Adopting an Abandoned Farm | Page 2

on the hill, by the
deep pool in "Chicken Brook" where the pickerel loved to sport, and
damming something, somewhere, I could create or evolve a miniature
pond, transplant water lilies, pink and white, set willow shoots around
the well-turfed, graveled edge, with roots of the forget-me-not hiding
under the banks their blue blossoms; just the flower for happy lovers to
gather as they lingered in their rambles to feed my trout. And there
should be an arbor, vine-clad and sheltered from the curious gaze of the
passers-by, and a little boat, moored at a little wharf, and a plank walk
leading up to the house. And--and oh, the idealism possible when an
enthusiastic woman first rents a farm--an "abandoned" farm!
It may be more exact to say that my farm was not exactly "abandoned,"
as its owner desired a tenant and paid the taxes; say rather depressed,
full of evil from long neglect, suffering from lack of food and general
debility.
As "abandoned farms" are now a subject of general interest, let me say
that my find was nothing unusual. The number of farms without
occupants in New Hampshire in August, 1889, was 1,342 and in Maine

3,318; and I saw lately a farm of twenty acres advertised "free rent and
a present of fifty dollars."
But it is my farm I want you to care about. I could hardly wait until
winter was over to begin my new avocation. By the last of March I was
assured by practical agriculturists (who regarded me with amusement
tempered with pity) that it was high time to prune the lazy fruit trees
and arouse, if possible, the debilitated soil--in short, begin to "keep it
up."
So I left New York for the scene of my future labors and novel lessons
in life, accompanied by a German girl who proved to be merely an
animated onion in matters of cooking, a half-breed hired man, and a
full-bred setter pup who suffered severely from nostalgia and strongly
objected to the baggage car and separation from his playmates.
If wit is, as has been averred, the "juxtaposition of dissimilar ideas,"
then from "Gotham to Gooseville" is the most scintillating epigram
ever achieved. Nothing was going on at Gooseville except time and the
milk wagon collecting for the creamery. The latter came rumbling
along every morning at 4.30 precisely, with a clatter of cans that never
failed to arouse the soundest sleeper.
The general dreariness of the landscape was depressing. Nature herself
seemed in a lethargic trance, and her name was mud.
But with a house to furnish and twenty-five enfeebled acres to
resuscitate, one must not mind. Advanced scientists assure us of life,
motion, even intelligence, appetite, and affection in the most primitive
primordial atoms. So, after a little study, I found that the inhabitants of
Gooseville and its outlying hamlets were neither dead nor sleeping. It
was only by contrast that they appeared comatose and moribund.
Indeed, the degree of gayety was quite startling. I was at once invited to
"gatherings" which rejoiced in the paradoxical title of "Mum
Sociables," where a penalty of five cents was imposed on each person
for speaking (the revenue to go toward buying a new hearse, a cheerful
object of benevolence), and the occasions were most enjoyable. There

was also a "crazy party" at Way-back, the next village. This special
form of lunacy I did not indulge in--farming was enough for me--but
the painter who was enlivening my dining-room with a coating of vivid
red and green, kindly told me all about it, how much I missed, and how
the couple looked who took the first prize. The lady wore tin plates, tin
cans, tin spoons, etc., sewed on to skirt and waist in fantastic patterns,
making music as she walked, and on her head a battered old coffee pot,
with artificial flowers which had outlived their usefulness sticking out
of the spout; and her winning partner was arrayed in rag patchwork of
the most demented variety.
"Youdorter gone" said he; "'twas a great show. But I bet youder beaten
the hull lot on 'em if you'd set your mind on't!"
My walls were now covered with old-fashioned papers, five and ten
cents a roll, and cheap matting improved the floors. But how to furnish
eleven rooms? This brings me to--
CHAPTER II.
AUCTIONS.
"Going, going, gone."
Next came the excitement of auctions, great occasions, and of vital
importance to me, as I was ambitious to furnish the entire house for one
hundred dollars.
When the head of a family dies a settlement of the estate seems to make
an auction necessary. I am glad of the custom, it proved of invaluable
service to me, and the mortality among old people was quite
phenomenal at Gooseville and thereabouts last