Fresh mulching was piled near all the young fruit trees, to be applied as soon as the frost was out of the ground. Several hundreds of loads of manure were hauled to the fields, to be spread as soon as the snow disappeared. I always return manure to the land as soon as it can be done conveniently. The manure from the hen-house was saved this year to use on the alfalfa fields, to see how well it would take the place of commercial fertilizer. I may as well give the result of the experiment now.

It was mixed with sand and applied at the rate of eight hundred pounds an acre for the spring dressing over a portion of the alfalfa, against four hundred pounds an acre of the fertilizer 3:8:8. After two years I was convinced that, when used alone, it is not of more than half the value of the fertilizer.

My present practice is to use five hundred pounds of hen manure and two hundred pounds of fertilizer on each acre for the spring dressing, and two hundred pounds an acre of the fertilizer alone after each cutting except the last. We have ten or twelve tons of hen manure each year, and it is nearly all used on the alfalfa or the timothy as spring dressing. It costs nothing, and it takes off a considerable sum from the fertilizer account. I am not at all sure that the scientists would approve this method of using it; I can only give my experience, and say that it brings me satisfactory crops.

There was much snow in January and February, and in March much rain. When the spring opened, therefore, the ground was full of water. This was fortunate, for April and May were unusually dry months,—only 1.16 inches of water.

The dry April brought the ploughs out early; but before we put our hands to the plough we should make a note of what the first quarter of 1897 brought into our strong box.

Sold: Butter . . . . $842.00 Eggs . . . . 401.00 Cow . . . . 35.00 Two sows . . . 19.00 Total . . . $1297.00

Fifteen of the young sows farrowed in March, and the other 9 in April, as also did 18 old ones. The young sows gave us 147 pigs, and the old ones 161, so that the spring opened with an addition to our stock of 300 head of young swine.

Between March 1 and May 10 were born 25 calves, which were all sold before July 1. The population of our factory farm was increasing so rapidly that it became necessary to have more help. We already had eight men and three women, besides the help in the big house. One would think that eight men could do the work on a farm of 320 acres, and so they can, most of the time; but in seed-time and harvest they are not sufficient at Four Oaks. We could not work the teams.

Up to March, 1897, Sam had full charge of the chickens, and also looked after the hogs, with the help of Anderson. Judson and French had their hands full in the cow stables, and Lars was more than busy with the carriage horses and the driving. Thompson was working foreman, and his son Zeb and Johnson looked after the farm horses during the winter and did the general work. From that time on Sam gave his entire time to the chickens, Anderson his entire time to the hogs, and Johnson began gardening in real earnest. This left only Thompson and Zeb for general farm work.

Again I advertised for two farm hands. I selected two of the most promising applicants and brought them out to the farm. Thompson discharged one of them at the end of the first day for persistently jerking his team, and the other discharged himself at the week's end, to continue his tramp. Once more I resorted to the city papers. This time I was more fortunate, for I found a young Swede, square-built and blond-headed, who said he had worked on his father's farm in the old country, and had left it because it was too small for the five boys. Otto was slow of speech and of motion, but he said he could work, and I hired him. The other man whom I sent to the farm at the same time proved of no use whatever. He stayed four days, and was dismissed for innocuous desuetude. Still another man whom I tried did well for five weeks, and then broke out in a most profound spree, from which he could not be weaned. He ended up by an assault on Otto in the stable yard. The Swede was taken by surprise, and was handsomely bowled over by the first onslaught of his half-drunk, half-crazed antagonist. As soon, however, as his slow mind took in the fact that he was being pounded, he gathered his forces, and, with a grunt for a war-cry, rolled his enemy under him, sat upon his stomach, and, flat-handed, slapped his face until he shouted for aid. The man left the farm at once, and I commended the Swede for having used the flat of his hand.

In spite of bad luck with the new men we were able to plough and seed 144 acres by May 10. Lots Nos. 8, 12, 13, and 14 were planted to corn, and No. 15 sowed to oats, and the 10 acres on the home lot were divided between sweet fodder corn, potatoes, and cabbage. The abundant water in the soil gave the crops a fair start, and June proved an excellent growing month, a rainfall of nearly four inches putting them beyond danger from the short water supply of July and August. Indeed, had it not been for the generosity of June we should have been in a bad way, for the next three months gave a scant four inches of rain.

The oats made a good growth, though the straw was rather short, and the corn did very well indeed,—due largely to thorough cultivation. Twelve acres of oats were cut for forage, and the rest yielded 33 bushels to the acre,—a little over 1300 bushels.

The alfalfa and timothy made a good start. From the former we cut, late in June, 21/4 tons to the acre, and from the timothy, in July, 21/2 tons,—50 tons of timothy and 45 of alfalfa. Each of these fields received the usual top-dressing after the crop was cut; but the timothy did not respond,—the late season was too dry. We cut two more crops from the alfalfa field, which together made a yield of a little more than 2 tons. The alfalfa in that dry summer gave me 95 tons of good hay, proving its superiority as a dry-weather crop.

Johnson started the one-and-one-half-acre vegetable and fruit garden in April, and devoted much of his time to it. His primitive hotbeds gradually emptied themselves into the garden, and we now began to taste the fruit of our own soil, much to the pleasure of the whole colony. It is surprising what a real gardener can do with a garden of this size. By feeding soil and plants liberally, he is able to keep the ground producing successive crops of vegetables, from the day the frost leaves it in the spring until it again takes possession in the fall, without doing any wrong to the land. Indeed, our garden grows better and more prolific each year in spite of the immense crops that are taken from it. This can be done only by a person who knows his business, and Johnson is such a person. He gave much of his time to this practical patch, but he also worked with Polly among the shrubs on the lawn, and in her sunken flower garden, which is the pride of her life. We shall hear more about this flower garden later on.

The accounts for the second quarter of the year show these items on the income side:—

Butter $1052.00 Eggs 379.00 Twenty-five calves 275.00 ———— Total $1706.00



CHAPTER XXXIX

THE YOUNG ORCHARD

One of the most enjoyable occupations of a farmer's life is the care of young trees. Until your experience in this work is of a personal and proprietary nature, you will not realize the pleasure it can afford. The intimate study of plant life, especially if that plant life is yours, is a never failing source of pleasurable speculation, and a thing upon which to hang dreams. You grow to know each tree, not only by its shape and its habit of growth, but also by peculiarities that belong to it as an individual. The erect, sturdy bearing of one bespeaks a frank, bold nature, which makes it willing to accept its surroundings and make the most of them; while the crooked, dwarfish nature of another requires the utmost care of the husbandman to keep it within the bounds of good behavior. And yet we often find that the slow-growing, ill-conditioned young tree, if properly cared for, will bring forth the finest fruit at maturity.

To study the character and to watch the development of young trees is a pleasing and useful occupation for the man who thinks of them as living things with an inheritance that cannot be ignored. That seeds in all appearance exactly alike should send forth shoots so unlike, is a wonder of Nature; and that young shoots in the same soil and with the same care should show such dissimilarity in development, is a riddle whose answer is to be found only in the binding laws of heredity. That a tiny bud inserted under the bark of a well-grown tree can change a sour root to a sweet bough, ought to make one careful of the buds which one grafts on the living trunk of one's tree of life. The young orchard can teach many lessons to him who is willing to be taught; in the hands of him who is not, the schoolmaster has a very sorry time of it, no matter how he sets his lessons.

The side pockets of my jacket are usually weighted down with pruning-shears, a sharp knife, and a handled copper wire,—always, indeed, in June, when I walk in my orchard. June is the month of all months for the prudent orchardist to go thus armed, for the apple-tree borer is abroad in the land. When the quick eye of the master sees a little pile of sawdust at the base of a tree, he knows that it is time for him to sit right down by that tree and kill its enemy. The sharp knife enlarges the hole, which is the trail of the serpent, and the sharp-pointed, flexible wire follows the route until it has reached and transfixed the borer.

This is the only way. It is the nature of the borer to maim or kill the tree; it is for the interest of the owner that the tree should live. The conflict is irrepressible, and the weakest must go to the wall. The borer evil can be reduced to a minimum by keeping the young trees banked three or four inches high with firm dirt or ashes; but borers must be followed with the wire, once they enter the bark.

The sharp knife and the pruning-shears have other uses in the June orchard. Limbs and sprouts will come in irregular and improper places, and they should be nipped out early and thus save labor and mutilation later on. Sprouts that start from the eyes on the trunk can be removed by a downward stroke of the gloved hand. All intersecting or crossing boughs are removed by knife or scissors, and branches which are too luxuriant in growth are cut or pinched back. Careful guidance of the tree in June will avoid the necessity of severe correction later on.

