“Only by examination. They use a bore some six feet long; I suppose you saw one at Boscow. No? Well, it is a great big augur, with a mark at every foot. Samples of the soil are taken at each foot, and these are examined for moisture and composition. As a usual thing, the greatest moisture is found at a depth of from three to four feet, where there is generally a crust-like formation which holds it. This means that the roots of plants and grains must go down three feet for water when the surface ground is dry. Where this moisture reservoir is five or more feet below the level of the field, the subsoil is said to be unadapted to dry-farming.”
For a long time the young homesteaders listened while Mr. Hopkins and Jerry discussed various phases of farming and irrigation; then their attention was absorbed in looking at the gorges and canyons disclosed as the train wound in and out in its ascent of the Rockies.
At last the station was announced at which the Hopkinses were to leave.
“Don’t forget to send that list to your mother,” reminded the kind-hearted woman, as she bade the boys good-bye.
“And be sure to let me know how you are getting along and to come to see us, if you ever have the chance,” chimed in her husband. “We make our home with my son Fred, here at Avon.”
Heartily the boys thanked them for the invitation, their many kindnesses, and the very useful and practical advice.
“Seems as though we were leaving old friends, doesn’t it, Phil?” observed Ted, as they returned to the car, having assisted Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins to carry out their bundles.
“I hope you aren’t going into a funk every time any one gets off,” scoffed his brother. But Jerry prevented any reply.
“Who was that old party?” he asked, dropping into the boys’ section.
“His name is Silas Hopkins, that’s all I can tell you about him,” returned Phil.