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_ For some months after our marriage, Euphemia and I boarded. But we
did not like it. Indeed, there was no reason why we should like
it. Euphemia said that she never felt at home except when she was
out, which feeling, indicating such an excessively unphilosophic
state of mind, was enough to make me desire to have a home of my
own, where, except upon rare and exceptional occasions, my wife
would never care to go out.
If you should want to rent a house, there are three ways to find
one. One way is to advertise; another is to read the
advertisements of other people. This is a comparatively cheap way.
A third method is to apply to an agent. But none of these plans
are worth anything. The proper way is to know some one who will
tell you of a house that will exactly suit you. Euphemia and I
thoroughly investigated this matter, and I know that what I say is
a fact.
We tried all the plans. When we advertised, we had about a dozen
admirable answers, but in these, although everything seemed to
suit, the amount of rent was not named. (None of those in which
the rent was named would do at all.) And when I went to see the
owners, or agents of these suitable houses, they asked much higher
rents than those mentioned in the unavailable answers--and this,
notwithstanding the fact that they always asserted that their terms
were either very reasonable or else greatly reduced on account of
the season being advanced. (It was now the fifteenth of May.)
Euphemia and I once wrote a book,--this was just before we were
married,--in which we told young married people how to go to
housekeeping and how much it would cost them. We knew all about
it, for we had asked several people. Now the prices demanded as
yearly rental for small furnished houses, by the owners and agents
of whom I have been speaking, were, in many cases, more than we had
stated a house could be bought and furnished for!
The advertisements of other people did not serve any better. There
was always something wrong about the houses when we made close
inquiries, and the trouble was generally in regard to the rent.
With agents we had a little better fortune. Euphemia sometimes
went with me on my expeditions to real estate offices, and she
remarked that these offices were always in the basement, or else
you had to go up to them in an elevator. There was nothing between
these extremes. And it was a good deal the same way, she said,
with their houses. They were all very low indeed in price and
quality, or else too high.
One trouble was that we wanted a house in a country place, not very
far from the city, and not very far from the railroad station or
steamboat landing. We also wanted the house to be nicely shaded
and fully furnished, and not to be in a malarial neighborhood, or
one infested by mosquitoes.
"If we do go to housekeeping," said Euphemia, "we might as well get
a house to suit us while we are about it. Moving is more expensive
than a fire."
There was one man who offered us a house that almost suited us. It
was near the water, had rooms enough, and some--but not very much--
ground, and was very accessible to the city. The rent, too, was
quite reasonable. But the house was unfurnished. The agent,
however, did not think that this would present any obstacle to our
taking it. He was sure that the owner would furnish it if we paid
him ten per cent, on the value of the furniture he put into it. We
agreed that if the landlord would do this and let us furnish the
house according to the plans laid down in our book, that we would
take the house. But unfortunately this arrangement did not suit
the landlord, although he was in the habit of furnishing houses for
tenants and charging them ten per cent. on the cost.
I saw him myself and talked to him about it.
"But you see," said he, when I had shown him our list of articles
necessary for the furnishing of a house, "it would not pay me to
buy all these things, and rent them out to you. If you only wanted
heavy furniture, which would last for years, the plan would answer,
but you want everything. I believe the small conveniences you have
on this list come to more money than the furniture and carpets."
"Oh, yes," said I. "We are not so very particular about furniture
and carpets, but these little conveniences are the things that make
housekeeping pleasant, and,--speaking from a common-sense point of
view,--profitable."
"That may be," he answered, "but I can't afford to make matters
pleasant and profitable for you in that way. Now, then, let us
look at one or two particulars. Here, on your list, is an ice-
pick: twenty-five cents. Now, if I buy that ice-pick and rent it
to you at two and a-half cents a year, I shall not get my money
back unless it lasts you ten years. And even then, as it is not
probable that I can sell that ice-pick after you have used it for
ten years, I shall have made nothing at all by my bargain. And
there are other things in that list, such as feather-dusters and
lamp-chimneys, that couldn't possibly last ten years. Don't you
see my position?"
