Adopting an Abandoned Farm | Page 3

year. While I deeply
regretted the demise of each and all, still this general taking off was
opportune for my needs.
There were seventeen auctions last season, and all but two were
attended by me or my representatives.

A country auction is not so exciting as one in the city; still you must be
wide-awake and cool, or you will be fleeced. An experienced friend,
acquainted with the auctioneer, piloted me through my first sale, and
for ten dollars I bought enough really valuable furniture to fill a large
express wagon--as a large desk with drawers, little and big, fascinating
pigeon holes, and a secret drawer, for two dollars; queer old table, ten
cents; good solid chairs, nine cents each; mahogany center-table, one
dollar and sixteen cents; and, best of all, a tall and venerable clock for
the landing, only eight dollars! Its "innards" sadly demoralized, but
capable of resuscitation, the weights being tin-cans filled with sand and
attached by strong twine to the "works." It has to be wound twice daily,
and when the hour hand points to six and the other to ten, I guess that it
is about quarter past two, and in five minutes I hear the senile timepiece
strike eleven!
The scene was unique. The sale had been advertised in post-office and
stores as beginning at 10 A.M., but at eleven the farmers and their
women folks were driving toward the house. A dozen old men,
chewing tobacco and looking wise, were in the barn yard examining the
stock to be sold, the carts and farming tools; a flock of hens were also
to be disposed of, at forty cents each.
On such occasions the families from far and near who want to dispose
of any old truck are allowed to bring it to add to the motley display.
The really valuable possessions, if any, are kept back, either for private
sale or to be divided among the heirs. I saw genuine antiques
occasionally--old oak chests, finely carved oaken chairs--but these were
rare. After the horses have been driven up and down the street, and with
the other stock disposed of, it is time for lunch. Following the crowd
into the kitchen, you see two barrels of crackers open, a mammoth
cheese of the skim-milk species with a big knife by it, and on the stove
a giant kettle in which cotton bags full of coffee are being distilled in
boiling water. You are expected to dip a heavy white mug into the
kettle for your share of the fragrant reviving beverage, cut off a hunk of
cheese, and eat as many crackers as you can. It tasted well, that
informal "free lunch."

Finding after one or two trials that the interested parties raised rapidly
on anything I desired. I used to send Gusta and John, nicknamed very
properly "Omniscience and Omnipotence," which names did equally
well when reversed (like a paper cuff), and they, less verdant than their
mistress, would return with an amazing array of stuff. We now have
everything but a second-hand pulpit, a wooden leg, and a coffin plate.
We utilized a cradle and antique churn as a composite flower stand; an
immense spinning-wheel looks pretty covered with running vines, an
old carriage lantern gleams brightly on my piazza every evening. I
nearly bought a horse for fifteen dollars, and did secure a wagon for
one dollar and a half, which, after a few needed repairs, costing only
twenty-six dollars, was my pride, delight and comfort, and the envy of
the neighborhood. Men came from near and far to examine that wagon,
felt critically of every wheel, admired the shining coat of dark-green
paint, and would always wind up with: "I vum, if that 'ere wagon ain't
fine! Why, it's wuth fifty dollars, now, ef it's wuth a cent!" After a hard
day's work, it seemed a gratification to them to come with lanterns to
renew their critical survey, making a fine Rembrandtish study as they
stood around it and wondered. A sleigh was bought for three dollars
which, when painted by our home artist, is both comfortable and
effective.
At one auction, where I was the only woman present, I bid on three
shovels (needed to dig worms for my prize hens!) and, as the
excitement increased with a rise in bids from two cents to ten, I cried,
"Eleven!" And the gallant old fellow in command roared out as a man
opened his mouth for "Twelve!": "I wouldn't bid ag'in a woman ef I'se
you. Let 'er have 'em! Madam, Mum, or Miss--I can't pernounce your
name and don't rightly know how to spell it--but the shovels are
yourn!"
Attending auctions may be an acquired taste, but it grows on one like
any other habit, and whenever a new and tempting