The Girl Farmers

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Title:     The Girl Farmers
Author: Eugenia Dunlap Potts [More Titles by Potts]

A PRACTICAL STORY

"I see no way out of this, girls, but for you to go to work and support yourselves with your accomplishments. At least I suppose you've got some. Your schooling cost a fortune, and maybe it was well enough, for now there's a chance for you to make it count."

And thus delivering himself, gruff Uncle Abner took a fresh chew of tobacco, and let his eyes wander aimlessly among those dead-and-gone relatives hanging on the walls. Anywhere indeed but at the two rosy, eager faces before him; for the sisters, Margaret and Elizabeth, sat watching and listening to this, the first hint of difficulty in the easy-going of their pampered lives.

Margaret spoke. "What is the amount of the mortgage, Uncle?"

"Tut, tut," he grunted, with a show of impatience, "you can't understand; girls aint expected to know about business; they h'aint any heads for it. You'd better just shut up the place and come over to my house till you can look around you a bit."

"You are very kind, uncle, but we will consider that after you have answered my question," continued Margaret with quiet insistence. "How are we to understand unless we are told? And why keep us in ignorance? We have a right to know just how our father's affairs were left, and I, for my part, _intend_ to know;--" and the earnest young voice stopped short of the sob that caught and held it quivering.

There was silence while the tall clock ticked a few moments away. The large grey eyes had no release in their steady depths. Thus driven Uncle Abner proceeded to explain that it was when their brother James got into that trouble over his wife's property. Their father had been obliged to borrow, and he (Uncle Abner), accommodated him, taking as security a mortage on the farm.

"It was for five thousand dollars," he concluded, "and of course if he had lived--," he paused, and walking to the window, his hands plunged deep into his homespun pockets, gazed uncomfortably upon the broad stretch of field and pasture so dear to the orphan nieces he was unwittingly torturing.

The Milfords were a proud race. Proud in the sturdy yeoman spirit of honest independence. Margaret was not long in making up her mind.

"You are right, uncle," she said with marked deliberation. "Libbie and I have indeed had every advantage that the best schools afford. We ought to go to work and we will. But--" and her wistful gaze swept their beloved possessions indoor and out--"it shall be here; not anywhere else."

"What upon earth are you driving at?" spluttered Uncle Abner, while Elizabeth smiled acquiescence in the decision of the beloved older sister whose word had been law since their pinafore days. Whatever the outlook she would stand by her. "I'd like to know what you can do here!" went on their sage adviser, muttering audibly something about the "infernal nonsense of women folks."

"I mean it, uncle. I never was further from talking nonsense. We will work here, on the old farm, and save our home from strangers, if you will only be patient and give us time. I can take charge of the hands and the crops. Elizabeth will manage the house and garden. In fact I find myself longing every minute to begin. It will be something to occupy us and divert us from gloomy thoughts;" and she glanced at the somber garments that told of recent bereavement.

"But you can't stay here without a protector," objected her uncle, getting downright wrathful as he felt inwardly conscious that he would be obliged to yield. He had seen his niece Margaret have her own way more than once. Still he must fight for it.

"You just take my advice and do what I said at first. Let somebody take the place and work off the debt--in a way, you understand. You can look about for a music class, and Lizzie here can get a position in the public schools. Of course you know you are welcome at my house as long as you need--"

"Now, listen, uncle, do," broke in Margaret, catching his arm with clasped hands, as a persuasive cadence crept into her resolute tones. "I know I can learn to do what other women are doing all over the land. Not so many Southern women, I grant you; we are a spoiled lot as ever lived, and are foolishly ashamed to work. But we are no better than our sisters of the north and west, and I, for one, do not care a whit what people may think about it. As to being afraid to stay here, that would be silly. Why, I am not so very many years from thirty and Elizabeth is every bit of twenty-three. Quite old maids, you see;--bachelor maids, if you please. The neighborhood is thickly settled; Rock and Don are the best watch dogs ever seen, and the men in the cabins with their families are faithful, you know. The village is in sight, and the big farm bell can be heard a mile away. Nobody will molest us. I assure you we shall not be afraid; and last of all, I can handle a pistol as well as a man, if need be; and Libby is a terror with a hat pin! Now do be good and let us try it."

The brave girl had her way, no matter if Davis did want to add the four hundred acres of the Milford farm to his own fine estate.

The first year was not a bed of roses for the inexperienced young farmers, but they were not daunted. A music class and a dozen pupils in belles-lettres helped out the income, and there was no inconsiderable revenue from the sale of milk, butter, eggs, fruit and vegetables.

They had "the orchard, the meadow, and deep-tangled wildwood," full of sacred memories. They fairly gloried in their dairy, the poultry yard, and garden. They were up at daylight, and with the help of a small boy from the cabins, gathered the marketing which Margaret, in her high cart, took to the hotels at the thriving village of the railroad junction.

Richard Davis undertook the live-stock raising for the sisters on the shares. This was a great help, though Uncle Abner, who had been bulldozed into complacency, he said, hinted on occasions that the "young fellow would be sharing himself with one of 'em before long." However, the energetic maidens gave no heed, save to the grand purpose of their lives.

