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John Thomas Simpson >> Hidden Treasure
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16 Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
HIDDEN TREASURE
THE STORY OF A CHORE BOY WHO MADE THE OLD FARM PAY
BY
JOHN THOMAS SIMPSON
COLORED FRONTISPIECE BY E.H. SUYDAM
AND 16 ILLUSTRATIONS
PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
1919
PREFACE
A few years ago the author visited the farm in Western Pennsylvania on
which he had lived for a number of years when a boy. Much to his
surprise there was not a boy of his acquaintance still on the
neighboring farms, many of which had passed into other hands, and in
some cases even the names of the original owners had been forgotten.
He bumped over the two short miles of road, still deep with mud,
between the town and the farm, and could scarcely recognize in the
weedy fields before him, with their broken-down fences partly
concealed by undergrowth, the fertile acres of his boyhood.
The orchard, once kept so neatly pruned, was now with trees that were
gnarled and broken--while rich bottom land, so productive in years
past, was foul with all manner of rank growth. The lane leading up to
the house from the main road was in such bad repair that he had to
leave his automobile on the main road and complete his journey on
foot.
Investigation showed that many of the farms in the neighborhood were
in a similar rundown condition; that farm work was generally
considered unprofitable or uncongenial; and that the boys and girls
born in the country usually took the first opportunity to leave the
farms, often for harder and less profitable work in the cities.
In the hope that many boys and girls now living on farms, as well as
others, who, if they knew of the advantages of labor-saving machinery
and modern farm buildings (to say nothing of the interest of outdoor
work), would take up this, the most profitable and independent of all
occupations--FARMING--this story of Hidden Treasure is written.
THE AUTHOR
FEBRUARY, 1919
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author begs to acknowledge his indebtedness for valuable
information to:
A.A. Drew, Superintendent of Agencies, of the Mutual Benefit Life
Insurance Company, Newark, New Jersey, for Constructive Banking and
Life Insurance.
Bucyrus Company, South Milwaukee, Wisconsin, for Trenching with Steam
Shovels.
Waterloo Cement Machinery Company, Waterloo, Iowa, for Concrete Mixing
Machines.
Hercules Powder Company, Hazleton, Pennsylvania, for Progressive
Cultivation and Trench Digging by Dynamite.
International Harvester Company of America, Chicago, Illinois, for
Tractors and Farm Machinery.
George M. Wright, owner of Indian Hill Farm, Worcester, Massachusetts,
for Holstein Cattle, Dairy Methods and Poultry Raising.
John W. Odlin, Publicity Department, Wright Wire Company, Worcester,
Massachusetts, Wire Fencing.
C.P. Dadant, Editor American Bee Journal, Hamilton, Illinois, Bee
Culture.
The Sharpies Separator Company, West Chester, Pennsylvania, for
Milking Machines and Cream Separators.
D. & A. Post Mold Company, Three Rivers, Michigan, for Concrete Fence
Posts.
A.A. Simpson, Indiana, Pennsylvania, for much data regarding crop
production and market values in that vicinity.
The Domestic Engineering Company, Dayton, Ohio, for Electric Light and
Power for Farms.
The Portland Cement Association, Chicago, Illinois, for Concrete
Buildings and Road Construction.
United States Department of Agriculture, Washington, D.C., for
Farmers' Bulletins covering the great range of subjects referred to
throughout the story.
The Country Gentleman, Philadelphia, Pa., for much helpful data on
general farming and stock raising.
