CHAPTER VIII. POMONA ONCE MORE.
Sure enough, it was Pomona. There stood our old servant-girl, of thecanal-boat, with a crooked straw bonnet on her head, a faded yellowparasol in her hand, a parcel done up in newspaper under her arm, and anexpression of astonishment on her face.
"Well, truly!" she ejaculated.
"Into the house, quick!" I said. "We have a savage dog!"
"And here he is!" cried Euphemia. "Oh! she will be torn to atoms."
Straight at Pomona came the great black beast, barking furiously. Butthe girl did not move; she did not even turn her head to look at thedog, who stopped before he reached her and began to rush wildly aroundher, barking terribly.
We held our breath. I tried to say "get out!" or "lie down!" but mytongue could not form the words.
"Can't you get up here?" gasped Euphemia.
"I don't want to," said the girl.
The dog now stopped barking, and stood looking at Pomona, occasionallyglancing up at us. Pomona took not the slightest notice of him.
"Do you know, ma'am," said she to Euphemia, "that if I had come hereyesterday, that dog would have had my life's blood."
"And why don't he have it to-day?" said Euphemia, who, with myself, wasutterly amazed at the behavior of the dog.
"Because I know more to-day than I did yesterday," answered Pomona. "Itis only this afternoon that I read something, as I was coming here onthe cars. This is it," she continued, unwrapping her paper parcel, andtaking from it one of the two books it contained. "I finished this partjust as the cars stopped, and I put my scissors in the place; I'll readit to you."
Standing there with one book still under her arm, the newspaper halfunwrapped from it, hanging down and flapping in the breeze, she openedthe other volume at the scissors-place, turned back a page or two, andbegan to read as follows:
"Lord Edward slowly san-ter-ed up the bro-ad anc-es-tral walk, whensudden-ly from out a cop-se, there sprang a fur-i-ous hound. Themarsh-man, con-ce-al-ed in a tree expected to see the life's blood ofthe young nob-le-man stain the path. But no, Lord Edward did not stopnor turn his head. With a smile, he strode stead-i-ly on. Well he knewthat if by be-traying no em-otion, he could show the dog that he waswalking where he had a right, the bru-te would re-cog-nize that rightand let him pass un-sca-thed. Thus in this moment of peril his nob-lecourage saved him. The hound, abashed, returned to his cov-ert, and LordEdward pass-ed on.
"Foi-led again," mutter-ed the marsh-man.
"Now, then," said Pomona, closing the book, "you see I rememberedthat, the minute I saw the dog coming, and I didn't betray any emotion.Yesterday, now, when I didn't know it, I'd 'a been sure to betrayemotion, and he would have had my life's blood. Did he drive you upthere?"
"Yes," said Euphemia; and she hastily explained the situation.
"Then I guess I'd better chain him up," remarked Pomona; and advancingto the dog she took him boldly by the collar and pulled him toward theshed. The animal hung back at first, but soon followed her, and shechained him up securely.
"Now you can come down," said Pomona.
I assisted Euphemia to the ground, and Pomona persuaded the hired girlto descend.
"Will he grab me by the leg?" asked the girl.
"No; get down, gump," said Pomona, and down she scrambled.
We took Pomona into the house with us and asked her news of herself.
"Well," said she, "there ain't much to tell. I staid awhile at theinstitution, but I didn't get much good there, only I learned to readto myself, because if I read out loud they came and took the book away.Then I left there and went to live out, but the woman was awful mean.She throwed away one of my books and I was only half through it. It wasa real good book, named 'The Bridal Corpse, or Montregor's Curse,' andI had to pay for it at the circulatin' library. So I left her quickenough, and then I went on the stage."
"On the stage!" cried Euphemia. "What did you do on the stage?"
"Scrub," replied Pomona. "You see that I thought if I could get anythingto do at the theayter, I could work my way up, so I was glad to getscrubbin'. I asked the prompter, one morning, if he thought there was achance for me to work up, and he said yes, I might scrub the galleries,and then I told him that I didn't want none of his lip, and I prettysoon left that place. I heard you was akeepin' house out here, and so Ithought I'd come along and see you, and if you hadn't no girl I'd liketo live with you again, and I guess you might as well take me, for thatother girl said, when she got down from the shed, that she was goin'away to-morrow; she wouldn't stay in no house where they kept such adog, though I told her I guessed he was only cuttin' 'round because hewas so glad to get loose."
