Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1916-08-03

Bert handing me the key and I open
ing the door of my new dwelling with
secret thrill. Hard Cider at once
began on the kitchen floor, ripping up
plank to examine the timbers be-
meath.
We crossed the hall to the south side,
Wnere there We're two corresponding
rooms. Here, as on the other side. the
chimney and freplaces were on the in
side walls, and the mantels were of a
simple but very good colonial pattern,
I brought earth from the nearest point
in the garden, spaded up the soil.
mixed in the garden earth and dress
ing, and then worked and reworked
1t with a rake, and finally with my
hands.
All, the joy of working earth with
your naked hands, making If ready for
planting, The ladies I had seen in
their gardens always wore gloves
Even my mother, I recalled, in her
little garden, had always worn gloves
Surely, thought 1, they miss something
the cool, moist feel of the loan, the
very sensations of the seeds them
selves. At four o'clock I had my bed
ready, and l got my seed packets,
sorted them In tin tobacco box, and
began to SOW the seeds. The direc-
tons which I resd with scrupulous
care always said, press the earth
down firmly with q board" I was
working with fat mason's trowel, so
got up and found a board. 1t wasn't
half so easy to work with, but l was
taking no chances!
Mike and Joe were unhitching the
horse from the harrow as l finished.
The great, brown slope of the vege-
table garden, lying away from the
house toward the ring of southern hills,
was ready for planting. There was
my farm, thence would come my prof
its-if profits there should be. But
just at that moment the little strip Of
soaked seedbed behind me was more
important. 1t stood for the color box
" ALL Nh1Sh w as SOIIS " paint, LII
the fragrant pigments out of which
should create about my dwelling a
dream Of gardens.
after ALL" l thought, "a country
place is but half realized without its
garden, even though 1t be primarily a
farm, and the richness of country liv-
ing is but half fulfilled unless we be-
come painters with shrub and tree and
flower. l cannot draw, nor sing, nor
play. Perhaps I cannot even write.
But surely l can express myself here.
about me, in color and landscape
charm, and not be any the worse farm
er for that. I have my work; I shall
write; shall be a farmer; I shall be
gardener-an artist in flowers; I
shall make my house lovely within;
shall live a rich, full life Surely I am
a happy, a fortunate manp'
I put the watering pot back In the
shed, crossed the road to the old
wooden pump by the barn on a sud
den impulse, and pumped water on
my hands and head, for l was hot.
Mike stood In the barn door and
laughed.
what are yez doin' that for?" he
asked.
I stood up and shook the water from
my face and hair. Just to be kid, l
guess" 1 laughed.
There are some things Mike couldn't
understand. Perhaps l did not clearly
understand myself. In some dim way
an old pump before a barn and the
shock Of water from its spout on my
head was fraught with happy memo
r1es and with dreams. The sight of the
pump at that moment had walked the
echo Of their mood.
But as I plodded up the road In the
May twilight to supper, one Of those
memories came back with haunting
clearness-a summer day, long
tramp, the tender usefulness of young
love shy at it's own too sudden pas
sion, the plunge OF cool water from
pump, and then at twilight half-spoken
words, and words unspoken, sweeter
still!
The amethyst glow went off the hills
that ring our valley, and far blue
peak faded into the gathering dusk. A
light shivered off my spirit, too. I felt
suddenly cold, and the CHEEKY face of
Mrs. Temple was the face Of a stran-
ger. felt unutterably lonely and de-
pressed. My farm was dust and
ashes. That evening savagely turned
down a manuscript by a rather we'll
known author. and went to bed with
out confessing what was the matter
with me. The matter was, I had
pumped up ghost.