،Ë##############
§x;•, ſae ;** ſº ſº: ſaeſºxae：
·§;::::::
~：a ſº:¿?：§§***·
§§- ¿¿.*¿¿.#########################################
º.###3«… . . …ſº， ºſe （…"（ſi ſº：^ -#####ț¢|:::::::：::###！·#########t.
№ſſae;¿~ ∞ √° √∞…, :）. ¿№rsº§§ ·ſae.#######Įſiſae:#####：
&####،ſëſae.t. *--（.*{{ſ}}m.· · · · ·，≤） ·|&. ， ſſºſiſ8
:::::::#;！ ± -` ſ … * * ,§§ī£（;&#：:~ ~ .， … … … ：） --- «：-
ºſº y ſł; șiſt
&&， i， !
№• !! %±
ș și ſ
ae
#º-ºº:
gº -
º
* : * * ****
sº º
**** ? £
;8，\; （ſ）
& ！! !!3!！!
¿¿.*};
- * ~~. :: * ~ *s, * ::::::
º, º ºxº~ ºf
∞
، ، ، ، ، ، ، ، ،§§
?-***********# {
•• №w！-segasº， šaš， **
ſ ： * , ， ， ， ;
¿¿.* # ： ; ſae
· ·:·º·ſsºw） * ſ;
§§
ſººs ºſ º ſºº
§. 3. e.， ešea✉
·¿¿.*
· ，ſaeſy
* √ √∞ √° ſ√≠√∞ √° √-
ſºſ??， ¿
·l.
iſ;
ſ ºtſ&
º aeſ，#
ģ
§：
：##
∞
****
%
ſºſ
， ••••• • №w iſ
* * * * * *
|
§
• ſ، ، ،
· * * * * * * * · ·
© ºº &
ºs- ºr ex-sº-
~ &§§;*！- }*. \!
*--ſae！”，”）， și∞ √æ√≠√∞ √° ſ√≠√∞
§¶√°√≠√°'，§§

ș * * * ， ， ， *
ſay， ， ， ， , ºwº， w
£{
3 gº
Œ œ
|×،
ſaeſº， y ， ， ; ; ）
∞ √ √
S
| | N T I A V E R T A
. . .----. -------sº-
P R O P E R T Y O F
S
A R T E S











Prairie Folks
Prairie Folks
By
HAM LIN GARLAND
Author of
Main-Travelled Roads
Rose of Dutcher’s Coolly, etc.
New Edition
Revised and Enlarged
H arper & Brothers
Publishers
New York and London

&28
&235 -p-
1899
COPYRIGHT, 1892. 1899, BY HAM LIN GARLAND
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
PRAIRIE FOLKS
PIONEERS
They rise to mastery of wind and snow ;
They go like soldiers grimly into strife,
To colonize the plain; they plough and sow,
And fertilize the sod with their own life
As did the Indian and the buffalo.
SETTLERS
Above them soars a dazzling sky,
In winter blue and clear as steel,
In summer like an arctic sea
Wherein vast icebergs drift and reel
And melt like sudden sorcery.
Beneath them plains stretch far and fair,
Rich with sunlight and with rain;
Vast harvests ripen with their care
And fill with overplus of grain
Their square, great bins.
Yet still they strive I see them rise
At dawn-light, going forth to toil:
The same salt sweat has filled my eyes,
My feet have trod the self-same soil
Behind the snarling plough.
V
Preface
THE stories which make up PRAIRIE Folks were
written at about the same time with those contained in
“Main-Travelled Roads,” and the volume may be con-
sidered a companion piece or second series. In the first
volume some stories not of the prairie country were in-
cluded, and the plan of the book brought together stories
peculiarly sombre in effect; in “Prairie Folks” the tales
are nearly all of the prairie lands of the West, and
include many ruder as well as younger types. Both
books refer to conditions that have already passed or are
passing away. Some of them refer to border life of
twenty or thirty years ago, others are of more recent
date ; all are descriptive of life as I saw it, and are
written without regard to any other point of view.
HAMLIN GARLAND.
WEST SALEM, Wis.,
August 16, 1899.
Contents
Introductory Verse
Preface c tº tº Ç º
Then It's Spring (Verse)
William Bacon’s Man
April Days (Verse)
Elder Pill, Preacher
A Day of Grace . Q
A Farmer’s Wife (Verse)
Lucretia Burns * > tº º tº
Logan at Peach Tree Creek (Verse) .
Some Village Cronies º ©
The War of Race (Verse)
Drifting Crane º
Paid his Way (Verse)
Daddy Deering . © º
Horsus Chawin’ Hay (Verse).
Black Ephram ſº tº e
Across the Picket-Line (Verse)
The Wapseypinnicon Tiger
Goin' Back Tºmorrer (Verse).
Aidgewise Feelin’s . º
Growing Old (Verse) o º
The Sociable at Dudley’s e ſº
An Afterword: Of Winds, Snows, and the Stars (Verse)
IX
$4 '
WILLIAM BACON'S MAN
THEN IT'S SPRING
WHEN the hens begin a-squawkin’
An’ a-rollin’ in the dust;
When the rooster takes to talkin',
An’ a-crowin’ fit to bust;
When the crows are cawin', flockin',
An' the chickuns boom and sing,
Then it’s spring !
When the roads are jest one mud-hole
And the worter tricklin’ round
Makes the barn-yard like a puddle,
An' softens up the ground
Till y’r ankle-deep in worter,
Sayin’ words y’r hadn’t orter—
When the jay-birds swear an' sing,
Then it’s spring !
WILLIAM BACON'S MAN
I
THE yellow March sun lay powerfully on the bare
Iowa prairie, where the ploughed fields were already turn-
ing warm and brown, and only here and there in a corner
or on the north side of the fence did the sullen drifts
remain, and they were so dark and low that they hardly
appeared to break the mellow brown of the fields.
There passed also an occasional flock of geese, cheer-
ful harbingers of spring, and the prairie-chickens had
set up their morning symphony, wide-swelling, wonderful
with its prophecy of the new birth of grass and grain
and the springing life of all breathing things. The crow
passed now and then, uttering his resonant croak, but
the crane had not yet sent forth his bugle note.
Lyman Gilman rested on his axe-helve at the wood-
pile of Farmer Bacon to listen to the music around him.
In a vague way he was powerfully moved by it. He
heard the hens singing their weird, raucous, monotonous
song, and saw them burrowing in the dry chip-dust near
him. He saw the young colts and cattle frisking in the
sunny space around the straw-stacks, absorbed through
his bare arms and uncovered head the heat of the sun,
and felt the soft wooing of the air so deeply that he
broke into an unwonted exclamation : —
4. Prairie Folks
“Glory ! we'll be seeding by Friday, sure.”
This short and disappointing soliloquy was, after all,
an expression of deep emotion. To the Western farmer
the very word “seeding” is a poem. And these few
words, coming from Lyman Gilman, meant more and
expressed more than many a large and ambitious spring-
time song.
But the glory of all the slumbrous landscape, the stately
beauty of the sky with its masses of fleecy vapor, were
swept away by the sound of a girl’s voice humming,
“Come to the Saviour,” while she bustled about the
kitchen near by. The windows were open. Ah! what
suggestion to these dwellers in a rigorous climate was in
the first unsealing of the windows How sweet it was
to the pale and weary women after their long imprison-
ment
As Lyman sat down on his maple log to hear better,
a plump face appeared at the window, and a clear, girl-
voice said : —
“Smell anything, Lime * *
He snuffed the air. “Cookies, by the great horn
spoons !” he yelled, leaping up. “Bring me some, an’
see me eat; it’ll do ye good.”
“Come an' get ’m,” laughed the face at the window.
“Oh, it’s nicer out here, Merry Etty. What's the
rush Bring me out some, an’ set down on this log.”
With a nod Marietta disappeared, and soon came out
with a plate of cookies in one hand and a cup of milk in
the other.
“Poor little man, he’s all tired out, ain’t he f*
William Bacon’s Man 5
Lime, taking the cue, collapsed in a heap, and said
feebly, “Bread, bread l’’
“Won’t milk an’ cookies do as well ?”
He brushed off the log and motioned her to sit down
beside him, but she hesitated a little and colored a little.
“Oh, Lime, s”pose somebody should see us * *
“Let 'em. What in thunder do we care Sit down
an' gimme a holt o' them cakes. I’m just about done
up. I couldn’t 'a' stood it another minute.”
She sat down beside him with a laugh and a pretty
blush. She was in her apron, and the sleeves of her
dress were rolled to her elbows, displaying the strong,
round arms. Wholesome and sweet she looked and
smelled, the scent of the cooking round her. Lyman
munched a couple of the cookies and gulped a pint of
milk before he spoke.
“Whadda we care who sees us sittin’ side b” side 2
Ain’t we goin’ tº be married soon ”
“Oh, them cookies in the oven ” she shrieked, leap-
ing up and running to the house. She looked back as
she reached the kitchen door, however, and smiled with
a flushed face. Lime slapped his knee and roared with
laughter at his bold stroke.
“Ho! hol” he laughed. “Didn't I do it slick?
Ain't nothin’ green in my eye, I guess.” In an intense
and pleasurable abstraction he finished the cookies and
the milk. Then he yelled : —
“Hey! Merry — Merry Etty l’”
“Whadda ye want : ” sang the girl from the window,
her face still rosy with confusion.
6 Prairie Folks
“Come out here and git these things.”
The girl shook her head, with a laugh.
“Come out an’git 'm, ºr, by jingo, I’ll throw 'em at
ye | Come on, now !”
The girl looked at the huge, handsome fellow, the
sun falling on his golden hair and beard, and came
slowly out to him — came creeping along with her hand
outstretched for the plate which Lime, with a laugh in his
sunny blue eyes, extended at the full length of his bare
arm. The girl made a snatch at it, but his left hand
caught her by the wrist, and away went cup and plate as he
drew her to him and kissed her in spite of her struggles.
“My ain’t you strong !” she said, half ruefully and
half admiringly, as she shrugged her shoulders. “If
you’d use a little more o’ that choppin’ wood, Dad
wouldn’t 'a' lost s’ much money by yeh.”
Lime grew grave.
“There’s the hog in the fence, Merry; what’s yer
dad goin’ tº say — ”
“ About what * *
“About our gitt’n married this spring.”
“I guess you’d better find out what I’m a-goin’ tº
say, Lime Gilman, 'fore you pitch into Dad.”
“I know what you’re a-goin’ tº say.”
“No, y' don't.”
“Yes, but I do, though.”
“Well, ask me, and see, if you think you’re so smart.
Jest as like ’s not, you’ll slip up.”
“All right; here goes. Marietty Bacon, ain’t you
an' Lime Gilman goin’ tº be married ? "
William Bacon’s Man 7
“No, sir, we ain’t,” laughed the girl, snatching up
the plate and darting away to the house, where she
struck up “Weevily Wheat,” and went busily on about
her cooking. Lime threw a kiss at her, and fell to
work on his log with startling energy.
Lyman looked forward to his interview with the old man
with as much trepidation as he had ever known, though
commonly he had little fear of anything —but a girl.
Marietta was not only the old man’s only child, but
his housekeeper, his wife having at last succumbed to
the ferocious toil of the farm. It was reasonable to
suppose, therefore, that he would surrender his claim on
the girl reluctantly. Rough as he was, he loved Mari-
etta strongly, and would find it exceedingly hard to get
along without her.
Lyman mused on these things as he drove the gleam-
ing axe into the huge maple logs. He was something
more than the usual hired man, being a lumberman from
the Wisconsin pineries, where he had sold out his inter-
est in a camp not three weeks before the day he began
work for Bacon. He had a nice “little wad o' money”
when he left the camp and started for La Crosse, but
he had been robbed in his hotel the first night in the
city, and was left nearly penniless. It was a great blow
to him, for, as he said, every cent of that money “stood
fer hard knocks an’ poor feed. When I smelt of it I
could jest see the cold, frosty mornin’s and the late
nights. I could feel the hot sun on my back like it was
when I worked in the harvest-field. By jingo It
kind o’ made my toes curl up.”
8 Prairie Folks
But he went resolutely out to work again, and here
he was chopping wood in old man Bacon’s yard, think-
ing busily on the talk which had just passed between
Marietta and himself.
“By jingo !” he said all at once, stopping short,
with the axe on his shoulder. “If I hadn’t ‘a’ been
robbed I wouldn’t 'a' come here — I never'd met Merry.
Thunder and jimson root | Wasn’t that a narrow es-
cape ’’
And then he laughed so heartily that the girl looked
out of the window again to see what in the world he
was doing. He had his hat in his hand and was whack-
ing his thigh with it.
“Lyman Gilman, what in the world ails you to-day :
It’s perfectly ridiculous the way you yell and talk tº
y’rself out there on the chips. You beat the hens, I
declare if you don't.”
Lime put on his hat and walked up to the window,
and, resting his great bare arms on the sill, and his chin
on his arms, said : —
“Merry, I’m goin’ to tackle ‘Dad' this afternoon.
He'll be sittin' up the new seeder, and I’m goin’ t”
climb right on the back of his neck. He's jest got t”
give me a chance.”
Marietta looked sober in sympathy.
“Well ! P'raps it’s best to have it over with, Lime,
but someway I feel kind o' scary about it.”
Lime stood for a long time looking in at the window,
watching the light-footed girl as she set the table in the
middle of the sun-lighted kitchen floor. The kettle
William Bacon’s Man 9
hissed, the meat sizzled, sending up a delicious odor;
a hen stood in the open door and sang a sort of cheery
half-human song, while to and fro moved the sweet-
faced, lithe, and powerful girl, followed by the smiling
eyes at the window.
“Merry, you look purty as a picture. You look just
like the wife I be’n a-huntin’ for all these years, sure 's
shootin *.”
Marietta colored with pleasure.
“Does Dad pay you to stand an’ look at me an’ say
pretty things tº the cook 2 °
“No, he don’t. But I’m willin’ tº do it without
pay. I could just stand here till kingdom come an’ look
at you. Hello! I hear a wagon. I guess I better
hump into that woodpile.”
“I think so too. Dinner's most ready, and Dad 'll
be here soon.”
Lime was driving away furiously at a tough elm log
when Farmer Bacon drove into the yard with a new
seeder in his wagon. Lime whacked away busily while
Bacon stabled the team, and in a short time Marietta
called, in a long-drawn, musical fashion : —
“Dinner-r—r ”
After sozzling their faces at the well the two men
went in and sat down at the table. Bacon was not
much of a talker at any time, and at meal-time, in seed-
ing, eating was the main business in hand; therefore the
meal was a silent one, Marietta and Lime not caring to
talk on general topics. The hour was an anxious one
for her, and an important one for him.
IO Prairie Folks
“Wal, now, Lime, seedun' 's the nex’ thing,” said
Bacon, as he shoved back his chair and glared around
from under his bushy eyebrows. “We can’t do too
much this afternoon. That seeder's got tº be set up
an’ a lot o' seed-wheat cleaned up. You unload the
machine while I feed the pigs.”
Lime sat still till the old man was heard outside call-
ing “Oo-ee, poo-ee’” to the pigs in the yard; then he
smiled at Marietta, but she said: —
“He’s got on one of his fits, Lime; I don’t b'lieve
you’d better tackle him tº–day.”
“Don’t you worry; I’ll fix him. Come, now, give
me a kiss.”
“Why, you great thing ! You—took—”
“I know, but I want you to give 'em to me. Just
walk right up to me an’ give me a smack tº bind the
bargain.”
“I ain’t made any bargain,” laughed the girl. Then,
feeling the force of his tender tone, she added: “Will
you behave, and go right off to your work : ”
“Jest like a little man—hope tº die!”
“ Lime ! ” roared the old man from the barn.
“Hello!” replied Lime, grinning joyously and wink-
ing at the girl, as much as to say, “This would paralyze
the old man if he saw it.”
He went out to the shed where Bacon was at work,
as serene as if he had not a fearful task on hand. He
was apprehensive that the father might “gig back ’’
unless rightly approached, and so he awaited a good
opportunity.
William Bacon’s Man I I
The right moment seemed to present itself along
about the middle of the afternoon. Bacon was down
on the ground under the machine, tightening some
burrs. This was a good chance for two reasons. In
the first place, the keen, almost savage eyes were no
longer where they could glare on him, and in spite of
his cool exterior Lime had just as soon not have the old
man looking at him.
Besides, the old farmer had been telling about his
“river eighty,” which was without a tenant; the man
who had taken it, having lost his wife, had grown dis-
heartened and had given it up.
“It’s an almighty good chance for a man with a small
family. Good house an’ barn, good land. A likely
young feller with a team an’ a woman could do tiptop
on that eighty. If he wanted more, I’d let him have an
eighty j’inun’ — ”
“I’d like t” try that m'self,” said Lime, as a feeler.
The old fellow said nothing in reply for a moment.
“Ef you had a team an’ tools an’ a woman, I’d jest
as lief you’d have it as anybody.”
“Sell me your blacks, and I’ll pay half down — the
balance in the fall. I can pick up some tools, and as
for a woman, Merry Etty an’ me have talked that over
to-day. She’s ready to — ready to marry me whenever
you say go.”
There was an ominous silence under the seeder, as if
the father could not believe his ears.
“What’s — what’s that l” he stuttered. “Who’d
you say : What about Merry Etty ”
I 2 Prairie Folks
“She’s agreed to marry me.”
“The hell you say !” roared Bacon, as the truth
burst upon him. “So that’s what you do when I go off
to town and leave you to chop wood. So you’re goun’ to
git married, hey ”
He was now where Lime could see him, glaring up
into his smiling blue eyes. Lime stood his ground.
“Yes, sir. That’s the calculation.”
“Well, I guess I’ll have somethin’ t” say about that,”
said Bacon, nodding his head violently.
“I rather expected y” would. Blaze away. Your
privilege — my bad luck. Sail in ol’ man. What’s
y’r objection to me fer a son-in-law ”
“Don’t you worry, young feller. I’ll come at it soon
enough,” went on Bacon, as he turned up another burr
in a very awkward corner. In his nervous excitement
the wrench slipped, banging his knuckle.
“Ouch! Thunder — m-m-m l’ howled and snarled
the wounded man.
“What's the matter Bark y’r knuckle ” queried
Lime, feeling a mighty impulse to laugh. But when he
saw the old savage straighten up and glare at him he
sobered. Bacon was now in a frightful temper. The
veins in his great, bare, weather-beaten neck swelled
dangerously.
“Jest let me say right here that I’ve had enough o'
you. You can’t live on the same acre with my girl
another day.”
“What makes ye think I can’t ” It was now the
young man’s turn to draw himself up, and as he faced
William Bacon’s Man I3
the old man, his arms folded and each vast hand grasping
an elbow, he looked like a statue of red granite, and the
hands resembled the paws of a crouching lion; but his
eyes smiled.
“I don’t think, I know ye won't.”
“What's the objection to me f *
“Objection ? Hell! What's the inducement : My
hired man, an’ not three shirts to yer back!”
“That’s another; I’ve got four. Say, old man, did
you ever work out for a living : ”
“That’s none o' your business,” growled Bacon a
little taken down. “I’ve worked an’ scraped, an’ got
t’gether a little prop’ty here, an’ they ain’t no sucker
like you goun’ to come 'long here, an’ live off me, an’
spend my prop’ty after I’m dead. You can jest bet
high on that.”
“Who’s goin’ tº live on ye ’’’
“You’re aimun’ to.”
“I ain’t, neither.”
“Yes, y’are. You’ve loafed on me ever since I
hired ye.”
“That’s a —” Lime checked himself for Marietta’s
sake, and the enraged father went on : —
“I hired ye tº cut wood, an’ you’ve gone an’ fooled
my daughter away from me. Now you just figger up
what I owe ye, and git out o' here. Ye can’t go too
soon tº suit me.”
Bacon was renowned as the hardest man to handle in
Cedar County, and though he was getting old, he was
still a terror to his neighbors when roused. He was
I4. Prairie Folks
honest, temperate, and a good neighbor until something
carried him off his balance; then he became as cruel as a
panther and as savage as a grisly. All this Lime knew,
but it did not keep his anger down so much as did the
thought of Marietta. His silence infuriated Bacon, who
yelled hoarsely : —
“Git out o’ this ”
“Don’t be in a rush, ol’ man — ”
Bacon hurled himself upon Lime, who threw out one
hand and stopped him, while he said in a low voice : —
“Stay right where you are, ol’ man. I’m dangerous.
It’s for Merry’s sake — ”
The infuriated old man struck at him. Lime warded
off the blow, and with a sudden wrench and twist threw
him to the ground with frightful force. Before Bacon
could rise, Marietta, who had witnessed the scene, came
flying from the house.
“Lime! Father | What are you doing?”
“I — couldn’t help it, Merry. It was him ºr me,”
said Lime, almost sadly.
“Dad, ain’t you got no sense What’re you think-
ing off You jest stop right now. I won’t have it.”
He rose while she clung to him; he seemed a little
dazed. It was the first time he had ever been thrown,
and he could not but feel a certain respect for his oppo-
nent, but he could not give way.
“Pack up yer duds,” he snarled, “an git off’n my
land. I’ll have the money fer ye when ye come back.
I’ll give ye jest five minutes to git clear o’ here. Merry,
you stay here.”
William Bacon’s Man I 5
The young man saw it was useless to remain, as it
would only excite the old man; and so, with a look of
apology, not without humor, at Marietta, he went to the
house to get his valise. The girl wept silently while the
father raged up and down. His mood frightened her.
“I thought ye had more sense than tº take up with
such a dirty houn’.”
“He ain’t a houn’,” she blazed forth, “and he's just
as good and clean as you are.”
“Shut up ! Don’t let me hear another word out o'
your head. I’m boss here yet, I reckon.”
Lime came out with his valise in his hand.
“Good-by, Merry,” he said cheerily. She started to
go to him, but her father’s rough grasp held her.
“Set down, an’ stay there.”
Lime was going out of the gate.
“Here! Come and get y’r money,” yelled the old
man, extending some bills. “Here’s twenty — ”
“Go to thunder with your money,” retorted Lime.
“I’ve had my pay for my month’s work.” As he said
that, he thought of the sunny kitchen and the merry
girl, and his throat choked. Good-by to the sweet girl
whose smile was so much to him, and to the happy
noons and nights her eyes had made for him. He
waved his hat at her as he stood in the open gate, and
the sun lighted his handsome head into a sort of glory
in her eyes. Then he turned and walked rapidly off
down the road, not looking back.
The girl, when she could no longer see him, dashed
away, and, sobbing violently, entered the house.
I6 Prairie Folks
II
THERE was just a suspicion of light in the east, a
mere hint of a glow, when Lyman walked cautiously
around the corner of the house and tapped at Mari-
etta’s window. She was sleeping soundly and did not
hear, for she had been restless during the first part of
the night. He tapped again, and the girl woke without
knowing what woke her.
Lyman put the blade of his pocket-knife under the
window and raised it a little, and then placed his lips to
the crack, and spoke in a sepulchral tone, half groan,
half whisper : —
“Merry | Merry Etty 1"
The dazed girl sat up in bed and listened, while her
heart almost stood still.
“Merry, it's me — Lime. Come to the winder.”
The girl hesitated, and Lyman spoke again.
“Come, I hain’t got much time. This is your last
chance tº see me. It’s now ºr never.”
The girl slipped out of bed, and, wrapping herself in
a shawl, crept to the window. .
“Boost on that winder,” commanded Lyman. She
raised it enough to admit his head, which came just
above the sill; then she knelt on the floor by the win-
dow.
Her eyes stared wide and dark.
“Lime, what in the world do you mean — ”
“I mean business,” he replied. “I ain’t no last
5
William Bacon's Man I7
year's chicken; I know when the old man sleeps the
soundest.” He chuckled pleasantly.
“How 'd y’ fool old Rove ’’
“Never mind about that now ; they’s something
more important on hand. You’ve got tº go with
2 3
II].C.
She drew back. “Oh, Lime, I can’t l”
He thrust a great arm in and caught her by the
wrist.
“Yes, y' can. This is y’r last chance. If I go off
without ye t'night, I never come back. What makes ye
gig back Are ye ’fraid o' me ”
“N-no ; but — but — ”
“But what, Merry Etty ”
“It ain’t right to go an’ leave Dad all alone. Where
y’ goin’ tº take me, anyhow 2°
“Milt Jennings let me have his horse an’ buggy;
they’re down the road a piece, an’ we’ll go right down
to Rock River and be married by sun-up.”
The girl still hesitated, her firm, boyish will un-
wontedly befogged. Resolute as she was, she could not
at once accede to his demand.
“Come, make up your mind soon. The old man 'll
fill me with buck-shot if he catches sight o' me.” He
drew her arm out of the window and laid his bearded
cheek to it. “Come, little one, we’re made for each
other; God knows it. Come ! It’s him ºr me.”
The girl's head dropped, consented.
“That’s right ! Now a kiss to bind the bargain.
There ! What, cryin’? No more o’ that, little one.
C
I 8 Prairie Folks
Now I’ll give you jest five minutes to git on your Sun-
day-go-tº-meetin’ clo’es. Quick, there goes a rooster.
It's gittin’ white in the east.”
The man turned his back to the window and gazed
at the western sky with a wealth of unuttered and un-
utterable exultation in his heart. Far off a rooster gave
a long, clear blast — would it be answered in the barn ?
Yes; some wakeful ear had caught it, and now the
answer came faint, muffled, and drowsy. The dog at
his feet whined uneasily as if suspecting something
wrong. The wind from the south was full of the won-
derful odor of springing grass, warm, brown earth, and
oozing sap. Overhead, to the west, the stars were
shining in the cloudless sky, dimmed a little in bright-
ness by the faint silvery veil of moisture in the air. The
man’s soul grew very tender as he stood waiting for his
bride. He was rough, illiterate, yet there was some-
thing fine about him after all, a kind of simplicity and a
gigantic, leonine tenderness.
He heard his sweetheart moving about inside, and
mused : “The old man won’t hold out when he finds
we’re married. He can’t get along without her. If he
does, why, I’ll rent a farm here, and we’ll go to work
housekeepin’. I can git the money. She shan’t always
be poor,” he ended, and the thought was a vow.
The window was raised again, and the girl’s voice
was heard low and tremulous : —
“Lime, I’m ready, but I wish we didn't — ”
He put his arm around her waist and helped her out,
and did not put her down till they reached the road.
5
William Bacon’s Man I9
She was completely dressed, even to her hat and shoes,
but she mourned : —
“My hair is every-which-way; Lime, how can I be
married so * *
They were nearing the horse and buggy now, and
Lime laughed. “Oh, we’ll stop at Jennings’s and fix
up. Milt knows what’s up, and has told his mother by
this time. So just laugh as jolly as you can.”
Soon they were in the buggy, the impatient horse
swung into the road at a rattling pace, and as Marietta
leaned back in the seat, thinking of what she had done,
she cried lamentably, in spite of all the caresses and
pleadings of her lover.
But the sun burst up from the plain, the prairie-
chickens took up their mighty chorus on the hills, robins
met them on the way, flocks of wild geese, honking
cheerily, drove far overhead toward the north, and, with
these sounds of a golden spring day in her ears, the
bride grew cheerful, and laughed.
III
At about the time the sun was rising, Farmer Bacon,
roused from his sleep by the crowing of the chickens on
the dry knolls in the fields as well as by those in the
barn-yard, rolled out of bed wearily, wondering why he
should feel so drowsy. Then he remembered the row
with Lime and his subsequent inability to sleep with
thinking over it. There was a dull pain in his breast,
which made him uncomfortable.
2O Prairie Folks
As was his usual custom, he went out into the
kitchen and built the fire for Marietta, filled the tea-
kettle with water, and filled the water-bucket in the
sink. Then he went to her bedroom door and knocked
with his knuckles as he had done for years in precisely
the same fashion.
Rap — rap — rap. “Hello, Merry! Time tº git up.
Broad daylight, an’ birds asingun.’”
Without waiting for an answer he went out to the
barn and worked away at his chores. He took such
delight in the glorious morning and the turbulent life of
the farmyard that his heart grew light and he hummed
a tune which sounded like the merry growl of a lion.
“Poo-ee, poo-ee,” he called to the pigs as they swarmed
across the yard.
“Ahrr ! you big, fat rascals, them hams o' yourn is
clear money. One of ye shall go tº buy Merry a new
dress,” he said as he glanced at the house and saw the
smoke pouring out the stovepipe. “Merry 's a good
girl; she's stood by her old pap when other girls 'u'd 'a'
gone back on 'im.”
While currying horses he went all over the ground
of the quarrel yesterday, and he began to see it in a differ-
ent light. He began to see that Lyman was a good
man and an able man, and that his own course was a
foolish one.
“When I git mad,” he confessed to himself, “I
don’t know anythin’. But I won’t give her up. She
ain’t old 'nough tº marry yet—and, besides, I need
her.”
William Bacon’s Man 2 I
After finishing his chores, as usual, he went to the
well and washed his face and hands, then entered the
kitchen — to find the tea-kettle boiling over, and no
signs of breakfast anywhere, and no sign of the girl.
“Well, I guess she felt sleepy this mornin’. Poor
gall Mebbe she cried half the night.”
“Merry !” he called gently, at the door.
“Merry, m” gall Pap needs his breakfast.”
There was no reply, and the old man's face stiffened
into a wild surprise. He knocked heavily again and got
no reply, and, with a white face and shaking hand, he
flung the door open and gazed at the empty bed. His
hand dropped to his side; his head turned slowly from the
bed to the open window; he rushed forward and looked
out on the ground, where he saw the tracks of a man.
He fell heavily into the chair by the bed, while a
deep groan broke from his stiff and twitching lips.
“She’s left me ! She’s left me !”
For a long half-hour the iron-muscled old man sat
there motionless, hearing not the songs of the hens or
the birds far out in the brilliant sunshine. He had lost
sight of his farm, his day's work, and felt no hunger for
food. He did not doubt that her going was final. He
felt that she was gone from him forever. If she ever
came back it would not be as his daughter, but as the
wife of Gilman. She had deserted him, fled in the
night like a thief; his heart began to harden again, and
he rose stiffly. His native stubbornness began to assert
itself, the first great shock over, and he went out to the
kitchen, and prepared, as best he could, a breakfast, and
22 Prairie Folks
sat down to it. In some way his appetite failed him,
and he fell to thinking over his past life, of the death of
his wife, and the early death of his only boy. He was
still trying to think what his life would be in the future
without his girl, when two carriages drove into the yard.
It was about the middle of the forenoon, and the
prairie-chickens had ceased to boom and squawk; in
fact, that was why he knew, for he had been sitting
two hours at the table. Before he could rise he heard
swift feet and a merry voice and Marietta burst
through the door.
“Hello, Pap! How you makin’ out with break—”
She saw a look on his face that went to her heart
like a knife. She saw a lonely and deserted old man
sitting at his cold and cheerless breakfast, and with a
remorseful cry she ran across the floor and took him in
her arms, kissing him again and again, while Mr. John
Jennings and his wife stood in the door.
“Poor ol' Pap ! Merry couldn’t leave you. She's
come back to stay as long as he lives.”
The old man remained cold and stern. His deep
voice had a relentless note in it as he pushed her away
from him, noticing no one else.
“But how do you come back tº me?”
The girl grew rosy, but she stood proudly up.
“I come back the wife of a man, Pap; a wife like my
mother, an’ this t” hang beside hers; ” and she laid
down a rolled piece of parchment.
“Take it an’ go,” growled he, “take yer lazy lubber
an' git out o' my sight. I raised ye, took keer o' ye
William Bacon’s Man 23
when ye was little, sent yet' school, bought ye dresses,
—done everythin’ fer ye I could, 'lowin’ tº have ye
stand by me when I got old, – but no, ye must go back
on yer ol’ pap, an’ go off in the night with a good-fºr-
nothin’ houn’ that nobuddy knows anything about — a
feller that never done a thing fer ye in the world —”
“What did you do for mother that she left her father
and mother and went with you ? How much did you
have when you took her away from her good home an’
brought her away out here among the wolves an’
Indians ? I’ve heard you an' her say a hundred times
that you didn’t have a chair in the house. Now, why
do you talk so tº me when I want tº git — when Lime
comes and asks for me f *
The old man was staggered. He looked at the smil-
ing face of John Jennings and the tearful eyes of Mrs.
Jennings, who had returned with Lyman. But his heart
hardened again as he caught sight of Lime looking in at
him. His absurd pride would not let him relent. Lime
saw it, and stepped forward.
“Ol’ man, I want tº take a little inning now. I’m a
fair, square man. I asked ye fer Merry as a man
should. I told you I'd had hard luck, when I first came
here. I had five thousand dollars in clean cash stole
from me. I hain’t got a thing now except credit, but
that’s good fer enough tº stock a little farm with. Now,
I wan’ to be fair and square in this thing. You wan'
to rent a farm ; I need one. Let me have the river
eighty, or I’ll take the whole business on a share of a
third, an’ Merry Etty and I to stay here with you
24. - Prairie Folks
jest as if nothin’’d happened. Come, now, what d’ y”
say ”
There was something winning in the sturdy bearing
of the man as he stood before the father, who remained
silent and grim.
“Or if you don’t do that, why, there’s nothin’ left
fer Merry an’ me but to go back to La Crosse, where I
can have my choice of a dozen farms. Now this is the
way things is standin’. I don’t want to be underhanded
about this thing —”
“That’s a fair offer,” said Mr. Jennings in the pause
which followed. “You’d better do it, neighbor Bacon.
Nobuddy need know how things stood; they were
married in my house — I thought that would be best.
You can’t live without your girl,” he went on, “any
more 'n I could without my boy. You’d better — ”
The figure at the table straightened up. Under his
tufted eyebrows his keen gray eyes flashed from one to
the other. His hands knotted.
“Go slow !” went on the smooth voice of Jennings,
known all the country through as a peacemaker.
“Take time tº think it over. Stand out, an’ you’ll live
here alone without chick ºr child; give in, and this
house 'll bubble over with noise and young ones. Now
is short, and forever’s a long time to feel sorry in.”
The old man at the table knitted his eyebrows, and a
distorted, quivering, ghastly smile broke out on his face.
His chest heaved; then he burst forth : —
“Gal, yank them gloves off, an’ git me something to
eat — breakfus ºr dinner, I don’t care which. Lime,
William Bacon’s Man 25
you infernal idiot, git out there and gear up them horses.
What in thunder you foolun’ round about hyere in
seed’n’? Come, hustle, all o' ye!”
And they all shouted in laughter, while the old man
strode unsteadily but resolutely out toward the barn,
followed by the bridegroom, who was still laughing—
but silently.
APRIL DAYS
DAYs of witchery, subtly sweet,
When every hill and tree finds heart,
When winter and spring like lovers meet
In the mist of noon and part —
In the April days.
Nights when the wood-frogs faintly peep
Once — twice — and then are still,
And the woodpeckers’ martial voices sweep
Like bugle notes from hill to hill —
Through the pulseless haze.
Days when the soil is warm with rain,
And through the wood the shy wind steals,
Rich with the pine and the poplar smell,
And the joyous earth like a dancer reels
Through April days
ELDER PILL, PREACHER
ELDER PILL, PREACHER
I
OLD MAN BACON was pinching forked barbs on a
wire fence one rainy day in July, when his neighbor
Jennings came along the road on his way to town. Jen-
nings never went to town except when it rained too hard
to work outdoors, his neighbors said; and of old man
Bacon it was said he never rested mights nor Sundays.
Jennings pulled up. “Good morning, neighbor
Bacon.”
“Mornin’,” rumbled the old man without looking up.
“Taking it easy, as usual, I see. Think it’s going
to clear up * *
“May, an’ may not. Don’t make much differunce t”
me,” growled Bacon, discouragingly.
“Heard about the plan for a church ’’
<< Naw.”