I saw it. We did not get that furnished house. Euphemia was
greatly disappointed.
"It would have been just splendid," she said, "to have taken our
book and have ordered all these things at the stores, one after
another, without even being obliged to ask the price."
I had my private doubts in regard to this matter of price. I am
afraid that Euphemia generally set down the lowest price and the
best things. She did not mean to mislead, and her plan certainly
made our book attractive. But it did not work very well in
practice. We have a friend who undertook to furnish her house by
our book, and she never could get the things as cheaply as we had
them quoted.
"But you see," said Euphemia, to her, "we had to put them down at
very low prices, because the model house we speak of in the book is
to be entirely furnished for just so much."
But, in spite of this explanation, the lady was not satisfied.
We found ourselves obliged to give up the idea of a furnished
house. We would have taken an unfurnished one and furnished it
ourselves, but we had not money enough. We were dreadfully afraid
that we should have to continue to board.
It was now getting on toward summer, at least there was only a part
of a month of spring left, and whenever I could get off from my
business Euphemia and I made little excursions into the country
round about the city. One afternoon we went up the river, and
there we saw a sight that transfixed us, as it were. On the bank,
a mile or so above the city, stood a canal-boat. I say stood,
because it was so firmly imbedded in the ground by the river-side,
that it would have been almost as impossible to move it as to have
turned the Sphinx around. This boat we soon found was inhabited by
an oyster-man and his family. They had lived there for many years
and were really doing quite well. The boat was divided, inside,
into rooms, and these were papered and painted and nicely
furnished. There was a kitchen, a living-room, a parlor and
bedrooms. There were all sorts of conveniences--carpets on the
floors, pictures, and everything, at least so it seemed to us, to
make a home comfortable. This was not all done at once, the
oyster-man told me. They had lived there for years and had
gradually added this and that until the place was as we saw it. He
had an oyster-bed out in the river and he made cider in the winter,
but where he got the apples I don't know. There was really no
reason why he should not get rich in time.
Well, we went all over that house and we praised everything so much
that the oyster-man's wife was delighted, and when we had some
stewed oysters afterward,--eating them at a little table under a
tree near by,--I believe that she picked out the very largest
oysters she had, to stew for us. When we had finished our supper
and had paid for it, and were going down to take our little boat
again,--for we had rowed up the river,--Euphemia stopped and looked
around her. Then she clasped her hands and exclaimed in an
ecstatic undertone:
"We must have a canal-boat!"
And she never swerved from that determination.
After I had seriously thought over the matter, I could see no good
reason against adopting this plan. It would certainly be a cheap
method of living, and it would really be housekeeping. I grew more
and more in favor of it. After what the oyster-man had done, what
might not we do? HE had never written a book on housekeeping, nor,
in all probability, had he considered the matter, philosophically,
for one moment in all his life.
But it was not an easy thing to find a canal-boat. There were none
advertised for rent--at least, not for housekeeping purposes.
We made many inquiries and took many a long walk along the water-
courses in the vicinity of the city, but all in vain. Of course,
we talked a great deal about our project and our friends became
greatly interested in it, and, of course, too, they gave us a great
deal of advice, but we didn't mind that. We were philosophical
enough to know that you can't have shad without bones. They were
good friends and, by being careful in regard to the advice, it
didn't interfere with our comfort.
We were beginning to be discouraged, at least Euphemia was. Her
discouragement is like water-cresses, it generally comes up in a
very short time after she sows her wishes. But then it withers
away rapidly, which is a comfort. One evening we were sitting,
rather disconsolately, in our room, and I was reading out the
advertisements of country board in a newspaper, when in rushed Dr.
Heare--one of our old friends. He was so full of something that he
had to say that he didn't even ask us how we were. In fact, he
didn't appear to want to know.
