“Well, papa,” he replied, gratefully, “I wouldn’t mind a change like that.  I didn’t want you to think I was shirking, but, to tell the truth, I was getting played out.”

“Worked out, you mean.  It’s not my wish that you should ever be either played or worked out, nor will you if you take play and work in the right degree.  Remember,” I added, seriously, “that you are a growing boy, and it’s not my intention to put you at anything beyond your strength.  If, in my inexperience, I do give you too hard work, tell me at once.  There’s plenty to do that won’t overtax you.”

So we exchanged labors, and by the time the garden was plowed and the furrows were made I had scraped up enough fine material in the barnyard to give my tubers a great start.  I varied my labor with lessons in plowing, for running in my head was an “old saw” to the effect that “he who would thrive must both hold the plow and drive.”

The fine weather lasted long enough for us to plant our early potatoes in the most approved fashion, and then came a series of cold, wet days and frosty nights.  Mr. Jones assured us that the vegetable seeds already in the ground would receive no harm.  At such times as were suitable for work we finished trimming and tying up the hardy raspberries, cleaning up the barnyard, and carting all the fertilizers we could find to the land that we meant to cultivate.

CHAPTER XXIV

“No blind drifting”

One long, stormy day I prepared an account-book.  On its left-hand pages I entered the cost of the place and all expenses thus far incurred.  The right-hand pages were for records of income, as yet small indeed.  They consisted only of the proceeds from the sale of the calf, the eggs that Winnie gathered, and the milk measured each day, all valued at the market price.  I was resolved that there should be no blind drifting toward the breakers of failure—­that at the end of the year we should know whether we had made progress, stood still, or gone backward.  My system of keeping the accounts was so simple that I easily explained it to my wife, Merton, and Mousie, for I believed that, if they followed the effort at country living understandingly, they would be more willing to practice the self-denial necessary for success.  Indeed, I had Merton write out most of the items, even though the record, as a result, was not very neat.  I stopped his worrying over blots and errors, by saying, “You are of more account than the account-book, and will learn by practice to be as accurate as any one.”

My wife and Mousie also started another book of household expenses, that we might always know just where we stood and what our prospects were.