_ Sure enough, it was Pomona. There stood our old servant-girl, of
the canal-boat, with a crooked straw bonnet on her head, a faded
yellow parasol in her hand, a parcel done up in newspaper under her
arm, and an expression 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.
But the girl did not move; she did not even turn her head to look
at the dog, who stopped before he reached her and began to rush
wildly around her, barking terribly.
We held our breath. I tried to say "get out!" or "lie down!" but
my tongue 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,
occasionally glancing 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
here yesterday, that dog would have had my life's blood."
"And why don't he have it to-day?" said Euphemia, who, with myself,
was utterly amazed at the behavior of the dog.
"Because I know more to-day than I did yesterday," answered Pomona.
"It is only this afternoon that I read something, as I was coming
here on the cars. This is it," she continued, unwrapping her paper
parcel, and taking from it one of the two books it contained. "I
finished this part just as the cars stopped, and I put my scissors
in the place; I'll read it to you."
Standing there with one book still under her arm, the newspaper
half unwrapped from it, hanging down and flapping in the breeze,
she opened the other volume at the scissors-place, turned back a
page or two, and began to read as follows:
"Lord Edward slowly san-ter-ed up the bro-ad anc-es-tral walk, when
sudden-ly from out a cop-se, there sprang a fur-i-ous hound. The
marsh-man, con-ce-al-ed in a tree expected to see the life's blood
of the young nob-le-man stain the path. But no, Lord Edward did
not stop nor turn his head. With a smile, he strode stead-i-ly on.
Well he knew that if by be-traying no em-otion, he could show the
dog that he was walking where he had a right, the bru-te would re-
cog-nize that right and let him pass un-sca-thed. Thus in this
moment of peril his nob-le courage saved him. The hound, abashed,
returned to his cov-ert, and Lord Edward pass-ed on.
"Foi-led again," mutter-ed the marsh-man.
"Now, then," said Pomona, closing the book, "you see I remembered
that, 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 betray emotion, and he would have had my life's blood. Did he
drive you up there?"
"Yes," said Euphemia; and she hastily explained the situation.
"Then I guess I'd better chain him up," remarked Pomona; and
advancing to the dog she took him boldly by the collar and pulled
him toward the shed. The animal hung back at first, but soon
followed her, and she chained him up securely.
"Now you can come down," said Pomona.
I assisted Euphemia to the ground, and Pomona persuaded the hired
girl to 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 the
institution, but I didn't get much good there, only I learned to
read to 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 was a real good book, named 'The Bridal
Corpse, or Montregor's Curse,' and I had to pay for it at the
circulatin' library. So I left her quick enough, 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
anything to do at the theayter, I could work my way up, so I was
glad to get scrubbin'. I asked the prompter, one morning, if he
thought there was a chance 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 pretty soon left that place. I heard you
was akeepin' house out here, and so I thought I'd come along and
see you, and if you hadn't no girl I'd like to live with you again,
and I guess you might as well take me, for that other 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 a dog, though I
told her I guessed he was only cuttin' 'round because he was so
glad to get loose."
"Cutting around!" exclaimed Euphemia. "It was nothing of the kind.
If you had seen him you would have known better. But did you come
now to stay? Where are your things?"
"On me," replied Pomona.
When Euphemia found that the Irish girl really intended to leave,
we consulted together and concluded to engage Pomona, and I went so
far as to agree to carry her books to and from the circulating
library to which she subscribed, hoping thereby to be able to
exercise some influence on her taste. And thus part of the old
family of Rudder Grange had come together again. True, the boarder
was away, but, as Pomona remarked, when she heard about him, "You
couldn't always expect to ever regain the ties that had always
bound everybody."
Our delight and interest in our little farm increased day by day.
In a week or two after Pomona's arrival I bought a cow. Euphemia
was very anxious to have an Alderney,--they were such gentle,
beautiful creatures,--but I could not afford such a luxury. I
might possibly compass an Alderney calf, but we would have to wait
a couple of years for our milk, and Euphemia said it would be
better to have a common cow than to do that.
Great was our inward satisfaction when the cow, our OWN cow, walked
slowly and solemnly into our yard and began to crop the clover on
our little lawn. Pomona and I gently drove her to the barn, while
Euphemia endeavored to quiet the violent demonstrations of the dog
(fortunately chained) by assuring him that this was OUR cow and
that she was to live here, and that he was to take care of her and
never bark at her. All this and much more, delivered in the
earnest and confidential tone in which ladies talk to infants and
dumb animals, made the dog think that he was to be let loose to
kill the cow, and he bounded and leaped with delight, tugging at
his chain so violently that Euphemia became a little frightened and
left him. This dog had been named Lord Edward, at the earnest
solicitation of Pomona, and he was becoming somewhat reconciled to
his life with us. He allowed me to unchain him at night and I
could generally chain him up in the morning without trouble if I
had a good big 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 first youth, was to be the milkmaid. But when she began
operations, she did no more 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
milk hundreds 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 the matter in despair, and leave the poor cow until morning,
when Pomona was to go for a man who occasionally worked on the
place, and engage him to come and milk for us.
