Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature: An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891. Vols. IXXI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 18611889
By Frank Richard Stockton (18341902)
[Born in Philadelphia, Penn., 1834. Died there, 1902. Rudder Grange. 1879.]
IT was in the latter part of August of that year that it became necessary for some one in the office in which I was engaged to go to St. Louis to attend to important business. Everything seemed to point to me as the fit person, for I understood the particular business better than any one else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did not altogether like to do it I went home, and Euphemia and I talked over the matter far into the regulation sleeping-hours.
There were very good reasons why we should go (for, of course, I would not think of taking such a journey without Euphemia). In the first place, it would be of advantage to me, in my business connection, to take the trip, and then it would be such a charming journey for us. We had never been west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the country we would see would be new to us. We would come home by the great lakes and Niagara, and the prospect was delightful to both of us. But then we would have to leave Rudder Grange for at least three weeks, and how could we do that?
This was indeed a difficult question to answer. Who could take care of our garden, our poultry, our horse and cow, and all their complicated belongings? The garden was in admirable condition. Our vegetables were coming in every day in just that fresh and satisfactory conditionaltogether unknown to people who buy vegetablesfor which I had labored so faithfully, and about which I had had so many cheerful anticipations. As to Euphemias chicken-yard,with Euphemia away,the subject was too great for us. We did not even discuss it. But we would give up all the pleasures of our home for the chance of this most desirable excursion, if we could but think of some one who would come and take care of the place while we were gone. Rudder Grange could not run itself for three weeks.
We thought of every available person. Old John would not do. We did not feel that we could trust him. We thought of several of our friends; but there was, in both our minds, a certain shrinking from the idea of handing over the place to any of them for such a length of time. For my part, I said, I would rather leave Pomona in charge than any one else; but, then, Pomona was young and a girl. Euphemia agreed with me that she would rather trust her than any one else, but she also agreed in regard to the disqualifications. So, when I went to the office the next morning, we had fully determined to go on the trip, if we could find some one to take charge of our place while we were gone. When I returned from the office in the afternoon, I had agreed to go to St. Louis. By this time, I had no choice in the matter, unless I wished to interfere very much with my own interests. We were to start in two days. If in that time we could get any one to stay at the place, very well; if not, Pomona must assume the charge. We were not able to get any one, and Pomona did assume the charge. It is surprising how greatly relieved we felt when we were obliged to come to this conclusion. The arrangement was exactly what we wanted, and now that there was no help for it, our consciences were easy.
We felt sure that there would be no danger to Pomona. Lord Edward would be with her, and she was a young person who was extraordinarily well able to take care of herself. Old John would be within call in case she needed him, and I borrowed a bull-dog to be kept in the house at night. Pomona herself was more than satisfied with the plan.
We made out, the night before we left, a long and minute series of directions for her guidance in household, garden, and farm matters, and directed her to keep a careful record of everything noteworthy that might occur. She was fully supplied with all the necessaries of life, and it has seldom happened that a young girl has been left in such a responsible and independent position as that in which we left Pomona. She was very proud of it.
Our journey was ten times more delightful than we had expected it would be, and successful in every way; and yet, although we enjoyed every hour of the trip, we were no sooner fairly on our way home than we became so wildly anxious to get there, that we reached Rudder Grange on Wednesday, whereas we had written that we would be home on Thursday. We arrived early in the afternoon and walked up from the station, leaving our baggage to be sent in the express wagon. As we approached our dear home, we wanted to run, we were so eager to see it.
There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch; the gate was locked. We ran to the carriage-gate; that was locked too. Just then I noticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed, but the lettering was large, apparently made with ink and a brush. It read:
I could say no more. The dreadful thought arose that the place might pass away from us. We were not yet ready to buy it. But I did not put the thought in words. There was a field next to our lot, and I got over the fence and helped Euphemia over. Then we climbed our side-fence. This was more difficult, but we accomplished it without thinking much about its difficulties; our hearts were too full of painful apprehensions. I hurried to the front door; it was locked. All the lower windows were shut. We went around to the kitchen. What surprised us more than anything else was the absence of Lord Edward. Had he been sold?
