Kitabı oku: «In the Midst of Alarms», sayfa 6
“To burn out what remains of the soft inside wood, so as to leave only the hard outside shell. Then the charring of the inner surface is supposed to make the leach better—more water-tight, perhaps.”
“Quite so. Then it is hauled in and set up?”
“Yes; and gradually filled with ashes. When it is full, we pour the water in it, and catch the lye as it drips out. This is put in the caldron with grease, pigskins, and that sort of thing, and when it boils long enough, the result is soft soap.”
“And if you boil it too long, what is the result?”
“Hard soap, I suppose. I never boil it too long.”
The conversation was here interrupted by a hissing in the fire, caused by the tumultuous boiling over of the soap. Kitty hurriedly threw in a basin of cold lye, and stirred the mixture vigorously.
“You see,” she said reproachfully, “the result of keeping me talking nonsense to you. Now you will have to make up for it by bringing in some wood and putting more water into the leach.”
“With the utmost pleasure,” cried Yates, springing to his feet. “It is a delight to atone for a fault by obeying your commands.”
The girl laughed. “Buttonwood,” she said. Before Yates could think of anything to say in reply Mrs. Bartlett appeared at the back door.
“How is the soap getting on, Kitty?” she asked. “Why, Mr. Yates, are you here?”
“Am I here? I should say I was. Very much here. I’m the hired man. I’m the hewer of wood and the hauler of water, or, to speak more correctly, I’m the hauler of both. And, besides, I’ve been learning how to make soap, Mrs. Bartlett.”
“Well, it won’t hurt you to know how.”
“You bet it won’t. When I get back to New York, the first thing I shall do will be to chop down a buttonwood tree in the park, if I can find one, and set up a leach for myself. Lye comes useful in running a paper.”
Mrs. Bartlett’s eyes twinkled, for, although she did not quite understand his nonsense, she knew it was nonsense, and she had a liking for frivolous persons, her own husband being so somber-minded.
“Tea is ready,” she said. “Of course you will stay, Mr. Yates.”
“Really, Mrs. Bartlett, I cannot conscientiously do so. I haven’t earned a meal since the last one. No; my conscience won’t let me accept, but thank you all the same.”
“Nonsense; my conscience won’t let you go away hungry. If nobody were to eat but those who earn their victuals, there would be more starving people in the world than there are. Of course you’ll stay.”
“Now, that’s what I like, Mrs. Bartlett. I like to have a chance of refusing an invitation I yearn for, and then be forced to accept. That’s true hospitality.” Then in a whisper he added to Kitty; “If you dare to say ‘buttonwood,’ Miss Bartlett, you and I will quarrel.”
But Kitty said nothing, now that her mother had appeared on the scene, but industriously stirred the contents of the iron kettle.
“Kitty,” said the mother, “you call the men to supper.”
“I can’t leave this,” said Kitty, flushing; “it will boil over. You call, mother.”
So Mrs. Bartlett held her open palms on each side of her mouth, and gave the long wailing cry, which was faintly answered from the fields, and Yates, who knew a thing or two, noted with secret satisfaction that Kitty had refused doubtless because he was there.
CHAPTER VIII
“I tell you what it is, Renny,” said Yates, a few days after the soap episode, as he swung in his hammock at the camp, “I’m learning something new every day.”
“Not really?” asked the professor in surprise.
“Yes, really. I knew it would astonish you. My chief pleasure in life, professor, is the surprising of you. I sometimes wonder why it delights me; it is so easily done.”
“Never mind about that. What have you been learning?”
“Wisdom, my boy; wisdom in solid chunks. In the first place, I am learning to admire the resourcefulness of these people around us. Practically, they make everything they need. They are the most self-helping people that I was ever thrown among. I look upon theirs as the ideal life.”
“I think you said something like that when we first came here.”
