"How do I know?" said the man, "and what do you want to know fur?"

"Just out of curiosity," I said; "I have often noticed it. I think you can tell me what it means, and if you will do so, I'll give you a dollar."

"And keep mum about it?" said the man.

"Yes," I replied, taking out the dollar.

"All right!" said the tramp. "That sign means that the man that lives up this lane is a mean, stingy cuss, with a wicked dog, and it's no good to go there."

I handed him the dollar and went away, perfectly satisfied with my reputation.

I wish here to make some mention of Euphemia's methods of work in her chicken-yard. She kept a book, which she at first called her "Fowl Record," but she afterward changed the name to "Poultry Register." I never could thoroughly understand this book, although she has often explained every part of it to me. She had pages for registering the age, description, time of purchase or of birth, and subsequent performances of every fowl in her yard. She had divisions of the book for expenses, profits, probable losses and positive losses; she noted the number of eggs put under each setting hen; the number of eggs cracked per day, the number spoiled, and finally, the number hatched. Each chick, on emerging from its sh.e.l.l, was registered, and an account kept of its subsequent life and adventures. There were frequent calculations regarding the advantages of various methods of treatment, and there were statements of the results of a great many experiments--something like this: "Set Toppy and her sister Pinky, April 2nd 187-; Toppy with twelve eggs,--three Brahma, four common, and five Leghorn; Pinky with thirteen eggs (as she weighs four ounces more than her sister), of which three were Leghorn, five common, and five Brahma. During the twenty-second and twenty-third of April (same year) Toppy hatched out four Brahmas, two commons, and three Leghorns, while her sister, on these days and the morning of the day following, hatched two Leghorns, six commons, and only one Brahma.

Now, could Toppy, who had only three Brahma eggs, and hatched out four of that breed, have exchanged eggs with her sister, thus making it possible for her to hatch out six common chickens, when she only had five eggs of that kind? Or, did the eggs get mixed up in some way before going into the possession of the hens? Look into probabilities."

These probabilities must have puzzled Euphemia a great deal, but they never disturbed her equanimity. She was always as tranquil and good-humored about her poultry-yard as if every hen laid an egg every day, and a hen-chick was hatched out of every egg.

For it may be remembered that the principle underlying Euphemia's management of her poultry was what might be designated as the "c.u.mulative hatch." That is, she wished every chicken hatched in her yard to become the mother of a brood of her own during the year, and every one of this brood to raise another brood the next year, and so on, in a kind of geometrical progression. This plan called for a great many mother-fowls, and so Euphemia based her highest hopes on a great annual preponderance of hens.

We ate a good many young roosters that fall, for Euphemia would not allow all the products of her yard to go to market, and, also, a great many eggs and fowls were sold. She had not contented herself with her original stock of poultry, but had bought fowls during the winter, and she certainly had extraordinary good luck, or else her extraordinary system worked extraordinarily well.

CHAPTER XIII. POMONA'S NOVEL.

It was in the latter part of August of that year that it became necessary for some one in the office in which I was engaged to go to St.

Louis to attend to important business. Everything seemed to point to me as the fit person, for I understood the particular business better than any one else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did not altogether like to do it. I went home, and Euphemia and I talked over the matter far into the regulation sleeping-hours.

There were very good reasons why we should go (for, of course, I would not think of taking such a journey without Euphemia). In the first place, it would be of advantage to me, in my business connection, to take the trip, and then it would be such a charming journey for us. We had never been west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the country we would see would be new to us. We would come home by the great lakes and Niagara, and the prospect was delightful to both of us. But then we would have to leave Rudder Grange for at least three weeks, and how could we do that?

This was indeed a difficult question to answer. Who could take care of our garden, our poultry, our horse and cow, and all their complicated belongings? The garden was in admirable condition. Our vegetables were coming in every day in just that fresh and satisfactory condition--altogether unknown to people who buy vegetables--for which I had labored so faithfully, and about which I had had so many cheerful antic.i.p.ations. As to Euphemia's chicken-yard,--with Euphemia away,--the subject was too great for us. We did not even discuss it. But we would give up all the pleasures of our home for the chance of this most desirable excursion, if we could but think of some one who would come and take care of the place while we were gone. Rudder Grange could not run itself for three weeks.

We thought of every available person. Old John would not do. We did not feel 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 of handing over the place to any of them for such a length of time. For my part, 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 she would rather trust her than any one else, but she also agreed in regard to the disqualifications. So, when I went to the office the next morning, we had fully determined to go on the trip, if we could find some one to take charge of our place while we were gone. When I returned from the office in the afternoon, I had agreed to go to St. Louis. By this time, I had no choice in the matter, unless I wished to interfere very much with my own interests. We were to start in two days. If in that time we could get any one to stay at the place, very well; if not, Pomona must a.s.sume the charge. We were not able to get any one, and Pomona did a.s.sume the charge. It is surprising how greatly relieved we felt when we were obliged to come to this conclusion. The arrangement was exactly what we wanted, and now that there was no help for it, our consciences were easy.

We felt sure that there would be no danger to Pomona. Lord Edward would be with her, and she was a young person who was extraordinarily well able to take care of herself. Old John would be within call in case she needed him, and I borrowed a bull-dog 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 of directions for her guidance in household, garden and farm matters, and directed her to keep a careful record of everything note worthy that might 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 a responsible and independent position as that in which we left Pomona.

She was very proud of it.