"I tell you what it is," said he, "I have found just the very thing
you want."
"A canal-boat?" I cried.
"Yes," said he, "a canal-boat."
"Furnished?" asked Euphemia, her eyes glistening.
"Well, no," answered the doctor, "I don't think you could expect
that."
"But we can't live on the bare floor," said Euphemia; "our house
MUST be furnished."
"Well, then, I suppose this won't do," said the doctor, ruefully,
"for there isn't so much as a boot-jack in it. It has most things
that are necessary for a boat, but it hasn't anything that you
could call house-furniture; but, dear me, I should think you could
furnish it very cheaply and comfortably out of your book."
"Very true," said Euphemia, "if we could pick out the cheapest
things and then get some folks to buy a lot of the books."
"We could begin with very little," said I, trying hard to keep
calm.
"Certainly," said the doctor, "you need make no more rooms, at
first, than you could furnish."
"Then there are no rooms," said Euphemia.
"No, there is nothing but one vast apartment extending from stem to
stern."
"Won't it be glorious!" said Euphemia to me. "We can first make a
kitchen, and then a dining-room, and a bedroom, and then a parlor--
just in the order in which our book says they ought to be
furnished."
"Glorious!" I cried, no longer able to contain my enthusiasm; "I
should think so. Doctor, where is this canal-boat?"
The doctor then went into a detailed statement. The boat was
stranded on the shore of the Scoldsbury river not far below Ginx's.
We knew where Ginx's was, because we had spent a very happy day
there, during our honeymoon.
The boat was a good one, but superannuated. That, however, did not
interfere with its usefulness as a dwelling. We could get it--the
doctor had seen the owner--for a small sum per annum, and here was
positively no end to its capabilities.
We sat up until twenty minutes past two, talking about that house.
We ceased to call it a boat at about a quarter of eleven.
The next day I "took" the boat and paid a month's rent in advance.
Three days afterward we moved into it.
We had not much to move, which was a comfort, looking at it from
one point of view. A carpenter had put up two partitions in it
which made three rooms--a kitchen, a dining-room and a very long
bedroom, which was to be cut up into a parlor, study, spare-room,
etc., as soon as circumstances should allow, or my salary should be
raised. Originally, all the doors and windows were in the roof, so
to speak, but our landlord allowed us to make as many windows to
the side of the boat as we pleased, provided we gave him the wood
we cut out. It saved him trouble, he said, but I did not
understand him at the time. Accordingly, the carpenter made
several windows for us, and put in sashes, which opened on hinges
like the hasp of a trunk. Our furniture did not amount to much, at
first. The very thought of living in this independent, romantic
way was so delightful, Euphemia said, that furniture seemed a mere
secondary matter.
We were obliged indeed to give up the idea of following the plan
detailed in our book, because we hadn't the sum upon which the
furnishing of a small house was therein based.
"And if we haven't the money," remarked Euphemia, "it would be of
no earthly use to look at the book. It would only make us doubt
our own calculations. You might as well try to make brick without
mortar, as the children of Israel did."
"I could do that myself, my dear," said I, "but we won't discuss
that subject now. We will buy just what we absolutely need, and
then work up from that."
Acting on this plan, we bought first a small stove, because
Euphemia said that we could sleep on the floor, if it were
necessary, but we couldn't make a fire on the floor--at least not
often. Then we got a table and two chairs. The next thing we
purchased was some hanging shelves for our books, and Euphemia
suddenly remembered the kitchen things. These, which were few,
with some crockery, nearly brought us to the end of our resources,
but we had enough for a big easy-chair which Euphemia was
determined I should have, because I really needed it when I came
home at night, tired with my long day's work at the office. I had
always been used to an easy-chair, and it was one of her most
delightful dreams to see me in a real nice one, comfortably smoking
my pipe in my own house, after eating my own delicious little
supper in company with my own dear wife. We selected the chair,
and then we were about to order the things sent out to our future
home, when I happened to think that we had no bed. I called
Euphemia's attention to the fact.