“I said that, you ass, about camping out. I am talking now about farm life. Farmers eliminate the middleman pretty effectually, and that in itself is going a long way toward complete happiness. Take the making of soap, that I told you about; there you have it, cheap and good. When you’ve made it, you know what is in it, and I’ll be hanged if you do when you pay a big price for it in New York. Here they make pretty nearly everything they need, except the wagon and the crockery; and I’m not sure but they made them a few years back. Now, when a man with a good sharp ax and a jack-knife can do anything from building his house to whittling out a chair, he’s the most independent man on earth. Nobody lives better than these people do. Everything is fresh, sweet, and good. Perhaps the country air helps; but it seems to me I never tasted such meals as Mrs. Bartlett, for instance, gets up. They buy nothing at the stores except the tea, and I confess I prefer milk myself. My tastes were always simple.”
“And what is the deduction?”
“Why, that this is the proper way to live. Old Hiram has an anvil and an amateur forge. He can tinker up almost anything, and that eliminates the blacksmith. Howard has a bench, saws, hammers, and other tools, and that eliminates the carpenter. The women eliminate the baker, the soap boiler, and a lot of other parasites. Now, when you have eliminated all the middlemen, then comes independence, and consequently complete happiness. You can’t keep happiness away with a shotgun then.”
“But what is to become of the blacksmith, the carpenter, and all the rest?”
“Let them take up land and be happy too; there’s plenty of land. The land is waiting for them. Then look how the master is eliminated. That’s the most beautiful riddance of all. Even the carpenter and blacksmith usually have to work under a boss; and if not, they have to depend on the men who employ them. The farmer has to please nobody but himself. That adds to his independence. That’s why old Hiram is ready to fight the first comer on the slightest provocation. He doesn’t care whom he offends, so long as it isn’t his wife. These people know how to make what they want, and what they can’t make they do without. That’s the way to form a great nation. You raise, in this way, a self-sustaining, resolute, unconquerable people. The reason the North conquered the South was because we drew our armies mostly from the self-reliant farming class, while we had to fight a people accustomed for generations to having things done for them.”
“Why don’t you buy a farm, Yates?”
“Several reasons. I am spoiled for the life here. I am like the drunkard who admires a temperate life, yet can’t pass a ginshop. The city virus is in my blood. And then, perhaps, after all, I am not quite satisfied with the tendency of farm life; it is unfortunately in a transition state. It is at the frame-house stage, and will soon blossom into the red-brick stage. The log-house era is what I yearn for. Then everything a person needed was made on the farm. When the brick-house era sets in, the middleman will be rampant. I saw the other day at the Howards’ a set of ancient stones that interested me as much as an Assyrian marble would interest you. They were old, home-made millstones, and they have not been used since the frame house was built. The grist mill at the village put them out of date. And just here, notice the subtlety of the crafty middleman. The farmer takes his grist to the mill, and the miller does not charge him cash for grinding it. He takes toll out of the bags, and the farmer has a vague idea that he gets his grinding for almost nothing. The old way was the best, Renny, my boy. The farmer’s son won’t be as happy in the brick house which the mason will build for him as his grandfather was in the log house he built for himself. And fools call this change the advance of civilization.”
“There is something to be said for the old order of things,” admitted Renmark. “If a person could unite the advantages of what we call civilization with the advantages of a pastoral life, he would inaugurate a condition of things that would be truly idyllic.”
“That’s so, Renmark, that’s so!” cried Yates enthusiastically. “A brownstone mansion on Fifth Avenue, and a log hut on the shores of Lake Superior! That would suit me down to the ground. Spend half the year in each place.”
“Yes,” said the professor meditatively; “a log hut on the rocks and under the trees, with the lake in front, would be very nice if the hut had a good library attached.”
“And a daily paper. Don’t forget the press.”
“No. I draw the line there. The daily paper would mean the daily steamer or the daily train. The one would frighten away the fish, and the other would disturb the stillness with its whistle.”
