"But you don't expect to camp out, now? You are coming back to our house?"

"You see," said the ex-boarder, "we should never have thought of doing anything so rude, had we supposed you would have returned so soon. But your girl gave us to understand that you would not be back for days, and so we felt free to go at any time; and I did not hesitate to make this arrangement. And now that I have really taken the responsibility of the tent and fixtures on myself, I don't think it would be right to go away and leave the place, especially as I don't know where to find that boy.

The owner will be back in a day or two, and I would like to explain matters to him and give up the property in good order into his hands.

And, to tell the truth, we both adore camping-out, and we may never have such a chance again. We can live here splendidly. I went out to forage this morning, and found an old fellow living near by who sold me a lot of provisions--even some coffee and sugar--and he's to bring us some milk. We're going to have supper in about an hour; won't you stay and take a camp-meal with us? It will be a novelty for you, at any rate."

We declined this invitation, as we had so lately dined. I looked at Euphemia with a question in my eye. She understood me, and gently shook her head. It would be a shame to make any explanations which might put an end to this bit of camp-life, which evidently was so eagerly enjoyed by our old friend. But we insisted that they should come up to the house and see us, and they agreed to dine with us the next evening. On Tuesday, they must return to the city.

"Now, this is what I call real hospitality," said the ex-boarder, warmly grasping my hand. I could not help agreeing with him.

As we walked home, I happened to look back and saw old John going over the fields toward the camp, carrying a little tin-pail and a water bucket.

The next day, toward evening, a storm set in, and at the hour fixed for our dinner, the rain was pouring down in such torrents that we did not expect our guests. After dinner the rain ceased, and as we supposed that they might not have made any preparations for a meal, Euphemia packed up some dinner for them in a basket, and I took it down to the camp.

They were glad to see me, and said they had a splendid time all day.

They were up before sunrise, and had explored, tramped, boated, and I don't know what else.

My basket was very acceptable, and I would have stayed awhile with them, but as they were obliged to eat in the tent, there was no place for me to sit, it being too wet outside, and so I soon came away.

We were in doubt whether or not to tell our friends the true history of the camp. I thought that it was not right to keep up the deception, while Euphemia declared that if they were sensitive people, they would feel very badly at having broken up our plans by their visit, and then having appropriated our camp to themselves. She thought it would be the part of magnanimity to say nothing about it.

I could not help seeing a good deal of force in her arguments, although I wished very much to set the thing straight, and we discussed the matter again as we walked down to the camp, after breakfast next morning.

There we found old John sitting on a stump. He said nothing, but handed me a note written in lead-pencil on a card. It was from our ex-boarder, and informed me that early that morning he had found that there was a tug lying in the river, which would soon start for the city. He also found that he could get pa.s.sage on her for his party, and as this was such a splendid chance to go home without the bother of getting up to the station, he had just bundled his family and his valise on board, and was very sorry they did not have time to come up and bid us good-bye.

The tent he left in charge of a very respectable man, from whom he had had supplies.

That morning I had the camp-equipage packed up and expressed to its owner. We did not care to camp out any more that season, but thought it would be better to spend the rest of my vacation at the sea-sh.o.r.e.

Our ex-boarder wrote to us that he and his wife were anxious that we should return their visit during my holidays; but as we did not see exactly how we could return a visit of the kind, we did not try to do it.

CHAPTER XII. LORD EDWARD AND THE TREE-MAN.

It was winter at Rudder Grange. The season was the same at other places, but that fact did not particularly interest Euphemia and myself. It was winter with us, and we were ready for it. That was the great point, and it made us proud to think that we had not been taken unawares, notwithstanding the many things that were to be thought of on a little farm like ours.

It is true that we had always been prepared for winter, wherever we had lived; but this was a different case. In other days it did not matter much whether we were ready or not; but now our house, our cow, our poultry, and indeed ourselves, might have suffered,--there is no way of finding out exactly how much,--if we had not made all possible preparations for the coming of cold weather.

But there was a great deal yet to be thought of and planned out, although we were ready for winter. The next thing to think of was spring.

We laid out the farm. We decided where we would have wheat, corn, potatoes, and oats. We would have a man by the day to sow and reap. The intermediate processes I thought I could attend to myself.

Everything was talked over, ciphered over, and freely discussed by my wife and myself, except one matter, which I planned and worked out alone, doing most of the necessary calculations at the office, so as not to excite Euphemia's curiosity.

I had determined to buy a horse. This would be one of the most important events of our married life, and it demanded a great deal of thought, which I gave it.

The horse was chosen for me by a friend. He was an excellent beast (the horse), excelling, as my friend told me, in muscle and wit. Nothing better than this could be said about a horse. He was a sorrel animal, quite handsome, gentle enough for Euphemia to drive, and not too high-minded to do a little farm-work, if necessary. He was exactly the animal I needed.

The carriage was not quite such a success. The horse having cost a good deal more than I expected to pay, I found that I could only afford a second-hand carriage. I bought a good, serviceable vehicle, which would hold four persons, if necessary, and there was room enough to pack all sorts of parcels and baskets. It was with great satisfaction that I contemplated this feature of the carriage, which was a rather rusty-looking affair, although sound and strong enough. The harness was new, and set off the horse admirably.

On the afternoon when my purchases were completed, I did not come home by the train. I drove home in my own carriage, drawn by my own horse!

The ten miles' drive was over a smooth road, and the sorrel traveled splendidly. If I had been a line of kings a mile long, all in their chariots of state, with gold and silver, and outriders, and music, and banners waving in the wind, I could not have been prouder than when I drew up in front of my house.