She was thunderstruck.
"I never thought of that," she said. "We shall have to give up the
stove."
"Not at all," said I, "we can't do that. We must give up the easy-
chair."
"Oh, that would be too bad," said she. "The house would seem like
nothing to me without the chair!"
"But we must do without it, my dear," said I, "at least for a
while. I can sit out on deck and smoke of an evening, you know."
"Yes," said Euphemia. "You can sit on the bulwarks and I can sit
by you. That will do very well. I'm sure I'm glad the boat has
bulwarks."
So we resigned the easy-chair and bought a bedstead and some very
plain bedding. The bedstead was what is sometimes called a
"scissors-bed." We could shut it up when we did not want to sleep
in it, and stand it against the wall.
When we packed up our trunks and left the boarding-house Euphemia
fairly skipped with joy.
We went down to Ginx's in the first boat, having arranged that our
furniture should be sent to us in the afternoon. We wanted to be
there to receive it. The trip was just wildly delirious. The air
was charming. The sun was bright, and I had a whole holiday. When
we reached Ginx's we found that the best way to get our trunks and
ourselves to our house was to take a carriage, and so we took one.
I told the driver to drive along the river road and I would tell
him where to stop.
When we reached our boat, and had alighted, I said to the driver:
"You can just put our trunks inside, anywhere."
The man looked at the trunks and then looked at the boat.
Afterward he looked at me.
"That boat ain't goin' anywhere," said he.
"I should think not," said Euphemia. "We shouldn't want to live in
it, if it were."
"You are going to live in it?" said the man.
"Yes," said Euphemia.
"Oh!" said the man, and he took our trunks on board, without
another word.
It was not very easy for him to get the trunks into our new home.
In fact it was not easy for us to get there ourselves. There was a
gang-plank, with a rail on one side of it, which inclined from the
shore to the deck of the boat at an angle of forty-five degrees,
and when the man had staggered up this plank with the trunks
(Euphemia said I ought to have helped him, but I really thought
that it would be better for one person to fall off the plank than
for two to go over together), and we had paid him, and he had
driven away in a speechless condition, we scrambled up and stood
upon the threshold, or, rather, the after-deck of our home.
It was a proud moment. Euphemia glanced around, her eyes full of
happy tears, and then she took my arm and we went down stairs--at
least we tried to go down in that fashion, but soon found it
necessary to go one at a time. We wandered over the whole extent
of our mansion and found that our carpenter had done his work
better than the woman whom we had engaged to scrub and clean the
house. Something akin to despair must have seized upon her, for
Euphemia declared that the floors looked dirtier than on the
occasion of her first visit, when we rented the boat.
But that didn't discourage us. We felt sure that we should get it
clean in time.
Early in the afternoon our furniture arrived, together with the
other things we had bought, and the men who brought them over from
the steamboat landing had the brightest, merriest faces I ever
noticed among that class of people. Euphemia said it was an
excellent omen to have such cheerful fellows come to us on the very
first day of our housekeeping.
Then we went to work. I put up the stove, which was not much
trouble, as there was a place all ready in the deck for the stove-
pipe to be run through. Euphemia was somewhat surprised at the
absence of a chimney, but I assured her that boats were very seldom
built with chimneys. My dear little wife bustled about and
arranged the pots and kettles on nails that I drove into the
kitchen walls. Then she made the bed in the bed-room and I hung up
a looking-glass and a few little pictures that we had brought in
our trunks.
Before four o'clock our house was in order. Then we began to be
very hungry.
"My dear," said Euphemia, "we ought to have thought to bring
something to cook."
"That is very true," said I, "but I think perhaps we had better
walk up to Ginx's and get our supper to-night. You see we are so
tired and hungry."
