_ We certainly enjoyed our second day in camp. All the morning, and
a great part of the afternoon, we "explored." We fastened up the
tent as well as we could, and then, I with my gun, and Euphemia
with the fishing-pole, we started up the creek. We did not go very
far, for it would not do to leave the tent too long. I did not
shoot anything, but Euphemia caught two or three nice little fish,
and we enjoyed the sport exceedingly.
Soon after we returned in the afternoon, and while we were getting
things in order for supper, we had a call from two of our
neighbors, Captain Atkinson and wife. The captain greeted us
hilariously.
"Hello!" he cried. "Why, this is gay. Who would ever have thought
of a domestic couple like you going on such a lark as this. We
just heard about it from old John, and we came down to see what you
are up to. You've got everything very nice. I think I'd like this
myself. Why, you might have a rifle-range out here. You could cut
down those bushes on the other side of the creek, and put up your
target over there on that hill. Then you could lie down here on
the grass and bang away all day. If you'll do that, I'll come down
and practice with you. How long are you going to keep it up?"
I told him that we expected to spend my two weeks' vacation here.
"Not if it rains, my boy," said he. "I know what it is to camp out
in the rain."
Meanwhile, Mrs. Atkinson had been with Euphemia examining the tent,
and our equipage generally.
"It would be very nice for a day's picnic," she said; "but I
wouldn't want to stay out-of-doors all night."
And then, addressing me, she asked:
"Do you have to breathe the fresh air all the time, night as well
as day? I expect that is a very good prescription, but I would not
like to have to follow it myself."
"If the fresh air is what you must have," said the captain, "you
might have got all you wanted of that without taking the trouble to
come out here. You could have sat out on your back porch night and
day for the whole two weeks, and breathed all the fresh air that
any man could need."
"Yes," said I, "and I might have gone down cellar and put my head
in the cold-air box of the furnace. But there wouldn't have been
much fun in that."
"There are a good many things that there's no fun in," said the
captain. "Do you cook your own meals, or have them sent from the
house?"
"Cook them ourselves, of course," said Euphemia. "We are going to
have supper now. Won't you wait and take some?"
"Thank you," said Mrs. Atkinson, "but we must go."
"Yes, we must be going," said the captain. "Good-bye. If it rains
I'll come down after you with an umbrella."
"You need not trouble yourself about that," said I. "We shall
rough it out, rain or shine."
"I'd stay here now," said Euphemia, when they had gone, "if it
rained pitch."
"You mean pitchforks," I suggested.
"Yes, anything," she answered.
"Well, I don't know about the pitchforks," I said, looking over the
creek at the sky; "but am very much afraid that it is going to rain
rain-water to-morrow. But that won't drive us home, will it?"
"No, indeed!" said she. "We're prepared for it. But I wish they'd
staid at home."
Sure enough, it commenced to rain that night, and we had showers
all the next day. We staid in camp during the morning, and I
smoked and we played checkers, and had a very cosy time, with a
wood fire burning under a tree near by. We kept up this fire, not
to dry the air, but to make things look comfortable. In the
afternoon I dressed myself up in water-proof coat, boots and hat,
and went out fishing. I went down to the water and fished along
the banks for an hour, but caught nothing of any consequence. This
was a great disappointment, for we had expected to live on fresh
fish for a great part of the time while we were camping. With
plenty of fish, we could do without meat very well.
We talked the matter over on my return, and we agreed that as it
seemed impossible to depend upon a supply of fish, from the waters
about our camp, it would be better to let old John bring fresh meat
from the butcher, and as neither of us liked crackers, we also
agreed that he should bring bread.
Our greatest trouble, that evening, was to make a fire. The wood,
of which there was a good deal lying about under the trees, was now
all wet and would not burn. However, we managed to get up a fire
in the stove, but I did not know what we were going to do in the
morning. We should have stored away some wood under shelter.
We set our little camp-table in the tent, and we had scarcely
finished our supper, when a very heavy rain set in, accompanied by
a violent wind. The canvas at one end of our tent must have been
badly fastened, for it was blown in, and in an instant our beds
were deluged. I rushed out to fasten up the canvas, and got
drenched almost to the skin, and although Euphemia put on her
waterproof cloak as soon as she could, she was pretty wet, for the
rain seemed to dash right through the tent.
