A light snow had fallen in the early hours of the night, not a sufficient storm to drift and block the roads, but merely to “polish up the sleighing,” as the country parlance has it, while its magic touch lingered on every brier and roadside weed in fantastic crystals, which, meeting the sunbeams, radiated dazzling prismatic colours.
Stopping outside the fence was Silent Stead, driving Manfred before an odd-looking low-running sled, with seat in front and box for merchandise in the rear. With him was Dr. Russell, engaged in earnest conversation, and also Tatters, who, as usual, was receiving his share of attention, as he stood paws on the edge of the seat, the expression of his face, ears, and tail seeming to vary according to the conversation of the men.
Brooke stood there spellbound, the muslin draperies held together beneath her chin like a garment, and, as she looked, the Cub came up the lane road from the barn, carrying the beloved Pam held high on one shoulder. At sight of Tatters, the pup struggled to free herself, and began to bark wildly. Stead evidently said something to the Cub, for, lowering Pam to the sleigh box, he stood back, and watched Tatters walk about the box at a little distance, his tail stiffly erect, and the neck ruff that belonged to the collie half of him bristling also. As he drew nearer, Pam leaned forward on her outstretched paws, barked saucily, and before the dignified old dog could think of a suitable reply, outflanked him by giving him an enthusiastic lick on the nose, as he drew near. Next, casting herself recklessly from the sleigh, she slid along sidewise, landing on her back almost between his front feet, with her paws held up, as if in sign of complete submission. Then, as the men laughed heartily at these tactful feminine antics in a puppy of only six months, Pam began running to and fro in the snow, making believe to eat large mouthfuls of it, and kicking it into the air. For a moment Tatters hesitated, and then bounded awkwardly after the pup as fast as his stiff hind leg would let him. To and fro they ran in the ecstasy of puppy play until Miss Keith, shawl over head, came out in amazement at the turn of things, and Tatters, quite spent with his unusual exercise, lay panting in the snow, Pam following suit. For there is one inflexible dog rule—that as soon as a newcomer has received recognition, he must yield obedience to the dog already in command; that is dog law. Thus it was that young life came to Tatters with the new arrivals, even as it had come to the homestead itself.
As Miss Keith returned to the house, she glanced up at Brooke’s window, and, seeing the face between the curtains, she nodded and waved her hand gayly, a totally different attitude from that with which a week or even a day before she would have greeted any one who had stayed abed until nine in the morning. Instantly Brooke turned to her dressing, and though at first the very cold water made her gasp, the after glow more than made up for it.
Brooke could not conceal her satisfaction at the fact that some breakfast had been stored away for her in the “hot closet,” and the mere fact placated Miss Keith more than a thousand apologies for oversleeping. Why is it that people, women especially, feel it a special point of virtue to suppress or deny the existence of natural appetites that to be truly without would prove them abnormal?
When both Mrs. Lawton and Brooke had duly learned where every dish, pot, and pan belonged, and had seen the empty closet with its shelves edged with scalloped paper that had been prepared for the china they had brought,—one complete set, a Christmas present from Mr. Dean a few years before, having been retained,—Mrs. Lawton returned to her husband, and Brooke cornered Miss Keith for the necessary business conversation which, though inevitable, the older woman for some reason was seemingly trying to avoid.
“In a minute I’ll be there, and we’ll have it all out,” she said, rushing out the back door toward the chicken houses with a dish-pan of scraps that she had deftly made into a sort of stew, while she talked, by the addition of some corn meal, red pepper, and hot water, returning in a very few minutes with the empty receptacle.
“That reminds me, Brooke, it’s best the next three months to feed them their hot meal in the morning, and not to let them out to exercise before eleven, and shut them up tight, sharp at three, even on clear days. If you don’t, they get so cold it sort of discourages the eggs at the time you most want them. I’ve made out a list of my steady customers, and put it here in the drawer along with the farm book, in case you have enough eggs to peddle, and mind! forty cents a dozen is my steady price from December to March. Don’t let ’em cheat you. After March you must follow market rates. The farm book tells just what I plant, and when, and what I naturally expect to get back. You see the place has run itself fairly well, hired man and all, though you won’t expect it to now, because you’ll need eggs to eat, and pretty much all the milk and butter output, while your father’s on slop food.
“If you’ll take my advice, you’ll tend the fowls yourself, and don’t trust the hired help. And I don’t think you’d best start the incubator this year,—you’ll have enough on your hands. There are eight or ten hens that have been working overtime this winter, so I expect they will be thankful to rest their legs, and set the first week in March. By the way, there’s spring latches on the doors of the roosting and laying houses,—my idea to trap light-fingered folk if they get in, and to keep the fowls from straying. Best be careful not to get shut in without the keys (they lie in the box by the clock with all the others, plainly labelled). What money there is to be had from poultry in these parts comes from caring for it yourself, and you can’t trust hired female help, ’specially when it comes from the city.”