The Friendly Road | Page 9

together as their employment at a common task.
Ben was a lad some fifteen years old-very stout and stocky, with a fine
open countenance and a frank blue eye--all boy. His nose was as
freckled as the belly of a trout. The whole situation, including the
prospect of help in finishing a tiresome job, pleased him hugely. He
stole a glimpse from time to time at me then at his father. Finally he
said:
"Say, you'll have to step lively to keep up with dad."
"I'll show you," I said, "how we used to drop potatoes when I was a
boy."
And with that I began to step ahead more quickly and make the pieces
fairly fly.
"We old fellows," I said to the father, "must give these young sprouts a
lesson once in a while."

"You will, will you?" responded the boy, and instantly began to drop
the potatoes at a prodigious speed. The father followed with more
dignity, but with evident amusement, and so we all came with a rush to
the end of the row.
"I guess that beats the record across THIS field!" remarked the lad,
puffing and wiping his forehead. "Say, but you're a good one!"
It gave me a peculiar thrill of pleasure; there is nothing more pleasing
than the frank admiration of a boy.
We paused a moment and I said to the man: "This looks like fine potato
land."
"The' ain't any better in these parts," he replied with some pride in his
voice.
And so we went at the planting again: and as we planted we had great
talk of seed potatoes and the advantages and disadvantages of
mechanical planters, of cultivating and spraying, and all the lore of
prices and profits. Once we stopped at the lower end of the field to get
a drink from a jug of water set in the shade of a fence corner, and once
we set the horse in the thills and moved the seed farther up the field.
And tired and hungry as I felt I really enjoyed the work; I really
enjoyed talking with this busy father and son, and I wondered what
their home life was like and what were their real ambitions and hopes.
Thus the sun sank lower and lower, the long shadows began to creep
into the valleys, and we came finally toward the end of the field.
Suddenly the boy Ben cried out:
"There's Sis!"
I glanced up and saw standing near the gateway a slim, bright girl of
about twelve in a fresh gingham dress.
"We're coming!" roared Ben, exultantly.
While we were hitching up the horse, the man said to me:
"You'll come down with us and have some supper."
"Indeed I will," I replied, trying not to make my response too eager.
"Did mother make gingerbread to-day?" I heard the boy whisper
audibly.
"Sh-h--" replied the girl, "who is that man?"
"I don't know" with a great accent of mystery--"and dad don't know.
Did mother make gingerbread?"
"Sh-h--he'll hear you."

"Gee! but he can plant potatoes. He dropped down on us out of a clear
sky."
"What is he?" she asked. "A tramp?"
"Nope, not a tramp. He works. But, Sis, did mother make
gingerbread?"
So we all got into the light wagon and drove briskly out along the
shady country road. The evening was coming on, and the air was full of
the scent of blossoms. We turned finally into a lane and thus came
promptly, for the horse was as eager as we, to the capacious farmyard.
A motherly woman came out from the house, spoke to her son, and
nodded pleasantly to me. There was no especial introduction. I said
merely, "My name is Grayson," and I was accepted without a word.
I waited to help the man, whose name I had now learned--it was
Stanley--with his horse and wagon, and then we came up to the house.
Near the back door there was a pump, with a bench and basin set just
within a little cleanly swept, open shed. Rolling back my collar and
baring my arms I washed myself in the cool water, dashing it over my
head until I gasped, and then stepping back, breathless and refreshed, I
found the slim girl, Mary, at my elbow with a clean soft towel. As I
stood wiping quietly I could smell the ambrosial odours from the
kitchen. In all my life I never enjoyed a moment more than that, I think.
"Come in now," said the motherly Mrs. Stanley.
So we filed into the roomy kitchen, where an older girl, called Kate,
was flying about placing steaming dishes upon the table. There was
also an older son, who had been at the farm chores. It was altogether a
fine, vigorous, independent American