A man ought to plant an orchard, if for no other reason, that he may have the pleasure of caring for it, and for the companionship of the trees. This was the second year of growth for my orchard, and I was gratified by the evidences of thrift and vigor. Fine, spreading heads adorned the tops of the stubs of trees that had received such (apparently) cruel treatment eighteen months before. The growth of these two seasons convinced me that the four-year-old root and the three-year-old stem, if properly managed, have greater possibilities of rapid development than roots or stems of more tender age. I think I made no mistake in planting three-year-old trees.

As I worked in my orchard I could not help looking forward to the time when the trees would return a hundred-fold for the care bestowed upon them. They would begin to bring returns, in a small way, from the fourth year, and after that the returns would increase rapidly. It is safe to predict that from the tenth to the fortieth year a well-managed orchard will give an average yearly income of $100 an acre above all expenses, including interest on the original cost. A fifty-acre orchard of well-selected apple trees, near a first-class market and in intelligent hands, means a net income of $5000, taking one year with another, for thirty or forty years. What kind of investment will pay better? What sort of business will give larger returns in health and pleasure?

I do not mean to convey the idea that forty years is the life of an orchard; hundreds of years would be more correct. As trees die from accident or decrepitude, others should take their places. Thus the lease of life becomes perpetual in hands that are willing to keep adding to the soil more than the trees and the fruit take from it. Comparatively few owners of orchards do this, and those who belong to the majority will find fault with my figures; but the thinking few, who do not expect to enjoy the fat of the land without making a reasonable return, will say that I am too conservative,—that a well-placed, well-cared-for, well-selected, and well-marketed orchard will do much better than my prophecy. Nature is a good husbandman so far as she goes, but her scheme contemplates only the perpetuation of the tree, by seeds or by other means. Nature's plan is to give to each specimen a nutritive ration. Anything beyond this is thrown away on the individual, and had better be used for the multiplying of specimens. When man comes to ask something more than germinating seeds from a plant, he must remove it from the crowded clump, give it more light and air, and feed it for product. In other words, he must give it more nitrogen, phosphoric acid, and potash than it can use for simple growth and maintenance, and thus make it burst forth into flower-or fruit-product. Nature produces the apple tree, but man must cultivate it and feed it if he would be fed and comforted by it. People who neglect their orchards can get neither pleasure nor profit from them, and such persons are not competent to sit in judgment upon the value of an apple tree. Only those who love, nourish, and profit by their orchards may come into the apple court and speak with authority.



CHAPTER XL

THE TIMOTHY HARVEST

On Friday, the 25th, the children came home from their schools, and with them came Jim Jarvis to spend the summer holidays. Our invitation to Jarvis had been unanimous when he bade us good-by in the winter. Jack was his chum, Polly had adopted him, I took to him from the first, and Jane, in her shy way, admired him greatly. The boys took to farm life like ducks to water. They were hot for any kind of work, and hot, too, from all kinds. I could not offer anything congenial until the timothy harvest in July. When this was on, they were happy and useful at the same time,—a rare combination for boys.

The timothy harvest is attractive to all, and it would be hard to find a form of labor which contributes more to the aesthetic sense than does the gathering of this fragrant grass. At four o'clock on a fine morning, with the barometer "set fair," Thompson started the mower, and kept it humming until 6.30, when Zeb, with a fresh team, relieved him. Zeb tried to cut a little faster than his father, but he was allowed no more time. Promptly at nine he was called in, and there was to be no more cutting that day. At eleven o'clock the tedder was started, and in two hours the cut grass had been turned. At three o'clock the rake gathered it into windrows, from which it was rolled and piled into heaps, or cocks, of six hundred or eight hundred pounds each. The cutting of the morning was in safe bunches before the dew fell, there to go through the process of sweating until ten o'clock the next day. It was then opened and fluffed out for four hours, after which all hands and all teams turned to and hauled it into the forage barn.

The grass that was cut one morning was safely housed as hay by the second night, if the weather was favorable; if not, it took little harm in the haycocks, even from foul weather. It is the sun-bleach that takes the life out of hay.

This year we had no trouble in getting fifty tons of as fine timothy hay as horses could wish to eat or man could wish to see. We began to cut on Tuesday, the 6th of July, and by Saturday evening the twenty-acre crop was under cover. The boys blistered their hands with the fork handles, and their faces, necks, and arms with the sun's rays, and claimed to like the work and the blisters. Indeed, tossing clean, fragrant hay is work fit for a prince; and a man never looks to better advantage or more picturesque than when, redolent with its perfume, he slings a jug over the crook in his elbow and listens to the gurgle of the home-made ginger ale as it changes from jug to throat. There may be joys in other drinks, but for solid comfort and refreshment give me a July hay-field at 3 P.M., a jug of water at forty-eight degrees, with just the amount of molasses, vinegar, and ginger that is Polly's secret, and I will give cards and spades to the broadest goblet of bubbles that was ever poured, and beat it to a standstill. Add to this a blond head under a broad hat, a thin white gown, such as grasshoppers love, and you can see why the emptying of the jug was a satisfying function in our field; for Jane was the one who presided at these afternoon teas. Often Jane was not alone; Florence or Jessie, or both, or others, made hay while the sun shone in those July days, and many a load went to the barn capped with white and laughter. The young people decided that a hay farm would be ideal—no end better than a factory farm—and advised me to put all the land into timothy and clover. I was not too old to see the beauties of haying-time, with such voluntary labor; but I was too old and too much interested with my experiment to be cajoled by a lot of youngsters. I promised them a week of haying in each fifty-two, but that was all the concession I would make. Laura said:—

"We are commanded to make hay while the sun shines; and the sun always shines at Four Oaks, for me."

It was pretty of her to say that; but what else would one expect from Laura?

The twelve acres from which the fodder oats had been cut were ploughed and fitted for sugar beets and turnips. I was not at all certain that the beets would do anything if sown so late, but I was going to try. Of the turnips I could feel more certain, for doth not the poet say:—

"The 25th day of July, Sow your turnips, wet or dry"?

As the 25th fell on Sunday, I tried to placate the agricultural poet by sowing half on the 24th and the other half on the 26th, but it was no use. Whether the turnip god was offended by the fractured rule and refused his blessing, or whether the dry August and September prevented full returns, is more than I can say. Certain it is that I had but a half crop of turnips and a beggarly batch of beets to comfort me and the hogs.

Some little consolation, however, was found in Polly's joy over a small crop of currants which her yearling bushes produced. I also heard rumors of a few cherries which turned their red cheeks to the sun for one happy day, and then disappeared. Cock Robin's breast was red the next morning, and on this circumstantial evidence Polly accused him. He pleaded "not guilty," and strutted on the lawn with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and his suspected breast as much in evidence as a pouter pigeon's. A jury, mostly of blackbirds, found the charge "not proven," and the case was dismissed. I was convinced by the result of this trial that the only safe way would be to provide enough cherries for the birds and for the people too, and ordered fifty more trees for fall planting. I found by experience, that if one would have bird neighbors (and who would not?), he must provide liberally for their wants and also for their luxuries. I have stolen a march as to the cherries by planting scores of mulberry trees, both native and Russian. Birds love mulberries even better than they do cherries, and we now eat our pies in peace. To make amends for this ruse, I have established a number of drinking fountains and free baths; all of which have helped to make us friends.

In August I sold, near the top of a low market, 156 young hogs. At $4.50 per hundred, the bunch netted me $1807. They did not weigh quite as much as those sold the previous autumn, and I found two ways of accounting for this. The first and most probable was that fall pigs do not grow so fast as those farrowed in the spring. This is sufficient to account for the fact that the herd average was twenty pounds lighter than that of its predecessor. I could not, however, get over the notion that Anderson's nervousness had in some way taken possession of the swine (we have Holy Writ for a similar case), and that they were wasted in growth by his spirit of unrest. He was uniformly kind to them and faithful with their food, but there was lacking that sense of cordial sympathy which should exist between hog and man if both would appear at their best. Even when Anderson came to their pens reeking with the rich savor of the food they loved, their ears would prick up (as much as a Chester White's ears can), and with a "woof!" they would shoot out the door, only to return in a moment with the greatest confidence. I never heard that "woof" and saw the stampede without looking around for the "steep place" and the "sea," feeling sure that the incident lacked only these accessories to make it a catastrophe.

Anderson was good and faithful, and he would work his arms and legs off for the pigs; but the spirit of unrest entered every herd which he kept, though neither he nor I saw it clearly enough to go and "tell it in the city." With other swineherds my hogs averaged from fifteen to eighteen pounds better than with faithful Anderson, and I am, therefore, competent to speak of the gross weight of the spirit of contentment.



CHAPTER XLI

STRIKE AT GORDON'S MINE

Frank Gordon owned a coal mine about six miles west of the village of Exeter, and four miles from Four Oaks. A village called Gordonville had sprung up at the mouth of the mine. It was the home of the three hundred miners and their families,—mostly Huns, but with a sprinkling of Cornishmen.

