull's tail go between his legs. He's weakenin'.' An' sure enough, LordEdward got a good grab at him, and was a-shakin' the very life out ofhim, when I run up and took Lord Edward by the collar. 'Drop it!' saysI; an' he dropped it, for he know'd he'd whipped, and he was prettytired hisself. Then the bulldog, he trotted off with his tail a-hangin'down. 'Now, then,' says I, 'them dogs will be bosom friends foreverafter this.' 'Ah, me!' says he, 'I'm sorry indeed that your employer,for whom I've always had a great respect, should allow you to get intosuch bad habits.'
"That made me feel real bad, and I told him, mighty quick, that you wasthe last man in the world to let me do anything like that, and that ifyou'd a-been here you'd a-separated them dogs if they'd a-chawed yourarms off; that you was very particular about such things, and that itwould be a pity if he was to think you was a dog-fightin' gentleman,when I'd often heard you say that, now you was fixed and settled, theone thing you would like most would be to be made a vestry-man."
I sat up straight in my chair.
"Pomona!" I exclaimed. "You didn't tell him that?"
"That's what I said, sir, for I wanted him to know what you reallywas; an' he says, 'Well, well, I never knew that. It might be a verygood thing. I'll speak to some of the members about it. There's twovacancies now in our vestry.'"
I was crushed; but Euphemia tried to put the matter into the brightestlight.
"Perhaps it may all turn out for the best," she said, "and you may beelected, and that would be splendid. But it would be an awfully funnything for a dog-fight to make you a vestry-man."
I could not talk on this subject. "Go on, Pomona," I said, trying tofeel resigned to my shame, "and tell us about that poster on the fence."
"I'll be to that almost right away," she said.
"It was two or three days after the dog-fight that I was down at thebarn, and happenin' to look over to old John's, I saw that tree-manthere. He was a-showin' his book to John, and him and his wife and allthe young ones was a-standin' there, drinkin' down them big peachesand pears as if they was all real. I know'd he'd come here ag'in, forthem fellers never gives you up; and I
didn't know how to keep himaway, for I didn't want to let the dogs loose on a man what, after all,didn't want to do no more harm than to talk the life out of you. So Ijust happened to notice, as I came to the house, how kind of desolateeverything looked, and I thought perhaps I might make it look worse,and he wouldn't care to deal here. So I thought of putting up a posterlike that, for nobody whose place was a-goin' to be sold for taxeswould be likely to want trees. So I run in the house, and wrote itquick and put it up. And sure enough, the man he come along soon, andwhen he looked at that paper an' tried the gate, an' looked over thefence an' saw the house all shut up an' not a livin' soul about--for Ihad both the dogs in the house with me--he shook his head an' walkedoff, as much as to say, 'If that man had fixed his place up properwith my trees he wouldn't a-come to this!' An' then, as I found theposter worked so good, I thought it might keep other people from comin'a-botherin' around, and so I left it up; but I was a-goin' to be sureand take it down before you came."
As it was now pretty late in the afternoon, I proposed that Pomonashould postpone the rest of her narrative until evening. She said thatthere was nothing else to tell that was very particular; and I did notfeel as if I could stand anything more just now, even if it was veryparticular.
When we were alone, I said to Euphemia:
"If we ever have to go away from this place again----"
"But we won't go away," she interrupted, looking up to me with asbright a face as she ever had; "at least, not for a long, long, longtime to come.
"And I'm so glad you're to be a vestry-man."
By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons
* * * * *
"What was it the aeronaut said when he fell out of his balloon andstruck the earth with his usual dull thud?"
"He remarked that it was a hard world."