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"The more water you have, then, the better?" said his father.

"Yes, for then there is more to freeze, and the effect is more gradual
and lasting."

"I feel highly honored, Webb," said his mother, smiling, "that so much
science should minister to me and my little collection of plants. I now
see that the why and wherefore comes in very usefully. But please tell me
why you put the plants that were touched with frost into cold water, and
why you will not let the sunlight fall on them?"

"For the same reason that you would put your hand in cold water if
frost-bitten. Your expression, 'touched with frost,' shows that there is
hope for them. If they were thoroughly frozen you would lose them. Your
plants, you know, are composed chiefly of water, which fills innumerable
little cells formed by the vegetable tissue. If the water in the cells is
chilled beyond a certain point, if it becomes solid ice, it expands and
breaks down the tissue of the cells, and the structure of the plant is
destroyed. If the frost can be gradually withdrawn so as to leave the
cells substantially intact, they can eventually resume their functions,
and the plant receive no very great injury."

"But why does sudden heat or sunlight destroy a frosted plant?"

"For the same reason that it breaks down the vegetable tissue. Heat
expands, and the greater the heat the more rapid the expansion. When the
rays of the sun, which contain a great deal of heat, fall on any part of
a frost-bitten plant, that part begins to expand so rapidly and violently
that the cellular tissues are ruptured, and life is destroyed. What is
more, the heat does not permeate equally and at once the parts affected
by frost. The part furthest away from the heat remains contracted, while
the parts receiving it expand rapidly and unequally, and this becomes
another cause for the breaking up of the vegetable tissue. The same
principle is illustrated when we turn up the flame of a lamp suddenly.
The glass next to the flame expands so rapidly that the other parts
cannot keep pace, and so, as the result of unequal expansion, the chimney
goes to pieces. With this principle in mind, we seek to withdraw the
frost and to reapply the vivifying heat very gradually and equally to
every part, so that the vegetable tissues may be preserved unbroken. This
is best done by immersing them in cold water, and then keeping them at a
low temperature in a shady place. As the various parts of the plant
resume their functions, the light and heat essential to its life and
growth can gradually be increased."

"It seems to me that your theory is at fault, Webb," said Leonard. "How
is it that some plants are able to endure such violent alternations of
heat and cold?"

"We don't have to go far--at least I do not--before coming to the
limitations of knowledge. What it is in the structure of a plant like the
pansy, for instance, which makes it so much more hardy than others that
seem stronger and more vigorous, even the microscope does not reveal.
Nature has plenty of secrets that she has not yet told. But of all people
in the world those who obtain their livelihood from the soil should seek
to learn the wherefore of everything, for such knowledge often doubles
the prospect of success."

"Now, Amy," said Burtis, laughing, "you see what sort of a fellow Webb
is. You cannot even sneeze without his considering the wherefore back to
the remotest cause."

"Are you afraid of me, Amy?" asked Webb.

"No," was the quiet reply.

Amy spent the greater part of the day in unpacking her trunks, and in
getting settled in her home-like room. It soon began to take on a familiar
air. Hearts, like plants, strike root rapidly when the conditions are
favorable. Johnnie was her delighted assistant much of the time, and this
Christmas-day was one long thrill of excitement to the child. Her wonder
grew and grew, for there was a foreign air about many of Amy's things, and,
having been brought from such a long distance, they seemed to belong to
another world. The severe cold continued, and only the irrepressible Burtis
ventured out to any extent. When Alf's excitement over his presents began
to flag, Webb helped him make two box-traps, and the boy concealed them in
the copse where the rabbit-tracks were thickest. Only the biting frost kept
him, in his intense eagerness, from remaining out to see the result. Webb,
however, taught him patience by assuring him that watched traps never
caught game.

