As to feeding for milk, I have followed nearly the same plan through my whole experiment. I keep an abundance of roughage, usually shredded corn, before the cows all the time. When it has been picked over moderately well, it is thrown out for bedding, and fresh fodder is put in its place. The finer forages, timothy, red-top, clover, alfalfa, and oat straw, are always cut fine, wetted, and mixed with grain before feeding. This food is given three times a day in such quantities as will be eaten in forty-five minutes. Green forage takes the place of dry in season, and fresh vegetables are served three times a week in winter. The grain ration is about as follows: By weight, corn and cob meal, three parts; oatmeal, three parts; bran, three parts; gluten meal, two parts; linseed meal, one part. The cash outlay for a ton of this mixture is about $12; this price, of course, does not include corn and oats, furnished by the farm. A Holstein cow can digest fifteen pounds of this grain a day. This means about two and a half tons a year, with a cash outlay of $30 per annum for each head. Fresh water is always given four times a day, and much of the time the cows have ready access to it. In cold weather the water is warmed to about 65 deg. F. The cows are let out in a twenty-acre field for exercise every day, except in case of severe storms. They are fed forage in the open when the weather is fine and insects are not troublesome, and they sometimes sleep in the open on hot nights; but by far the largest part of their time is spent in their own stalls away from chilling winds and biting flies. In their stables they are treated much as fine horses are,—well bedded, well groomed, and well cared for in all ways.

A quiet, darkened stable conduces rumination. Loud talking, shouting, or laughing are not looked upon with favor in our cow barn. On the other hand, continuous sounds, if at all melodious, seem to soothe the animals and increase the milk flow. Judson, who has proved to be our best herdsman, has a low croon in his mouth all the time. It can hardly be called a tune, though I believe he has faith in it, but it has a fetching way with the herd. I have never known him to be quick, sharp, or loud with the cows. When things go wrong, the crooning ceases. When it is resumed, all is well in the cow world. The other man, French, who is an excellent milker, and who stands well with the cows, has a half hiss, half whistle, such as English stable-boys use, except that it runs up and down five notes and is lost at each end. The cows like it and seem to admire French for his accomplishment even more than Judson, for they follow his movements with evident pleasure expressed in their great ox eyes.

Rigid rules of cleanliness are carried out in every detail with the greatest exactness. The house and the animals are cared for all the time as if on inspection. Before milking, the udders are carefully brushed and washed, and the milker covers himself entirely with a clean apron. As each cow is milked, the milker hangs the pail on a spring balance and registers the exact weight on a blackboard. He then carries the milk through the door that leads to the dairy-house, and pours it into a tank on wheels. This ends his responsibility. The dairymaid is then in charge.



CHAPTER XXV

THE DAIRYMAID

Of course I had trouble in getting a dairymaid. I was not looking for the bouncing, buxom, red-cheeked, arms-akimbo, butter-colored-hair sort. I didn't care whether she were red-cheeked and bouncing or not, but for obvious reasons I didn't want her hair to be butter-colored. What I did want was a woman who understood creamery processes, and who could and would make the very giltest of gilt-edged butter.

I commenced looking for my paragon in January. I interviewed applicants of both sexes and all nationalities, but there was none perfect; no, not one. I was not exactly discouraged, but I certainly began to grow anxious as the time approached when I should need my dairymaid, and need her badly. One day, while looking over the Rural New Yorker (I was weaned on that paper), I saw the following advertisement. "Wanted: Employment on a dairy-farm by a married couple who understand the business." If this were true, these two persons were just what I needed; but, was it true? I had tried a score of greater promise and had not found one that would do. Was I to flush two at once, and would they fall to my gun?

A small town in one of the Middle Western states was given as the address, and I wrote at once. My letter was strong in requirements, and asked for particulars as to experience, age, references, and nationality. The reply came promptly, and was more to my liking than any I had received before. Name, French; Americans, newly married, twenty-eight and twenty-six respectively; experience four and three years in creamery and dairy work; references, good; the couple wished to work together to save money to start a dairy of their own. I was pleased with the letter, which was an unusual one to come from native-born Americans. Our people do not often hunt in couples after this manner. I telegraphed them to come to the city at once.

It was late in April when I first saw the Frenches. The man was tall and raw-boned, but good-looking, with a frank manner that inspired confidence. He was a farmer's son with a fair education, who had saved a little money, and had married his wife out of hand lest some one else should carry her off while he was building the nest for her.

"I took her when I could get her," he said, "and would have done it with a two-dollar bill in my pocket rather than have taken chances."

The woman was worthy of such an extreme measure, for she looked capable of caring for both. She was a fine pattern of a country girl, with a head full of good sense, and very useful-looking hands and arms. Her face was good to look upon; it showed strength of character and a definite object in life. She said she understood the creamery processes in all their niceties, and that she could make butter good enough for Queen Victoria.

The proposition offered by this young couple was by far the best I had received, and I closed with them at once. I agreed to pay each $25 a month to start with, and explained my plan of an increasing wage of $1 a month for each period of six months' service. They thought they ought to have $30 level. I thought so, too, if they were as good as they promised. But I had a fondness for my increasing scale, and I held to it. These people were skilled laborers, and were worth more to begin with than ordinary farm hands. That is why I gave them $25 a month from the start. Six hundred dollars a year for a man and wife, with no expense except for clothing, is good pay. They can easily put away $400 out of it, and it doesn't take long to get fore-handed. I think the Frenches have invested $500 a year, on an average, since they came to Four Oaks.

It is now time to get at the dairy-house, since the dairy and the dairymaid are both in evidence. The house was to be on the building line, and both Polly and I thought it should have attractive features. We decided to make it of dark red paving brick. It was to be eighteen feet by thirty, with two rooms on the ground. The first, or south room, ten feet by eighteen, was fitted for storing fruit, and afforded a stairway to the rooms above, which were four in number besides the bath. The larger room was of course the butter factory, and was equipped with up-to-date appliances,—aerator, Pasteurizer, cooler, separator, Babcock tester, swing churn, butter-worker, and so on. The house was to have steep gables and projecting eaves, with a window in each gable, and two dormer windows in each roof. The walls were to be plastered, and the ground floor was to be cement. It cost $1375.

As motive power for the churn and separator, a two-sheep-power treadmill has proved entirely satisfactory. It is worked by two sturdy wethers who are harbored in a pleasant house and run, close to the power-house, and who pay for their food by the sweat of their brows and the wool from their backs. They do not appear to dislike the "demnition grind," which lasts but an hour twice a day; they go without reluctance to the tramp that leads nowhere, and the futile journey which would seem foolish to anything wiser than a sheep. This sheep-power is one of the curios of the place. My grand-girls never lose their interest in it, and it has been photographed and sketched more times than there are fingers and toes on the sheep.

The expenditure for equipment, from separator to sheep, was $354. I made an arrangement with a fancy grocer in the city to furnish him thirty pounds, more or less, of fresh (unsalted) butter, six days in the week, at thirty-three cents a pound, I to pay express charges. I bought six butter-carriers with ice compartments for $3.75 each, $23 in all, and arranged with the express company to deliver my packages to the grocer for thirty cents each. The butter netted me thirty-two cents a pound that year, or about $60 a week.

In July I bought four thoroughbred Holsteins, four years old, in fresh milk, and in October, six more, at an average price of $120 a head,—$1200 in all. These reenforcements made it possible for me to keep my contract with the middleman, and often to exceed it.

The dairy industry was now fairly launched and in working order. It had cost, not to be exact, $7000, and it was reasonably sure to bring back to the farm about $60 a week in cash, besides furnishing butter for the family and an immense amount of skim-milk and butter-milk to feed to the young animals on the place.



CHAPTER XXVI

LITTLE PIGS

By April 1st all my sows had farrowed. There was much variation in the number of pigs in these nineteen litters. One noble mother gave me thirteen, two of which promptly died. Three others farrowed eleven each, and so down to one ungrateful mother who contributed but five to the industry at Four Oaks. The average, however, was good; 154 pigs on April 10th were all that a halfway reasonable factory man could expect.

