CHAPTER XXXVII ADDISON'S POCKETFUL OF
AUGER CHIPS ANOTHER
year had now passed, and we
were not much nearer realizing our plans for getting an education than
when
Master Pierson left us the winter before. Owing to
the bad times and a close
money market, lumbering scarcely more than paid expenses that winter.
This and
the loss of five work-horses the previous November, put such stress on
the
family purse, that we felt it would be unkind to ask the old Squire to
send
four of us to the village Academy that spring, as had been planned. "We shall
have to wait another
year," Theodora said soberly. "It will
always be 'another
year' with us, I guess!" Ellen exclaimed sadly. But during
March that spring, a
shrewd stroke of mother wit, on the part of Addison, greatly relieved
the
situation and, in fact, quite set us on our feet in the matter of
funds. This,
however, requires a bit of explanation. For fifty
years grandsir Cranston
had lavished his love and care on the old Cranston farm, situated three
miles
from our place. He had been born there, and he had lived and worked
there all
his life. Year by year he had cleared the fields of stone and fenced
them with
walls. The farm buildings looked neat and well-cared for. The
sixty-acre
wood-lot that stretched from the fields up to the foot of Hedgehog
Ledge had
been cleaned and cleared of undergrowth until you could drive a team
from end
to end of it, among the three hundred or more immense old sugar maples
and
yellow birches. That
wood-lot, indeed, had been the
old farmer's special pride. He loved those big old-growth maples, loved
them so
well that he would not tap them in the spring for maple sugar. It
shortened the
lives of trees, he said, to tap them, particularly large old trees. It was
therefore distressing to see
how, after grand-sir Cranston died, the farm was allowed to run down
and go to
ruin. His wife had died years before; they had no children; and the
only
relatives were a brother and a nephew in Portland, and a niece in
Bangor.
Cranston had left no will. The three heirs could not agree about
dividing the
property. The case had gone to court and stayed there for four years. Meanwhile
the farm was rented first
to one and then to another tenant, who cropped the fields, let weeds,
briers,
and bushes grow, neglected the buildings and opened unsightly gaps in
the
hitherto tidy stone walls. The taxes went unpaid; none of the heirs
would pay a
cent toward them; and the fifth year after the old farmer's death the
place was
advertised for sale at auction for delinquent taxes. In March
of the fifth year after
grandsir Cranston died, Willis and Ben Murch wrote to one of the
Cranston
heirs, and got permission to tap the maples in the wood-lot at the foot
of the
ledge and to make sugar there. They
tapped two hundred trees, three
spiles to the tree, and had a great run of sap. Addison and I went over
one
afternoon to see them "boil down" They had built an "arch"
of stones for their kettles up near the foot of the great ledge, and
had a cosy
little shed there. Sap was running well that day; and toward sunset,
since they
had no team, we helped them to gather the day's run in pails by hand.
It was no
easy task, for there were two feet or more of soft snow on the ground,
and
there were as many as three hundred brimming bucketfuls that had to be
carried
to the sap holders at the shed. Several
times I thought that Addison
was shirking. I noticed that at nearly every tree he stopped, put down
his sap
pails, picked up a handful of the auger chips that lay in the snow at
the foot
of the tree, and stood there turning them over with his fingers. The
boys had
used an inch and a half auger, for in those days people thought that
the bigger
the auger hole and the deeper they bored, the more sap would flow. "Don't
hurry, Ad," I said,
smiling, as we passed each other. "The snow's soft! Pails of sap are
heavy!" He
grinned, but said nothing.
Afterward I saw him slyly slipping handfuls of those chips into his
pocket.
What he wanted them for I could not imagine; and later, after sunset,
as we
were going home, I asked him why he had carried away a pocketful of
auger
chips. He looked
at me shrewdly, but would
not reply. Then, after a minute, he asked me whether I thought that Ben
or
Willis had seen him pick them up. "What if
they did?" I
asked. But I could get nothing further from him. It was
that very evening I think,
after we got home, that we saw the notice the tax collector had put in
the
county paper announcing the sale at public auction of the Cranston farm
on the
following Thursday, for delinquent taxes. The paper had come that
night, and
Theodora read the notice aloud at supper. The announcement briefly
described
the farm property, and among other values mentioned five hundred cords
of
rock-maple wood ready to cut and go to market. "That's
that old sugar lot up
by the big ledge, where Willis and Ben were making syrup," said I.
