CHAPTER III
TRIALS OF A STOCK-FARMER
“You neglected little diary,” wrote Janet that night before jumping into bed. “I must say a word to you to let you know why I have not written to-day. Those noisy pigs, and the dreadful chickens kept me too busy for anything. I say ‘dreadful chickens’ advisedly, for they scratched up poor Nat’s little garden greens and left the vegetables in such a condition that I shall have to get up an hour before sun-up in the morning in order to help her replant the slips that were dug out of the soil. Rachel assured us that they would be all right again, in a day or two, if they were planted before the warm sun shone to wilt them. But Nat will have to place inverted flower pots over them during the heat of the day until they are fresh again. If she knew it was the fowl that did it what would she not do to me and to them!
“Oh, I almost forgot to say here, that Rachel when she ran at Nat’s awful yelling, to see what had happened, forgot she had left the potatoes boiling on the fire. When we came back to the kitchen door we saw smoke coming from it that would have made the scouts envious. Such a signal for trouble! No scout could ever have succeeded in warning others in such a distinct way that simply said, ‘Supper burning—come to rescue!’
“Phew! the whole house was filled with smoke. If you’ve ever burned potatoes to a cinder, you’ll know what it smelled like.”
Having finished her duty to the diary, Janet jumped into bed and was soon dreaming of giant pigs that were forever escaping from the pig pen, and flocks of chickens which scratched pits that went down to China.
Before breakfast the next morning, Janet and Natalie replanted the little slips that were dug out by the fowl, and Natalie sighed in relief when she saw the work finished. That morning while breakfasting, Janet plied questions for anyone to answer. It was Rachel who had the knowledge stored away because of past experiences down “Souf’” when she was a girl on a farm.
“How long does it take little pigs to become big hogs?” was Janet’s first query.
“Dat depen’s on how much you feeds ’em. Ef you guvs ’em all day kin eat, den you’ll soon see what grub kin do fer ’em,” was Rachel’s non-committal reply.
“Will three meals a day be enough?” asked Janet.
“What, t’ree! Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Rachel, shaking with amusement at such a silly question. “Pigs eats a meal every time you will guv it to ’em. And ’tween times dey noses and grunts about in the pen rootin’ fer more to eat. It don’t matter how soon after one meal you feeds ’em again—dey is always hungry and ready to eat.”
Mrs. James laughed at Rachel’s graphic explanation but she agreed with her.
“I should think they’d have indigestion,” Natalie ventured.
“Dat’s an ailment dey don’t know nuttin’ of, but little pigs is easy to die. I shoulden’ wonner but what Janet will have one er two of her’n die on her han’s dis summer. But not f’om dyspepsy!”
“Dear me, Rachel,” was Janet’s worried reply. “If pigs die as easy as that, where will the dividends of my investment come from? Think of what they cost to feed? Why, I used two quarts of milk yesterday besides that bag of cornmeal I bought off Tompkins. I figured it would last a week, and they ate all of it at one supper!”
“Yeh, I ’grees wid you, Janet—pork is ’spensive meat, but it am so sweet ef it’s cooked wid cabbitch an’ seasoned wid pertaters!” Rachel’s smack and the way she rolled her round eyes ceiling-ward caused her audience to laugh merrily at the pantomime.
Rachel ate her breakfast in the kitchen and as she ate, she planned to help Janet with those pigs. Perhaps there would be a chance for a feast of spare ribs and cabbage in the fall.
While Janet and she were repairing the fence directly after breakfast, the former continued her thirst for information.
“Rachel, what did you mean when you said that pigs were hard to raise. What can make them die easy if I feed them all they can eat, and keep them safely in the sty?”
“I diden’ say dey died ‘easy,’ Janet, ’cuz I’ve seen ’em die orful hard! Once hog-cholery gits ’em no one kin say dey dies easy,” was Rachel’s lugubrious reply.
“What I meant to say was, are pigs quick to catch things?”
“It all depen’s on what you hast to cotch. Now I don’ see no spechul reason why dese pigs mus’ get hog-cholery, toomerkolosis ner anything what goes perwailing about the country down Souf’. Ef you-all gives ’em pure air, an’ fattenin’ grub widdout much swill, an’ scrubs the sty once a week, why should dey get complainin’?”
“I’m sure I don’t see why they should, either, Rachel,” admitted Janet, driving a nail so forcibly that it went half through the decayed wood.
“Sam—dat’s my sister’s son, you know, Janet—Sam says he read in a paper, one time, how dem orful slaughter-houses out west feeds doze pigs wid leavin’s f’m dead cattle. Dat’s what makes fer disease, Sam says. Jus’ think of it, Janet! Us smackin’ our lips on roas’ pork what’s raised on sech sickenin’ clean-up affer all the cows and steers and sof’ little lambs, is butchered!”