Beyond the natural home festivities the day passed quietly, and this was
also true of the entire holiday season. Cheerfulness, happiness abounded,
and there was an unobtrusive effort on the part of every one to surround
the orphan girl with a genial, sunny atmosphere. And yet she was ever
made to feel that her sorrow was remembered and respected. She saw that
Mr. Clifford's mind was often busy with the memory of his friend, that
even Burt declined invitations to country merrymakings in the vicinity,
and that she was saved the ordeal of meeting gay young neighbors with
whom the Clifford home was a favorite resort. In brief, they had received
her as a daughter of the house, and in many delicate ways proved that
they regarded her as entitled to the same consideration as if she were
one. Meanwhile she was shown that her presence cast no gloom over the
family life, and she knew and they knew that it would be her father's
wish that she should share in all the healing gladness of that life. No
true friend who has passed on to the unclouded shore would wish to leave
clouds and chilling shadows as a legacy, and they all felt that in Amy's
case it had been her father's desire and effort to place her under
conditions that would develop her young life happily and therefore
healthfully. There is the widest difference in the world between
cheerfulness and mirthfulness which arise from happy home life and
peaceful hearts, and the levity that is at once unfeeling, inconsiderate,
and a sure indication of a coarse-fibred, ill-bred nature. Amy was made
to feel this, and she found little indeed which jarred with memories that
were only sad, not bitter or essentially depressing. Every day brought
new assurance that her father's wishes and hopes in her behalf had been
fulfilled to a degree that must have added to his heavenly content, could
he have known how well he had provided for her. And so the busy days
glided on; and when the evening brought the household together, there
were music, reading aloud, and genial family talk, which usually was
largely colored by their rural calling. Therefore, on New-Year's morning
Amy stood as upon a sunny eminence, and saw her path leading away amid
scenes that promised usefulness, happiness, and content.




CHAPTER VII

NEIGHBORS DROP IN


One evening early in the year three neighbors dropped in. They were
evidently as diverse in character as in appearance. The eldest was known
in the neighborhood as Squire Bartley, having long been a justice of the
peace. He was a large landholder, and carried on his farm in the
old-fashioned ways, without much regard to system, order, or improvement.
He had a big, good-natured red face, a stout, burly form, and a
corresponding voice. In marked contrast with his aspect and past
experience was Mr. Alvord, who was thin almost to emaciation, and upon
whose pallid face not only ill-health but deep mental suffering had left
their unmistakable traces. He was a new-comer into the vicinity, and
little was known of his past history beyond the fact that he had exchanged
city life for country pursuits in the hope of gaining strength and vigor.
He ought to have been in the full prime of cheerful manhood, but his sombre
face and dark, gloomy eyes indicated that something had occurred in the
past which so deeply shadowed his life as to make its long continuance
doubtful. He had not reached middle age, and yet old Mr Clifford appeared a
heartier man than he. While he had little knowledge of rural occupations,
he entered into them with eagerness, apparently finding them an antidote
for sad memories. He had little to say, but was a good listener, and
evidently found at the Cliffords' a warmth and cheer coming not from the
hearth only. Webb and Leonard had both been very kind to him in his
inexperience, and an occasional evening at their fireside was the only
social tendency that he had been known to indulge. Dr. Marvin, the third
visitor, might easily compete with Burt in flow of spirits, and in his day
had been quite as keen a sportsman. But he was unlike Burtis in this, that
all birds were game to him, and for his purpose were always in season. To
Emerson's line,

"Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?"

he could not reply in the affirmative, and yet to kill as many as
possible had never been his object. From earliest childhood he had
developed a taste for ornithology, and the study of the fauna of the
region had been almost his sole recreation for years. He too was a
frequent visitor at the Cliffords', where he ever found ready listeners
and questioners.

"I don't know what is the matter with my poultry," Squire Bartley
remarked, after the weather, politics, and harmless phases of local
gossip had been discussed; "they are getting as poor as crows. My boys
say that they are fed as well as usual. What's more, I've had them throw
down for 'em a warm mixture of meal and potatoes before they go to roost,
but we don't get an egg. What luck are you having, Leonard?"