The houses were built by the owner of the mine, and were leased to the miners at a small yearly rental. They were modest in structure, but they could be made inviting and neat if the occupants were thrifty. No one was allowed to sell liquor on the property owned by the Gordons, but outside of this limit was a fringe of low saloons which did a thriving business off the improvident miners.

There had never been a strike at Gordonville, and such a thing seemed improbable, for Gordon was a kind master, who paid his men promptly and looked after their interests more than is usual for a capitalist.

It was, therefore, a distinct surprise when the foreman of the mine telephoned to Gordon one July morning that the men had struck work. Gordon did not understand the reason of it, but he expressed himself as being heartily glad, for financial reasons, that the men had gone out. He had more than enough coal on the surface and in cars to supply the demand for the next three months, and it would be money in his pocket to dispose of his coal without having to pay for the labor of replacing it.

During the day the reason for the strike was announced. From the establishment of the mine it had been the custom for the miners to have their tools sharpened at a shop built and run by the property. This was done for the accommodation of the men, and the charge for keeping the tools sharp was ten cents a week for each man, or $5 a year. For twenty years no fault had been found with the arrangement; it had been looked upon as satisfactory, especially by the men. A walking delegate, mousing around the mine, and finding no other cause for complaint, had lighted upon this practice, and he told the men it was a shame that they should have to pay ten cents a week out of their hard-earned wages for keeping their tools sharp. He said that it was the business of the property to keep the tools sharp, and that the men should not be called upon to pay for that service; that they ought, in justice to themselves and for the dignity of associated labor, to demand that this onerous tax be removed; and, to insure its removal, he declared a strike on. This was the reason, and the only reason, for the strike at Gordon's mine. Three hundred men quit work, and three hundred families suffered, many of them for the necessities of life, simply because a loud-mouthed delegate assured them that they were being imposed upon.

Things went on quietly at the mine. There was no riot, no disturbance. Gordon did not go over, but simply telephoned to the superintendent to close the shaft houses, shut down the engines, put out the fires, and let things rest, at the same time saying that he would hold the superintendent and the bosses responsible for the safety of the plant.

The men were disappointed, as the days went by, that the owner made no effort to induce them to resume work. They had believed that he would at once accede to their demand, and that they would go back to work with the tax removed. This, however, was not his plan. Weeks passed and the men became restless. They frequented the saloons more generally, spent their remaining money for liquor, and went into debt as much as they were permitted for more liquor. They became noisy and quarrelsome. The few men who were opposed to the strike could make no headway against public opinion. These men held aloof from the saloons, husbanded their money, and confined themselves as much as possible to their own houses.

Things had gone on in this way for six weeks. The men grew more and more restless and more dissipated. Again the walking delegate came to encourage them to hold out. Mounted on an empty coal car, he made an inflammatory speech to the men, advising them not only to hold out against the owner, but also to prevent the employment of any other help. If this should not prove sufficient, he advised them to wreck the mining property and to fire the mine,—anything to bring the owner to terms.

Jack and Jarvis went for a long walk one day, and their route took them near Gordonville. Seeing the men collected in such numbers around a coal car, they approached, and heard the last half of this inflammatory speech. As the walking delegate finished, Jack jumped up on the car, and said:—

"McGinnis has had his say; now, men, let me have mine. There are always two sides to a question. You have heard one, let me give you the other. I am a delegate, self-appointed, from the amalgamated Order of Thinkers, and I want you to listen to our view of this strike,—and of all strikes. I want you also to think a little as well as to listen.

"You have been led into this position by a man whose sole business is to foment discords between working-men and their employers. The moment these discords cease, that moment this man loses his job and must work or starve like the rest of you. He is, therefore, an interested party, and he is more than likely to be biassed by what seems to be his interest. He has made no argument; he has simply asserted things which are not true, and played upon your sympathies, emotions, and passions, by the use of the stale war-cries—'oppression,' 'down-trodden working-man,' 'bloated bond-holders,' and, most foolish of all, 'the conflict between Capital and Labor.' You have not thought this matter out for yourselves at all. That is why I ask you to join hands for a little while with the Order of Thinkers and see if there is not some good way out of this dilemma. McGinnis said that the Company has no right to charge you for keeping your tools sharp. In one sense this is true. You have a perfect right to work with dull tools, if you wish to; you have the right to sharpen your own tools; and you also have the right to hire any one else to do it for you. You work 'by the ton,' you own your pickaxes and shovels from handle to blade, and you have the right to do with them as you please.

"There are three hundred of you who use tools; you each pay ten cents a week to the Company for keeping them sharp,—that is, in round numbers, $1500 a year. There are two smiths at work at $50 a month (that is $1200), and a helper at $25 a month ($300 more), making just $1500 paid by the Company in wages. If you will think this matter out, you will see that there is a dead loss to the Company of the coal used, the wear and tear of the instruments, and the interest, taxes, insurance, and degeneration of the plant. Is the Company under obligation to lose this money for you? Not at all! The Company does this as an accommodation and a gratuity to you, but not as a duty. Just as much coal would be taken from the Gordon mine if your tools were never sharpened, only it would require more men, and you would earn less money apiece. You could not get this sharpening done at private shops so cheaply, and you cannot do it yourselves. You have no more right to ask the Company to do this work for nothing than you have to ask it to buy your tools for you. It would be just as sensible for you to strike because the Company did not send each of you ten cents' worth of ice-cream every Sunday morning, as it is for you to go out on this matter of sharpening tools.

"But, suppose the Company were in duty bound to do this thing for you, and suppose it should refuse; would that be a good reason for quitting work? Not by any means! You are earning an average of $2 a day,—nearly $16,000 a month. You've 'been out' six weeks. If you gain your point, it will take you fifteen years to make up what you've already lost. If you have the sense which God gives geese, you will see that you can't afford this sort of thing.

"But the end is not yet. You are likely to stay out six weeks longer, and each six weeks adds another fifteen years to your struggle to catch up with your losses. Is this a load which thinking people would impose upon themselves? Not much! You will lose your battle, for your strike is badly timed. It seems to be the fate of strikes to be badly timed; they usually occur when, on account of hard times or over-supply, the employers would rather stop paying wages than not. That's the case now. Four months of coal is in yards or on cars, and it's an absolute benefit to the Company to turn seventy or eighty thousand dollars of dead product into live money. Don't deceive yourselves with the hope that you are distressing the owner by your foolish strike; you are putting money into his pockets while your families suffer for food. There is no great principle at stake to make your conduct seem noble and to call forth sympathy for your suffering,—only foolishness and the blind following of a demagogue whose living depends upon your folly.

"McGinnis talked to you about the conflict between capital and labor. That is all rot. There is not and there cannot be such a conflict. Labor makes capital, and without capital there would be no object in labor. They are mutually dependent upon each other, and there can be no quarrel between them, for neither could exist after the death of the other. The capitalist is only a laborer who has saved a part of his wages, —either in his generation or in some preceding one. Any man with a sound mind and a sound body can become a capitalist. When the laborer has saved one dollar he is a capitalist,—he has money to lend at interest or to invest in something that will bring a return. The second dollar is easier saved than the first, and every dollar saved is earning something on its own account. All persons who have money to invest or to lend are capitalists. Of course, some are great and some are small, but all are independent, for they have more than they need for immediate personal use.

"I am going to tell you how you may all become capitalists; but first I want to point out your real enemies. The employer is not your enemy, capital is not your enemy, but the saloonkeeper is,—and the most deadly enemy you can possibly have. In that fringe of shanties over yonder live the powers that keep you down; there are the foes that degrade you and your families, forcing you to live little better than wild beasts. Your food is poor, your clothing is in rags, your children are without shoes, your homes are desolate, there are no schools and no social life. Year follows year in dreary monotone, and you finally die, and your neighbors thrust you underground and have an end of you. Misery and wretchedness fill the measure of your days, and you are forgotten.

"This dull, brutish condition is self-imposed, and to what end? That some dozen harpies may fatten on your flesh; that your labor may give them leisure; that your suffering may give them pleasure; that your sweat may cool their brows, and your money fill their tills!

"What do you get in return? Whiskey, to poison your bodies and pervert your minds; whiskey, to make you fierce beasts or dull brutes; whiskey, to make your eyes red and your hands unsteady; whiskey, to make your homes sties and yourselves fit occupants for them; whiskey, to make you beat your wives and children; whiskey, to cast you into the gutter, the most loathsome animal in all the world. This is cheap whiskey, but it costs you dear. All that makes life worth living, all that raises man above the brute, and all the hope of a future life, are freely given for this poor whiskey. The man who sells it to you robs you of your money and also of your manhood. You pay him ten times (often twenty times) as much as it cost him, and yet he poses as your friend.