K.C. Davis, Knapp School of Country Life, Nashville, Tenn., for a
final reading of the proof sheets.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE OLD HOMESTEAD
II. A DAY'S WORK
III. A RAINY DAY
IV. DRAINING THE POND
V. SELLING TURTLES
VI. SELLING SAND
VII. THE NEW AUNT
VIII. THE SALE
IX. POWER AND BANKING
X. RUNNING WATER
XI. TONY
XII. THE DAIRY HOUSE
XIII. VISITORS
XIV. RUTH AND THE STRAW STACK
XV. NEW METHODS
XVI. RUTH AND JERRY
XVII. FILLING THE INCUBATOR
XVIII. THE NEW IMPLEMENTS
XIX. THE STORM
XX. GOOD ROADS
XXI. FILLING THE SILO
XXII. THE FAIR
XXIII. CHRISTMAS AT BROOKSIDE FARM
XXIV. COST ACCOUNTING
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Afternoon was Spent Examining the Buildings and Looking
Over the Plans for the New Barn
The Old Homestead
"Well, Son, Let's Get Down to Business. I See You're Wise
All Right to the Value of that Pit"
Bees are a Profitable Side Line
The Tractor Will do the Work of Five Men and Five Teams
Ditch Digging by Dynamite
One-Half the Herd
The Electric Milker
Comfortable Sanitary Stalls
Small, Self-Loading, Kerosene Driven, Concrete Mixers
Every Boy that Ran Away from the Farm and Many that are
Still There can Tell of the Days Wasted on Repairs to
Wooden Fences and Cleaning Out Fence Rows
Extra Profits are not the Only Things a Farmer Gets from a Herd
of Well Bred Dairy Cows
Good Seed Well Planted Lays the Foundation for a Profitable
Crop
A Well-Managed Flock of Poultry Will Return Good Profits
The Side Delivery Rake Fluffs up the Hay and Lets the Sun
do Its Work Quickly
The Self-Loader Makes Possible the Quick Storage of Properly
Cured Hay and Saves Tons of Man-Lifting Power
The Electric-Driven Laundry
Well-Built Concrete Roads Bring the Markets and Your Neighbors
Nearer
Transferring the Green Corn Crop from Field to Silo
I.
THE OLD HOMESTEAD
The late afternoon sun shone full upon a boy who was perched on the
top of an old rail fence forming the dividing line between the farm
that spread out before him and the one over which he had just passed.
It was early March. The keen wind as it whirled past him, whipping the
branches of the tree together and carrying away clouds of dried leaves
from behind the fence rows, penetrated the thin clothes he wore--but
instead of making him shiver, it seemed only to add to his pleasure,
for he removed his cap and ran his fingers through his damp hair.
The boy was slender and scarcely looked the eighteen years to which he
laid claim. He had curly sandy hair, a freckled face and penetrating
blue eyes. His clothes were new, but of rather poor material and ill-
fitting, scarcely protecting him from the cutting wind. Because of his
short legs and arms, his coat sleeves and trousers, cut for the
average boy, were too long for him and were much wrinkled.
He had climbed the last and steepest hill lying between the town and
his grandfather's farm--the ancestral home of the Williams family,
which was now, for a time at least, to be his home. Since early
morning he had bumped over the rough frozen roads between his home in
a distant village and the county seat, which was situated some two
miles to the west, and from which he had just walked.
He had expected to find his grandfather or his Uncle Joe waiting for
him; in this he was disappointed, and as the sun was getting along
toward mid-afternoon, he had picked up his worn suitcase and set off
through the town by a route that he knew would bring him to a short-
cut over the hills.
Despite the wind, he sat for some minutes, cap in hand, while he
looked out over the familiar scenes. There was not one foot of ground
in the one hundred and sixty acre farm that spread out fan-shape
before him which was not familiar. Here he had spent many happy
vacations in summers past. The last two years he had attended the
State College, taking the course in agriculture, and had worked in a
grocery store in the village during the summer vacations, but this
work had been distasteful to him--he missed the freedom of outdoor
life, especially the birds and animals so plentiful on the farm. So
this year, as his father could not afford to have him complete the
course, he had asked permission to go on a farm. His two years in the
State College had opened his eyes to modern methods of farming and the
use of Portland cement for farm buildings, and he wanted a chance to
try them out.
His father had hesitated at first in giving his consent, not because
he did not wish him to be in the open country, but because he felt,
now that he had reached the age of eighteen, he should be able to earn
money and direct his attention toward permanent employment, and he
could not think of farming as a business with so many other
opportunities at hand. A letter from his Uncle Joe, saying that he had
purchased the old farm, and would like to have Bob help him with the
work on his newly acquired property, had settled the matter, and, as
his uncle was anxious to make an early start, he had left home at
once.
He could not help noticing, as he gazed at the panorama before him,
the dilapidated appearance of the buildings and tumbled-down fences
half hidden by rank growths that confronted him on every side, but
this, for the moment, was of passing interest.
Across the valley to the east, in the twenty-five acres of woods, he
had once found the nest of a great white owl, and there on "Old Round
Top," as the steep hill directly opposite him was called, they had
overturned a wagon-load of hay one summer with him on top. He even
remembered the thrill he had received as he went flying through the
air, and how they had all laughed when he landed unhurt on a hay cock
some distance down the hill, just clear of the overturned wagon. Then
in the valley, at the foot of the hill, stood the old cider mill where
neighbors for miles around would bring their apples in the late summer
for cider-making. Here, straw in mouth, he and the neighbors' boys lay
prone on their stomachs on the great beams and sucked their fill of
the freshly squeezed cider as it flowed down the smooth grooves in the
planks to the waiting barrels below.