These youngsters were left with their mothers until eight weeks old; then they were put, in bunches of thirty, into the real hog-house, which was by that time completed. It was 200 feet long and 50 feet wide, with a 10-foot passageway through the length of it. On either side were 10 pens 20 feet by 20, each connected with a run 20 feet by 120. The house stood on a platform or bed of cement 90 by 200 feet, which formed the floor of the house and extended 20 feet outside of each wall, to secure cleanliness and a dry feeding-place in the open. The cement floor was expensive ($1120 as first cost), but I think it has paid for itself several times over in health and comfort to the herd. The structure on this floor was of the simplest; a double wall only five feet high at the sides, shingled roof, broken at the ridge to admit windows, and strong partitions. It cost $3100. As in the brood-sow house, there is a kitchen at the west end. The 150 little pigs made but a small showing in this great house, which was intended to shelter six hundred of all sizes, from the eight-weeks-old baby pig to the nine-months-old three-hundred-pounder ready for market.

Pigs destined for market never leave this house until ripe for killing. At six or seven months a few are chosen to remain on the farm and keep up its traditions; but the great number live their ephemeral lives of eight months luxuriously, even opulently, until they have made the ham and bacon which, poor things, they cannot save, and then pass into the pork barrel or the smoke-house without a sigh of regret. They toil not, neither do they spin; but they have a place in the world's economy, and they fit it perfectly. So long as one animal must eat another, the man animal should thank the hog animal for his generosity.

Now that my big hog-house seemed so empty, I would gladly have sent into the highways and byways to buy young stock to fill it; but I dared not break my quarantine. I could easily have picked up one hundred or even two hundred new-weaned pigs, within six or eight miles of my place, at about $1.50 each, and they would have grown into fat profit by fall; but I would not take a risk that might bear ill fruit. I had slight depressions of spirits when I visited my piggery during that summer; but I chirked up a little in the fall, when the brood sows again made good. But more of that anon.



CHAPTER XXVII

WORK ON THE HOME FORTY

April and May made amends for the rudeness of March, and the ploughs were early afield. Thompson, Zeb, Johnson, and sometimes Anderson, followed the furrows, first in 10 and 11, and lastly in 13. Number 9 had a fair clover sod, and was not disturbed. We ploughed in all about 114 acres, but we did not subsoil. We spent twenty days ploughing and as many more in fitting the ground for seed. The weather was unusually warm for the season, and there was plenty of rain. By the middle of May, oats were showing green in Nos. 8, 10, 11, 12, and 13,—sixty-two acres. The corn was well planted in 15 and the west three-quarters of 14,—eighty-two acres. The other ten acres in the young orchard was planted to fodder corn, sown in drills so that it could be cultivated in one direction.

The ten-acre orchard on the south side of the home lot was used for potatoes, sugar beets, cabbages, turnips, etc., to furnish a winter supply of vegetables for the stock.

The outlook for alfalfa was not bright. In the early spring we fertilized it again, using five hundred pounds to the acre, though it seemed like a conspicuous waste. The warm rains and days of April and May brought a fine crop of weeds; and about the middle of May I turned Anderson loose in the fields with a scythe, and he mowed down everything in sight.

After that things soon began to look better in the alfalfa fields. As the season was favorable, we were able to cut a crop of over a ton to the acre early in July, and nearly as much in the latter part of August. We cut forty tons from these twenty acres within a year from seeding, but I suspect that was unusual luck. I had used thirteen hundred pounds of commercial fertilizer to the acre, and the season was very favorable for the growth of the plant. I have since cut these fields three times each year, with an average yield of five tons to the acre for the whole crop.

I like alfalfa, both as green and as dry forage. When we use it green, we let it lie in swath for twenty-four hours, that it may wilt thoroughly before feeding. It is then fit food for hens, hogs, and, in limited quantities, for cows, and is much relished. When used dry, it is always cut fine and mixed with ground grains. In this shape it is fed liberally to hens and hogs, and also to milch cows; for the latter it forms half of the cut-food ration.

While the crops are growing, we will find time to note the changes on the home lot. Nearly in front of the farm-house, and fifty yards distant, was a space well fitted for the kitchen garden. We marked off a plat two hundred feet by three hundred, about one and a half acres, carted a lot of manure on it, and ploughed it as deep as the subsoiler would reach. This was done as soon as the frost permitted. We expected this garden to supply vegetables and small fruits for the whole colony at Four Oaks. An acre and a half can be made exceedingly productive if properly managed.

Along the sides of this garden we planted two rows of currant and gooseberry bushes, six feet between rows, and the plants four feet apart in the rows. The ends of the plat were left open for convenience in horse cultivation. Ten feet outside these rows of bush fruit was planted a line of quince trees, thirty on each side, and twenty feet beyond these a row of cherry trees, twenty in each row.

Near the west boundary of the home lot, and north of the lane that enters it, I planted two acres of dwarf pear trees—Bartlett and Duchess,—three hundred trees to the acre. I also planted six hundred plum trees—Abundance, Wickson, and Gold—in the chicken runs on lot 4. After May 1, when he was relieved from his farm duties, Johnson had charge of the planting and also of the gardening, and he took up his special work with energy and pleasure.

The drives on the home lot were slightly rounded with ploughs and scraper, and then covered with gravel. The open slope intended for the lawn was now to be treated. It comprised about ten acres, irregular in form and surface, and would require a good deal of work to whip it into shape. A lawn need not be perfectly graded,—in fact, natural inequalities with dips and rises are much more attractive; but we had to take out the asperities. We ploughed it thoroughly, removed all stumps and stones, levelled and sloped it as much as pleased Polly, harrowed it twice a week until late August, sowed it heavily to grass seed, rolled it, and left it.

Polly had the house in her mind's eye. She held repeated conversations with Nelson, and was as full of plans and secrets as she could hold. By agreement, she was to have a free hand to the extent of $15,000 for the house and the carriage barn. I never really examined the plans, though I saw the blue prints of what appeared to be a large house with a driving entrance on the east and a great wide porch along the whole south side. I did not know until it was nearly finished how large, convenient, and comfortable it was to be. A hall, a great living-room, the dining room, a small reception room, and an office, bedroom, and bath for me, were all on the ground floor, besides a huge wing for the kitchen and other useful offices.

Above stairs there was room for the family and a goodly number of friends. We had agreed that the house should be simple in all ways, with no hard wood except floors, and no ornamentation except paint and paper. It must be larger than our needs, for we looked forward to delightful visits from many friends. We were to have more leisure than ever before for social life, and we desired to make the most of our opportunities.

A country house is by all odds the finest place to entertain friends and to be entertained by them. They come on invitation, not as a matter of form, and they stay long enough to put by questions of weather, clothes, and servant-girls, and to get right down to good old-fashioned visiting. Real heart-to-heart talks are everyday occurrences in country visits, while they are exceptional in city calls. We meant to make much of our friends at Four Oaks, and to have them make much of us. We have discovered new values even in old friends, since we began to live with them, weeks at a time, under the same roof. Their interests are ours, and our plans are warmly taken up by them. There is nothing like it among the turmoils and interruptions of town life, and the older we grow the more we need this sort of rest among our friends. The guest book at the farm will show very few weeks, in the past six years, when friends haven't been with us, and Polly and I feel that the pleasure we have received from this source ought to be placed on the credit side of the farm ledger.

Another reason for a company house was that Jack and Jane would shortly be out of school. It was not at all in accord with our plan that they should miss any pleasure by our change. Indeed, we hoped that the change would be to their liking and to their advantage.



CHAPTER XXVIII

DISCOUNTING THE MARKET

We broke ground for the house late in May, and Nelson said that we should be in it by Thanksgiving Day. Soon after the plans were settled Polly informed me that she should not spend much money on the stable.

"Can't do it," she said, "and do what I ought to on the house. I will give you room for six horses; the rest, if you have more, must go to the farm barn. I cannot spend more than $1100 or $1200 on the barn."

Polly was boss of this department, and I was content to let her have her way. She had already mulcted me to the extent of $436 for trees, plants, and shrubs which were even then grouped on the lawn after a fashion that pleased her. I need not go into the details of the lawn planting, the flower garden, the pergola, and so forth. I have a suspicion that Polly has in mind a full account of the "fight for the home forty," in a form greatly better than I could give it, and it is only fair that she should tell her own story. I am not the only one who admires her landscape, her flower gardens, and her woodcraft. Many others do honor to her tastes and to the evidence of thought which the home lot shows. She disclaims great credit, for she says, "One has only to live with a place to find out what it needs."