"I'm not going to say anything against beer, for I don't think good beer is very likely to hurt a man. I will say this, however,—you pay more than twice what it is worth. This is the point I would make: beer is a food of some value, and it should be put on a food basis in price. It isn't more than half as valuable as milk, and it shouldn't cost more than half as much. You can have good beer at three or four cents a quart, if you will let whiskey alone.

"I promised to tell you how to become capitalists, each and every one of you, and I'll keep my word if you'll listen to me a little longer."

While Jack had been speaking, some of the men had shown considerable interest and had gradually crowded their way nearer to the boy. Thirty or forty Cornishmen and perhaps as many others of the better sort were close to the car, and seemed anxious to hear what he had to say. Back of these, however, were the large majority of the miners and the hangers-on at the saloons, who did not wish to hear, and did not mean that others should hear, what the boy had to say. Led by McGinnis and the saloon-keepers, they had kept up such a row that it had been impossible for any one, except those quite near the car, to hear at all. Now they determined to stop the talk and to bounce the boy. They made a vigorous rush for the car with shouts and uplifted hands.

A gigantic Cornishman mounted the car, and said, in a voice that could easily be heard above the shouting of the crowd:—

"Wait—wait a bit, men! The lad is a brave one, and ye maun own to that! There be small 'urt in words, and mebbe 'e 'ave tole a bit truth. Me and me mates 'ere are minded to give un a chance. If ye men don't want to 'ear 'im, you don't 'ave to stay; but don't 'e dare touchen with a finger, or, by God! Tom Carkeek will kick the stuffin' out en 'e!"

This was enough to prevent any overt act, for Tom Carkeek was the champion wrestler in all that county; he was fiercer than fire when roused, and he would be backed by every Cornishman on the job.

Jack went on with his talk. "The 'Order of Thinkers' claim that you men and all of your class spend one-third of your entire wages for whiskey and beer. There are exceptions, but the figures will hold good. I am going to call the amount of your wages spent in this way, one-fourth. The yearly pay-roll of this mine is, in round numbers, $200,000. Fifty thousand of this goes into the hands of those harpies, who grow rich as you grow poor. You are surprised at these figures, and yet they are too small. I counted the saloons over there, and I find there are eleven of them. Divide $50,000 into eleven parts, and you would give each saloon less than $5000 a year as a gross business. Not one of those places can run on the legitimate percentage of a business which does not amount to more than that. Do you suppose these men are here from charitable motives or for their health? Not at all. They are here to make money, and they do it. Five or six hundred dollars is all they pay for the vile stuff for which they charge you $5000. They rob you of manhood and money alike.

"Now, what would be the result if you struck on these robbers? I will tell you. In the first place, you would save $50,000 each year, and you would be better men in every way for so doing. You would earn more money, and your children would wear shoes and go to school. That would be much, and well worth while; but that is not the best of it. I will make a proposition to you, and I will promise that it shall be carried out on my side exactly as I state it.

"This is a noble property. In ten years it has paid its owner $500,000,—$50,000 a year. It is sure to go on in this way under good management. I offer, in the name of the owner, to bond this property to you for $300,000 for five years at six per cent. Of course this is an unusual opportunity. The owner has grown rich out of it, and he is now willing to retire and give others a chance. His offer to you is to sell the mine for half its value, and, at the same time, to give you five years in which to pay for it. I will add something to this proposition, for I feel certain that he will agree to it. It is this: Mr. Gordon will build and equip a small brewery on this property, in which good, wholesome beer can be made for you at one cent a glass. You are to pay for the brewery in the same way that you pay for the other property; it will cost $25,000. This will make $325,000 which you are to pay during the next five years. How? Let me tell you.

"The property will give you a net income of $40,000 or $50,000, and you will save $50,000 more when you give up whiskey and get your beer for less than one-fourth of what it now costs you. The general store at which you have always traded will be run in your interests, and all that you buy will be cheaper. The market will be a cooperative one, which will furnish you meat, fattened on your own land, at the lowest price. Your fruit and vegetables will come from these broad acres, which will be yours and will cost you but little. You will earn more money because you will be sober and industrious, and your money will purchase more because you will deal without a middleman. You will be better clothed, better fed, and better men. Your wives will take new interest in life, and there will be carpets on your floors, curtains at your windows, vegetables behind your cottages, and flowers in front of them.

"All these things you will have with the money you are now earning, and at the same time you will be changing from the laborer to the capitalist. The mine gives you a profit of $40,000, and you save one-fourth of your wages, which makes $50,000 more,—$90,000 in all. What are you to do with this? Less than $20,000 will cover the interest. You will have $70,000 to pay on the principal. This will reduce the interest for the next year more than $3000. Each year you can do as well, and by the time the five years have passed you will own the mine, the land, the brewery, the store, the market, and this blessed blacksmith shop about which you have had so much fuss, and also a bank with a paid-up capital of $50,000. You are capitalists, every one of you, at the end of five years, if you wish to be, and if you are willing to give up the single item,—whiskey.

"Do you like the plan? Do you like the prospect? Turn it over and see what objections you can find. If you are willing to go into it, come over to Four Oaks some day and we will go more into details. McGinnis gave you one side of the picture: I have given you the other. You are at liberty to follow whichever you please."

Jack and Jarvis jumped off the car and struck out for home. Carkeek and his Cornishmen followed the lads until they were well clear of the village, to protect them, and then Carkeek said:—"Me and the others like for to hear 'e talk, mister, and we like for to 'ear 'e talk more."

"All right, Goliath," said Jack. "Come over any time and we'll make plans."



CHAPTER XLII

THE RIOT

Two days later the boys, returning from the city, were met by Jane and Jessie in the big carriage to be driven home. Halfway to Four Oaks the carriage suddenly halted, and a confused murmur of angry voices gave warning of trouble. Jack opened the door and stood upon the step.

"Fifteen or twenty drunken miners block the way,—they are holding the horses," said he.

"Let me out; I'll soon clear the road," said Jarvis, trying to force his way past Jack.

"Sit still, Hercules; I am slower to wrath than you are. Let me talk to them," and Jack took three or four steps forward, followed closely by Jarvis.

"Well, men, what do you want? There is no good in stopping a carriage on the highroad."

"We want work and money and bread," said a great bearded Hun who was nearest to Jack.

"This is no way to get either. We have no work to offer, there is no bread in the carriage, and not much money. You are dead wrong in this business, and you are likely to get into trouble. I can make some allowance when I remember the bad whiskey that is in you, but you must get out of our way; the road is public and we have the right to use it."

"Not until you have paid toll," said the Hun.

"That's the rooster who said we drank whiskey and didn't work. He's the fellow who would rob a poor man of his liberty," came a voice in the crowd.

"Knock his block off!"

"Break his back!"

"Let me at him," and a score of other friendly offers came from the drunken crowd.

Jack stood steadily looking at the ruffians, his blue eyes growing black with excitement and his hands clenched tightly in the pockets of his reefer.

"Slowly, men, slowly," said he. "If you want me, you may have me. There are ladies in the carriage; let them go on; I'll stay with you as long as you like. You are brave men, and you have no quarrel with ladies."

"Ladies, eh!" said the Hun, "ladies! I never saw anything but women. Let's have a look at them, boys."

This speech was drunkenly approved, and the men pressed forward. Jack stood firm, his face was white, but his eyes flamed.

"Stand off! There are good men who will die for those ladies, and it will go hard but bad men shall die first."

The Hun disregarded the warning.

"I'll have a look into—"

"Hell!" said the slow-of-wrath Jack, and his fist went straight from the shoulder and smote the Hun on the point of the jaw. It was a terrible blow, dealt with all the force of a trained athlete, and inspired by every impulse which a man holds dear; and the half-drunken brute fell like a stricken ox. Catching the club from the falling man, Jack made a sudden lunge forward at the face of the nearest foe.

"Now, Jim!" he shouted, as the full fever of battle seized him. His forward lunge had placed another miner hors de combat, and Jarvis sprang forward and secured the wounded man's bludgeon.

"Back to back, Jack, and mind your guard!"

The odds were eighteen to two against the young men, but they did not heed them. Back to back they stood, and the heavy clubs were like feathers in their strong hands. Their skill at "single stick" was of immense advantage, for it built a wall of defence around them. The crazy-drunk miners rushed upon them with the fierceness of wild beasts; they crowded in so close as to interfere with their own freedom of movement; they sought to overpower the two men by weight of numbers and by showers of blows. Jack and Jim were kept busy guarding their own heads, and it was only occasionally that they could give an aggressive blow. When these opportunities came, they were accepted with fierce delight, and a miner fell with a broken head at every blow. Two fell in front of Jack and three went down under Jarvis's club. The battle had now lasted several minutes, and the strain on the young men was telling on their wind; they struck as hard and parried as well as at first, but they were breathing rapidly. The young men cheered each other with joyous words; they felt no need of aid.

