He Enjoys Fresh Air and Mosquitoes to His Heart's Content—His Original Method of Milking Not Indorsed by the Cow.
"Well, what do you think!" exclaimed Mr. Bowser as he came hurrying home from the office the other afternoon.
"Have you gone and got some more hens or bought another horse?"
"Mrs. Bowser, the event of our life is about to happen."
"What is it?"
"You know Gregg? Well, Gregg owns a little farm out here about twelve miles. There's a good house on it, and he says we can occupy it for the summer. We will have a cow and a horse, pigs, poultry and other stock, and we'll go out there and tan up and get fat and have the best time in the world."
"I don't think much of the idea, Mr. Bowser."
"You don't. You don't want cool breezes—fresh eggs—fresh berries—rich milk—songs of birds—lowing of the kine and rest from care!"
"You will be disappointed if you expect any such thing."
"I will, eh? Perhaps I don't know what the country is. You are always ready to throw cold water on any of my plans. I shall go, anyhow."
That was the beginning, and at the end of three days I yielded, womanlike.
One Monday morning we took the train and started, having engaged a farmer's daughter to take charge of the kitchen, and at the nearest railroad station we were met by a farmer and his lumber wagon. The sun poured down its hottest, the dust had covered grass and bushes, and as we jogged and jolted along the farmer queried of Mr. Bowser:
"Come out for your health, I suppose?"
"We did. Ah! this country air has already refreshed me."
"Has, eh? Well, there's heaps of it, and I'm thinking you'll get all you want in about a week. I think a city chap is a blamed fool to come out here."
"Do you? Why, the doctors recommended it. That boy ought to gain a pound a day, and I am sure my wife will brace right up with these pastoral scenes before her eyes."
"The doctors and pastoral scenes be darned!" growled the farmer, as he turned to his horses, and those were the last words he uttered until he landed us at the gate.
It was a comfortable frame house, and I did not observe the surroundings until after dinner. The barn had partly fallen in, giving it a weird and lonely look; most of the fencing was down, a gust of wind had laid the smoke-house on its back, and nearly every tree and bush about the house was dead or dying.
"Is this one of the pastoral scenes you referred to?" I asked Mr. Bowser.
"There you go!" he snapped. "You can't expect things to look as nice out here as in Central Park. We come for the balmy breezes and the rest."
"You spoke of hunting hens' eggs in the meadow grass."
"So we will—come on."
He made a dash for a big patch of burdocks near the back door, got tangled up in the ruins of a barrel, and when he got up he had a cut on his chin and his nose was bleeding. He tried to make light of the affair, but it was hard work.
When I asked after the horse and vehicle in which we were to take our morning jaunts he walked down to the barnyard and pointed out a raw-boned old yellow horse, so weak that he could not brush the flies away, and a one-horse wagon, quaint enough to have taken its place in a museum.
"You'll have our photographs taken after we all get seated in that rig, won't you?" I asked.
"That's it; just as I expected. Mrs. Bowser, what did you come out here for?"
"Because you obliged me to."
"I did, eh! Not by a long shot! You came to restore your health and to give our child a chance for his life. It will be the making of him. No more doctor's bills for us."
In the afternoon Mr. Bowser swung his hammock in the orchard. This was something he had doted on for a week. He had scarcely dropped into it when three or four caterpillars dropped on to him, and he put in the rest of the afternoon on the hard boards of the veranda. The cow came sauntering up about 5 o'clock, covered with flies and mosquitoes, and the girl hinted to Mr. Bowser that he was expected to milk.
"Oh, certainly," he replied. "I wouldn't give a cent for farm life unless I could milk a cow or two. I used to sing a ballad while I was milking."
The girl and I watched him as he took the pail and stool and approached the cow. The cow also watched him. Folks generally sit down on the right-hand side of the cow to milk. Mr. Bowser took the other side.
"What are you trying to do?" I called to him from the gate.
"Mrs. Bowser, when I want to learn anything about a cow I'll ask you for the information. I think I know my business."
So did the cow. She had been fooled with long enough, and she suddenly planted a hoof against Mr. Bowser with such vigor that he tumbled over in a confused heap. Between us we got him into the house, and the girl finished the milking. Mr. Bowser recovered from the shock after a while, and I felt it my duty to inquire:
"Mr. Bowser, don't you think a week of these pastoral scenes will be enough for us?"
"No, nor six weeks!" he growled. "Nothing would do but you must go into the country, and now I'll give you enough of it."
"Why, Mr. Bowser?"
"You needn't why Mr. Bowser me! You gave me no peace until I agreed to come, and now I'll remain here five straight years."
When the summer sun went down and the stars came out we were not as happy as we might have been. Mr. Bowser still held his hand on his stomach, the baby cried because the milk tasted of wild onions, and the girl lost the old oaken bucket in the thirty-foot well while getting a pail of fresh water. I asked Mr. Bowser when the kine would begin to low and the whippoorwills to sing, and he was so mad he wouldn't speak. However, if the kine didn't low, the pinchbugs and mosquitoes did. There wasn't a screen at door or window, and soon after sundown we were besieged.
That night seemed never ending. No one of us three slept a wink. The room was invaded with every insect known to country life, from a bat to a gnat.
When we got up in the morning the girl didn't know us. We were blotched and bitten until one would have suspected us of suffering with smallpox. Mr. Bowser knew himself, however, and before noon we were back in the city. He scarcely spoke to me all the way home, but once in the house he burst out with:
"Now, old lady, prepare for a settlement! You've nosed me round all you ever will. This has broken the camel's back. Which of us applies for a divorce?"
—Detroit Free Press.
James—Hello, Gus, where have you been? Never see you at the old place.
Gus (swell about town)—No, de fact is, James, me boy, dey has got chicken for de free lunch dere.