Hidden Treasure. John Thomas Simpson
stockings and weighed two hundred and ten pounds, and could toss a barrel of salt on the tailboard of a wagon without losing his happy smile. He was twenty-seven years old, and there was not a farmer in the county who could beat him at feats of strength or endurance, and few indeed who could keep pace with him. He had black hair and blue eyes. Books had little attraction for him—he loved to be in the open, for which his great size and strength seemed to fit him. He had received little education beyond the country school, unless could be counted the two years he had spent working on farms in the great West, where he probably would have stayed had it not been for the brown eyes of Bettie Atwood and an offer from his father, now old and failing in health, to sell him the old place at his own terms.
"Hello, Bob!" he called as his nephew came forward, "sorry we missed you. The bus driver said you'd left on foot for the farm when you didn't see us around. How've you been lately?"
"Oh, I'm all right," replied Bob.
"Hello, grandfather!" he called, as he went round to the side of the wagon to greet his grandfather.
"You don't seem to grow much, Bob," he laughed, as he shook hands. "Cooped up too much in that grocery store—you need the open air of the country to stretch you out. Just look at your Uncle Joe there—see what the country has done for him."
"Oh, I'll grow all right, grandfather. I like the country and the open-air life, too, and father says I may take up farming work if I want to."
The team was soon put away, and shortly after supper Bob, too sleepy to keep his eyes open, went to bed.
II
A DAY'S WORK
"Bob! Bob! Time to get up and do your chores."
The sleepy boy rolled over, rubbed his eyes and sat up, trying to remember where he was and who was calling him; then he recognized the voice of his uncle, and jumped quickly out of bed.
"All right, Uncle Joe, I'm coming," he answered, as he felt around in the dark for his clothes, for he had neglected to provide himself with matches to light the oil lamp that stood near by on the dresser.
His clothes were simple, and getting up before dawn was no new experience for him. A few moments later he hurried down to the kitchen, where his uncle, who had just finished stirring the kitchen fire, was filling the tea-kettle.
"Well!—are you up for all day, Bob?" he inquired cheerily.
"I will be as soon as I get awake," he answered, as he started for the rain barrel for water to wash.
As the water in the well was hard, rain water was used for washing, except in winter, when the barrels were frozen solidly. The early spring rains had filled the barrels again, but as the night had been cold, ice had frozen over the top. His uncle had been to the barrel ahead of him and broken the ice, so he dipped up the basin full of water, and placing it on a bench on the porch, washed his face and hands.
Above the wash bench, summer and winter, hung the roller towel, and near by the mirror and family horn comb. In the dark the mirror was of doubtful use, but with a few well-directed strokes of the comb he managed to get a semblance, at least, of neatness to his hair. He shivered a little as he finished—just as his uncle appeared, milk pails and lantern in hand.
"I want you to do the milking from now on, Bob, for it's not the kind of work a woman should do," said his uncle, and handing him the pails, they started for the barn.
"You're right, Uncle Joe," replied Bob. "I always milked our cow at home so mother wouldn't have to do it; besides, it doesn't take so very long."
Bob had been taught to take good care of the family cow—a well-bred Guernsey, whose stable had a good cement floor and was neatly whitewashed. Once or twice a week he would curry-comb and brush her from nose to tail. Nothing gave him greater pride than to have his father bring some one unexpectedly into the stable to look at his charge and comment on the clean manner in which both stable and cow were kept. His mother sold the milk they did not need for their own use, and had no trouble in getting two cents a quart more than the regular price—partly on account of the cow being so well bred and giving rich milk, but principally on account of the reputation the clean stable had made in the village.
The cow barn that Bob now entered was built under a portion of the main barn, adjacent to the thrashing floor, and was dark, even in the daylight. The earthen floor was foul with neglect. The cows, instead of being secured in separate stalls with stanchions, were chained up in a row to a long, old-fashioned manger.
Upon entering, Bob's uncle hung up the lantern; then, seeing Bob look around and hesitate, asked:
"What are you looking for, Bob?"
"I was looking for a fork to clean the stable. I always clean the stable and brush off the cow at home before milking," he replied.
"Well, I guess you're a little late to start that here," laughed his uncle. "Never mind the floor; we'll back the wagon in here after breakfast and give it a good cleaning."
"All right, Uncle Joe; but where's the brush?" asked Bob.
"Brush! What brush?" asked his uncle.
"Why, don't you brush off the cows each morning before you milk them?" asked Bob. "Father always insisted that I brush Gurney each morning."
"Well, your father's not a farmer and you've only one cow, while we have eight, and, besides, I've lots of other work to do without curry- combing cows," replied his uncle in a sarcastic tone, angered at Bob's reference to his father's greater knowledge of farm work.
"Better hurry up with your milking, Bob, while I feed the horses," he added, as he left him staring at the cows.
He could not remember ever having seen such dirty cows or so dirty a stable before. Then he suddenly thought that he had always visited the farm in the summer time, when the cattle were kept in the fields and milked in the open barn yard.
He finished the milking as best he could, and was not surprised to find that instead of getting forty quarts from the eight cows, he received only fifteen quarts—about three times as much as he got from Gurney alone. He now remembered the answer he once heard his father give a visitor at Gurney's stable.
"But, Mr. Williams," the visitor had said, "a purebred cow must be considerably more expensive in upkeep than an ordinary one."
"That's where you're mistaken," his father had replied, "for a well- bred cow eats no more than a common one—in fact, Gurney eats less, and the difference in the amount and quality of the milk soon pays for the difference in the first cost. Then, there's the pleasure that Bob gets out of the care he gives to an animal that is worth while, and assuredly that's something not to be lightly lost sight of."
Dawn was breaking when Bob finished. On the way to the house he met his uncle coming out of the yard, a huge pail of swill for the pigs in each hand.
"Thought I'd feed the pigs for you this morning," he said, as Bob set down his milk pails and held the gate open for his uncle to pass through. "It will take you a day or two to get your hand in," he added.
Bob made no reply, but he noticed the swill was full of broken ice, like the rain barrel from which he had taken the water to wash that morning, and he was wondering how much good a cold breakfast like that would do even for a pig.
He carried the milk pails into the kitchen, where he found his grandmother busy preparing breakfast. "Shall I take the milk to the cellar?" he asked, as he set the pails on the floor to rest his arms.
"No, thank you, Bob; I usually strain it here in the kitchen before taking it down," she replied; "but you may feed the calves—that's their warm milk there by the stove. You'll find four of them in the orchard, back of the smokehouse. Divide the milk among them, and hurry back to breakfast."
Bob