"Beats football hollow!" panted Jarvis.

"Go in, old man! you're a dandy full-back!" came between strokes from Jack.

Let us leave the boys for a minute and see what the girls are doing. When Jarvis got out of the carriage, he said:—

"Lars, if there is trouble here, you drive on as soon as you can get your horses clear. Never mind us; we'll walk home. Get the ladies to Four Oaks as soon as possible."

When the battle began, the miners left the horses to attack the men. This gave a clear road, and Lars was ready to drive on, but the girls were not in the carriage. They had sprung out in the excitement of the first sound of blows; and now stood watching with glowing eyes and white faces the prowess of their champions. For minutes they watched the conflict with fear and pride combined. When seven or eight minutes had passed and the champions had not slain all their enemies, some degree of terror arose in the minds of the young ladies,—terror lest their knights be overpowered by numbers or become exhausted by slaying,—and they looked about for aid. Lars, remembering what Jarvis had said, urged the ladies to get into the carriage and be driven out of danger. They repelled his advice with scorn. Jane said:—"I won't stir a step until the men can go with us!"

Jessie said never a word, but she darted forward toward the fighting men, stooped, picked up a fallen club, and was back in an instant. Mounting quickly to the box, she said:—"I can hold the horses. Don't you think you can help the men, Lars?"

"I'd like to try, miss," and the coachman's coat was off in a trice and the club in his hand. He was none too soon!

Jane, who had mounted the box with Jessie, cried, "Look out, Jack!" just as a heavy stone crashed against the back of his head. Some brute in the crowd had sent it with all his force. The stone broke through the Derby hat and opened a wide gash in Jack's scalp, and sent him to the ground with a thousand stars glittering before his eyes. Jane gave a sob and covered her eyes. Jessie swayed as though she would fall, but she never took her eyes from the fallen man; her lips moved, but she said nothing; and her face was ghastly white. Jarvis heard the dull thud against Jack's head and knew that he was falling. Whirling swiftly, he stopped a savage blow that was aimed at the stricken man, and with a back-handed cut laid the striker low.

"All right, Jack; keep down till the stars are gone." He stood with one sturdy leg on each side of Jack's body and his big club made a charmed circle about him. It was not more than twenty seconds before the wheels were out of Jack's head and he was on his feet again, though not quite steady.

Jack's fall had given courage to the gang, and they made a furious attack upon Jarvis, who was now alone and not a little impeded by the friend at his feet. As Jack struggled to his legs, a furious blow directed at him was parried by Jarvis's left arm,—his right being busy guarding his own head. The blow was a fearful one; it broke the small bone in the forearm, beat down the guard, and came with terrible force upon poor Jack's left shoulder, disabling it for a minute. At the same time Jarvis received a nasty blow across the face from an unexpected quarter. He was staggered by it, but he did not fall. Jack's right arm was good and very angry; a savage jab with his club into the face of the man who had struck Jarvis laid him low, and Jack grinned with satisfaction.

Things were going hard with the young men. They had, indeed, disqualified nine of the enemy; but there were still eight or ten more, and through hard work and harder knocks they had lost more than half their own fighting strength. At this rate they would be used up completely while there were still three or four of the enemy on foot. This was when they needed aid, and aid came.

No sooner had Lars found himself at liberty and with a club in his hands than he began to use it with telling effect. He attacked the outer circle, striking every head he could reach, and such was his sprightliness that four men fell headlong before the others became aware of this attack from the rear. This diversion came at the right moment, and proved effective. There were now but six of the enemy in fighting condition, and these six were more demoralized by the sudden and unknown element of a rear attack than by the loss of their thirteen comrades. They hesitated, and half turned to look, and two of them fell under the blows of Jack and Jarvis. As the rest turned to escape, the Swede's club felled one, and the other three ran for dear life. They did not escape, however, for the long legs of the young men were after them. Young blood is hot, and the savage fight that had been forced upon these boys had aroused all that was savage in them. In an instant they overtook two of the fleeing men, but neither could strike an enemy in the back. Throwing aside their clubs, each seized his enemy by the shoulder, turned him face to face and smote him sore, each after his fashion. Then they laughed, took hold of hands, and walked wearily back to the carriage. Jarvis's face was covered with blood, and Jack's neck and shoulders were drenched,—his wound had bled freely. Lars had relieved the ladies on the box after administering kicks and blows in generous measure to the dazed and crippled miners, who were crawling off the road or staggering along it. The Swede had a strain of fierce North blood which was not easily laid when once aroused, and he glared around the battle-field, hoping to find signs of resistance. When none were to be seen, he donned his coachman's coat and sat the box like a sphinx.

The girls went quickly forward to meet the men. They said little, but they put their hands on their battered champions in a way to make the heart of man glad. The men were flushed and proud, as men have been, and men will be, through all time, when they have striven savagely against other savages in the sight of their mistresses, and have gained the victory. Their bruises were numb with exultation and their wounds dumb with pride. There was no regret for blows given or received,—no sympathy for fallen foe. The male fights, in the presence of the female, with savage delight, from the lowest to the highest ranks of creation, and we must forgive our boys for some cruel exultation as they looked on the field of strife. Better feelings will come when the blood flows less rapidly in their veins!

"We must hurry home," said Jane, "and let papa mend you." Then she burst into tears. "Oh, I am so sorry and so frightened! Do you feel very bad, Jack? I know you are suffering dreadfully, Mr. Jarvis. Can't I do something for you?"

"My arm is bruised a bit," said Jarvis; "if you don't mind, you can steady it a little."

Jane's soft hands clasped themselves tenderly over Jarvis's great fist, and she felt relieved in the thought that she was doing something for her hero. She held the great right hand of Hercules tenderly, and Jarvis never let her know that it was the left arm that had been broken. She felt certain that he must be suffering agony, for ever and anon his fingers would close over hers with a spasmodic grip that sent a thrill of mixed joy and pain to her heart.

While I was bandaging the broken arm I saw the young lady going through some pantomimic exercises with her hands, as if seeking to revive the memory of some previous position; then her face blazed with a light, half pleasure and half shame, and she disappeared.

When the carriage arrived at Four Oaks, the story was told in few words, and I immediately set to work to "mend" the boys. Jack insisted that Jarvis should receive the first attention, and, indeed, he looked the worse. But after washing the blood off his face, I found that beyond a severe bruise, which would disfigure him for a few days, his face and head were unhurt. His arm was broken and badly contused. After I had attended to it, he said:—

"Doctor, I'm as good as new; hope Jack is no worse."

I carefully washed the blood off Jack's head and neck, and found an ugly scalp wound at least three inches long. It made me terribly anxious until I fairly proved that the bone was uninjured. After giving the boy the tonsure, I put six stitches into the scalp, and he never said a word. Perhaps the cause of this fortitude could be found in the blazing eyes of Jessie Gordon, which fixed his as a magnet, while her hands clasped his tightly. Miss Jessie was as white as snow, but there was no tremor in hand or eye. When it was all over, her voice was steady and low as she said:—

"Jack Williams, in the olden days men fought for women, and they were called knights. It was counted a noble thing to take peril in defence of the helpless. I find no record of more knightly deed than you have done to-day, and I know that no knight could have done it more nobly. I want you to wear this favor on your hand."

She kissed his hand and left the room. Jack didn't seem to mind the wound in his head, but he gave great attention to his hand.



CHAPTER XLIII

THE RESULT

As soon as the first report of the battle reached me, I telephoned to Bill Jackson, asking him to come at once to Four Oaks and to bring a man with him. When he arrived, attended by his big Irishman, my men had already put one of the farm teams to a great farm wagon, and had filled the box nearly full of hay. We gave Jackson a hurried account of the fight and asked him to go at once and offer relief to the wounded,—if such relief were needed. Jackson was willing enough to go, but he was greatly disappointed that he had missed the fight; it seemed unnatural that there should be a big fight in his neighborhood and he not in it.

"I'd give a ten-acre lot to have been with you, lads," said the big farmer as he started off.

Word had been sent to Dr. High to be ready to care for some broken heads. Two hours later I drove to the Inn at Exeter and found the doctor just commencing the work of repair. Thirteen men had been brought in by the wagon, twelve of them more or less cut and bruised about the head, and all needing some surgical attention. The thirteenth man was stone dead. A terrific blow on the back of the head had crushed his skull as if it had been an egg-shell, and he must have died instantly. After looking this poor fellow over to make sure that there was no hope for him, we turned our attention to the wounded. The barn had been turned into a hospital, and in two hours we had a dozen sore heads well cared for, and their owners comfortably placed for the night on soft hay covered by blankets from the Inn. Mrs. French brought tea and gruels for the thirsty, feverish fellows, and we placed Otto and the big Irishman on duty as nurses for the night. The coroner had been summoned, and arrived as we finished our work. He was an energetic official, and lost no time in getting a jury of six to listen to the statements which the wounded men would give. To their credit be it said that every one who gave testimony at all, gave it to the effect that the miners were crazy-drunk, that they stopped the carriage, provoked the fight, and did their utmost to disable or destroy the enemy. The coroner would listen to no further testimony, but gave the case to the jury. In five minutes their verdict was returned, "justifiable and commendable homicide by person unknown to the jury."

