While Wallace and Phonny were taking their ride, as described in the last chapter, Stuyvesant and Beechnut were plowing.

Beechnut told Stuyvesant that he was ready to yoke up, as he called it, as soon as the horses had gone.

“Well,” said Stuyvesant, “I will come. I have got to go up to my room a minute first.”

So Stuyvesant went up to his room, feeling in his pockets as he ascended the stairs, to find the keys of his trunk. When he reached his room, he kneeled down before his trunk and unlocked it.

He raised the lid and began to take out the things. He took them out very carefully, and laid them in order upon a table which was near the trunk. There were clothes of various kinds, some books, and several parcels, put up neatly in paper. Stuyvesant stopped at one of these parcels, which seemed to be of an irregular shape, and began to feel of what it contained through the paper.

“What is this?” said he to himself. “I wonder what it can be. Oh, I remember now, it is my watch-compass.”

What Stuyvesant called his watch-compass, was a small pocket-compass made in the form of a watch. It was in a very pretty brass case, about as large as a lady’s watch, and it had a little handle at the side, to fasten a watch-ribbon to. Stuyvesant’s uncle had given him this compass a great many years before. Stuyvesant had kept it very carefully in his drawer at home, intending when he should go into the country to take it with him, supposing that it would be useful to him in the woods. His sister had given him a black ribbon to fasten to the handle. The ribbon was long enough to go round Stuyvesant’s neck, while the compass was in his waistcoat pocket.

Stuyvesant untied the string, which was around the paper that contained his compass, and took it off. He then wound up this string into a neat sort of coil, somewhat in the manner in which fishing-lines are put up when for sale in shops. He put this coil of twine, together with the paper, upon the table. He looked at the compass a moment to see which was north in his chamber, and then putting the compass itself in his pocket, he passed the ribbon round his neck, and afterward went on taking the things out of his trunk.

When he came pretty near to the bottom of his trunk, he said to himself,

“Ah! here it is.”

At the same moment he took out a garment, which seemed to be a sort of frock. It was made of brown linen. He laid it aside upon a chair, and then began to put the things back into his trunk again. He laid them all in very carefully, each in its own place. When all were in, he shut down the lid of the trunk, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Then he took the frock from the chair, and opening it, put it on.

It was made somewhat like a cartman’s frock. Stuyvesant had had it made by the seamstress at his mother’s house, in New York, before he came away. He was a very neat and tidy boy about his dress, and always felt uncomfortable if his clothes were soiled or torn. He concluded, therefore, that if he had a good, strong, serviceable frock to put on over his other clothes, it would be very convenient for him at Franconia.

As soon as his frock was on, he hastened down stairs and went out to the barn in search of Beechnut. He found him yoking up the cattle.

“Why, Stuyvesant,” said Beechnut, when he saw him, “that is a capital frock that you have got. How much did it cost?”

“I don’t know,” said Stuyvesant; “Mary made it for me.”

“Who is Mary?” asked Beechnut.

“She is the seamstress,” said Stuyvesant. “She lives at our house in New York.”

“Do you have a seamstress there all the time?” said Beechnut.

“Yes,” said Stuyvesant.

“And her name is Mary,” said Beechnut.

“Yes,” said Stuyvesant.

“Well, I wish she would take it into her head to make me such a frock as that,” said Beechnut.

During this conversation, Beechnut had been busily employed in yoking up the oxen. Stuyvesant looked on, watching the operations carefully, in order to see how the work of yoking up was done. He wished to see whether the process was such that he could learn to yoke up oxen himself; or whether any thing that was required was beyond his strength.

“Can boys yoke up cattle?” said Stuyvesant at length.

“It takes a pretty stout boy,” said Beechnut.

“Could a boy as stout as I am do it?” asked Stuyvesant.

“It would be rather hard work for you,” said Beechnut, “the yoke is pretty heavy.”

The yoke was indeed quite heavy, and it was necessary to lift it—one end at a time—over the necks of the oxen. Stuyvesant observed that the oxen were fastened to the yoke, by means of bows shaped like the letter U. These bows were passed up under the necks of the oxen. The ends of them came up through the yokes and were fastened there by little pegs, which Beechnut called keys. There was a ring in the middle of the yoke on the under side to fasten the chain to, by which the cattle were to draw.

When the oxen were yoked, Beechnut drove them to the corner of the yard, where there was a drag with a plow upon it. Beechnut put an axe also upon the drag.

“What do you want an axe for,” asked Stuyvesant, “in going to plow?”

“We always take an axe,” said Beechnut, “when we go away to work. We are pretty sure to want it for something or other.”

Beechnut then gave Stuyvesant a goad stick, and told him that he might drive. Stuyvesant had observed very attentively what Beechnut had done in driving, and the gestures which he had made, and the calls which he had used, in speaking to the oxen, and though he had never attempted to drive such a team before, he succeeded quite well. His success, however, was partly owing to the sagacity of the oxen, who knew very well where they were to go and what they were to do.

At length, after passing through one or two pairs of bars, they came to the field.