Before we reached the back part of the house, Euphemia said she felt faint and must sit down. I led her to a tree near by, under which I had made a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She sat on the grass, and I ran to the pump for some water. I looked for the bright tin dipper which always hung by the pump. It was not there. But I had a travelling-cup in my pocket, and as I was taking it out I looked around me. There was an air of bareness over everything. I did not know what it all meant, but I know that my hand trembled as I took hold of the pump-handle and began to pump.
At the first sound of the pump-handle I heard a deep bark in the direction of the barn, and then furiously around the corner came Lord Edward. Before I had filled the cup he was bounding about me. I believe the glad welcome of the dog did more to revive Euphemia than the water. He was delighted to see us, and in a moment up came Pomona, running from the barn. Her face was radiant, too. We felt relieved. Here were two friends who looked as if they were neither sold nor ruined.
We were somewhat relieved by Pomonas statement that it was all right in regard to the tax-poster, but we were very anxious to know all about the matter. Pomona, however, gave us little chance to ask her any questions. As soon as she had made ready our lunch, she asked us, as a particular favor, to give her three-quarters of an hour to herself, and then, said she, Ill have everything looking just as if it was to-morrow.
We respected her feelings, for, of course, it was a great disappointment to her to be taken thus unawares, and we remained in the dining-room until she appeared, and announced that she was ready for us to go about. We availed ourselves quickly of the privilege, and Euphemia hurried to the chicken-yard, while I bent my steps toward the garden and barn. As I went out I noticed that the rustic chair was in its place, and passing the pump I looked for the dipper. It was there. I asked Pomona about the chair, but she did not answer as quickly as was her habit.
I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought, and she was so anxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather wait and hear it all together. We found everything in perfect order,the garden was even free from weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it had not been for that cloud on the front fence, I should have been happy enough. Pomona had said it was all right, but she could not have paid the taxeshowever, I would wait; and I went to the barn.
When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, she called me and said she was in a hurry to hear Pomonas account of things. So I went in, and we sat on the side-porch, where it was shady, while Pomona, producing some sheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper step.
I wrote down the things of any account what happened, said she, as you told me to, and while I was about it, I thought Id make it like a novel. It would be jus as true, and praps more amusin. I suppose you dont mind?
I havent got no name for my novel. I intended to think one out to-night. I wrote this all of nights. And I dont read the first chapters, for they tell about my birth and my parent-age and my early adventures. Ill just come down to what happened to me while you was away, because youll be more anxious to hear about that. All thats written here is true, jus the same as if I told it to you, but Ive put it into novel language because it seems to come easier to me.
Chapter Five. The Lonely house and the Faithful friend. Thus was I left alone. None but two dogs to keep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed the lowing kine and water-ed and fed the steed, and then, after my frugal repast, I clos-ed the man-si-on, shutting out all re-collections of the past and also foresights into the future. That night was a me-mor-able one. I slept soundly until the break of morn, but had the events transpired which afterward occur-red, what would have hap-pen-ed to me no tongue can tell. Early the next day nothing hap-pened. Soon after breakfast, the vener-able John came to bor-row some ker-o-sene oil and a half a pound of sugar, but his attempt was foil-ed. I knew too well the in-sid-i-ous foe. In the very out-set of his vil-li-an-y I sent him home with a empty can. For two long days I wander-ed amid the verdant pathways of the gar-den and to the barn, whenever and anon my du-ty call-ed me, nor did I ere neg-lect the fowlery. No cloud oerspread this happy pe-ri-od of my life. But the cloud was ri-sing in the horizon although I saw it not.
