Once, when we’d stopped to rest he said, “Let your old grampa have a-holt of them handles for a spell. Gorry sakes! Gorry sakes alive! Ain’t it pretty to see the black earth a-turning up again. Mellow! Mellow and fertile, Ralphie! Cal’late ’twill fill the cellar to overflowing with potatoes, come fall. Been a-reading ’bout putting phosphate beneath the rows. There’s a power more money in the provender bank account than what we’ll be needing for grain. Don’t you cal’late ’twould be a good notion to put some of it into phosphate?” It was the first time Grandfather had ever asked me what I thought about the farming. A lump came into my throat. I didn’t trust myself to speak, so just nodded my head and grinned.
During our first few days of plowing in the wilderness field, Bill blasted rocks, cut brush, and burned junipers in the hidden fields. Then he came and blasted or pried out buried rocks that were too big for the plow to move. The smaller stones were left in the furrows and, after the plowing was finished, Grandfather raked them with my old stone rake, while Bill and I hauled them to the wall.
The harder Grandfather worked, the happier he seemed to be, and he didn’t have an attack of malaria all through the spring. He even disliked to leave the fields to take the butter to Lewiston on Saturdays, and instead of being gone all day, he’d leave before daylight and be home by noon. The Saturday after we’d finished clearing the wilderness field, he drove the dumpcart to Lewiston, and when he came home, he brought a brand new, two-section, spike-tooth harrow.
Grandfather didn’t do any whispering when he drove into the dooryard with the new harrow, but shouted, “Ralphie! Millie! Come a-running! Come see what I fetched us home. Brand, spanking new! Ain’t never been drug a foot! By fire, I cal’late on having them fields as soft as goose feathers!” Then, while Bill and I lifted the harrow out of the cart, Grandfather dropped his voice, and told Millie, “Strawb’ry plants is tender little critters. Costs a heap of money to buy ’em, and I don’t cal’late to scrimp on the tools and lose a half of ’em ’cause the soil ain’t tended right. I and Ralphie is a-going to write off for ’em tomorrow. Going to get ’em from them Breck folks off to Boston—best tarnal seed and plant folks in the country. Got all the newfangled kinds: Everbearers, that fruits from early spring till frost; Excelsiors, that ripens the first warm days of June; and Commonwealths, that comes on just afore the early frosts—after the fetched-in berries is all gone—half the size of your fist and dark red. By gorry, Millie girl, my mouth’s a-watering a’ready.”
Grandfather and I spent most of Sunday afternoon on the order for the strawberry plants. He’d read Breck’s catalog until all the pages about strawberries were worn dog-eared at the corners, and he could almost recite every word it said about each variety. The thing that worried us most was the number of plants we’d need to the acre. When we first sat down, Grandfather said, “Nigh as I can cal’late, Ralphie, there’s just a little shy of eight acres in the high field. I’m cal’lating on tomatoes for five of ’em, and strawb’ries for three. Counting on the rows being three feet apart, and a plant to every foot, how many plants are we a-going to need? Most of ’em comes to seven dollars a thousand, but the best everbearers is Pan-Americans, and they’re asking fifteen cents apiece for ’em. I don’t cal’late on getting over a hundred of them kind.”
Sometime in school I’d learned the number of square feet in an acre, but had forgotten it. I could only remember: “three feet, one yard; five and a half yards, one rod; forty rods, one furlong; eight furlongs, one mile.” And I did know that a section of land was a mile square and had six hundred and forty acres in it. After I’d figured all over three or four sheets of paper, I got an answer of 43,560 strawberry plants for three acres. I knew I must have made a mistake somewhere, so I threw the papers in the stove and started all over again. That time Grandfather kept fussing at me to stop my dawdling and do the job man-fashion. He made me lose my place two or three times, but when I came to the answer, it was the same one I’d had before. “Fiddlesticks! Fiddlesticks!” Grandfather snapped when I told him what the figure was, “Any tarnal fool would know better’n that. An acre ain’t but seventy paces each side.”
