At this direful threat Bobsey looked as grave as his round little face permitted, and, with the memory of his peril in the creek fresh in mind, was ready enough with the most solemn promises.  A circle of unburned brush was left around the embers.  This I raked in on the hot coals, and soon all was consumed.

“Now I have a suggestion,” cried my wife.  “We’ll have some roast potatoes, for here are lots of hot coals and ashes.”  Away scampered Winnie to the cellar for the tubers.  Our bonfire ended in a feast, and then the ashes were spread far and wide.  When the exciting events were past, Winnie and Bobsey amused themselves in other ways, Mousie venturing to stay with them while the sun remained high.  Merton and I meanwhile put the horse to the cart and covered all the ground, especially the upper and poorer portions, with a good dressing from the barnyard.

In the evening Junior gave Merton a good hint about angle-worms.  “Follow the plow,” he said, “and pick ’em up and put ’em in a tight box.  Then sink the box in a damp place and nearly fill it with fine earth, and you always have bait ready when you want to go a-fishing.  After a few more warm days the fish will begin to bite first-rate.”

Early the next morning Mr. Jones was on hand with his stout team, and, going twice in every furrow, he sunk his plow to the beam.  “When you loosen the soil deep in this style,” he said, “ye needn’t be afraid of dry weather unless it’s an amazin’ long spell.  Why, bless you, Mr. Durham, there’s farmers around here who don’t scratch their ground much deeper than an old hen would, and they’re always groanin’ over droughts.  If I can get my plow down eighteen inches, and then find time to stir the surface often in the growin’ season, I ain’t afraid of a month of dry weather.”

We followed Mr. Jones for a few turns around the garden, I inhaling the fresh wholesome odors of the soil with pleasure, and Merton and the two younger children picking up angle-worms.

Our neighbor soon paused and resumed:  “I guess I’ll give you a hint that’ll add bushels of pertaters to yer crop.  After I’ve plowed the garden, I’ll furrow out deep a lot of rows, three feet apart.  Let Merton take a hoe and scrape up the fine old manure in the barnyard.  Don’t use any other kind.  Then sprinkle it thickly in the furrows, and draw your hoe through ’em to mix the fertilizer well with the soil.  Drop your seed then, eight inches apart in the row, and cover with four inches of dirt.  One can’t do this very handy by the acre, but I’ve known such treatment to double the crop and size of the pertaters in a garden or small patch.”

I took the hint at once, and set Merton at work, saying that Winnie and Bobsey could gather all the worms he wanted.  Then I went for a half-bushel of early potatoes, and Mr. Jones showed me how to cut them so as to leave at least two good “eyes” to each piece.  Half an hour later it occurred to me to see how Merton was getting on.  I found him perspiring, and almost panting with fatigue, and my conscience smote me.  “There, my boy,” I said, “this is too hard work for you.  Come with me and I’ll show you how to cut the potatoes.  But first go into the house, and cool off while you drink a glass of milk.”