Yates sighed. “I forgot about the drawbacks,” he said. “That’s the trouble with civilization. You can’t have the things you want without bringing in their trail so many things you don’t want. I shall have to give up the daily paper.”
“Then there is another objection, worse than either steamer or train.”
“What’s that?”
“The daily paper itself.”
Yates sat up indignantly.
“Renmark!” he cried, “that’s blasphemy. For Heaven’s sake, man, hold something sacred. If you don’t respect the press, what do you respect? Not my most cherished feelings, at any rate, or you wouldn’t talk in that flippant manner. If you speak kindly of my daily paper, I’ll tolerate your library.”
“And that reminds me: Have you brought any books with you, Yates? I have gone through most of mine already, although many of them will bear going over again; still, I have so much time on my hands that I think I may indulge in a little general reading. When you wrote asking me to meet you in Buffalo, I thought you perhaps intended to tramp through the country, so I did not bring as many books with me as I should have done if I had known you were going to camp out.”
Yates sprang from the hammock.
“Books? Well, I should say so! Perhaps you think I don’t read anything but the daily papers. I’d have you know that I am something of a reader myself. You mustn’t imagine you monopolize all the culture in the township, professor.”
The young man went into the tent, and shortly returned with an armful of yellow-covered, paper-bound small volumes, which he flung in profusion at the feet of the man from Toronto. They were mostly Beadle’s Dime Novels, which had a great sale at the time.
“There,” he said, “you have quantity, quality, and variety, as I have before remarked. ‘The Murderous Sioux of Kalamazoo;’ that’s a good one. A hair-raising Indian story in every sense of the word. The one you are looking at is a pirate story, judging by the burning ship on the cover. But for first-class highwaymen yarns, this other edition is the best. That’s the ‘Sixteen String Jack set.’ They’re immense, if they do cost a quarter each. You must begin at the right volume, or you’ll be sorry. You see, they never really end, although every volume is supposed to be complete in itself. They leave off at the most exciting point, and are continued in the next volume. I call that a pretty good idea, but it’s rather exasperating if you begin at the last book. You’ll enjoy this lot. I’m glad I brought them along.”
“It is a blessing,” said Renmark, with the ghost of a smile about his lips. “I can truthfully say that they are entirely new to me.”
“That’s all right, my boy,” cried Yates loftily, with a wave of his hand. “Use them as if they were your own.”
Renmark arose leisurely and picked up a quantity of the books.
“These will do excellently for lighting our morning camp fire,” he said. “And if you will allow me to treat them as if they were my own, that is the use to which I will put them. You surely do not mean to say that you read such trash as this, Yates?”
“Trash?” exclaimed Yates indignantly. “It serves me right. That’s what a man gets for being decent to you, Renny. Well, you’re not compelled to read them; but if you put one of them in the fire, your stupid treatises will follow, if they are not too solid to burn. You don’t know good literature when you see it.”
The professor, buoyed up, perhaps, by the conceit which comes to a man through the possession of a real sheepskin diploma, granted by a university of good standing, did not think it necessary to defend his literary taste. He busied himself in pruning a stick he had cut in the forest, and finally he got it into the semblance of a walking cane. He was an athletic man, and the indolence of camp life did not suit him as it did Yates. He tested the stick in various ways when he had trimmed it to his satisfaction.
“Are you ready for a ten-mile walk?” he asked of the man in the hammock.
“Good gracious, no. Man wants but little walking here below, and he doesn’t want it ten miles in length either. I’m easily satisfied. You’re off, are you? Well, so long. And I say, Renny, bring back some bread when you return to camp. It’s the one safe thing to do.”