As I look back to the beginning of my experiment, I see only one bit of good luck that attended it. Building material was cheap during the months in which I had to build so much. Nothing else specially favored me, while in one respect my experiment was poorly timed. The price of pork was unusually low. For three years, from 1896, the price of hogs never reached $5 per hundred pounds in our market,—a thing unprecedented for thirty years. I never sold below three and a half cents, but the showing would have been wonderfully bettered could I have added another cent or two per pound for all the pork I fattened. The average price for the past twenty-five years is well above five cents a pound for choice lots. Corn and all other foods were also cheap; but this made little difference with me, because I was not a seller of grain.

In 1896 I was, however, a buyer of both corn and oats. In September of that year corn sold on 'Change at 19-1/2 cents a bushel, and oats at 14-3/4. These prices were so much below the food value of these grains that I was tempted to buy. I sent a cash order to a commission house for five thousand bushels of each. I stored this grain in my granary, against the time of need, at a total expense of $1850,—21 cents a bushel for corn and 16 for oats. I had storage room and to spare, and I knew that I could get more than a third of a cent out of each pound of corn, and more than half a cent out of each pound of oats. I recalled the story of a man named Joseph who did some corn business in Egypt a good many years ago, much in this line, and who did well in the transaction. There was no dream of fat kine in my case; but I knew something of the values of grains, and it did not take a reader of riddles to show me that when I could buy cheaper than I could raise, it was a good time to purchase.

As I said once before, there have been no serious crop failures at Four Oaks,—indeed, we can show better than an average yield each year; but this extra corn in my cribs has given me confidence in following my plan of very liberal feeding. With this grain on hand I was able to cut twenty acres of oats in Nos. 10 and 11 for forage. This was done when the grain was in the milk, and I secured about sixty tons of excellent hay, much loved by horses. We got from No. 9 a little less than twelve tons of clover,—alfalfa furnished forty tons; and there was nearly twenty tons of old hay left over from that originally purchased. With all this forage, good of its kind, there was, however, no timothy or red top, which is by all odds the best hay for horses. I determined to remedy this lack before another year. As soon as the oats were off lots 10 and 11, they were ploughed and crossed with the disk harrow. From then until September 1, these fields were harrowed each week in half lap, so that by the time we were ready to seed them they were in excellent condition and free from weeds. About September 1 they were sown to timothy and red top, fifteen pounds each to the acre, top-dressed with five hundred pounds of fertilizer, harrowed once more, rolled, and left until spring, when another dose of fertilizer was used.

I wished to establish twenty acres of timothy and as much alfalfa, to furnish the hay supply for the farm. With one hundred tons of alfalfa and sixty of timothy, which I could reasonably expect, I could get on splendidly.

From the first I have practised feeding my hay crop for immediate returns. The land receives five hundred pounds of fertilizer per acre when it is sown, a like amount again in the spring, and, as soon as a crop is cut, three hundred pounds an acre more. This usually gives a second crop of timothy about September 1, if the season is at all favorable. The alfalfa is cut at least three times, and for each cutting it receives three hundred pounds of plant food per acre. In the course of a year I spend from $10 to $12 an acre for my grass land. In return I get from each acre of timothy, in two cuttings, about three and a half tons; worth, at an average selling price, $12 a ton. The alfalfa yields nearly five tons per acre, and has a feeding value of $10 a ton. I have sold timothy hay a few times, but I feel half ashamed to say so, for it is against my view of justice to the land. I find oat hay cheaper to raise than timothy, and, as it is quite as well liked by the horses, I have been tempted to turn a part of my timothy crop into money directly from the field.



CHAPTER XXIX

FROM CITY TO COUNTRY

In early July I went through my young orchard, which had been cut back so ruthlessly the previous autumn, and carefully planned a head for each tree. Quite a bunch of sprouts had started from near the top of each stub, and were growing luxuriantly. Out of each bunch I selected three or four to form the head; the rest were rubbed off or cut out with a sharp knife or pruning shears. It surprised me to see what a growth some of these sprouts had made; sixteen or eighteen inches was not uncommon. Big roots and big bodies were pushing great quantities of sap toward the tops.

Of course I bought farm machinery during this first season,—mower, reaper, corn reaper, shredder, and so on. In October I took account of expenditures for machinery, grass seed, and fertilizer, and found that I had invested $833. I had also, at an expense of $850, built a large shed or tool-house for farm implements. It is one of the rules at Four Oaks to grease and house all tools when not in actual use. I believe the observation of this rule has paid for the shed.

In October 1896 I had a good offer for my town house, and accepted it. I had purchased the property eleven years before for $22,000, but, as it was in bad condition, I had at once spent $9000 on it and the stable. I sold it for $34,000, with the understanding that I could occupy it for the balance of the year if I wished.

After selling the house, I calculated the cost of the elementary necessities, food and shelter, which I had been willing to pay during many years of residence in the city. The record ran about like this:—

Interest at 5% on house valued at $34,000 $1700.00 Yearly taxes on same 340.00 Insurance 80.00 Fuel and light 250.00 Wages for one man and three women 1200.00 Street sprinkling, watchman, etc. 90.00 Food, including water, ice, etc. 1550.00 Making a total of $5210.00

It cost me $100 a week to shelter and feed my family in the city. This, of course, took no account of personal expenses,—travel, sight-seeing, clothing, books, gifts, or the thousand and one things which enter more or less prominently into the everyday life of the family.

If the farm was to furnish food and shelter for us in the future, it would be no more than fair to credit it with some portion of this expenditure, which was to cease when we left the city home. What portion of it could be justly credited to the farm was to be decided by comparative comforts after a year of experience. I did not plan our exodus for the sake of economy, or because I found it necessary to retrench; our rate of living was no higher than we were willing and able to afford. Our object was to change occupation and mode of life without financial loss, and without moulting a single comfort. We wished to end our days close to the land, and we hoped to prove that this could be done with both grace and profit. I had no desire to lose touch with the city, and there was no necessity for doing so. Four Oaks is less than an hour from the heart of town. I could leave it, spend two or three hours in town, and be back in time for luncheon without special effort; and Polly would think nothing of a shopping trip and friends home with her to dinner. The people of Exeter were nearly all city people who were so fortunate as not to be slaves to long hours. They were rich by work or by inheritance, and they gracefully accepted the otium cum dignitate which this condition permitted. Social life was at its best in Exeter, and many of its people were old acquaintances of ours. A noted country club spread its broad acres within two miles of our door, and I had been favorably posted for membership. It did not look as though we should be thrust entirely upon our own resources in the country; but at the worst we had resources within our own walls and fences that would fend off all but the most violent attacks of ennui.

We were both keenly interested in the experiment. Nothing that happened on the farm went unchallenged. The milk product for the day was a thing of interest; the egg count could not go unnoted; a hatch of chickens must be seen before they left the incubator; a litter of new-born pigs must be admired; horses and cows were forever doing things which they should or should not do; men and maids had griefs and joys to share with mistress or Headman; flowers were blooming, trees were leafing, a robin had built in the black oak, a gopher was tunnelling the rose bed,—a thousand things, full of interest, were happening every day. As a place where things the most unexpected do happen, recommend me to a quiet farm.

But we were not to depend entirely upon outside things for diversion. Books we had galore, and we both loved them. Many a charming evening have I spent, sometimes alone, more often with two or three congenial friends, listening to Polly's reading. This is one of her most delightful accomplishments. Her friends never tire of her voice, and her voice never tires of her friends. We all grow lazy when she is about; but there are worse things than indolence. No, we did not mean to drop out of anything worth while; but we were pretty well provisioned against a siege, if inclement weather or some other accident should lock us up at the farm.

To keep still better hold of the city, I suggested to Tom and Kate that they should keep open house for us, or any part of us, whenever we were inclined to take advantage of their hospitality. This would give us city refuge after late functions of all sorts. The plan has worked admirably. I devote $1200 a year out of the $5200 of food-and-shelter money to the support of our city shelter at Kate's house, and the balance, $4000, is entered at the end of each year on the credit side of the farm ledger. Nor do I think this in any way unjust. We do not expect to get things for nothing, and we do not wish to. If the things we pay for now are as valuable as those we paid for six or eight years ago, we ought not to find fault with an equal price. I have repeatedly polled the family on this question, and we all agree that we have lost nothing by the change, and that we have gained a great deal in several ways. Our friends are of like opinion; and I am therefore justified in crediting Four Oaks with a considerable sum for food and shelter. We have bettered our condition without foregoing anything, and without increasing our expenses. That is enough.