The news of a fight and the death of a miner had reached Gordonville, where it created intense excitement. By the time the inquest was over a crowd of at least fifty miners had collected near the barn. Much grumbling and some loud threats were heard. Jackson took it upon himself to meet these angry men, and no one could have done better. Stepping upon a box which raised him a foot or two above the crowd, he said:—

"See here, fellows, I want to say a word to you. My name's Jackson—Bill Jackson; perhaps some of you know me. If you don't, I'll introduce myself. I wasn't in this fight,—worse luck for me! but I am wide open for engagements in that line. Some one inside said that this gang must be conciliated, and I thought I would come out and do it. I understand that you feel sore over this affair,—it's natural that you should,—but you must remember that those boys out at Four Oaks couldn't accommodate all of you. If you wouldn't mind taking me for a substitute, I'll do my level best to make it lively for you. You don't need cards of introduction to me; you needn't be American citizens; you needn't speak English; all you have to do is to put up your hands or cock your hats, and I'll know what you mean. If any of you thinks he hasn't had his share of what's been going on this afternoon, he may just call on Bill Jackson for the balance. I want to conciliate you if I can! I'm a good-tempered man, and not the kind to pick a quarrel; but if any of you low-lived dogs are looking for a fight, I'm not the man to disappoint you! I came out here to satisfy you in this matter and to send you home contented, and, by the jumping Jews! I'll do it if I have to break the head of every dog's son among you! They told me to speak gently to you, and by thunder, I've done it; but now I'm going to say a word for myself!

"A lot of your dirty crowd attacked two of the decentest men in the county when they were riding with ladies; one of the gang got killed and the rest got their skulls cracked. Would these boys fight for the girls they had with them? Hell's blazes! I'll fight for just thinking of it! Just one of you duffers say 'boo' to me! I'm going right through you!"

Jackson sprang into the crowd, which parted like water before a strong swimmer. He cocked his hat, smacked his fists, and invited any or all to stand up to him. He was crazy for a fight, to get even with Jack and Jarvis; but no one was willing to favor him. He marched through the gang lengthways, crossways, and diagonally, but to no purpose. In great disgust he returned to the barn and reported that the crowd would not be "conciliated." When we left, however, there were no miners to be seen.

It was after one o'clock in the morning when I reached home. Going directly to the room occupied by the boys, I met Polly on the stairs.

"I'm glad you've come," said she, "for I can't do a thing with those boys; they are too wild for any use."

Entering the room, I found the lads in bed, but hilarious. They had sent for Lars and had filled him full of hot stuff and commendation. He was sitting on the edge of a chair between the two beds, his honest eyes bulging and his head rolling from the effects of unusual potations. The lads had tasted the cup, too, but lightly; their high spirits came from other sources. Victories in war and in love deserve celebration; and when the two are united, a bit of freedom must be permitted. They sat bolt upright against the heads of their beds with flushed faces and shining eyes. They shouted Greek and Latin verse at the bewildered Swede; they gave him the story of Lars Porsena in the original, and then in bad Swedish. They called him Lars Porsena,—for had he not fought gallantly? Then he was Gustavus Adolphus,—for had he not come to the aid of the Protestants when they were in sore need? And then things got mixed and the "Royal Swede" was Lars Adolphus or Gustavus Porsena Viking all in one. The honest fellow was more than half crazed by strong waters, incomprehensible words, and "jollying up" which the young chaps had given him.

"See here, boys, don't you see that you're sending your noble Swede to his Lutzen before his time,—not dead, indeed, but dead drunk? This isn't the sort of medicine for either of you; you should have been asleep three hours ago. I'll take your last victim home."

We heard no more from any of the fighters until nine in the morning. In looking them over I found that the Swede had as sore a head as either of the others, though he had never taken a blow.

Many friends came to see the boys during the days of their seclusion, to congratulate them on their fortunate escape, and to compliment them on their skill and courage. The lads enjoyed being made much of, and their convalescence was short and cheerful. Of course Sir Tom was the most constant and most enthusiastic visitor. The warm-hearted Irishman loved the boys always, but now he seemed to venerate them. The successful club fight appealed to his national instincts as nothing else could have done.

"With twenty years off and a shillalah in me hand I would have been proud to stand with you. By the Lord, I'm asking too much! I'll yield the twenty years and only ask for the stick!" And his cane went whirling around his head, now guarding, now striking, and now with elaborate flourishes, after the most approved Donny-brook fashion.

"But, me friend Jarvis, what is this you have on your face? Pond's Extract! Oh, murder! What is the world coming to when fresh beef and usquebaugh are crowded to the wall by bad-smelling water! Look at me nose; it is as straight as God made it, and yet many a time it has been knocked to one side of me face or spread all over me features. Nothing but whiskey and raw beef could ever coax it back! It's God's mercy if you are not deformed for life, me friend. Such privileges are not to be neglected with impunity. Let me bathe your face with whiskey and put a beef-steak poultice after it, and I'll have you as handsome as a girl in three days."

"Give me the steak and whiskey inside and I'll feel handsome at once," said Jarvis.

"Oh, the rashness of youth!" said Sir Tom. "But I'll not say a word against it. Youth is the greatest luck in the world, and I'll not copper it."

And then our sporting friend grew reminiscent and told of a time at Limmer's when the marquis and he occupied beds in the same room, not unlike our boys' room—only smoky and dingy—and poulticed their battered faces with beef, and used usquebaugh inside and outside, after ten friendly rounds.

"Queensbary's nose never resumed entirely after that night, but mine came back like rubber. Maybe it was the beef—maybe it was usquebaugh; me own preference is in favor of the latter."

Sir Tom came every day so long as the boys were confined to the place, and each day he was able to develop some new incident connected with the battle which called for applause. After hearing Lars tell his story for the fourth time, he gave him a ten-dollar note, saying:—

"You did nobly for a Swede, Mr. Gustavus Adolphus, but I would give ten tenners to have had your place and your shillalah,—a Swede for a match-lock, but an Irishman for a stick."

Jack had hardly recovered when he was waited on by a committee from the mine with a request that he would make another speech. He was asked to make good his offer of bonding the property, and also to formulate a plan of cooperation for the guidance of the men. Jack had the plans for a cooperative mining village well digested, and was anxious to get them before the miners. As soon as he was fit he went to Gordonville to try to organize the work. Jarvis of course went with him, and Bill Jackson and Sir Tom would not be denied; they did not say so, but they looked as if they thought some diversion might be found. In spite of the influence of strong whiskey, however, the meeting passed off peacefully. The results that grew from this effort at reformation were so great and so far-reaching that they deserve a book for their narration.



CHAPTER XLIV

DEEP WATERS

For sharp contrasts give me the dull country. The unexpected is the usual in small and in great things alike as they happen on a farm, and I make no apology to the reader for entering them in my narrative. I only ask him, if he be a city man, to take my word for the truth as to the general facts. To some elaboration and embellishment I plead guilty, but the groundwork is truth, and the facts stated are as real as the foundations of my buildings or the cows in my stalls. If the fortunate reader be a country man, he will need no assurance from me, for his eyes have seen and his ears have heard the strange and startling episodes with which the quiet country-side is filled. I do not dare record all the adventures which clustered around us at Four Oaks. People who know only the monotonous life of cities would not believe the half if told, and I do not wish to invite discredit upon my story of the making of the factory farm.

The incidents I have given of the strike at Gordon's mine are substantially correct, and I would love to follow them to their sequel,—the cooeperative mine; but as that is a story by itself, I cannot do it now. I promise myself, however, the pleasure of writing a history of this innovation in coal-mining at an early date. It is worth the world's knowing that a copartnership can exist between three hundred equal partners without serious friction, and that community in business interests on a large scale can be successfully managed without any effort to control personal liberty, either domestic, social, or religious. Indeed, I believe the success of this experiment is due largely to the absence of any attempt to superintend the private interests of its members,—the only bond being a common financial one, and the one requisite to membership, ability to save a portion of the wages earned.