“Well, we’re goin’ to hire Elder Pill from Douglass
to come over and preach every Sunday afternoon at
the schoolhouse, an’ we want help tº pay him — the
laborer is worthy of his hire.”
“Sometimes he is an’ then agin he ain’t. Y’ needn’t
look tº me fºr a dollar. I ain’t got no intrust in y’r
church.”
“Oh, yes, you have — besides, y’r sister—”
29
3O Prairie Folks
“She ain’t got no more time ’n I have tº go tº
church. We’re obleeged to do ’bout all we c’n stand
t’ pay our debts, let alone tryun’ to support a preacher.”
And the old man shut the pinchers up on a barb with a
vicious grip.
Easy-going Mr. Jennings laughed in his silent way.
“I guess you’ll help when the time comes,” he said,
and, clucking to his team, drove off.
“I guess I won’t,” muttered the grizzled old giant as
he went on with his work. Bacon was what is called
land poor in the West, that is, he had more land than
money; still he was able to give if he felt disposed. It
remains to say that he was not disposed, being a sceptic
and a scoffer. It angered him to have Jennings pre-
dict so confidently that he would help.
The sun was striking redly through a rift in the
clouds, about three o’clock in the afternoon, when he
saw a man coming up the lane, walking on the grass at
the side of the road, and whistling merrily. The old
man looked at him from under his huge eyebrows with
some curiosity. As he drew near, the pedestrian ceased
to whistle, and, just as the farmer expected him to pass,
he stopped and said, in a free and easy style: —
“How de do Give me a chaw tºbaccer. I’m Pill,
the new minister. I take fine-cut when I can get it,”
he said, as Bacon put his hand into his pocket. “Much
obliged. How goes it ”
“Tollable, tollable,” said the astounded farmer,
looking hard at Pill as he flung a handful of tobacco
into his mouth.
Elder Pill, Preacher 3 I
“Yes, I’m the new minister sent around here to keep
you fellows in the traces and out of hell-fire. Have
y’ fled from the wrath ’’ he asked, in a perfunctory
way.
“You are, eh?” said Bacon, referring back to his
profession.
“I am, just ! How do you like that style of barb
fence º Ain’t the twisted wire better P’’
“I s'pose they be, but they cost more.”
“Yes, costs more to go to heaven than to hell. You’ll
think so after I board with you a week. Narrow the
road that leads to light, and broad the way that leads —
how's your soul anyway, brother ?”
“Soul’s all right. I find more trouble to keep m'
body go’n’.”
“Give us your hand; so do I. All the same we
must prepare for the next world. We’re gettin’ old;
lay not up your treasures where moth and rust corrupt
and thieves break through and steal.”
Bacon was thoroughly interested in the preacher, and
was studying him carefully. He was tall, straight, and
superbly proportioned; broad-shouldered, wide-lunged,
and thewed like a Chippewa. His rather small steel-
blue eyes twinkled, and his shrewd face and small head,
set well back, completed a remarkable figure. He wore
his reddish beard in the usual way of Western clergy-
men, with mustache chopped close.
Bacon spoke slowly : —
“You look like a good, husky man to pitch in the
barn-yard; you’ve too much muscle fºr preachun’.”
32 Prairie Folks
“Come and hear me next Sunday, and if you say so
then, I’ll quit,” replied Mr. Pill, quietly. “I give ye
my word for it. I believe in preachers havin' a little
of the flesh and the devil; they can sympathize better
with the rest of ye.” The sarcasm was lost on Bacon,
who continued to look at him. Suddenly he said, as if
with an involuntary determination : —
“Where ye go’n’ to stay tºnight ”
“I don’t know ; do you ?” was the quick reply.
“I reckon ye can hang out with me, ’f ye feel like
ut. We ain’t very purty, at our house, but we
eat. You go along down the road and tell 'em I sent
yeh. Ye'll find an’ ol' dusty Bible round some’rs — I
s’pose ye spend y’r spare time read’n’ about Joshua an’
Dan'l — ”
“I spend more time reading men. Well, I’m off!
I’m hungrier 'n a gray wolf in a bear-trap.” And off he
went as he came. But he did not whistle; he chewed.
Bacon felt as if he had made too much of a conces-
sion, and had a strong inclination to shout after him,
and retract his invitation; but he did not, only worked
on, with an occasional bear-like grin. There was some-
thing captivating in this fellow’s free and easy way.
When he came up to the house an hour or two later,
in singular good humor for him, he found the Elder in
the creamery, with his niece Eldora, who was not
more won by him than was his sister Jane Buttles, he
was so genial and put on so few religious frills.
Mrs. Buttles never put on frills of any kind. She was
a most frightful toiler, only excelled (if excelled at all)
Elder Pill, Preacher 33
by her brother. Unlovely at her best, when about her
work in her faded calico gown and flat shoes, hair
wisped into a slovenly knot, she was depressing. But
she was a good woman, of sterling integrity, and ambi-
tious for her girl. She was very glad of the chance to
take charge of her brother's household after Marietta
married.
Eldora was as attractive as her mother was depress-
ing. She was very young at this time and had the phys-
ical perfection — at least as regards body — that her
parents must have had in youth. She was above the
average height of woman, with strong swell of bosom
and glorious, erect carriage of head. Her features were
coarse, but regular and pleasing, and her manner boyish.
Elder Pill was on the best terms with them as he
watched the milk being skimmed out of the “submerged
cans” ready for the “caaves and hawgs,” as Mrs. Buttles
called them.
“Uncle told you tº come here 'nd stay tº supper, did
he What’s come over him ” said the girl, with a
sort of audacious humor.
“Bill has an awful grutch agin preachers,” said Mrs.
Buttles, as she wiped her hands on her apron. “I
declare, I don’t see how — ”
“Some preachers, not all preachers,” laughed Pill, in
his mellow nasal. “There are preachers, and then again
preachers. I’m one o’ the t'other kind.”
“I sh'd think y” was,” laughed the girl.
“Now, Eldory, you run right tº the pig-pen with that
milk, whilst I go in an’ set the tea on.”
D
34 Prairie Folks
Mr. Pill seized the can of milk, saying, with a twang :
“Show me the way that I may walk therein,” and,
accompanied by the laughing girl, made rapid way to
the pig-pen just as the old man set up a ferocious shout
to call the hired hand out of the corn-field.
“How'd y” come to send him here P’’ asked Mrs.
Buttles, nodding toward Pill.
“Damfino | I kind o' liked him — no nonsense about
him,” answered Bacon, going into temporary eclipse
behind his hands as he washed his face at the cistern.
At the supper table Pill was “easy as an old shoe";
ate with his knife, talked about fatting hogs, suggested a
few points on raising clover, told of pioneer experiences
in Michigan, and soon won them — hired man and all
— to a most favorable opinion of himself. But he did
not trench on religious matters at all.
The hired man in his shirt-sleeves, and smelling
frightfully of tobacco and sweat (as did Bacon), sat with
open mouth, at times forgetting to eat, in his absorbing
interest in the minister's yarns.
“Yes, I’ve got a family, too much of a family, in
fact—that is, I think so sometimes when I’m pinched.
Our Western people are so indigent — in plain terms,
poor — they can’t do any better than they do. But we
pull through — we pull through John, you look like
a stout fellow, but I’ll bet a hat I can down you three
out of five.”
“I bet you can’t,” grinned the hired man. It was
the climax of all, that bet.
“I’ll take y” in hand an’ flop y” both,” roared Bacon
Elder Pill, Preacher 35
from his lion-like throat, his eyes glistening with rare
good-nature from the shadow of his gray brows. But
he admired the minister’s broad shoulders at the same
time. If this fellow panned out as he promised, he was
a rare specimen.
After supper the Elder played a masterly game of
croquet with Eldora, beating her with ease; then he
wandered out to the barn and talked horses with the
hired man, and finished by stripping off his coat and
putting on one of Mrs. Buttles's aprons to help milk
the cows.
But at breakfast the next morning, when the family
were about pitching into their food as usual without
ceremony, the visitor spoke in an imperious tone and
with lifted hand. “Wait / Let us look to the Lord
for His blessing.”
They waited till the grace was said, but it threw a
depressing atmosphere over the group ; evidently they
considered the trouble begun. At the end of the meal
the minister asked : —
“Have you a Bible in the house ”
“I reckon there’s one around somewhere. Elly,
go ºn see ºf y’ can’t raise one,” said Mrs. Buttles,
indifferently.
“Have you any objection to family devotion ?”
asked Pill, as the book was placed in his hands by the
girl.
“No ; have all you want,” said Bacon, as he rose
from the table and passed out the door.
“I guess I’ll see the thing through,” said the hand.
36 Prairie Folks
“It ain’t just square to leave the women folks to bear
the brunt of it.”
It was shortly after breakfast that the Elder concluded
he’d walk up to Brother Jennings's and see about church
II latterS.
“I shall expect you, Brother Bacon, to be at the ser-
vice at 2.30.”
“All right, go ahead expectun’,”
with an inscrutable sidewise glance.
3.
responded Bacon,
“You promised, you remember 2 ”
“The - devil — I did l’” the old man snarled.
The Elder looked back with a smile, and went off
whistling in the warm, bright morning.
II
THE schoolhouse down on the creek was known as
“Hell's Corners” all through the county, because of
the frequent rows that took place therein at “corkuses *
and the like, and also because of the number of teachers
that had been “ousted" by the boys. In fact, it was
one of those places still to be found occasionally in the
West, far from railroads and schools, where the primi-
tive ignorance and ferocity of men still prowl, like the
panthers which are also found sometimes in the deeps
of the Iowa timber lands.
The most of this ignorance and ferocity, however,
was centred in the family of Dixons, a dark-skinned,
unsavory group of Missourians. It consisted of old
man Dixon and wife, and six sons, all man-grown,
Elder Pill, Preacher 37
great, gaunt, sinewy fellows, with no education, but
superstitious as savages. If anything went wrong in
“Hell’s Corners” everybody knew that the Dixons were
“on the rampage again.” The school-teachers were
warned against the Dixons, and the preachers were be-
sought to convert the Dixons.
In fact, John Jennings, as he drove Pill to the school-
house next day, said : —
“If you can convert the Dixon boys, Elder, I’ll give
you the best horse in my barn.”
“I work not for such hire,” said Mr. Pill, with a look
of deep solemnity on his face, belied, indeed, by a
twinkle in his small, keen eye — a twinkle which made
Milton Jennings laugh candidly.
There was considerable curiosity, expressed by a mur-
mur of lips and voices, as the minister’s tall figure
entered the door and stood for a moment in a study
of the scene before him. It was a characteristically
Western scene. The women sat on one side of the
schoolroom, the men on the other; the front seats
were occupied by squirming boys and girls in their
Sunday splendor.
On the back, to the right, were the young men, in
their best vests, with paper collars and butterfly neck-
ties, with their coats unbuttoned, their hair plastered
down in a fascinating wave on their brown foreheads.
Not a few were in their shirt-sleeves. The older men
sat immediately between the youths and boys, talking in
hoarse whispers across the aisles about the state of the
crops and the county ticket, while the women in much
38 Prairie Folks
the same way conversed about the children and raising
onions and strawberries. It was their main recreation,
this Sunday meeting.
“Brethren l’’ rang out the imperious voice of the
minister, “let us pray.”
The audience thoroughly enjoyed the Elder's prayer.
He was certainly gifted in that direction, and his peti-
tion grew genuinely eloquent as his desires embraced
the “ends of the earth and the utterm’st parts of the
seas thereof.” But in the midst of it a clatter was
heard, and five or six strapping fellows filed in with
loud thumpings of their brogans.
Shortly after they had settled themselves with elabo-
rate impudence on the back seat, the singing began.
Just as they were singing the last verse, every indi-
vidual voice wavered and all but died out in astonish-
ment to see William Bacon come in — an unheard-of
thing! And with a clean shirt, too ! Bacon, to tell
the truth, was feeling as much out of place as a cat
in a bath-tub, and looked uncomfortable, even shame-
faced, as he sidled in, his shapeless hat gripped ner-
vously in both hands; coatless and collarless, his shirt
open at his massive throat. The girls tittered, of
course, and the boys hammered each other's ribs, moved
by the unusual sight. Milton Jennings, sitting beside
Bettie Moss, said: —
“Well ! may I jump straight up and never come
down ”
And Shep Watson said: “May I never see the back
o' my neck l’” Which pleased Bettie so much that
Elder Pill, Preacher 39
she grew quite purple with efforts to conceal her laugh-
ter; she always enjoyed a joke on her father.
But all things have an end, and at last the room be-
came quiet as Mr. Pill began to read the Scripture, won-
dering a little at the commotion. He suspected that
those dark-skinned, grinning fellows on the back seat
were the Dixon boys, and knew they were bent on fun.
The physique of the minister being carefully studied,
the boys began whispering among themselves, and at
last, just as the sermon opened, they began to push the
line of young men on the long seat over toward the
girls’ side, squeezing Milton against Bettie. This
pleasantry encouraged one of them to whack his neigh-
bor over the head with his soft hat, causing great laugh-
ter and disturbance. The preacher stopped. His cool,
penetrating voice sounded strangely unclerical as he
said : —
“There are some fellows here to-day to have fun
with me. If they don’t keep quiet, they’ll have more
fun than they can hold.” (At this point a green crab-
apple bounded up the aisle.) “I’m not to be bulldozed.”
He pulled off his coat and laid it on the table before
him, and, amid a wondering silence, took off his cuffs
and collar, saying: —
“I can preach the word of the Lord just as well with-
out my coat, and I can throw rowdies out the door a
little better in my shirt-sleeves.”
Had the Dixon boys been a little shrewder as readers
of human character, or if they had known why old Will-
iam Bacon was there, they would have kept quiet; but
4O Prairie Folks
it was not long before they began to push again, and at
last one of them gave a squeak, and a tussle took place.
The preacher was in the midst of a sentence : —
“An evil deed, brethren, is like unto a grain of mus-
tard seed. It is small, but it grows steadily, absorbing
its like from the earth and air, sending out roots and
branches, till at last — ”
There was a scuffle and a snicker. Mr. Pill paused,
and gazed intently at Tom Dixon, who was the most
impudent and strongest of the gang; then he moved
slowly down on the astonished young savage. As he
came his eyes seemed to expand like those of an eagle
in battle, steady, remorseless, unwavering, at the same
time that his brows shut down over them — a glance that
hushed every breath. The awed and astonished ruffians
sat as if paralyzed by the unuttered yet terribly ferocious
determination of the preacher's eyes. His right hand
was raised, the other was clenched at his waist. There
was a sort of solemnity in his approach, like a tiger creep-
ing upon a foe.
At last, after what seemed minutes to the silent,
motionless congregation, his raised hand came down
on the shoulder of the leader with the exact, resistless
precision of the tiger's paw, and the ruffian was snatched
from his seat to the floor sprawling. Before he could
rise, the steel-like grip of the roused preacher sent him
halfway to the door, and then out into the dirt of the
road.
Turning, Pill strode down the aisle once more.
The half-risen congregation made way for him, curiously.
Elder Pill, Preacher 4. I
When he came within reach of Dick, the fellow struck
savagely out at the preacher, only to have his blow
avoided by a lithe, lightning-swift movement of the
body above the hips (a trained boxer’s trick), and to
find himself lying bruised and dazed on the floor.
By this time the other brothers had recovered from
their stupor, and, with wild curses, leaped over the
benches toward the fearless preacher.
But now a new voice was heard in the sudden uproar
— a new but familiar voice. It was the mighty voice
of William Bacon, known far and wide as a terrible
antagonist, a man who had never been whipped. He
was like a wild beast excited to primitive savagery by
the smell of blood.
“Stand back, you hell-hounds !” he said, leaping be-
tween them and the preacher. “You know me. Lay
another hand on that man an’, by the livun’ God, you
answer tº me. Back thear !”
Some of the men cheered, most stood irresolute. The
women crowded together, the children began to scream
with terror, while through it all Pill dragged his last
assailant toward the door.
Bacon made his way down to where the Dixons had
halted, undecided what to do. If the preacher had the
air and action of the tiger, Bacon looked the grisly bear
—his eyebrows working up and down, his hands clenched
into frightful bludgeons, his breath rushing through his
hairy nostrils.
“Git out o' hyare,” he growled. “You’ve run things
here jest about long enough. Git out !”
42 Prairie Folks
His hands were now on the necks of two of the boys,
and he was hustling them toward the door.
“If you want ’o whip the preacher, meet him in the
public road — one at a time; he’ll take care o” himself.
Out with ye,” he ended, kicking them out. “Show
your faces here agin, an’ I’ll break ye in two.”
The non-combative farmers now began to see the
humor of the whole transaction, and began to laugh;
but they were cut short by the calm voice of the
preacher at his desk: —
“But a good deed, brethren, is like unto a grain of
wheat planted in good earth, that bringeth forth fruit in
due season an hundred fold.”
III
MR. PILL, with all his seeming levity, was a powerful
hand at revivals, as was developed at the “protracted ”
meetings at the Grove during December. Indeed, such
was the pitiless intensity of his zeal that a gloom was cast
over the whole township; the ordinary festivities stopped
or did not begin at all.
The lyceum, which usually began by the first week
in December, was put entirely out of the question, as
were the spelling-schools and “exhibitions.” The boys,
it is true, still drove the girls to meeting in the usual
manner; but they all wore a furtive, uneasy air, and
their laughter was not quite genuine at its best, and
died away altogether when they came near the school-
house, and they hardly recovered from the effects of the
Elder Pill, Preacher 43
preaching till a mile or two had been spun behind the
shining runners. It took all the magic of the jingle
of the bells and the musical creak of the polished
steel on the snow to win them back to laughter.
As for Elder Pill, he was as a man transformed. He
grew more intense each night, and strode back and forth
behind his desk and pounded the Bible like an assassin.
No more games with the boys, no more poking the girls
under the chin' When he asked for a chew of tobacco
now it was with an air which said: “I ask it as sus-
tenance that will give me strength for the Lord’s ser–
vice,” as if the demands of the flesh had weakened the
spirit.
Old man Bacon overtook Milton Jennings early one
Monday morning, as Milton was marching down toward
the Seminary at Rock River. It was intensely cold and
still, so cold and still that the ring of the cold steel of
the heavy sleigh, the snort of the horses, and the old
man’s voice came with astonishing distinctness to the
ears of the hurrying youth, and it seemed a very long
time before the old man came up.
“Climb on 1’’ he yelled, out of his frosty beard. He
was seated on the “hind bob” of a wood-sleigh, on a
couple of blankets. Milton clambered on, knowing
well he’d freeze to death there.
“Reckon I heerd you prowlun’ around the front door
with my girl last night,” Bacon said at length. “The
way you both 'tend out tº meetun’ ought °o sanctify
yeh; must 'a' stayed to the after-meetun', didn’t yeh ”
“Nope. The front part was enough for —”
44. Prairie Folks
“Danged if I was any more fooled with a man in m'
life. I b'lieve the whole thing is a little scheme on the
bretheren tº raise a dollar.”
“Why so * *
“Waal, y’see, Pill ain’t got much out o’ the app’int-
ment thus fur, and he ain’t likely to, if he don’t shake
'em up a leetle. Borrud ten dollars o' me t'other day.”
Well, thought Milton, whatever his real motive is,
Elder Pill is earning all he gets. Standing for two or
three hours in his place night after night, arguing, plead-
ing, even commanding them to be saved. -
Milton was describing the scenes of the meeting to
Bradley Talcott and Douglas Radbourn the next day,
and Radbourn, a young law student, said : —
“I’d like to see him. He must be a character.”
“Let’s make up a party and go out,” said Milton,
eagerly.
“All right; I’ll speak to Lily Graham.”
Accordingly, that evening a party of students, in a
large sleigh, drove out toward the schoolhouse, along
the drifted lanes and through the beautiful aisles of the
snowy woods. A merry party of young people, who
had no sense of sin to weigh them down. Even Rad-
bourn and Lily joined in the songs which they sang to
the swift clanging of the bells, until the lights of the
schoolhouse burned redly through the frosty air.
Not a few of the older people present felt scandalized
by the singing and by the dancing of the “town girls,”
who could not for the life of them take the thing seri-
ously. The room was so little, and hot, and smoky,
Elder Pill, Preacher 45
and the men looked so queer in their rough coats and
hair every-which–way.
But they took their seats demurely on the back seat,
and joined in the opening songs, and listened to the halt-
ing prayers of the brethren and the sonorous prayers of
the Elder, with commendable gravity. Miss Graham
was a devout Congregationalist, and hushed the others
into gravity when their eyes began to dance dangerously.
However, as Mr. Pill warmed to his work, the girls
grew sober enough. He awed them, and frightened
them with the savagery of his voice and manner. His
small gray eyes were like daggers unsheathed, and his
small, round head took on a cat-like ferocity, as he
strode to and fro, hurling out his warnings and com-
mands in a hoarse howl that terrified the sinner, and
drew “amens” of admiration from the saints.
“Atavism; he has gone back to the era of the medi-
cine man,” Radbourn murmured.
As the speaker went on, foam came upon his thin
lips; his lifted hand had prophecy and threatening in it.
His eyes reflected flames; his voice had now the tone
of the implacable, vindictive judge. He gloated on the
pictures that his words called up. By the power of his
imagination the walls widened, the floor was no longer
felt, the crowded room grew still as death, every eye
fixed on the speaker’s face.
“I tell you, you must repent or die. I can see the
he said, stopping suddenly
| >>
great judgment angel now
and pointing above the stovepipe. “I can see him as
he stands weighing your souls as a man 'ud weigh wheat
46 Prairie Folks
and chaff. Wheat goes into the Father's garner; chaff
is blown to hell’s devouring flame ! I can see him now /
He seizes a poor, damned, struggling soul by the neck,
he holds him over the flaming forge of hell till his bones
melt like wax; he shrivels like thread in the flame of
a candle; he is nothing but a charred husk, and the
angel flings him back into outer darkness; life was not in
him.”
It was this astonishing figure, powerfully acted, that
scared poor Tom Dixon into crying out for mercy.
The effect upon others was painful. To see so great a
sinner fall terror-stricken seemed like a providential
stroke of confirmatory evidence, and nearly a dozen
other young people fell crying, whereat the old people
burst out into amens of spasmodic fervor, while the
preacher, the wild light still in his eyes, tore up and
down, crying above the tumult: —
“The Lord is come with power / His hand is visible
here. Shout aloud and spare not. Fall before him as
dust to his feet ! Hypocrites, vipers, scoffers the lash
o' the Lord is on yel.”
In the intense pause which followed as he waited
with expectant, uplifted face — a pause so deep even
the sobbing sinners held their breath — a dry, drawl-
ing, utterly matter-of-fact voice broke the intense
hush.
“S-a-y, Pill, ain't you a-bearun' down on the boys a
Jeetle too hard 2 ”
The preacher's extended arm fell as if life had gone
out of it. . His face flushed and paled ; the people
Elder Pill, Preacher 47
laughed hysterically, some of them with the tears of ter-
ror still on their cheeks; but Radbourn said, “ Bravo,
Bacon | *
Pill recovered himself.
“Not hard enough for you, neighbor Bacon.”
Bacon rose, retaining the same dry, prosaic tone : —
“I ain’t bitin’ that kind of a hook, an’ I ain’t goin’
to be yanked into heaven when I c’n slide into heli.
Waal I must be goin’; I’ve got a new-milk’s cow that
needs tendin’ to.” , k .
The effect of all this was very great. From being
at the very mouth of the furnace, quivering with fear
and captive to morbid imaginings, Bacon’s dry intona-
tion brought them all back to earth again. They per-
ceived something of the absurdity of the whole situation.
Pill was beaten for the first time in his life. He had
been struck below the belt by a good-natured giant.
The best he could do, as Bacon shuffled calmly out, was
to stammer: “Will some one please sing ’’ And
while they sang, he stood in deep thought. Just as the
last verse was quivering into silence, the full, deep tones
of Radbourn’s voice rose above the bustle of feet and
clatter of seats : —
“And all that he preaches in the name of Him who
came bringing peace and good-will to men.”
Radbourn’s tone had in it reproach and a noble sug-
gestion. The people looked at him curiously. The
deacons nodded their heads together in counsel, and
when they turned to the desk Pill was gone !
“Gee whittaker | That was tough,” said Milton to
48 Prairie Folks
Radbourn; “knocked the wind out o’ him like a can-
non-ball. What’ll he do now * *
“He can’t do anything but acknowledge his foolish-
ness.”
“You no business t” come here an’ 'sturb the
Lord’s meetin’,” cried old Daddy Brown to Radbourn.
“You’re a sinner and a scoffer.”
“I thought Bacon was the disturbing ele—”
“You’re just as bad l’”
“He’s all right,” said William Councill. “I’ve got
sick, m'self, of bein’ scared into religion. I never was
so fooled in a man in my life. If I’d tell you what
Pill said to me the other day, when we was in Robie's
store, you’d fall in a fit. An’ to hear him talkin’ here
t’night, is enough to make a horse laugh.”
“You’re all in league with the devil,” said the old
man, wildly; and so the battle raged on.
Milton and Radbourn escaped from it, and got out
into the clear, cold, untainted night.
“The heat of the furnace doesn’t reach as far as the
horses,” Radbourn moralized, as he aided in unhitching
the shivering team. “In the vast, calm spaces of the
stars, among the animals, such scenes as we have just
seen are impossible.” He lifted his hand in a lofty
gesture. The light fell on his pale face and dark eyes.
The girls were a little indignant and disposed to take
the preacher’s part. They thought Bacon had no right
to speak out that way, and Miss Graham uttered her
protest, as they whirled away on the homeward ride
with pleasant jangle of bells.
Elder Pill, Preacher 49
“But the secret of it all was,” said Radbourn in
answer, “Pill knew he was acting a part. I don’t
mean that he meant to deceive, but he got excited, and
his audience responded as an audience does to an actor
of the first class, and he was for the time in earnest;
his imagination did see those horrors, – he was swept
away by his own words. But when Bacon spoke, his
dry tone and homely words brought everybody, preacher
and all, back to the earth with a thump! Everybody
saw, that after weeping and wailing there for an hour,
they'd go home, feed the calves, hang up the lantern,
put out the cat, wind the clock, and go to bed. In
other words, they all came back out of their barbaric
powwow to their natural modern selves.”
This explanation had palpable truth, but Lily per-
ceived that it had wider application than to the meeting
they had just left.
“They’ll be music around this clearing to-morrow,”
said Milton, with a sigh; “wish I was at home this
week.”
“But what’ll become of Mr. Pill 2 °
“Oh, he’ll come out all right,” Radbourn assured
her, and Milton’s clear tenor rang out as he drew Eileen
closer to his side : —
“O silver moon, O silver moon,
You set, you set too soon —
The morrow day is far away,
The night is but begun.”
5O Prairie Folks
IV
THE news, grotesquely exaggerated, flew about the
next day, and at night, though it was very cold and
windy, the house was jammed to suffocation. On
these lonely prairies life is so devoid of anything
but work, dramatic entertainments are so few, and
appetite so keen, that a temperature of twenty de-
grees below zero is no bar to a trip of ten miles.
The protracted meeting was the only recreation for
many of them. The gossip before and after service
was a delight not to be lost, and this last sensation
was dramatic enough to bring out old men and women
who had not dared to go to church in winter for ten
years.
Long before seven o’clock, the schoolhouse blazed
with light and buzzed with curious speech. Team
after team drove up to the door, and as the drivers
leaped out to receive the women, they said in low but
eager tones to the bystanders : —
“Meeting begun yet ’’
“Nope!”
“What kind of a time y' havin' over here, any
way ?”
“A mighty solumn time,” somebody would reply with
a low laugh.
By seven o’clock every inch of space was occupied;
the air was frightful. The kerosene lamps gave off gas
and smoke, the huge stove roared itself into an angry
Elder Pill, Preacher 5 I
red on its jack-oak grubs, and still people crowded in at
the door.
Discussion waxed hot as the stove; two or three
Universalists boldly attacked everybody who came their
way. A tall man stood on a bench in the corner, and,
thumping his Bible wildly with his fist, exclaimed, at
the top of his voice: —
“There is no hell at all ! The Bible says the wicked
perish utterly. They are consumed as ashes when they
die. They perish as dogs /*
“What kind o’ docterin’ is that * * asked a short
man of Councill.
“I d’know. It’s ol’ Sam Richards. Calls himself
a Christian — Christadelphian ºr some new-fangled
name.”
At last people began to inquire, “Well, ain’t he
comin’ P”
“Most time fºr the Elder to come, ain’t it 2 ”
“Oh, I guess he's preparin’ a sermon.”
John Jennings pushed anxiously to Daddy Brown.
“Ain’t the Elder comin’?”
“I d’know. He didn’t stay at my house.”
<< PHe didn’t ”
“No. Thought he went home with you.”
“I ain’t see 'im 't all. I’ll ask Councill. Brother
Councill, seen anything of the Elder ”
“No. Didn’t he go home with Bensen ”
“I d’n know. I’ll see.”
This was enough to start the news that “Pill had
skipped.”
52 Prairie Folks
This the deacons denied, saying “he’d come or send
word.”
Outside, on the leeward side of the house, the young
men who couldn’t get in stood restlessly, now dancing
a jig, now kicking their huge boots against the under-
pinning to warm their toes. They talked spasmodically
as they swung their arms about their chests, speaking
from behind their huge buffalo-coat collars.
The wind roared through the creaking oaks; the
horses stirred complainingly, the bells on their backs
crying out querulously; the heads of the fortunates in-
side were shadowed outside on the snow, and the rest-
less young men amused themselves betting on which
head was Bensen and which Councill.
At last some one pounded on the desk inside. The
suffocating but lively crowd turned with painful adjust-
ment toward the desk, from whence Deacon Bensen’s
high, smooth voice sounded : —
“Brethren an' sisters, Elder Pill hain’t come — and,
as it’s about eight o’clock, he probably won’t come to-
night. After the disturbances last night, it’s —a — a
— we're all the more determined to — the – a – need
of reforming grace is more felt than ever. Let us hope
nothing has happened to the Elder. I’ll go see to-
morrow, and if he is unable to come — I’ll see Brother
Wheat, of Cresco. After prayer by Brother Jennings,
we will adjourn till to-morrow night. Brother Jen-
nings, will you lead us in prayer : * (Some one snick-
ered.) “I hope the disgraceful — a -scenes of last
night will not be repeated.”
Elder Pill, Preacher 53
“Where’s Pill ” demanded a voice in the back part
of the room. “ That’s what I want to know.”
“He’s a bad pill,” said another, repeating a pun
already old.
“I guess so ! He borrowed twenty dollars o' me
last week,” said the first voice.
“He owes me for a pig,” shouted a short man, ex-
citedly. “I believe he’s skipped to get rid o' his
debts.”
“So do I. I allus said he was a mighty queer
preacher.”
“He’d bear watchin’ was my idee fust time I ever
see him.”
“Careful, brethren — careful. He may come at any
minute.”
“I don’t care if he does. I’d bone him fºr pay fºr
that shote, preacher ºr no preacher,” said Bartlett, a
little nervously.
High words followed this, and there was prospect of
a fight. The pressure of the crowd, however, was so
great it was well-nigh impossible for two belligerents to
get at each other. The meeting broke up at last, and
the people, chilly, soured, and disappointed at the lack
of developments, went home saying Pill was scaly; no
preacher who chawed terbacker was to be trusted, and
when it was learned that the horse and buggy he drove
he owed Jennings and Bensen for, everybody said,
“. He’s a fraud.”
54 Prairie Folks
V
IN the meantime, Andrew Pill was undergoing the
most singular and awful mental revolution.
When he leaped blindly into his cutter and gave his
horse the rein, he was wild with rage and shame, and a
sort of fear. As he sat with bent head, he did not hear
the tread of the horse, and did not see the trees glide
past. The rabbit leaped away under the shadow of the
thick groves of young oaks; the owl, scared from its
perch, went fluttering off into the cold, crisp air; but
he saw only the contemptuous, quizzical face of old
William Bacon — one shaggy eyebrow lifted, a smile
showing through his shapeless beard.
He saw the colorless, handsome face of Radbourn, and
his look of reproach and note of suggestion — Radbourn,
one of the best thinkers in Rock River, and the most
generally admired young man in Rock County.
When he saw and heard Bacon, his hurt pride flamed
up in wrath, but the calm voice of Radbourn, and the
look in his stern, accusing eyes, made his head fall in
thought. As he rode, things grew clearer. As a matter
of fact, his whole system of religious thought was like
the side of a shelving sand-bank — in unstable equilibrium
— needing only a touch to send it slipping into a shape-
less pile at the river’s edge. That touch had been given,
and he was now in the midst of the motion of his falling
faith. He didn’t know how much would stand when
the sloughing ended.
Elder Pill, Preacher 55
Andrew Pill had been a variety of things, a farmer, a
dry-goods merchant, and a travelling salesman, but in a
revival quite like this of his own, he had been converted
and his life changed. He now desired to help his fel-
low-men to a better life, and willingly went out among
the farmers, where pay was small. It was not true,
therefore, that he had gone into it because there was
little work and good pay. He was really an able man,
and would have been a success in almost anything he
undertook; but his reading and thought, his easy inter-
course with men like Bacon and Radbourn, had long
since undermined any real faith in the current doctrine
of retribution, and to-night, as he rode into the night, he
was feeling it all and suffering it all, forced to acknowl-
edge at last what had been long moving.
The horse took the wrong road, and plodded along
steadily, carrying him away from his home, but he did
not know it for a long time. When at last he looked
up and saw the road leading out upon the wide plain
between the belts of timber, leading away to Rock
River, he gave a sigh of relief. He could not meet
his wife then ; he must have a chance to think.
Over him, the glittering, infinite sky of winter mid-
night soared, passionless, yet accusing in its calmness,
sweetness, and majesty. What was he that he could
dogmatize on eternal life and the will of the Being who
stood behind that veil? And then would come rushing
back that scene in the schoolhouse, the smell of the
steaming garments, the gases from the lamps, the roar
of the stove, the sound of his own voice, strident, domi-
56 Prairie Folks
nating, so alien to his present mood, he could only shudder
at 1ſ. -
He was worn out with thinking when he drove into
the stable at the Merchants’ House and roused up the
sleeping hostler, who looked at him suspiciously and
demanded pay in advance. This seemed right in his
present mood. He was not to be trusted.
When he flung himself face downward on his bed, the
turmoil in his brain was still going on. He couldn’t hold
one thought or feeling long; all seemed slipping like
water from his hands.
He had in him great capacity for change, for growth.
Circumstances had been against his development thus
far, but the time had come when growth seemed to be
defeat and failure.
VI
RADBOURN was thinking about him, two days after, as
he sat in his friend Judge Brown’s law office, poring over
a volume of law. He saw that Bacon’s treatment had
been heroic; he couldn’t get the pitiful confusion of the
preacher’s face out of his mind. But, after all, Bacon’s
seizing of just that instant was a stroke of genius.
Some one touched him on the arm and he turned.
“Why — Elder—Mr. Pill, how de do Sit down.
Draw up a chair.”
There was trouble in the preacher's face. “Can I
see you, Radbourn, alone **
“Certainly; come right into this room. No one will
disturb us there.” w
Elder Pill, Preacher 57
“Now, what can I do for you ?” he said, as they sat
down.
“I want to talk to you about — about religion,” said
Pill, with a little timid pause in his voice.
Radbourn looked grave. “I’m afraid you’ve come
to a dangerous man.”
“I want you to tell me what you think. I know
you're a student. I want to talk about my case,” pur-
sued the preacher, with a curious hesitancy. “I want
to ask a few questions on things.”
“Very well; sail in. I’ll do the best I can,” said
Radbourn.
“I’ve been thinking a good deal since that night.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t believe what
I’ve been preaching. I thought I did, but I didn’t. I
don’t know what I believe. Seems as if the land had
slid from under my feet. What am I to do ”
“Say so,” replied Radbourn, his eyes kindling. “Say
so, and get out of it. There’s nothing worse than stay-
ing where you are. What have you saved from the
general land-slide * *
Pill smiled a little. “I don’t know.”