Our journey was ten times more delightful than 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 fairly on our way home than we became so wildly anxious to get there, that we reached Rudder Grange on Wednesday, whereas we had written that we would be home on Thursday. We arrived early in the afternoon and walked up from the station, leaving our baggage to be sent in the express wagon. As we approached our dear home, we wanted to run, we were so eager to see it.

There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch; the gate was locked. We ran to the carriage-gate; that was locked too. Just then I noticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed, but the lettering was 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 might pa.s.s away from us. We were not yet ready to buy it. But I did not put the thought in words. There was a field next to our lot, and I got over the fence and helped Euphemia over. Then we climbed our side-fence. This was more difficult, but we accomplished it without thinking much about its difficulties; our hearts were too full of painful apprehensions.

I hurried to the front door; it was locked. All the lower windows were shut. We went around to the kitchen. What surprised us 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 felt faint and must sit down. I led her to a tree near by, under which I had made a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She sat on the gra.s.s and I ran to the pump for some water. I looked for the bright tin dipper which always hung by the pump. It was not there. But I had a traveling-cup in my pocket, and as I was taking it out I looked around me. There was an air of bareness over everything. I did not know what it all meant, but I know that my hand trembled as I took hold of the pump-handle and began to pump.

At the first sound of the pump-handle I heard a deep bark in the direction of the barn, and then furiously around the corner came Lord Edward. Before I had filled the cup he was bounding about me. I believe the glad welcome of the dog did more to revive Euphemia than the water.

He was delighted to see us, and in a moment up came Pomona, running from the barn. Her face was radiant, too. We felt relieved. Here were two friends who looked as if they were neither sold nor ruined.

Pomona quickly saw that we were ill at ease, and before I could put a question to her, she divined the cause. Her countenance fell.

"You know," said she, "you said you wasn't comin' till to-morrow. If you only HAD come then--I was goin' to have everything just exactly right--an' now you had to climb in--"

And the poor girl looked as if she might cry, which would have been a wonderful 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 about that. I'll tell you all about it soon. But come in first, and I'll get you 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 about the matter. Pomona, however, gave us little chance to ask her any questions. As soon as she had made ready our lunch, she asked us, as a particular favor, to give her three-quarters of an hour to herself, and then, said she, "I'll have everything looking just as if it was to-morrow."

We respected her feelings, for, of course, it was a great disappointment to her to be taken thus unawares, and we remained in the dining-room until she appeared, and announced that she was ready for us to go about.

We availed ourselves quickly of the privilege, and Euphemia hurried to the chicken-yard, while I bent my steps toward the garden and barn. As I went out I noticed that the rustic chair was in its place, and pa.s.sing the pump I looked for the dipper. It was there. I asked Pomona about the chair, but she did not answer as quickly as was her habit.

"Would you rather," said she, "hear it all together, when you come in, or have it in little bits, head and tail, all of a jumble?"

I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought, and she was so anxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather wait and hear it all together. We found everything in perfect order,--the garden was even free from weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it had not been for that cloud on the front fence, I should have been happy enough. Pomona had said it was all right, but she could not have paid the taxes--however, I would wait; and I went to the barn.

When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, she called me and said she was in a hurry to hear Pomona's account of things. So I went in, and we sat on the side porch, where it was shady, while Pomona, producing some sheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper step.

"I wrote down the things of any account what happened," said she, "as you told me to, and while I was about it, I thought I'd make it like a novel. It would be jus' as true, and p'r'aps more amusin'. I suppose you 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 out to-night. I wrote this all of nights. And I don't read the first chapters, for they tell about my birth and my parentage and my early adventures. I'll just come down to what happened to me while you was away, because you'll be more anxious to hear about that. All that's written here is true, jus' the same as if I told it to you, but I've put it into novel language because it seems to come easier to me."

And then, in a voice somewhat different from her ordinary tones, as if the "novel language" demanded it, she began to read:

"Chapter Five. The Lonely house and the Faithful friend. Thus was I left alone. None but two dogs to keep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed the lowing kine and water-ed and fed the steed, and then, after my fru-gal repast, I clos-ed the man-si-on, shutting out all re-collections of the past and also foresights into the future. That night was a me-mor-able one. I slept soundly until the break of morn, but had the events transpired which afterward occur-red, what would have hap-pen-ed to me no tongue can tell. Early the next day nothing hap-pened. Soon after breakfast, the vener-able John came to bor-row some ker-osene oil and a half a pound of sugar, but his attempt was foil-ed. I knew too well the in-sid-ious foe. In the very out-set of his vil-li-an-y I sent him home with a empty can. For two long days I wander-ed amid the ver-dant pathways of the gar-den and to the barn, whenever and anon my du-ty call-ed me, nor did I ere neg-lect the fowlery. No cloud o'er-spread this happy pe-ri-od of my life. But the cloud was ri-sing in the horizon although I saw it not.

"It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven, on the morning of a Thursday, that I sat pondering in my mind the ques-ti-on what to do with the b.u.t.ter and the veg-et-ables. Here was b.u.t.ter, and here was green corn and lima-beans and trophy tomats, far more than I ere could use.

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 to gra.s.s. And here was a wagon, none too new, which had it the top taken off, or even the curtains roll-ed up, would do for a li-cen-ced vender. With the truck and b.u.t.ter, and mayhap some milk, I could load that wagon--"

"O, Pomona," interrupted Euphemia. "You don't mean to say that you were thinking of doing anything like that?"