Janet shivered with disgust at the picture Rachel painted so vividly for her, but Rachel was on the “Stump” and paid no attention to her companion’s tremors.
“Now dese pigs of your’n, dey will be sweet eatin’ and no danger in carryin’ germs of toomerkolosis in the meat. We will keep the swill clean and feed ’em onny what makes fer big lusty hogs,” promised the eloquent maid-of-all-work.
“I read in a book on stock raising, that pigs should never have swill fed them,” suggested Janet. “And you spoke of cleaning their sty once a week to keep it clean. The book says every pig-pen should have a sunken bath with fresh water in it daily so the pigs can bathe. It states that pigs are the cleanliest of all animals if they are given the chance to wash and eat as they like. It mentions the wild boars—how they bathe in pools many times during the course of the day, and prefer nuts or acorns to any other food.”
Rachel stood so amazed at hearing that a pig would take a bath if given the opportunity, that she unconsciously dropped the hammer. Unfortunately it struck on a pet bunion and made Rachel sit down on the ground and hold her injured joint while she rocked to and fro with the pain.
Then she got up and snarled angrily, while she shook a fist at the innocent porkers: “Dat settles it! Yoh fix your own pen, you squeelin’ critters!” and away she went to the house.
When Natalie joined Janet at the pig pen and heard how Rachel blamed the pigs for dropping the hammer on her inflamed joint, Natalie laughed and said, wisely: “She was peeved, Janet, because you knew something about pigs that she had never heard of before. I’ve learned that Rachel loves to be referred to for information when it touches anything she had down south. She considers pigs a personal line that she excels in, and such a surprise as having pigs yearn for a bath was too much for her.”
The fence had been reinforced and Janet now stood looking in at the pen. Natalie watched her for a few moments and then said: “What are you thinking of?”
“I was wondering if we could sink a porcelain tub in the yard where my pigs could bathe whenever they liked. I’d want them to have every modern convenience, you know.”
The way Janet said this made Natalie laugh. But she said: “They are still shut up in the shed. I’d suggest that we let them out and give them their breakfast before we decide on porcelain tubs and open plumbing.”
“If you will get the feed, Natalie, I’ll open the door and catch them as they come out. I think as they are so fond of bathing I will wash their little faces to make them feel better.”
Giggling to herself but not feeling experienced enough in the matter of raising a pig-family to say that washing their faces was a luxury that was taxable in various ways, Natalie went for the breakfast. She returned in time to see her best friend sprawled out in front of the shed-door, and three lively little pigs running and jumping over her prostrate form.
But their activities were soon concentrated when the pan of warm mush was shoved into the pen. Such a grunting and pushing at each other as those three pigs did, made both the girls laugh.
Then Natalie said: “Jan, Rachel told me while she was mixing this mush, that your pigs will need from six to eight quarts of milk each day and a peck of corn-meal, if you only feed them on this stuff.”
“Oh, Nat!” gasped Janet, quickly figuring. “And milk is fifteen cents a quart when called for at Ames’s farmhouse!”
“You’ll simply have to feed them table-scraps, Jan.”
“When we go to Four Corners again, I’m going to ask Mr. Tompkins what he feeds his pigs. I won’t ask Mr. Ames, because he wants to sell me the milk, but the storekeeper will tell.”
There Janet learned that she could and should feed the pigs with bran, boiled potatoes or the parings, all the greens that were cut from the vegetables, wheat screenings and middlings, and whatever table-waste was wholesome and clean for the pigs to root about in at odd times between meals.
Janet also learned from Si Tompkins, that it was not necessary to buy straw and bed the pigs down every night with it; but dry leaves, or dead hay, mixed with a little straw was as good for bedding as anything. A list of the grain was made and ordered from the mill that stood on the road to White Plains, and then Janet felt more resigned to stock-raising than she had been all that day.
On the way home Natalie remarked: “I should think any animal would grow big and fat on such a diet as Tompkins suggests.”
“I was thinking that we could feed the pigs your garden greens when we haven’t any left at the house,” was Janet’s reply.
“No siree! My garden greens stay exactly where they are—in the ground. When they are grown enough to harvest I’ll see that we eat them ourselves,” she said.
“Oh, I didn’t mean now—I meant that the pigs might eat the tops while we eat the bottoms. Turnips, beets, and such,” explained Janet.
“That’s different. But remember, Jan! My vegetables mean as much to me, and cost my spending money, too, as your stock does to you. So don’t send your cattle over into my preserves to feast; because I’ll shoot the first poacher I see in my garden,” threatened Natalie. But it never dawned upon her mind that the fowl had already poached.
As the two friends approached the house they heard Rachel complaining to Mrs. James. “Dese aigs what we got f’om Four Corners ain’t fresh a bit. Why, I foun’ two bad ones in dat udder box and now here’s anudder one in dis new box.”
Mrs. James took the box and examined the shells keenly. Then she said: “Rachel, they look like old preserved eggs.”