"Ad, whatever did you do with that pocketful of auger chips?" Addison
glanced at me queerly. He
seemed disturbed, but said nothing. The following forenoon, when he and
I were
making a hot-bed for early garden vegetables, he remarked that he meant
to go
to that auction. It was not
the kind of auction sale
that draws a crowd of people; there was only one piece of property to
be sold,
and that was an expensive one. Not more than twenty persons came to it
— mostly
prosperous farmers or lumbermen, who intended to buy the place as a
speculation
if it should go at a low price. The old Squire was not there; he had
gone to
Portland the day before; but Addison went over, as he had planned, and
Willis
Murch and I went with him. Hilburn,
the tax collector, was
there, and two of the selectmen of the town, besides Cole, the
auctioneer. At
four o'clock Hilburn stood on the house steps, read the published
notice of the
sale and the court warrant for it. The town, he said, would deduct $114
— the
amount of unpaid taxes — from the sum received for the farm. Otherwise
the
place would be sold intact to the highest bidder. The
auctioneer then mounted the
steps, read the Cranston warranty deed of the farm, as copied from the
county
records, describing the premises, lines, and corners. "A fine piece of
property, which can soon be put into good, shape," he added. "How
much am I offered for it?" After a
pause, Zachary Lurvey, the
owner of Lurvey's Lumber Mills, started the bidding by offering $1,000.
"One
thousand dollars,"
repeated the auctioneer. "I am offered one thousand dollars. Of course
that isn't what this farm is really worth. Only one thousand! Who
offers
more?" "Fifteen
hundred," said a
man named Haines, who had arrived from the southern part of the
township while
the deed was being read. "Sixteen,"
said another:
and presently another said, "Seventeen!" I noticed
that Addison was edging up
nearer the steps, but I was amazed to hear him call out, "Seventeen
fifty!" "Ad!" I
whispered.
"What if Cole knocks it off to you? You have only $100 in the savings
bank. You couldn't pay for it." I thought
he had made a bid just for
fun, or to show off. Addison paid no attention to me, but watched the
auctioneer closely. The others, too, seemed surprised at Addison's bid.
Lurvey
turned and looked at him sharply. I suppose he thought that Addison was
bidding
for the old Squire; but I knew that the old Squire had no thought of
buying the
farm. After a
few moments Lurvey called,
"Eighteen hundred!" "Eighteen
fifty," said
Addison; and now I grew uneasy for him in good earnest. "You had
better stop
that," I whispered. "They'll get it off on to you if you don't take
care." And I pulled his sleeve impatiently. Willis was
grinning broadly; he also
thought that Addison was bluffing the other bidders. Haines
then said, "Nineteen
hundred"; and Lurvey at once cried, "Nineteen twenty-five!" It was now
apparent that Lurvey
meant to get the farm if he could, and that Haines also wanted it. The
auctioneer glanced toward us. Much to my relief, Addison now backed off
a
little, as if he had made his best bid and was going away; but to my
consternation he turned when near the gate and cried, "Nineteen
fifty!" "Are you
crazy?" I
whispered, and tried to get him to leave. He backed up against the
gatepost,
however, and stood there, watching the auctioneer. Lurvey looked
suspicious and
disgruntled, but after a pause, said in a low voice, "Nineteen
seventy-five." Haines then raised the bid to $2,000, and the auctioneer
repeated that offer several times. We thought Haines would get it; but
Lurvey
finally cried, "Two thousand twenty-five!" and the auctioneer began
calling, "Going — going — going for two thousand twenty-five!" when
Addison shouted, "Two thousand fifty!" Lurvey
cast an angry look at him.
Haines turned away; and Cole, after waiting for further bids, cried,
"Going — going — gone at two thousand fifty to that young man by the
gate
— if he has got the money to pay for it!" "You've
done it now, Ad!"
