I knew from the expression on Mrs. Clark's face that I had touched a sounding note.
"Opening the green corn a little at the top to see if it is ready and then stripping it off and tearing away the moist white husks--"
"And picking tomatoes?" said Mrs. Clark. "And knuckling the watermelons to see if they are ripe? Oh, I tell you there are thousands of people in this country who'd like to be able to pick their dinner in the garden!"
"It's fine!" said Mrs. Clark with amused enthusiasm, "but I like best to hear the hens cackling in the barnyard in the morning after they've laid, and to go and bring in the eggs."
"Just like a daily present!" I said.
"Ye-es," responded the soundly practical Mrs. Clark, thinking, no doubt, that there were other aspects of the garden and chicken problem.
"I'll tell you another thing I like about a farmer's life," said I, "that's the smell in the house in the summer when there are preserves, or sweet pickles, or jam, or whatever it is, simmering on the stove. No matter where you are, up in the garret or down cellar, it's cinnamon, and allspice, and cloves, and every sort of sugary odour. Now, that gets me where I live!"
"It IS good!" said Mrs. Clark with a laugh that could certainly be called nothing if not girlish.
All this time I had been keeping one eye on Mr. Clark. It was amusing to see him struggling against a cheerful view of life. He now broke into the conversation.
"Well, but--" he began.
Instantly I headed him off.
"And think," said I, "of living a life in which you are beholden to no man. It's a free life, the farmer's life. No one can discharge you because you are sick, or tired, or old, or because you are a Democrat or a Baptist!"
"Well, but--"
"And think of having to pay no rent, nor of having to live upstairs in a tenement!"
"Well, but--"
"Or getting run over by a street-car, or having the children play in the gutters."
"I never did like to think of what my children would do if we went to town," said Mrs. Clark.
"I guess not!" I exclaimed.
The fact is, most people don't think half enough of themselves and of their jobs; but before we went to bed that night I had the forlorn T. N. Clark talking about the virtues of his farm in quite a surprising way.
I even saw him eying me two or three times with a shrewd look in his eyes (your American is an irrepressible trader) as though I might possibly be some would-be purchaser in disguise.
(I shall write some time a dissertation on the advantages, of wearing shabby clothing.)
The farm really had many good points. One of them was a shaggy old orchard of good and thriving but utterly neglected apple-trees.
"Man alive," I said, when we went out to see it in the morning, "you've got a gold mine here!" And I told him how in our neighbourhood we were renovating the old orchards, pruning them back, spraying, and bringing them into bearing again.
He had never, since he owned the place, had a salable crop of fruit. When we came in to breakfast I quite stirred the practical Mrs. Clark with my enthusiasm, and she promised at once to send for a bulletin on apple-tree renovation, published by the state experiment station. I am sure I was no more earnest in my advice than the conditions warranted.
After breakfast we went into the field, and I suggested that instead of ploughing any more land--for the season was already late--we get out all the accumulations of rotted manure from around the barn and strew it on the land already ploughed and harrow it in.
"A good job on a little piece of land," I said, "is far more profitable than a poor job on a big piece of land."
Without more ado we got his old team hitched up and began loading, and hauling out the manure, and spent all day long at it. Indeed, such was the height of enthusiasm which T. N. Clark now reached (for his was a temperament that must either soar in the clouds or grovel in the mire), that he did not wish to stop when Mrs. Clark called us in to supper. In that one day his crop of corn, in perspective, overflowed his crib, he could not find boxes and barrels for his apples, his shed would not hold all his tobacco, and his barn was already being enlarged to accommodate a couple more cows! He was also keeping bees and growing ginseng.
But it was fine, that evening, to see Mrs. Clark's face, the renewed hope and courage in it. I thought as I looked at her (for she was the strong and steady one in that house):
"If you can keep the enthusiasm up, if you can make that husband of yours grow corn, and cows, and apples as you raise chickens and make garden, there is victory yet in this valley."
That night it rained, but in spite of the moist earth we spent almost all of the following day hard at work in the field, and all the time talking over ways and means for the future, but the next morning, early, I swung my bag on my back and left them.
I shall not attempt to describe the friendliness of our parting.
Mrs. Clark followed me wistfully to the gate.
"I can't tell you--" she began, with the tears starting in her eyes.
"Then don't try--" said I, smiling.
And so I swung off down the country road, without looking back.