It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven, on the morning of a Thursday, that I sat pondering in my mind the ques-ti-on what to do with the butter and the veg-et-ables. Here was butter, and here was green corn and lima-beans and trophy tomats, far more than I ere could use. And here was a horse, idly cropping the fol-i-age in the field, for as my employer had advis-ed and order-ed I had put the steed to grass. And here was a wagon, none too new, which had it the top taken off, or even the curtains roll-ed up, would do for a li-cen-ced vender. With the truck and butter, and mayhap some milk, I could load that wagon
Well, I was just beginning to think of it, said Pomona, but of course I couldnt have gone away and left the house. And youll see I didnt do it. And then she continued her novel. But while my thoughts were thus employ-ed, I heard Lord Edward burst into barkter
I hurried to the door, and, look-ing out, I saw a wagon at the gate. Re-pair-ing there, I saw a man. Said he, Wilt open this gate? I had fasten-ed up the gates and remov-ed every steal-able ar-ticle from the yard.
Thus, with my mind at ease, I could let my faith-ful fri-end, the dog (for he it was), roam with me through the grounds, while the fi-erce bull-dog guard-ed the man-si-on within. Then said I, quite bold, unto him, No. I let in no man here. My em-ploy-er and employ-er-ess are now from home. What do you want? Then says he, as bold as brass, Ive come to put the light-en-ing rods upon the house. Open the gate. What rods? says I. The rods as was ordered, says he, open the gate. I stood and gaz-ed at him. Full well I saw through his pinch-beck mask. I knew his tricks. In the ab-sence of my em-ployer, he would put up rods, and ever so many more than was wanted, and likely, too, some miser-able trash that would attrack the light-en-ing, instead of keep-ing it off. Then, as it would spoil the house to take them down, they would be kept, and pay demand-ed. No, sir, says I. No lightening rods upon this house whilst I stand here, and with that I walk-ed away, and let Lord Edward loose. The man he storm-ed with pas-si-on. His eyes flash-ed fire. He would een have scal-ed the gate, but when he saw the dog he did forbear. As it was then near noon, I strode away to feed the fowls; but when I did return, I saw a sight which froze the blood with-in my veins
Oh no, maam! said Pomona. Youll see that that wasnt it. At one corn-er of the lot, in front, a base boy, who had accompa-ni-ed this man, was bang-ing on the fence with a long stick, and thus attrack-ing to hisself the rage of Lord Edward, while the vile intrig-er of a light-en-ing rod-der had brought a lad-der to the other side of the house, up which he had now as-cend-ed, and was on the roof. What horrors fill-ed my soul! How my form trembl-ed! This, continued Pomona, is the end of the novel, and she laid her foolscap pages on the porch.
You see, sir, said Pomona, it took me so long to write out the chapters about my birth, my parentage, and my early adventures, that I hadnt time to finish up the rest. But I can tell you what happened after that jus as well as if I had writ it out. And so she went on, much more glibly than before, with the account of the doings of the lightning-rod man.
There was that wretch on top of the house, a-fixin his old rods and hammerin away for dear life. Hed brought his ladder over the side fence, where the dog, a-barkin and plungin at the boy outside, couldnt see him. I stood dumb for a minute, an then I knowd I had him. I rushed into the house, got a piece of well-rope, tied it to the bull-dogs collar, an dragged him out and fastened him to the bottom rung of the ladder. Then I walks over to the front fence with Lord Edwards chain, for I knew that if he got at that bull-dog thered be times, for theyd never been allowed to see each other yet. So says I to the boy, Im goin to tie up the dog, so you neednt be afraid of his jumpin over the fence,which he couldnt do, or the boy would have been a corpse for twenty minutes, or may be half an hour. The boy kinder laughed, and said I neednt mind, which I didnt. Then I went to the gate, and I clicked to the horse which was standin there, an off he starts, as good as gold, an trots down the road. The boy, he said somethin or other pretty bad, an away he goes after him; but the horse was a-trottin real fast, an had a good start.