“Want me to cross-examine you and see, eh? Very
well, here goes.” He settled back with a smile. “You
believe in square dealing between man and man * *
“Certainly.”
“You believe in good deeds, candor, and steadfastness * *
<< I do.”
“You believe in justice, equality of opportunity, and
in liberty ”
58 Prairie Folks
« Certainly I do.” -
“You believe, in short, that a man should do unto
others as he’d have others do unto him; think right and
live out his thoughts * *
“All that I steadfastly believe.”
“Well, I guess your land-slide was mostly imaginary.
The face of the eternal rock is laid bare. You didn’t
recognize it at first, that’s all. One question more.
You believe in getting at truth f *
“Certainly.”
“Well, truth is only found from the generalizations
of facts. Before calling a thing true, study carefully all
accessible facts. Make your religion practical. The
matter-of-fact tone of Bacon would have had no force if
you had been preaching an earnest morality in place of
an antiquated terrorism.”
“I know it, I know it,” sighed Pill, looking down.
“Well, now go back and tell 'em so. And then, if
you can’t keep your place preaching what you do believe,
get into something else. For the sake of all morality and
manhood, don’t go on cursing yourself with hypocrisy.”
Mr. Pill took a chew of tobacco rather distractedly,
and said : —
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“No, not now. You think out your present position
yourself. Find out just what you have saved from your
land-slide.”
The elder man rose; he hardly seemed the same man
who had dominated his people a few days before. He
turned with still greater embarrassment.
Elder Pill, Preacher 59
“I want to ask a favor. I’m going back to my fam-
ily. I’m going to say something of what you’ve said,
to my congregation — but — I’m in debt — and the
moment they know I’m a backslider, they’re going to
bear down on me pretty heavy. I’d like to be inde-
pendent.”
“I see. How much do you need 2 ° mused Radbourn.
“I guess two hundred would stave off the worst of
them.”
“I guess Brown and I can fix that. Come in again
to-night. Or no, I’ll bring it round to you.”
The two men parted with a silent pressure of the
hand that meant more than any words.
... When Mr. Pill told his wife that he could preach no
more, she cried, and gasped, and scolded till she was in
danger of losing her breath entirely. “A guinea-hen
sort of a woman’’ Councill called her. “She can talk
more an’ say less ºn any woman I ever see,” was
Bacon’s verdict, after she had been at dinner at his
house. She was a perpetual irritant.
Mr. Pill silenced her at last with a note of impatience
approaching a threat, and drove away to the Corners
to make his confession without her. It was Saturday
night, and Elder Wheat was preaching as he entered the
crowded room. A buzz and mumble of surprise stopped
the orator for a few moments, and he shook hands with
Mr. Pill dubiously, not knowing what to think of it all,
but as he was in the midst of a very effective oratorical
scene, he went on.
The silent man at his side felt as if he were witness-
6o Prairie Folks
ing a burlesque of himself as he listened to the pitiless
and lurid description of torment which Elder Wheat
poured forth, – the same figures and threats he had used
a hundred times. He stirred uneasily in his seat, while
the audience paid so little attention that the perspiring
little orator finally called for a hymn, saying:—
“Elder Pill has returned from his unexpected absence,
and will exhort in his proper place.”
When the singing ended, Mr. Pill rose, looking more
like himself than since the previous Sunday. A quiet
resolution was in his eyes and voice as he said : —
“Elder Wheat has more right here than I have. I
want ’o say that I’m going to give up my church in
Douglass and —” A murmur broke out, which he
silenced with his raised hand. “I find I don’t believe
any longer what I’ve been believing and preaching.
Hold on 1 let me go on. I don’t quite know where I’ll
bring up, but I think my religion will simmer down
finally to about this : A full half-bushel to the half-
bushel and sixteen ounces to the pound.” Here two or
three cheered. “Do unto others as you’d have others
do unto you.” Applause from several, quickly sup.
pressed as the speaker went on, Elder Wheat listening
as if petrified, with his mouth open.
“I’m going out of preaching, at least for the present.
After things get into shape with me again, I may set up
to teach people how to live, but just now I can’t do it.
I’ve got all I can do to instruct myself. Just one thing
more. I owe two or three of you here. I’ve got the
money for William Bacon, James Bartlett, and John
55
Elder Pill, Preacher 6 I
Jennings. I turn the mare and cutter over to Jacob
Bensen, for the note he holds. I hain’t got much reli-
gion left, but I’ve got some morality. That's all I want
to say now.”
When he sat down there was a profound hush; then
Bacon arose.
“That's man’s talk, that is An' I jest want ’o say,
Andrew Pill, that you kin jest forgit you owe me any-
thing. An’ if ye want any help come to me. Y’re
jest gittun' ready to preach, 'n' I'm ready to give ye
my support.”
“That's the talk,” said Councill. “I’m with ye on
that.”
Pill shook his head. The painful silence which fol-
lowed was broken by the effusive voice of Wheat: —
“Let us pray — and remember our lost brother.”
The urgings of the people were of no avail. Mr.
Pill settled up his affairs and moved to Cresco, where
he went back into trade with a friend, and for three
years attended silently to his customers, lived down
their curiosity, and studied anew the problem of life.
Then he moved away, and no one knew whither.
One day last year Bacon met Jennings on the road.
“Heerd anything o' Pill lately ”
“No, have you ?”
“Waal, yes. Brown told me he ran acrost him
down in Eelinoy, doun' well, too.”
“In dry goods ”
“No, preachun’.”
62 Prairie Folks
> * >>
“Preachun
“So Brown said. Kind of a free-fºr-all church, I
reckon, from what Jedge told me. Built a new church;
fills it twice a Sunday. I’d like to hear him, but he's
got tº be too big a gun fºr us. Ben studyun’, they say ;
went tº school.”
Jennings drove sadly and thoughtfully on.
“Rather stumps Brother Jennings,” laughed Bacon,
in a good-humored growl.
A DAY OF GRACE
The grace of God is on you, girl,
He is most glad of every limb ;
His joy is in each glancing curl,
And every dimple pleases Him.
A DAY OF GRACE
SUNDAY is the day for courtship on the prairie. It
has also the piety of cleanliness. It allows the young
man to get back to a self-respecting sweetness of person,
and enables the girls to look as nature intended, dainty
and sweet as posies.
The change from everyday clothing on the part of
young workmen like Ben Griswold was more than
change; it approached transformation. It took more
than courage to go through the change, – it required
love.
Ben arose a little later on Sunday morning than on
weekdays, but there were the chores to do as usual.
The horses must be watered, fed, and curried, and the
cows were to milk, but after breakfast Ben threw off
the cares of the hired hand. When he came down
from the little garret into which the hot August sun
streamed redly, he was a changed creature. Clean
from tip to toe, newly shaven, wearing a crackling
white shirt, a linen collar and a new suit of store
clothes, he felt himself a man again, fit to meet maidens.
His partner, being a married man, was slouching
around in his tattered and greasy brown denim overalls.
He looked at Ben and grinned.
“Got a tag on y’rself?”
“No, why ”
F 65
66 Prairie Folks
“Nobod’y know ye, if anything happened on the
road. There's thirty dollars gone to the dogs.” He
sighed. “Oh, well, you’ll get over that, just as I did.”
“I hope I won’t get over liking to be clean,” Ben
said a little sourly. “I won’t be back to milk.”
“Didn’t expect ye. That’s the very time o’ day the
girls are purtiest, —just about sundown. Better take
Rock. I may want the old team myself.”
Ben hitched up and drove off in the warm bright
morning, with wonderful elation, clean and self-respect-
ing once more. His freshly shaven face felt cool, and
his new suit fitted him well. His heart took on a great
resolution, which was to call upon Grace.
The thought of her made his brown hands shake, and
he remembered how many times he had sworn to visit
her, but had failed of courage, though it seemed she had
invited him by word and look to do so.
He overtook Milton Jennings on his way along the
poplar-lined lane.
“Hello, Milt, where you bound 2 ”
Milton glanced up with a curious look in his laughing
eyes. From the pockets of his long linen duster he
drew a handful of beautiful scarlet and yellow Siberian
crab-apples.
“See them crabs P’’
“Yes, I see ‘em.”
Milton drew a similar handful out of his left pocket.
“See those P’’
“What y’ going to do with 'em 2 ”
“Take 'em home again.”
A Day of Grace 67
Something in Milton's voice led him to ask soberly:-
“What did you intend doing with 'em 2 ”
“Present ’em to Miss Cole.”
“Well, why didn’t y” do it?”
Milton showed his white teeth in a smile that was
frankly derisive of himself.
“Well, when I got over there I found young Con-
ley’s sorrel hitched to one post and Walt Brown's gray
hitched to the other. I went in, but I didn’t stay long;
in fact, I didn’t sit down. I was afraid those infernal
apples would roll out o' my pockets. I was afraid
they’d find out I brought 'em over there for Miss Cole,
like the darn fool I was.”
They both laughed heartily. Milton was always as
severe upon himself as upon any one else.
“That’s tough,” said Ben, “but climb in, and let's
go to Sunday-school.”
Milton got in, and they ate the apples as they rode
along. -
The Grove schoolhouse was the largest in the
township, and was the , only one with a touch of re-
deeming grace. It was in a lovely spot ; great oaks
stood all about, and back of it the woods grew thick,
and a clear creek gurgled over its limestone bed not far
away.
To Ben and Milton there was a wondrous charm
about the Grove schoolhouse. It was the one place
where the boys and girls met in garments disassociated
from toil. Sundays in summer, and on winter nights
at lyceums or protracted meetings, the boys came to
68 Prairie Folks
see the girls in their bright dresses, with their clear
and (so it seemed) scornful bright eyes.
All through the service Ben sat where he could see
Grace by turning his head, but he had not the courage
to do so. Once or twice he caught a glimpse of the
curve of her cheek and the delicate lines of her ear,
and a suffocating throb came into his throat.
He wanted to ask her to go with him down to
Cedarville to the Methodist camp-meeting, but he
knew it was impossible. He could not even say “good
day” when she took pains to pass near him after church.
He nodded like a great idiot, all ease and dignity lost,
his throat too dry and hot to utter a sound.
He cursed his shyness as he went out after his horse.
He saw her picking her dainty way up the road with
Conrad Sieger walking by her side. What made it
worse for Ben was a dim feeling that she liked him,
and would go with him if he had the courage to ask her.
“Well, Ben,” said Milton, “it’s settled, we go to
Rock River to-night to the camp-meeting. Did you
ask Grace ”
“No, she's going with Con. It’s just my blasted
luck.”
“That’s too bad. Well, come with us. Take
Maud.”
As he rode away Ben passed Grace on the road.
“Going to the camp-meeting, Con 2 ” asked Milton,
in merry voice.
3.
“I guess so,” said Conrad, a handsome, but slow-
witted German.
A Day of Grace 69
As they went on Ben could have wept. His keener
perception told him there was a look of appeal in
Grace's upturned eyes.
He made a poor companion at dinner, and poor
plain Maud knew his mind was elsewhere. She was
used to that and accepted it with a pathetic attempt to
color it differently.
They got away about five o’clock.
Ben drove the team, driving took his mind off his
weakness and failure; while Milton in the seclusion
of the back seat of the carryall was happy with
Amelia Turner.
It was growing dark as they entered upon the curv-
ing road along the river which was a relief from the
rectangular and sun-smitten roads of the prairie. They
lingered under the great oaks and elms which shaded
them. It would have been perfect Ben thought, if
Grace had been beside him in Maud’s place.
He wondered how he should manage to speak to
Grace. There was a time when it seemed easier.
Now the consciousness of his love made the simplest
question seem like the great question of all.
Other teams were on the road, some returning, some
going. A camp-meeting had come to be an annual
amusement, like a circus, and young people from all
over the country drove down on Sundays, as if to
some celebration with fireworks.
“There’s the lane,” said Milton. “See that team
goin’ in °
Ben pulled up and they looked at it doubtfully. It
7o Prairie Folks
looked dangerously miry. It was quite dark now and
Ben said : —
“That’s a scaly piece of road.”
“Oh, that’s all right. Hark!”
As they listened they could hear the voice of the
exhorter nearly a mile away. It pushed across the
cool spaces with a wild and savage sound. The young
people thrilled with excitement.
Insects were singing in the grass. Frogs with
deepening chorus seemed to announce the coming of
night, and above these peaceful sounds came the wild
shouts of the far-off preacher, echoing through the
cool green arches of the splendid grove.
The girls became silent, as the voice grew louder.
Lights appeared ahead, and the road led up a slight
hill to a gate. Ben drove on under a grove of oaks,
past dimly lighted tents, whose open flaps showed
tumbled beds and tables laden with crockery. Heavy
women were moving about inside, their shadows
showing against the tent walls like figures in a panto-
mime.
The young people alighted in curious silence. As
they stood a moment, tying the team, the preacher lifted
his voice in a brazen, clanging, monotonous reiteration
of worn phrases.
“Come to the Lord / Come now / Come to the
light ! Jesus will give it ! Now is the appointed time,
— come to the light !”
From a tent near by arose the groaning, gasping,
gurgling scream of a woman in mortal agony.
A Day of Grace 71
“O my God | *
It was charged with the most piercing distress. It
cut to the heart’s palpitating centre like a poniard thrust.
It had murder and outrage in it.
The girls clutched Ben and Milton. “Oh, let's go
home ! ”
“No, let's go and see what it all is.”
The girls hung close to the arms of the young men
and they went down to the tent and looked in.
It was filled with a motley throng of people, most of
them seated on circling benches. A fringe of careless
or scoffing onlookers stood back against the tent wall.
Many of them were strangers to Ben.
Occasionally a Norwegian farm-hand, or a bevy of
young people from some near district, lifted the flap and
entered with curious or laughing or insolent faces.
The tent was lighted dimly by kerosene lamps, hung
in brackets against the poles, and by stable lanterns set
here and there upon the benches.
Ben and Milton ushered the girls in and seated them
a little way back. The girls smiled, but only faintly.
The undertone of women’s cries moved them in spite of
their scorn of it all.
“What cursed foolishness | * said Ben to Milton.
Milton smiled, but did not reply. He only nodded
toward the exhorter, a man with a puffy jumble of
features and the form of a gladiator, who was uttering
wild and explosive phrases.
“Oh, my friends ! I bless the Lord for the SHALL
in the word. You SHALL get light. You SHALL
72 Drairie Folks
be saved. Oh, the SHALL in the word | You
SHALL be redeemed !”
As he grew more excited, his hoarse voice rose in
furious screams, as if he were defying hell’s legions,
Foam lay on his lips and flew from his mouth. At
every repetition of the word “shall ” he struck the desk
a resounding blow with his great palm.
“He’s a hard hitter,” said Milton.
At length he leaped, apparently in uncontrollable ex-
citement, upon the mourners’ bench, and ran up and
down close to the listening, moaning audience. He
walked with a furious rhythmic, stamping action, like a
Sioux in the war dance. Wild cries burst from his
audience, antiphonal with his own.
“He ‘SHALL’ send light !”
“Send Thy arrows, O Lord.”
“O God, come !”
“He ‘SHALL keep His word l’’
One old negro woman, fat, powerful, and gloomy,
suddenly arose and uttered a scream that had the dignity
and savagery of a mountain lion’s cry. It rang far out
into the night.
The exhorter continued his mad, furious, thumping,
barbaric walk.
Behind him a row of other exhorters sat, a relay ready
to leap to his aid. They urged on the tumult with wild
cries.
“A-men, brother.”
“YES, brother, YES!” clapping their hands in
rhythm.
A Day of Grace 73
The exhorter redoubled his fury. He was like a jaded
actor rising at applause, carried out of his self-command.
Out of the obscure tumult of faces and tossing hands
there came at last certain recognizable features. The
people were mainly farming folks of the more ignorant
sort, rude in dress and bearing, hard and bent with toil.
They were recognizably of a class subject to these low
forms of religious excitement which were once well-
nigh universal.
The outer fringe continued to smile scornfully and to
jest, yet they were awed, in a way, by this suddenly
revealed deep of barbaric emotion.
The girls were appalled by the increasing clangor.
Milton was amused, but Ben grew bitter. Something
strong came out in him, too. His lip curled in disgust.
Suddenly, out of the level space of bowed shoulders,
tossing hands, and frenzied, upturned faces, a young girl
leaped erect. She was strong and handsome, powerful
in the waist and shoulders. Her hair was braided like a
child’s, and fell down her back in a single strand. Her
head was girlish, but her face looked old and drawn and
tortured.
She moaned pitifully; she clapped her hands with
wild gestures, ending in a quivering motion. The
action grew to lightning-like quickness. Her head
seemed to set in its socket. Her whole body stiffened.
Gasping moans came from her clenched teeth as she
fell to the ground and rolled under the seats, wallowing
in the muddy straw and beating her feet upon the
ground like a dying partridge.
74. Prairie Folks
The people crowded about her, but the preacher,
roared above the tumult: —
“Si’ down l Never mind that party. She's all right;
she’s in the hands of the Lord l’”
The people settled into their seats, and the wild
tumult went on again. Ben rose to go over where the
girl was and the others followed.
A young man seated by the struggling sinner held her
hand and fanned her with his hat, while some girl friends,
scared and sobbing, kept the tossing limbs covered. She
rolled from side to side restlessly, thrusting forth her
tongue as if her throat were dry. She looked like a
dying animal.
Maud clung to Milton.
“Oh, can’t something be done ”
“Her soul is burdened for you ! ” cried a wild old
woman to the impassive youth who clung to the frenzied
girl’s hand.
A moment later, as the demoniacal chorus of yells,
songs, incantations, shrieks, groans, and prayers swelled
high, a farmer's wife on the left uttered a hoarse cry
and stiffened and fell backward upon the ground. She
rolled her head from side to side. Her eyes turned in ;
her lips wore a maniac's laugh, and her troubled brow
made her look like the death mask of a tortured mur-
derer, the hell horror frozen on it.
She sank at last into a hideous calm, with her strained
and stiffened hands pointing weirdly up. She was like
marble. She did not move a hair's breadth during the
next two hours.
A Day of Grace 75
Over to the left a young man leaped to his feet with
2. SCTC2 II] ... —
“Jesus, jesus, JESUS l’”
The great negress caught him in her arms as he
fell, and laid him down, then leaped up and down,
shrieking : —
“O Jesus, come. Come, God’s Lamb l’”
Around her a dozen women took up her cry. Most
of them had no voices. Their horrifying screams had
become hoarse hisses, yet still they strove. Scores of
voices were mixed in the pandemonium of prayer.
All order was lost. Three of the preachers now
stood shouting before the mourners’ bench, two were
in the aisles.
One came down the aisle toward the girl with the
braided hair. As he came he prayed. Foam was on
his lips, but his eyes were cool and calculating; they
betrayed him.
As he came he fixed his gaze upon a woman seated
near the prostrate girl, and with a horrible outcry the
victim leaped into the air and stiffened as if smitten
with epilepsy. She fell against some scared boys, who
let her fall, striking her head against the seats. She too
rolled down upon the straw and lay beside her sister.
Both had round, pretty, but childish faces.
Milton’s party retreated. They smiled no more;
they were horror-stricken.
Squads of “workers” now moved down the aisles;
in one they surrounded two people, a tall, fair girl and
a young man.
76 Prairie Folks
“Why, it's Grace l’exclaimed Maud.
Ben turned quickly, “Where f *
They pointed her out.
“She can’t get away. See Oh, boys, don’t let
them — ”
Ben pushed his way toward her, his face set in a
fierce frown, bitter, desperate.
Grace stood silently beside one of the elders; a
woman exhorter stood before her. Conrad, overawed,
had fallen into a trembling stupor; Grace was defense-
less.
The elder’s hand hovered over her head, on her face
a deadly pallor had settled, her eyes were cast down, she
breathed painfully and trembled from head to foot. She
was about to fall, when Ben set his eyes upon her.
“Get out o' my way,” he shouted, shouldering up
the aisle. His words had oaths, his fists were like
mauls.
“Grace!” he cried, and she heard. She looked up
and saw him coming; the red flamed over her face.
The power of the preacher was gone.
“Let me go,” she cried, trying to wring herself loose.
“You are going to hell. You are lost if you do
not — ”
“God damn ye. Get out o' way. I’ll kill ye if you
lay a hand on her.”
With one thrust Ben cleared her tormentor from her
arm. For one moment the wordless young man looked
into her eyes; then she staggered toward him. He
faced the preacher.
A Day of Grace 77
“I’d smash hell out o' you for a leather cent,” he
said. In the tumult his words were lost, but the look
on his face was enough. The exhorter fell away.
Their retreat was unnoted in the tumult. At the
door they looked back for an instant at the scene.
At the mourners’ bench were six victims in all stages
of induced catalepsy, one man with head flung back,
one with his hands pointing, fixed in furious appeal.
Another with bowed head was being worked upon by
a brother of hypnotic appeal. He struck with down-
ward, positive gestures on either side of the victim’s
head.
Over another the negress towered, screaming with
panther-like ferocity: —
“Git under de blood Git under de blood!”
As she screamed she struck down at the mourner
with her clenched fist. On her face was the grin of a
wildcat.
Out under the cool, lofty oaks, the outcry was more
inexpressibly hellish, because overhead the wind rustled
the sweet green leaves, crickets were chirping, and the
scent of flowering fields of buckwheat was in the air.
Grace grew calmer, but she clung with strange weak-
ness to her lover. She felt he had saved her from
something, she did not know what, but it was some-
thing terrifying to look back upon.
Conrad was forgotten — set aside. Ben bundled him
into the carryall and took his place with Grace. He
no longer hesitated, argued, or apologized. He had
claimed his own.
78 Prairie Folks
On the long ride home, Grace lay within his right
arm, and the young man’s tongue was unchained. He
talked, and his spirit grew tender and manly and hus-
bandlike, as he told his plans and his hopes. Hell was
very far away, and Heaven was very near.
A Farmer's Wife 79
A FARMER’S WIFE
“BoRN an’ scrubbed, suffered and died.”
That’s all you need to say, elder.
Never mind sayin’ “made a bride,”
Nor when her hair got gray.
Jest say, born ºn worked tº death;
That fits it, — save y’r breath.
I knew M’tildy when a girl,
°N a darn purty girl she was
Her hair was shiny ºn full o' curl,
An' her eyes a kind o’ spring-day blue.
O, I know ! Courted her once m'self,
Till Brown he laid me on the shelf.
I’ve seen that woman once a week
Ever since that very day in church,
When Ben turned round ’n kissed her cheek
And the preacher knelt to pray.
I’ve watched her growing old so fast—
Her breath jest flickered toward the last.
Made me think of a clock run down,
Sure 's y’re born, that woman did;
A-workin’ away for old Ben Brown
Patient as a Job an’ meek as a kid,
Till she sort o' stopped one day —
Heart quit tickin', a feller 'd say.
8o
Prairie Folks
Wasn’t old, nuther, forty-six — No,
Jest got humpt, an’ thin an’ gray,
Washin’ an’ churnin’ an’ sweepin', by Joe,
Fºr fourteen hours or more a day.
Brats o' sickly children every year
To drag the life plum out o' her.
Worked to death. Starved to death.
Died fºr lack of air an’ sun —
Dyin' fºr rest, and fºr jest a breath
O’ simple praise for what she’d done.
An' many 's the woman this very day,
Elder, dyin' slow in that same way.
LUCRETIA BURNS
LUCRETIA BURNS
I
LUCRETIA BURNS had never been handsome, even in
her days of early girlhood, and now she was middle-
aged, distorted with work and child-bearing, and look-
ing faded and worn as one of the boulders that lay
beside the pasture fence near where she sat milking a
large white cow.
She had no shawl or hat and no shoes, for it was
still muddy in the little yard, where the cattle stood
patiently fighting the flies and mosquitoes swarming into
their skins, already wet with blood. The evening was
oppressive with its heat, and a ring of just-seen thunder-
heads gave premonitions of an approaching storm.
She rose from the cow's side at last, and, taking her
pails of foaming milk, staggered toward the gate. The
two pails hung from her lean arms, her bare feet slipped
on the filthy ground, her greasy and faded calico dress
showed her tired and swollen ankles, and the mosqui-
toes swarmed mercilessly on her neck and bedded them-
selves in her colorless hair.
The children were quarrelling at the well, and the
sound of blows could be heard. Calves were queru-
lously calling for their milk, and little turkeys, lost in a
tangle of grass, were piping plaintively.
83
84 Prairie Folks
The sun just setting struck through a long, low rift,
like a boy peeping beneath the eaves of a huge roof.
Its light brought out Lucretia's face as she leaned her
sallow forehead on the top bar of the gate and looked
toward the west.
It was a pitifully worn, almost tragic face — long,
thin, sallow, hollow-eyed. The mouth had long since
lost the power to shape itself into a kiss, and had a
droop at the corners which seemed to announce a break-
ing-down at any moment into a despairing wail. The
collarless neck and sharp shoulders showed painfully.
She felt vaguely that the night was beautiful. The
setting sun, the noise of frogs, the nocturnal insects be-
ginning to pipe — all in some way called her girlhood
back to her, though there was little in her girlhood to
give her pleasure. Her large gray eyes grew round,
deep, and wistful as she saw the illimitable craggy clouds
grow crimson, roll slowly up, and fire at the top. A
childish scream recalled her.
“Oh, my soul!'” she half groaned, half swore, as
she lifted her milk and hurried to the well. Arriving
there, she cuffed the children right and left with all her
remaining strength, saying in justification : —
“My soul! can’t you — you young 'uns, give me a
minute’s peace Land knows, I’m almost gone up ;
washin’, an’ milkin' six cows, and tendin’ you, and
cookin’ fºr him, ought °o be enough fºr one day ! Sadie,
you let him drink now ºr I’ll slap your head off, you
hateful thing ! Why can’t you behave, when you know
I’m jest about dead ” She was weeping now, with
Lucretia Burns 85
nervous weakness. “Where's y’r pa ” she asked
after a moment, wiping her eyes with her apron.
One of the group, the one cuffed last, sniffed out, in
rage and grief: —
“He’s in the corn-field; where'd ye s'pose he was f*
“Good land why don’t the man work all night 2
Sile, you put that dipper in that milk agin, an’ I’ll
whack you till your head’ll swim Sadie, le'go Pet, an’
go ºn get them turkeys out of the grass 'fore it gits
dark | Bob, you go tell y’r dad if he wants the rest o'
them cows milked he’s got 'o do it himself. I jest
can’t, and what’s more, I won’t,” she ended, rebel-
liously.
Having strained the milk and fed the children, she
took some skimmed milk from the cans and started to
feed the calves bawling strenuously behind the barn.
The eager and unruly brutes pushed and struggled
to get into the pails all at once, and in consequence
spilt nearly all of the milk on the ground. This was
the last trial; the woman fell down on the damp grass
and moaned and sobbed like a crazed thing. The
children came to seek her and stood around like little
partridges, looking at her in scared silence, till at last
the little one began to wail. Then the mother rose
wearily to her feet, and walked slowly back toward the
house.
She heard Burns threshing his team at the well, with
the sound of oaths. He was tired, hungry, and ill-tem-
pered, but she was too desperate to care. His poor,
overworked team did not move quickly enough for him,
86 Prairie Folks
and his extra long turn in the corn had made him dan-
gerous. His eyes gleamed wrathfully from his dust-
laid face.
“Supper ready ?” he growled.
“Yes, two hours ago.”
“Well, I can’t help it !” he said, understanding her
reproach. “That devilish corn is gettin’ too tall to
plough again, and I’ve got 'o go through it to-morrow
or not at all. Cows milked f *
<< Part of 'em.”
“How many left ”
<< Three.”
<< Hell | Which three ???
“Spot, and Brin, and Cherry.”
“Of course, left the three worst ones. I’ll be
damned if I milk a cow to-night. I don’t see why
you play out jest the nights I need ye most.” Here he
kicked a child out of the way. “Git out o’ that
Hain’t you got no sense I’ll learn ye — ”
“Stop that, Sim Burns,” cried the woman, snatching
up the child. “You’re a reg’lar ol’ hyeny, - that’s
what you are,” she added defiantly, roused at last from
her lethargy.
“You’re a-beauty, that’s what you are,” he said,
pitilessly. “Keep your brats out fºum under my feet.”
And he strode off to the barn after his team, leaving her
with a fierce hate in her heart. She heard him yelling
at his team in their stalls : “Git around there, damn
yeh.”
The children had had their supper; so she took them
Lucretia Burns 87
to bed. She was unusually tender to them, for she
wanted to make up in some way for her previous harsh-
ness. The ferocity of her husband had shown up her
own petulant temper hideously, and she sat and sobbed
in the darkness a long time beside the cradle where little
Pet slept.
She heard Burns come growling in and tramp about,
but she did not rise. The supper was on the table; he
could wait on himself. There was an awful feeling at
her heart as she sat there and the house grew quiet.
She thought of suicide in a vague way; of somehow
taking her children in her arms and sinking into a lake
somewhere, where she would never more be troubled,
where she could sleep forever, without toil or hunger.
Then she thought of the little turkeys wandering in
the grass, of the children sleeping at last, of the quiet,
wonderful stars. Then she thought of the cows left
unmilked, and listened to them stirring uneasily in the
yard. She rose, at last, and stole forth. She could not
rid herself of the thought that they would suffer. She
knew what the dull ache in the full breasts of a mother
was, and she could not let them stand at the bars all
night moaning for relief.
The mosquitoes had gone, but the frogs and katydids
still sang, while over in the west Venus shone. She was
a long time milking the cows; her hands were so tired
she had often to stop and rest them, while the tears fell
unheeded into the pail. She saw and felt little of the
external as she sat there. She thought in vague retro-
spect of how sweet it seemed the first time Sim came to
88 Prairie Folks
see her; of the many rides to town with him when he
was an accepted lover; of the few things he had given
her—a coral breastpin and a ring.
She felt no shame at her present miserable appearance;
she was past personal pride. She hardly felt as if the
tall, strong girl, attractive with health and hope, could be
the same soul as the woman who now sat in utter despair
listening to the heavy breathing of the happy cows, grate-
ful for the relief from their burden of milk.
She contrasted her lot with that of two or three women
that she knew (not a very high standard), who kept hired
help, and who had fine houses of four or five rooms.
Even the neighbors were better off than she, for they
didn’t have such quarrels. But she wasn’t to blame—
Sim didn't — Then her mind changed to a dull re-
sentment against “things.” Everything seemed against
her.
She rose at last and carried her second load of milk to
the well, strained it, washed out the pails, and, after
bathing her tired feet in a tub that stood there, she put
on a pair of horrible shoes, without stockings, and crept
stealthily into the house. Sim did not hear her as she
slipped up the stairs to the little low unfinished chamber
beside her oldest children. She could not bear to sleep
near him that night, — she wanted a chance to sob her-
self to quiet.
As for Sim, he was a little disturbed, but would as
soon have cut off his head as acknowledged himself in
the wrong. As he went to bed, and found her still
away, he yelled up the stairway: —
Lucretia Burns 89
“Say, old woman, ain't ye comin’ to bed?” Upon
receiving no answer he rolled his aching body into the
creaking bed. “Do as y” damn please about it. If y’
want to sulk y” can.” And in such wise the family
grew quiet in sleep, while the moist, warm air pulsed
with the ceaseless chime of the crickets.
II
WHEN Sim Burns woke the next morning he felt a
sharper twinge of remorse. It was not a broad or well-
defined feeling—just a sense that he had been unduly
irritable, not that on the whole he was not in the right.
Little Pet lay with the warm June sunshine filling his
baby eyes, curiously content in striking at flies that
buzzed around his little mouth.
The man thrust his dirty, naked feet into his huge
boots, and, without washing his face or combing his hair,
went out to the barn to do his chores.
He was a type of the average prairie farmer, and his
whole surrounding was typical of the time. He had a
quarter-section of fine level land, bought with incredible
toil, but his house was a little box-like structure, costing,
perhaps, five hundred dollars. It had three rooms and
the ever-present summer kitchen at the back. It was
unpainted and had no touch of beauty, - a mere box.
His stable was built of slabs and banked and covered
with straw. It looked like a den, was low and long,
and had but one door in the end. The cow-yard held
ten or fifteen cattle of various kinds, while a few calves
90 Prairie Folks
were bawling from a pen near by. Behind the barn, on
the west and north, was a fringe of willows forming a
“wind-break.” A few broken and discouraged fruit trees,
standing here and there among the weeds, formed the
garden. In short, he was spoken of by his neighbors as
“a hard-working cuss, and tol'ably well fixed.”
No grace had come or ever could come into his life.
Back of him were generations of men like himself,
whose main business had been to work hard, live mis-
erably, and beget children to take their places when
they died.
His courtship had been delayed so long on account of
poverty that it brought little of humanizing emotion into
his life. He never mentioned his love-life now, or if he
did, it was only to sneer obscenely at it. He had long
since ceased to kiss his wife or even speak kindly to her.
There was no longer any sanctity to life or love. He
chewed tobacco and toiled on from year to year without
any very clearly defined idea of the future. His life was
mainly regulated from without.
He was tall, dark, and strong, in a flat-chested, slouch-
ing sort of way, and had grown neglectful of even
decency in his dress. He wore the American farmer's
customary outfit of rough brown pants, hickory shirt, and
greasy wool hat. It differed from his neighbors’ mainly
in being a little dirtier and more ragged. His grimy
hands were broad and strong as the clutch of a bear, and
he was a “terrible feller to turn off work,” as Councill
said. “I’d ruther have Sim Burns work for me one day
than some men three. He's a linger.” He worked
Lucretia Burns 91
with unusual speed this morning, and ended by milking
all the cows himself as a sort of Savage penance for
his misdeeds the previous evening, muttering in self-
defence : —
“Seems ’s if ever’ cussid thing piles on to me at once.
That corn, the road-tax, and hayin’ comin’ on, and now
she gits her back up — ”
When he went back to the well he sloshed himself
thoroughly in the horse-trough and went to the house.
He found breakfast ready, but his wife was not in sight.
The older children were clamoring around the uninvit-
ing breakfast table, spread with cheap ware and with
boiled potatoes and fried salt pork as the principal dishes.
“Where’s y’r ma; ” he asked, with a threatening note
in his voice, as he sat down by the table.
“She’s in the bedroom.”
He rose and pushed open the door. The mother sat
with the babe in her lap, looking out of the window
down across the superb field of timothy, moving like a
lake of purple water. She did not look around. She
only grew rigid. Her thin neck throbbed with the puls-
ing of blood to her head.
“What’s got into you now ** he said, brutally.
“Don’t be a fool. Come out and eat breakfast with
me, an’ take care o' y’r young ones.”
She neither moved nor made a sound. With an oath
he turned on his heel and went out to the table. Eat-
ing his breakfast in his usual wolfish fashion, he went
out into the hot sun with his team and riding-plough, not
a little disturbed by this new phase of his wife’s “can-
92 Prairie Folks
tankerousness.” He ploughed steadily and sullenly all the
forenoon, in the terrific heat and dust. The air was full
of tempestuous threats, still and sultry, one of those days
when work is a punishment. When he came in at
noon he found things the same — dinner on the table,
but his wife out in the garden with the youngest child.
“I cºn stand it as long as she can,” he said to him-
self, in the hearing of the children, as he pushed back
from the table and went back to work.
When he had finished the field of corn it was after
sundown, and he came up to the house, hot, dusty, his
shirt wringing wet with sweat, and his neck aching with
the work of looking down all day at the corn-rows.
His mood was still stern. The multitudinous lift, and
stir, and sheen of the wide, green field had been lost
upon him.
“I wonder if she’s milked them cows,” he muttered
to himself. He gave a sigh of relief to find she had.
But she had done so not for his sake, but for the sake
of the poor, patient dumb brutes.