"Well, I don't know that I'm having much luck in the matter," Leonard
replied, with his humorous smile; "but I can't complain. Until this very
cold weather set in we had eggs in plenty, and still have a fair supply.
I'm inclined to think that if your hens are the right kind, and are
properly cared for, they can't help producing eggs. That has usually been
my experience. I don't believe much in luck, but there are a few simple
things that are essential to success with poultry in winter. By the way,
do you give them well or spring water to drink?"

"Well, no, I don't believe we do, at this time of year. I've so arranged
it that the drippings from the eaves of the barn fall into a trough, and
that saves trouble. I expect the boys are careless, too. for I've seen
the fowls eating snow and ice."

"That accounts for your poultry being like crows, for, whatever the
reason may be, snow-water will soon reduce chickens to mere feathers and
bones."

"You don't say so!" cried the squire. "Well, I never heard that before."

"I don't think your system of feeding is the correct one, either,"
pursued Leonard. "You give your hens the warm meal to-morrow evening, as
usual, and then about midnight go to the roosts and feel of their crops.
I'll warrant you'll find them empty. The meal, you see, digests speedily,
and is soon all gone. Then come the long cold hours before morning, and
the poor creatures have nothing to sustain them, and they become chilled
and enfeebled. It takes some time for the grain you give them in the
morning to digest, and so they are left too long a time without support.
Give them the grain in the evening--corn and buckwheat and barley
mixed--and there is something for their gizzards to act on all night
long. The birds are thus sustained and kept warm by their food. Then in
the morning, when they naturally feel the cold the most, give them the
warm food, mixing a little pepper with it during such weather as this."

"Well," remarked the squire, "I guess you're right. Anyway, I'll try your
plan. One is apt to do things the same way year after year without much
thought about it."

"Then, again," resumed Leonard, "I find it pays to keep poultry warm,
clean, and well sheltered. In very cold weather I let them out only for an
hour or two. The rest of the time they are shut up in the chicken-house,
which has an abundance of light, and is well ventilated. Beneath the floor
of the chicken-house is a cellar, which I can fill with stable manure, and
graduate the heat by its fermentation. This acts like a steady furnace.
There is room in the cellar to turn the manure from time to time to prevent
its becoming fire-fanged, so that there is no loss in this respect. Between
the heat from beneath, and the sun streaming in the windows on the south
side of the house, I can keep my laying hens warm even in zero weather; and
I make it a point not to have too many. Beyond a certain number, the more
you have the worse you're off, for poultry won't stand crowding."

"You farmers," put in Dr. Marvin, "are like the doctors, who kill or cure
too much by rule and precedent. You get into certain ways or ruts, and
stick to them. A little thought and observation would often greatly
modify your course. Now in regard to your poultry, you should remember
that they all existed once as nature made them--they were wild, and
domestication cannot wholly change their character. It seems to me that
the way to learn how to manage fowls successfully is to observe their
habits and modes of life when left to themselves. In summer, when they
have a range, we find them eating grass, seeds, insects, etc. In short,
they are omnivorous. In winter, when they can't get these things, they
are often fed one or two kinds of grain continuously. Now, from their
very nature, they need in winter all the kinds of food that they
instinctively select when foraging for themselves--fresh vegetables,
meat, and varieties of seeds or grain. We give to our chickens all the
refuse from the kitchen--the varied food we eat ourselves, with the
exception of that which contains a large percentage of salt--and they
thrive and lay well. Before they are two years old we decapitate them.
Old fowls, with rare exceptions, will not lay in winter."