But you see, maam, that wasnt my lookout, said Pomona. I was a-defendin the house, and the enemy must expect to have things happen to him. So then I hears an awful row on the roof, and there was the man just coming down the ladder. Hed heard the horse go off, and when he got about half-way down an caught a sight of the bull-dog, he was madder than ever you seed a lightnin-rodder in all your born days. Take that dog off of there! he yelled at me. No, I wont, says I. I never see a girl like you since I was born, he screams at me. I guess it would a been better fur you if you had, says I; an then he was so mad he couldnt stand it any longer, and he comes down as low as he could, and when he saw just how long the rope was,which was pretty short,he made a jump, and landed clear of the dog. Then he went on dreadful because he couldnt get at his ladder to take it away; and I wouldnt untie the dog, because if I had hed a torn the tendons out of that fellows legs in no time. I never see a dog in such a boiling passion, and yet never making no sound at all but blood-curdlin grunts. An I dont see how the rodder would a got his ladder at all if the dog hadnt made an awful jump at him, and jerked the ladder down. It just missed your geranium-bed, and the rodder, he ran to the other end of it, and began pullin it away, dog an all. Look-a-here, says I, we can fix him now; and so he cooled down enough to help me, and I unlocked the front door, and we pushed the bottom end of the ladder in, dog and all; an then I shut the door as tight as it would go, an untied the end of the rope, an the rodder pulled the ladder out while I held the door to keep the dog from follerin, which he came pretty near doin, anyway. But I locked him in, and then the man began stormin again about his wagon; but when he looked out an see the boy comin back with it,for somebody must a stopped the horse,he stopped stormin and went to put up his ladder agin. No, you dont, says I; Ill let the big dog loose next time, and if I put him at the foot of your ladder, youll never come down. But I want to go and take down what I put up, he says; I aint a-goin on with this job. No, says I, you aint; and you cant go up there to wrench off them rods and make rain-holes in the roof, neither. He couldnt get no madder than he was then, an fur a minute or two he couldnt speak, an then he says, Ill have satisfaction for this. An says I, How? An says he, Youll see what it is to interfere with a ordered job. An says I, There wasnt no order about it; an says he, Ill show you better than that; an he goes to his wagon an gits a book. There, says he, read that. What of it? says I; theres nobody of the name of Ball lives here. That took the man kinder aback, and he said he was told it was the only house on the lane, which I said was right, only it was the next lane he oughter a gone to. He said no more after that, but just put his ladder in his wagon, and went off. But I was not altogether rid of him. He left a trail of his baleful presence behind him.
That horrid bull-dog wouldnt let me come into the house! No matter what door I tried, there he was, just foamin mad. I let him stay till nearly night, and then went and spoke kind to him; but it was no good. Hed got an awful spite agin me. I found something to eat down cellar, and I made a fire outside an roasted some corn and potatoes. That night I slep in the barn. I wasnt afraid to be away from the house, for I knew it was safe enough, with that dog in it and Lord Edward outside. For three days, Sunday an all, I was kep out of this here house. I got along pretty well with the sleepin and the eatin, but the drinkin was the worst. I couldnt get no coffee or tea; but there was plenty of milk.
Well, I didnt know no man that could do it, said Pomona. The dog would a been too much for Old John, and besides, he was mad about the kerosene. Sunday afternoon, Captain Atkinson and Mrs. Atkinson and their little girl in a push-wagon, come here, and I told em you was gone away; but they says they would stop a minute, and could I give them a drink; an I had nothin to give it to them but an old chicken-bowl that I had washed out, for even the dipper was in the house, an I told em everything was locked up, which was true enough, though they must a thought you was a queer kind of people; but I wasnt a-goin to say nothin about the dog, fur, to tell the truth, I was ashamed to do it. So as soon as theyd gone, I went down into the cellar,and its lucky that I had the key for the outside cellar door,and I got a piece of fat corn-beef and the meat-axe. I unlocked the kitchen door and went in, with the axe in one hand and the meat in the other. The dog might take his choice. I knowd he must be pretty nigh famished, for there was nothin that he could get at to eat. As soon as I went in, he came runnin to me; but I could see he was shaky on his legs. He looked a sort of wicked at me, and then he grabbed the meat. He was all right then.