When he went to the bedroom after supper, he found
that the cradle and his wife’s few little boxes and parcels
— poor, pathetic properties ! — had been removed to the
garret, which they called a chamber, and he knew he
was to sleep alone again.
“She’ll git over it, I guess.” He was very tired, but
he didn’t feel quite comfortable enough to sleep. The
air was oppressive. His shirt, wet in places, and stiff
with dust in other places, oppressed him more than
usual; so he rose and removed it, getting a clean one
Lucretia Burns 93
out of a drawer. This was an unusual thing for him, for
he usually slept in the same shirt which he wore in his
day’s work; but it was Saturday night, and he felt justi-
fied in the extravagance.
In the meanwhile poor Lucretia was brooding over
her life in a most dangerous fashion. All she had done
and suffered for Simeon Burns came back to her till she
wondered how she had endured it all. All day long in
the midst of the glorious summer landscape she brooded.
“I hate him,” she thought, with a fierce blazing up
through the murk of her musing. “I hate tº live. But
they ain't no hope. I’m tied down. I can’t leave the
children, and I ain’t got no money. I couldn’t make a
living out in the world. I ain’t never seen anything an’
don’t know anything.”
She was too simple and too unknowing to speculate
on the loss of her beauty, which would have brought
her competency once — if sold in the right market. As
she lay in her little attic bed, she was still sullenly think-
ing, wearily thinking of her life. She thought of a poor
old horse which Sim had bought once, years before, and
put to the plough when it was too old and weak to
work. She could see her again as in a vision, that poor
old mare, with sad head drooping, toiling, toiling, till at
last she could no longer move, and lying down under
the harness in the furrow, groaned under the whip, —
and died.
Then she wondered if her own numbness and despair
meant death, and she held her breath to think harder
94. Prairie Folks
upon it. She concluded at last, grimly, that she didn't
care—only for the children.
The air was frightfully close in the little attic, and
she heard the low mutter of the rising storm in the
west. She forgot her troubles a little, listening to the
far-off gigantic footsteps of the tempest.
Boom, boom, boom, it broke nearer and nearer, as if a
vast cordon of cannon was being drawn around the
horizon. Yet she was conscious only of pleasure. She
had no fear. At last came the sweep of cool, fragrant
storm–wind, a short and sudden dash of rain, and then
in the cool, sweet hush which followed, the worn and
weary woman fell into a deep sleep.
III
WHEN she woke the younger children were playing
about on the floor in their night-clothes, and little Pet
was sitting in a square of sunshine, intent on one of his
shoes. He was too young to know how poor and
squalid his surroundings were, — the patch of sunshine
flung on the floor glorified it all. He — little animal—
was happy.
The poor of the Western prairies lie almost as un-
healthily close together as do the poor of the city
tenements. In the small hut of the peasant there is
as little chance to escape close and tainting contact as
in the coops and dens of the North End of proud
Boston. In the midst of oceans of land, floods of
sunshine and gulfs of verdure, the farmer lives in two
Lucretia Burns 95
or three small rooms. Poverty’s eternal cordon is ever
round the poor.
“Ma, why didn’t you sleep with Pap last night?”
asked Bob, the seven-year-old, when he saw she was
awake at last. She flushed a dull red.
“You hush, will yeh Because — I — it was too
warm — and there was a storm comin’. You never
mind askin’ such questions. Is he gone out * *
“Yup. I heerd him callin’ the pigs. It's Sunday,
ain’t it, ma ’’
The fact seemed to startle her.
“Why, yes, so it is Wall Now, Sadie, you jump
up an’ dress quick ’s y’ can, an’ Bob an’ Sile, you run
down an’ bring s'm’ water,” she commanded, in nervous
haste, beginning to dress. In the middle of the room
there was scarce space to stand beneath the rafters.
When Sim came in for his breakfast he found it on
the table, but his wife was absent.
“Where's y’r ma ’’ he asked, with a little less of
the growl in his voice.
“She’s upstairs with Pet.”
The man ate his breakfast in dead silence, till at last
Bob ventured to say : —
“What makes ma ac’ so * *
“Shut up !” was the brutal reply. The children
began to take sides with the mother — all but the
oldest girl, who was ten years old. To her the father
turned now for certain things to be done, treating her
in his rough fashion as a housekeeper, and the girl felt
flattered and docile accordingly.
96 Prairie Folks
They were pitiably clad ; like many farm-children,
indeed, they could hardly be said to be clad at all.
Sadie had on but two garments, a sort of undershirt of
cotton and a faded calico dress, out of which her bare,
yellow little legs protruded, lamentably dirty and cov-
ered with scratches.
The boys also had two garments, a hickory shirt and
a pair of pants like their father's, made out of brown
denim by the mother's never-resting hands — hands
that in sleep still sewed, and skimmed, and baked, and
churned. The boys had gone to bed without washing
their feet, which now looked like toads, calloused,
brown, and chapped.
Part of this the mother saw with her dull eyes as
she came down, after seeing the departure of Sim up
the road with the cows. It was a beautiful Sunday
morning, and the woman might have sung like a bird
if men had been as kind to her as Nature. But she
looked dully out upon the seas of ripe grasses, tangled
and flashing with dew, out of which the bobolinks and
larks sprang. The glorious winds brought her no mel-
ody, no perfume, no respite from toil and care.
She thought of the children she saw in the town, –
children of the merchant and banker, clean as little
dolls, the boys in knickerbocker suits, the girls in dainty
white dresses, – and a vengeful bitterness sprang up in
her heart. She soon put the dishes away, but felt too
tired and listless to do more.
“Taw-bay-wies' Pet want ta-aw-bay-wies ’’ cried
the little one, tugging at her dress.
Lucretia Burns 97
Listlessly, mechanically she took him in her arms,
and went out into the garden, which was fragrant and
sweet with dew and sun. After picking some berries
for him, she sat down on the grass under the row of
cottonwoods, and sank into a kind of lethargy. A
kingbird chattered and shrieked overhead, the grass-
hoppers buzzed in the grasses, strange insects with
ventriloquistic voices sang all about her — she could
not tell where.
“Ma, can’t I put on my clean dress ” insisted Sadie.
“I don’t care,” said the brooding woman, darkly.
“Leave me alone.”
Oh, if she could only lie here forever, escaping all
pain and weariness | The wind sang in her ears; the
great clouds, beautiful as heavenly ships, floated far above
in the vast, dazzling deeps of blue sky; the birds rustled
and chirped around her; leaping insects buzzed and clat-
tered in the grass and in the vines and bushes. The
goodness and glory of God was in the very air, the bit-
terness and oppression of man in every line of her face.
But her quiet was broken by Sadie, who came leaping
like a fawn down through the grass.
“Oh, ma, Aunt Maria and Uncle William are coming.
They’ve jest turned in.”
“I don’t care if they be l’” she answered in the same
dully irritated way. “What’re they comin’ here to-day
for, I wan’ to know.” She stayed there immovably, till
Mrs. Councill came down to see her, piloted by two or
three of the children. Mrs. Councill, a jolly, large-framed
woman, smiled brightly, and greeted her in a loud, jovial
H
98 Prairie Folks
voice. She made the mistake of taking the whole mat-
ter lightly; her tone amounted to ridicule.
“Sim says you’ve been having a tantrum, Creeshy.
Don't know what for, he says.”
“He don’t,” said the wife, with a sullen flash in her
eyes. “He don’t know why | Well, then, you just tell
him what I say. I’ve lived in hell long enough. I’m
done. I’ve slaved here day in and day out fºr twelve
years without pay, - not even a decent word. I’ve
worked like no nigger ever worked ºr could work and
live. I’ve given him all I had, ºr ever expect to have.
I’m wore out. My strength is gone, my patience is
gone. I’m done with it, — that’s a part of what’s the
matter.”
“My sakes, Lucreeshy | You mustn't talk that way.”
“But I will,” said the woman, as she supported her-
self on one palm and raised the other. “I’ve got to talk
that way.” She was ripe for an explosion like this.
She seized upon it with eagerness. “They ain’t no
use o’ livin’ this way, anyway. I’d take poison if it
wa’n’t fºr the young ones.”
“Lucreeshy Burns !”
“Oh, I mean it.”
“Land sakes alive, I b'lieve you’re goin’ crazy!”
“I shouldn’t wonder if I was. I’ve had enough t”
drive an Indian crazy. Now you jest go off an’ leave
me 'lone. I ain’t no mind to visit, — they ain’t no way
out of it’ and I’m tired o’ trying to find a way. Go off
an’ let me be.”
Her tone was so bitterly hopeless that the great, jolly
Lucretia Burns 99
face of Mrs. Councill stiffened into a look of horror
such as she had not known for years. The children, in
two separate groups, could be heard rioting. Bees were
humming around the clover in the grass, and the king-
bird chattered ceaselessly from the Lombardy poplar tip.
Both women felt all this peace and beauty of the morn-
ing dimly, and it disturbed Mrs. Councill because the
other was so impassive under it all. At last, after a
long and thoughtful pause, Mrs. Councill asked a ques-
tion whose answer she knew would decide it all — asked
it very kindly and softly: —
“Creeshy, are you comin’ in P’’
“No,” was the short and sullenly decisive answer.
Mrs. Councill knew that was the end, and so rose with
a sigh, and went away.
“Wal, good-by,” she said, simply.
Looking back, she saw Lucretia lying at length, with
closed eyes and hollow cheeks. She seemed to be sleep-
ing, half buried in the grass. She did not look up nor
reply to her sister-in-law, whose life was one of toil and
trouble also, but not so hard and helpless as Lucretia's.
By contrast with most of her neighbors, she seemed
comfortable.
“Sim Burns, what you ben doin’ to that woman ”
she burst out, as she waddled up to where the two men
were sitting under a cottonwood tree, talking and whit-
tling after the manner of farmers.
“Nawthin' 's fur 's I know,” answered Burns, not
quite honestly, and looking uneasy.
“You needn’t try tº git out of it like that, Sim Burns,”
IOO Prairie Folks
replied his sister. “That woman never got into that
fit fºr mawthin’.”
“Wal, if you know more about it than I do, whadgy
ask me fur?” he replied, angrily.
“Tut, tut !” put in Councill, “hold y’r horses
Don’t git on y’r ear, children | Keep cool, and don’t
spile y’r shirts. Most likely you’re all tº blame. Keep
cool an’ swear less.”
“Wal, I’ll bet Sim's more to blame than she is.
Why, they ain’t a harder-workin’ woman in the hull
State of Ioway than she is — ”
“Except Marm Councill.”
“Except nobody. Look at her, jest skin and bones.”
Councill chuckled in his vast way. “That's so,
mother; measured in that way, she leads over you.
You git fat on it.”
She smiled a little, her indignation oozing away.
She never “could stay mad,” her children were accus-
tomed to tell her. Burns refused to talk any more about
the matter, and the visitors gave it up, and got out their
team and started for home, Mrs. Councill firing this
parting shot: —
“The best thing you can do to-day is t” let her
alone. Mebbe the children 'll bring her round ag’in.
If she does come round, you see 't you treat her a
little more 's y’did when you was a-courtin’ her.”
“This way,” roared Councill, putting his arm
around his wife’s waist. She boxed his ears, while he
guffawed and clucked at his team.
Burns took a measure of salt and went out into the
Lucretia Burns IOI
pasture to salt the cows. On the sunlit slope of the
field, where the cattle came running and bawling to
meet him, he threw down the salt in handfuls, and
then lay down to watch them as they eagerly licked
it up, even gnawing a bare spot in the sod in their
eagerness to get it all.
Burns was not a drinking man ; he was hard-work-
ing, frugal; in fact, he had no extravagances except
his tobacco. His clothes he wore until they all but
dropped from him; and he worked in rain and mud,
as well as dust and sun. It was this suffering and
toiling all to no purpose that made him sour and
irritable. He didn’t see why he should have so little
after so much hard work.
He was puzzled to account for it all. His mind
— the average mind—was weary with trying to solve
an insoluble problem. His neighbors, who had got
along a little better than himself, were free with advice
and suggestion as to the cause of his persistent poverty.
Old man Bacon, the hardest-working man in the
county, laid it to Burns's lack of management. Jim
Butler, who owned a dozen farms (which he had taken
on mortgages), and who had got rich by buying land
at government price and holding for a rise, laid all
such cases as Burns's to “lack of enterprise, foresight.”
But the larger number, feeling themselves in the
same boat with Burns, said : —
“I d' know. Seems as if things get worse an’ worse.
Corn an' wheat gittin' cheaper 'n' cheaper. Machinery
eatin' up profits—got to have machinery to harvest
I O2 Prairie Folks
the cheap grain, an’ then the machinery eats up profits.
Taxes goin' up. Devil to pay all round; I d' know
what in thunder is the matter.”
The Democrats said protection was killing the
farmers; the Republicans said no. The Grangers
growled about the middle-men ; the Greenbackers said
there wasn't circulating medium enough, and, in the
midst of it all, hard-working, discouraged farmers, like
Simeon Burns, worked on, unable to find out what
really was the matter.
And there, on this beautiful Sabbath morning, Sim
sat and thought and thought, till he rose with an oath
and gave it up.
IV
It was hot and brilliant again the next morning as
Douglas Radbourn drove up the road with Lily Gra-
ham, the teacher of the school in the little white
schoolhouse. It was blazing hot, even though not
yet nine o’clock, and the young farmers ploughing be-
side the fence looked longingly and somewhat bitterly
at Radbourn seated in a fine top-buggy beside a beauti-
ful creature in lace and cambric.
Very beautiful the town-bred “schoolma’am ” looked
to those grimy, sweaty fellows, superb fellows too,
physically, with bare red arms and leather-colored faces.
She was as if builded of the pink and white clouds
soaring far up there in the morning sky. So cool,
and sweet, and dainty.
As she came in sight, their dusty and sweaty shirts
Lucretia Burns 1O3
grew biting as the poisoned shirt of the Norse myth,
their bare feet in the brown dirt grew distressingly flat
and hoof-like, and their huge, dirty, brown, chapped
and swollen hands grew so repulsive that the mere
remote possibility of some time in the far future standing
a chance of having an introduction to her, caused them
to wipe their palms on their trousers’ legs stealthily.
Lycurgus Banks swore when he saw Radbourn:
“That cuss thinks he’s ol’ hell this morning. He
don’t earn his living. But he’s just the kind of cuss
to get holt of all the purty girls.”
Others gazed with simple, sad wistfulness upon
the slender figure, pale, sweet face, and dark eyes of
the young girl, feeling that to have talk with such a
fairylike creature was a happiness too great to ever
be their lot. And when she had passed they went
back to work with a sigh and feeling of loss.
As for Lily, she felt a pang of pity for these people.
She looked at this peculiar form of poverty and hard-
ship much as the fragile, tender girl of the city looks
upon the men laying a gas-main in the streets. She
felt, sympathetically, the heat and grime, and, though
but the faintest idea of what it meant to wear such
clothing came to her, she shuddered. Her eyes had
been opened to these things by Radbourn, a classmate
at the Seminary.
The young fellow knew that Lily was in love with
him, and made distinct effort to keep the talk upon
impersonal subjects. He liked her very much, prob-
ably because she listened so well.
IO4. Prairie Folks
“Poor fellows,” sighed Lily, almost unconsciously,
“I hate to see them working there in the dirt and
hot sun. It seems a hopeless sort of life, doesn’t it **
“Oh, but this is the most beautiful part of the year,”
said Radbourn. “ Think of them in the mud, in the
sleet; think of them husking corn in the snow, a bitter
wind blowing; think of them a month later in the har-
vest; think of them imprisoned here in winter l’”
“Yes, it’s dreadful But I never felt it so keenly
before. You have opened my eyes to it. Of course,
I’ve been on a farm, but not to live there.”
“Writers and orators have lied so long about ‘the
idyllic’ in farm life, and said so much about the ‘inde-
pendent American farmer,’ that he himself has remained
blind to the fact that he's one of the hardest-working
and poorest-paid men in America. See the houses they
live in, – hovels.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Lily; a look of deeper pain
swept over her face. “And the fate of the poor women;
oh, the fate of the women | *
“Yes, it’s a matter of statistics,” went on Radbourn,
pitilessly, “that the wives of the American farmers fill
our insane asylums. See what a life they lead, most of
them; no music, no books. Seventeen hours a day in
a couple of small rooms — dens. Now there is Sim
Burns ! What a travesty of a home ! Yet there are a
dozen just as bad in sight. He works like a fiend—so
does his wife—and what is their reward Simply a
hole to hibernate in and to sleep and eat in in summer.
A dreary present and a well-nigh hopeless future. No,
Lucretia Burns IO5
they have a future, if they knew it, and we must tell
them.”
“I know Mrs. Burns,” Lily said, after a pause; “she
sends several children to my school. Poor, pathetic little
things, half-clad and wistful-eyed. They make my heart
ache; they are so hungry for love, and so quick to learn.”
As they passed the Burns farm, they looked for the
wife, but she was not to be seen. The children had
evidently gone up to the little white schoolhouse at the
head of the lane. Radbourn let the reins fall slack as
he talked on. He did not look at the girl; his eyebrows
were drawn into a look of gloomy pain.
“It isn’t so much the grime that I abhor, nor the
labor that crooks their backs and makes their hands
bludgeons. It’s the horrible waste of life involved in it
all. I don’t believe God intended a man to be bent to
plough-handles like that, but that isn’t the worst of it.
The worst of it is, these people live lives approaching
automata. They become machines to serve others more
lucky or more unscrupulous than themselves. What is
the world of art, of music, of literature, to these poor
devils, — to Sim Burns and his wife there, for example :
Or even to the best of these farmers ?”
The girl looked away over the shimmering lake of
yellow-green corn. A choking came into her throat.
Her gloved hand trembled.
“What is such a life worth It’s all very comfort-
able for us to say, ‘They don’t feel it.” How do we
know what they feel What do we know of their
capacity for enjoyment of art and music? They
Ioô Prairie Folks
never have leisure or opportunity. The master is very
glad to be taught by preacher, and lawyer, and novel-
ist, that his slaves are contented and never feel any long-
ings for a higher life. These people live lives but little
higher than their cattle—are forced to live so. Their
hopes and aspirations are crushed out, their souls are
twisted and deformed just as toil twists and deforms
their bodies. They are on the same level as the city
laborer. The very religion they hear is a soporific.
They are taught to be content here that they may be
happy hereafter. Suppose there isn’t any hereafter ”
“Oh, don’t say that, please !” Lily cried.
“But I don’t know that there is,” he went on remorse-
lessly, “ and I do know that these people are being
robbed of something more than money, of all that makes
life worth living. The promise of milk and honey in
Canaan is all very well, but I prefer to have mine here;
then I’m sure of it.”
“What can we do?” murmured the girl.
“Do Rouse these people for one thing; preach
discontent, a noble discontent.”
“It will only make them unhappy.”
“No, it won’t ; not if you show them the way out.
If it does, it’s better to be unhappy striving for higher
things, like a man, than to be content in a wallow like
swine.”
“But what is the way out?”
This was sufficient to set Radbourn upon his hobby-
horse. He outlined his plan of action: the abolition
of all indirect taxes, the State control of all privileges
Lucretia Burns IO7
the private ownership of which interfered with the equal
rights of all. He would utterly destroy speculative
holdings of the earth. He would have land everywhere
brought to its best use, by appropriating all ground rents
to the use of the state, etc., etc., to which the girl lis-
tened with eager interest, but with only partial compre-
hension.
As they neared the little schoolhouse, a swarm of
midgets in pink dresses, pink sun-bonnets, and brown
legs, came rushing to meet their teacher, with that pecul-
iar devotion the children in the country develop for a
refined teacher.
Radbourn helped Lily out into the midst of the eager
little scholars, who swarmed upon her like bees on a
lump of sugar, till even Radbourn's gravity gave way,
and he smiled into her lifted eyes, –an unusual smile,
that strangely enough stopped the smile on her own lips,
filling her face with a wistful shadow, and her breath
came hard for a moment, and she trembled.
She loved that cold, stern face, oh, so much l and to
have him smile was a pleasure that made her heart leap
till she suffered a smothering pain. She turned to him
to say : —
“I am very thankful, Mr. Radbourn, for another
pleasant ride,” adding in a kºwer tone, “it was a very
great pleasure ; you always give me so much. I feel
stronger and more hopeful.”
“I’m glad you feel so. I was afraid I was prosy
with my land doctrine.”
“Oh, no! Indeed no You have given me a new
IO8 Prairie Folks
hope; I am exalted with the thought; I shall try to
think it all out and apply it.”
And so they parted, the children looking on and
slyly whispering among themselves. Radbourn looked
back after a while, but the bare white hive had absorbed
its little group, and was standing bleak as a tombstone
and hot as a furnace on the naked plain in the blazing
SUll].
“America’s pitiful boast !” said the young radical,
looking back at it. “Only a miserable hint of what it
might be.”
All that forenoon, as Lily faced her noisy group of
barefooted children, she was thinking of Radbourn, of
his almost fierce sympathy for these poor, supine farm-
ers, hopeless and in some cases content in their narrow
lives. The children almost worshipped the beautiful
girl who came to them as a revelation of exquisite neat-
ness and taste, – whose very voice and intonation awed
them.
They noted, unconsciously of course, every detail.
Snowy linen, touches of soft color, graceful lines of bust
and side, the slender fingers that could almost speak,
so beautifully flexile were they. Lily herself sometimes,
when she shook the calloused, knotted, stiffened hands
of the women, shuddered with sympathetic pain to
think that the crowning wonder and beauty of God’s
world should be so maimed and distorted from its true
purpose. -
Even in the children before her she could see the in-
herited results of fruitless labor, and, more pitiful yet,
Lucretia Burns IO9
in the bent shoulders of the older ones she could see the
beginnings of deformity that would soon be permanent;
and as these thoughts came to her, she clasped the
wondering children to her side, with a convulsive wish
to make life a little brighter for them.
“How is your mother to-day ” she asked of Sadie
Burns, as she was eating her luncheon on the drab-
colored table near the open window.
“Purty well,” said Sadie, in a hesitating way.
Lily was looking out, and listening to the gophers
whistling as they raced to and fro. She could see Bob
Burns lying at length on the grass in the pasture over
the fence, his heels waving in the air, his hands holding
a string which formed a snare. It was like fishing to
young Izaak Walton.
It was very still and hot, and the cheep and trill of
the gophers and the chatter of the kingbirds alone broke
the silence. A cloud of butterflies were fluttering about
a pool near ; a couple of big flies buzzed and mumbled
on the pane.
“What ails your mother ?” Lily asked, recovering her-
self and looking at Sadie, who was distinctly ill at ease.
“Oh, I dunno,” Sadie replied, putting one bare foot
across the other.
Lily insisted.
“She ’n’ pa’s had an awful row — ”
“Sadie l’” said the teacher, warningly, “what lan-
guage l’’
“I mean they quarrelled, an’ she don’t speak to him
any more.”
I IO Prairie Folks
“Why, how dreadful l’”
“An' pa, he’s awful cross ; and she won’t eat when
he does, an’ I haf to wait on table.”
“I believe I’ll go down and see her this noon,” said
Lily to herself, as she divined a little of the state of
affairs in the Burns family.
V
SIM was mending the pasture fence as Lily came
down the road toward him. He had delayed going to
dinner to finish his task, and was just about ready to go
when Lily spoke to him.
“Good morning, Mr. Burns. I am just going down
to see Mrs. Burns. It must be time to go to dinner, —
aren’t you ready to go I want to talk with you.”
Ordinarily he would have been delighted with the
idea of walking down the road with the schoolma'am,
but there was something in her look which seemed to
tell him that she knew all about his trouble, and, be-
sides, he was not in good humor.
“Yes, in a minnit — soon’s I fix up this hole.
Them shotes, I b'lieve, would go through a keyhole, if
they could once get their snoots in.”
He expanded on this idea as he nailed away, anxious
to gain time. He foresaw trouble for himself. He
couldn’t be rude to this sweet and fragile girl. If a
man had dared to attack him on his domestic short-
comings, he could have fought. The girl stood waiting
for him, her large, steady eyes full of thought, gaz-
Lucretia Burns I I I
ing down at him from the shadow of her broad-brimmed
hat.
“The world is so full of misery anyway, that we
ought to do the best we can to make it less,” she said at
last, in a musing tone, as if her thoughts had uncon-
sciously taken on speech. She had always appealed to
him strongly, and never more so than in this softly
uttered abstraction — that it was an abstraction added
to its power with him.
He could find no words for reply, but picked up his
hammer and nail-box, and slouched along the road by
her side, listening without a word to her talk.
“Christ was patient, and bore with his enemies.
Surely we ought to bear with our — friends,” she went
on, adapting her steps to his. He took off his torn
straw hat and wiped his face on his sleeve, being much
embarrassed and ashamed. Not knowing how to meet
such argument, he kept silent.
“How is Mrs. Burns !” said Lily at length, deter-
mined to make him speak. The delicate meaning in
the emphasis laid on is did not escape him.
“Oh, she's all right — I mean she’s done her work
jest the same as ever. I don’t see her much —”
“I didn’t know — I was afraid she was sick. Sadie
said she was acting strangely.”
“No, she's well enough — but — ”
“But what is the trouble Won’t you let me help
you, won't you ?” she pleaded.
“Can't anybody help us. We’ve got 'o fight it out,
I s'pose,” he replied, a gloomy note of resentment creep-
II 2 Prairie Folks
ing into his voice. “She’s ben in a devil of a temper
fºr a week.”
“Haven’t you been in the same kind of a temper
too ” demanded Lily, firmly but kindly. “I think
most troubles of this kind come from bad temper on
both sides. Don’t you ? Have you done your share
at being kind and patient * *
They had reached the gate now, and she laid her
hand on his arm to stop him. He looked down at the
slender gloved hand on his arm, feeling as if a giant had
grasped him; then he raised his eyes to her face, flush-
ing a purplish red as he remembered his grossness. It
seemed monstrous in the presence of this girl-advocate.
Her face was like silver; her eyes seemed pools of tears.
“I don’t s’pose I have,” he said at last, pushing by
her. He could not have faced her glance another
moment. His whole air conveyed the impression of
destructive admission. Lily did not comprehend the
extent of her advantage or she would have pursued it
further. As it was she felt a little hurt as she entered
the house. The table was set, but Mrs. Burns was
nowhere to be seen. Calling her softly, the young girl
passed through the shabby little living-room to the oven-
like bedroom which opened off it, but no one was
about. She stood for a moment shuddering at the
wretchedness of the room.
Going back to the kitchen, she found Sim about
beginning on his dinner. Little Pet was with him; the
rest of the children were at the schoolhouse.
<< Where is she P’’
Lucretia Burns II 3
“I d' know. Out in the garden, I expect. She
don’t eat with me now. I never see her. She don’t
come near me. I ain’t seen her since Saturday.”
Lily was shocked inexpressibly and began to see more
clearly the magnitude of the task she had set herself to
do. But it must be done; she felt that a tragedy was
not far off. It must be averted.
“Mr. Burns, what have you done What have you
done : ” she asked in terror and horror.
“Don’t lay it all to me / She hain’t done nawthin'
but complain fºr ten years. I couldn’t do nothin’ to
suit her. She was always naggin' me.”
“I don’t think Lucretia Burns would nag anybody.
I don’t say you’re all to blame, but I’m afraid you
haven’t acknowledged you were any to blame. I’m
afraid you’ve not been patient with her. I’m going out
to bring her in. If she comes, will you say you were
part to blame You needn’t beg her pardon —just say
you’ll try to be better. Will you do it Think how
much she has done for you ! Will you ?”
He remained silent, and looked discouragingly rude.
His sweaty, dirty shirt was open at the neck, his arms
were bare, his scraggly teeth were yellow with tobacco,
and his uncombed hair lay tumbled about on his high,
narrow head. His clumsy, unsteady hands played with
the dishes on the table. His pride was struggling with
his sense of justice; he knew he ought to consent, and
yet it was so hard to acknowledge himself to blame.
The girl went on in a voice piercingly sweet, trembling
with pity and pleading.
I
I I4. Prairie Folks
“What word can I carry to her from you ? I’m
going to go and see her. If I could take a word from
you, I know she would come back to the table. Shall I
tell her you feel to blame * *
The answer was a long time coming; at last the man
nodded an assent, the sweat pouring from his purple
face. She had set him thinking; her victory was sure.
Lily almost ran out into the garden and to the straw-
berry patch, where she found Lucretia in her familiar,
colorless, shapeless dress, picking berries in the hot sun,
the mosquitoes biting her neck and hands.
“Poor, pathetic, dumb sufferer!” the girl thought as
she ran up to her.
She dropped her dish as she heard Lily coming, and
gazed up into the tender, pitying face. Not a word was
spoken, but something she saw there made her eyes fill
with tears, and her throat swell. It was pure sympathy.
She put her arms around the girl’s neck and sobbed for
the first time since Friday night. Then they sat down
on the grass under the hedge, and she told her story,
interspersed with Lily’s horrified comments.
When it was all told, the girl still sat listening. She
heard Radbourn’s calm, slow voice again. It helped
her not to hate Burns; it helped her to pity and under-
stand him.
“You must remember that such toil brutalizes a man;
it makes him callous, selfish, unfeeling, necessarily. A
fine nature must either adapt itself to its hard surround-
ings or die. Men who toil terribly in filthy garments
day after day and year after year cannot easily keep
Lucretia Burns II 5
gentle; the frost and grime, the heat and cold, will
soon or late enter into their souls. The case is not all
in favor of the suffering wives and against the brutal
husbands. If the farmer's wife is dulled and crazed by her
routine, the farmer himself is degraded and brutalized.”
As well as she could Lily explained all this to the
woman, who lay with her face buried in the girl’s lap.
Lily’s arms were about her thin shoulders in an agony
of pity.
“It’s hard, Lucretia, I know, - more than you can
bear, – but you mustn't forget what Sim endures too.
He goes out in the storms and in the heat and dust.
His boots are hard, and see how his hands are all bruised
and broken by his work | He was tired and hungry
when he said that—he didn’t really mean it.”
The wife remained silent.
“Mr. Radbourn says work, as things go now, does
degrade a man in spite of himself. He says men get
coarse and violent in spite of themselves, just as women
do when everything goes wrong in the house, — when
the flies are thick, and the fire won’t burn, and the irons
stick to the clothes. You see, you both suffer. Don’t
lay up this fit of temper against Sim — will you ?”
The wife lifted her head and looked away. Her face
was full of hopeless weariness.
“It ain’t this once. It ain’t that 't all. It’s having
no let-up. Just goin’ the same thing right over ’n’ over
— no hope of anything better.”
“If you had hope of another world —”
“Don’t talk that. I don’t want that kind o' comfert.
I I6 Prairie Folks
I want a decent chance here. I want ’o rest an’ be
happy now.” Lily’s big eyes were streaming with tears.
What should she say to the desperate woman “What’s
the use We might jest as well die — all of us.”
The woman’s livid face appalled the girl. She was
gaunt, heavy-eyed, nerveless. Her faded dress settled
down over her limbs, showing the swollen knees and
thin calves; her hands, with distorted joints, protruded
painfully from her sleeves. All about her was the ever
recurring wealth and cheer of nature that knows no
favor, – the bees and flies buzzing in the sun, the
jay and the kingbird in the poplars, the smell of straw-
berries, the motion of lush grass, the shimmer of corn-
blades tossed gayly as banners in a conquering army.
Like a flash of keener light, a sentence shot across
the girl’s mind: “Nature knows no title-deed. The
bounty of her mighty hands falls as the sunlight falls,
copious, impartial; her seas carry all ships; her air is
for all lips, her lands for all feet.”
“Poverty and suffering such as yours will not last.”
There was something in the girl’s voice that roused the
woman. She turned her dull eyes upon the youthful
face.
Lily took her hand in both hers as if by a caress she
could impart her own faith.
“Look up, dear. When nature is so good and gener-
ous, man must come to be better, surely. Come, go in
the house again. Sim is there; he expects you; he told
me to tell you he was sorry.” Lucretia's face twitched
a little at that, but her head was bent. “Come; you
Lucretia Burns 117
- can't live this way. There isn't any other place to
go to.”
No, that was the bitterest truth. Where on this
wide earth, with its forth-shooting fruits and grains, its
fragrant lands and shining seas, could this dwarfed, bent,
broken, middle-aged woman go 2 Nobody wanted her,
nobody cared for her. But the wind kissed her drawn
lips as readily as those of the girl, and the blooms of
clover nodded to her as if to a queen.
Lily had said all she could. Her heart ached with
unspeakable pity and a sort of terror.
“Don’t give up, Lucretia. This may be the worst
hour of your life. Live and bear with it all for Christ's
sake, – for your children’s sake. Sim told me to tell you
he was to blame. If you will only see that you are
both to blame and yet neither to blame, then you can
rise above it. Try, dear!”
Something that was in the girl imparted itself to the
wife, electrically. She pulled herself together, rose
silently, and started toward the house. Her face was
rigid, but no longer sullen. Lily followed her slowly,
wonderingly.
As she neared the kitchen door, she saw Sim still sit-
ting at the table; his face was unusually grave and soft.
She saw him start and shove back his chair, saw
Lucretia go to the stove and lift the tea-pot, and heard
her say, as she took her seat beside the baby : —
“Want some more tea : ”
She had become a wife and mother again, but in what
spirit the puzzled girl could not say.
II 8 Prairie Folks
LOGAN AT PEACH TREE CREEK
A VETERAN’s STORY
You know that day at Peach Tree Creek,
When the Rebs with their circling, scorching wall
Of smoke-hid cannon and sweep of flame
Drove in our flanks, back back and all
Our toil seemed lost in the storm of shell ? —
That desperate day McPherson fell !
Our regiment stood in a little glade
Set round with half-grown red-oak trees;
An awful place to stand, in full fair sight,
While the minie bullets hummed like bees,
And comrades dropped on either side—
That fearful day McPherson died
The roar of the battle, steady, stern,
Rung in our ears. Upon our eyes
The belching cannon smoke, the half-hid swing
Of deploying troops, the groans, the cries,
The hoarse commands, the sickening smell—
That blood-red day McPherson fell
But we stood there, — when out from the trees,
Out of the smoke and dismay, to the right
Burst a rider, — his head was bare, his eye
Had a blaze like a lion fain for fight;
His long hair, black as the deepest night,
Streamed out on the wind. And the might
Of his plunging horse was a tale to tell,
Logan at Peach Tree Creek II 9
And his voice rang high like a bugle's swell;
“Men, the enemy hem us on every side;
We'll whip ’em yet ! Close up that breach —
Remember your flag — don’t give an inch
The right flank’s gaining and soon will reach—
Forward, boys, and give 'em hell!”
Said Logan, after McPherson fell.
We laughed and cheered and the red ground shook,
As the general plunged along the line
Through the deadliest rain of screaming shells;
For the sound of his voice refreshed us all,
And we filled the gap like a roaring tide,
And saved the day McPherson died
And that was twenty years ago,
And part of a horrible dream now past.
For Logan, the lion, the drums throb low,
And the flag swings low on the mast.
He has followed his mighty chieftain through
The mist-hung stream, where gray and blue
One color stands,
And North to South extends the hand.
It's right that deeds of war and blood
Should be forgot, but, spite of all,
I think of Logan now, as he rode
That day across the field; I hear the call
Of his trumpet voice, see the battle shine
In his stern, black eyes, and down the line
Of cheering men, I see him ride,
As on the day McPherson died
SOME VILLAGE CRONIES
SOME VILLAGE CRONIES
CoLONEL PEAVY had just begun the rubber with
Squire Gordon, of Cerro Gordo County. They were
seated in Robie's grocery, behind the rusty old cannon
stove, the checker-board spread out on their knees.
The Colonel was grinning in great glee, wringing his
bony yellow hands in nervous excitement, in strong
contrast to the stolid calm of the fat Squire.