Beyond the cider mill was the old orchard, with its Rainbow and Sheep-
nose apple trees; then the garden in one corner of which grew black
currants and yellow raspberry bushes; and near by the low red brick
smoke-house, from which many a piece of dried beef had been slyly
removed to stay his hunger between meals.
Just beyond was the white farmhouse, nestling among the apple trees,
the front to the west and facing on the lane that led up to a farm
above. The house had a one-story ell on the end toward him, containing
the kitchen and pantry--this ell projected back almost to the
smokehouse. On the opposite side, but hidden from his view, there was
a wide porch running the full length of house and ell, and in the
angle formed by the porch, stood the well with its home-made pump.
The water from this well, he recalled, had a peculiar mineral taste,
with a strong flavor of sulphur--a taste he did not like. He had never
been so tired that he would not go to the spring up on the side of
"Old Round Top" for a pail of water, rather than drink from this well.
Back of the house, but within the enclosure formed by the picket
fence, was the wood and tool shed--while just beyond stood the old-
fashioned bank barn and other farm buildings. There was a short steep
hill just beyond the barn, down which the lane wound to a mill pond
below. An old sawmill with an undershot water-wheel stood at the
extreme south-east corner of the farm, diagonally opposite.
[Illustration with caption: THE OLD HOMESTEAD] Of all the places on
which his gaze rested, this mill and pond held the most treasured
recollections. It was in this pond ten years ago his father had taught
him to swim. Here, too, the neighboring farmers brought their sheep
each spring to be washed--always a holiday and frolic for the boys.
Like many other farms in this section of Western Pennsylvania, the
buildings were set so that the barn stood between the house and the
main road, making the approach to the house past the barn and through
the barnyard. For the first time, this awkward arrangement was
apparent to him; he wondered why the buildings had been thus located,
and facing northwest.
He replaced his cap, swung his suitcase over the fence, jumped down to
the frozen ground and set off down the hill. As he trudged along,
picking his way over the rough ground, the parting words of his father
came to him: "Make yourself useful, Bob, and your Uncle Joe, I'm sure,
will pay you all you're worth, and while I'd rather have you become a
merchant, still if you find you like the farm, you may stay with your
Uncle Joe." It was not so much the prospect of making money as the
chance of being in the open air among the things that he loved that
caused him to whistle a lively tune as he crossed the fields toward
the house.
The one over which he was now passing, he observed, had been planted
in winter wheat, and that just beyond, at the edge of the meadow, was
the young orchard well grown and badly in need of pruning. The route
he had taken soon brought him out into the lane at the foot of the
hill, near the cider mill, where he stopped to drink of the cool sap
that flowed into a large tin pail, from one of the sugar-maple trees
under whose branches the mill stood. How good it tasted to the thirsty
boy, as he drank slowly from a long-handled dipper that someone had
conveniently left hanging on the tree. When he had quenched his
thirst, he picked up his suitcase again, resting it on one shoulder,
and continued up the lane to the house.
"Hello, grandma!" he shouted, as he dropped his luggage on the porch
and hurried forward to meet her as she emerged from the kitchen door,
a steaming kettle of vegetables in her hand.
"Why, Bob, where'd you come from?" she exclaimed, setting the kettle
down and kissing him.
"I looked for grandfather and Uncle Joe when I got off the bus in
town, but I couldn't see them anywhere, so I walked out," he replied.
"Why, I'm sure they expected to meet you, Bob," she replied, "but the
roads are so rough, I suppose they were late. They took some grain to
the mill and would have to wait for it to be ground, and they may have
been delayed there--but you haven't told me yet how all the folks
are."
"Oh, they're all pretty well," he replied; "but tell me, when is Uncle
Joe to be married?"
"Some time in April, I believe," she replied. "Do you know you're to
be his chore boy this summer?"
"Yes, father told me--it will be lots of fun. Just think--no more
working all cooped up in a store like the last two summers," he
replied enthusiastically.
"But it won't be all fun, you know, Bob. Your Uncle Joe has bought the
farm, although it's not all paid for yet, and I imagine he'll keep you
pretty busy--if I know Joe," she added.
"Let me get you some water, grandma," he said a moment later, seeing
her pick up the tin water-pail; "I'll start right in now and get my
hand in," he laughed.
"You always were a hustler, Bob, even if you don't grow very fast,"
she said, looking at his over-large clothes, as he left the kitchen.
"I hope your Uncle Joe will remember that you're not grown and can't
do a man's work, even if you're willing to try," she said on his
return, as she watched him set the pail of water on the kitchen table.