CHAPTER XXX

AUTUMN RECKONING

We harvested the crops in the autumn of 1896, and were thankful for the bountiful yield. Nearly sixteen hundred bushels of oats and twenty-seven hundred bushels of corn made a proud showing in the granary, when added to its previous stock. The corn fodder, shredded by our own men and machine, made the great forage barn look like an overflowing cornucopia, and the only extra expense attending the harvest was $31 paid for threshing the oats.

Three important items of food are consumed on the farm that have to be purchased each year, and as there is not much fluctuation in the price paid, we may as well settle the per capita rate for the milch cows and hogs for once and all. At each year's end we can then easily find the cash outlay for the herds by multiplying the number of stock by the cost of keeping one.

My Holstein cows consume a trifle less than three tons of grain each per year,—about fifteen pounds a day. Taking the ration for four cows as a matter of convenience, we have: corn and cob meal, three tons, and oatmeal, three tons, both kinds raised and ground on the farm, and not charged in this account; wheat bran, three tons at $18, $54; gluten meal, two tons at $24, $48; oil meal, one ton, $26; total cash outlay for four cows, $128, or $32 per head. This estimate is, however, about $2 too liberal. We will, hereafter, charge each milch cow $30, and will also charge each hog fattened on the place $1 for shorts and middlings consumed. This is not exact, but it is near enough, and it greatly simplifies accounts.

As I kept twenty-six cows ten months, and ten more for an average of four and a half months, the feeding for 1896 would be equivalent to one year for thirty cows, or $900. To this add $120 for swine food and $25 for grits and oyster shells for the chickens, and we have $1045 paid for food for stock. Shoeing the horses for the year and repairs to machinery cost $157. The purchased food for eight employees for twelve months and for two additional ones for eight months, amounted to $734. The wage account, including $50 extra to Thompson, was $2358.

A second hen-house, a duplicate of the first, was built before October. It was intended that each house should accommodate four hundred laying hens. We have now on the place five of these houses; but only two of them, besides the incubator and the brooder-house, were built in 1896. As offset to the heavy expenditure of this year, I had not much to show. Seven hundred cockerels were sold in November for $342. In October the pullets began laying in desultory fashion, and by November they had settled down to business; and that quarter they gave me 703 dozen eggs to sell. As these eggs were marketed within twenty-four hours, and under a guarantee, I had no difficulty in getting thirty cents a dozen, net. November eggs brought $211, and the December out-put, $252. I sold 600 bushels of potatoes for $150, and the apples from 150 of the old trees (which, by the way, were greatly improved this year) brought $450 on the trees.

The cows did well. In the thirty-three weeks from May 12 to December 31, I sold a little more than 6600 pounds of butter, which netted me $2127.

We had 122 young hogs to sell in December. They had been crowded as fast as possible to make good weight, and they went to market at an average of 290 pounds a head. The price was low, but I got the top of the market,—$3.55 a hundred, which amounted to $1170 after paying charges. I had reserved twenty-five of the most likely young sows to stay on the farm, and had transferred eight to the village butcher, who was to return them in the shape of two barrels of salt pork, thirty-two smoked hams and shoulders, and a lot of bacon.

The old sows farrowed again in September and early October, and we went into the winter with 162 young pigs. I get these details out of the way now in order to turn to the family and the social side of life at Four Oaks.



CHAPTER XXXI

THE CHILDREN

The house did not progress as fast as Nelson had promised, and it was likely to be well toward Christmas before we could occupy it. As the days shortened, Polly and I found them crowded with interests. Life at Four Oaks was to mean such a radical change that we could not help speculating about its influence upon us and upon the children. Would it be satisfactory to us and to them? Or should we find after a year or two of experiment that we had been mistaken in believing that we could live happier lives in the country than in town? A year and a half of outdoor life and freedom from professional responsibilities had wrought a great change in me. I could now eat and sleep like a hired man, and it seemed preposterous to claim that I was going to the country for my health. My medical adviser, however, insisted that I had not gotten far enough away from the cause of my breakdown, and that it would be unwise for me to take up work again for at least another year. In my own mind there was a fixed opinion that I should never take it up again. I loved it dearly; but I had given long, hard service to it, and felt that I had earned the right to freedom from its exacting demands. I have never lost interest in this, the noblest of professions, but I had done my share, and was now willing to watch the work of others. In my mind there was no doubt about the desirability of the change. I have always loved the thought of country life, and now that my thoughts were taking material shape, I was keen to push on. Polly looked toward the untrammelled life we hoped to lead with as great pleasure as I.

But how about the children? Would it appeal to them with the same force as to us? The children have thus far been kept in the background. I wanted to start my factory farm and to get through with most of its dull details before introducing them to the reader, lest I should be diverted from the business to the domestic, or social, proposition.

The farm is laid by for the winter, and most of the details needed for a just comprehension of our experiment have been given. From this time on we will deal chiefly with results. We will watch the out-put from the factory, and commend or find fault as the case may deserve.

The social side of life is quite as important as the commercial, for though we gain money, if we lose happiness, what profit have we? Let us study the children to see what chances for happiness and good fellowship lie in them.

Kate is our first-born. She is a bright, beautiful woman of five-and-twenty, who has had a husband these six years, one daughter for four years, and, wonderful to relate, another daughter for two years. She is quick and practical, with strong opinions of her own, prompt with advice and just as prompt with aid; a woman with a temper, but a friend to tie to in time of stress. She has the education of a good school, and what is infinitely better, the cultivation of an observing mind. She is quick with tongue and pen, but her quickness is so tempered by unquestioned friendliness that it fastens people to her as with a cord. She overflows with interests of every description, but she is never too busy to listen sympathetically to a child or a friend. She is the practical member of the family, and we rarely do much out of the ordinary without first talking it over with Kate.

Tom Hamilton, her husband, is a young man who is getting on in the world. He is clever in his profession, and sure to succeed beyond the success of most men. He is quiet in manner, but he seems to have a way of managing his quick, handsome wife, which is something of a surprise to me, and to her also, I fancy. They are congenial and happy, and their children are beings to adore. Tom and Kate are to live in town. They are too young for the joys of country life, and must needs drag on as they are, loved and admired by a host of friends. They can, and will, however, spend much time at Four Oaks; and I need not say they approved our plans.

Jack is our second. He was a junior at Yale, and I am shy of saying much about him lest I be accused of partiality. Enough to say that he is tall, blond, handsome, and that he has gentle, winning ways that draw the love of men and women. He is a dreamer of dreams, but he has a sturdy drop of Puritan blood in his veins that makes him strong in conviction and brave in action. Jack has never caused me an hour of anxiety, and I was ever proud to see him in any company.

Concerning Jane, I must be pardoned in advance for a father's favoritism. She is my youngest, and to me she seems all that a father could wish. Of fair height and well moulded, her physique is perfect. Good health and a happy life had set the stamp of superb womanhood upon her eighteen years. Any effort to describe her would be vain and unsatisfactory. Suffice it to say that she is a pure blonde, with eyes, hair, and skin just to my liking. She is quiet and shy in manner, deliberate in speech, sensitive beyond measure, wise in intuitive judgment, clever in history and literature, but always a little in doubt as to the result of putting seven and eight together, and not unreasonably dominated by the rules of orthography. She is fond of outdoor life, in love with horses and dogs, and withal very much of a home girl. Every one makes much of Jane, and she is not spoiled, but rather improved by it. She was in her second year at Farmington, and, like all Farmington students, she cared more for girls than for boys.

These were the children whom I was to transport from the city, where they were born, to the quiet life at Four Oaks. After carefully taking their measures, I felt little hesitation about making the change. They, of course, had known of the plan, and had often been to the farm; but they were still to find out what it really meant to live there. A saddle horse and dogs galore would square me with Jane, beyond question; but what about Jack? Time must decide that. His plan of life was not yet formed, and we could afford to wait. We did not have much time in which to weigh these matters, for the Christmas holidays were near, and the youngsters would soon be home. We planned to be settled in the new house when they arrived.



CHAPTER XXXII

THE HOME-COMING

In arranging to move my establishment I was in a quandary as to what it was best to do for a coachman. Lars had been with me fifteen years. He came a green Swedish lad, developed into a first-class coachman, married a nice girl—and for twelve years he and his wife lived happily in the rooms above my stable. Two boys were born to them, and these lads were now ten and twelve years of age. Shortly after I bought the farm Lars was so unfortunate as to lose his good wife, and he and the boys were left forlorn. A relative came and gave them such care as she could, but the mother and wife was missed beyond remedy. In his depression Lars took to drink, and things began to go wrong in the stable. He was not often drunk, but he was much of the time under the influence of alcohol, and consequently not reliable. I had done my best for the poor fellow, and he took my lectures and chidings in the way they were intended, and, indeed, he tried hard to break loose from the one bad habit, but with no good results. His evil friends had such strong hold on him that they could and would lead him astray whenever there was opportunity. Polly and I had many talks about this matter. She was growing timid under his driving, and yet she was attached to him for long and faithful service.