The Colonel had won the last game by a large
margin, and was sure he had his opponent’s dodges
well in hand. It was early in the evening, and the
grocery was comparatively empty. Robie was figuring
at a desk, and old Judge Brown stood in legal gravity
warming his legs at the red-hot stove, and swaying
gently back and forth in speechless content. It was
a tough night outside, one of the toughest for years.
The frost had completely shut the window-panes as
with thick blankets of snow. The streets were silent.
“I don’t know,” said the Judge, reflectively, to
Robie, breaking the silence in his rasping, judicial
bass, “I don’t know as there has been such a night
as this since the night of February 2, '59; that was
the night James Kirk went under — Honorable Kirk,
you remember—knew him well. Brilliant fellow, or—
nament to Western bar. But whiskey downed him.
It’ll beat the oldest man — I wonder where the boys
I23
I 24. Prairie Folks
all are to-night Don’t seem to be any one stirring on
the street. Aren’t frightened out by the cold * *
“Shouldn’t wonder.” Robie was busy at his desk,
and not in humor for conversation on reminiscent lines.
The two old war dogs at the board had settled down to
one of those long, silent struggles which ensue when
two champions meet. In the silence which followed,
the Judge was looking attentively at the back of the
Colonel, and thinking that the old thief was getting
about down to skin and bone. He turned with a yawn
to Robie, saying : —
“This cold weather must take hold of the old
Colonel terribly, he's so damnably thin and bald, you
know, - bald as a babe. The fact is, the old Colonel
ain’t long for this world, anyway; think so, Hank : ”
Robie making no reply, the Judge relapsed into silence
for a while, watching the cat (perilously walking along
the edge of the upper shelf) and listening to the occa-
sional hurrying footsteps outside. “I don’t know when
I’ve seen the windows closed up so, Hank; go down to
thirty below to-night; devilish strong wind blowing,
too; tough night on the prairies, Hank.”
“You bet,” replied Hank, briefly.
The Colonel was plainly getting excited. His razor-
like back curved sharper than ever as he peered into the
intricacies of the board to spy the trap which the fat
Squire had set for him. At this point the squeal of
boots on the icy walk outside paused, and a moment
later Amos Ridings entered, with whiskers covered with
ice, and looking like a huge bear in his buffalo coat.
Some Village Cronies I 25
“By Josephus ! it’s cold,” he roared, as he took off his
gloves and began to warm his face and hands at the fire.
“Is it ’’ asked the Judge, comfortably, rising on his
tiptoes, only to fall back into his usual attitude legal,
legs well spread, shoulders thrown back.
“You bet it is l’’ replied Amos. “I d' know when
I've felt the cold more’n I have tº-day. It’s jest snifty;
doubles me up like a jack-knife, Judge. How do you
stand it º’’
“Toler’ble, toler’ble, Amos. But we’re agin', we’re
not what we were once. Cold takes hold of us.”
“That’s a fact,” answered Amos to the retrospective
musings of the Judge. “Time was you an’ me would
go tº singing-school or sleigh-riding with the girls on a
night like this and never notice it.”
“Yes, sir; yes, sir!” said the Judge with a sigh. It
was a little uncertain in Robie's mind whether the
Judge was regretting the jost ability to stand the cold,
or the lost pleasure of riding with the girls.
“Great days, those, gentlemen Lived in Vermont
then. Hot-blooded — lungs like an ox. I remember,
Sallie Dearborn and I used to go a-foot to singing-school
down the valley four miles. But now, wouldn’t go rid-
ing to-night with the handsomest woman in America,
and the best cutter in Rock River.”
“Oh you’ve got both feet in the grave up tº the
ankles, anyway,” said Robie, from his desk; but the
Judge immovably gazed at the upper shelf on the other
side of the room, where the boilers and pans and wash-
boards were stored. -
126 Prairie Folks
“The Judge is a little on the sentimental order to-
night,” said Amos.
“Hold on, Colonel hold on. You've got 'o jump.
Hah! hah l’’ roared Gordon from the checker-board.
“That's right, that’s right !” he ended, as the Colonel
complied reluctantly.
“Sock it to the old cuss l’’ commented Amos. “What
I was going to say,” he resumed, rolling down the collar
of his coat, “ was, that when my wife helped me bundle
up tº-night, she said I was gitt’n’ tº be an old granny.
We are agin', Judge, thes no denyin' that. We’re
both gray as Norway rats now. An’ speaking of us
agin' reminds me — have y” noticed how bald the old
Kyernel’s gitt’n’ ”
“I have, Amos,” answered the Judge, mournfully.
“The old man’s head is showing age, showing age
Getting thin up there, very thin.”
The old Colonel bent to his work with studied abstrac-
tion, and even when Amos said, judicially, after long
scrutiny, “Yes, he’ll soon be as bald as a plate,” he only
lifted one yellow, freckled, bony hand, and brushed his
carroty growth of hair across the spot under discussion.
Gordon’s fat paunch shook in silent laughter, nearly
displacing the board.
“I was just telling Robie,” pursued Brown, still re-
taining his reminiscent intonation, “that this storm takes
the cake over anything — ”
At this point Steve Roach and another fellow entered.
Steve was Ridings’s hired hand, a herculean fellow, with a
drawl, and a liability for taking offence quite as remarkable.
Some Village Cronies 127
“Say! gents, I’m no spring rooster, but this jest gits
away with anything in the line of cold I ever see.”
While this communication was being received in
ruminative silence, Steve was holding his ears in his
hand and gazing at the intent champions at the board.
There they sat ; the old Squire panting and wheezing in
his excitement, for he was planning a great “snap * on
the Colonel, whose red and freckled nose almost touched
the board. It was a solemn battle hour. The wind
howled mournfully outside, the timbers of the store
creaked in the cold, and the huge cannon stove roared
in steady bass.
“Speaking about ears,” said Steve, after a silence,
“dummed if I’d like tº be quite s” bare 'round the ears
as Kernel there. I wonder if any o' you fellers has
noticed how the ol' feller’s lost hair this last summer.
He’s gittin’ bald, they’s no coverin’ it up, —gittin' bald
as a plate.”
“You’re right, Stephen,” said the Judge, as he gravely
took his stand behind his brother advocate and studied,
with the eye of an adept, the field of battle. “We were
noticing it when you came in. It’s a sad thing, but it
must be admitted.”
“It’s the Kyernel’s brains wearin' up through his
hair, I take it,” commented Amos, as he helped himself
to a handful of peanuts out of the bag behind the
counter. “Say, Steve, did y’ stuff up that hole in front
of ol’ Barney : ”
A shout was heard outside, and then a rush against
the door, and immediately two young fellows burst in,
I 28 Prairie Folks
followed by a fierce gust of snow. One was Professor
Knapp, the other Editor Foster, of the Morning Call.
“Well, gents, how’s this for high ” said Foster, in a
peculiar tone of voice, at which all began to smile. He
was a slender fellow with close-clipped, assertive red
hair. “In this company we now have the majesty of
the law, the power of the press, and the underpinning
of the American civilization all represented. Hello!
There are a couple of old roosters with their heads
together. Gordon, my old enemy, how are you ?”
Gordon waved him off with a smile and a wheeze.
“Don’t bother me now. I’ve got 'im. I’m laying fºr
the old dog. Whist l”
“Got nothing !” snarled the Colonel. “You try
that on if you want to. Just swing that man in there
if you think it's healthy for him. Just as like as not,
you’ll slip up on that little trick.”
“Ha! Say you so, old True Penny ? The Kunnel
has met a foeman worthy of his steel,” said Foster, in
great glee, as he bent above the Colonel. “I know.
How do I know, quotha : By the curve on the Kun-
nel’s back. The size of the parabola described by that
backbone accurately gauges his adversary’s skill. But,
by the way, gentlemen, have you — but that’s a nice
point, and I refer all nice points to Professor Knapp.
Professor, is it in good taste to make remarks concerning
the dress or features of another ?”
“Certainly not,” answered Knapp, a handsome young
fellow with a yellow mustache.
“ Not when the person is an esteemed public char-
Some Village Cronies I29
acter, like the Colonel here What I was about to
remark, if it had been proper, was that the old fellow
is getting wofully bald. He'll soon be bald as an egg.”
“Say !” asked the Colonel, “I want to know how
long you’re going to keep this thing up ; Somebody’s
dummed sure tº get hurt soon.”
“There, there, Colonel,” said Brown, soothingly,
“don’t get excited ; you’ll lose the rubber. Don’t
mind 'em. Keep cool.”
“Yes, keep cool, Kunnel; it’s only our solicitude for
your welfare,” chipped in Foster. Then, addressing the
crowd in a general sort of way, he speculated: “Curious
how a man, a plain American citizen like Colonel
Peavy, wins a place in the innermost affections of a
whole people.”
“That’s so !” murmured the rest.
“He can’t grow bald without deep sympathy from his
fellow-citizens. It amounts to a public calamity.”
The old Colonel glared in speechless wrath.
“Say, gents,” pleaded Gordon, “let up on the old
man for the present. He’s going to need all of himself
if he gets out o' the trap he's in now.” He waved his
fat hand over the Colonel’s head, and smiled blandly at
the crowd hugging the stove.
“My head may be bald,” grated the old man, with a
death's-head grin indescribably ferocious, “but it's got
brains enough in it to skunk any man in this crowd
three games out o' five.”
“The ol’ man rather gits the laugh on y” there,
gents,” called Robie from the other side of the counter.
K
I 3O Prairie Folks
“I hain’t seen the old skeesix play better’n he did last
night, in years.”
“Not since his return from Canada, after the war, I
reckon,” said Amos, from the kerosene barrel.
“Hold on, Amos,” put in the Judge, warningly,
“that’s outlawed. Talking about being bald and the
war reminds me of the night Walters and I — by the
way, where is Walters to-night ”
“Sick,” put in the Colonel, straightening up exult-
antly. “I waxed him three straight games last night.
You won’t see him again till spring. Skunked him
once, and beat him twice.”
“Oh, git out.”
“Hear the old seed twitter l’”
“Did you ever notice, gentlemen, how lying and
baldness go together ?” queried Foster, reflectively.
“No I Do they ”
“Invariably. I’ve known many colossal liars, and
they were all as bald as apples.”
The Colonel was getting nervous, and was so slow
that even Gordon (who could sit and stare at the board
a full half-hour without moving) began to be impatient.
“Come, Colonel, marshal your forces a little more
promptly. If you’re going at me échelon, sound y’r
bugle; I’m ready.”
“Don’t worry,” answered the Colonel, in his calmest
nasal. “I’ll accommodate you with all the fight you
want.”
“Did it ever occur to you,” began the Judge again,
addressing the crowd generally, as he moved back to
Some Village Cronies I3 I
the stove and lit another cigar, “ did it ever occur to
you that it is a little singular a man should get bald on
the top of his head first Curious fact. So accustomed
to it we no longer wonder at it. Now see the Colonel
there; quite a growth of hair on his clapboarding, as it
were, but devilish thin on his roof.”
Here the Colonel looked up and tried to say some-
thing, but the Judge went on imperturbably : —
“Now, I take it that it’s strictly providential that a
man gets bald on top of his head first, because if he
must get bald, it is best to get bald where it can be
covered up.”
“By jinks, that’s a fact l” said Foster, in high ad-
miration of the Judge’s ratiocination. Steve was spe-
cially pleased, and, drawing a neck-yoke from a barrel
standing near, pounded the floor vigorously.
“Talking about being bald,” put in Foster, “reminds
me of a scheme of mine, which is to send no one out
to fight Indians but bald men. Think how powerless
they’d be in —”
The talk now drifted off to Indians, politics, and
religion, edged round to the war, when the grave Judge
began telling Ridings and Robie just how “Kilpatrick
charged along the Granny White Turnpike,” and, on a
sheet of wrapping paper, was showing where Major
John Dilrigg fell. “I was on his left, about thirty
yards, when I saw him throw up his hand —”
Foster in a low voice was telling something to the
Professor and two or three others, which made them
whoop with uncontrollable merriment, when the roar-
I 32 Prairie Folks
ing voice of big Sam Walters was heard outside, and a
moment later he rolled into the room, filling it with his
noise. Lottridge, the watchmaker, and Erlberg, the
German baker, came in with him.
“Hello, hello, hello / All here, are yeh ”
“All here waiting for you — and the turnkey,” said
Foster.
“Well, here I am. Always on hand, like a sore
thumb in huskin’ season. What’s goin’ on here A
game, hey Hello, Gordon, it’s you, is it? Colonel,
I owe you several for last night; but what the devil
yo’ got your cap on fur, Colonel ? Ain't it warm
enough here for yeh ”
The desperate Colonel, who had snatched up his cap
when he heard Walters coming, grinned painfully, pull-
ing his straggly red and white beard nervously. The
strain was beginning to tell on his iron nerves. He
removed the cap, and with a few muttered words went
back to the game, but there was a dangerous gleam in
his fishy blue eyes, and the grizzled tufts of red hair
above his eyes lowered threateningly. A man who is
getting swamped in a game of checkers is not in a mood
to bear pleasantly any remarks on his bald head.
“Oh I don’t take it off, Colonel,” went on his tor-
mentor, hospitably. “When a man gets as old as you
are, he's privileged to wear his cap. I wonder if any
of you fellers have noticed how the Colonel is shedding
his hair.”
The old man leaped up, scattering the men on the
checker-board, which flew up and struck Squire Gordon
Some Village Cronies I33
in the face, knocking him off his stool. The old
Colonel was ashy pale, and his eyes glared out from
under 's huge brow like sapphires lit by flame. His
spare form, clothed in a seedy Prince Albert frock,
towered with a singular dignity. His features worked
convulsively a moment, then he burst forth like the
explosion of a safety valve: —
“Shuttup, damyeh l’”
And then the crowd whooped, roared, and rolled on
the counters and barrels, and roared and whooped again.
They stamped 2nd yelled, and ran around like fiends,
kicking the boxes and banging the coal-scuttle in a per-
fect pandemonium of mirth, leaving the old man stand-
ing there helpless in his wrath, mad enough to shoot.
Steve was just preparing to seize the old man from
behind, when Squire Gordon, struggling to his feet
among the spittoons, cried out, in the voice of a colonel
of Fourth of July militia : —
<< H-O-L-D ! ”
Silence was restored, and all stood around in ex-
pectant attitudes to hear the Squire’s explanation. He
squared his elbows, shoved up his sleeves, puffed out his
fat cheeks, moistened his ips, and began pompously : —
“ Gentlemen — ”
“You’ve hit it; that’s us,” said some of the crowd
in applause.
“Gentlemen of Rock River, when, in the course of
human events, rumor had blow'd to my ears the history
of the checker-playing of Rock River, and when I had
waxed Cerro Gordo, and Claiborne, and Mower, then,
I34. Prairie Folks
when I say to my ears was borne the clash of re-
sounding arms in Rock River, the emporium of Rock
County, then did I yearn for more worlds to conquer,
and behold, I buckled on my armor and I am here.”
“Behold, he is here,” said Foster, in confirmation of
the statement. “Good for you, Squire; git breath
and go for us some more.”
“Hurrah for the Squire,” etc.
“I came seekin’ whom I might devour, like a raging
lion. I sought foeman worthy of my steel. I leaped
into the arena and blew my challenge to the four
quarters of Rock — ”
“Good fºr you ! Settemupagin I Go it, you old
balloon,” they all applauded.
“Knowing my prowess, I sought a fair fout and no
favors. I met the enemy, and he was mine. Champion
after champion went down before me like — went down
like — ahem went down before me like grass before
the mighty cyclone of the Andes.”
“Listen to the old blowhard,” said Steve.
“Put him out,” said the speaker, imperturbably.
“Gentlemen, have I the floor ”
“You have,” replied Brown, “but come to the point.
The Colonel is anxious to begin shooting.” The Colonel,
who began to suspect himself victimized, stood wonder-
ing what under heaven they were going to do next.
“I am a-gitt’n’ there,” said the orator, with a broad
and sunny condescension. “I found your champions
an’ laid 'em low. I waxed Walters, and then I tackled
the Colonel. I tried the échelon, the ‘general advance,’
Some Village Cronies I35
then the ‘give away' and ‘flank’ movements. But
the Colonel was there / Till this last game it was a
fair field and no favor. And now, gentlemen of Rock,
I desire tº state to my deeply respected opponent that
he is still champion of Rock, and I’m not sure but of
Northern Iowa.”
“Three cheers for the Kunnel ! ”
And while they were being given the Colonel’s brows
relaxed, and the champion of Cerro Gordo continued
earnestly : —
“And now I wish to state to Colonel the solemn
fact that I had nothing to do with the job put up on
him to-night. I scorn to use such means in a battle.
Colonel, you may be as bald as an apple, or an egg,
yes, or a plate, but you can play more checkers than
any man I ever met; more checkers than any other
man on God’s green footstool — with one single, lone
exception, — myself.”
At this moment, somebody hit the Squire from Cerro
Gordo with a decayed apple, and as the crowd shouted
and groaned, Robie turned down the lights on the tumult.
The old Colonel seized the opportunity for putting a
handful of salt down Walters’s neck, and slipped out
of the door like a ghost. As the crowd swarmed out
on the icy walk, Editor Foster yelled : —
“Gents let me give you a pointer. Keep your eye
peeled for the next edition of the Rock River Morning
Call.”
And the bitter wind swept away the answering
shouts of the pitiless gang.
THE WAR OF RACE
SMALL men for golden hire and fame
Go out against the Redman on the sand ;
They go with sneers and curses at his name.
He meets them with an open hand,
And sadly asks them why they come;
They answer “By command of might,
Move on, or we will beat the drum,
And you shall answer for the fight.”
Then the Redman's face grows dark,
With sombre eyes he sits at prayer;
“O Tirawal Where shall thy children go Hark
To our voices you who live in air.”
There comes no answer to his wailing call,
Then booms the sullen war drum, upon the air,
The cries of woful women lift and fall,
And on fierce lips the council fires flare.
DRIFTING CRANE
DRIFTING CRANE
THE people of Boomtown invariably spoke of Henry
Wilson as the oldest settler in the Jim Valley, as he was
of Buster County, but the Eastern man, with his ideas
of an “old settler,” was surprised as he met the short,
silent, middle-aged man, who was very loath to tell any-
thing about himself, and about whom many strange and
thrilling stories were told by good story-tellers. In
1879 he was the only settler in the upper part of the
valley, living alone on the banks of the Elm, a slow,
tortuous stream pulsing lazily down the valley, too small
to be called a river and too long to be called a creek.
For two years, it is said, Wilson had only the company
of his cattle, especially during the winter-time, and now
and then a visit from an Indian, or a trapper after mink
and musk-rats.
Between his ranch and the settlements in Eastern
Dakota there was the wedge-shaped reservation known
as the Sisseton Indian Reserve, on which were stationed
the customary agency and company of soldiers. But,
of course, at that time the Indians were not restricted
closely to the bounds of the reserve, but ranged freely
over the vast and beautiful prairie lying between the
coteaux or ranges of low hills which mark out “the
Jim Valley.” The valley was unsurveyed for the most
part, and the Indians naturally felt a sort of proprietor-
I39
I4O Prairie Folks
ship in it, and when Wilson drove his cattle down into
the valley and squatted, the chief, Drifting Crane, wel-
comed him, as a host might, to an abundant feast whose
hospitality was presumed upon, but who felt the need of
sustaining his reputation for generosity, and submitted
graciously.
The Indians during the first summer got to know
Wilson, and liked him for his silence, his courage, his
simplicity; but the older men pondered upon the mat-
ter a great deal and watched with grave faces to see
him ploughing up the sod for his garden. There was
something strange in this solitary man thus deserting
his kindred, coming here to live alone with his cattle;
they could not understand it. What they said in those
pathetic, dimly lighted lodges will never be known; but
when winter came, and the new-comer did not drive his
cattle back over the hills as they thought he would, then
the old chieftains took long counsel upon it. Night
after night they smoked upon it, and at last Drifting
Crane said to two of his young men: “Go ask this
cattleman why he remains in the cold and snow with his
cattle. Ask him why he does not drive his cattle
home.” -
This was in March, and one evening a couple of days
later, as Wilson was about reëntering his shanty at the
close of his day’s work, he was confronted by two stal-
wart Indians, who greeted him pleasantly.
“How d’e do? How d’e do ” he said in reply.
“Come in. Come in and take a snack.”
The Indians entered and sat silently while he put
Drifting Crane I4 I
some food on the table. They hardly spoke till after
they had eaten. The Indian is always hungry, for the
reason that his food supply is insufficient and his cloth-
ing poor. When they sat on the cracker-boxes and
soap-boxes which served as seats, they spoke. They
told him of the chieftain's message. They said they
had come to assist him in driving his cattle back across
the hills; that he must go.
To all this talk in the Indian's epigrammatic way,
and in the dialect which has never been written, the
rancher replied almost as briefly : “You go back and
tell Drifting Crane that I like this place; that I’m here
to stay; that I don’t want any help to drive my cattle.
I'm on the lands of the Great Father at Washington,
and Drifting Crane ain’t got any say about it. Now
that sizes the whole thing up. I ain't got anything
against you nor against him, but I’m a settler; that’s
my constitution; and now I’m settled I’m going to
stay.”
While the Indians discussed his words between them-
selves he made a bed of blankets on the floor, and said:
“I never turn anybody out. A white man is just as
good as an Indian as long as he behaves himself as well.
You can bunk here.”
The Indians did not understand his words fully, but
they did understand his gesture, and they smiled and
accepted the courtesy, so like their own rude hospitality.
Then they all smoked a pipe of tobacco in silence, and
at last Wilson turned in and went serenely off to sleep,
hearing the mutter of the Indians lying before the fire.
I42 Prairie Folks
In the morning he gave them as good a breakfast as
he had, - bacon and potatoes, with coffee and crackers.
Then he shook hands, saying: “Come again. I ain’t
got anything against you; you’ve done y’r duty. Now
go back and tell your chief what I’ve said. I’m at home
every day. Good day.”
The Indians smiled kindly, and drawing their blankets
over their arms, went away toward the east.
During April and May two or three reconnoitring
parties of land-hunters drifted over the hills and found
him out. He was glad to see them, for, to tell the
truth, the solitude of his life was telling on him. The
winter had been severe, and he had hardly caught a
glimpse of a white face during the three midwinter
months, and his provisions were scanty.
These parties brought great news. One of them was
the advance surveying party for a great Northern rail-
road, and they said a line of road was to be surveyed
during the summer if their report was favorable.
“Well, what d'ye think of it ” Wilson asked,
with a smile.
“Think It’s immense !” said a small man in the
party, whom the rest called Judge Balser. “Why,
they’ll be a town of four thousand inhabitants in this
valley before snow flies. We’ll send the surveyors
right over the divide next month.”
They sent some papers to Wilson a few weeks later,
which he devoured as a hungry dog might devour a
plate of bacon. The papers were full of the wonderful
resources of the Jim Valley. It spoke of the nutritious
| >>
Drifting Crane I43
grasses for stock. It spoke of the successful venture of
the lonely settler Wilson, how his stock fattened upon
the winter grasses without shelter, etc., what vegetables
he grew, etc., etc.
Wilson was reading this paper for the sixth time one
evening in May. He had laid off his boots, his pipe
was freshly filled, and he sat in the doorway in vast
content, unmindful of the glory of color that filled
the western sky, and the superb evening chorus of the
prairie-chickens, holding conventions on every hillock.
He felt something touch him on the shoulder, and
looked up to see a tall Indian gazing down upon him
with a look of strange pride and gravity. Wilson
sprang to his feet and held out his hand.
“Drifting Crane, how d’e do ”
The Indian bowed, but did not take the settler’s
hand. Drifting Crane would have been called old if
he had been a white man, and there was a look of age
in the fixed lines of his powerful, strongly modelled face,
but no suspicion of weakness in the splendid poise of his
broad, muscular body. There was a smileless gravity
about his lips and eyes which was very impressive.
“I’m glad to see you. Come in and get something
to eat,” said Wilson, after a moment’s pause.
The chief entered the cabin and took a seat near the
door. He took a cup of milk and some meat and bread
silently, and ate while listening to the talk of the
settler.
“I don’t brag on my biscuits, chief, but they eat, if
a man is hungry. An’ the milk's all right. I suppose
I44. Prairie Folks
you’ve come to see why I ain’t moseying back over the
divide P’’
The chief, after a long pause, began to speak in a
low, slow voice, as if choosing his words. He spoke
in broken English, of course, but his speech was very
direct and plain, and had none of these absurd figures
of rhetoric which romancers invariably put into the
mouths of Indians. His voice was almost lionlike in
its depth, and yet was not unpleasant. It was easy to
see that he was a chief by virtue of his own personality.
“Cattleman, my young men brought me bad message
from you. They brought your words to me, saying, he
will not go away.”
“That’s about the way the thing stands,” replied Wil-
son, in response to the question that was in the old
chief's steady eyes. “I’m here to stay. This ain’t
your land; this is Uncle Sam's land, and part of it’ll
be mine as soon as the surveyors come to measure
it off.”
“Who gave it away ?” asked the chief. “My peo-
ple were cheated out of it; they didn’t know what
they were doing.”
“I can’t help that ; that's for Congress to say.
That’s the business of the Great Father at Washing-
ton.” Wilson’s voice changed. He knew and liked
the chief; he didn’t want to offend him. “They ain’t
no use making a fuss, chief. You won’t gain any-
thing.”
There was a look of deep sorrow in the old man’s
face. At last he spoke again: “The cattleman is wel-
Drifting Crane I45
come; but he must go, because whenever one white
man goes and calls it good, the others come. Drifting
Crane has seen it far in the east twice. The white
men come thick as the grass. They tear up the sod.
They build houses. They scare the buffalo away.
They spoil my young men with whiskey. Already they
begin to climb the eastern hills. Soon they will fill the
valley, and Drifting Crane and his people will be sur-
rounded. The sod will all be black.”
“I hope you’re right,” was the rancher’s grim reply.
“But they will not come if the cattleman go back to
say the water is not good, there is no grass, and the
Indians own the land.”
Wilson smiled at the childish faith of the chief.
“Won't do, chief— won’t do. That won’t do any
good. I might as well stay.”
The chief rose. He was touched by the settler’s
laugh; his eyes flashed; his voice took on a sterner
note. “The white man must go l’’
Wilson rose also. He was not a large man, but he
was a very resolute one. “I shan’t go,” he said
through his clenched teeth. Each man understood the
tones of the other perfectly.
It was a thrilling, a significant scene. It was in ab-
solute truth the meeting of the modern vidette of civili-
zation with one of the rear-guard of retreating barbarism.
Each man was a type ; each was wrong, and each was
right. The Indian as true and noble from the barbaric
point of view as the white man. He was a warrior and
hunter; made so by circumstances over which he had
L
I46 Prairie Folks
no control. Guiltless as the panther, because war to a
savage is the necessity of life.
The settler represented the unflagging energy and
fearless heart of the American pioneer. Narrow-minded,
partly brutalized by hard labor and a lonely life, yet an
admirable figure for all that. As he looked into the
Indian's face he seemed to grow in height. He felt
behind him all the weight of the millions of westward
moving settlers; he stood the representative of an un-
born State. He took down a rifle from the wall, the
magazine rifle, most modern of guns; he patted the
stock, pulled the crank, throwing a shell into view.
“You know this thing, chief ?”
The Indian nodded slightly.
“Well, I’ll go when — this — is — empty.”
“But my young men are many.”
“So are the white men — my brothers.”
The chief’s head dropped forward. Wilson, ashamed
of his boasting, put the rifle back on the wall.
“I’m not here to fight. You can kill me any time.
You could 'a' killed me to-night, but it wouldn’t do any
good. It’ud only make it worse for you. Why, they’ll
be a town in here bigger’n all your tribe before two grass
from now. It ain’t no use, Drifting Crane; it’s got to
be. You an’ I can’t help n°r hinder it. I know just
how you feel about it, but I tell yeh it ain’t no use to
fight.”
Drifting Crane turned his head and gazed out on the
western sky, still red with the light of the fallen sun.
His face was rigid as bronze, but there was a dreaming,
Drifting Crane I47
prophetic look in his eyes. A lump came into the
settler's throat; for the first time in his life he got a
glimpse of the infinite despair of the Indian. He forgot
that Drifting Crane was the representative of a “vaga-
bond race’’; he saw in him, or rather felt in him, some-
thing almost magnetic. He was a man, and a man of
sorrows. The settler's voice was husky when he spoke
again, and his lips trembled.
“Chief, I’d go to-morrow if it 'ud do any good, but
it won't — not a particle. You know that when you
stop to think a minute. What good did it do to massa-
cree all them settlers at New Ulm ? What good will it
do to murder me and a hundred others ? Not a bit.
A thousand others would take our places. So I might
just as well stay, and we might just as well keep good
friends. Killin’ is out o' fashion; don’t do any good.”
There was a twitching about the stern mouth of the
, Indian chief. He understood all too well the irresistible
logic of the pioneer. He kept his martial attitude, but
his broad chest heaved painfully, and his eyes grew dim.
At last he said, “Good-by. Cattleman right; Drift-
ing Crane wrong. Shake hands. Good-by.” He
turned and strode away.
The rancher watched him till he mounted his pony,
picketed down by the river; watched him as, with
drooping head and rein flung loose upon the neck of his
horse, he rode away into the dusk, hungry, weary, and
despairing, to face his problem alone. Again, for the
thousandth time, the impotence of the Indian’s arm and
the hopelessness of his fate were shown as perfectly as
I48 Prairie Folks
if two armies had met and soaked the beautiful prairie
sod with blood.
“This is all wrong,” muttered the settler. “There’s
land enough for us all, or ought to be. I don’t under-
stand— Well, I’ll leave it to Uncle Sam, anyway.”
He ended with a sigh.
Paid His Way I49
PAID HIS WAY
No, Steve, I ain’t complainin’ any,
I’ll go, -if y’ think it’s right;
I don’t ask a single bite n°r a penny,
More n°r less 'n jest what’s white—
But son, bime-by, when the old man's done for,
Jest remember my words to-day ;
Y’ don’t like to have me round h’yere,
But I reckon I’ve paid m’ way.
I was eighty-one last January, -
Born in the Buckeye State,
I’ve opened two farms on the prairie,
An' worked on 'em early and late.
Come rain or come shine, a scrapin’ tº earn
Every mouthful we eat, an’ I want ’o say,
That I never rode in no free concern
That I didn’t pay my way.
Y’r mother and me worked mighty hard,
How hard you’ll never know ;
In cold and heat a-standin’ guard
To keep off the rain and snow.
The mortgige kep’ eating in nearer to bone,
And the war it come along too,
But I went — left mother alone
With Sis in the cradle—and you.
Served my time, an’ commenced agin
On an Ioway prairie quarter,
I 5o Prairie Folks
An' there I ploughed an’ sowed an’ fenced,
And nigged as no human orter,
To raise you young ones and feed m' wife —
Y’r mother scrimped and scrubbed till her hair was
gray,
And I reckon we paid our way.
No, y’r high-toned tavern ain’t good enough
Fºr a man like me to die in
The work that’s made me crooked and rough
Should 'a' earned me a bed to lie in
Under the roof of my only son, —
If his wife is proud an' gay;
For I boosted y’ into the place y’ve won.
O I reckon I’ve paid my way.
Y’r wife I know is turrible set,
She’s mighty hansom to see
I’ll admit, but it’s a turrible fret
This havin’ to eat with me.
She never speaks, and she never seems
To be listnin' to what I say,
But the children do, they don’t know yet,
Their grandad’s in the way.
I d' know's you’re very much to blame
For wantin’ to have me go,
But, Steve, I’m glad y’r mother's dead,
'Twould break her heart to know.
Paid His Way I 5 I
She’d say I orter live here,
What time I’ve got to stay,
For, Stephen, I’ve travelled for fifty years,
An' I've always paid my way.
I aint’ a-goin’ to bother y’ long,
I’ll be a-pioneerin’ further West
Where mother is, and God’ll say,
Take it easy, Amos, y’ve earned a rest—
So, Stevie, I want to stay with you,
I want ’o work while I stay,
Jes’ give me a little sumpin’ to do,
I reckon I’ll pay my way.
DADDY DEERING
DADDY DEERING
I
THEY were threshing on Farmer Jennings's place
when Daddy made his very characteristic appearance.
Milton, a boy of thirteen, was gloomily holding sacks
for the measurer, and the glory of the October day was
dimmed by the suffocating dust, and poisoned by the
smarting beards and chaff which had worked their way
down his neck. The bitterness of the dreaded task was
deepened also by contrast with the gambols of his cousin
Billy, who was hunting rats with Growler amid the last
sheaves of the stack bottom. The piercing shrieks of
Billy, as he clapped his hands in murderous glee, mingled
now and again with the barking of the dog.
The machine seemed to fill the world with its snarl-
ing boom, which became a deafening yell when the
cylinder ran empty for a moment. It was nearly noon,
and the men were working silently, with occasional
glances toward the sun to see how near dinner-time it
was. The horses, dripping with sweat, and with patches
of foam under their harness, moved round and round
steadily to the cheery whistle of the driver.
The wild, imperious song of the bell-metal cog-wheel
had sung into Milton’s ears till it had become a torture,
and every time he lifted his eyes to the beautiful far-off
I55
I 56 Prairie Folks
sky, where the clouds floated like ships, a lump of rebel-
lious anger rose in his throat. Why should he work in
this choking dust and deafening noise while the hawks
could sail and sweep from hill to hill with nothing to do
but play
Occasionally his uncle, the feeder, smiled down upon
him, his face black as a negro, great goggles of glass
and wire-cloth covering his merry eyes. His great
good-nature shone out in the flash of his white teeth,
behind his dusky beard, and he tried to encourage
Milton with his smile. He seemed tireless to the
other hands. He was so big and strong. He had
always been Milton's boyish hero. So Milton crowded
back the tears that came into his eyes, and would not
let his uncle see how childish he was.
A spectator riding along the road would have remarked
upon the lovely setting for this picturesque scene — the
low swells of prairie, shrouded with faint, misty light
from the unclouded sky, the flaming colors of the trees,
the faint sound of cow-bells, and the cheery sound of
the machine. But to be a tourist and to be a toiler in
a scene like this are quite different things.
They were anxious to finish the setting by noon, and
so the feeder was crowding the cylinder to its limit,
rolling the grain in with slow and apparently effortless
swaying from side to side, half buried in the loose yel-
low straw. But about eleven o’clock the machine
came to a stand, to wait while a broken tooth was
being replaced, and Milton fled from the terrible dust
beside the measuring spout, and was shaking the chaff
Daddy Deering I 57
out of his clothing, when he heard a high, snappy,
nasal voice call down from the straw-pile. A tall man,
with a face completely masked in dust, was speaking to
Mr. Jennings : —
“Say, young man, I guess you’ll haf to send another
man up here. It’s poorty stiff work fºr two; yes, sir,
poorty stiff.”
“There, there ! I thought you’d cry ‘cavy,” laughed
Mr. Jennings. “I told you it wasn’t the place for an
old man.”
“Old man,” snarled the figure in the straw. “I
ain’t so old but I can daown you, sir, – yessir, con-
demmit, yessir!”
“I’m your man,” replied Jennings, smiling up at him.
The man rolled down the side of the stack, disappear-
ing in a cloud of dust and chaff. When he came to
light, Milton saw a tall, gaunt old man of sixty years
of age, or older. Nothing could be seen but a dusty
expanse of face, ragged beard, and twinkling, sharp
little eyes. His color was lost, his eyes half hid.
Without waiting for ceremony, the men clenched.
The crowd roared with laughter, for though Jennings
was the younger, the older man was a giant still,
and the struggle lasted for some time. He made a
gallant fight, but his breath gave out, and he lay at
last flat on his back.
“I wish I was your age, young man,” he said ruefully,
as he rose. “I'd knock the heads o' these young scamps
t’gether, — yessir' — I could do it, too !”