I exclaimed, in distress. "How are you going to get out of this?" I was
frightened for him; I did not
know what the consequences of his prank would be. To my surprise and
relief,
Addison went to Hilburn and handed him $100. "I'll pay
a hundred down,"
he said, "to bind my bid, and the balance to-morrow." The two
selectmen and Hilburn
smiled, but accepted it. I remembered then that Addison had gone to the
village
the day before, and guessed that he had drawn his savings from the
bank. But I
did not see how he could raise $1,950 by the next day. All the way home
I
wanted to ask him what he planned to do. However, I did not like to
question
him before Willis and two other boys who were with us. All the way home
Addison
seemed rather excited. The family
were at supper when we
went in. The old Squire was back from Portland; grandmother and the
girls had
told him that we had gone to the auction. The first thing he did was to
ask us
whether the farm had been sold, and how much it had brought. "Two
thousand and fifty,"
said I, with a glance at Addison. "That's
all it's worth,"
the old Squire said. "Who bought it?" Addison
looked embarrassed; and to
help him out I said jocosely, "Oh, it was bid off by a young fellow we
saw
there." "What was
his name?" the
old Squire asked in surprise. "He spells
it
A-d-d-i-s-o-n," said I. There was
a sudden pause round the
table. "Yes," I
continued,
laughing, for I thought the best thing for Ad was to have the old
Squire know
the facts at once. "He paid $100 of it down, and he has to get round
with
nineteen hundred and fifty more by to-morrow noon." Food was
quite forgotten by this
time. The old Squire, grandmother, and the girls were looking at
Addison in
much concern. "Haven't
you been rather
rash?" the old Squire said, gravely. "Maybe I
have," Addison
admitted. "But the bank has promised to lend me the money to-morrow at
seven per cent. if — if," — he hesitated and reddened visibly, — "if
you will put your name on the note with me, sir." The old
Squire's face was a study.
He looked surprised, grave, and stern; but his kind old heart stood the
test. "My son,"
he said, after a
short pause, "what led you into this? You must tell me before we go
farther." "It was
something I noticed
over there in that wood-lot. I haven't said anything about it so far;
but I
think I am right." He went
upstairs to his trunk and
brought down a handful of those auger chips, and also a letter that he
had
received recently. He spread the chips on the table by the old Squire's
plate,
and the latter, after a glance at them, put on his reading glasses. Dry
as the
chips had become, we could still see what looked like tiny bubbles and
pits in
the wood. "Bird's-eye,
isn't it?"
the old Squire said, taking up a chip in his fingers. "Bird's-eye
maple.
Was there more than one tree of this?" "More than
forty, sir, that I
saw myself, and I've no doubt there are others," Addison replied. "Ah!" the
old Squire
exclaimed, with a look of understanding kindling in his face. "I see! I
see!" During our
three or four winters at
the old Squire's we boys had naturally picked up considerable knowledge
about
lumber and lumber values. "Yes,"
Addison said.
"That's why I planned to get hold of that wood-lot. I wrote to Jones
&
Adams to see what they would give for clear, kiln-dried bird's-eye
maple lumber,
for furniture and room finish, and in this letter they offer $90 per
thousand.
I haven't a doubt we can get a hundred thousand feet of bird's-eye out
of that
lot." "If Lurvey
had known
that," said I, "he wouldn't have stopped bidding at two thousand!"
"You may
be sure he
wouldn't," the old Squire remarked, with a smile. "As for
the quarreling
heirs," said Addison, "they'll be well satisfied to get that much for
the farm." The next
day the old Squire
accompanied Addison to the savings bank and indorsed his note. The bank
at once
lent Addison the money necessary to pay for the farm. No one
learned what Addison's real
motive in bidding for the farm had been until the following winter,
when we cut
the larger part of the maple-trees in the wood-lot and sawed them into
three-inch plank at our own mill. Afterward we kiln-dried the plank,
and
shipped it to the furniture company. Out of the
three hundred or more
sugar maples that we cut in that lot, eighty-nine proved to be
bird's-eye, from
which we realized well over $7,000. We also got $600 for the firewood;
and two
years later we sold the old farm for $1,500, making in all a handsome
profit.
It seemed no more than right that $3,000 of it should go to Addison. The rest
of us more than half
expected that Addison would retain this handsome bonus, and use it
wholly for
his own education, since the fine profit we had made was due entirely
to his
own sagacity. But no, he
said at once that we were
all to share it with him; and after thinking the matter over, the old
Squire
saw his way clear to add two thousand from his share of the profits. We
therefore entered on our course
at the Academy the following spring, with what was deemed a safe fund
for
future expenses. THE END.
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