"Let's chance it," she said. "If we get him away from these people who lead him astray, he may brace up and become a man again."

"But what about the boys, Polly?" said I.

"We ought to be able to find something for the boys to do on the farm, and they can go to school at Exeter. Can't they drive the butter-cart out each morning and home after school? They're smart chaps, you know, and used to doing things."

Polly had found a way, and I was heartily glad of it, for I did not feel like giving up my hold on the man and the boys. Lars was glad of the chance to make good again, and he willingly agreed to go. He was to receive $23 a month. This was less than he was getting in the city, but it was the wage which we were paying that year at the farm, and he was content; for the boys were each to receive $5 a month, and to be sent to school eight months a year for three years.

This matter arranged, we began to plan for the moving. I had five horses in my stable,—a span of blacks for the carriage and three single drivers. Besides the horses, harness, and equipment, there was a large carriage, a brougham, a Goddard phaeton, a runabout, and a cart. I exchanged the brougham and the Goddard for a station wagon and a park phaeton, as more suitable for country use.

The barn equipment was all sent in one caravan, Thompson and Zeb coming into town to help Lars drive out. Our lares and penates were sent by freight on December 17. Polly had managed to coax another thousand dollars out of me for things for the house; and these, with the furniture from our old home, made a brave showing when we gathered around the big fire in the living room, December 22, for our first night in the country.

Tom, Kate, and the grand-girls were with us to spend the holidays, and so, too, was the lady whom we call Laura. I shall not try to say much about Laura. She was a somewhat recent friend. How we ever came to know her well, was half a mystery; and how we ever got on before we knew her well, was a whole one.

Roaring fires and shaded lamps gave an air of homelike grace to our new house, and we decided that we would never economize in either wood or oil; they seemed to stir the home spirit more than ever did coal or electricity.

The day had been a busy one for the ladies, but they were pleased with results as they looked around the well-ordered house and saw the work of their hands. Before separating for the night, Kate said:—

"I'm going to town to-morrow, and I'll pick up Jane and Jack in time to take the four o'clock train out. Papa will meet us at the station, and Momee will greet us at the doorstep. Make an illumination, Momee, and we will carry them by storm. Tom will have to take a later train, but he will be here in time for dinner."

The afternoon of the 23d, the children came, and there was no failure in Kate's plan. The youngsters were delighted with everything. Jane said:—

"I always wanted to live on a farm. I can have a saddle horse now, and keep as many dogs as I like, can't I, Dad?"

"You shall have the horse, and the dogs, too, when you come to stay."

"Daddy," said Jack, "this will be great for you. Let me finish at an agricultural college, so that I can be of some practical help."

"Not on your life, my son! What your daddy doesn't know about farming wouldn't spoil a cup of tea! While you are at home I will give you daily instruction in this most wholesome and independent business, which will be of incalculable benefit to you, and which, I am frank to say, you cannot get in any agricultural college. College, indeed! I have spent thousands of hours in dreaming and planning what a farm should be like! Do you suppose I am going to let these visions become contaminated by practical knowledge? Not by a long way! I have, in the silent watches of the night, reduced the art to mathematical exactness, and I can show you the figures. Don't talk to me about colleges!"

After supper we took the children through the house. Every part was inspected, and many were the expressions of pleasure and admiration. They were delighted with their rooms, and apparently with everything else. We finally quieted down in front of the open fire and discussed plans for the holidays. The children decided that it must be a house party.

"Florence Marcy is with an aunt for whom she doesn't particularly care, and Minnie will just jump at the chance of spending a week in the country," said Jane.

"You can invite three girls, and Jack can have three men. Of course Jessie Gordon will be here. We will drive over in the morning and make sure of her."

"Jack, whom will you ask? Get some good men out here, won't you?"

"The best in the world, little sister, and you will have to keep a sharp lookout or you will lose your heart to one of them. Frank Howard will count it a lark. He has stuck to the "business" as faithfully as if he were not heir to it, and he will come sure to-morrow night. Dear old Phil—my many years' chum—will come because I ask him. These two are all right, and we can count on them. The other one is Jim Jarvis,—the finest man in college."

"Tell us about him, Jack."

"Jarvis's father lives in Montana, and has a lot of gold mines and other things to keep him busy. He doesn't have time to pay much attention to his son, who is growing up after his own fashion. Jim's mother is dead, and he has neither brother nor sister,—nothing but money and beauty and health and strength and courage and sense and the stanchest heart that ever lifted waistcoat! He has been on the eleven three years. They want him in the boat, but he'll not have it; says it's not good work for a man. He's in the first division, well toward the front, too, and in the best society. He's taken a fancy to me, and I'm dead gone on him. He's the man for you to shun, little woman, unless you wish to be led captive."

"There are others, Jack, so don't worry about me. But do you think you can secure this paragon?"

"Not a doubt of it! I'll wire him in the morning, and he'll be here as soon as steam can bring him; he's my best chum, you know."

This would make our party complete. We were all happy and pleased, and the evening passed before we knew it.



CHAPTER XXXIII

CHRISTMAS EVE

The next day was a busy one for all of us. Polly and Jane drove to the Gordons and secured Miss Jessie, and then Jane went to town to fetch her other friends. Jack went with her, after having telegraphed to Jim Jarvis. They all came home by mid-afternoon, just as a message came from Jarvis: "Will be on deck at six."

Florence Marcy and Minnie Henderson were former neighbors and schoolmates of Jane's. They were fine girls to look at and bright girls to talk with; blondes, eighteen, high-headed, full of life, and great girls for a house party. Phil and Frank were good specimens of their kinds. Frank was a little below medium height, slight, blond, vivacious to a degree, full of fun, and the most industrious talker within miles; he would "stir things up" at a funeral. Phil Stone was tall, slender, dark, quiet, well-dressed, a good dancer, and a very agreeable fellow in the corner of the room, where his low musical voice was most effective.

Jessie Gordon came at five o'clock. We were all very fond of Jessie, and who could help it? She was tall (considerably above the average height), slender, straight as an arrow, graceful in repose and in motion. She carried herself like a queen, with a proud kind of shyness that became her well. Her head was small and well set on a slender neck, her hair dark, luxurious, wavy, and growing low over a broad forehead, her eyes soft brown, shaded by heavy brows and lashes. She had a Grecian nose, and her mouth was a shade too wide, but it was guarded by singularly perfect and sensitive lips. Her chin was pronounced enough to give the impression of firmness; indeed, save for the soft eyes and sensitive mouth, firmness predominated. She was not a great talker, yet every one loved to listen to her. She laughed with her eyes and lips, but rarely with her voice. She enjoyed intensely, and could, therefore, suffer intensely. She was a dear girl in every way.

All was now ready for the debut of Jack's paragon. Jack had driven to the station to fetch him, and presently the sound of wheels on the gravel drive announced the arrival of the last guest. I went into the hall to meet the men.

"Daddy, I want you to know my chum, Jim Jarvis,—the finest all-round son of old Eli. Jarvis, this is my daddy,—the finest father that ever had son!"

"I'm right glad to meet you, Mr. Jarvis; your renown has preceded you."

"I fear, Doctor, it has exceeded me as well. Jack is not to be trusted on all subjects. But, indeed, I thank you for your hospitality; it was a godsend to me."

As we entered the living room, Polly came forward and I presented Jarvis to her.

"You are more than welcome, Mr. Jarvis! Jack's 'best friend' is certain of a warm corner at our fireside."

"Madam, I find no word of thanks, but I do thank you. I have envied Jack his home letters and the evidences of mother care more than anything else,—and God knows there are enough other things to envy him for. I have no mother, and my father is too busy to pay much attention to me. I wish you would adopt me; I'll try to rival Jack in all that is dutiful."