CHAPTER IX
Renmark walked through the woods and then across the fields, until he came to the road. He avoided the habitations of man as much as he could, for he was neither so sociably inclined nor so frequently hungry as was his companion. He strode along the road, not caring much where it led him. Everyone he met gave him “Good-day,” after the friendly custom of the country. Those with wagons or lighter vehicles going in his direction usually offered him a ride, and went on, wondering that a man should choose to walk when it was not compulsory. The professor, like most silent men, found himself good company, and did not feel the need of companionship in his walks. He had felt relieved rather than disappointed when Yates refused to accompany him. And Yates, swinging drowsily in his hammock, was no less gratified. Even where men are firm and intimate friends, the first few days of camping out together is a severe strain on their regard for each other. If Damon and Pythias had occupied a tent together for a week, the worst enemy of either, or both, might at the end of that time have ventured into the camp in safety, and would have been welcome.
Renmark thought of these things as he walked along. His few days’ intimacy with Yates had shown him how far apart they had managed to get by following paths that diverged more and more widely the farther they were trodden. The friendship of their youth had turned out to be merely ephemeral. Neither would now choose the other as an intimate associate. Another illusion had gone.
“I have surely enough self-control,” said Renmark to himself, as he walked on, “to stand his shallow flippancy for another week, and not let him see what I think of him.”
Yates at the same time was thoroughly enjoying the peaceful silence of the camp. “That man is an exaggerated schoolmaster, with all the faults of the species abnormally developed. If I once open out on him, he will learn more truth about himself in ten minutes than he ever heard in his life before. What an unbearable prig he has grown to be.” Thus ran Yates’ thoughts as he swung in his hammock, looking up at the ceiling of green leaves.
Nevertheless, the case was not so bad as either of them thought. If it had been, then were marriage not only a failure, but a practical impossibility. If two men can get over the first few days in camp without a quarrel, life becomes easier, and the tension relaxes.
Renmark, as he polished off his ten miles, paid little heed to those he met; but one driver drew up his horse and accosted him.
“Good-day,” he said. “How are you getting on in the tent?”
The professor was surprised at the question. Had their tenting-out eccentricity gone all over the country? He was not a quick man at recognizing people, belonging, as he did, to the “I-remember-your-face-but-can’t-recall-your-name” fraternity. It had been said of him that he never, at any one time, knew the names of more than half a dozen students in his class; but this was an undergraduate libel on him. The young man who had accosted him was driving a single horse, attached to what he termed a “democrat”—a four-wheeled light wagon, not so slim and elegant as a buggy, nor so heavy and clumsy as a wagon. Renmark looked up at the driver with confused unrecognition, troubled because he vaguely felt that he had met him somewhere before. But his surprise at being addressed speedily changed into amazement as he looked from the driver to the load. The “democrat” was heaped with books. The larger volumes were stuck along the sides with some regularity, and in this way kept the miscellaneous pile from being shaken out on the road. His eye glittered with a new interest as it rested on the many-colored bindings; and he recognized in the pile the peculiar brown covers of the “Bohn” edition of classic translations, that were scattered like so many turnips over the top of this ridge of literature. He rubbed his eyes to make sure he was not dreaming. How came a farmer’s boy to be driving a wagon load of books in the wilds of the country as nonchalantly as if they were so many bushels of potatoes?
The young driver, who had stopped his horse, for the load was heavy and the sand was deep, saw that the stranger not only did not recognize him, but that from the moment he saw the books he had forgotten everything else. It was evidently necessary to speak again.
“If you are coming back, will you have a ride?” he asked.
“I—I think I will,” said the professor, descending to earth again and climbing up beside the boy.
“I see you don’t remember me,” said the latter, starting his horse again. “My name is Howard. I passed you in my buggy when you were coming in with your tent that day on the Ridge. Your partner—what’s his name—Yates, isn’t it?—had dinner at our house the other day.”
“Ah, yes. I recollect you now. I thought I had seen you before; but it was only for a moment, you know. I have a very poor memory so far as people are concerned. It has always been a failing of mine. Are these your books? And how do you happen to have such a quantity?”
“Oh, this is the library,” said young Howard.
“The library?”