This gust of wind did not last long, and the rain soon settled down
into a steady drizzle, but we were in a sad plight. It was after
nine o'clock before we had put things into tolerable order.
"We can't sleep in those beds," said Euphemia.
"They're as wet as sop, and we shall have to go up to the house and
get something to spread over them. I don't want to do it, but we
mustn't catch our deaths of cold."
There was nothing to be said against this, and we prepared to start
out. I would have gone by myself, but Euphemia would not consent
to be left alone. It was still raining, though not very hard, and
I carried an umbrella and a lantern. Climbing fences at night with
a wife, a lantern, and an umbrella to take care of, is not very
agreeable, but we managed to reach the house, although once or
twice we had an argument in regard to the path, which seemed to be
very different at night from what it was in the day-time.
Lord Edward came bounding to the gate to meet us, and I am happy to
say that he knew me at once, and wagged his tail in a very sociable
way.
I had the key of a side-door in my pocket, for we had thought it
wise to give ourselves command of this door, and so we let
ourselves in without ringing or waking Pomona.
All was quiet within, and we went upstairs with the lantern.
Everything seemed clean and in order, and it is impossible to
convey any idea of the element of comfort which seemed to pervade
the house, as we quietly made our way upstairs, in our wet boots
and heavy, damp clothes.
The articles we wanted were in a closet, and while I was making a
bundle of them, Euphemia went to look for Pomona. She soon
returned, walking softly.
"She's sound asleep," said she, "and I didn't think there was any
need of waking her. We'll send word by John that we've been here.
And oh! you can't imagine how snug and happy she did look, lying
there in her comfortable bed, in that nice, airy room. I'll tell
you what it is, if it wasn't for the neighbors, and especially the
Atkinsons, I wouldn't go back one step."
"Well," said I, "I don't know that I care so particularly about it,
myself. But I suppose I couldn't stay here and leave all
Thompson's things out there to take care of themselves."
"Oh no!" said Euphemia. "And we're not going to back down. Are
you ready?"
On our way down-stairs we had to pass the partly open door of our
own room. I could not help holding up the lantern to look in.
There was the bed, with its fair white covering and its smooth,
soft pillows; there were the easy-chairs, the pretty curtains, the
neat and cheerful carpet, the bureau, with Euphemia's work-basket
on it; there was the little table with the book that we had been
reading together, turned face downward upon it; there were my
slippers; there was--
"Come!" said Euphemia, "I can't bear to look in there. It's like a
dead child."
And so we hurried out into the night and the rain. We stopped at
the wood-shed and got an armful of dry kindling, which Euphemia was
obliged to carry, as I had the bundle of bed-clothing, the
umbrella, and the lantern.
Lord Edward gave a short, peculiar bark as we shut the gate behind
us, but whether it was meant as a fond farewell, or a hoot of
derision, I cannot say.
We found everything as we left it at the camp, and we made our beds
apparently dry. But I did not sleep well. I could not help
thinking that it was not safe to sleep in a bed with a substratum
of wet mattress, and I worried Euphemia a little by asking her
several times if she felt the dampness striking through.
To our great delight, the next day was fine and clear, and I
thought I would like, better than anything else, to take Euphemia
in a boat up the river and spend the day rowing about, or resting
in shady places on the shore.
But what could we do about the tent? It would be impossible to go
away and leave that, with its contents, for a whole day.
When old John came with our water, milk, bread, and a basket of
vegetables, we told him of our desired excursion, and the
difficulty in the way. This good man, who always had a keen scent
for any advantage to himself, warmly praised the boating plan, and
volunteered to send his wife and two of his younger children to
stay with the tent while we were away.
The old woman, he said, could do her sewing here as well as
anywhere, and she would stay all day for fifty cents.
This plan pleased us, and we sent for Mrs. Old John, who came with
three of her children,--all too young to leave behind, she said,--
and took charge of the camp.
Our day proved to be as delightful as we had anticipated, and when
we returned, hungry and tired, we were perfectly charmed to find
that Mrs. Old John had our supper ready for us.
She charged a quarter, extra, for this service, and we did not
begrudge it to her, though we declined her offer to come every day
and cook and keep the place in order.