There was a wagon-gate at one side of the front fence which had never been used except by the men who brought coal, and I got out and opened this, very quietly, so as not to attract the attention of Euphemia. It was earlier than I usually returned, and she would not be expecting me. I was then about to lead the horse up a somewhat gra.s.s-grown carriage-way to the front door, but I reflected that Euphemia might be looking out of some of the windows and I had better drive up. So I got in and drove very slowly to the door.

However, she heard the unaccustomed noise of wheels, and looked out of the parlor window. She did not see me, but immediately came around to the door. I hurried out of the carriage so quickly that, not being familiar with the steps, I barely escaped tripping.

When she opened the front door she was surprised to see me standing by the horse.

"Have you hired a carriage?" she cried. "Are we going to ride?"

"My dear," said I, as I took her by the hand, "we are going to ride. But I have not hired a carriage. I have bought one. Do you see this horse?

He is ours--our own horse."

If you could have seen the face that was turned up to me,--all you other men in the world,--you would have torn your hair in despair.

Afterward she went around and around that horse; she patted his smooth sides; she looked, with admiration, at his strong, well-formed legs; she stroked his head; she smoothed his mane; she was brimful of joy.

When I had brought the horse some water in a bucket--and what a pleasure it was to water one's own horse!--Euphemia rushed into the house and got her hat and cloak, and we took a little drive.

I doubt if any horse ever drew two happier people. Euphemia said but little about the carriage. That was a necessary adjunct, and it was good enough for the present. But the horse! How n.o.bly and with what vigor he pulled us up the hills and how carefully and strongly he held the carriage back as we went down! How easily he trotted over the level road, caring nothing for the ten miles he had gone that afternoon! What a sensation of power it gave us to think that all that strength and speed and endurance was ours, that it would go where we wished, that it would wait for us as long as we chose, that it was at our service day and night, that it was a horse, and we owned it!

When we returned, Pomona saw us drive in,--she had not known of our ride,--and when she heard the news she was as wild with proud delight as anybody. She wanted to unharness him, but this I could not allow. We did not wish to be selfish, but after she had seen and heard what we thought was enough for her, we were obliged to send her back to the kitchen for the sake of the dinner.

Then we unharnessed him. I say we, for Euphemia stood by and I explained everything, for some day, she said, she might want to do it herself.

Then I led him into the stable. How n.o.bly he trod, and how finely his hoofs sounded on the stable floor!

There was hay in the mow and I had brought a bag of oats under the seat of the carriage.

"Isn't it just delightful," said Euphemia, "that we haven't any man?

If we had a man he would take the horse at the door, and we should be deprived of all this. It wouldn't be half like owning a horse."

In the morning I drove down to the station, Euphemia by my side. She drove back and Old John came up and attended to the horse. This he was to do, for the present, for a small stipend. In the afternoon Euphemia came down after me. How I enjoyed those rides! Before this I had thought it ever so much more pleasant and healthful to walk to and from the station than to ride, but then I did not own a horse. At night I attended to everything, Euphemia generally following me about the stable with a lantern. When the days grew longer we would have delightful rides after dinner, and even now we planned to have early breakfasts, and go to the station by the longest possible way.

One day, in the following spring, I was riding home from the station with Euphemia,--we seldom took pleasure-drives now, we were so busy on the place,--and as we reached the house I heard the dog barking savagely. He was loose in the little orchard by the side of the house.

As I drove in, Pomona came running to the carriage.

"Man up the tree!" she shouted.

I helped Euphemia out, left the horse standing by the door, and ran to the dog, followed by my wife and Pomona. Sure enough, there was a man up the tree, and Lord Edward was doing his best to get at him, springing wildly at the tree and fairly shaking with rage.

I looked up at the man, he was a thoroughbred tramp, burly, dirty, generally unkempt, but, unlike most tramps, he looked very much frightened. His position, on a high crotch of an apple-tree, was not altogether comfortable, and although, for the present, it was safe, the fellow seemed to have a wavering faith in the strength of apple-tree branches, and the moment he saw me, he earnestly besought me to take that dog away, and let him down.

I made no answer, but turning to Pomona, I asked her what this all meant.

"Why, sir, you see," said she, "I was in the kitchen bakin' pies, and this fellow must have got over the fence at the side of the house, for the dog didn't see him, and the first thing I know'd he was stickin' his head in the window, and he asked me to give him somethin' to eat. And when I said I'd see in a minute if there was anything for him, he says to me, 'Gim me a piece of one of them pies,'--pies I'd just baked and was settin' to cool on the kitchen table! 'No, sir,' says I, 'I'm not goin' to cut one of them pies for you, or any one like you.' 'All right!' says he. 'I'll come in and help myself.' He must have known there was no man about, and, comin' the way he did, he hadn't seen the dog. So he come round to the kitchen door, but I shot out before he got there and unchained Lord Edward. I guess he saw the dog, when he got to the door, and at any rate he heard the chain clankin', and he didn't go in, but just put for the gate. But Lord Edward was after him so quick that he hadn't no time to go to no gates. It was all he could do to scoot up this tree, and if he'd been a millionth part of a minute later he'd 'a' been in another world by this time."

The man, who had not attempted to interrupt Pomona's speech, now began again to implore me to let him down, while Euphemia looked pitifully at him, and was about, I think, to intercede with me in his favor, but my attention was drawn off from her, by the strange conduct of the dog.

Believing, I suppose, that he might leave the tramp for a moment, now that I had arrived, he had dashed away to another tree, where he was barking furiously, standing on his hind legs and clawing at the trunk.