Sad-eyed Mr. Alvord listened as if there were more consolation and cheer
in this talk on poultry than in the counsel of sages. The "chicken fever"
is more inevitable in a man's life than the chicken-pox, and sooner or
later all who are exposed succumb to it. Seeing the interest developing
in his neighbor's face, Leonard said, briskly:

"Mr. Alvord, here's an investment that will pay you to consider. The care
of poultry involves light and intelligent labor, and therefore is adapted
to those who cannot well meet the rough and heavy phases of outdoor work.
The fowls often become pets to their keepers, and the individual oddities
and peculiarities of character form an amusing study which is not wanting
in practical advantages. The majority of people keep ordinary barn-door
fowls, which are the result of many breeds or strains. The consequence is
almost as great diversity of character within gallinaceous limits as
exists in the families that care for them. For instance, one hen is a
good, persistent layer; another is a patient, brooding mother; a third is
fickle, and leaves her nest so often and for such long intervals that the
eggs become chilled, and incubation ceases. Some are tame and tractable,
others as wild as hawks, and others still are not of much account in any
direction, and are like commonplace women, who are merely good to count
when the census is taken."

"I hope you make no reference to present company," Maggie remarked.

Leonard gave his wife one of his humorous looks as he replied, "I never
could admit that in regard to you, for it would prove too much against
myself. The idea of my picking out a commonplace woman!"

"Leonard knows, as we all do, that he would be like a decapitated chicken
himself without her," said Mrs. Clifford, with her low laugh.

Maggie smiled. This was re-assuring from the mother of the eldest and
favorite son.

"Well," remarked Squire Bartley, sententiously, "there are old housewives
in the neighborhood that have more luck with poultry than any of you,
with all your science."

"Nonsense," replied Dr. Marvin. "You know a little about law, squire, and
I less about medicine, perhaps, and yet any good mother could take care
of a lot of children better than we could. There is old Mrs. Mulligan, on
the creek road. She raises ducks, geese, and chickens innumerable, and
yet I fail to see much luck in her management; but she has learned from
experience a better skill than the books could have taught her, for she
said to me one day, 'I jis thries to foind out what the crathers wants,
and I gives it to 'em,' She knows the character of every hen, duck, and
goose she has, and you don't catch her wasting a sitting of eggs under a
fickle biddy. And then she watches over her broods as Mrs. Leonard does
over hers. Don't talk about luck. There has been more of intelligent care
than luck in bringing up this boy Alf. I believe in book-farming as much
as any one, but a successful farmer could not be made by books only; nor
could I ever learn to be a skilful physician from books, although all the
horses on your place could not haul the medical literature extant. I must
adopt Mrs. Mulligan's tactics, and so must you. We must find out 'what
the crathers want,' be they plants, stock, or that most difficult subject
of all, the human crather. He succeeds best who does this _in_ season,
and not out of season."

"You are right, doctor," said Leonard, laughing. "I agree with what you
say about the varied diet of poultry in general, and also in particular,
and I conform my practice to your views. At the same time I am convinced
that failure and partial success with poultry result more from inadequate
shelter and lack of cleanliness than from lack of proper food. It does
not often happen in the country that fowls are restricted to a narrow
yard or run, and when left to themselves they pick up, even in winter,
much and varied food in and about the barn. But how rarely is proper
shelter provided! It is almost as injurious for poultry as it would be
for us to be crowded, and subjected to draughts, dampness, and cold. They
may survive, but they can't thrive and be profitable. In many instances
they are not even protected from storms, and it's a waste of grain to
feed poultry that roost under a dripping roof."

"Well," said the squire, "I guess we've been rather slack. I must send my
boys over to see how you manage."

"Amy," remarked Burtis, laughing, "you are very polite. You are trying to
look as if you were interested."

"I am interested," said the young girl, positively. "One of the things I
liked best in English people was their keen interest in all rural
pursuits. Papa did not care much for such things; but now that I am a
country girl I intend to learn all I can about country life."

Amy had not intended this as a politic speech, but it nevertheless won
her the increased good-will of all present. Burtis whispered,

"Let me be your instructor."

Something like a smile softened Webb's rugged face, but he did not raise
his eyes from the fire.