But to go back to farm matters. In August the ground was stirred for the second time around the young trees. To do this, the mulch was turned back and the surface for a space of three feet all around the tree was loosened by hoe or mattock, and the mulch was then returned. The trees were vigorous, and their leaves had the polish of health, in spite of the dry July and August. The mulching must receive the credit for much of this thrift, for it protected the soil from the rays of the sun and invited the deep moisture to rise toward the surface. Few people realize the amount of water that enters into the daily consumption of a tree. It is said that the four acres of leaf surface of a large elm will transpire or yield to evaporation eight tons of water in a day, and that it takes more than five hundred tons of water to produce one ton of hay, wheat, oats, or other crop. This seems enormous; but an inch of rain on an acre of ground means more than a hundred tons of water, and precipitation in our part of the country is about thirty-six inches per annum, so that we can count on over thirty-six hundred tons of water per acre to supply this tremendous evaporation of plant life.

Water-pot and hose look foolish in the face of these figures; indeed, they are poor makeshifts to keep life in plants during pinching times. A much more effective method is to keep the soil loose under a heavy mulch, for then the deep waters will rise. In our climate the tree's growth for the year is practically completed by July 15, and fortunately dry times rarely occur so early. We are, therefore, pretty certain to get the wood growth, no matter how dry the year, since it would take several years of unusual drought to prevent it. Of course the wood is not all that we wish for in fruit trees; the fruit is the main thing, and to secure the best development of it an abundant rainfall is needed after the wood is grown. If the rain doesn't come in July and August, heavy mulching must be the fruit-grower's reliance, and a good one it will prove if the drought doesn't continue more than one year. After July the new wood hardens and gets ready for the trying winter. If July and August are very wet, growth may continue until too late for the wood to harden, and it consequently goes into winter poorly prepared to resist its rigors. The result is a killing back of the soft wood, but usually no serious loss to the trees. The effort to stimulate late summer growth by cultivation and fertilization is all wrong; use manures and fertilizers freely from March until early June, but not later. The fall mulch of manure, if used, is more for warmth than for fertility; it is a blanket for the roots, but much of its value is leached away by the suns and rains of winter.

I felt that I had made a mistake in not sowing a cover crop in my orchard the previous year. There are many excellent reasons for the cover crop and not one against it. The first reason is that it protects the land from the rough usage and wash of winter storms; the second, that it adds humus to the soil; and the third, if one of the legumes is used, that it collects nitrogen from the air, stores it in each knuckle and joint, and holds it there until it is liberated by the decay of the plant. As nitrogen is the most precious of plant foods, and as the nitrate beds and deposits are rapidly becoming exhausted, we must look to the useful legumes to help us out until the scientists shall be able to fix the unlimited but volatile supply which the atmosphere contains, and thus to remove the certain, though remote, danger of a nitrogen famine. That this will be done in the near future by electric forces, and with such economy as to make the product available for agricultural purposes, is reasonably sure. In the meantime we must use the vetches, peas, beans, and clovers which are such willing workers.

The legumes fulfil the three requisites of the cover crop: protection, humus, and the storing of nitrogen. That was why, when the corn in the orchard was last cultivated in July, I planted cow peas between the rows. The peas made a fair growth in spite of the dry season, and after the corn was cut they furnished fine pasture for the brood sows, that ate the peas and trampled down the vines. In the spring ploughing this black mat was turned under, and with it went a store of fertility to fatten the land. Cow peas were sowed in all the corn land in 1897, and the rule of the farm is to sow corn-fields with peas, crimson clover, or some other leguminous plant. As my land is divided almost equally each year between corn and oats, which follow each other, it gets a cover crop turned under every two years over the whole of it. Great quantities of manure are hauled upon the oat stubble in the early spring, and these fields are planted to corn, while the corn stubble is fertilized by the cover crop, and oats are sown. The land is taxed heavily every year, but it increases in fertility and crop-making capacity. For the past two years my oats have averaged forty-seven bushels and my corn nearly sixty-eight bushels per acre. There is no waste land in my fields, and we have made such a strenuous fight against weeds that they no longer seriously tax the land. The wisdom of the work done on the fence rows is now apparent. The ploughing and seeding made it easy to keep the brush and weeds down; hay gathered close to the fences more than pays us for the mowing; and we have no tall weed heads to load the wind with seeds. This is a matter which is not sufficiently considered by the majority of farmers, for weeds are allowed to tax the land almost as much as crops do, and yet they pay no rent. Fence lines and corners are usually breeding beds for these pests, and it will pay any landowner to suppress them.



CHAPTER XLV

DOGS AND HORSES

It was definitely decided in August that Jane was not to go back to Farmington. We had all been of two minds over this question, and it was a comfort to have it settled, though I always suspect that my share of it was not beyond the suspicion of selfishness.

Jane was just past nineteen. She had a fair education, so far as books go, and she did not wish to graduate simply for the honor of a diploma. Indeed, there were many studies between her and the diploma which she loathed. She could never understand how a girl of healthy mind could care for mathematics, exact science, or dead languages. English and French were enough for her tongue, and history, literature, and metaphysics enough for her mind.

"I can learn much more from the books in your library and from the dogs and horses than I can at school, besides being a thousand times happier; and oh, Dad, if you will let me have a forge and workshop, I will make no end of things."

This was a new idea to me, and I looked into it with some interest. I knew that Jane was deft with her fingers, but I did not know that she had a special wish to cultivate this deftness or to put it to practical use.

"What can you do with a forge?" said I. "You can't shoe the horses or sharpen the ploughs. Can you make nails? They are machine-made now, and you couldn't earn ten cents a week, even at horse-shoe nails."

"I don't want to make nails, Dad; I want to work in copper and brass, and iron, too, but in girl fashion. Mary Town has a forge in Hartford, and I spent lots of Saturdays with her. She says that I am cleverer than she is, but of course she was jollying me, for she makes beautiful things; but I can learn, and it's great fun."

"What kind of things does this young lady make, dear?"

"Lamp-shades, paper-knives, hinges, bag-tops, buckles, and lots of things. She could sell them, too, if she had to. It's like learning a trade, Dad."

"All right, child, you shall have a forge, if you will agree not to burn yourself up. Do you roll up your sleeves and wear a leather apron?"

"Why, of course, just like a blacksmith; only mine will be of soft brown leather and pinked at the edges."

So Jane was to have her forge. We selected a site for it at once in the grove to the east of the house and about 150 yards away, and set the carpenter at work. The shop proved to be a feature of the place, and soon became a favorite resort for old and young for five o'clock teas and small gossiping parties. The house was a shingled cottage, sixteen by thirty-two, divided into two rooms. The first room, sixteen by twenty, was the company room, but it contained a work bench as well as the dainty trappings of a girl's lounging room. In the centre of the wall that separated the rooms was a huge brick chimney, with a fireplace in the front room and a forge bed in the rear room, which was the forge proper.

I suppose I must charge the $460 which this outfit cost to the farm account and pay yearly interest on it, for it is a fixture; but I protest that it is not essential to the construction of a factory farm, and it may be omitted by those who have no daughter Jane.

There were other things hinging on Jane's home-staying which made me think that, from the standpoint of economy, I had made a mistake in not sending her back to Farmington. It was not long before the dog proposition was sprung upon me; insidiously at first, until I had half committed myself, and then with such force and sweep as to take me off my prudent feet. My own faithful terrier, which had dogged my heels for three years, seemed a member of the family, and reasonably satisfied my dog needs. That Jane should wish a terrier of some sort to tug at her skirts and claw her lace was no more than natural, and I was quite willing to buy a blue blood and think nothing of the $20 or $30 which it might cost. We canvassed the list of terriers,—bull, Boston, fox, Irish, Skye, Scotch, Airedale, and all,—and had much to say in favor of each. One day Jane said:—

"Dad, what do you think of the Russian wolf-hound?"

"Fine as silk," said I, not seeing the trap; "the handsomest dog that runs."

"I think so, too. I saw some beauties in the Seabright kennels. Wouldn't one of them look fine on the lawn?—lemon and white, and so tall and silky. I saw one down there, and he wasn't a year old, but his tail looked like a great white ostrich feather, and it touched the ground. Wouldn't it be grand to have such a dog follow me when I rode. Say, Dad, why not have one?"

"What do you suppose a good one would cost?"

"I don't know, but a good bit more than a terrier, if they sell dogs by size. May I write and find out?"

"There's no harm in doing that," said I, like the jellyfish that I am.

Jane wasted no time, but wrote at once, and at least seventeen times each day, until the reply came, she gave me such vivid accounts of the beauties of the beasts and of the pleasure she would have in owning one, that I grew enthusiastic as well, and quite made up my mind that she should not be disappointed. When the letter came, there was suppressed excitement until she had read it, and then excitement unsuppressed.

"Dad, we can have Alexis, son of Katinka by Peter the Great, for $125! See what the letter says: 'Eleven months old, tall and strong in quarters, white, with even lemon markings, better head than Marksman, and a sure winner in the best of company.' Isn't that great? And I don't think $125 is much, do you?"