“Well, let’s see what that does,” I told him. “I know my answer can’t be right, but I got the same one twice. If an acre is seventy paces long, then three acres would be two hundred and ten paces; and with three plants to every pace, that would be six hundred and thirty plants in a row. And with the rows a pace apart, there would be seventy rows, so . . . ”
Grandfather snatched the paper, and figured for half a minute. “Gorry sakes alive! Great thunderation!” he said as he sat looking at the figures. “By fire, it comes out to six of one and half a dozen of the other. Gorry sakes, Ralphie, that’s a tarnal lot of strawb’ry plants.” He figured again, and said, “Hmmm! Hmmm! Comes to over three hundred dollars. Didn’t cal’late it would run into no such sort of money.”
I was sure the chance of having a strawberry field was gone. My mouth went dry, and my voice sounded thin when I said, “We wouldn’t have to put in three acres. Strawberries grow new plants on runners. Sometimes an old plant will make a dozen or so new ones in a year. If we just had a few, we could root all the runners, and in a few years we could build up the three acres.”
Grandfather just said, “Hmmm . . . hmmm,” some more, and walked up and down the kitchen floor with his thumbs locked together behind his back. It was two or three minutes before he stopped, and asked, “Will they bear fruit and put out new plants at the same time?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “If we just had a couple of hundred plants, I think we could spread them into three acres in three years.”
Grandfather walked and hmmmed for another two or three minutes. Then he stopped suddenly, pounded his fist on the table, and said, “By fire, Ralphie, we’re a-going to do it! Once these folks roundabouts sees us fetching strawb’ries off to market, they’ll tarnal nigh all of ’em want a field of their own. By gorry, I and you is going to raise the plants to sell ’em. Cal’late we’ll start off with about two acres of them Excelsiors, one acre of Commonwealths, and five hundred of them Pan-American Everbearers. If it costs fifteen cents apiece to buy ’em, the new plants ought to fetch a pretty penny whenst we got ’em to sell. Fetch a clean paper and the ink bottle. By gorry, if we’re a-going into the strawb’ry business, we’re a-going in whole hog.”
The next three weeks were busy ones, and there were days when we had as many as a dozen men and boys working in the high field. As soon as it was harrowed smooth, we set out the tomato plants Millie had been taking care of in Uncle Levi’s hothouse. I made a marker with the teeth three feet apart, then drove it carefully, both ways across the field. When all the tomato plants were set out, the rows ran straight in every direction. The strawberry plants came right after we had finished setting out the tomatoes. Though the strawberry field was only a little more than half as big as the tomato field, it took twice as long to set the plants.
While Grandfather and I were working with the men at strawberry and tomato planting, Bill plowed the hidden fields, raked the stones, and harrowed and trenched the wilderness field for potatoes. In that field, Bill and I put the dressing into the trenches, and Grandfather followed us, strewing a line of phosphate on top of the manure. We sent to Aroostook County for the best cobbler seed potatoes, cut them—two eyes to the piece—and Millie and I laid the pieces in the trenches, while Grandfather and Bill covered them with a few inches of fine soil.
After we finished the potato planting, we began getting the hidden fields ready for corn. Bill Hubbard and I were laying blasted rock onto the stonewall when Grandfather stopped the harrow beside us, and said, “Gorry sakes, Ralphie, did ever you see prettier plowing fields in all your born days?” He reached down, picked up a handful of the sandy loam, and rubbed it between his fingers. “Hmmm! Hmmm!” he hummed, as it sifted back to the ground. “This upper field is a dite more petered out than the lower one. Hmmm . . . cal’late I was a trifle overgenerous whens
t I spread the dressing on the lower field, and I scanted this one according. Needs a tarnal good mess of phosphate throwed in the hills with the seed. By thunder, that phosphate stuff runs into money. Hmmm . . . hmmm . . . By gorry, I got it! I got it, Ralphie! Them folks at the cannery over to Lisbon! I hear tell they’ll provide a man with phosphate and seed, if he’ll plant and pick and cultivate whenst and how they tell him . . . and contract to sell ’em the whole crop. No, by thunder! No! Ain’t a-going to have nobody a-telling me how to farm this place! Gitap! Gitap, Nell!”
For two more rounds of the field, Grandfather walked along behind the harrow with his head down and Old Bess trailing at his heels. Then he stopped beside us again, and asked, “How much you cal’late them cannery folks would stick their noses into our affairs if we was to deal with ’em, Ralphie?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. “But, if we take good care of the field, I wouldn’t care how often they came around to see it. Is there as much money in raising sweet corn as there is in field corn?”