"If her words are not the result of a passing impulse," he thought,
"sooner or later she will come to me. Nature, however, tolerates no
fitful, half-hearted scholars, and should she prove one, she will be
contented with Burt's out-of-door fun."

"Miss Amy," remarked Dr. Marvin, vivaciously, "if you will form some of
my tastes you will never suffer from _ennui_. Don't be alarmed; I have
not drugs in my mind. Doctors rarely take their own medicine. You don't
look very strong, and have come back to your native land with the
characteristics of a delicate American girl, rather than the vigor of an
English one. I fear you slighted British beef and mutton. If I were so
officious as to prescribe unasked, I should put you on birds for several
months, morning, noon, and evening. Don't you be officious also, Burt.
It's on the end of your tongue to say that you will shoot them for her. I
had no such commonplace meaning. I meant that Miss Amy should enjoy the
birds in their native haunts, and learn to distinguish the different
varieties by their notes, plumage, and habits. Such recreation would take
her often out-of-doors, and fill every spring and summer day with zest."

"But, Dr. Marvin," cried Amy, "is not the study of ornithology rather a
formidable undertaking?"

"Yes," was the prompt reply. "I sometimes feel as if I could devote
several lifetimes to it. But is it such a formidable thing to begin with
a few of our commonest birds, like the robin or wren, for instance; to
note when they first arrive from their southern sojourn, the comical
scenes of courtship and rivalry in the trees about the door, the building
of their homes, and their housekeeping? I am sorry to say that I find
some of my patients consumed with a gossipy interest in their neighbors'
affairs. If that interest were transferred to the families residing in
the cherry and apple trees, to happy little homes that often can be
watched even from our windows, its exercise would have a much better
effect on health and character. When a taste for such things is once
formed, it is astonishing how one thing leads to another, and how fast
knowledge is gained. The birds will soon begin to arrive, Miss Amy, and a
goodly number stay with us all winter. Pick out a few favorite kinds, and
form their intimate acquaintance. I would suggest that you learn to
identify some of the birds that nest near the house, and follow their
fortunes through the spring and as late in the summer as their stay
permits, keeping a little diary of your observations. Alf here will be a
famous ally. You will find these little bird histories, as they develop
from day to day, more charming than a serial story."

It were hard to tell who was the more captivated by the science of
ornithology, Amy or Alf, when this simple and agreeable method for its
study was suggested. Mr. Alvord looked wistfully at the unalloyed
pleasure of the boy and the young girl as they at once got together on
the sofa and discussed the project. He quietly remarked to the doctor, "I
also shall make time to follow your suggestion, and shall look forward to
some congenial society without my home if not within it."

"See what comes from being enthusiastic about a thing!" laughed the
doctor. "I have made three converts."

Mrs. Leonard looked furtively and pityingly at the lonely Mr. Alvord. A
man without a wife to take care of him was to her one of the forlornest
of objects, and with secret satisfaction she thought, "Leonard, I
imagine, would find the birds' housekeeping a poor substitute for mine."




CHAPTER VIII

EAGLES


"Speaking of birds, doctor, there are some big fellows around this
winter," said Burtis. "While in the mountains with the wood teams some
days since I saw a gray and a bald eagle sailing around, but could not
get a shot at them. As soon as it grows milder I am going up to the
cliffs on the river to see if I can get within rifle range."

"Oh, come, Burt, I thought you were too good a sportsman to make such a
mistake," the doctor rejoined. "A gray eagle is merely a young bald
eagle. We have only two species of the genuine eagle in this country, the
bald, or American, and the golden, or ring-tailed. The latter is very
rare, for their majesties are not fond of society, even of their own
kind, and two nests are seldom found within thirty miles of each other.
The bald eagle has been common enough, and I have shot many. One morning
long ago I shot two, and had quite a funny experience with one of them."