They learned to "gar old clo'es amaist as weel as new." Carpets were darned and scoured and turned; the time-honored furniture was patched and polished; and their fair hands did not shrink from putting on a fresh coat of paint, or paper, now and then. Under severe pressure of temptation they parted with several pieces of old mahogany during the craze for antiques, at prices almost fabulous. This they invested in some shares of bank stock.

The second year's profits footed up enough to make a payment to Uncle Abner, and then their joy knew no bounds. In vain their anxious friends urged them to sell out and live in a small cottage. Their sympathy was thrown away.

"Every blade of grass is dear to me," persisted Margaret. "Perhaps I have more sentiment than sense, but this should be my life work. And when free from debt, think how easy to see the end of every year from the beginning. Meanwhile everything is getting more simple for us. At first, we had to be content with just the old rut, for we knew nothing else. Now we study the best methods. We take a farmer's journal, which has proved a noble education. The continual improvements in machinery and necessary implements are of inestimable value. The best costs a little more at first, but in the end it pays."

"I always detested farming," exclaimed an old schoolmate who had married a rich banker.

"Come and see us," said Margaret, with her hopeful smile. "Let us show you our work."

She came, partly from curiosity, and together the friends went over the premises. First, the kitchen garden where grew in hills or rows vegetables after the most approved latter-day culture; next, the glowing garden of flowers whose gorgeous bloom found ready sale; then the poultry yard, pig-sties, bee-hives and stables, Margaret all the while discoursing upon remedies for this or that drawback, and how to manage the diverse brands and breeds, till her dainty friend held up her hands in honest wonder.

"How on earth and where did you learn all this?" she found voice to ask.

"From the journals, I read about farming and gardening, about housekeeping, and raising all those barn-yard creatures. We are thinking of adding a small family of canaries to our stock; they are much sought after and readily sell. Oh, I could not get on at all without my papers. They are everything to me. Why, just listen to what I know about corn," she went on, with a proud light in her handsome eyes. "Kentucky was once a leading state in raising corn, and she will be again," and here followed facts and statistics singularly incongruous from rosy lips to the listening ears of the city girl. "There is nothing, Amelia, that pays like doing a thing well. For instance, our own Kentucky is not famous for well-kept farms, but I could not afford to have my fences down, my fields choked with weeds, and my stock depredating elsewhere."

"But how do you manage your servants? They are the great bugbear nowadays."

"By making them respect me and by paying good wages. They should not be expected to give their time and strength at starvation prices. I do have trouble sometimes. In fact I think, first and last, I have done everything but plow. But in the main I get along. The farm is prospering, and a few years hence I mean to have it called a model, not a mortgaged farm."

"It is all right, of course, my dear, if you like it," said her city friend, with somewhat unwilling admiration, "but I should think you would get dreadfully tanned and coarse."

"Do I look so?" asked the country girl, with a happy little challenging laugh. "I was certainly never in better health."

And the visitor had to admit that there was no lack of womanly beauty in the rich coloring of the young farmer's rounded cheeks, albeit a few tiny freckles bridged the straight nose.

"But think how utterly you are lost to society! What a sacrifice for a Milford!" lamented the rich man's wife, to whom life's hard lessons had not come. "I can never forget the gorgeous entertainment at this old house when we were first home from school. Such flowers! Such music! Such a supper! And, oh, the lovely gowns! I declare, Maggie, you were a beauty that night, and Libbie never looked prettier. It seems a crying shame!"

"Not converted yet?" playfully asked the other, though the quick tears sprang to her eyes at the sudden stab of memory.

"Remember, dear," she added gently, "we could not have gone out even if we had not decided to give up all idle pleasures. But we are not hermits, I assure you. Our old friends are most kind. Perhaps one day we may live again those happy times."

"But surely you will marry. A girl like you could never be an old maid."

At which sally Margaret laughed outright, adding gaily that there would be time enough and to spare for matrimony.

"I am too busy now to even think of it. By and by I shall have the finest of bees and fancy poultry. Already my grape arbor is thriving. I sell quantities of fruit and berries. But my stronghold is farm literature; I devour it at night, while Libbie reads society bits in the village weekly, or cons the city daily. Poor Lib! It goes right hard with her to draggle her skirts in the dewy strawberry beds; but she feels consoled when I fetch up the till! What misers we be, hoarding our strong box!"

So these heroic girls are going on, the respected of all observers. Their example has encouraged others to throw off the shackles of "Southern caste" and be independent of unwilling relatives more favored by fortune. The mortgage is not yet entirely lifted, but it will be. The bluegrass pastures of the fine old estate have been given over to the grazing of blooded horses and cattle, at so much per head, thereby counting in a greatly increased revenue.

Margaret's latest venture is a fine young thoroughbred, which the knowing ones predict will prove a gold mine. So mote it be.

Uncle Abner is patient and helpful. He has long ago felt like hiding "his diminished head," and is proud of his young nieces. They have saved the old homestead where three generations of the family were born. Alone they have struggled, protected by the God of the orphan, whose glorious sunshine and rain so abundantly bless their labors!

[The end]
Eugenia Dunlap Potts's short story: The Girl Farmers

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