Seasons of Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #4) Read Online Free PDF

churning. Milk pail, strainer, skimmer, churn, butter spade, and mold, all had to be washed in hot, soapy water, dried, and covered against the storm of flies that were ever present. Perhaps if one had a wife to turn such chores over to—Robbie’s heart missed a beat as he thought of Tierney showing up in this remote corner of the world, and certain dreams came alive.
    “Whoa!”
    Daisy fidgeted again and quickly brought Robbie from fancy to fact.
    With summer just around the corner, he was seriously considering ordering a couple of items from the catalog that would, he felt, enhance his milk and butter production.
    Preservaline: “A harmless substance which, when added to milk or cream, will keep same for weeks in an absolutely perfect and wholesome state in any kind of weather—even through thunderstorms—without requiring ice or any refrigerator; absolutely tasteless, odorless, simple and cheap to use; does not affect the flavor or quality of the milk . . .”
    It seemed incredible—milk kept sweet for weeks? But the catalog promised it.
    Ozaline: “The finest disinfectant for creameries and dairies. Has no smell and gives out none. Removes every offensive smell at once. Positively marvelous in its actions. Prevents flies in creameries [ Would anything actually do that! Robbie thought, fanning away the usual horde]. Kills all germs in the air, gives off oxygen, and thus keeps the air pure. A small quantity of Ozaline sprinkled on dung heaps and in manure pits, in outhouses, and on anything having a bad odor, will remove all smell at once and for good. It will also prevent chicken lice. Price, in small quantities, 6c per lb.”
    The trouble was obtaining the six cents necessary to give it a try. And then there had been Herkimer Pinkard’s reaction. Herkimer, hearing Robbie through as he recounted the marvels of Preservaline and Ozaline as outlined in the “wish book,” had given a great shout of laughter, until the bib on his overalls vibrated with his mirth.
    “Milk keeping for weeks! Hahaha! All smell gone from manure! Never heard the likes of it,” the large man declared when at last he could restrain his hilarity.
    Robbie was in favor of anything that would, in particular, keep flies away. But perhaps he should save his money for the purchase of a churn. Currently he had no choice but to putcream in a jar and shake it vigorously until it separated and butter appeared.
    Yes, farming, not to mention housekeeping, was challenging.
    While Robbie struggled with the responsibilities of Daisy and her daily output, Allan, for his part, was feeding baby turkeys and slopping the sow they had purchased and that would “bring forth” anytime now (Robbie didn’t know the proper term for the birth of a sow’s progeny).
    He was ignorant about so much, and of course so was Allan. What a pair of greenhorns they were! Herkimer Pinkard’s good-natured chortles of laughter over their efforts was often the only sign that, once again, they were doing something all wrong. At that, it was better than severe criticism, Robbie and Allan agreed. Herkimer Pinkard was a sort of measuring stick for them.
    Greenhorns or not, they hadn’t done badly, so far.
    Still, Robbie was dissatisfied. Having gotten a few acres and a few belongings, he yearned for more; Robbie was ambitious. His homestead was the promised quarter of a section; he dreamed of an entire section, 640 acres, one square mile. Only the quarter section, however, was free. The rest would have to be bought, or . . . there were other ways, ways that were in his thinking, even in his planning. It would all come right, given time.
    And, in the meantime, he was breathing free! In any moment of crisis, even of discouragement, he had but to remind himself of that and the fact that life could be, would be, what he made it. He had that much power; he had that chance.
    He, Robbie Dunbar, was blessed. Looking over his acres, he well knew that many a Scottish highlander, back