“Talk’s a good dog, uncle,” said a young man.
I 58 Prairie Folks
The old man turned on him so ferociously that he
fled.
“Run, condemn yeh ! I own y” can beat me at that.”
His face was not unpleasant, though his teeth were
mainly gone, and his skin the color of leather and
wrinkled as a pan of cream. His eyes had a certain
sparkle of fun that belied his rasping voice, which
seemed to have the power to lift a boy clean off his feet.
His frame was bent and thin, but of great height and
breadth, bony and tough as hickory. At some far time
vast muscles must have rolled on those giant limbs, but
toil had bent and stiffened him.
“Never been sick a day ºn my life; no, sir!” he
said, in his rapid, rasping, emphatic way, as they were
riding across the stubble to dinner. “And, by gol! I
c’n stand as long at the tail of a stacker as any man,
sir. Dummed if I turn my hand for any man in the
state; no, sir; no, sir! But if I do two men’s works,
I am goin’ to have two men's pay — that’s all, sir!”
Jennings laughed and said: “All right, uncle. I’ll
send another man up there this afternoon.”
The old man seemed to take a morbid delight in
the hard and dirty places, and his endurance was
marvellous. He could stand all day at the tail of a
stacker, tirelessly pushing the straw away with an in-
different air, as if it were all mere play.
He measured the grain the next day, because it
promised to be a noisier and dustier job than working
in the straw, and it was in this capacity that Milton
came to know and to hate him, and to associate him
Daddy Deering I 59
with that most hated of all tasks, the holding of sacks.
To a twelve-year-old boy it seems to be the worst job
in the world.
All day, while the hawks wheel and dip in the
glorious air, and the trees glow like banks of roses;
all day, while the younger boys are tumbling about
the sunlit straw, to be forced to stand holding sacks,
like a convict, was maddening. Daddy, whose rugged
features, bent shoulders, and ragged cap loomed through
the suffocating, blinding dust, necessarily came to seem
like the jailer who held the door to freedom.
And when the dust and noise and monotony seemed
the very hardest to bear, the old man’s cackling laugh
was sure to rise above the howl of the cylinder.
“Nem mind, sonny Chaff ain’t pizen; dust won’t
hurt ye a mite.” And when Milton was unable to
laugh, the old man tweaked his ear with his leathery
thumb and finger.
Then he shouted long, disconnected yarns, to which
Milton could make neither head nor tail, and which
grew at last to be inaudible to him, just as the steady
boom and snarl of the great machine did. Then he
fell to studying the old man's clothes, which were a
wonder to him. He spent a good deal of time trying
to discover which were the original sections of the
coat, and especially of the vest, which was ragged and
yellow with age, with the cotton batting working out;
and yet Daddy took the greatest care of it, folding it
carefully and putting it away during the heat of the
day out of reach of the crickets.
I6o Prairie Folks
One of his peculiarities, as Mrs. Jennings learned
on the second day, was his habit of coming to breakfast.
But he always earned all he got, and more too; and, as
it was probable that his living at home was frugal, Mrs.
Jennings smiled at his thrift, and quietly gave him
his breakfast if he arrived late, which was not often.
He had bought a little farm not far away, and settled
down into a mode of life which he never afterward
changed. As he was leaving at the end of the third
day, he said: — º
“Now, sir, if you want any bootcherin’ done, I’m
y’r man. I don’t turn m' hand over fºr any man in
the state; no, sir! I c'n git a hawg on the gambrils
jest a leetle quicker’n any other man I ever see; yes,
sir; by gum !”
“All right, uncle; I’ll send for you when I’m ready
to kill.”
II
HoG-KILLING was one of the events of a boy's life
on a Western farm, and Daddy was destined to be
associated in the minds of Shep and Milton with an-
other disagreeable job, that of building the fire and
carrying water.
It was very early on a keen, biting morning in
November when Daddy came driving into the yard
with his rude, long-runnered sled, one horse half his
length behind the other in spite of the driver's cluck-
ing. He was delighted to catch the boys behind in
the preparation.
Daddy Deering I6 I
“A-a-h-h-r-r-h-h!” he rasped out, “you lazy vaga-
bon's Why ain’t you got that fire blazin’? WHAT
the devil do y’ mean, you rascals | Here it is broad
daylight, and that fire not built. I vum, sir, you need
a thrashin', the whole kit an bilun’ of ye; yessir
Come, come, come hustle now, stir your boots
hustle y’r boots — haſ haſ hal”
It was of no use to plead cold weather and damp
chips.
“What has that got to do with it, sir? I vum, sir,
when I was your age, I could make a fire of green
red-oak; yessir Don’t talk to me of colds ! Stir
your stumps and get warm, sir!”
The old man put up his horses (and fed them
generously with oats), and then went to the house to
ask for “a leetle something hot — mince pie or sassidge.”
His request was very modest, but, as a matter of fact,
he sat down and ate a very hearty breakfast, while the
boys worked away at the fire under the big kettle.
The hired man, under Daddy’s direction, drew the
bob-sleighs into position on the sunny side of the corn-
crib, and arranged the barrel at the proper slant, while
the old man ground his knives, Milton turning the
grindstone — another hateful task, which Daddy’s
stories could not alleviate.
Daddy never finished a story. If he started in to
tell about a horse trade, it infallibly reminded him of
a cattle trade, and talking of cattle switched him off
upon logging, and logging reminded him of some
heavy snow-storm he had known. Each parenthesis
M
I62 Prairie Folks
outgrew its proper limits, till he forgot what should
have been the main story. His stories had some com-
pensation, for when he stopped to try to recollect where
he was, the pressure on the grindstone was released.
At last the water was hot, and the time came to seize
the hogs. This was the old man’s great moment. He
stood in the pen and shrieked with laughter while the
hired men went rolling, one after the other, upon the
ground, or were bruised against the fence by the rush of
the burly swine. .
“You’re a fine lot,” he laughed. “Now, then, sir,
grab 'im / Why don’t ye nail 'im I vum, sir, if I
couldn’t do better’n that, sir, I’d sell out; I would, sir,
by gol! Get out o' the way !”
With a lofty scorn he waved aside all help and stalked
like a gladiator toward the pigs huddled in one corner of
the pen. And when the selected victim was rushing by
him, his long arm and great bony hand swept out,
caught him by the ear, and flung him upon his side,
squealing with deafening shrillness. But in spite of
his smiling concealment of effort, Daddy had to lean
against the fence and catch his breath even while he
boasted : —
“I’m an old codger, sir, but I’m worth — a dozen o'
you — spindle-legged chaps ; dum me if I ain’t, sir!”
His pride in his ability to catch and properly kill a
hog was as genuine as the old knight-errant’s pride in
his ability to stick a knife into another steel-clothed
brigand like himself. When the slain shote was swung
upon the planking on the sled before the barrel, Daddy
Daddy Deering 163
rested, while the boys filled the barrel with water from
the kettle.
There was always a weird charm about this stage of
the work to the boys. The sun shone warm and bright
in the lee of the corn-crib; the steam rose up, white and
voluminous, from the barrel; the eaves dropped steadily;
the hens ventured near, nervously, but full of curiosity,
while the men laughed and joked with Daddy, starting
him off on long stories, and winking at each other when
his back was turned.
At last he mounted his planking, selecting Mr. Jen-
nings to pull upon the other handle of the hog-hook.
He considered he conferred a distinct honor in this
selection.
“The time's been, sir, when I wouldn’t thank any
man for his help. No, sir, wouldn’t thank 'im.”
“What do you do with these things ” asked one of
the men, kicking two iron candlesticks which the old
man laid conveniently near.
“Scrape a hawg with them, sir. What do y’s’pose,
you numskull ”
“Well, I never saw anything—”
“You’ll have a chance mighty quick, sir. Grab
ahold, sir! Swing 'im around—there ! Now easy,
easy Now then, one, two ; one, two — that’s right.”
While he dipped the porker in the water, pulling with
his companion rhythmically upon the hook, he talked
incessantly, mixing up scraps of stories and boastings of
what he could do, with commands of what he wanted
the other man to do.
I64 Prairie Folks
“The best man I ever worked with. Now turn 'im,
turn 'im l’ he yelled, reaching over Jennings's wrist.
“Grab under my wrist. There ! won’t ye never learn
how to turn a hawg? Now out with 'im / " was his
next wild yell, as the steaming hog was jerked out of
the water upon the planking. “Now try the hair on
them ears l Beautiful scald,” he said, clutching his hand
full of bristles and beaming with pride. “Never see
anything finer. Here, Bub, a pail of hot water, quick |
Try one of them candlesticks | They ain't no better
scraper than the bottom of an old iron candlestick; no,
sir! Dum your new-fangled scrapers | I made a bet
once with old Jake Ridgeway that I could scrape the
hair off’n two hawgs, by gum, quicker’n he could one.
Jake was blowin’ about a new scraper he had. . . .
“Yes, yes, yes, dump it right into the barrel. Con-
demmit ! Ain't you got no gumption ? . . . So Sim
Smith, he held the watch. Sim was a mighty good hand
t’ work with ; he was about the only man I ever sawed
with who didn’t ride the saw. He could jerk a cross-
cut saw. . . . Now let him in again, now, he-ho, once
again Rool him over now ; that foreleg needs a tech o'
water. Now out with him again; that’s right, that’s
right ! By gol, a beautiful scald as ever I see l’”
Milton, standing near, caught his eye again. “Clean
that ear, sir! What the devil you standin’ there for ”
He returned to his story after a pause. “A — n—d
Jake, he scraped away — hyare /?” he shouted suddenly,
“don’t ruggle the skin like that Can't you see the
way I do it? Leave it smooth as a baby, sir—yessir l’’
Daddy Deering 165
He worked on in this way all day, talking unceasingly,
never shirking a hard job, and scarcely showing fatigue
at any moment.
“I’m short o' breath a leetle, that’s all; never git tired,
but my wind gives out. Dum cold got on me, too.”
He ate a huge supper of liver and potatoes, still work-
ing away hard at an ancient horse trade, and when he
drove off at night, he had not yet finished a single one
of the dozen stories he had begun.
III
BUT pitching grain and hog-killing were on the lower
levels of his art, for above all else Daddy loved to be
called upon to play the fiddle for dances. He “offici-
ated ” for the first time at a dance given by one of the
younger McTurgs. They were all fiddlers themselves,
— had been for three generations, – but they seized the
opportunity of helping Daddy and at the same time of
relieving themselves of the trouble of furnishing the
music while the rest danced.
Milton attended this dance, and saw Daddy for the
first time earning his money pleasantly. From that time
on the associations around his personality were less se-
vere, and they came to like him better. He came early,
with his old fiddle in a time-worn white-pine box. His
hair was neatly combed to the top of his long, narrow
head, and his face was very clean. The boys all greeted
him with great pleasure, and asked him where he would
Slt.
I66 Prairie Folks
“Right on that table, sir; put a chair up there.”
He took his chair on the kitchen-table as if it were a
throne. He wore huge moccasins of moose-hide on his
feet, and for special occasions like this added a paper
collar to his red woollen shirt. He took off his coat and
laid it across his chair for a cushion. It was all very
funny to the young people, but they obeyed him laugh-
ingly, and while they “formed on,” he sawed his violin
and coaxed it up to concert pitch, and twanged it and
banged it into proper tunefulness.
“A-a-a-ll ready there !” he rasped out, with prodi-
gious force. “Everybody git into his place l’” Then,
lifting one huge foot, he put the fiddle under his chin,
and, raising his bow till his knuckles touched the strings,
he yelled, “Already, G’LANG !” and brought his foot
down with a startling bang on the first note. Rye doodle
doo, doodle doo.
As he went on and the dancers fell into rhythm, the
clatter of heavy boots seemed to thrill him with old-
time memories, and he kept boisterous time with his
foot, while his high, rasping nasal rang high above the
confusion of tongues and heels and swaying forms.
“Ladies’ gran’ change | Four hands round ! Bal-
ance all ! Elly-man left| Back to play-cis.”
His eyes closed in a sort of intoxication of pleasure,
but he saw all that went on in some miraculous way.
“First lady lead to the right — toodle rum rum / Gent
foller after (step along thar) | Four hands round —”
The boys were immensely pleased with him. They
delighted in his antics rather than in his tunes, which
Daddy Deering 167
were exceedingly few and simple. They seemed never
to be able to get enough of one tune which he called
“Honest John,” and which he played in his own way,
accompanied by a chant which he meant, without a doubt,
to be musical.
“HoN-ers tew your pardners — tee teedle deedle dee dee
dee dee 1 Stand up straight an’ put on your style | Right
an’ left four — ”
The hat was passed by the floor-manager during the
evening, and Daddy got nearly three dollars, which
delighted Milton very much.
At supper he insisted on his prerogative, which was
to take the prettiest girl out to supper.
“Look-a-here, Daddy, ain’t that crowdin’ the mourn-
ers ?” objected the others.
“What do you mean by that, sir? No, sir! Always
done it, in Michigan and Yark State both ; yes, sir.”
He put on his coat ceremoniously, while the tittering
girls stood about the room waiting. He did not delay.
His keen eyes had made selection long before, and,
approaching Rose Watson with old-fashioned, elaborate
gallantry, he said: “May I have the pleasure ?” and
marched out triumphantly, amidst shouts of laughter.
His shrill laugh rang high above the rest at the table,
as he said: “I’m the youngest man in this crowd, sir!
Demmit, I bet a hat I c’n dance down any man in this
crowd; yes, sir. The old man can do it yet.”
They all took sides in order to please him.
“I’ll bet he can,” said Hugh McTurg; “I’ll bet a
dollar on Daddy.”
I68 Prairie Folks
“I’ll take the bet,” said Joe Randall, and with great
noise the match was arranged to come the first thing
after supper.
“All right, sir; any time, sir. I’ll let you know the
old man is on earth yet.”
While the girls were putting away the supper dishes,
the young man lured Daddy out into the yard for a
wrestling-match, but some others objected.
“Oh, now, that won’t do | If Daddy was a young
man — ”
“What do you mean, sir? I am young enough for
you, sir. Just let me get ahold o' you, sir, and I’ll
show you, you young rascall you dem jackanapes ’’ he
ended, almost shrieking with rage, as he shook his fist in
the face of his grinning tormentors.
His friends held him back with much apparent alarm,
and ordered the other fellows away. -
“There, there, Daddy, I wouldn’t mind him I
wouldn’t dirty my hands on him; he ain’t worth it.
Just come inside, and we’ll have that dancing-match
now.”
Daddy reluctantly returned to the house, and, having
surrendered his violin to Hugh McTurg, was ready for
the contest. As he stepped into the middle of the room
he was not altogether ludicrous. His rusty trousers
were bagged at the knee, and his red woollen stockings
showed between the tops of his moccasins and his panta-
loon legs, and his coat, utterly characterless as to color
and cut, added to the stoop in his shoulders; and yet
there was a rude sort of grace and a certain dignity
Daddy Deering I69
about his bearing which kept down laughter. They
were to have a square dance of the old-fashioned sort.
“Farrm on,” he cried, and the fiddler struck up the
first note of the Virginia Reel. Daddy led out Rose,
and the dance began. He straightened up till his tall
form towered above the rest of the boys like a weather-
beaten pine tree, as he balanced and swung and led and
called off the changes with a voice full of imperious
25
command.
The fiddler took a malicious delight toward the last in ar
quickening the time of the good old dance, and that put
the old man on his mettle.
“Go it, ye young rascal l’’ he yelled. He danced
like a boy and yelled like a demon, catching a laggard
here and there, and hurling them into place like tops,
while he kicked and stamped, wound in and out and
waved his hands in the air with a gesture which must
have dated back to the days of Washington. At last,
flushed, breathless, but triumphant, he danced a final
breakdown to the tune of “ Leather Breeches,” to show
he was unsubdued.
IV
BUT these rare days passed away. As the country
grew older it lost the wholesome simplicity of pioneer
days, and Daddy got a chance to play but seldom. He
no longer pleased the boys and girls — his music was
too monotonous and too simple. He felt this very
deeply. Once in a while he broke forth in protest
against the changes.
17o Prairie Folks
“The boys I used to trot on m” knee are gittin’ too
high-toned. They wouldn’t be found dead with old
Deering, and then the preachers are gittin' thick, and
howlin’ agin dancin', and the country’s filling up with
Dutchmen, so’t I’m left out.”
As a matter of fact, there were few homes now where
Daddy could sit on the table, in his ragged vest and
rusty pantaloons, and play “Honest John,” while the
boys thumped about the floor. There were few homes
where the old man was even a welcome visitor, and he
felt this rejection keenly. The women got tired of see-
ing him about, because of his uncleanly habits of spitting,
and his tiresome stories. Many of the old neighbors
died or moved away, and the young people went
West or to the cities. Men began to pity him rather
than laugh at him, which hurt him more than their
ridicule. They began to favor him at threshing or at
the fall hog-killing.
“Oh, you’re getting old, Daddy; you’ll have to give
up this heavy work. Of course, if you feel able to do
it, why, all right ! Like to have you do it, but I guess
we’ll have to have a man to do the heavy lifting, I
s’pose.”
“I s'pose not, sir! I am jest as able to yank a hawg
as ever, sir; yes, sir, demmit — demmit ! Do you think
I’ve got one foot in the grave ’’
Nevertheless, Daddy often failed to come to time on
appointed days, and it was painful to hear him trying to
explain, trying to make light of it all.
“M” caugh wouldn’t let me sleep last night. A gol-
Daddy Deering 171
dum leetle, nasty, ticklin’ caugh, too; but it kept me
awake, fact was, an’ — well, m’ wife, she said I hadn’t
better come. But don’t you worry, sir; it won’t
happen again, sir; no, sir.”
His hands got stiffer year by year, and his simple
tunes became practically a series of squeaks and squalls.
There came a time when the fiddle was laid away almost
altogether, for his left hand got caught in the cog-wheels
of the horse-power, and all four of the fingers on that
hand were crushed. Thereafter he could only twang a
little on the strings. It was not long after this that he
struck his foot with the axe and lamed himself for life.
As he lay groaning in bed, Mr. Jennings went in to
see him and tried to relieve the old man’s feelings by
telling him the number of times he had practically cut
his feet off, and said he knew it was a terrible hard
thing to put up with.
“Gol dummit, it ain’t the pain,” the old sufferer
yelled, “it’s the dum awkwardness. I’ve chopped all
my life; I can let an axe in up to the maker’s name, and
hew to a hair-line; yes, sir! It was jest them dum
new mittens my wife made; they was s” slippery,” he
ended with a groan.
As a matter of fact, the one accident hinged upon the
other. It was the failure of his left hand, with its use-
less fingers, to do its duty, that brought the axe down
upon his foot. The pain was not so much physical as
mental. To think that he, who could hew to a hair-
line, right and left hand, should cut his own foot like
a ten-year-old boy — that scared him. It brought age
172 Prairie Folks
and decay close to him. For the first time in his life he
felt that he was fighting a losing battle.
A man like this lives so much in the flesh, that when
his limbs begin to fail him everything else seems slipping
away. He had gloried in his strength. He had exulted
in the thrill of his life-blood and in the swell of his vast
muscles; he had clung to the idea that he was strong as
ever, till this last blow came upon him, and then he
began to think and to tremble.
When he was able to crawl about again, he was a
different man. He was gloomy and morose, snapping
and snarling at all that came near him, like a wounded
bear. He was alone a great deal of the time during the
winter following his hurt. Neighbors seldom went in,
and for weeks he saw no one but his hired hand, and
the faithful, dumb little old woman, his wife, who moved
about without any apparent concern or sympathy for his
suffering. The hired hand, whenever he called upon
the neighbors, or whenever questions were asked, said
that Daddy hung around over the stove most of the
time, paying no attention to any one or anything. “He
ain’t dangerous 't all,” he said, meaning that Daddy was
not dangerously ill.
Milton rode out from school one winter day with
Bill, the hand, and was so much impressed with his
story of Daddy’s condition that he rode home with him.
He found the old man sitting bent above the stove,
wrapped in a quilt, shivering and muttering to himself.
He hardly looked up when Milton spoke to him, and
seemed scarcely to comprehend what he said.
Daddy Deering I73
Milton was much alarmed at the terrible change,
for the last time he had seen him he had towered above
him, laughingly threatening to “warm his jacket,” and
now here he sat, a great hulk of flesh, his mind flicker-
ing and flaring under every wind of suggestion, soon to
go out altogether. -
In reply to questions he only muttered with a trace
of his old spirit: “I’m all right. Jest as good a man as
I ever was, only I’m cold. I’ll be all right when spring
comes, so 't I c’n git outdoors. Somethin’ to warm me
up, yessir; I’m cold, that’s all.”
The young fellow sat in awe before him, but the old
wife and Bill moved about the room, taking very little
interest in what the old man said or did. Bill at last
took down the violin. “I’ll wake him up,” he said.
“This always fetches the old feller. Now watch
5 5 2.
1II]. -
“Oh, don’t do that l” Milton said in horror. But
Bill drew the bow across the strings with the same
stroke that Daddy always used when tuning up.
He lifted his head as Bill dashed into “Honest John,”
in spite of Milton’s protest. He trotted his feet after a
little and drummed with his hands on the arms of his
chair, then smiled a little in a pitiful way. Finally he
reached out his right hand for the violin and took it
into his lap. He tried to hold the neck with his poor,
old, mutilated left hand, and burst into tears.
“Don’t you do that again, Bill,” Milton said. “It’s
better for him to forget that. Now you take the best
care of him you can to-night. I don’t think he's going
I 74 Prairie Folks
to live long; I think you ought to go for the doctor
right off.”
“Oh, he’s been like this for the last two weeks; he
ain't sick, he’s jest old, that’s all,” replied Bill, brutally.
And the old lady, moving about without passion and
without speech, seemed to confirm this; and yet Milton
was unable to get the picture of the old man out of his
mind. He went home with a great lump in his throat.
The next morning, while they were at breakfast, Bill
burst wildly into the room.
“Come over there, all of you ; we want you.”
They all looked up much scared. “What’s the
matter, Bill ”
“Daddy’s killed himself,” said Bill, and turned to
rush back, followed by Mr. Jennings and Milton.
While on the way across the field Bill told how it all
happened.
“He wouldn’t go to bed, the old lady couldn’t make
him, and when I got up this morning I didn’t think
nothin’ about it. I s’posed, of course, he’d gone to bed
all right; but when I was going out to the barn I stum-
bled across something in the snow, and I felt around,
and there he was. He got hold of my revolver some-
way. It was on the shelf by the washstand, and I
s’pose he went out there so 't we wouldn’t hear him.
I dassn’t touch him,” he said, with a shiver; “ and the
old woman, she jest slumped down in a chair an’ set
there — wouldn’t do a thing — so I come over to see
2 >
you.
Daddy Deering I75
Milton’s heart swelled with remorse. He felt guilty
because he had not gone directly for the doctor. To
think that the old sufferer had killed himself was horri-
ble and seemed impossible.
The wind was blowing the snow, cold and dry, across
the yard, but the sun shone brilliantly upon the figure
in the snow as they came up to it. There Daddy lay.
The snow was in his scant hair and in the hollow of
his wide, half-naked chest. A pistol was in his hand,
but there was no mark upon him, and Milton’s heart
leaped with quick relief. It was delirium, not suicide.
There was a sort of majesty in the figure half buried
in the snow. His hands were clenched, and there was
a frown of resolution on his face, as if he had fancied
Death coming, and had gone defiantly forth to meet
him.
Prairie Folks
HORSUS CHAWIN’ HAY
I TELL yeh whut! The chankin’
Which the tired horses makes
When you’ve slipped the harness off’m,
An’ shoved the hay in flakes
From the hay-mow overhead,
Is jest about the equal of any pi-anay;
They’s nothin’ soun’s s” cumftabul
As horsus chawin’ hay.
I love tº hear ’em chankin',
Jest a-grindin’ slow and low,
With their snoots a-rootin’ clover
Deep as their ol’ heads 'll go,
It’s kind o’ sort o’ restin’
To a feller's bones, I say,
It soun’s s” mighty cumftabul —
The horsus chawin’ hay.
Gra-onk, gra-onk, gra-onk /
In a stiddy kind o' tone,
Not a tail a-waggin' to 'um,
N’r another sound ºr groan —
Fer the flies is gone a-snoozin’.
Then I loaf around an’ watch 'em
In a sleepy kind o’ way,
Fºr they soun’so mighty cumftabul,
As they rewt and chaw their hay.
Horsus Chawin’ Hay 177
An’ it sets me thinkin’ sober
Of the days of ’53,
When we pioneered the prairies —
M’ wife an’ dad an’ me,
In a dummed ol' prairie-schooner,
In a rough-an’-tumble way,
Sleepin’ out at nights, to music
Of the horsus chawin’ hay.
Or I’m thinkin’ of my comrades
In the fall of '63,
When I rode with ol' Kilpatrick
Through an’ through ol’ Tennessee.
I’m a-layin’ in m'blanket
With my head agin a stone,
Gazin' upwards toward the North Star —
Billy Sykes and Davy Sloan
A-snorin’ in a buck-saw kind o’ way,
An' me a-layin', listenin’
To the horsus chawin’ hay.
It strikes me turrible cur’ous
That a little noise like that,
Can float a feller backward
Like the droppin’ of a hat;
An' start his throat a-achin’,
Make his eyes wink that a-way—
They ain’t no sound that gits me,
Like horsus chawin’ hay.
N
BLACK EPHRAM
This good should be for every man
That walks the earth beneath the sky,
Free should he be to build and plan,
And in contentment die.
BLACK EPHRAM
WHEN Wesley Rogers returned from the South he
brought back with him a black man. It took but a few
days for the whole country to know of it, and to find
out that he had been a slave and that his name was
Uncle Eph. The boys followed him as he walked up
the street of Rock River, and stood to watch him as he
clambered into the wagon of one of Wesley's neighbors,
who was in town with a load of corn.
Uncle Eph was perfectly black and had a mighty
chest, though his legs were considerably less powerful.
His head was well shaped, his face was grave, and his
eyes unusually keen for a negro. He could read a little,
Wesley said, and he was very religious. Though very
far from being a white man painted black, he was a
rather superior negro.
Wesley was a churchman himself, and had been at-
tracted to Eph by his power as an exhorter and as a
singer. Wesley had the gift himself, and sang tenor to
Uncle Eph’s bass with great delight as they rode home
through the warm September evening.
It was all strange to the negro. He had readily con-
sented to come North because to him it was a mystical
“God’s country.” He went as a friend, not as a ser-
vant, for Wesley had no touch of authority in him.
His hired men were always as much boss as himself.
181
I 82 Prairie Folks
The big black man was dazzled by his reception in
the county. Everybody seemingly took a friend's in-
terest in him, and as he was the only negro in the
country at that time, the men shook hands with him
or shouted at him with the same peculiar inflection
they used when addressing each other. He could
not accustom himself to this at once. It was all so
strange.
He worked for Wesley during the first year that he
lived in the country, and he sat at the table with the
rest after some timid protest.
“I do' know, Misto Wesley, if wheddo I should do
dat.”
“Certainly; sit down,” Wesley said. “You ain’t
a slave any more. You're my hired man. Sit down.”
“Well, you see, Missis she might — ”
“Good land, no; sit down, Eph. Have sense,”
Mrs. Rogers said vigorously.
And thereafter he humbly took his seat by the
children.
It was long before the wonder of it wore off, but at
last he came to feel at ease. He seemed at last to feel
his right to come and go as others did.
Mrs. Rogers explained to Mrs. Adams: “So long
as he is as clean as we are, I don’t see as I’ve any call
to object, and he certainly is neat.”
The children liked him very much, and on evenings
in the kitchen he often took the entire group of yellow-
headed youngsters in his great arms, and, with his mighty
voice subdued to a soft croon, sang the baby to sleep.
Black Ephram I 83
It was a moving sight, — the great black surrounded by
his mob of pale children.
Mrs. Rogers used to sit and listen to him in silence,
until the striking clock roused her with a start and a
sigh.
“Well, Eph, you do make time fly! Children, rouse
up, now. Gimme the baby, Eph. You’re a great hand
with babies, I must say. She's been a-worritin’ all day
to-day, but — ” -
Sometimes he sang songs they could not understand.
Strange, wild chants, in a half-voice that made the
shivers run over Mrs. Rogers. She used to speak up
irritably: —
“Eph, what in the world you singing now ”
“I can’t tell you quite, Missis. It’s about de land ob
de lion. Darky wants to go back. White man let me
go. I want ’o go back,-back to de land ob de lion l’”
Evidently something sweet and far-off rose within him
as he sang these songs.
He became a great feature in the protracted meetings
in the neighborhood. People came long roads to hear
him sing. Wesley’s enthusiasm was justified when Eph
rose one night and sang, “Form a Line, Elder,” during
his first winter in the North.
After that the meeting prospered, and “Bro. Ephram.”
was recognized as a valuable exhorter. Also Bro. Rog-
ers had many callers of an evening, and then Eph
“patted juber,” and sang “Jordan Am a Hard Road
to Trabbel,” “Sinner, Let Me Go,” “Old Mule,” and
many other songs of the plantation.
184 Prairie Folks
He grew in respect for himself, but he did not lose
his balance. He was naturally a well-poised character.
He soon perceived that to retain any servility, or to
doubt the genuineness of the good will expressed, would
be making his neighbors awkward and angry. He ac-
cepted their courtesy without comment.
He ceased calling people by their first names in the
Southern way. He called them Missis Jones and
Misto Bacon. He had little dialect, and lost very soon
a large number of his most peculiar phrases. His
thickness of utterance remained, and in moments of
excitement, his African tongue came back, together
with a wild chant that delighted the people very much.
There were times when he seemed sad, - perhaps
he was thinking of the peach trees and sunlight of
Georgia.
Life did not go altogether smoothly for him, however.
There were a few shiftless woodsmen living around the
mill who were outraged that a negro should be treated
like a white man. They muttered threats about shoot-
ing, but Bacon and Councill told Eph he need not fear
them. He tried not to be disturbed by their snarling,
but he could not shake off all sense of his terrible dis-
ability before the law.
He was troubled most by an old “ copperhead" who
owned a farm a little way up the river. Old man
Beckett was reported to have come into Cedar County
from Ohio, where his presence was not valued. He
was a tall, grim, red-haired man of fifty, with immense
shoulders, which he always carried edgewise to the front
Black Ephram 185
like a fighting bull. His right eye was “crooked,” and
his voice was harsh and rasping.
He was known to be a coward and braggart, but a
braggart with great discretion. He was loud in his
threats against Uncle Eph at once. “I ain’t goin’ to
have no damn nigger a-swellin’ around over me,” he said
one night in the presence of Councill and several others
at the March school meeting.
Councill mildly interposed a word: “He don’t seem
to be swellin’ around, so far as I can see, he is tendin’ to
his own knittin’ full as well as some other folks I know.”
Beckett stormed on. “Well, he’s no business to come
up here tryin’ to get on an equality with white folks.”
“He won’t have to try very hard to get on a level
with some folks,” said Wesley with a smile.
“I don’t know about that,” put in Adams. “He’d
get pretty low if he did.”
Beckett turned from one to the other, livid with rage.
“Yes, you’d all take up with a damn nigger—y’r
all damned Abolitionists.”
“Tut! tut! friend Beckett,” said Jennings; “the
war is over, the whole matter is settled, and we — ”
“Well, it ain’t settled so far as I am concerned. I’ll
be God damned if any nigger — ”
Bacon interrupted his hoarse howl by clutching his
shoulder.
“If you’re so brisk for war I think you can be ac-
commodated. Now shut up, or I’m damned if I don’t
heave yeh through the window. I’ve heerd about all
| *
your yap I kin stand
186 Prairie Folks
Beckett looked down at the floor and muttered under
his breath. Bacon went on, with savage intensity : —
“I was born south of Mason and Dixon’s line m'self.
I ain’t got no p’ticler love for niggers, but as long as
they go about peaceably and don’t trouble me I ain’t
got no say about what they shan’t do. As for equality
— I’d a damn sight rather have old Eph in my house
than you. Now, don’t let me hear any more o' your
yap !”
This was about the longest speech Bacon ever made,
and it silenced Beckett so far as any public utterance
was concerned, but thereafter he never met Eph on the
road or passed him working the fields without cursing
him and lashing at him with his whip.
Notwithstanding the kindness of the people, Eph felt
that he would rather live alone, so in his second year
rented a little farm down on the river bottom, and fitted
up the old log hut there, so that he could keep house by
himself. The people assisted him a little in ploughing
and in cutting his grain, and he got along nicely. The
next year he bought a bony old horse and a noisy
democrat wagon, and felt very proud of it.
Beckett was the only disturbing factor in his life. He
never failed to stop and revile him as he drove along
on his way to Rock River, but Uncle Eph never com-
plained. He bore it all in silence.
Bacon and Councill returning from town one day,
came upon Beckett yelling ferocious threats at Uncle
Eph, who was working quietly in his garden, not hear-
ing, apparently, the infuriate howling of his enemy.
Black Ephram 187
When they came near, Beckett drove hastily away.
Councill pulled up, and Uncle Eph came to the fence,
smiling. It was lonesome down there on the flat, and
he liked to have folks stop and chat.
“Good evenin’, Mist’ Councill.
“Good evenin’, Mist’ Bacon; fine evenin’.”
“Say, Eph, why don’t you go out and whale the day-
lights out o’ that old skunk : * said Councill.
Uncle Eph looked troubled. “Well, sah, I is
tempted, sho’ly. I ask de Lawd to help me, sah; else-
wise I would, sho’.”
“It would be a religious duty,” Councill said. “The
next time he comes by just give him a wheltin’ that
he’ll remember.”
Uncle Eph changed his feet a time or two. “Well,
Mist’ Councill, I feels mighty like it, I do assu’ you;
but I don’t just 'xactly know what folks gwine say.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it ”
“Yessah. You see, down South — ”
Bacon interrupted: “You ain’t down South; you’re
up North. If you’ll thrash the pizen out o' that old
whelp, I’ll see that you ain’t troubled by anybody else
afterward.”
“I’ll stand by you, too,” Councill said. Eph’s face
shone with a sort of joyful relief. “Well, sah, you can
'pend on me, sah. He won’t call old Eph any mo’ bad
names. De Lawd willun, I’se 'bleeged to trounce him
de very nex’ time he come along an’ holleh.”
The men laughed and drove on. “I’d like to see
the fun,” said Councill.
I 88 Prairie Folks
Not long after that Beckett, being in a bad mood,
pulled up again before Eph’s gate and yelled for him to
come out and take his medicine.
Eph was in the barn and thought to keep out of
sight, but at last he grew impatient of the man’s voice
and came to the door.
“You go 'long. Don’ stand there hollerin’.”
Beckett grew more ferocious. “I’d get out and cut
you into strips for a cent,” he swore, menacing Eph
with the whip.
“If I come out tha, sah, I trounce you sho’,” Eph
replied.
Beckett shook his whip at him. “You will? If you
dare lay hands on me — ”
Eph kept approaching. “You sho’ly do try me,” he
said.
Beckett's voice changed. “If you come within
reach, I’ll cut your heart out, you black dog. What
business you got Don’t you come nearer — ”
Uncle Eph still approached. “I ent 'fraid of yo’
whip,” he said with a calm inflection. He was al-
most within reach. He came slowly, with a look
of battle in his eyes. His bare neck and arms glis-
tened like old bronze worn with handling. There
was something terrifying in his steady approach,
unhurried, but relentless. His mind was made up.
Beckett lashed out at him with his whip. His worn
old team, accustomed to his loud voice, did not lift their
heads. Eph leaped suddenly within range.
The whip came down once, and only once, on the
Black Ephram 189
black man’s head. A sweeping clutch of his bear-like
paw and Beckett came out over the wheel fighting like
a wildcat, and the two men went to the ground rolling
over and over in battle.
