“Of course not!” retorted Janet, highly indignant at such a needless query. “Did I not spend my own money to buy them?”
Then Farmer Ames went over to look at the posts Janet had erected. She followed in silence, hoping for yet fearing his verdict. He grasped one with an iron hand and shook it vigorously. The timber was rotted, and the post was only standing in a hole of about three inches depth; but Janet had piled dirt up about it to the height of about ten inches and had packed it solidly about the sides to make it seem to be firmly standing. But one result could occur at the shaking—the post fell.
“Oh, dear me! Just see what you’ve done by handling it as if it were a steel girder on a skyscraper!” exclaimed Janet, her voice expressing her annoyance.
“If the rotten post wouldn’t stand a gentle tap like I gave it, how do you s’pose them pigs would keep penned in when they grows a bit. I wants to tell you, gal, that them pigs ain’t no sickly brand. Once you treats them fair they’ll make your eyes pop with the way they grow. My brother gets all the prizes for his hogs at the County Fairs hereabouts. And your pigs are of that same kind,” was Farmer Ames’s practical reply.
“What else could I do when posts are not to be found?” complained Janet.
“Buy some and use a post-hole digger!”
“Where do you buy such things? And a post-hole digger will take a week before it gets here from the city.”
“Can’t you cut down some young trees in the woods down by the crick? Them will make good posts. And you could have hired me to dig the holes with my machine. I was comin’ here, anyway.”
Janet pondered this solution, but waited before engaging the man to dig the holes. “I’ll think it over and let you know. I must not go into debt for this business, and I spent all my money for the fowl and pigs, yesterday.”
“Well, I’ll leave them bags with the chickens in ’em, until you fixes a coop for ’em. I kin take home the bags any time,” returned the farmer, then he went back to the wagon and climbed in.