She did adopt him then and there, for who could refuse such a son! Brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin, a frank, rugged, clean-shaven face, features strong enough to excite criticism and good enough to bear it; broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strong in arm and limb, he carried his six feet of manhood like an Apollo in tweeds. He was introduced to the girls,—the men he knew,—but he was not so quick in his speeches to them. Our Hercules was only mildly conscious of his merits, and was evidently relieved when Jack hurried him off to his room to dress for dinner. When he was fairly out of hearing there was a chorus of comments. The girls all declaimed him handsome, and the boys said:—

"That isn't the best of it,—he's a trump! Wait till you know him."

Jane was too loyal to Jack to admit that his friend was any handsomer or in any way a finer fellow than her brother.

"Who said he was?" said Frank, "Jack Williams is out and out the finest man I know. We were sizing him up by such fellows as Phil and me."

"Jack's the most popular man at Yale," said Phil, "but he's too modest to know it; Jarvis will tell you so. He thinks it's a great snap to have Jack for his chum."

These things were music in my ears, for I was quite willing to agree with the boys, and the mother's eyes were full of joy as she led the way to the dining room. That was a jolly meal. Nothing was said that could be remembered, and yet we all talked a great deal and laughed a great deal more. City, country, farm, college, and seminary were touched with merry jests. Light wit provoked heavy laughter, and every one was the better for it. It was nine o'clock before we left the table. I heard Jarvis say:—

"Miss Jane, I count it very unkind of Jack not to have let me go to Farmington with him last term. He used to talk of his 'little sister' as though she were a miss in short dresses. Jack is a deep and treacherous fellow!"

"Rather say, a very prudent brother," said Jane. "However, you may come to the Elm Tree Inn in the spring term, if Jack will let you."

"I'll work him all winter," was Jarvis's reply.



CHAPTER XXXIV

CHRISTMAS

Christmas light was slow in coming. There was a hush in the air as if the earth were padded so that even the footsteps of Nature might not be heard. Out of my window I saw that a great fall of snow had come in the night. The whole landscape was covered by fleecy down—soft and white as it used to be when I first saw it on the hills of New England. No wind had moved it; it lay as it fell, like a white mantle thrown lightly over the world. Great feathery flakes filled the air and gently descended upon the earth, like that beautiful Spirit that made the plains of Judea bright two thousand years ago. It seemed a fitting emblem of that nature which covered the unloveliness of the world by His own beauty, and changed the dark spots of earth to pure white.

It was an ideal Christmas morning,—clean and beautiful. Such a wealth of purity was in the air that all the world was clothed with it. The earth accepted the beneficence of the skies, and the trees bent in thankfulness for their beautiful covering. It was a morning to make one thoughtful,—to make one thankful, too, for home and friends and country, and a future that could be earned, where the white folds of usefulness and purity would cover man's inheritance of selfishness and passion.

For an hour I watched the big flakes fall; and, as I watched, I dreamed the dream of peace for all the world. The brazen trumpet of war was a thing of the past. The white dove of peace had built her nest in the cannon's mouth and stopped its awful roar. The federation of the world was secured by universal intelligence and community of interest. Envy and selfishness and hypocrisy, and evil doing and evil speaking, were deeply covered by the snowy mantle that brought "peace on earth and good will to men."

My dream was not dispelled by any rude awakening. As the house threw off the fetters of the night and gradually struggled into activity, it was in such a fresh and loving manner and with such thoughtful solicitude for each member of our world, that I walked in my dream all day.

The snow fell rapidly till noon, and then the sun came forth from the veil of clouds and cast its southern rays across the white expanse with an effect that drew exclamations of delight from all who had eyes to see. No wind stirred the air, but ever and anon a bright avalanche would slide from bough or bush, sparkle and gleam as the sun caught it, and then sink gently into the deep lap spread below. The bough would spring as if to catch its beautiful load, and, failing in this, would throw up its head and try to look unconcerned,—though quite evidently conscious of its bereavement.

The appearance of the sun brought signs of life and activity. The men improvised a snow-plough, the strong horses floundering in front of it made roads and paths through the two feet of feathers that hid the world.

After lunch, the young people went for a frolic in the snow. Two hours later the shaking of garments and stamping of feet gave evidence of the return of the party. Stepping into the hall I was at once surrounded by the handsomest troupe of Esquimaux that ever invaded the temperate zone. The snow clung lovingly to their wet clothing and would not be shaken off; their cheeks were flushed, their eyes bright, and their voices pitched at an out-of-doors key.

"Away to your rooms, every one of you, and get into dry clothes," said I. "Don't dare show yourselves until the dinner bell rings. I'll send each of you a hot negus,—it's a prescription and must be taken; I'm a tyrant when professional."

We saw nothing more of them until dinner. The young ladies came in white, with their maiden shoulders losing nothing by contact with their snow-white gowns. All but Miss Jessie, whose dress was a pearl velvet, buttoned close to her slender throat. I loved this style best, but I could never believe that anything could be prettier than Jane's white shoulders.

The table was loaded, as Christmas tables should be, and, as I asked God's blessing on it and us, the thought came that the answer had preceded the request and that we were blessed in unusual degree.

After dinner the rugs in the great room were rolled up, and the young folks danced to Laura's music, which could inspire unwilling feet. But there were none such that night. Tom and Kate led off in the newest and most fantastic waltz, others followed, and Polly and I were the only spectators. An hour of this, and then we gathered around the hearth to hear Polly read "The Christmas Carol." No one reads like Polly. Her low, soft voice seems never to know fatigue, but runs on like a musical brook. When the reading was over, a hush of satisfied enjoyment had taken possession of us all. It was not broken when Miss Jessie turned to the piano and sang that glorious hymn, "Lead, Kindly Light." Jack was close beside her, his blue eyes shining with an appreciation of which any woman might be proud, and his baritone in perfect harmony with her rich contralto. The young ladies took the higher part, Frank added his tenor, and even Phil and I leaned heavily on Jarvis's deep bass. My effort was of short duration; a lump gathered in my throat that caused me to turn away. Polly was searching fruitlessly for something to dry the tears that overran her eyes, and I was able to lend her aid, but the accommodation was of the nature of a "call loan."

As we separated for the night, Jarvis said: "Lady mother, this day has been a revelation to me. If I live a hundred years, I shall never forget it." I was slow in bringing it to a close. As I loitered in my room, I heard the shuffling of slippered feet in the hall, and a timid knock at Polly's door. It was quickly opened for Jane and Jessie, and I heard sobbing voices say:—

"Momee, we want to cry on your bed," and, "Oh, Mrs. Williams, why can't all days be like this!"

Polly's voice was low and indistinct, but I know that it carried strong and loving counsel; and, as I turned to my pillow, I was still dreaming the dream of the morning.



CHAPTER XXXV

WE CLOSE THE BOOKS FOR '96

The morning after Christmas broke clear, with a wind from the south that promised to make quick work of the snow. The young people were engaged for the evening, as indeed for most evenings, in the hospitable village, and they spent the day on the farm as pleased them best.

There were many things to interest city-bred folk on a place like Four Oaks. Everything was new to them, and they wanted to see the workings of the factory farm in all its detail. They made friends with the men who had charge of the stock, and spent much time in the stables. Polly and I saw them occasionally, but they did not need much attention from us. We have never found it necessary to entertain our friends on the farm. They seem to do that for themselves. We simply live our lives with them, and they live theirs with us. This works well both for the guests and for the hosts.

The great event of the holiday week was a New Year Eve dance at the Country Club. Every member was expected to appear in person or by proxy, as this was the greatest of many functions of the year.

Sunday was warm and sloppy, and little could be done out of doors. Part of the household were for church, and the rest lounged until luncheon; then Polly read "Sonny" until twilight, and Laura played strange music in the half-dark.

The next day the men went into town to look about, and to lunch with some college chums. As they would not return until five, the ladies had the day to themselves. They read a little, slept a little, and talked much, and were glad when five o'clock and the men came. Tea was so hot and fragrant, the house so cosey, and the girls so pretty, that Jack said:—

"What chumps we men were to waste the whole day in town!"

"And what do you expect of men, Mr. Jack?" said Jessie.

"Yes, I know, the old story of pearls and swine, but there are pearls and pearls."

"Do you mean that there are more pearls than swine, Mr. Jack? For, if you do, I will take issue with you."

"If I am a swine, I will be an aesthetic one and wear the pearl that comes my way," said Jack, looking steadily into the eyes of the high-headed girl.

"Will you have one lump or two?"

"One," said Jack, as he took his cup.