“Yes, the township library, you know.”
“Oh! The township has a library, then? I didn’t know.”
“Well, it’s part of it. This is a fifth part. You know about township libraries, don’t you? Your partner said you were a college man.”
Renmark blushed at his own ignorance, but he was never reluctant to admit it.
“I ought to be ashamed to confess it, but I know nothing of township libraries. Please, tell me about them.”
Young Howard was eager to give information to a college man, especially on the subject of books, which he regarded as belonging to the province of college-bred men. He was pleased also to discover that city people did not know everything. He had long had the idea that they did, and this belief had been annoyingly corroborated by the cocksureness of Yates. The professor evidently was a decent fellow, who did not pretend to universal knowledge. This was encouraging. He liked Renmark better than Yates, and was glad he had offered him a ride, although, of course, that was the custom; still, a person with one horse and a heavy load is exempt on a sandy road.
“Well, you see,” he said in explanation, “it’s like this: The township votes a sum of money, say a hundred dollars, or two hundred, as the case may be. They give notice to the Government of the amount voted, and the Government adds the same amount to the township money. It’s like the old game: you think of a number, and they double it. The Government has a depository of books, in Toronto, I think, and they sell them cheaper than the bookstores do. At any rate, the four hundred dollars’ worth are bought, or whatever the amount is, and the books are the property of the township. Five persons are picked out in the township as librarians, and they have to give security. My father is librarian for this section. The library is divided into five parts, and each librarian gets a share. Once a year I go to the next section and get all their books. They go to the next section, again, and get all the books at that place. A man comes to our house to-day and takes all we have. So we get a complete change every year, and in five years we get back the first batch, which by that time we have forgotten all about. To-day is changing day all around.”
“And the books are lent to any person in each section who wishes to read them?” asked the professor.
“Yes. Margaret keeps a record, and a person can have a book out for two weeks; after that time there is a fine, but Margaret never fines anyone.”
“And do people have to pay to take out the books?”
“Not likely!” said Howard with fine contempt. “You wouldn’t expect people to pay for reading books; would you, now?”
“No, I suppose not. And who selected the volumes?”
“Well, the township can select the books if it likes, or it can send a committee to select them; but they didn’t think it worth the trouble and expense. People grumbled enough at wasting money on books as it was, even if they did buy them at half price. Still, others said it was a pity not to get the money out of the Government when they had the chance. I don’t believe any of them cared very much about the books, except father and a few others. So the Government chose the books. They’ll do that if you leave it to them. And a queer lot of trash they sent, if you take my word for it. I believe they shoved off on us all the things no on else would buy. Even when they did pick out novels, they were just as tough as the history books. ‘Adam Bede’ is one. They say that’s a novel. I tried it, but I would rather read the history of Josephus any day. There’s some fighting in that, if it is a history. Then there’s any amount of biography books. They’re no good. There’s a ‘History of Napoleon.’ Old Bartlett’s got that, and he won’t give it up. He says he was taxed for the library against his will. He dares them to go to law about it, and it aint worth while for one book. The other sections are all asking for that book; not that they want it, but the whole country knows that old Bartlett’s a-holding on to it, so they’d like to see some fun. Bartlett’s read that book fourteen times, and it’s all he knows. I tell Margaret she ought to fine him, and keep on fining, but she won’t do it. I guess Bartlett thinks the book belongs to him by this time. Margaret likes Kitty and Mrs. Bartlett,—so does everybody,—but old Bartlett’s a seed. There he sits now on his veranda, and it’s a wonder he’s not reading the ‘History of Napoleon.’”
They were passing the Bartlett house, and young Howard raised his voice and called out:
“I say, Mr. Bartlett, we want that Napoleon book. This is changing day, you know. Shall I come up for it, or will you bring it down? If you fetch it to the gate, I’ll cart it home now.”
The old man paid no heed to what was said to him; but Mrs. Bartlett, attracted by the outcry, came to the door.