"Cutting around!" exclaimed Euphemia. "It was nothing of the kind. Ifyou had seen him you would have known better. But did you come now tostay? Where are your things?"
"On me," replied Pomona.
When Euphemia found that the Irish girl really intended to leave, weconsulted together and concluded to engage Pomona, and I went so far asto agree to carry her books to and from the circulating library to whichshe subscribed, hoping thereby to be able to exercise some influenceon her taste. And thus part of the old family of Rudder Grange had cometogether again. True, the boarder was away, but, as Pomona remarked,when she heard about him, "You couldn't always expect to ever regain theties that had always bound everybody."
Our delight and interest in our little farm increased day by day. Ina week or two after Pomona's arrival I bought a cow. Euphemia wasvery anxious to have an Alderney,--they were such gentle, beautifulcreatures,--but I could not afford such a luxury. I might possiblycompass an Alderney calf, but we would have to wait a couple of yearsfor our milk, and Euphemia said it would be better to have a common cowthan to do that.
Great was our inward satisfaction when the cow, our OWN cow, walkedslowly and solemnly into our yard and began to crop the clover on ourlittle lawn. Pomona and I gently drove her to the barn, while Euphemiaendeavored to quiet the violent demonstrations of the dog (fortunatelychained) by assuring him that this was OUR cow and that she was to livehere, and that he was to take care of her and never bark at her. Allthis and much more, delivered in the earnest and confidential tone inwhich ladies talk to infants and dumb animals, made the dog think thathe was to be let loose to kill the cow, and he bounded and leaped withdelight, tugging at his chain so violently that Euphemia became a littlefrightened and left him. This dog had been named Lord Edward, at theearnest solicitation of Pomona, and he was becoming somewhat reconciledto his life with us. He allowed me to unchain him at night and I couldgenerally chain him up in the morning without trouble if I had a goodbig plate of food with which to tempt him into the shed.
Before supper we all went down to the barn to see the milking. Pomona,who knew all about such things, having been on a farm in her firstyouth, was to be the milkmaid. But when she began operations, she did nomore than begin. Milk as industriously as she might, she got no milk.
"This is a queer cow," said Pomona.
"Are you sure that you know how to milk?" asked Euphemia anxiously.
"Can I milk?" said Pomona. "Why, of course, ma'am. I've seen 'em milkhundreds of times."
"But you never milked, yourself?" I remarked.
"No, sir, but I know just how it's done."
That might be, but she couldn't do it, and at last we had to give up thematter in despair, and leave the poor cow until morning, when Pomona wasto go for a man who occasionally worked on the place, and engage him tocome and milk for us.
That night as we were going to bed I looked out of the window at thebarn which contained the cow, and was astonished to see that there was alight inside of the building.
"What!" I exclaimed. "Can't we be left in peaceful possession of a cowfor a single night?" And, taking my revolver, I hurried down-stairs andout-of-doors, forgetting my hat in my haste. Euphemia screamed after meto be careful and keep the pistol pointed away from me.
I whistled for the dog as I went out, but to my surprise he d
id notanswer.
"Has he been killed?" I thought, and, for a moment, I wished that I wasa large family of brothers--all armed.
But on my way to the barn I met a person approaching with a lantern anda dog. It was Pomona, and she had a milk-pail on her arm.
"See here, sir," she said, "it's mor'n half full. I just made up my mindthat I'd learn to milk--if it took me all night. I didn't go to bed atall, and I've been at the barn fur an hour. And there ain't no need ofmy goin' after no man in the mornin'," said she, hanging up the barn keyon its nail.
I simply mention this circumstance to show what kind of a girl Pomonahad grown to be.