"What!" cried Euphemia, "go to a hotel the very first day? I think
it would be dreadful! Why, I have been looking forward to this
first meal with the greatest delight. You can go up to the little
store by the hotel and buy some things and I will cook them, and we
will have our first dear little meal here all alone by ourselves,
at our own table and in our own house."
So this was determined upon and, after a hasty counting of the fund
I had reserved for moving and kindred expenses, and which had been
sorely depleted during the day, I set out, and in about an hour
returned with my first marketing.
I made a fire, using a lot of chips and blocks the carpenter had
left, and Euphemia cooked the supper, and we ate it from our little
table, with two large towels for a table-cloth.
It was the most delightful meal I ever ate!
And, when we had finished, Euphemia washed the dishes (the
thoughtful creature had put some water on the stove to heat for the
purpose, while we were at supper) and then we went on deck, or on
the piazza, as Euphemia thought we had better call it, and there we
had our smoke. I say WE, for Euphemia always helps me to smoke by
sitting by me, and she seems to enjoy it as much as I do.
And when the shades of evening began to gather around us, I hauled
in the gang-plank (just like a delightful old draw-bridge, Euphemia
said, although I hope for the sake of our ancestors that draw-
bridges were easier to haul in) and went to bed.
It is lucky we were tired and wanted to go to bed early, for we had
forgotten all about lamps or candles.
For the next week we were two busy and happy people. I rose about
half-past five and made the fire,--we found so much wood on the
shore, that I thought I should not have to add fuel to my
expenses,--and Euphemia cooked the breakfast. I then went to a
well belonging to a cottage near by where we had arranged for
water-privileges, and filled two buckets with delicious water and
carried them home for Euphemia's use through the day. Then I
hurried off to catch the train, for, as there was a station near
Ginx's, I ceased to patronize the steamboat, the hours of which
were not convenient. After a day of work and pleasurable
anticipation at the office, I hastened back to my home, generally
laden with a basket of provisions and various household
necessities. Milk was brought to us daily from the above-mentioned
cottage by a little toddler who seemed just able to carry the small
tin bucket which held a lacteal pint. If the urchin had been the
child of rich parents, as Euphemia sometimes observed, he would
have been in his nurse's arms--but being poor, he was scarcely
weaned before he began to carry milk around to other people.
After I reached home came supper and the delightful evening hours,
when over my pipe (I had given up cigars, as being too expensive
and inappropriate, and had taken to a tall pipe and canaster
tobacco) we talked and planned, and told each other our day's
experience.
One of our earliest subjects of discussion was the name of our
homestead. Euphemia insisted that it should have a name. I was
quite willing, but we found it no easy matter to select an
appropriate title. I proposed a number of appellations intended to
suggest the character of our home. Among these were: "Safe
Ashore," "Firmly Grounded," and some other names of that style, but
Euphemia did not fancy any of them. She wanted a suitable name, of
course, she said, but it must be something that would SOUND like a
house and BE like a boat.
"Partitionville," she objected to, and "Gangplank Terrace," did not
suit her because it suggested convicts going out to work, which
naturally was unpleasant.
At last, after days of talk and cogitation, we named our house
"Rudder Grange."
To be sure, it wasn't exactly a grange, but then it had such an
enormous rudder that the justice of that part of the title seemed
to over-balance any little inaccuracy in the other portion.
But we did not spend all our spare time in talking. An hour or
two, every evening was occupied in what we called "fixing the
house," and gradually the inside of our abode began to look like a
conventional dwelling. We put matting on the floors and cheap but
very pretty paper on the walls. We added now a couple of chairs,
and now a table or something for the kitchen. Frequently,
especially of a Sunday, we had company, and our guests were always
charmed with Euphemia's cunning little meals. The dear girl loved
good eating so much that she could scarcely fail to be a good cook.
We worked hard, and were very happy. And thus the weeks passed on. _
Read next: Chapter II - Treating of a Novel Style of Boarder
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