The advent of the Tramlays at Hayn Farm had been productive of new sensations to all concerned. The younger members of the Tramlay family had at first opposed the plan of a summer on a farm: they had spent one season at Mount Desert, and part of another at Saratoga, and, as Lucia had been “out” a year, and had a sister who expected early admission to a metropolitan collection of rosebuds, against a summer in the country—the rude, common, real country—the protests had been earnest. But the head of the family had said he could not afford anything better; trade was dull, a man had to live within his income, etc. Besides, their mother’s health was not equal to a summer in society: they would find that statement a convenient excuse when explaining the family plans to their friends.
Arrived at Hayn Farm, the objections of the juvenile Tramlays quickly disappeared. Everything was new and strange; nothing was repellent, and much was interesting and amusing: what more could they have hoped for anywhere,—even in Paris? The farm was good and well managed, the rooms neat and comfortable though old-fashioned, and the people intelligent, though Miss Lucia pronounced them “awfully funny.” The head of the family was one of the many farmers who “took boarders” to give his own family an opportunity to see people somewhat unlike their own circle of acquaintances,—an opportunity which they seemed unlikely ever to find in any other way, had he been able to choose. The senior Hayn would have put into his spare rooms a Union Theological Seminary professor with his family, but, as no such person responded to his modest advertisement, he accepted an iron-merchant and family instead.
Strawberries were just ripening when the Tramlays appeared at Hayn Farm, and the little Tramlays were allowed to forage at will on the capacious old strawberry-bed; then came other berries, in the brambles of which they tore their clothes and colored their lips for hours at a time. Then cherries reddened on a dozen old trees which the children were never reminded had not been planted for their especial benefit. Then the successive yield of an orchard was theirs, so far as they could absorb it. Besides, there was a boat on a pond, and another on a little stream that emptied into the ocean not far away; and although the Hayn boys always seemed to have work to do, they frequently could be persuaded to accompany the children to keep them from drowning themselves.
For Mrs. Tramlay, who really was an invalid, there were long drives to be taken, over roads some of which were well shaded and others commanding fine views, and it was so restful to be able to drive without special preparation in the way of dress,—without, too, the necessity of scrutinizing each approaching vehicle for fear it might contain some acquaintance who ought to be recognized.
As for the head of the family, who spent only Saturdays and Sundays with his family, he seemed to find congenial society in the head of the house,—a fact which at first gave his wife great uneasiness and annoyance.
“Edgar,” Mrs. Tramlay would say, “you know Mr. Hayn is only a common farmer.”
“He’s respectable, and thoroughly understands his own business,” the husband replied,—“two reasons, either of which is good enough to make me like a man, unless he happens to be disagreeable. ‘Common farmer’! Why, I’m only a common iron-merchant, my dear.”
“That’s different,” protested Mrs. Tramlay.
“Is it? Well, don’t try to explain how, little woman: ’twill be sure to give you a three days’ headache.”
So Tramlay continued to devote hours to chat with his host, pressing high-priced cigars on him, and sharing the farmer’s pipes and tobacco in return. He found that Hayn, like any other farmer with brains, had done some hard thinking in the thousands of days when his hands were employed at common work, and that his views of affairs in general, outside of the iron trade, were at least as sound as Tramlay’s own, or those of any one whom Tramlay knew in the city.