"However," said Euphemia, on second thoughts, "you may come on
Saturday and clean up generally."
The next day, which was Friday, I went out in the morning with the
gun. As yet I had shot nothing, for I had seen no birds about the
camp, which, without breaking the State laws, I thought I could
kill, and so I started off up the river-road.
I saw no game, but after I had walked about a mile, I met a man in
a wagon.
"Hello," said he, pulling up; "you'd better be careful how you go
popping around here on the public roads, frightening horses."
As I had not yet fired a single shot, I thought this was a very
impudent speech, and I think so still.
"You had better wait until I begin to pop," said I, "before you
make such a fuss about it."
"No," said he, "I'd rather make the fuss before you begin. My
horse is skittish," and he drove off.
This man annoyed me; but as I did not, of course, wish to frighten
horses, I left the road and made my way back to the tent over some
very rough fields. It was a poor day for birds, and I did not get
a shot.
"What a foolish man!" said Euphemia, when I told her the above
incident, "to talk that way when you stood there with a gun in your
hand. You might have raked his wagon, fore and aft."
That afternoon, as Euphemia and I were sitting under a tree by the
tent, we were very much surprised to see Pomona come walking down
the peninsula.
I was annoyed and provoked at this. We had given Pomona positive
orders not to leave the place, under any pretense, while we were
gone. If necessary to send for anything, she could go to the
fence, back of the barn, and scream across a small field to some of
the numerous members of old John's family. Under this arrangement,
I felt that the house was perfectly safe.
Before she could reach us, I called out:
"Why did you leave the house, Pomona? Don't you know you should
never come away and leave the house empty? I thought I had made
you understand that."
"It isn't empty," said Pomona, in an entirely unruffled tone.
"Your old boarder is there, with his wife and child."
Euphemia and I looked at each other in dismay.
"They came early this afternoon," continued Pomona, "by the 1:14
train, and walked up, he carrying the child."
"It can't be," cried Euphemia. "Their child's married."
"It must have married very young, then," said Pomona, "for it isn't
over four years old now."
"Oh!" said Euphemia, "I know! It's his grandchild."
"Grandchild!" repeated Pomona, with her countenance more expressive
of emotion than I had ever yet seen it.
"Yes," said Euphemia; "but how long are they going to stay? Where
did you tell them we were?"
"They didn't say how long they was goin' to stay," answered Pomona.
"I told them you had gone to be with some friends in the country,
and that I didn't know whether you'd be home to-night or not."
"How could you tell them such a falsehood?" cried Euphemia.
"That was no falsehood," said Pomona; "it was true as truth. If
you're not your own friends, I don't know who is. And I wasn't a-
goin' to tell the boarder where you was till I found out whether
you wanted me to do it or not. And so I left 'em and run over to
old John's, and then down here."
It was impossible to find fault with the excellent management of
Pomona.
"What were they doing?" asked Euphemia.
"I opened the parlor, and she was in there with the child,--putting
it to sleep on the sofa, I think. The boarder was out in the yard,
tryin' to teach Lord Edward some tricks."
"He had better look out!" I exclaimed.
"Oh, the dog's chained and growlin' fearful! What am I to do with
'em?"
This was a difficult point to decide. If we went to see them, we
might as well break up our camp, for we could not tell when we
should be able to come back to it.
We discussed the matter very anxiously, and finally concluded that
under the circumstances, and considering what Pomona had said about
our whereabouts, it would be well for us to stay where we were and
for Pomona to take charge of the visitors. If they returned to the
city that evening, she was to give them a good supper before they
went, sending John to the store for what was needed. If they
stayed all night, she could get breakfast for them.
"We can write," said Euphemia, "and invite them to come and spend
some days with us, when we are at home and everything is all right.
I want dreadfully to see that child, but I don't see how I can do
it now."
"No," said I. "They're sure to stay all night if we go up to the
house, and then I should have to have the tent and things hauled
away, for I couldn't leave them here."
"The fact is," said Euphemia, "if we were miles away, in the woods
of Maine, we couldn't leave our camp to see anybody. And this is
practically the same."
"Certainly," said I; and so Pomona went away to her new charge. _