“Which is the easiest,” said Stuyvesant, “to drive the team or hold the plow?”

“That depends,” said Beechnut, “upon whether your capacity consists most in your strength or your skill.”

“Why so?” asked Stuyvesant.

“Because,” said Beechnut, “it requires more skill to drive, than to hold the plow, and more strength to hold the plow, than to drive. I think, therefore, that you had better drive, for as between you and I, it is I that have the most strength, and you that have the most skill.”

Stuyvesant laughed.

“Why you ought to have the most skill,” said Beechnut—“coming from such a great city.”

Beechnut took the plow off from the drag, and laid the drag on one side. He then attached the cattle to the plow. They were standing, when they did this, in the middle of one side of the field.

“Now,” said Beechnut, “we are going first straight through the middle of the field. Do you see that elm-tree, the other side of the fence?”

“I see a large tree,” said Stuyvesant.

“It is an elm,” said Beechnut.

“There is a great bird upon the top of it,” said Stuyvesant.

“Yes,” said Beechnut, “it is a crow. Now you must keep the oxen headed directly for that tree. Go as straight as you can, and I shall try to keep the plow straight behind you. The thing is to make a straight furrow.”

When all was ready, Stuyvesant gave the word to his oxen to move on, and they began to draw. Stuyvesant went on, keeping his eye alternately upon the oxen and upon the tree. He had some curiosity to look round and see how Beechnut was getting along with the furrow, but he recollected that his business was to drive, and so he gave his whole attention to his driving, in order that he might go as straight as possible across the field.

The crow flew away when he had got half across the field. He had a strong desire to know where she was going to fly to, but he did not look round to follow her in her flight. He went steadily on attending to his driving.

When he was about two thirds across the field, he saw a stump at a short distance before him, with a small hornet’s nest upon one side of it. His course would lead him, he saw, very near this nest. His first impulse was to stop the oxen and tell Beechnut about the hornet’s nest. He did in fact hesitate a moment, but he was instantly reassured by hearing Beechnut call out to him from behind, saying,

“Never mind the hornet’s nest, Stuyvesant. Drive the oxen right on. I don’t think the hornets will sting them.”

Stuyvesant perceived by this, that Beechnut thought only of the oxen, when he saw a hornet’s nest, and he concluded to follow his example in this respect. So he drove steadily on.

When they got to the end of the field the oxen stopped. Beechnut and Stuyvesant then looked round to see the furrow. It was very respectably straight.

“You have done very well,” said he, “and you will find it easier now, for one of the oxen will walk in the furrow, and that will guide him.”

So Stuyvesant brought the team around and then went back, one of the oxen in returning walking in the furrow which had been made before. In this manner they went back to the place from which they had first started.

“There,” said Beechnut, “now we have got our work well laid out. But before we plow any more, we must destroy that hornet’s nest, or else when we come to plow by that stump, the hornets will sting the oxen. I’ll go and get some straw. You may stay here and watch the oxen while I am gone.”

In a short time Beechnut came back, bringing his arms full of hay. He walked directly toward that part of the field where the hornet’s nest was, calling Stuyvesant to follow him. Stuyvesant did so. When he got near to the stump, he put the hay down upon the ground. He then advanced cautiously to the stump with a part of the hay in his arms This hay he put down at the foot of the stump, directly under the hornet’s nest, extending a portion of it outward so as to form a sort of train. He then went back and took up the remaining portion of the hay and held it in his hands.

“Now, Stuyvesant,” said Beechnut, “light a match and set fire to the train.”

Beechnut had previously given Stuyvesant a small paper containing a number of matches.

“How shall I light it?” asked Stuyvesant.

“Rub it upon a stone,” said Beechnut. “Find one that has been lying in the sun,” continued Beechnut, “and then the match will catch quicker, because the stone will be warm and dry.”

So Stuyvesant lighted a match by rubbing it upon a smooth stone which was lying upon the ground near by. He then cautiously approached the end of the train and set it on fire.

Beechnut then came up immediately with the hay that he had in his hands, and placed it over and around the hornet’s nest, so as to envelop it entirely. He and Stuyvesant then retreated together to a safe distance, and there stood to watch the result.

A very dense white smoke immediately began to come up through the hay. Presently the flame burst out, and in a few minutes the whole mass of the hay was in a bright blaze. Stuyvesant looked very earnestly to see if he could see any hornets, but he could not. At last, however, when the fire was burnt nearly down, he saw two. They were flying about the stump, apparently in great perplexity and distress. Stuyvesant pitied them, but as he did not see what he could do to help them, he told them that he thought they had better go and find some more hornets and build another nest somewhere. Then he and Beechnut went back to the plow.

Stuyvesant had quite a desire to try and hold the plow, after he had been driving the team about an hour, but he thought it was best not to ask. In fact he knew himself that it was best for him to learn one thing at a time. So he went on with his driving.

When it was about a quarter before twelve, Beechnut said that it was time to go in. So he unhooked the chain from the yoke, and leaving the plow, the drag, the axe and the chain in the field, he let the oxen go. They immediately ran off into a copse of trees and bushes, which bordered the road on one side.

