Nor were Mousie’s flowering plants forgotten. She had watched over them from the seed with tireless care, and now we made a bed and helped the happy child to put her little nurslings in the open ground where they were to bloom. The apple trees made the air fragrant, and some of the delicate pink of their blossoms was in Mousie’s cheeks.
“Truly,” I thought, as I looked into her sparkling eyes, “if we can but barely live in the country, I am glad we came.”
The next morning Merton and I began our great undertaking—the planting of the other acre of ground, next to the potatoes, with field corn. Mr. Jones had harrowed it comparatively smooth, I had a light plow with which to mark out the furrows four feet apart each way. At the intersection of these furrows the seed was to be dropped. I found I could not drive our old bay straight across the field to save my life, and neighbor Jones laughed till his sides ached at the curves and crooks I first left behind me.
“Here, Merton,” I cried, nothing daunted, “we must work together again. Get a pole and stand it on the farther side of the plot four feet in from the edge of the sod. That’s right. Now come here; take old Bay by the head, and, with your eyes fixed on the pole, lead him steadily toward it.”
A furrow was now made of which Mr. Jones himself need not have been ashamed; and he laughed as he said, at parting “You’ll do. I see you’ve got enough Yankee in you to try more ways than one.”
We kept at work manfully, although the day was warm, and by noon the plot was furrowed one way. After dinner we took an hour’s partial rest in shelling our corn and then resumed our work, and in the same manner began furrowing at right angles with the first rows. The hills were thus about four feet apart each way. Merton dropped the corn after we had run half a dozen furrows.
“Drop five kernels,” I said; for Mr. Jones had told us that four stalks were enough and that three would do, but had added: “I plant five kernels, for some don’t come up, and the crows and other vermints take others. If all of ’em grow, it’s easier to pull up one stalk at the first hoeing than to plant over again.”
We found that putting in the corn was a lighter task than planting the potatoes even though we did our own furrowing; and by the middle of May we were complacent over the fact that we had succeeded with our general spring work far better than we had hoped, remembering that we were novices who had to take so much counsel from books and from our kind, practical neighbor.
The foliage of the trees was now out in all its delicately shaded greenery, and midday often gave us a foretaste of summer heat. The slight blaze kindled in the old fireplace, after supper, was more for the sake of good cheer than for needed warmth, and at last it was dispensed with. Thrushes and other birds of richer and fuller song had come, and morning and evening we left the door open that we might enjoy the varied melody.
Our first plantings of potatoes and early vegetables were now up and looked promising. So a new phase of labor—that of cultivation—began. New broods of chickens were coming off, and Winnie had many families to look after. Nevertheless, although there was much to attend to, the season was bringing a short breathing spell, and I resolved to take advantage of it. So I said one Friday evening: “If tomorrow is fair, we’ll take a vacation. What do you say to a day’s fishing and sailing on the river?”
A jubilant shout greeted this proposal, and when it had subsided, Mousie asked, “Can’t Junior go with us?”
“Certainly,” I replied; “I’ll go over right after supper, and make sure that his father consents.”
Mr. Jones said, “Yes,” and Merton and Junior were soon busy with their preparations, which were continued until the long twilight deepened into dusk.
XXIX
We Go A-Fishing
The following day, happily, proved all that we could desire. The children were up with the dawn, and Junior was not long in joining us. By eight o’clock we had finished breakfast and the morning work, our lunch basket was packed, and the market wagon stood at the door. Mr. Jones had good-naturedly promised to take a look at the premises occasionally to see that all was right. I had put but one seat in the wagon for my wife and myself, since the young people decided that a straw ride to the river would be “more fun than a parlor car.”
My wife entered into the spirit of this little outing with a zest which gave me deep content. Her face indicated no regretful thoughts turning toward the Egypt of the city; her mother love was so strong that she was happy with the children. The robins, of which there seemed no end about the house, gave us a tuneful and hilarious sendoff; the grown people and children whom we met smiled and cheered, following us with envious eyes. Each of the children held a pole aloft, and Merton said that “the wagon looked as if our lima bean patch was off on a visit.”
In the village we increased our stock of lines and hooks, and bought a few corks for floats. We soon reached the mouth of the Moodna Creek, where