Now the negro’s voice arose, the battle-gust came
into his throat, and the murder-thirst into his heart. It
seemed as if he could crush this man between the palms
of his two hands.
“Aooah yo’ neber hit me again, yo’ old Satan — yo’
old debbil.”
His words were lost in the deep roll of his growl.
The dust arose from where they lay rolling and striking.
The team had moved off down the road a little. Blows,
curses, hoarse breathing, came out of the dust cloud.
At length Uncle Eph arose, and as he stood looking
down at his quiescent adversary the dust of battle moved
away slowly on the gentle wind. The white man did
not rise at once. He was stunned and bloody and
subdued. He got up at last and turned about in a
daze, looking for his team. As he picked up his hat
and whip, he looked at Eph sullenly, menacingly,
but did not care to try again. As he walked away
he looked so bedraggled and slouching and dusty
that Eph’s anger turned to amusement. His teeth
shone first, and then his voice gurgled out in thick
laughter.
“Yo’ suttenly look like a secon' best rooster,” he
said.
Beckett turned. “I’ll have the law on you,” he
said. “I’ll put you where the dogs won’t bite yeh.”
I90 Prairie Folks
Eph sobered. The law held strange terrors for him.
The whip, a fist, he understood, but the law was an
unknown, invisible, incomprehensible force. He stood
in silence till Beckett climbed into his wagon and
drove away.
The law ! That meant a white man’s power.
That meant a rule which forever went against the
black man. He had known many individual white
people who were good and fine. He loved his old
masters. They had both been kind and just ; but his
understanding of law was warped and incomplete.
It was an intangible enginery which the white man
in some way controlled for his own interest. It rep-
resented in some way the difference between the black
and the white.
Personally he felt no fear of any living man, but
this strange and awful power of the law terrorized him,
and he went about all day very sober.
A general laugh went round the country when the
battle became known. Practically everybody said:
“Served the old skeesix right.”
This gave little comfort to Eph, however, when the
Sheriff rode into the yard a couple of days later with
a warrant for him. He bowed his head in instant
resignation, and his face was pitiful to see. “Misto
Shirf, I jest want feed my chickens an’ shut up de
house.”
“Why, of course,” said the Sheriff, as he lounged
in the buggy seat.
To Eph it was like going away forever. He looked
Black Ephram I9 I
at his crops, his chickens, and his horse. He put down
a big pan of water for the chickens and locked the
door of his house and led his pony out.
“I jest like to take Ole Ben over to Misto Bacon’s,
sah, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Just lead him behind. You’ll be
bailed out and be back to-night or to-morrow. So
don’t worry.”
Bacon was hitched up ready to go to mill.
“Hello, Eph Where you goun’ with that Sheriff’”
Eph smiled rather pitifully. “I don’t know, Misto
Bacon. I jest gwine 'long o' him.”
“What’s up, Sam * * Bacon said, coming to the
wagon wheel.
“Old Beckett has sworn out a warrant against Eph
for 'sault and battery.”
“The old whelp. You ain’t mean enough to serve
that warrant on an old nigger ?”
“Had to do it, Bill. I can’t pass on the justice of
a warrant.”
“Who issued it * *
“Brown.”
“Well, I’ll go right down to see Brown about it.
It’s a mean, sneaking trick. I told Eph I’d stand by
him if he whaled Beckett, and I’ll do it if it takes half
my farm.”
“He’ll need a bondsman, sure; or he's jugged, you
know.”
“Well, I’ll see about that.”
Eph was deeply relieved to have Bacon go along
I 92 Prairie Folks
with him. Bacon made him tell the whole story, at
which they all roared. Eph’s account of it seemed
very funny, though he did not intend it to be so.
“’N’ ye wallered him good, did ye ’’’
“I sho’ly did trounce him to my best capacilities,
sah,” Eph said, in answer.
In some way he managed to put before Judge Brown
his fear of the law ; perhaps it was in his gesture, as
he bared his head in awe; perhaps in the nervous
fumbling of his hands ; certainly in some way he
uttered the fear and awe of a human soul to whom
law has always meant injustice, bondage, and appro-
priation.
The bluff old lawyer heard Bacon through, and then
said, in his judicial tones : —
“I’m a Democrat. I believed in buying out the
slaves, but I propose to see justice done. The law
with me will not draw the color line. So far as pos-
sible I have always made law an instrument of justice
and liberty. You go home and attend to your affairs.
If Beckett does not withdraw his charge, you must
appear in November and stand trial, but I don’t think
it will be serious. We’ll see that the law is dealt out
with impartial hand. Your color will not count.”
Bacon winked at the Judge, and said: “I think we
can induce Beckett to call it a fair fout and no favor.”
The Judge remained non-committal. “I don’t
know anything about that, but if a man comes in here
all battered up and swears out a warrant, I must issue
it.”
Black Ephram I93
Eph caught the tone if not all the words of the
Judge’s speech, and something vast and splendid came
into his thought; for the first time in his life he caught
a glimpse of freedom under law. His heart swelled
till he ached with a wish to sob. His eyes filled with
tears. He bowed his great woolly head over the Judge’s
hand with the gesture of a slave.
“Don’t do that,” said the Judge, sharply. “I’m
not doing this for you because you’re black, but be-
cause it’s the law.”
On the way home he sat silent beside Bacon, ex-
cept now and then when he broke into a little joyful
crooning phrase or uttered some religious ejaculation.
That night some neighbors passing by heard him
praying in his cabin. His voice rose in fervent chant
as he prayed God to bless the Judge and Bacon and
all the good white folks who had been so kind to him.
And as the listeners — unimaginative farmer folk—
rode on, they felt a queer lump rising in their throats.
There was something moving in the voice of the old
black man chanting praises of them to God, as he
knelt there in his lonely cabin on the river sands.
O
I94 Prairie Folks
ACROSS THE PICKET_LINE
AFTER we’d been a-chasin’ old Hood
And penned him into Atlanty,
Uncle Billy, doggone him, stood
Around behind us tº make us anty;
A-diggin' dirt and a-cuttin’ ditches,
Fºr days and days, an’ top o' that,
We slep’, side-arms in our britches,
Ready tº fight at the drop o' the hat.
Wall The rebel pickets got closer 'n' closer
Till blame near we could almost see
The kind o’ fellers the Johnnies was,
An' talk as easy as you an’ me
Out in the field here ploughin’ corn,
An' gassin’ across the dividin’ line.
Yessir An’ there we’d set an’ trade off lies
About the war, and provisions, tell,
Some feller 'd sing out, “ Hunt y’r holes
Give the last man sinjen hell!”
Wall Every night we c’d hear 'em sing
“Old Hundred,” or “Salvation’s Free,”
An' we’d join in and make things ring,
An' so we got tº know, y’see,
Jest when the Johnnies meant tº shell
*R charge next day, ºr spring a mine;
For when they’d plan’d tº give us hell
They’d sing of heaven all 'long the line.
Across the Picket-Line I95
Fact! Yessir, sure's y’r born,
I never see the singin' fail,
Always brought a storm next day,
With bullets flyin' thick as hail,
An' them there Rebs a-scramblin’ right
Straight up to our blessed eyes —
Teeth gritted, faces white—
An' yellin’ fit to raise the skies.
'Fraid Not by a darn sight ! They
Didn’t know what that word meant.
No sir—they’d jest nacherly pray,
An' wherever a man 'ud go, they went ;
They wa’n’t no discount on their grit,
And I don’t bear ’em any spite.
We met like men, 'an settled it,
And I guess they think it’s settled right.
THE WAPSEYPINNICON TIGER
THE WAPSEYPINNICON TIGER
It was Saturday night in Rock River. Teams cov-
ered with the dust of the August roads stood in rows
along the sidewalks. Harvesting was in full drive, and
the town was filled with nomads from the South, men
who had worked their way North following the isother-
mal line of ripening wheat.
The farmers had driven in for provisions, their hands
had come with them for an evening's outing. The
streets swarmed with rough, lawless characters. Few
women ventured abroad, but bands of yelling boys,
feeling the unstable equilibrium of the atmosphere,
fought or played, up and down before the saloons which
were crowded to the doors.
The better class of settlers hitched up and drove
away before nine o’clock, gathering together as many
of their hands as possible, but others remained to see
the fun, which every one felt to be coming.
It was reported that the “Wapsey gang” was in
town. The Swedes from Rock Run were also well
represented down at Ole’s “Hole in the Wall.” The
Vesey boys and Steve Nagle had been seen, and last and
most important, Bill Moriarity, “the Wapsey Tiger,”
was down at the red saloon.
Bill was brother to the deputy sheriff, who had been
in his day the most feared of all the Wapsey gang. He
I99
2OO Prairie Folks
it was who used to terrorize the constable, and make
men like Steve Nagle quail when, on his infrequent
sprees, he took offence at the sound of their voices.
He dominated the gang, and ruled as if with naked
sword in hand.
By the advice of Dr. Carver, Jim had been made
constable of the town. The Doctor had quoted with
great effect the experience of Boston in making the
famous crook, Tukey, marshal, in the days when
thugs ran the city in their own way. From being con-
stable, Jim came naturally to be the deputy sheriff of
the county and had given up drink entirely.
Bill, also from the Wapsey prairie, was quiet enough
ordinarily, but when in liquor was ferocious as a pan-
ther. At such times no one dared to oppose him nor
lay hands upon him, that is, no one but his brother, the
deputy. Every law-abiding citizen regretted the infre-
quent visits of the Wapsey Tiger.
Constable Ranney, a tall, mild-mannered man, grew
more and more nervous as the night drew on and re-
ports came in about Bill. He kept sedulously out of
sight after eight o'clock; in fact, he went to the mayor’s
office for comfort and reënforcement. He made a feeble
effort to cover his flight by saying to several of the un-
easy citizens on the street: —
“If I’m wanted, I’ll be at the mayor’s office. I’m
going up to consult him.”
This deceived no one. Every man and boy in Rock
River knew that Ranney was afraid of Steve Nagle, to
say nothing of Bill. They shouted calls at him as he
The Wapseypinnicon Tiger 2O I
went along the street, but they could not blame him
very much. There was a sort of horse sense in keep-
ing out of the Tiger's way.
The matter was being discussed in the mayor’s office.
Ridings was there, and Judge Brown, and two or three
others. Foster, of the Saturday Morning Call, took a
humorous view of the matter, the others did not. Fos-
ter quoted a line or two while sharpening a pencil : —
“Now, “whether Roderigo kill Cassio, or Cassio
Roderigo, all makes my gain; ’ I’m getting news.”
2 3
“We may pull through all right yet,” said the Mayor,
a small man of a scholarly turn of mind, not fitted to
cope with such crises.
“Depends on how soon Bill gets whiskey enough to
put 'im to sleep,” said Ridings, one of the councilmen.
A wild volley of whoops arose on the street. Ran-
ney turned pale, the Mayor started up in his chair,
Ridings set his lips grimly.
“The fun begins,” said Foster. “Ranney, why ain’t
you out there on the street You'll miss some-
thing.”
Ranney gave up all pretence. “I can hear just as
well a little further off.”
Judge Brown cleared his mouth of tobacco.
“Mr. Constable, we who are peaceable and not of
powerful physical organization hire you to fight our
battles for us. Mr. Mayor, order the constable to the
scene of carnage.”
The Mayor smiled faintly. “Mr. Constable, you
know your duty.”
2O2 Prairie Folks
“All too well,” said Foster.
Another series of whoops arose mingled with maniacal
laughter, and then a single wild voice in a sort of chant.
They all rushed to the window and looked out. Up
the street, clearly outlined in the brilliant light of the
moon, came the Tiger. He walked with a curious ac-
tion as if his legs were made of steel springs. His bare
feet glistened, his head was flung back in a wild gesture.
He was Red Brian defying the English battle-line on
Balley Moor.
“Come out, ye sons o' dogs, all o' ye, ye white-
livered whelps. Come to me arrums, come, smell o'
me fist.” He leaped in the air. “Come down out o'
that,” he snarled, as he caught sight of the men in the
mayor’s office.
The heads disappeared, and the crowd on the street
laughed, but the Tiger kept on waving his fist. “I can
whip the worruld.”
“Constable, arrest that man,” commanded the
Mayor.
“I can’t do it, y’r honor,” said Ranney, in deep dis-
treSS.
Ridings broke out: “Things have come to a narrow
lane, if we can’t control the streets of our own town.
If our constable can’t or won’t do his duty — ”
Ranney, nearly sobbing in his shame and fear,
dragged the star off his coat, and extended it to the
Mayor.
“Take back the office, I don’t want it. I didn’t go
into this thing to arrest grizzly bears nor crazy maniacs,
The Wapseypinnicon Tiger 2O3
for three dollars a day. It’s all very well for you fel-
lows to sit here and order me to go and arrest that in-
fernal devil; go do it yourself.”
He flung the star on the floor, and walked toward the
back stairway, “I’m going home.”
Foster dryly remarked: “There’s a certain degree of
justice in what Mr. Ranney says. There are too many
commanding officers here and too few active warriors.
There’s just one man in this country who can arrest
Bill Moriarity.”
“You mean Jim ”
“Yes, of course.”
“Jim's in Cedarville.”
“Then telegraph him.”
“I telegraphed him an hour ago,” said the Judge.
“I knew we were in for trouble. He ought to be here
soon if he started promptly.”
The Mayor sighed with relief. “Well there’s noth-
ing to do but wait.”
They looked out of the window at every fresh burst
of noise. The Tiger still paraded up and down, leap-
ing into the air occasionally with a shrill “Wherroo !”
He had the weight of a lion and the activity of a leop-
ard. He was transformed from a slouchy, quietly
humorous farmer into a demon. Everybody gave way
before him, and behind him a howling mob of admir-
ing friends trailed. Silence came only when he led
the way into some saloon.
The better citizens kept dropping in at the mayor’s
office to ask why that man was not arrested. The
2O4. Prairie Folks
Mayor cooled each one off by saying, “I’ll deputize
you to arrest him, if you wish.”
While they sat waiting they heard the sound of hurry
out in the street, then a word of command that brought
them to a halt.
“Here comes Jim ”
Quick, powerful steps were heard on the stairway,
and Jim came in. He was of moderate height, but the
girth of his chest was enormous. His face was dark
and handsome. His eyes had something placid and sor-
rowful in them. His drooping mustache half concealed
a shapely mouth. Altogether he was a fine Irish type.
“Where is he ” he asked.
“In the red saloon, just now.”
“Is he wild, b’ys : " Jim asked, in a hesitating
way.
They felt no inclination to laugh.
“He is plumb crazy.”
Jim gave a groan of sorrow and dismay.
“ Murtherin’ divils | What a task I have.” He
took out his big clasp-knife and laid it down.
“There’s a gang with him too,” said Ridings.
“I don’t moind that, it’s Billy, poor divil.” He
laid aside his revolver and took off his coat.
“It’ll be desprit, b’ys,” he said, with a sad quiver in
his voice. “I can’t shoot him, yer anner. It's me
duty to arrest him, an’ I will, but it’s loike embracin’
a lion to take Billy when he's dhrunk. He'll kill me
if he can, if he's crazy, but I can’t stroike him with a
weapon, yer anner.”
The Wapsey pinnicon Tiger 2O5
He looked sad and weak as he went out the door, but
they knew the stuff of which his heart was made.
“If he isn’t too dhrunk he’ll come along when I lay
me hand on his shouldher; if he's fightin’ dhrunk, it’s
him or me,” he said half to himself, as he went down
the street, accompanied by Foster.
“Wan comfort,” he added, in the same musing way,
“Billy nivir shoots. It’s fists wid him.”
They heard a wild shouting up the street, where the
open door of a saloon emptied its light upon the dark.
A crowd of men alternately surged in and out of the
door, as if they moved away from a chained wildcat
making plunges to the length of his chain. As they
drew near, the howl of the drunken man could be heard
as he raged against the barkeeper, who stood in deadly
terror behind his bar pleading with him. He tried to
assume a careless voice. -
“Here, take all ye want. That’s all right, have
another drink — it’s on me. That’s all right —” Bill
stopped suddenly like a hound scenting game.
“Here’s Jim I’’ was the cry. “Get out o' the way,
here's Jim.” -
Jim came through the crowd, his big, brown eyes
fixed on Bill’s wild face. The sadness in his face as
well as its resolution awed the crowd.
“Billy, my boy, come home,” he said gently.
“Come home, Billy,” and he laid his hand on his
brother’s shoulder. *
There was no sign of relenting in Bill’s eyes. He
looked astonished, then his eyes contracted to red slits,
2O6 Prairie Folks
his mouth squared at the corners, and his teeth showed
in a horrible grin. His hand spread on the counter like
a paw.
“To hell wid yel’’ he answered.
“Get out o' me way,” said Jim, without looking
around. The crowd fell back, leaving a clear space.
“Come, Billy,” he said again, but in a different tone.
He saw a madman before him. With a quick, clutch-
ing, downward jerk, he rolled the Tiger to the floor and
fell upon him. But the insane man rose under him
with a bear-like action, and forced him to the floor on
equal terms.
The two brothers were well matched in strength, but
Jim, fighting because it was his duty, was hindered by his
great love and admiration for his brother, who fought to
kill. Jim broke loose and rose.
Bill sprang at him like a cat — Jim's left fist met him
and rolled him on the floor.
“God forgive me !” Jim said, “I nivir struck me
brother before.”
He waited for the fallen man to rise. Bill seemed to
bound from the ground. Again Jim knocked him roll-
ing, and again he rose. This time he rose with a knife
in his hand.
“Ah !” breathed the crowd.
“Shoot him l’” said the barkeeper. •
“Keep off l’” said Jim. A new look came into his
eyes. He was fighting for his life now. Again he met
the infuriate with his fist, but the man fell at his feet,
throwing him sprawling. Jim whirled upon his back,
The Wapseypinnicon Tiger 2O7
catching Bill’s hand in a terrible grip. The blood was
running from a gash in his cheek.
Over and over the two men rolled in the blood and
sawdust. Notwithstanding their great bulk, they writhed
with the bewildering convolutions of cats. Now Jim
came to the top, now Bill, but always that right hand
gripped the murderous wrist of the hand that held the
knife. Jim fought silently, grimly. The brother
uttered short, snarling imprecations, like a carnivorous
animal at meat. He snapped at his brother with open
jaws.
Again and again some volunteer raised a chair to
strike Bill, but Jim said, “Lave be.” His pride was
touched. He would conquer him alone and he would
not allow another man to strike his brother.
For ten minutes this struggle continued, and then Jim
rose and sat astride the Tiger, who lay breathing heavily,
cursing, raving, under his breath.
“Handcuff him l’’ cried the crowd.
Jim shook his head. “There is no need,” he said.
At the word “handcuff,” the struggle began again.
Bill wrenched loose suddenly and struck Jim again with
the knife. The blow fell upon his collar-bone, and the
blood poured forth again. Jim caught the deadly arm
again in his left hand, and, lifting his terrible right hand,
struck a blow upon the side of his brother’s head, which
laid him out limp and still.
“Out o' me way, b’ys,” he said, as he rose holding
the limp body in his hands. They made way for him,
and he passed out into the street.
2O8 Prairie Folks
A shudder seized on the crowd. Jim was covered
with sawdust and filth from the floor. His face was
unrecognizable by reason of the terrible blows with fist
and knife which had fallen there, and his shirt was
dripping with blood also. He walked into the middle
of the road with the stunned man held in his hands.
The crowd made way for him as if he were a king.
He put Bill down and knelt watchfully beside him.
“Call the Mayor,” he said, “I’ll have a word with
him.”
A moment later and the Mayor came hurrying
down.
“What is it, Jim * *
He lifted a wild, sad face to the Mayor.
“Y’r anner, I ask permission to take Billy home.
God knows it would kill him to wake in the jail, y’r
anner. The bºy dawn’t know what he's doin’ at all.
He’ll be near dead with shame, when he sees the mark
he's put on me. If he wakes in jail, 'twill break the
heart of 'im. Y’r anner, you know Billy, when the
whiskey's not in him, he's as fine a man as iver breathed
the breath of life. May I take him home, y’r anner ”
The Mayor, deeply moved, nodded his head.
“Do what you think best, Jim.”
“God bless ye, y’r anner. Will somebody find
Billy’s team ”
The team was brought, and the maniac was lifted into
the wagon like a log.
Jim climbed in. “Give me the lines,” he said to the
man in the seat.
The Wapseypinnicon Tiger 2O9
“Shan’t I go with ye, Jim ”
“Give me, I say.”
The man surrendered the lines and leaped out of the
wagon.
“Good night, y’r anner. Good night, boys.”
The wagon moved off in the glorious moonlight, with
Jim sitting beside the drink-crazed man who lay on the
bed of the wagon unbound, save by the grip of his
brother’s relentless right hand.
P
2 IO Prairie Folks
GOIN' BACK T’MORRER
(In the City)
I TELL ye, Sue, it ain’t no use,
I can’t stay, and I won’t.
W’h a feller 'd need the widder’s cruse
Tº live back here an’ stan’ the brunt
Of all expenses, thick and thin —
Too many men — ain’t land enough
Tº swing a feller’s elbows in, –
I s'pose you’ll take it kind o' rough
But I’m goin’ back t'morrer
It ain’t no use tº talk tº me
Of whut some other feller owns;
I ain’t got no grip at all,
His fire don’t warm my achin’ bones,
An' then I’m ust t” walkin’ where
There ain’t no p’lice ºr pavin’ stones, –
Of course you’ll think I’m mighty sick,
But I’m goin’ back t'morrer
Fact is, folks, I love the West !
They ain't no other place like home —
They ain’t no other place tº rest,
Fºr mother 'n me but jest ol' Rome —
Cedar County, up Basswood Run —
Lived there goin’ on thirty years
Come there spring o' sixty-one —
An’ I’m goin’ back tºmorrer!
Goin' Back Tºmorrer 2 I I
I tell ye, things looked purty wild
On that there prairie then
We hadn’t nary chick n’r child,
An' we buckled down to work like men.
Handsome land them two claims was
As ever lay outdoors | Rich an’ clean
Of brush an’ sloos. Y’r Uncle Daws,
He used t” say God done his best
On that there land — His level best.
No, I jest can’t stand it here,
Nohow — ain’t room to swing my cap.
Ye're all cooped up in this ere flat,
Jest like chickens in a trap—
I’m mighty sorry, Sue, but I
Can’t stand it, an’ mother can’t,
If she was willing w”y I’d try —
But I guess we’ll go tºmorrer.
‘N’ when we jest get home agin,
Back tº Cedar County, back tº Rome,
Back tº Basswood Run an’ home,
Won’t the neighbors jest drop in
When we get settled down, an’ grin,
An’ all shake han’s — an’ Deacon White
Drive up tº laff that laff o' hism —
Mother, let’s start back t'night !
The corn is jest a-rampin’ now,
I c’n hear the leaves a-russlin’
As they twist an’ swing an’ bow,
Prairie Folks
I c'n see the boys a-husslin’
In the medder by the crick,
Forkin’ hay fºr all in sight,
An’ the birds an’ bees s” thick |
O we must start back t'night !
AIDGEWISE FEELIN’S
AIDGEWISE FEELIN’S
A FUNERAL is a depressing affair under the best circum-
stances, but a funeral in a lonely farmhouse in March,
the roads full of slush, the ragged gray clouds leaping
the sullen hills like eagles, is tragic.
The teams arrived splashed with mud, the women
blue with cold under their scanty cotton-quilt lap robes,
their hats set awry by the wind. They scurried into
the house, to sit and shiver in the best room, where all
the chairs that could contrive to stand erect, and all of
any sort that could be borrowed, were crammed in
together to seat the women folks.
The men drove out to the barn, and having blanketed
their teams with lap robes, picked their way through the
slush of the yard over to the lee side of the haystack,
where the pale sun occasionally shone.
They spoke of “diseased ” Williams, as if Diseased
were his Christian name. They whittled shingles or
stalks of straw as they talked.
Sooner or later, after each new arrival, they branched
off upon politics, and the McKinley Bill was handled
gingerly. If any one, in his zeal, raised his voice above
a certain pitch, some one said “Hish ’’ and the new-
comer’s voice sank again to that abnormal quiet which
falls now and again on these loud-voiced folk of the
wind and open spaces.
2I5
216 Prairie Folks
The boys hung around the kitchen and smoke-house,
playing sly jokes upon each other in order to provoke
that explosion of laughter so thoroughly enjoyed by those
who can laugh noiselessly.
A snort of this sort brought Deacon Williams out to
reprimand them, “Boys, boys, you should have more
respect for the dead.”
The preacher came. The choir raised a wailing chant
for the dead, but the group by the haystack did not
IIl OVC.
Occasionally they came back, after talking about
seeding and the price of hogs, to the discussion of the
dead man’s affairs.
“I s’pose his property will go to Emmy and Serry,
half and half.”
“I expec’ so. He always said so, an’ John wa’n’t a
man to whiffle about every day.”
“Well, Emmy won’t make no fuss, but if Ike don’t
git more’n his half, I’ll eat the greaser.”
“Who’s ex-ecutor 2 ”
“Deacon Williams, I expect.”
“Well, the Deacon’s a slick one,” some one observed,
as if that were an excellent quality in an executor.
“They ain’t no love lost between Bill Gray and
Harkey, I don't expect.”
“No, I don’t think they is.”
“Ike don’t seem to please people. It’s queer, too.
He tries awful hard.”
The voice of the preacher within, raised to a wild
shout, interrupted them.
Aidgewise Feelin's 217
“The Elder’s gettin' warmed up,” said one of the
story-tellers, pausing in his talk. “And so I told Bill
if he wanted the cord-wood — ”
The sun shone warmer, and the chickens caw-cawed
feebly. The colts whinnied, and a couple of dogs
rolled and tumbled in wild frolic, while the voice of
the preacher sounded dolefully or in humming mono-
tone.
Meanwhile, in the house, in the best room and in the
best seats near the coffin, the women, in their black,
worn dresses, with wrinkled, sallow faces and gnarled
hands, sat shivering. Theirs was to be the luxury of
the ceremony.
The carpet was damp and muddy, the house was chill,
and the damp wind filled them all with ague; but they
had so much to see and talk about, that time passed
rapidly. Each one entering was studied critically to
see whether dress and deportment were proper to the
occasion or not, and if one of the girls smiled a little as
she entered, some one was sure to whisper: —
“Heartless thing, how can she ”
There were a few young men, only enough to help
out on the singing, and they remained mainly in the
kitchen where they were seen occasionally in anxious
consultation with Deacon Williams.
The girls looked serious, but a little sly, as if they
could smile if the boys looked their way or if one of
the old women should cough her store teeth out.
Upstairs the family were seated in solemn silence, the
two nieces, Emma and Sarah, and Emma’s husband,
2 I 8 Prairie Folks
Harkey, and Sarah’s children — deceased Williams had
no wife. These people sat in stony immobility, except
when Harkey looked at his watch, and said:—
“Seem slow gitten here.”
Occasionally women came up the stairway and flung
themselves upon the necks of the mourning nieces, who
submitted to it without apparent disgust or astonishment,
and sank back into the same icy calm after their visitors
had “straightened their things,” and retired to the re-
served seats below.
Deacon Williams, small, quick, with sunny blue-gray
eyes belying the gloomy curve of his mouth, was every-
where; arranging for bearers, selecting hymns, conferring
with the family, keeping abstracted old women off the
seats reserved for the mourners, and maintaining an
anxious lookout for the minister.
The Deacon was a distant relative of the dead man,
and it was generally admitted that he “would have a
time of it” in administering upon the estate.
At last the word was whispered about that the Elder
was coming. Word was sent to the smoke-house and
to the haystack to call the stragglers in. They came
slowly, and finding the rooms all filled considered them-
selves absolved from a disagreeable duty, and went back
to the sunny side of the haystack, where they smoked
their pipes in rumânative enjoyment.
The Elder, upon entering, took his place beside the
coffin, the foot of which he used for a pulpit on which
to lay his Bible and his hymn-book. A noise of whis-
pering, rustling, scraping of feet arose as some old men
Aidgewise Feelin's 2 I 9
crowded in among the women, and then the room be-
came silent.
The Elder took his seat and glanced round upon them
all with solemn unrecognizing severity, while the mourn-
ers came down the creaking pine stairway in proper order
of procedure.
Everybody noticed the luxury of new dresses on the
nieces and the new suits on the children. Everybody
knew the feeling which led to these extravagances.
Death, after all, was a majestic visitor, and money was
not to stand in the way of a decent, showing. Some of
the girls smiled slyly at Isaac’s gloves, which were too
small and would go only halfway on, a fact he tried to
conceal by keeping his hands folded. Each boy was
provided with a large new stiff cotton handkerchief, which
occupied immense space in outside pockets, crumpled as
they were into a rustling ball with cruel salient angles
like a Chinese puzzle.
The Elder had attended two funerals that week, and
like a jaded actor came lamely to his work. His prayer
was not entirely satisfactory to the older people, they
had expected a “little more power.”
He was a thin-faced man, with weak brown eyes and
a mouth like a gopher, that is, with very prominent upper
teeth. His black coat was worn and shiny, and hung
limply, as if at some other period he had been fatter, or
as if it had belonged to some other man.
The choir with instinctive skill had selected a wailing
hymn, only slightly higher in development than the chant
of the Indians, sweet, plaintive at times, barbaric in its
22 O Prairie Folks
moving cadences. They sang it well, in meditative .
march, looking out of the windows during its in-
terminable length.
Then the Elder read some passages of the Scripture
in his “funeral voice,” which was entirely different from
his “marriage voice” and his “Sunday voice.” It had
deep cadences in it and chanting inflections, not unlike
the negro preachers or the keeners at Irish wakes.
Then he gave out the hymn, which all joined in sing-
ing, rising to their feet with much trouble. After they
had settled down again he took out a large carefully
ironed handkerchief and laid it on the coffin as who
should say, “If you have tears, prepare to shed them
now.”
The absurdity of all this did not appear to his listeners,
though they well knew he cared very little about the dead
man, who was a very retiring person.
The Elder on his part understood that his audience
was before him for the pleasure of weeping, for the de-
light of seeing agonized faces and hearing wild grief-
laden wailing. They were there to feel the delicious
creeping thrill of horror and fear, roused by the presence
of the corpse and the near shadow of the hovering angel
of death.
The Elder led off by some purely perfunctory remarks
about the deceased, about his kindness, and his honesty.
This caused the nieces to wipe away a sparse tear or
two, and he was encouraged as if by slight applause.
He developed as usual the idea that in the midst of life
we are in death, that no man can tell when his time
Aidgewise Feelin’s 22. I
will come. He told two or three grewsome stories of
sudden death. His voice now rose in a wild chant now
sank to a hoarse whisper.
The blowing of noses, low sobbings, and fervent
amens from the old men thickened encouragingly, and
he entered upon more impassioned flights. His voice,
naturally sonorous, deepened in powerful song till the
men seated comfortably on their haunches out by the
haystack could plainly hear his words. “Oh, my
brethren, what will you do in that last day ”
Sarah's boys, without in the least understanding what
it all meant, began to weep also and to use their hand-
kerchiefs, so smooth and shining they were useless as
so much legal-cap writing paper.
Their misery would have been enhanced had they
known that out in the wagon-shed under cover of the
Elder's voice the other boys were having a game of
mummelly peg in the warm, dry ground. Their fresh
young souls laughed at death as the early robins out in
the hedge near by defied the winds of March.
Having harrowed the poor sensation-loving souls as
thoroughly as could be desired, the Elder began the pro-
cess of “letting them down easy.” He remembered
that the Lord was merciful; that the deceased could
approach him with confidence; that there was a life
beyond the tomb, a life of eternal rest (the allurement
of all hard-working humanity).
Slowly the snuffling and sobbing ceased, the handker-
chiefs took longer and longer intervals of rest, and when
in conclusion the preacher said, “Let us pray,” the old
222 Prairie Folks
men looked at each other with fervent satisfaction.
“It’s been a blessed time — a blessed time !”
The pretty girl who sang the soprano looked very
interesting with her wet eyelashes, the tears stopped
halfway in their course down her rounded cheek. The
closing hymn promised endless peace and rest, but was
voiced in the same tragic and hopeless music with which
the service opened.
Deacon Williams came out to say, “All parties desir-
ing to view the remains, will now have an opportunity.”
He had the hospitable tone of a host inviting his guests
in to dinner.
Viewing the remains was considered a religious duty,
and the men from outside, and even the boys from be-
hind the smoke-house, felt constrained to come in and
pass in shuddering horror before the still face whose
breath did not dim the glass above it. Most of them
hurried by the box with only a swift side glance down at
the strange thing within.
Then the bearers lifted the coffin and slipped it into the
platform-spring wagon, which was backed up to the
door. The other teams loaded up, and the procession
moved off, down the perilously muddy road toward the
village burying-ground.
In this way was John Williams, a hard-working, hon-
orable Welshman, buried. His death furnished forth a
sombre, dramatic entertainment such as he himself had
ceremoniously attended many times. The funeral trot-
ters whom he had seen at every funeral in the valley
were now in at his death, and would be at each other’s
Aidgewise Feelin's 223
death, until the black and yellow earth claimed them
all.
A ceremony almost as interesting to the gossips as
the burial was the reading of the will, to which only
the family were invited. After the return of Emma,
her husband, and Sarah from the cemetery, Deacon
Williams read the dead man’s bequests, seated in the
best room, which was still littered with chairs and damp
with mud.
The will was simple and not a surprise to any one.
It gave equal division of all the property to the nieces.
“Well, now, when’ll we have the settlement * * asked
the Deacon.
“Just’s you say, Deacon,” said Emma, meekly.
“Suit yourself,” said Harkey; “only it 'ad better
come soon. Sooner the better — seedin's coming on.”
“Well, to-morrow is Friday, why not Saturday ”
“All right, Saturday.” All agreed.
As Harkey drove off down the road he said to his
wife: “The sooner we have it, the fewer things’ll git
carried off. The Deacon don’t favor me none, and
Bill Gray is sweet on Serry, and he’ll bear watchin’.”
The Deacon on his part took his chin in his fist and
looked after Harkey. “Seemed a little bit anxious,
'cordin’ to my notion,” he said, with a smile.
II
SATURDAY was deliciously warm and springlike, the
hens woke in the early dawn with a jocund note in
224. Prairie Folks
their throats, and the young cattle frisked about the
barn-yard, moved to action by the electrical influences
of the south wind.
“Clear as a bell overhead,” Deacon Williams said.
But Jack Dunlap, Sarah's hand, said, “Nobody travels
that way.”
Long before dawn the noise of the melting water
could be heard running with musical tinkle under the
ice. The ponds crashed and boomed in long reverber-
ating explosions, as the sinking water heaved it up and
let it fall with crackling roar; flights of ducks flashed
over, cackling breathlessly as they scurried straight into
the north.
Deacon and Sarah arrived early and took possession,
for Sarah was to have the eighty which included the
house. They were busy getting things ready for the par-
tition. The Deacon, assisted by Jack, the hired man,
was busy hauling the machinery out of the shed into the
open air, while Sarah and a couple of neighbors' girls, with
skirts tucked up and towels on their heads, were scour-
ing up pots and pans and dusting furniture in the kitchen.
The girls, strong and handsome in their unsapped
animal vigor, enjoyed the innocent display of their bare
arms and petticoats.
People from Sand Lake passing by wondered what
was going on. Gideon Turner had the courage to pull
up and call out, for the satisfaction of his wife : —
“What’s going on here this fine morning **
“Oh, we’re goin’ to settle up the estate l’” said Sarah.
“Why I how de do, Mrs. Turner ”
Aidgewise Feelin's 225
“W’y, it’s you, is it, Serry ”
“Yes; it’s me, — what they is left of me. I been
here sence six o'clock. I’m getting things ready for the
division. Deacon Williams is the ex-ecutor, you know.”
“Aha! Less see, you divide equally, I hear.”