After that, I knowd it wouldnt do to have them two dogs so that theyd have to be tied up if they see each other. Just as like as not Id want them both at once, and then theyd go to fightin, and leave me to settle with some blood-thirsty lightnin-rodder. So, as I knowd if they once had a fair fight and found out which was master, theyd be good friends afterwards, I thought the best thing to do would be to let em fight it out, when there was nothin else for em to do. So I fixed up things for the combat.
It looks that way, maam, but really it aint, replied the girl. It seemed to me as if it would be a mercy to both of em to have the thing settled. So I cleared away a place in front of the wood-shed and unchained Lord Edward, and then I opened the kitchen door and called the bull. Out he came, with his teeth a-showin, and his blood-shot eyes, and his crooked front legs. Like lightnin from the mountin blast, he made one bounce for the big dog, and oh! what a fight there was! They rolled, they gnashed, they knocked over the wood-horse and sent chips a-flyin all ways at wonst. I thought Lord Edward would whip in a minute or two; but he didnt, for the bull stuck to him like a burr, and they was havin it, ground and lofty, when I hears some one run up behind me, and turnin quick, there was the Piscopalian minister, My! my! my! he hollers; what a awful spectacle! Aint there no way of stoppin it? No, sir, says I, and I told him how I didnt want to stop it, and the reason why. Then, says he, Wheres your master? and I told him how you was away. Isnt there any man at all about? says he. No, says I. Then, says he, if theres nobody else to stop it, I must do it myself. An he took off his coat. No, says I, you keep back, sir. If theres anybody to plunge into that erena, the blood be mine; an I put my hand, without thinkin, agin his black shirt-bosom, to hold him back; but he didnt notice, bein so excited. Now, says I, jist wait one minute, and youll see that bulls tail go between his legs. Hes weakenin. An sure enough, Lord Edward got a good grab at him, and was a-shakin the very life out of him, when I run up and took Lord Edward by the collar. Drop it! says I, and he dropped it, for he knowd hed whipped, and he was pretty tired hisself. Then the bull-dog, he trotted off with his tail a-hangin down. Now, then, says I, them dogs will be bosom friends forever after this. Ah me! says he, Im sorry indeed that your employer, for who Ive always had a great respect, should allow you to get into such habits. That made me feel real bad, and I told him, mighty quick, that you was the last man in the world to let me do anything like that, and that, if youd a been here, youd a separated them dogs, if theyd a-chawed your arms off; that you was very particular about such things; and that it would be a pity if he was to think you was a dog-fightin gentleman, when Id often heard you say that, now you was fixed an settled, the one thing you would like most would be to be made a vestryman.
Thats what I said, sir, for I wanted him to know what you really was; an he says, Well, well, I never knew that. It might be a very good thing. Ill speak to some of the members about it. Theres two vacancies now in our vestry.
Ill be to that almost right away, she said. It was two or three days after the dog-fight that I was down at the barn, and happenin to look over to Old Johns, I saw that tree-man there. He was a-showin his book to John, and him and his wife and all the young ones was a-standin there, drinkin down them big peaches and pears as if they was all real. I knowd hed come here agin, for them fellers never gives you up; and I didnt know how to keep him away, for I didnt want to let the dogs loose on a man what, after all, didnt want to do no more harm than to talk the life out of you. So I just happened to notice, as I came to the house, how kind of desolate everything looked, and I thought perhaps I might make it look worse, and he wouldnt care to deal here. So I thought of puttin up a poster like that, for nobody whose place was a-goin to be sold for taxes would be likely to want trees. So I run in the house, and wrote it quick and put it up. And sure enough, the man he come along soon, and when he looked at that paper, and tried the gate, an looked over the fence an saw the house all shut up an not a livin soul about,for I had both the dogs in the house with me,he shook his head an walked off, as much as to say, If that man had fixed his place up proper with my trees, he wouldnt a come to this! An then, as I found the poster worked so good, I thought it might keep other people from comin a-botherin around, and so I left it up; but I was a-goin to be sure and take it down before you came.
As it was now pretty late in the afternoon, I proposed that Pomona should postpone the rest of her narrative until evening. She said that there was nothing else to tell that was very particular; and I did not feel as if I could stand anything more just now, even if it was very particular.