The last day of the year came all too quickly for both young and old at Four Oaks. Polly and I went into hiding in the office in the afternoon to make up the accounts for the year. As Polly had spent the larger lump sum, I could face her with greater boldness than on the previous occasion. Here is an excerpt from the farm ledger:—

Expended in 1896 $43,309 Interest on previous account 2,200 Total $45,509 Receipts 5,105 Net expense $40,404 Previous account 44,000 $84,404

The farm owes me a little more than $84,000. "Not so good as I hoped, and not so bad as I feared," said Polly. "We will win out all right, Mr. Headman, though it does seem a lot of money."

"Like the Irishman's pig," quoth I. "Pat said, 'It didn't weigh nearly as much as I expected, but I never thought it would.'"

There was little to depress us in the past, and nothing in the present, so we joined the young people for the dance at the Club.



CHAPTER XXXVI

OUR FRIENDS

After our guests had departed, to college or school or home, the house was left almost deserted. We did not shut it up, however. Fires were bright on all hearths, and lamps were kept burning. We did not mean to lose the cheeriness of the house, though much of the family had departed. For a wonder, the days did not seem lonesome. After the fist break was over, we did not find time to think of our solitude, and as the weeks passed we wondered what new wings had caused them to fly so swiftly. Each day had its interests of work or study or social function. Stormy days and unbroken evenings were given to reading. We consumed many books, both old and new, and we were not forgotten by our friends. The dull days of winter did not drag; indeed, they were accepted with real pleasure. Our lives had hitherto been too much filled with the hurry and bustle inseparable from the fashionable existence-struggle of a large city to permit us to settle down with quiet nerves to the real happiness of home. So much of enjoyment accompanies and depends upon tranquillity of mind, that we are apt to miss half of it in the turmoil of work-strife and social-strife that fill the best years of most men and women.

It is a pity that all overwrought people cannot have a chance to relax their nerves, and to learn the possibilities of happiness that are within them. Most of the jars and bickerings of domestic life, most of the mental and moral obliquities, depend upon threadbare nerves, either inherited or uncovered by friction incident to getting on in the world. I never understood the comforts that follow in the wake of a quiet, unambitious life, until such a life was forced upon me. When you discover these comforts for the first time, you marvel that you have foregone them so long, and are fain to recommend them to all the world.

Polly and I had gotten on reasonably well up to this time; but before we became conscious of any change, we found ourselves drawn closer together by a multitude of small interests common to both. After twenty-five years of married life it will compensate any man to take a little time from business and worry that he may become acquainted with his wife. A few fortunate men do this early in life, and they draw compound interest on the investment; but most of us feel the cares of life so keenly that we take them home with us to show in our faces and to sit at our tables and to blight the growth of that cheerful intercourse which perpetuates love and cements friendship in the home as well as in the world.

There were no serious cares nowadays, and time passed so smoothly at Four Oaks that we wondered at the picnic life that had fallen to us. The village of Exeter was alive in all things social. The city families who had farms or country places near the village were so fond of them that they rarely closed them for more than two or three months, and these months were as likely to come in summer as in winter.

Our friends the Gordons made Homestead Farm their permanent residence, though they kept open house in town. Beyond the Gordons' was the modest home of an Irish baronet, Sir Thomas O'Hara. Sir Tom was a bachelor of sixty. He had run through two fortunes (as became an Irish baronet) in the racing field and at Homburg, and as a young man he had lived ten years at Limmer's tavern in London. When not in training to ride his own steeple-chasers, he was putting up his hands against any man in England who would face him for a few friendly rounds. He was not always victorious, either in the field, before the green cloth, or in the ring; but he was always a kind-hearted gentleman who would divide his last crown with friend or foe, and who could accept a beating with grace and unruffled spirit.

He could never ride below the welter weight, and after a few years he outgrew this weight and was forced to give up the least expensive of his diversions. The green cloth now received more of his attention, and, as a matter of course, of his money. Things went badly with him, and he began to see the end of his second fortune before he called a halt. Bad times in Ireland seriously reduced his rents, and he was forced to dispose of his salable estates. Then he came to this country in the hope of recouping himself, and to get away from the fast set that surrounded him.

"I can resist anything but temptation," this warm-hearted Irishman would say; and that was the keynote of his character.

Though Sir Tom was only sixty years old, he looked seventy. He was much broken in health by gout and the fast pace of his early manhood. But his spirit was untouched by misfortune, disease, or hardship. His courage was as good as when he served as a subaltern of the Guards in the trenches before Sebastopol, or presented his body as a mark for the sledge-hammer blows of Tom Sayers, just for diversion. His constitution must have been superb, for even in his decrepitude he was good to look upon: five feet ten, fine body, slightly given to rotundity, legs a little shrunken in the shanks, but giving unmistakable signs of what they had been ("not lost, but gone before," as he would say of them), hands and feet aristocratic in form and well cared for, and a fine head set on broad shoulders. His hair was thin, and he parted it with great exactness in the middle. His eyes were brown, large, and of exceeding softness. His nose was straight in spite of many a contusion, and his whole expression was that of a high-bred gentleman somewhat the worse for wear. Sir Tom was perfectly groomed when he came forth from his chamber, which was usually about ten in the morning.

Those of us who had access to his rooms often wondered how he ever got out of them looking so immaculate, for they were a perfectly impassable jungle to the stranger. Such a tangle of trunks, hand-bags, rug bundles, clothes, boots, pajamas, newspapers, scrap-books, B. & S. bottles, could hardly be found anywhere else in the world. He had a fondness for newspaper clippings, and had trunks of them, sorted into bundles or pasted in scrap-books. Old volumes of Bell's Life filled more than one trunk, and on one occasion when he and I were spending a long evening together, in celebration of his recent recovery from an attack of gout, and when he had done more than usual justice to the B. & S. bottles and less than usual justice to his gout, he showed me the record of a long-gone year in which this same Bell's Life called him the "first among the gentlemen riders in the United Kingdom," and proved this assertion by showing how he had won most of the great steeple-chases in England and Ireland, riding his own horses. This was the nearest approach to boasting that ever came to my knowledge in the years of our close friendship, and I would never have thought of it as such had I not seen that he regarded it as unwarrantable self-praise.

I have never known a more simple, kind-hearted, agreeable, and lovable gentleman than this broken-down sporting man and gambler. I loved him as a brother; and though he has passed out of my life, I still love the memory of his genial face, his courtesy, his unselfish friendship, more than words can express. A tender heart and a gentle spirit found strange housing in a body given over to reckless prodigality. The combination, tempered by time and exhaustion, showed nothing that was not lovable; and it is scant praise to say that Sir Thomas was much to me.

He was just as acceptable to Polly. No woman could fail to appreciate the homage which he never failed to show to the wife and mother. Many winter evenings at Four Oaks were made brighter by his presence, and we grew to expect him at least three nights each week. His plate was placed on our round table these nights, and he rarely failed to use it; and the B. & S. bottles were near at hand, and his favorite brand of cigars within easy reach.

"I light a 'baccy' by your permission, Mrs. Williams," and a courtly bow accompanied the words.

At 9.30 William came to bring Sir Tom home. The leave-taking was always formal with Polly, but with me it was, "Ta-ta, Williams—see you later," and our guest would hobble out on his poor crippled feet, waving his hand gallantly, with a voice as cheery as a boy's.

Another family whom I wish the reader to know well is the Kyrles. For more than twenty-five years we have known no joys or sorrows which they did not feel, and no interests that touched them have failed to leave a mark on us. We could not have been more intimate or better friends had the closest blood tie united us. The acquaintance of young married couples had grown into a friendship that was bearing its best fruit at a time when best fruit was most appreciated. We do not consider a pleasure more than half complete until we have told it to Will and Frances Kyrle, for their delight doubles our happiness.

They were among the earliest of my patients, and they are easily first among our friends. I have watched more than a half-dozen of their children from infancy to adult life, and this alone would be a strong bond; but in addition to this is the fact that the whole family, from father to youngest child, possess in a wonderful degree that subtle sense of true camaraderie which is as rare as it is charming.

The Kyrles lived in the city, but they were foot-free, and we could count on having them often. Four Oaks was to be, if we had our way, a country home for them almost as much as for us. Indeed, one of the rooms was called the Kyrles' room, and they came to it at will. Enough about our friends. We must go back to the farm interests, which are, indeed, the only excuse for this history.



