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Show But quicksand flowed in despite our efforts to curb it out with plank barriers and sheets of galvanized iron. Whenever we pumped, the quicksand poured in, sometimes choking the pumps, often crushing our curbs. The Experiment Farm chronicle was largely one of defeats. My chief contribution to science was as puddler. One time when the pumps and engine were reasonably successful, an irrigation specialist insisted that the water was too icy as it came from the depths. We must collect it in a large tank for a time to warm it. Father hired a man with horses and a "fresno" or scraper to pile up earth walls for a reservoir near the well. Our advisor thought the yellow-brown clay we exposed might hold in the water. He urged that we "puddle" clay from the bottom and spread the natural mortar on the sides to reduce seeping away of the water. Father had read some of Fourier's social theories. That French theorist thought everybody would dote on communal living if each person could pick his own job. When asked, "Who'll do the dirty work?" he retorted, "Children six to eight-you know how they love to make mud pies!" Father jokingly appointed me Chief Puddler^ He ordered me to shed shoes and socks, roll up my pants and puddle. I did what seemed to me a gigantic job of puddling. I squeezed cubic yards of mud between my toes in the bottom of that reservoir, and stamped it slick. I spread much of it up the sides. Then we pumped the reservoir full. Next morning the water had seeped away to the level of the outlet leaving only inches of ooze. I puddled again. Overnight the reservoir emptied again. My ardor for mud pies, hot at first-I rejoiced in the mirth and applause I evoked plastering myself from head to foot with gorgeous yellow goo-seeped away |