“Yas’m. Dat’s what I say. In fack, I mought say dey is been pickled down in water-glass at some remote day,” remarked Rachel.
“I’m afraid so, Rachel. Tompkins should not sell such eggs for fresh ones,” and Mrs. James shook her head disapprovingly.
“Dat las’ box we got f’om him, I spiled a good cake when I cracked an egg inter two more what I had in a bowl. An’ dat las’ one what Natty and Janet lef’ after scramblin’ dem udders on a sly, dat was a bad one, too.”
Janet and Natalie exchanged looks at this information, but the word “water-glass” meant nothing to them so they forgot Rachel’s complaints over the quality of the store-eggs.
The supper was very late that night, owing to the bad eggs that had ruined the batter Rachel had mixed for cakes. That evening the girls planned eagerly with Mrs. James about adding other interesting creatures to Janet’s farm yard stock. But it always ended in Janet’s sighing about her limited bank account.
“We might ask Mr. Marvin to loan us fifty dollars and take a chattel mortgage on the stock,” said Mrs. James.
“We might, but I hate to think anyone else has a hold on my pets. If only I could find some way to own them all myself!” was Janet’s rejoinder.
“Well, let’s go to bed now, girls, as I am sleepy,” said Mrs. James, getting up from the side-porch and going indoors.
Just after every one was in bed and comfortably relaxed for sleep, a shrill cry from Janet caused them to jump up and run to her room to learn what was wrong.
“Oh, oh, oh! The poor things!” wailed she, sitting on the edge of the bed and wringing her hands, dramatically.
“What poor things! Are you dreaming, Jan?” asked Natalie.
“Who is it, Janet?” anxiously inquired Mrs. James while Rachel came scuffling into the room holding a candle to light her way. Her kinky hair was wound up in little cotton covers for the night, and she wore the old-fashioned short sack-gown, with a flannel petticoat underneath to keep the witches away.
Natalie had to giggle but Janet was too concerned to see what Rachel was wearing. She turned regretful eyes up towards Mrs. James as she confessed: “Those poor chickens! I forgot to feed them tonight, because Nat and I spent so much time watching the pigs burrow under the leaves and straw and then curl up to sleep!”
Mrs. James suddenly sat down upon a chair near the bed and laughed with relief. Janet looked at her in sad disapproval. “If it was your fortune that was fading away, you might not think it so funny! Now those hens won’t lay an egg to-morrow and another day will be wasted. Rachel said hens wouldn’t lay if they were not fed regularly.”
“Dat’s so, Mis James! An’ dem spechul hens ain’t had no ’tentchun, whatever, sence Janet brought ’em to live in her barnyard,” was Rachel’s emphatic rejoinder.
Natalie now giggled forth: “At least we can eat them if we find them dead on their roosts in the morning.”
“It’s all right for you to laugh, but you won’t offer to go out with me at this midnight hour and give them some supper!” wailed Janet, picking up her sneakers and trying to pull them up on her bare feet.
“Whad you doin’ dat foh, Honey?” asked Rachel.
“Going to feed the measly chickens,” grumbled Janet.
“Tain’t no use. Go back to bed and fergit ’em.”
“Oh, do you think they are dead?” gasped Janet, fearfully.
“Nah! I betcher it ain’t de fust time dey went to baid on empty stummicks when Farmeh Ames owned ’em. Once moh won’t kill ner cure ’em of trouble,” chuckled Rachel, turning to go back to her room. But she remembered something and laughingly added: “I tought dis house was on fiah f’om the way Janet yelled. Nex’ time you fergits a pig, er a hen’s refreshmen’s, don’t make sech a time oveh it.”
“I’ll tie a string on my finger after this so I won’t forget the poor things again,” sighed Janet, kicking her sneakers across the room.
“I don’t see how you can forget that poor setting-hen, Janet; she has to hatch out all those eggs for you,” was Natalie’s reproof.
“How many eggs did you place under her, Janet?” asked Mrs. James, trying to act interested but hiding a great yawn back of her hand.
Janet counted on her fingers and then said: “Seven and nine—sixteen altogether, Jimmy.”
But Mrs. James did not pursue the subject at that time, for she naturally thought that Janet had taken the eggs which Farmer Ames had brought that day. Whereas, Natalie had helped herself to nine more eggs from the box when it came from the store, and the two girls had shoved the extra eggs under the hen at evening-time. Then the inspected eggs which Ames left at the house, were quietly smuggled into the box for Rachel to use, in place of those which had been taken out.
Soon after this the house was quiet again, and the inmates slept soundly until the cock roused them with his loud crowing from the handrail on the back stoop.
“Now how did he escape?” wondered Janet, as she hurriedly dressed.
She never discovered how he managed to get out, but she felt sure it was because he was starving. So she fed the fowl an extra big breakfast to make up for not giving them any supper.