“Why, Beechnut!” said Stuyvesant, “the oxen are running away.”

“No,” said Beechnut, “they are only going down to drink. There is a brook down there where they go to drink when they are at work in this field.”

Oxen appear to possess mental qualifications of a certain kind in a very high degree. They are especially remarkable for their sagacity in finding good places to drink in the fields and pastures where they feed or are employed at work, and for their good memory in recollecting where they are. An ox may be kept away from a particular field or pasture quite a long time, and yet know exactly where to go to find water to drink when he is admitted to it again.

Stuyvesant looked at the oxen as they went down the path, and then proposed to follow them.

“Let us go and see,” said he.

So he and Beechnut walked along after the oxen. They found a narrow, but very pretty road, or rather path, overhung with trees and bushes, which led down to the water. The road terminated at a broad and shallow place in the stream, where the sand was yellow and the water very clear. The oxen went out into the water, and then put their heads down to drink. Presently they stopped, first one and then the other, and stood a moment considering whether they wanted any more. Finding that they did not, they turned round in the water, and then came slowly out to the land. They walked up the bank, and finally emerging from the wood at the place where they had entered it, they went toward home.

When they reached the house the cattle went straight through the yard, toward the barn. Beechnut and Stuyvesant followed them. Beechnut was going to get them some hay. Stuyvesant went in with Beechnut and stood below on the barn floor, while Beechnut went up the ladder to pitch the hay down.

During all the time that Beechnut and Stuyvesant had been coming up from the field, conversation had been going on between them, about various subjects connected with farming. Stuyvesant asked Beechnut if Phonny could drive oxen pretty well.

“Pretty well,” said Beechnut.

“Does he like to drive?” asked Stuyvesant.

“He likes to begin to drive,” said Beechnut.

“What do you mean by that?” asked Stuyvesant.

“Why, when there is any driving to be done,” replied Beechnut, “he thinks that he shall like it, and he wants to take a goad stick and begin. But he very soon gets tired of it, and goes away. You seem to have more perseverance. In fact, you seem to have a great deal of perseverance, which I think is very strange, considering that you are a city boy.”

Stuyvesant laughed.

“City boys,” continued Beechnut, “I have always heard said, are good for nothing at all.”

“But you said, a little while ago,” replied Stuyvesant, “that city boys had a great deal of skill.”

“Yes,” said Beechnut, “they are bright enough, but they have generally no steadiness or perseverance. They go from one thing to another, following the whim of the moment. The reason of that is, that living in cities, they are brought up without having any thing to do.”

“They can go of errands,” said Stuyvesant.

“Yes,” said Beechnut, “they can go of errands, but there are not many errands to be done, so they are brought up in idleness. Country boys, on the other hand, generally have a great deal to do. They have to go for the cows, and catch the horses, and drive oxen, and a thousand other things, and so they are brought up in industry.”

“Is Phonny brought up in industry?” asked Stuyvesant.

“Hardly,” said Beechnut. “In fact he is scarcely old enough yet to do much work.”

“He is as old as I am,” said Stuyvesant.

“True,” said Beechnut, “but he does not seem to have as much discretion. Do you see that long shed out there, projecting from the barn?”

This was said just at the time when Beechnut and Stuyvesant were passing through the gate which led into the yard, and the barns and sheds were just coming into view.

“The one with that square hole by the side of the door?” asked Stuyvesant.

“Yes,” said Beechnut, “that was Phonny’s hen house. He bought some hens, and was going to be a great poulterer. He was going to have I don’t know how many eggs and chickens,—but finally he got tired of his brood, and neglected them, and at last wanted to sell them to me. I bought them day before yesterday.”

“How many hens are there?” asked Stuyvesant.

“About a dozen,” said Beechnut. “I gave him a dollar and a half for the whole stock. I looked into his hen-house when I bought him out, and found it all in sad condition. I have not had time to put it in order yet.”

“I will put it in order,” said Stuyvesant.

“Will you?” said Beechnut.

“Yes,” said Stuyvesant, “and I should like to buy the hens of you, if I were only going to stay here long enough.”

“I don’t think it is worth while for you to buy them,” said Beechnut, “but I should like to have you take charge of them. I would pay you by giving you a share of the eggs.”

“What could I do with the eggs?” asked Stuyvesant.

“Why you could sell them, or give them away, just as you pleased. You might give them to Mrs. Henry, or sell them to her, or sell them to me. If you will take the whole care of them while you are here, I will give you one third of the eggs, after all expenses are paid.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Stuyvesant.

“Why, if we have to buy any grain, for instance, to give the hens, we must sell eggs enough first to pay for the grain, and after that, you shall have one third of the eggs that are left.”

Stuyvesant was much pleased with this proposal, and was just about to say that he accepted it, when his attention was suddenly turned away from the subject, by hearing a loud call from Phonny, who just then came running round a corner, with a box-trap under his arm, shouting out,

“Stuyvesant! Stuyvesant! Look here! I’ve got a gray squirrel;—a beautiful, large gray squirrel.”