"Not for a horse or a house, dear, but for a dog—"

"But you know, Dad, this isn't a common dog. We mustn't think of it as a dog; it's a barzoi; that isn't too much for a barzoi, is it?"

"Not for a barzoi, or a yacht either; I guess you will have to have one or the other."

"The Seabright man says he has a girl dog by Marksman out of Katrina that is the very picture of Alexis, only not so large, and he will sell both to the same person for $200; they are such good friends."

"Break away, daughter, do you want a steam launch with your yacht?"

"But just think, Dad, only $75 for this one. You save $50, don't you see?"

"Dimly, I must confess, as through a glass darkly. But, dear, I may come to see it through your eyes and in the light of this altruistic dog fancier. I'm such a soft one that it's a wonder I'm ever trusted with money."

The natural thing occurred once more; the fool and his money parted company, and two of the most beautiful dogs came to live on our lawn. To live on our lawn, did I say? Not much! Such wonderful creatures must have a house and grounds of their own to retire to when they were weary of using ours, or when our presence bored them. The kennel and runs were built near the carriage barn, the runs, twenty by one hundred feet, enclosed with high wire netting. The kennel, eight by sixteen, was a handsome structure of its kind, with two compartments eight by eight (for Jane spoke for the future), and beds, benches, and the usual fixtures which well-bred dogs are supposed to require.

The house for these dogs cost $200, so I was obliged to add another $400 to the interest-bearing debt. "If Jane keeps on in this fashion," thought I, "I shall have to refund at a lower rate,"—and she did keep on. No sooner were the dogs safely kennelled than she began to think how fine it would look to be followed by this wonderful pair along the country roads and through the streets of Exeter. To be followed, she must have a horse and a saddle and a bridle and a habit; and later on I found that these things did not grow on the bushes in our neighborhood. I drew a line at these things, however, and decided that they should not swell the farm account. Thus I keep from the reader's eye some of the foolishness of a doting parent who has always been as warm wax in the hands of his, nearly always, reasonable children.

In my stable were two Kentucky-bred saddlers of much more than average quality, for they had strains of warm blood in their veins. There is no question nowadays as to the value of warm blood in either riding or driving horses. It gives ability, endurance, courage, and docility beyond expectation. One-sixteenth thorough blood will, in many animals, dominate the fifteen-sixteenths of cold blood, and prove its virtue by unusual endurance, stamina, and wearing capacity.

The blue-grass region of Kentucky has furnished some of the finest horses in the world, and I have owned several which gave grand service until they were eighteen or twenty years old. An honest horseman at Paris, Kentucky, has sold me a dozen or more, and I was willing to trust his judgment for a saddler for Jane. My request to him was for a light-built horse; weight, one thousand pounds; game and spirited, but safe for a woman, and one broken to jump. Everything else, including price, was left to him.

In good time Jane's horse came, and we were well pleased with it, as indeed we ought to have been. My Paris man wrote: "I send a bay mare that ought to fill the bill. She is as quiet as a kitten, can run like a deer, and jump like a kangaroo. My sister has ridden her for four months, and she is not speaking to me now. If you don't like her, send her back."

But I did like her, and I sent, instead, a considerable check. The mare was a bright bay with a white star on her forehead and white stockings on her hind feet, stood fifteen hands three inches, weighed 980 pounds, and looked almost too light built; but when we noted the deep chest, strong loins, thin legs, and marvellous thighs, we were free to admit that force and endurance were promised. Jane was delighted.

"Dad, if I live to be a hundred years old, I will never forget this day. She's the sweetest horse that ever lived. I must find a nice name for her, and to-morrow we will take our first ride, you and Tom and Aloha and I—yes, that's her name."

We did ride the next day, and many days thereafter; and Aloha proved all and more than the Kentuckian had promised.



CHAPTER XLVI

THE SKIM-MILK TRUST

The third quarter of the year made a better showing than any previous one, due chiefly to the sale of hogs in August. The hens did well up to September, when they began to make new clothes for themselves and could not be bothered with egg-making. There were a few more than seven hundred in the laying pens, and nearly as many more rapidly approaching the useful age. The chief advantage in early chickens is that they will take their places at the nests in October or November while the older ones are dressmaking. This is important to one who looks for a steady income from his hens,—October and November being the hardest months to provide for. A few scattered eggs in the pullet runs showed that the late February and early March chickens were beginning to have a realizing sense of their obligations to the world and to the Headman, and that they were getting into line to accept them. More cotton-seed meal was added to the morning mash for the old hens, and the corn meal was reduced a little and the oatmeal increased, as was also the red pepper; but do what you will or feed what you like, the hen will insist upon a vacation at this season of the year. You may shorten it, perhaps, but you cannot prevent it. The only way to keep the egg-basket full is to have a lot of youngsters coming on who will take up the laying for October and November.

We milked thirty-seven cows during July, August, and September, and got more than a thousand pounds of milk a day. The butter sold amounted to a trifle more than $375 a month. I think this an excellent showing, considering the fact that the colony at Four Oaks never numbered less than twenty-four during that time, and often many more.

I ought to say that the calves had the first claim to the skim-milk; but as we never kept many for more than a few weeks, this claim was easily satisfied. It was like the bonds of a corporation,—the first claim, but a comparatively small one. The hens came next; they held preferred stock, and always received a five-pound, semi-daily dividend to each pen of forty. The growing pigs came last; they held the common stock, which was often watered by the swill and dish-water from both houses and the buttermilk and butter-washing from the dairy. I hold that the feeding value of skim-milk is not less than forty cents a hundred pounds, as we use it at Four Oaks. This seems a high price when it can often be bought for fifteen cents a hundred at the factories; but I claim that it is worth more than twice as much when fed in perfect freshness,—certainly $4 a day would not buy the skim-milk from my dairy, for it is worth more than that to me to feed. This by-product is essential to the smooth running of my factory. Without it the chickens and pigs would not grow as fast, and it is the best food for laying hens,—nothing else will give a better egg-yield. The longer my experiment continues, the stronger is my faith that the combination of cow, hog, and hen, with fruit as a filler, are ideal for the factory farm. With such a plant well-started and well-managed, and with favorable surroundings, I do not see how a man can prevent money from flowing to him in fair abundance. The record of the fourth quarter is as follows:—

Butter $1126.00 Eggs 351.00 Hogs 1807.00 ———— Total $3284.00



CHAPTER XLVII

NABOTH'S VINEYARD

>One hazy, lazy October afternoon, as my friend Kyrle and I sat on the broad porch hitting our pipes, sipping high balls, and watching the men and machines in the corn-fields, as all toiling sons of the soil should do, he said:—

"Doctor, I don't think you've made any mistake in this business."

"Lots of them, Kyrle; but none too serious to mend."

"Yes, I suppose so; but I didn't mean it that way. It was no mistake when you made the change."

"You're right, old man. It's done me a heap of good, and Polly and the youngsters were never so happy. I only wish we had done it earlier."

"Do you think I could manage a farm?"

"Why, of course you can; you've managed your business, haven't you? You've grown rich in a business which is a great sight more taxing. How have you done it?"

"By using my head, I suppose."

"That's just it; if a man will use his head, any business will go,—farming or making hats. It's the gray matter that counts, and the fellow that puts a little more of it into his business than his neighbor does, is the one who'll get on."

"But farming is different; so much seems to depend upon winds and rains and frosts and accidents of all sorts that are out of one's line."

"Not so much as you think, Kyrle. Of course these things cut in, but one must discount them in farming as in other lines of business. A total crop failure is an unknown thing in this region; we can count on sufficient rain for a moderate crop every year, and we know pretty well when to look for frosts. If a man will do well by his land, the harvest will come as sure as taxes. All the farmer has to do is to make the best of what Nature and intelligent cultivation will always produce. But he must use his gray matter in other ways than in just planning the rotation of crops. When he finds his raw staples selling for a good deal less than actual value,—less than he can produce them for, he should go into the market and buy against higher prices, for he may be absolutely certain that higher prices will come."

"But how is one to know? Corn changes so that one can't form much idea of its actual value."

"No more than other staples. You know what fur is worth, because you've watched the fur market for twenty years. If it should fall to half its present price, you would feel safe in buying a lot. You know that it would make just as good hats as it ever did, and that the hats, in all probability, would give you the usual profit. It's the same with corn and oats. I know their feeding value; and when they fall much below it, I fill my granary, because for my purpose they are as valuable as if they cost three times as much. Last year I bought ten thousand bushels of corn and oats at a tremendously low price. I don't expect to have such a chance again; but I shall watch the market, and if corn goes below thirty cents or oats below twenty cents, I will fill my granary to the roof. I can make them pay big profits on such prices."