We were all the time at work in some way, improving our little place."Some day we will buy it," said Euphemia. We intended to have some wheatput in in the fall and next year we would make the place fairly crackwith luxuriance. We would divide the duties of the farm, and, amongother things, Euphemia would take charge of the chickens. She wished todo this entirely herself, so that there might be one thing that shouldbe all her own, just as my work in town was all my own. As she wishedto buy the chickens and defray all the necessary expenses out of her ownprivate funds, I could make no objections, and, indeed, I had no desireto do so. She bought a chicken-book, and made herself mistress ofthe subject. For a week, there was a strong chicken flavor in all ourconversation.
This was while the poultry yard was building. There was a chicken-houseon the place, but no yard, and Euphemia intended to have a good big one,because she was going into the business to make money.
"Perhaps my chickens may buy the place," she said, and I very much hopedthey would.
Everything was to be done very systematically. She would have Leghorns,Brahmas, and common fowls. The first, because they laid so many eggs;the second, because they were such fine, big fowls, and the third,because they were such good mothers.
"We will eat, and sell the eggs of the first and third classes," shesaid, "and set the eggs of the second class, under the hens of the thirdclass."
"There seems to be some injustice in that arrangement," I said, "for thefirst class will always be childless; the second class will have nothingto do with their offspring, while the third will be obliged to bring upand care for the children of others."
But I really had no voice in this matter. As soon as the carpenterhad finished the yard, and had made some coops and other necessaryarrangements, Euphemia hired a carriage and went about the country tobuy chickens. It was not easy to find just what she wanted, and she wasgone all day.
However, she brought home an enormous Brahma cock and ten hens, whichnumber was pretty equally divided into her three classes. She was veryproud of her purchases, and indeed they were fine fowls. In theevening I made some allusion to the cost of all this carpenter work,carriage-hire, etc., besides the price of the chickens.
"O!" said she, "you don't look at the matter in the right light. Youhaven't studied it up as I have. Now, just let me show you how thisthing will pay, if carried on properly." Producing a piece of papercovered with figures, she continued: "I begin with ten hens--I gotfour common ones, because it would make it easier to calculate. After awhile, I set these ten hens on thirteen eggs each; three of these eggswill probably spoil,--that leaves ten chickens hatched out. Of these, Iwill say that half die, that will make five chickens for each hen; yousee, I leave a large margin for loss. This makes fifty chickens, andwhen we add the ten hens, we have sixty fowls at the end of the firstyear. Next year I set these sixty and they bring up five chickenseach,--I am sure there will be a larger proportion than this, but I wantto be safe,--and that is three hundred chickens; add the hens, and wehave three hundred and sixty at the end of the second year. In the thirdyear, calculating in the same safe way, we shall have twenty-one hundredand sixty chickens; in the fourth year there will be twelve thousandnine hundred and sixty, and at the end of the fifth year, which is asfar as I need to calculate now, we shall have sixty-four thousand andeight hundred chickens. What do you think of that? At seventy-five centsapiece,--a very low price,--that would be forty-eight thousand andsix hundred dollars. Now, what is the petty cost of a fence, and a fewcoops, by the side of a sum like that?"
"Nothing at all," I answered. "It is lost like a drop in the ocean. Ihate, my dear, to interfere in any way with such a splendid calculationas that, but I would like to ask you one question."
"Oh, of course," she said, "I suppose you are going to say somethingabout the cost of feeding all this poultry. That is to come out of thechickens supposed to die. They won't die. It is ridiculous to supposethat each hen will bring up but five chickens. The chickens that willlive, out of those I consider as dead, will more than pay for the feed."
"That is not what I was going to ask you, although of course it ought tobe considered. But you know you are only going to set common hens, andyou do not intend to raise any. Now, are those four hens to do all thesetting and mother-work for five years, and eventually bring up oversixty-four thousand chickens?"
"Well, I DID make a mistake there," she said, coloring a little. "I'lltell you what I'll do; I'll set every one of my hens every year."
"But all those chickens may not be hens. You have calculated that everyone of them would set as soon as it was old enough."
She stopped a minute to think this over.
"Two heads are better than one, I see," she said, directly. "I'll allowthat one-half of all the chickens are roosters, and that will make theprofits twenty-four thousand three hundred dollars--more than enough tobuy this place."
"Ever so much more," I cried. "This Rudder Grange is ours!"