"Why, I'm eighteen now, grandma, and weigh one hundred and ten
pounds," he answered stoutly.
"Well, this is a big farm, Bob, and it's gotten pretty well run down
in the last few years with your Uncle Joe out West and your
grandfather feeling too poorly to do much more than look after the
crops," she said.
"Are there big fortunes to be found in the West, grandma?" he asked a
moment later.
"No bigger than right here, Bob," she replied. "It's only a matter of
work, and I'm beginning to believe that after all it is as much a
matter of managing properly as working hard. Do you know that your
grandfather and I are going to move to town as soon as your Uncle Joe
gets married?"
"Why, no, I didn't--who'll look after things here when you go away?"
asked Bob.
"Oh, your new aunt will see to that," she replied. "I hope you'll like
her, Bob."
"Who is she and what does she look like?" he inquired with boyish
eagerness.
"She used to be a school teacher and lived with us while she taught
our school," she replied; "that's how your Uncle Joe met her. She has
plenty of good looks--too many, I sometimes think, for a farmer's
wife--and she is a real New England Yankee woman, who doesn't know how
to milk cows."
"How could any one be too good-looking to be a farmer's wife,
grandma?" laughed Bob. "Why should good looks keep her from being
successful?"
"Well, you see, Bob, nice white hands are generally spoiled by rough
work," said the old lady.
"But why will she have to do the rough work when she comes here?"
persisted Bob.
"Oh, I guess she won't have any to do--at least, that's what your
Uncle Joe says," replied his grandmother with a haughty toss of her
head. "That's what he's got you down on the farm for."
"Oh," said Bob, dryly, "and so that's why he was so extremely anxious
for me to come."
"Yes, that's why, Bob--you might as well know sooner as later, that
you're going to be a pretty busy boy this summer. Your Uncle Joe is so
big and strong that he never gets tired and doesn't know when to quit,
and he expects every one else to work just as hard and as long as he
does. Besides," she added, "I don't think he'll want HIS wife to spoil
her nice white hands."
"What's her name?" inquired Bob, not in the least worried by his
grandmother's gloomy predictions.
"Betsy Atwood--but your uncle calls her Bettie," replied his
grandmother.
"Aunt Bettie," repeated Bob. "A pretty name!"
"H'm!" sniffed his grandmother. "I'm certainly glad you like it, and I
hope you'll like her as well--it will help to make the work seem
easier to you."
"Why, there's grandfather and Uncle Joe now," said Bob a moment later,
as he glanced through the kitchen window toward the barn, and catching
up his cap he rushed out to greet them.
Joe Williams was a typical farmer, tall, deep-chested and straight as
an arrow. He stood six feet in his stockings and weighed two hundred
and ten pounds, and could toss a barrel of salt on the tailboard of a
wagon without losing his happy smile. He was twenty-seven years old,
and there was not a farmer in the county who could beat him at feats
of strength or endurance, and few indeed who could keep pace with him.
He had black hair and blue eyes. Books had little attraction for him--
he loved to be in the open, for which his great size and strength
seemed to fit him. He had received little education beyond the country
school, unless could be counted the two years he had spent working on
farms in the great West, where he probably would have stayed had it
not been for the brown eyes of Bettie Atwood and an offer from his
father, now old and failing in health, to sell him the old place at
his own terms.
"Hello, Bob!" he called as his nephew came forward, "sorry we missed
you. The bus driver said you'd left on foot for the farm when you
didn't see us around. How've you been lately?"
"Oh, I'm all right," replied Bob.
"Hello, grandfather!" he called, as he went round to the side of the
wagon to greet his grandfather.
"You don't seem to grow much, Bob," he laughed, as he shook hands.
"Cooped up too much in that grocery store--you need the open air of
the country to stretch you out. Just look at your Uncle Joe there--see
what the country has done for him."
"Oh, I'll grow all right, grandfather. I like the country and the
open-air life, too, and father says I may take up farming work if I
want to."
The team was soon put away, and shortly after supper Bob, too sleepy
to keep his eyes open, went to bed.
II
A DAY'S WORK
"Bob! Bob! Time to get up and do your chores."
The sleepy boy rolled over, rubbed his eyes and sat up, trying to
remember where he was and who was calling him; then he recognized the
voice of his uncle, and jumped quickly out of bed.
"All right, Uncle Joe, I'm coming," he answered, as he felt around in
the dark for his clothes, for he had neglected to provide himself with
matches to light the oil lamp that stood near by on the dresser.