That night as we were going to bed I looked out of the window at
the barn which contained the cow, and was astonished to see that
there was a light inside of the building.
"What!" I exclaimed. "Can't we be left in peaceful possession of a
cow for a single night?" And, taking my revolver, I hurried down-
stairs and out-of-doors, forgetting my hat in my haste. Euphemia
screamed after me to be careful and keep the pistol pointed away
from me.
I whistled for the dog as I went out, but to my surprise he did not
answer.
"Has he been killed?" I thought, and, for a moment, I wished that I
was a large family of brothers--all armed.
But on my way to the barn I met a person approaching with a lantern
and a 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 mind that I'd learn to milk--if it took me all night. I didn't
go to bed at all, and I've been at the barn fur an hour. And there
ain't no need of my goin' after no man in the mornin'," said she,
hanging up the barn key on its nail.
I simply mention this circumstance to show what kind of a girl
Pomona had 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 wheat put in in the fall and next year we would make the
place fairly crack with luxuriance. We would divide the duties of
the farm, and, among other things, Euphemia would take charge of
the chickens. She wished to do this entirely herself, so that
there might be one thing that should be all her own, just as my
work in town was all my own. As she wished to buy the chickens and
defray all the necessary expenses out of her own private funds, I
could make no objections, and, indeed, I had no desire to do so.
She bought a chicken-book, and made herself mistress of the
subject. For a week, there was a strong chicken flavor in all our
conversation.
This was while the poultry yard was building. There was a chicken-
house on 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
hoped they 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,"
she said, "and set the eggs of the second class, under the hens of
the third class."
"There seems to be some injustice in that arrangement," I said,
"for the first class will always be childless; the second class
will have nothing to do with their offspring, while the third will
be obliged to bring up and care for the children of others."
But I really had no voice in this matter. As soon as the carpenter
had finished the yard, and had made some coops and other necessary
arrangements, Euphemia hired a carriage and went about the country
to buy chickens. It was not easy to find just what she wanted, and
she was gone all day.
However, she brought home an enormous Brahma cock and ten hens,
which number was pretty equally divided into her three classes.
She was very proud of her purchases, and indeed they were fine
fowls. In the evening 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.
You haven't studied it up as I have. Now, just let me show you how
this thing will pay, if carried on properly." Producing a piece of
paper covered with figures, she continued: "I begin with ten hens--
I got four common ones, because it would make it easier to
calculate. After a while, I set these ten hens on thirteen eggs
each; three of these eggs will probably spoil,--that leaves ten
chickens hatched out. Of these, I will say that half die, that
will make five chickens for each hen; you see, I leave a large
margin for loss. This makes fifty chickens, and when we add the
ten hens, we have sixty fowls at the end of the first year. Next
year I set these sixty and they bring up five chickens each,--I am
sure there will be a larger proportion than this, but I want to be
safe,--and that is three hundred chickens; add the hens, and we
have three hundred and sixty at the end of the second year. In the
third year, calculating in the same safe way, we shall have twenty-
one hundred and sixty chickens; in the fourth year there will be
twelve thousand nine hundred and sixty, and at the end of the fifth
year, which is as far as I need to calculate now, we shall have
sixty-four thousand and eight hundred chickens. What do you think
of that? At seventy-five cents apiece,--a very low price,--that
would be forty-eight thousand and six hundred dollars. Now, what
is the petty cost of a fence, and a few coops, by the side of a sum
like that?"
"Nothing at all," I answered. "It is lost like a drop in the
ocean. I hate, my dear, to interfere in any way with such a
splendid calculation as that, but I would like to ask you one
question."
"Oh, of course," she said, "I suppose you are going to say
something about the cost of feeding all this poultry. That is to
come out of the chickens supposed to die. They won't die. It is
ridiculous to suppose that each hen will bring up but five
chickens. The chickens that will live, 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 to be considered. But you know you are only going to set
common hens, and you do not intend to raise any. Now, are those
four hens to do all the setting and mother-work for five years, and
eventually bring up over sixty-four thousand chickens?"
"Well, I DID make a mistake there," she said, coloring a little.
"I'll tell 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
every one 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
allow that one-half of all the chickens are roosters, and that will
make the profits twenty-four thousand three hundred dollars--more
than enough to buy this place."
"Ever so much more," I cried. "This Rudder Grange is ours!" _