“Tarnal lot more, but, by thunderation, they ain’t a-going to . . . Gitap! Gitap, colty!”
That time, Grandfather made three rounds of the field before he stopped again. He walked slowly over to us, stooped, and picked up another handful of soil. From the harrowing, the loam had dried a little on the top, and it sifted away between Grandfather’s fingers. He looked up at me, almost sheepishly, and said, “Cal’late I’ll drive over and talk to them folks at the cannery, Ralphie. Might happen, come fall and the market goes down, we could sell ’em some tomatoes to can.”
Before noon, Grandfather came back from the cannery, and brought a man with him. They walked all over the upper hidden field, then the man took samples of soil away with him. In the afternoon, Grandfather drove the dumpcart over to Lisbon, and brought home the phosphate and the seed corn. It was Country Gentleman corn, still on the cobs, with the husks braided together in bundles.
Uncle Levi came right after we’d planted the sweet corn. We didn’t know he was coming, and Grandfather was just leaving for Lewiston with the butter when the taxicab from Brunswick came into the dooryard. Uncle Levi was riding with the driver, and the back seat was loaded with bags of fruit, presents, and big packages of fresh meat.
“Gorry sakes! Gorry sakes alive, Levi! You don’t know how glad I be to see you,” Grandfather called out, as he climbed down off the democrat wagon and hurried toward the taxicab. “Ralphie, take care of Old Nell whilst I fetch Levi out and show him what we been a-doing in the fields. By gorry, Levi, you won’t scarcely know the old place. Come on, Levi, whilst I show you.”
I’d started to open the back door of the taxicab to take the bags and packages out, but Uncle Levi bumped against me and mumbled, “Let be! Let be!” Then he said to Grandfather, “By hub, Thomas, ain’t you getting a late start for Lewiston this morning? Calc’lated you’d a-been on the road afore sunup. This man’s waiting to fetch me over to see Aunt Lucy Stevens. She writ me she’s been ailing this spring, and I fetched her down a little drop of medicine. You go on to Lewiston afore the sun gets high enough to melt the butter on you. I’ll stay out of the fields till you get home to show ’em to me. Hi, Millie! Set the teapot on, and I’ll be back soon’s ever I fetch this bottle of spirits over to Aunt Lucy.” Then he climbed back into the taxicab and drove out of the yard.
If Uncle Levi went to see Aunt Lucy Stevens, he couldn’t have stopped longer than a minute. Grandfather was hardly out of sight when the taxicab drove back into the yard. “Great day of judgment!” Uncle Levi laughed as he got out. “It’s a God’s wonder Thomas didn’t stave my playhouse all to pieces! By hub, I had to do some tall thinking there for a minute. Here, Ralph, give me a hand with these cussed boxes.”
Bill had been turning the separator for Millie, and they both came running when they heard Uncle Levi. Bill stepped in front of Uncle Levi and helped me lift out two heavy, flat boxes from the floor of the taxicab. “Been in talking to them Breck folks,” Uncle Levi told us, as we set the boxes by the doorstone. “The way Thomas has been a-writing me, he’s calc’lating on having some strawb’ries to pick this summer, but them Breck folks say there won’t be none afore next spring. Didn’t want Thomas to be disappointed, so I had ’em to find me a parcel of Everbearers that’s old enough to set fruit this year. Got ’em in pots. That’s what makes the boxes so cussed heavy. Calc’late you boys could scatter ’em about the field real careful so’s Thomas won’t smell a mouse?”
Bill and I set the new strawberry plants as carefully as we could. There were a hundred of them, and we scattered them pretty well over the whole field. They were bigger than the other plants, so we picked off a few of the outside leaves, set the plants in little hollows, and raked out the footprints around them. When we’d finished we couldn’t look across the field and pick out any one of them. Then, before we went to hoe hills for the yellow corn in the lower hidden field, we stacked the pots together, laid them by the orchard wall, and covered them with stones.
Grandfather got home from Lewiston at noon. He brought Old Nell in dripping sweat, and blowing like a steam engine. We had steak for dinner, but Grandfather would eat only a few mouthfuls before we took Uncle Levi out to see the tomato, strawberry, and potato fields. They came to the hidden field while Bill and I were dropping the yellow seeds into the corn hills. After they’d walked all around the field, dropping pumpkin seed here and there in the hills, Uncle Levi stopped beside us, and said to Bill, “I’ll drop corn with Ralph a while, if you’re of a mind to hoe in the cover dirt.” Then he took Bill’s seed basket and we worked side by side.