CHAPTER XXXVII

THE HEADMAN'S JOB

Our life at Four Oaks began in earnest in January, 1897. Even during the winter months there was no lack of employment and interest for the Headman. I breakfasted at seven, and from that time until noon I was as busy as if I were working for $20 a month. The master's eye is worth more than his hand in a factory like mine. My men were, and are, an unusual lot,—intelligent, sober, and willing,—but they, like others, are apt to fall into routine ways, and thereby to miss points which an observing proprietor would not overlook.

The cows, for instance, were all fed the same ration. Fifteen pounds of mixed grains was none too much for the big Holstein milk-makers, who were yielding well and looking in perfect health; but the common cows were taking on too much flesh and falling off in milk. I at once changed the ration for these six cows by leaving out the corn entirely and substituting oat straw for alfalfa in the cut feed. The change brought good results in five of the cows; the other one did not pick up in her milk, and after a reasonable trial I sold her.

The herd was doing excellently for mid-winter,—the yield amounted to a daily average of 840 pounds throughout the month, and I was able to make good my contract with the middleman. I could see breakers ahead, however, and it behooved me to make ready for them. I decided to buy ten more thoroughbreds in new milk, if I could find them. I wrote to the people from whom I had purchased the first herd, and after a little delay secured nine cows in fresh milk and about four years old. This addition came in February, and kept my milk supply above the danger point. Since then I have bought no cows. Thirty-four of these thoroughbreds are still at Four Oaks—two of them have died, and three have been sold for not keeping up to the standard—and are doing grand service. Their numbers have been reenforced by twenty of their best daughters, so there are at this writing fifty-four milch cows and five yearling heifers in the herd. Most of the calves have been disposed of as soon as weaned. I have no room for more stock on my place, and it doesn't pay to keep them to sell as cows. Four Oaks is not a breeding farm, but a factory farm, and everything has to be subordinated to the factory idea.

My thoroughbred calves have brought me an average price of $12 each at four to six weeks, sold to dairymen, and I am satisfied to do business in that way. The nine milch cows which I bought to complete the herd cost, delivered at Four Oaks, $1012.

All the grain fed to cows, horses, and hogs, and a portion of that fed to chickens, is ground fine before feeding. The grinding is done in the granary by a mill with a capacity of forty bushels an hour. We make corn meal, corn and cob meal, and oatmeal enough for a week's supply in a few hours. All hay and straw is cut fine, before being fed, by a power cutter in the forage barn, and from thence is taken by teams in box racks to the feeding rooms, where it is wetted with hot water and mixed with the ground feed for the cows and horses, and steamed or cooked with the ground feed for the hogs and hens.

Alfalfa is the only hay used for the hens, and wonderfully good it is for them. Besides feed for the hogs, we have to provide ashes, salt, and charcoal for them. These three things are kept constantly before them in narrow troughs set so near the wall that they cannot get their feet into them.

We carefully save all wood ashes for the hogs and hens, and we burn our own charcoal in a pit in the wood lot. Five cords of sound wood make an abundant supply for a year. I think this side dish constantly before swine goes a long way toward keeping them healthy. Clean pens, well-balanced and well-cooked food, pure water, and this medicine can be counted on to keep a growing and fattening herd healthy during its nine months of life.

It is claimed that it is unnatural and artificial to confine these young things within such narrow limits, and so it is; but the whole scheme is unnatural, if you please. The pig is born to die, and to die quickly, for the profit and maintenance of man. What could be more unnatural? Would he be better reconciled to his fate after spending his nine months between field and sty? I wot not. The Chester White is an indolent fellow, and I suspect he loves his comfortable house, his cool stone porch, his back yard to dig in, his neighbors across the wire fence to gossip with, and his well-balanced, well-cooked food served under his own nose three times a day. At least he looks content in his piggery, and grows faster and puts on more flesh in his 250 days than does his neighbor of the field. If the hog's profitable life were twice or thrice as long, I would advocate a wider liberty for the early part of it; but as it doesn't pay to keep the animal after he is nine months old, the quickest way to bring him to perfection is the best. One cannot afford to graze animals of any kind when one is trying to do intensive farming. It is indirect, it is wasteful of space and energy, and it doesn't force the highest product. Grazing, as compared with soiling, may be economical of labor, but as I understand economics that is the one thing in which we do not wish to economize. The multiplication of well-paid and well-paying labor is a thing to be specially desired. If the soiling farm will keep two or three more men employed at good wages, and at the same time pay better interest than the grazing farm, it should be looked upon as much the better method. The question of furnishing landscape for hogs is one that borders too closely on the aesthetic or the sentimental to gain the approval of the factory-farm man. What is true of hogs is also true of cows. They are better off under the constant care of intelligent and interested human beings than when they follow the rippling brook or wind slowly o'er the lea at their own sweet pleasure.

The truth is, the rippling brook doesn't always furnish the best water, and the lea furnishes very imperfect forage during nine months of the year. A twenty-acre lot in good grass, in which to take the air, is all that a well-regulated herd of fifty cows needs. The clean, cool, calm stable is much to their liking, and the regular diet of a first-class cow-kitchen insures a uniform flow of milk.

What is true of hogs and cows is true also of hens. The common opinion that the farm-raised hen that has free range is healthier or happier than her sister in a well-ordered hennery is not based on facts. Freedom to forage for one's self and pick up a precarious living does not always mean health, happiness, or comfort. The strenuous life on the farm cannot compare in comfort with the quiet house and the freedom from anxiety of the well-tended hen. The vicissitudes of life are terrible for the uncooped chicken. The occupants of air, earth, and water lie in wait for it. It is fair game for the hawk and the owl; the fox, the weasel, the rat, the wood pussy, the cat, and the dog are its sworn enemies. The horse steps on it, the wheel crushes it; it falls into the cistern or the swill barrel; it is drenched by showers or stiffened by frosts, and, as the English say, it has a "rather indifferent time of it." If it survive the summer, and some chickens do, it will roost and shiver on the limb of an apple tree. Its nest will be accessible only to the mink and the rat; and, like Rachel, it will mourn for its children, which are not.

No, the well-yarded hen has by all odds the best of it. The wonder is that, with three-fourths of the poultry at large and making its own living, hens still furnish a product, in this country alone, $100,000,000 greater in value than the whole world's output of gold. Our annual production of eggs and poultry foots up to $280,000,000,—$4 apiece for every man, woman, and child,—and yet people say that hens do not pay!

Each flock of forty hens at Four Oaks has a house sixteen feet by twenty, and a run twenty feet by one hundred. I hear no complaints of close quarters or lack of freedom, but I do hear continually the song of contentment, and I see results daily that are more satisfactory than those of any oil well or mine in which I have ever been interested.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

SPRING OF '97

Sam began to make up his breeding pens in January. He selected 150 of his favorites, divided them into 10 flocks of 15, added a fine cockerel to each pen (we do not allow cocks or cockerels to run with the laying hens), and then began to set the incubator house in order.

He filled the first incubator on Saturday, January 30, and from that day until late in April he was able to start a fresh machine about every six days. Sam reports the total hatch for the year as 1917 chicks, out of which number he had, when he separated them in the early autumn, 678 pullets to put in the runs for laying hens, and 653 cockerels to go to the fattening pens. These figures show that Sam was a first-class chicken man.

We secured 300 tons of ice at the side of the lake for $98, having to pay a little more that year than the last, on account of the heavy fall of snow.

The wood-house was replenished, although there was still a good deal of last year's cut on hand. We did not fell any trees, for there was still a considerable quantity of dead wood on the ground which should be used first. I wanted to clear out much of the useless underbrush, but we had only time to make a beginning in this effort at forestry. We went over perhaps ten acres across the north line, removing briers and brush. Everything that looked like a possible future tree was left. Around oak and hickory stumps we found clumps of bushes springing from living roots. These we cut away, except one or possibly two of the most thrifty. We trimmed off the lower branches of those we saved, and left them to make such trees as they could. I have been amazed to see what a growth an oak-root sprout will make after its neighbors have been cut away. There are some hundreds of these trees in the forest at Four Oaks, from five to six inches in diameter, which did not measure more than one or two inches five years ago.

As the underbrush was cleared from the wood lot, I planned to set young trees to fill vacant spaces. The European larch was used in the first experiment. In the spring of 1897 I bought four thousand seedling larches for $80, planted them in nursery rows in the orchard, cultivated them for two years, and then transplanted them to the forest. The larch is hardy and grows rapidly; and as it is a valuable tree for many purposes, it is one of the best for forest planting. I have planted no others thus far at Four Oaks, as the four thousand from my little nursery seem to fill all unoccupied spaces.