“You go along with your books, you young rascal!” she cried, coming down to the gate when she saw the professor. “That’s a nice way to carry bound books, as if they were a lot of bricks. I’ll warrant you have lost a dozen between Mallory’s and here. But easy come, easy go. It’s plain to be seen they didn’t cost you anything. I don’t know what the world’s a-coming to when the township spends its money in books, as if taxes weren’t heavy enough already. Won’t you come in, Mr. Renmark? Tea’s on the table.”
“Mr. Renmark’s coming with me this trip, Mrs. Bartlett,” young Howard said before the professor had time to reply; “but I’ll come over and take tea, if you’ll invite me, as soon as I have put the horse up.”
“You go along with your nonsense,” she said; “I know you.” Then in a lower voice she asked: “How is your mother, Henry—and Margaret?”
“They’re pretty well, thanks.”
“Tell them I’m going to run over to see them some day soon, but that need not keep them from coming to see me. The old man’s going to town to-morrow,” and with this hint, after again inviting the professor to a meal, she departed up the path to the house.
“I think I’ll get down here,” said Renmark, halfway between the two houses. “I am very much obliged to you for the ride, and also for what you told me about the books. It was very interesting.”
“Nonsense!” cried young Howard; “I’m not going to let you do anything of the sort. You’re coming home with me. You want to see the books, don’t you? Very well, then, come along, Margaret is always impatient on changing day, she’s so anxious to see the books, and father generally comes in early from the fields for the same reason.”
As they approached the Howard homestead they noticed Margaret waiting for them at the gate; but when the girl saw that a stranger was in the wagon, she turned and walked into the house. Renmark, seeing this retreat, regretted he had not accepted Mrs. Bartlett’s invitation. He was a sensitive man, and did not realize that others were sometimes as shy as himself. He felt he was intruding, and that at a sacred moment—the moment of the arrival of the library. He was such a lover of books, and valued so highly the privilege of being alone with them, that he fancied he saw in the abrupt departure of Margaret the same feeling of resentment he would himself have experienced if a visitor had encroached upon him in his favorite nook in the fine room that held the library of the university.
When the wagon stopped in the lane, Renmark said hesitatingly:
“I think I’ll not stay, if you don’t mind. My friend is waiting for me at the camp, and will be wondering what has become of me.”
“Who? Yates? Let him wonder. I guess he never bothers about anybody else as long as he is comfortable himself. That’s how I sized him up, at any rate. Besides, you’re never going back on carrying in the books, are you? I counted on your help. I don’t want to do it, and it don’t seem the square thing to let Margaret do it all alone; does it, now?”
“Oh, if I can be of any assistance, I shall–”
“Of course you can. Besides, I know my father wants to see you, anyhow. Don’t you, father?”
The old man was coming round from the back of the house to meet them.
“Don’t I what?” he asked.
“You said you wanted to see Professor Renmark when Margaret told you what Yates had said to her about him.”
Renmark reddened slightly at finding so many people had made him the subject of conversation, rather suspecting at the same time that the boy was making fun of him. Mr. Howard cordially held out his hand.
“So this is Professor Renmark, is it? I am very pleased to see you. Yes, as Henry was saying, I have been wanting to see you ever since my daughter spoke of you. I suppose Henry told you that his brother is a pupil of yours?”
“Oh! is Arthur Howard your son?” cried Renmark, warming up at once. “I did not know it. There are many young men at the college, and I have but the vaguest idea from what parts of the country they all come. A teacher should have no favorites, but I must confess to a strong liking for your son. He is a good boy, which cannot be said about every member of my class.”
“Arthur was always studious, so we thought we would give him a chance. I am glad to hear he behaves himself in the city. Farming is hard work, and I hope my boys will have an easier time than I had. But come in, come in. The missus and Margaret will be glad to see you, and hear how the boy is coming on with his studies.”
So they went in together.