Uncle Levi and I were about in the middle of the field, when he stopped and reached his hand deep into his overalls pocket. When he took it out, he had a few red kernels of corn in it. “There, by hub!” he said as he looked around. “Calc’late this is as good a place as any for the red ears.” Then he knelt and dropped five kernels, carefully spaced in a circle, as he said, “One for the blackbird, one for the crow; one for the cutworm, and two to grow. There! There by hub! Know what them’s for, Ralph?”
“Well, so as to raise some red ears, I guess.”
“Know what red ears is for?” he asked.
I just shook my head, and said, “No, sir.”
“Great day!” Uncle Levi chuckled. “Well, you will. Come the husking, first boy to find a red ear gets to kiss his girl.” Uncle Levi was still kneeling. He peeked up at me, and asked, “Kissed Annie Littlehale yet?”
I didn’t want to tell him I had, and I didn’t want to lie to him, either. I was trying to think of some way to change the subject when Uncle Levi sprang up, put his arm around my shoulder, and said, “Shouldn’t ought to have asked you, but, by hub, I’m glad you done it. Awful nice girl, Annie. Clever as a kitten. I fetched down a box of candy in my valise. Calc’lated you might like to take it along when you went for the cows.” After we’d gone on dropping seed for a dozen or so hills, Uncle Levi laid a hand over on my shoulder. When I raised my head, there was almost a sad look on his face. “A picked flower soon fades, and there ain’t nothing to do but heave it out,” he said. “The Almighty meant ’em to be left on the bush till seed time.” Then he went back to dropping corn.
34
A God’s Wonder
UNCLE LEVI didn’t care much about working in the fields. He did come out and ride the new two-row cultivator for a few minutes, when Grandfather first brought it home. But, until haying, he spent most of his time on the barn addition. The big timbers were too heavy for one man to lift and move into place, so Uncle Levi built himself a derrick, and rigged it with ropes and pulleys from the horsefork. The first Saturday after he came, he went to Lewiston with Grandfather. They were gone nearly the whole day, and when they came home, there was a new horse tied to the back of the democrat wagon. She was a bay, about the same size and type of horse as Old Nell. When I looked at her teeth, the pits showed that she was seven years old, just as Nell was. “Yella colt’s a-getting on in years,”
Uncle Levi told me when I was putting the new mare into the spare box stall. “You boys been working him pretty cussed hard this spring, and a little rest wouldn’t hurt him none. Do you calc’late he’d work for me on that derrick the way Thomas says he done for you in the woods?”
“I think he would,” I said, “but there’s something Grandfather doesn’t know. I always bribe the colt with a piece of apple after he’s made a good steady pull.”
“A bribe ain’t a bad piece of business in the right place,” Uncle Levi said, and winked at me. “You’ll find a box of choclates under the wagon seat when you go to fetch your cows.”
The yella colt did work for Uncle Levi just as well as he had for me, but for a while his teeth got edgy from eating too many apples. With the derrick and a hand tackle, they could move the heaviest timbers into any position Uncle Levi wanted. First, he laid the sills on the new foundation, set supporting posts in the cellar, and placed the two sixteen-inch-square center struts to carry the weight of the barn floor. Next, he mortised the floor joists into the struts and sills. They weren’t hewn square, as the other timbers were, but, after they were all mortised solidly in place, he adzed the rounded tops, so that anyone could sight across the whole floor frame without finding a single hump or hollow.
All through the winter, and during my first summer on the farm, no one but Uncle Levi had come to visit. After we set out the strawberry plants, there was never a Sunday that several carriages weren’t driven into the dooryard. Grandfather began wearing his best suit all day Sunday, and he loved to take people from field to field and show them the growing crops, the stonewalls we had built, and the big pile of blasted tree stumps in the pasture. Berries on the potted plants Uncle Levi had brought began to ripen in early June. Grandfather would watch them all through the week, but he’d seldom pick one. On Sundays, he’d take the visitors all around the field, let them pick berries to eat, and boast about the plants that were bearing in their first year.