His clothes were simple, and getting up before dawn was no new
experience for him. A few moments later he hurried down to the
kitchen, where his uncle, who had just finished stirring the kitchen
fire, was filling the tea-kettle.
"Well!--are you up for all day, Bob?" he inquired cheerily.
"I will be as soon as I get awake," he answered, as he started for the
rain barrel for water to wash.
As the water in the well was hard, rain water was used for washing,
except in winter, when the barrels were frozen solidly. The early
spring rains had filled the barrels again, but as the night had been
cold, ice had frozen over the top. His uncle had been to the barrel
ahead of him and broken the ice, so he dipped up the basin full of
water, and placing it on a bench on the porch, washed his face and
hands.
Above the wash bench, summer and winter, hung the roller towel, and
near by the mirror and family horn comb. In the dark the mirror was of
doubtful use, but with a few well-directed strokes of the comb he
managed to get a semblance, at least, of neatness to his hair. He
shivered a little as he finished--just as his uncle appeared, milk
pails and lantern in hand.
"I want you to do the milking from now on, Bob, for it's not the kind
of work a woman should do," said his uncle, and handing him the pails,
they started for the barn.
"You're right, Uncle Joe," replied Bob. "I always milked our cow at
home so mother wouldn't have to do it; besides, it doesn't take so
very long."
Bob had been taught to take good care of the family cow--a well-bred
Guernsey, whose stable had a good cement floor and was neatly
whitewashed. Once or twice a week he would curry-comb and brush her
from nose to tail. Nothing gave him greater pride than to have his
father bring some one unexpectedly into the stable to look at his
charge and comment on the clean manner in which both stable and cow
were kept. His mother sold the milk they did not need for their own
use, and had no trouble in getting two cents a quart more than the
regular price--partly on account of the cow being so well bred and
giving rich milk, but principally on account of the reputation the
clean stable had made in the village.
The cow barn that Bob now entered was built under a portion of the
main barn, adjacent to the thrashing floor, and was dark, even in the
daylight. The earthen floor was foul with neglect. The cows, instead
of being secured in separate stalls with stanchions, were chained up
in a row to a long, old-fashioned manger.
Upon entering, Bob's uncle hung up the lantern; then, seeing Bob look
around and hesitate, asked:
"What are you looking for, Bob?"
"I was looking for a fork to clean the stable. I always clean the
stable and brush off the cow at home before milking," he replied.
"Well, I guess you're a little late to start that here," laughed his
uncle. "Never mind the floor; we'll back the wagon in here after
breakfast and give it a good cleaning."
"All right, Uncle Joe; but where's the brush?" asked Bob.
"Brush! What brush?" asked his uncle.
"Why, don't you brush off the cows each morning before you milk them?"
asked Bob. "Father always insisted that I brush Gurney each morning."
"Well, your father's not a farmer and you've only one cow, while we
have eight, and, besides, I've lots of other work to do without curry-
combing cows," replied his uncle in a sarcastic tone, angered at Bob's
reference to his father's greater knowledge of farm work.
"Better hurry up with your milking, Bob, while I feed the horses," he
added, as he left him staring at the cows.
He could not remember ever having seen such dirty cows or so dirty a
stable before. Then he suddenly thought that he had always visited the
farm in the summer time, when the cattle were kept in the fields and
milked in the open barn yard.
He finished the milking as best he could, and was not surprised to
find that instead of getting forty quarts from the eight cows, he
received only fifteen quarts--about three times as much as he got from
Gurney alone. He now remembered the answer he once heard his father
give a visitor at Gurney's stable.
"But, Mr. Williams," the visitor had said, "a purebred cow must be
considerably more expensive in upkeep than an ordinary one."
"That's where you're mistaken," his father had replied, "for a well-
bred cow eats no more than a common one--in fact, Gurney eats less,
and the difference in the amount and quality of the milk soon pays for
the difference in the first cost. Then, there's the pleasure that Bob
gets out of the care he gives to an animal that is worth while, and
assuredly that's something not to be lightly lost sight of."
Dawn was breaking when Bob finished. On the way to the house he met
his uncle coming out of the yard, a huge pail of swill for the pigs in
each hand.
"Thought I'd feed the pigs for you this morning," he said, as Bob set
down his milk pails and held the gate open for his uncle to pass
through. "It will take you a day or two to get your hand in," he
added.
Bob made no reply, but he noticed the swill was full of broken ice,
like the rain barrel from which he had taken the water to wash that
morning, and he was wondering how much good a cold breakfast like that
would do even for a pig.
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