"Pray tell us about it," said Burtis, glad of a diversion from his
ornithological shortcomings.

"Well, one February morning (I could not have been much over fourteen at
the time) I crossed the river on the ice, and took the train for
Peekskill. Having transacted my business and procured a good supply of
ammunition, I started homeward. From the car windows I saw two eagles
circling over the cliffs of the lower Highlands, and with the rashness
and inexperience of a boy I determined to leave the train while it was
under full headway. I passed through to the rear car, descended to the
lowest step, and, without realizing my danger, watched for a level place
that promised well for the mad project. Such a spot soon occurring, I
grasped the iron rail tightly with my right hand, and with my gun in my
left I stepped off into the snow, which was wet and slushy. My foot
bounded up and back as if I had been india-rubber, and maintaining my
hold I streamed away behind the car in an almost horizontal position.
About once in every thirty feet my foot struck the ground, bounded up and
back, and I streamed away again as if I were towed or carried through the
air. After taking a few steps of this character, which exceeded any
attributed to giants in fairy-lore, I saw I was in for it, and the next
time my foot struck I let go, and splashed, with a force that I even now
ache to think of, into the wet snow. It's a wonder I didn't break my
neck, but I scrambled up not very much the worse for my tumble. There
were the eagles; my gun was all right, and that was all I cared for at
the time. I soon loaded, using the heaviest shot I had, and in a few
moments the great birds sailed over my head. I devoted a barrel to each,
and down they both came, fluttering, whirling, and uttering cries that
Wilson describes as something like a maniacal laugh. One lodged in the
top of a tall hemlock, and stuck; the other came flapping and crashing
through another tree until stopped by the lower limbs, where it remained.
I now saw that their distance had been so great that I had merely
disabled them, and I began reloading, but I was so wild from excitement
and exultation that I put in the shot first. Of course my caps only
snapped, and the eagle in the hemlock top, recovering a brief renewal of
strength after the shock of his wound, flew slowly and heavily away, and
fell on the ice near the centre of the river. I afterward learned that it
was carried off by some people on an ice-boat. The other eagle, whose wing
I had broken, now reached the ground, and I ran toward it, determined that
I should not lose both of my trophies. As I approached I saw that I had an
ugly customer to deal with, for the bird, finding that he could not escape,
threw himself on his back, with his tail doubled under him, and was
prepared to strike blows with talons and beak that would make serious
wounds, I resolved to take my game home alive, and after a little thought
cut a crotched stick, with which I held his head down while I fastened his
feet together. A man who now appeared walking down the track aided me in
securing the fierce creature, which task we accomplished by tying some
coarse bagging round his wings, body, and talons. I then went on to the
nearest station in order to take the train homeward. Of course the eagle
attracted a great deal of attention in the cars--more than he seemed to
enjoy, for he soon grew very restless. I was approaching my destination,
and three or four people were about me, talking, pointing, and trying to
touch the bird, when he made a sudden dive. The bagging round his wings and
feet gave way, and so did the people on every side. Down through the aisle,
flapping and screaming, went the eagle; and the ladies, with skirts
abridged, stood on the seats and screamed quite as discordantly. Not a man
present would help me, but, mounting on their seats, they vociferated
advice. The conductor appeared on the scene, and I said that if he would
head the bird off I would catch him. This he agreed to do, but he no sooner
saw the eagle bearing down on him with his savage eye and beak than he, as
nimbly at the best of them, hopped upon a seat, and stood beside a woman,
probably for her protection. A minute or two later the train stopped at my
station, and I was almost desperate. Fortunately I was in the last car, and
I drove my eagle toward the rear door, from which, by the vigorous use of
my feet, I induced him to alight on the ground--the first passenger of the
kind, I am sure, that ever left the cars at that station. After several
minor adventures, I succeeded in getting him home. I hoped to keep him
alive, but he would not eat; so I stuffed him in the only way I could, and
he is now one of my specimens."