“Near's we can get at it. Uncle left me the house
eighty, and the valley eighty to Emmy. Deacon's goin'
to parcel out the belongin’s.”
Turner looked sly. “How'd Harkey feel ?”
Sarah smiled. “I don’t know and care less. He'll
make trouble if he can, but I don’t see how he can. He
agreed to have the Deacon do the dividin', and he’ll have
to stand by it so far as I can see.”
Mrs. Turner looked dubious. “Well, you know Ike
Harkey. He looks as though sugar wouldn’t melt in
his mouth, but I tell you I'd hate to have dealin's with
him.”
Turner broke in : “Well, we must be movin’. I
s’pose you’ll move right in **
“Yes. Just as soon’s as this thing’s settled.”
“Well, good-by. Come up.”
“You come down.”
Sarah was a heavy, good-natured woman, a widow
with “a raft of children.” Probably for that reason her
uncle had left her the house, which was large and
comfortable. As she stood looking down the road,
one of the girls came out to the gate. She was a plump,
strong creature, a neighbor’s girl who had volunteered
to help.
“Anybody coming?”
- Q
226 Prairie Folks
“Yes. I guess — no, it’s going the other way. Ain’t
it a nice day ”
That was as far as she could carry the utterance of
her feeling, but all the morning she had felt the wonder-
ful power of the air. The sun had risen incredibly
warm. The wind was in the south, and the crackling,
booming roar of ice in the ponds and along the river
was like winter letting go its iron grip upon the land.
Even the old cows shook their horns, and made comical
attempts to frisk with the yearlings. Sarah knew it was
foolish, but she felt like a girl that morning—and Bill
was coming up the road.
In the midst of the joy of the spring day stood the
house, desolate and empty, out of which its owner had
been carried to a bed in the cold, clinging clay of the
little burying-ground.
The girls and Sarah worked swiftly, brushing, clean-
ing, setting aside, giving little thought to even the beauty
of the morning, which entered their blood unconsciously.
“Well, how goes it ” asked a quick, jovial voice.
The girls gave screams of affected fright.
“Why, Deacon | You nearly scared the life out of
us.”
Deacon Williams was always gallant.
“I didn’t know I was given to scaring the ladies,” he
said. “Well, who’s here * *
“Nobody but us so far.”
“Hain’t seen nothing o' Harkey ”
“Not a thing. He sent word he’d be on hand,
though.”
Aidgewise Feelin's 227
“M —, well, we’ve got the machinery invoiced.
Guess I’ll look around and kind o' get the household
things in my mind’s eye,” said the Deacon, taking on
the air of a public functionary.
“All right. We’ll have everything ready here in a
few minutes.”
They returned to work, dusting and scrubbing. The
girls with their banter put death into the background
as an obscure and infrequent incident of old age.
Sarah again studied the road down the Coolly.
“Well there ! I see a team coming up the Coolly
now ; wonder if it’s Emmy.”
“Looks more like Bill Gray's team,” said one of the
girls, looking slyly at Sarah, who grew very red.
“Oh, you’re too sharp, ain’t you ?”
It was perfectly ridiculous (to the young people) to
see these middle-aged lovers courting like sixteen-year-
olds, and they had no mercy on either Bill or Sarah.
Bill drove up in leisurely way, his horses steaming,
his wagon-wheels loaded with mud. Mrs. Gray was
with him, her jolly face shining like the morning sun.
“Hello, folkses, are you all here * *
“Good morning, Mrs. Gray,” said the Deacon, ap-
proaching to help her out. “Hello, Bill, nice morning.”
Bill looked at Sarah for a moment. “Bully good,”
he said, leaving his mother to scramble down the wagon-
wheel alone—at least so far as he was concerned, but
the Deacon stood below courageously.
Mrs. Gray cried out in her loud good humor: “Look
out, Deacon, don’t git too near me — if I should fall on
228 Prairie Folks
you there wouldn’t be a grease spot left. There / I’m
all right now,” she said, having reached ground without
accident. She shook her dress and looked briskly
around. “Wal, what you done, anyway? Emmy’s
folks come yet ”
“No, but I guess that’s them comin’ now. I hope
Ike won’t come, though.”
Mrs. Gray stared at the Deacon. “Why not * *
“Well, he’s just sure to make a fuss,” said Jack,
“he’s so afraid he won’t get his share.”
Bill chewed on a straw and looked at Sarah abstract-
edly.
“Well, what’s tº be done ** inquired Mrs. Gray,
after a pause.
“Can’t do much till Emmy gets here,” said Sarah.
“Oh, I guess we can. Bill, you put out y’r team,
we won't get away 'fore dinner.”
The men drove off to the barn, leaving the women to
pick their way on chips and strips of board laid in the
mud, to the safety of the chip-pile, and thence to the
kitchen, which was desolately littered with utensils.
Deacon assumed command with the same alertness,
and with the same sunny gleam in his eye, with which
he directed the funeral a few days before.
“Now, Bill, put out your team and help Jack and
me pen them hogs. Women folks 'll git things ready
here.”
Emma came at last, driven by Harkey’s brother and
his hired man. They were both brawny fellows, rude
and irritable, and the Deacon lifted his eyebrows and
Aidgewise Feelin's 229
whistled when he saw them drive in with a lumber
wagon.
The women swarmed out to greet Emma, who was
a thin, irritable, feeble woman.
“Better late than never. Where’s Ike: ” inquired
Mrs. Gray.
“Well, he – couldn’t git away very well — he's got
t’ clean up some seed-oats,” she answered nervously.
After the men drove off, however, she added: “He
thought he hadn’t ought to come; he didn’t want to
cause no aidgewise feelin's, so he thought he hadn’t
better come — he'd just leave it to you, Deacon.”
The Deacon said, “All right, all right ! We’ll fix it
up !” but he didn’t feel so sure of it after that, though
he set to work bravely.
The sun, growing warmer, fell with pleasant gleam
around the kitchen door and around the chip-pile where
the hens were burrowing. The men worked in their
shirt-sleeves.
“Well, now, we’ll share the furniture an’ stuff next,”
said the Deacon, looking around upon his little interested
semicircle of spectators. “Now, put Emmy’s things
over there and Serry’s things over here. I’ll call 'em off,
and, if they’s no objection, you girls can pass 'em over.”
He cleared his throat and began in the voice of one
in authority : —
“Thirteen pans, six to Emmy, seven to Serry;” then
hastened to add: “I’ll balance that by giving the biggest
of the two kittles to Emmy. Rollin' pin and cake board
to Serry, two flat-irons to Emmy, small tub to Emmy,
23O Prairie Folks
large one to Serry, balanced by the tin water pail.
Dozen clo'se-pins; half an’ half, six o' one, half-dozen
t’other,” he said with a smile at his own joke, while
the others actively placed the articles in separate piles.
“Stove to Serry, because she has the house, bureau
to Emmy.”
At this point Mrs. Gray said, “I guess that ain’t
quite even, Deacon ; the bureau ain’t worth much.”
“Oh, no, no, that’s all right ! Let her have it,”
Emma protested nervously.
“Give her an extry tick, anyway,” said Sarah, not to
be outdone in magnanimity.
“Settle that between ye,” said the Deacon.
He warmed to his work now, and towels, pans,
crockery, brooms, mirrors, pillows, and bedticks were
rapidly set aside in two groups on the soft soil. The
poverty of the home could best be seen in the display
of its pitiful furniture.
The two nieces looked on impassively, standing side
by side. The men came to move the bureau and other
heavy things and looked on, while the lighter things
were being handed over by Mrs. Gray and the girls.
At noon they sat down in the empty kitchen and
ate a cold snack — at least, the women took seats, the
men stood around and lunched on hunks of boiled
beef and slices of bread. There was an air of con-
straint upon the male portion of the party not shared
by Mrs. Gray and the girls.
“Well, that settles things in the house,” beamed
the Deacon as he came out with the women trailing
Aidgewise Feelin's 23 I
behind him; “an’ riow in about two jerks of a dead
lamb’s tail, we’ll git at the things out in the barn.”
“Wal, we don’t know much about machines and
things, but I guess we’d better go out and keep you
men from fightin’,” said Mrs. Gray, shaking with fun;
“Ike didn’t come because he didn’t want to make any
trouble, but I guess he might just as well a’ come as
send two such critters as Jim ‘n’ Hank.”
The women laughed at her frankness, and in very
good humor they all went out to the barn-yard.
“Now, these things can’t be laid out fast as I call
'em off, but we’ll do the best we can.”
“Let’s try the stawk first,” said Jim.
The women stood around with shawls pinned over
their heads while the division of the stock went for-
ward. The young men came often within chaffing
distance of the girls.
There were nine shotes nearly of a size, and the
Deacon said, “I’ll give Serry the odd shote.”
“Why so ” asked Jim Harkey, a sullen-faced man
of thirty.
“Because a shote is hard to carry off and I can
balance — ”
“Well, I guess you can balance fºr Em 'bout as
well as fºr Serry.”
The Deacon was willing to yield a point. “Any
objection, Bill If not, why —”
“Nope, let her go,” said Bill.
“What 'ave you got to say 'bout it?” asked Jim,
insolently.
232 Prairie Folks
Bill turned his slow bulk. “I guess I’ve a good
'eal to say — haven’t I, Serry ”
Sarah reddened, but stood beside him bravely. “I
guess you have, Bill, about as much as I have.” There
was a moment of dramatic tension and the girls tingled
with sympathy. -
“Let 'er go,” said Bill, splitting a straw with his
knife. He had not proposed to Sarah before and he
felt an unusual exaltation to think it came so easy
after all.
When they reached the cattle, Jim objected to strik-
ing a balance with a “farrer cow,” and threw the
Deacon’s nice calculation all out of joint.
“Let it go, Jim,” pleaded Emma.
“I won’t do it,” Ike said — I mean I know he don’t
want no farrer cow, he’s got two now.”
The Deacon was a little nettled. “I guess that’s
going to stand,” he said sharply.
Jim swore a little but gave in, and came back with
an access of ill humor on a division of the horses.
“But I’ve give you the four heavy horses to balance
the four others and the two-year-old,” said the Deacon.
“I’ll be damned if I stand that,” said Jim.
“I guess you’ll have to,” said the Deacon.
Emma pleaded, “Let it go, Jim, don’t make a
fuss.”
Jim raged on, “I’ll be cawn-demmed if I’ll stand
it. I don’t — Ike don’t want them spavined old crows;
they’re all ring-boned and got the heaves.” His long
repressed ill-nature broke out.
Aidgewise Feelin's 233
“Toh, tohl” said the Deacon, “Don’t kick over
the traces now. We’ll fix it up some way.”
Emma tried to stop Jim, but he shook her off and
continued to walk back and forth behind the horses
munching on quietly, unconscious of any dispute
about their value.
Bill sat on the oat box in his hulking way, his
heels thumping a tune, his small gray eyes watching
the angry man.
“Don’t make a darn fool of yourself,” he said
placidly.
Jim turned, glad of the chance for a row, “You
better keep out of this.”
Bill continued to thump, the palms of his big hands
resting on the edge of the box. “I’m in it,” he said
conclusively.
“Well, you git out of it ! I ain’t goin’ to be bull-
dozed — that ain’t what I come here for.”
“No, I see it ain’t,” said Bill. “If you’re after a
row you can have it right here. You won’t find a better
place.”
“There, there,” urged the Deacon. “What’s the
use Keep cool and don’t tear your shirts.”
Mrs. Gray went up to Jim and took him by the arm.
“You need a good spankin’ to make you good-natured,”
she said. “I think the Deacon has done first rate, and
3 5
you ought 'o
“Let go o' me,” he snarled, raising his hand as if to
strike her.
Bill’s big boot lunged out, catching Harkey in the ribs,
234. Prairie Folks
and if the Deacon had not sprung to his assistance Jim
would have been trampled to pieces by the scared horse
under whose feet he found himself. He was wild with
dizzy, breathless rage.
“Who hit me 2 ” he demanded.
Bill’s shapeless hulk straightened up and stood beside
him as if his pink flesh had suddenly turned to oak.
Out of his fat cheeks his gray eyes glared.
“I did. Want another ”
The Deacon and Jack came between and prevented
the encounter which would have immediately followed.
Bill went on : —
“They cain’t no man lay a hand on my mother and
live long after it.” He was thoroughly awake now.
There was no slouch to his action at that moment, and
Jim was secretly pleased to have the encounter go by.
“You come here for a fuss and you can have it, both
of you,” Bill went on in unusual eloquence. “Deacon’s
tried to do the square thing, Emmy’s tried to do the
square thing, and Serry’s kep’ quiet, but you’ve been
sour and ugly the whole time, and now it’s goin’ to
stop.”
“This ain’t the last of this thing,” said Jim.
“You never’ll have a better time,” said Bill.
Mrs. Gray and the Deacon turned in now to quiet
Bill, and the settlement went on. Jim kept close watch
on the proceedings, and muttered his dissent to his
friends, but was careful not to provoke Bill further.
In dividing the harnesses they came upon a cow-bell
hanging on a nail. The Deacon jingled it as he passed.
Aidgewise Feelin's 235
“Goes with the bell-cow,” he said, and nothing further
was said of it. Jim apparently did not consider it worth
quarrelling about.
At last the work was done, a terribly hard day’s work.
The machines and utensils were piled in separate places,
the cattle separated, and the grain measured. As they
were about to leave, the Deacon said finally: —
“If there’s any complaint to make, let’s have it right
now. I want this settlement to be a settlement. Is
everybody satisfied ?”
“I am,” said Emmy. “Ain’t you, Serry ”
“Why, of course,” said Sarah, who was a little slower
of speech. “I think the Deacon has done first rate. I
ain’t a word of fault to find, have you, Bill ”
“Nope, not an ioty,” said Bill, readily.
Jim did not agree in so many words, but, as he said
nothing, the Deacon ended : —
“Well, that settles it. It ain't goin’ to rain, so you
can leave these things right here till Monday. I guess
I’ll be gettin’ out for home. Good evening, every-
body.”
Emma drove away down the road with Jim, but
Sarah remained to straighten up the house. Harkey’s
hired hand went home with Dade Walker who consid—
ered that walk the pleasant finish to a very interesting
day’s work. She sympathized for the time with the
Harkey faction.
Sunday forenoon, when Bill and Sarah drove up to
the farm to put things in order in the house, they found
Ike Harkey walking around with that queer side glance
236 Prairie Folks
he had, studying the piles of furniture, and mentally
weighing the pigs.
He greeted them smoothly: “Yes, yes, I’m purrfickly
satisfied, purrfickly Not a word to say — better'n I
expected,” he added.
Bill was not quite keen enough to perceive the insult
which lay in that final clause, and Sarah dared not inform
him for fear of trouble.
As Harkey drove away, however, Bill had a dim feel-
ing of dissatisfaction with him.
“He’s too gol-dang polite, that feller is ; I don’t like
such butter-mouth chaps—they'd steal the cents off’n a
dead nigger’s eyes.”
III
THE second Sunday after the partition of goods the
entire Coolly turned out to church in spite of the muddy
road. The men, after driving up to the door of the
little white church and helping the women to alight,
drove out to the sheds along the fence and gathered in
knots beside their wagons in the warm spring sun. It
was very pleasant there, and the men leaned with relaxed
muscles upon the wagon-wheels, or sat on the fence
with jack-knives in hand. The horses, weary with six
days seeding, slept with closed eyes and drooping lips.
Generally the talk was upon spring work, each man
bragging of the number of acres he had sown during the
week, but this morning the talk was all about the divi-
sion which had come between the nieces of “deceased
Williams.” They discussed it slowly as one might eat
Aidgewise Feelin's 237
a choice pudding in order to extract the flavor from each
spoonful.
“What is it all about, anyhow ” asked Jim Cranby.
“I ain’t heard nothing about it.” He had stood in
open-mouthed perplexity trying to catch a clew. Com-
ing late, he found it baffling.
“That shows where he lives; a man might as well
live in a well as up in Molasses Gap,” said one of the
younger men, pointing up to the Coolly. “Why, Ike
Harkey is kicking about the six shotes the Deacon put
off on him.”
“No, it wasn’t the shotes, it was a farrer cow,” put
in Clint Stone.
“Well, I heard it was a shote.”
“So did I,” said another.
“Well, Bill Gray told Jinks Ike had stole a cow-bell
that belonged to the black farrer cow,” said another late
COIner.
“Stole a cow-bell,” and they all drew closer together.
This was really worth while !
“Yes, sir; Jinks told me he heard Bill say so yester-
day. That’s the way I heard it.”
“Well, I’ll be cussed, if that ain’t small business for
Ike Harkey !”
“How did it happen ’’ asked Cranby, with sharp-
ened appetite.
“Well, I didn’t hear no p’rtic’lars, but it seems the
bell was hangin' on a peg in the barn, and when they
got home from church iſ was gone, hide an’ hair. Bill
is dead sure Ike took it.”
238 Prairie Folks
“Say, there’ll be fun over that yet, won’t they,” said
one of the fellows, with a grin.
“Well, Ike better keep out of Bill's way, that's all.”
“Well— I ain’t takin' sides. Some young’un may
have took it.”
“Well, let’s go in, boys; I see the Elder’s come. By
gum, there's Harkey !” They all looked toward Har-
key, who had just driven up to the door.
Harkey came into church holding his smooth, serious
face a little one side, in his usual way, quiet and dig-
nified, as if he were living up to his Sunday suit of
clothes. He seemed to be unconscious of the attitude
in which he stood toward most of his neighbors.
Bill and Sarah were not present, and that gave addi-
tional color to the story of trouble between the sisters.
After the sermon Deacon Harkey led the Sunday
School, and the critics of his action were impressed
more than usual with his smooth and quiet utterance.
Emma seemed more than ordinarily worn and dispirited.
It was perfectly natural that Mrs. Gray should be the
last person to know of the division which had slowly
set in between the two sisters and their factions. Chari-
table and guileless herself, it was difficult for her to
conceive of slander and envy.
Nevertheless, a division had come about, slowly, but
decisively. The entire Coolly was involved in the dis-
cussion before Mrs. Gray gave it any serious attention,
but one day, when Sarah came in upon her and poured
out a mingled flood of sorrow and invective, the good
soul was aghast.
Aidgewise Feelin's 239
“Well, well, I swan | There, there ! I wouldn’t
make so much fuss over it !” she said, stripping her
hands out of the biscuit dough in order to go over
and pat Sarah on the shoulder. “After all that to-do
gettin’ settled, seems ’s if you ought °o stay settled.
Good land It ain't anything to have a fuss over, any-
way !”
“But it is our cow-bell. It belonged on the black
farrer cow, that Jim turned his nose up at, and he
sneaked around and got it just to spite us.”
“Oh, I guess not,” she replied incredulously.
“Well, he did; and Emmy put him up to it, and I
know she did,” said Sarah in a lamentable voice.
“Sary Ann,” said Mrs. Gray, as sharply as any one
ever heard her speak, “that’s a pretty way to talk
about your sister, ain’t it ”
“Well, Mrs. Jim Harkey said — ”
“You never mind what Mrs. Jim Harkey said; she's
a snoop and everybody knows it.”
“But she wouldn’t tell that, if it weren’t so.”
“Well, I tell you, I wouldn’t pay no attention to
what she said, and I wouldn’t make such a fuss over an
old cow-bell, anyway.”
“But the cow-bell is only the starting point; she
ain’t been near the house since, and she says all kinds
of mean, nasty things about us.”
“All comes through Mrs. Jim, I suppose,” said Mrs.
Gray, with some sarcasm.
“No, it don’t. She told Dade Walker that I got all
the biggest flat-irons, when she knows I offered her the
24O Prairie Folks
bureau. I did everything I could to make her feel
satisfied.”
“I know you did, and now you must just keep cool
till I see Emmy myself.”
When Mrs. Gray started out on her mission of
pacification, she found it to be entirely out of her
control. The Coolly was actively partisan. One party
stood by the Harkeys, and another took Sarah's part,
while the tertium quid said it was “all darn foolishness.”
Mrs. Gray was appalled at the state of affairs, but
struggled to maintain a neutral position. In May, when
Bill and Sarah were married, things had reached such a
stage that Emma was not invited to the wedding supper.
Nothing could have cut deeper than this neglect, and
thereafter adherents of the third remove declined to
speak when passing; some even refused to nod. The
Harkey faction also condemned the early marriage of
Bill and Sarah as unseemly.
Soon after, Emma came again to see Mrs. Gray, salty
with tears, and crushed with the slight Sarah had put
upon her. She was a plain pale woman, anyway, and
weeping made her pitiable. She explained the situation
with her head on Mrs. Gray’s lap : — g
“She never has been to see me since that day, and —
but I hoped she’d come and see me, but she never sent
me any invitation to her wedding.” She choked with
sobs at the memory of it.
Mrs. Gray realized the enormity of the offence, and
she could only put her arms around Emma’s back and
say, “There, there, I wouldn’t take on so about it.” As
Aidgewise Feelin's 24. I
a matter of fact, she had striven to have Bill send an
invitation to his brother-in-law, but Bill was inflexible
on that point. With the sound of the stolen cow-bell
ringing in his ears, he could not bring himself to ask Ike
Harkey into his house.
After Emma grew a little calmer, Mrs. Gray tried
again to bridge the chasm. “Now, I just believe if
you would go to Sarah — ”
“I can’t do that She’d slam the door in my face.
Jim's wife says Sarah said I shouldn’t pick a single
currant out of the garden this year !”
“I don’t go much on what Jim's wife says,” put in
Mrs. Gray, guardedly. She had begun to feel that Jim's
wife was the main disturbing element.
The sisters really suffered from their separation. They
had been so used to running in at all times of the day
that each missed the other wofully. It had been their
habit whenever they needed each other to help cook, or
cut a dress, to hang a cloth out of the chamber window,
a sign which was sure to bring help post-haste; but
now nothing would induce either of them to make the
first concession.
Two or three times when Emma, feeling especially
lonely, was on the point of hanging out the signal, she
was prevented by the thought of some cruel message
Mrs. Jim had brought. Jim lived on Ike's farm in a
small housc that had been Emma’s first home, and Mrs.
Jim was almost as much in her house as in her own.
She had no children, and was a mischief-maker, not so
much from ill will as from a love of dramatic situations;
R
242 Prairie Folks
it was her life, this dramatic play of loves and hates
among her friends and neighbors.
Emma feared her husband, too; he was so self-
contained, and so inexorably moral, at least in appear-
ance. He sweetly said he bore no ill will toward the
Grays, but he must insist that his wife should not visit
them until they apologized. He took the matter very
serenely, however.
The sound of the cow-bell was a constant daily irrita-
tion to Bill; he was slow to wrath, but the bell seemed
to rasp on his tenderest nerve; it had a curiously exult-
ant sound heard in the early morning — it seemed to
voice Harkey’s triumph. Bill’s friends were astonished
at the change in him. He grew dark and thunderous
with wrath whenever Harkey’s name was mentioned.
One day Ike’s cattle broke out of the pasture into
Bill’s young oats, and though Ike hurried after them, it
seemed to Bill he might have got them out a little
quicker than he did. He said nothing then, however,
but when a few days later they broke in again, he went
over there in very bad humor.
“I want this thing stopped,” he said.
Ike was mending the fence. He smiled in his sweet
way, and said smoothly, “I’m sorry, but when they once
git a taste of grain it’s pretty hard to keep ’em — ”
“Well, there ought to be a new fence here,” said
Bill. “That fence is as rotten as a pumpkin.”
“I s’pose they had ; yes, sir, that's so,” Harkey as-
sented quickly. “I’m ready to build my half, you
know,” he said, “any time — any time you are.”
Aidgewise Feelin's 243
“Well, I’ll build mine to-morrow,” said Bill. “I
can’t have your cattle pasturing on my oats.”
“All right, all right. I’ll have mine done as quick
as yourn.”
“Well, see’t you do ; I don’t want my grain all
tramped into the ground and I ain’t a-goin’ to have it.”
Harkey hastily gathered up his tools, saying, “’Yes,
yes, all right.”
“You might send home that cow-bell of mine while
you’re about it,” Bill called after him, but Harkey did
not reply or turn around.
IV
THE line fence ran up the bluff toward the summit
of the ridge to the east. On each side it was set with
smooth green slopes of pasture and pleasant squares of
wheat, until it reached the woods and ran under the
oaks and walnuts and birches to the cliffs of lichen-
spotted stone which topped the summit.
Bill walked the full length of the fence to see how
much of the old material could be used. He recog-
nized the bell on one of Harkey’s cattle, and he grew
wrathful at the sight of another cow peacefully gnaw–
ing the fresh, green grass, with the bell, which belonged
to the black cow, on her neck. -
It was mid-spring. Everywhere was the vivid green
of the Wisconsin landscape; the slopes were like care-
fully tended lawns, without stumps or stones; the
groves rose up the hills, pink and gray and green in
244 Prairie Folks
softly rounded billows of cherry bloom and tender oak
and elm foliage. Here and there under the forest tender
plants and flowers had sprung up, slender and succulent
like all productions of a rich and shadowed soil.
Early the next morning Bill and his two hands began
to work in the meadow, working toward the ridge; Har-
key and his brother and their hands began at the ridge
and worked down toward the meadow ; each party
could hear the axes of the other ringing in the still,
beautiful spring air. *
Bill’s hired hand, on his way to the spring about the
middle of the forenoon, met Jim Harkey, who said
wickedly in answer to a jocular greeting : —
“Don’t give me none of your lip now ; we’ll break
your necks for two cents.”
The hand came to Bill with the story. “Bill,
they’re on the fight.”
“Oh, I guess not.”
“Well, they be. We better not run up against
them to-day if we don’t want trouble.”
“Well, I ain’t goin’ to dodge 'em,” said Bill; “I
ain’t in that business; if they want fight, we’ll accom-
modate ’em with the best we’ve got in the shop.”
At noon, Harkey’s gang went to dinner a little earlier,
and, as they came down the path quite near, Jim said
with a sneer : —
“You managed to git the easiest half of the fence,
didn’t yeh ”
“We took the half that belongs to us,” said Bill.
“We don’t take what don’t belong to us.”
Aidgewise Feelin's 245
“Cow-bells, for instance,” put in Bill’s hired hand,
with a provoking intonation.
Jim stopped and his face twisted with rage; Ike
paused a little farther on down the path. Jim came
closer.
“Say, I know what you’re driving at and you’re a
liar, and for a leather cent I’d lick you like hell !”
“You can’t do it. You don’t weigh enough.”
“Oh, shut up, Jack,” called Bill. “Go about y'r
business,” he said to Jim, “ or I’ll take a hand.”
Jim's face flamed into a wild wrath. His lips lifted
at the corners like a wolf’s as he leaped the fence with
a wild spring and lunged against Bill’s breast. The
larger man went down, but his great arms closed about
his assailant’s neck with a bear-like grip. Jim could
neither rise nor strike; with a fury no animal could
equal he pressed his hands upon Bill’s throat and thrust
his elbow into his mouth in the attempt to strangle
him. He meant murder.
Jack faced the other men, who came running up.
Ike seized a stake, and was about to leap over, when
Jack raised an axe in the air.
“Stand off!” he yelled, and his voice rang through
the woods; he noticed how harsh and wild it sounded in
the silence. He heard a grunting sound, and gave one
glance at the two men writhing amid the ferns silent
as grappling bull-dogs.
Bill had fallen in the brake and seemed wedged in.
At last there came into his heart a terrible shiver, a
blind desperation that uncoiled all the strength in his
246 Prairie Folks
great bulk. Then he seemed to bound from the ground,
as he twisted the other man under him, and shook him-
self free.
He dragged one great maul of a fist free and drove it
at the face beneath him. Jim saw it coming and turned
his head. The blow fell on his neck and his carnivo-
rous grin smoothed out as if sleep had suddenly fallen
upon him. He drew a long, shuddering breath, his mus-
cles quivered, and his clenched hands fell open.
Bill rose upon his knees and looked at him. A deep
awe fell upon him. In the pause he heard the robins
rioting from the trees in the lower valley, and the wood-
pecker cried resoundingly.
“You’ve killed him l’’ cried Ike, as he climbed hastily
over the fence.
Bill did not reply. The men faced each other in
solemn silence, all wish for murder going out of their
hearts. The sobbing cry of the mourning dove, which
they had been hearing all day, suddenly assumed new
meaning.
“Ah, woe, woe is me /* it cried.
“Bring water l’” shouted Ike, kneeling beside his
brother.
Bill knelt there with him, while the rest dashed water
upon Jim's face.
At last he began to breathe like a fretful, waking
child, and looking up into the scared faces above him,
motioned the water away from him. The angry look
came back into his face, but it was mixed with per-
plexity.
Aidgewise Feelin's 247
He touched his hand to his face and brought it down
covered with blood. “How much am I hurt ” he said
fiercely. -
“Oh, nothing much,” Ike hastened to say; “it’s just
a scratch.”
Jim struggled to his elbow and looked around him.
It all seemed to come back to him. “ Did he do it
fair ” he demanded of his companions.
“Oh, yes; it was fair enough,” said Ike.
Jim looked at Jack. “That thing didn’t hit me with
his axe, did he ” -
Jack grinned. “No, but I was just a-goin’ to when
Bill belted you one,” was the frank and convincing
reply.
Jim got up slowly and faced Bill. “Well, that
settles it; it’s all right ! You’re a better man than I
am. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
He climbed back over the fence and led the way down
to dinner without looking back.
“What give ye that lick on the side o’ the head,
Jim ” his wife asked, when he sat down at the dinner-
table.
“Never you mind,” he replied surlily, but he added,
“Ike’s axe come off, and give me a side-winder.”
Bill carefully removed all marks of his struggle and
walked into dinner shamefacedly, all muscle gone out
of his bulk of fat. His sudden return to primeval
savagery grew monstrous in the cheerful kitchen, with
its noise of hearty children, sizzling meat, and the clatter
of dishes.
248 Prairie Folks
The stove was not drawing well and Sarah did not
notice anything out of the way with Bill.
“I never see such a hateful thing in all my life,” she
said, referring to the stove. “That rhubarb duff won’t
be fit for a hog to eat; the undercrust ain’t baked the
least bit yet, and I have had it in there since fifteen
minutes after 'leven.”
Bill said generously, “Oh, well, never mind, Serry;
we’ll worry it down some way.”
V
ALL through July and August Mrs. Jim Harkey
seemed to renew her endeavors to keep the sisters apart;
she still carried spiteful tales to and fro, amplifying them
with an irresistible histronic tendency. It had become
a matter of self-exoneration with her then. She could
not stop now without seeming to admit she had been
mischief-making in the past. If the sisters should come
together, her lies would instantly appear.
Emma grew morose, irritable, and melancholy; she
was suffering for her sister's wholesome presence, and
yet, being under the dominion of the mischief-maker,
dared not send word or even mention the name of her
sister in the presence of the Harkeys.
Mrs. Jim came up to the house to stay as Emma
got too ill to work, and took charge of the house.
The children hated her fiercely, and there were noisy
battles in the kitchen constantly wearing upon the
nerves of the sick woman who lay in the restricted
Aidgewise Feelin's 249
gloom of the sitting room bed-chamber, within hearing
of every squall.
There were moments of peace only when Ike was in
the house. Smooth as he was, Jim's wife was afraid of
him. There was something compelling in his low-
toned voice; his presence subdued but did not remove
strife.
His silencing of the tumult hardly arose out of any
consideration for his wife, but rather from his inability
to enjoy his paper while the clamor of war was going on
about him.
He was not a tender man, and yet he prided himself
on being a very calm and even-tempered man. He
kept out of Bill’s way, and considered himself entirely
justified in his position regarding the cow-bell. It is
doubtful if he would have accepted an apology.
Emma suffered acutely from Mrs. Harkey’s visits.
Something mean and wearying went out from her
presence, and her sharp, bold face was a constant irrita-
tion. Sometimes when she thought herself alone, Emma
crawled to the window which looked up the Coolly,
toward Sarah's home, and sat there silently longing to
send out a cry for help. But at the sound of Jane
Harkey’s step she fled back into bed like a frightened
child. .
She became more and more childish and more flighty
in her thoughts as her time of trial drew near, and she
became more subject to her jailer. She grew morbidly
silent, and her large eyes were restless and full of
pleading.
25O Prairie Folks
One day she heard Mrs. Smith talking out in the
kitchen.
“How is Emmy to-day, Mrs. Jim ”
“Well, not extry. She ain’t likely to come out as
well as usual this time, I don’t think,” was the brutally
incautious reply; “she’s pretty well run down, and I
wouldn’t be surprised if she had some trouble.”
“I suppose Sarah will be down to help you,” said
Mrs. Smith.
“Well, I guess not — not after what she's told.”
“What has she told * * asked Mrs. Smith, in her
sweet and friendly voice.
“Why, she said she wouldn’t set foot in this house
if we all died.”
“I never heard her say that, and I don’t believe she
ever did say it,” said Mrs. Smith, firmly.
Emma’s heart glowed with a swift rush of affection
toward her sister and Mrs. Smith; she wanted to cry
out her faith in Sarah, but she dared not.
Mrs. Harkey slammed the oven door viciously.
“Well, you can believe it or not, just as you like ; I
heard her say it.” -
“Well, I didn’t, so I can’t believe it.”
When Mrs. Smith came in, Emma was ready to
weep, so sweet and cheery was her visitor’s face.
She found no chance to talk with her, however, for
Mrs. Harkey kept near them during her visit. Once,
while Mrs. Jim ran out to look at the pies, Mrs. Smith
whispered: “Don’t you believe what they say about
Sarah. She's just as kind as can be — I know she is.
Aidgewise Feelin's 25 I
She’s looking down this way every day, and I know
she’d come down instanter if you’d send for her. I’m
going up that way, and —”
She found no further chance to say anything, but
from that moment Emma began to think of letting
Sarah know how much she needed her. She planned
to hang out the cloth as she used to. She exaggerated
its importance in the way of an invalid, until it attained
the significance of an act of treason. She felt like a
criminal even in thinking about it.
Several times in the night she dreamed she had put
the cloth out and that Jim and his wife had seen it
and torn it down. She awoke two or three times to
find herself sitting up in bed staring out of the window,
through which the moon shone and the multitudinous
sounds of the mid-summer insects came sonorously.
Once her husband said, “What’s the matter it
seems to me you’d rest better if you’d lay down and
keep quiet.” His voice was low enough, but it had
a peculiar inflection, which made her sink back into
bed by his side, shivering with fear and weeping
silently.
The next day Jim and her husband both went off
to town, and Jim’s wife, after about ten o’clock, said : —
“Now, Emmy, I’m going down to Smith's to get
a dress pattern, and I want you to keep quiet right
here in bed. I’ll be right back; I'll set some water
here, and I guess you won’t want anything else until
I get back. I’ll run right down and right back.”
After hearing the door close, Emma lay for a few
252 Prairie Folks
minutes listening, waiting until she felt sure Mrs.
Harkey was well out of the yard, then she crept out
of bed and crawled to the window. Mrs. Jim was far
down the road; she could see her blue dress and her
pink sunbonnet. -
The sick woman seized the sheet and pulled it from
the bed; the clothes came with it, but she did not
mind that. She pulled herself painfully up the stair-
way and across the rough floor of the chamber to the
window which looked toward her sister's house, and
with a wild exultation flung the sheet far out and
dropped on her knees beside the open window.
She moaned and cried wildly as she waved the sheet.
The note of a scared child was in her voice.
“Oh, Serry, come quick Oh, I need you, Serry !
I didn’t mean to be mean ; I want to see you so l Oh,
dear, oh, dear ! Oh, Serry, come quick!”
Then space and the world slipped away, and she
knew nothing of time again until she heard the anxious
voice of Sarah below.
“Emmy, where are you, Emmy ”
“Here I be, Serry.” -
With swift, heavy tread Sarah hurried up the stairs,
and the dear old face shone upon her again; those kind
gray eyes full of anxiety and of love.
Emma looked up like a child entreating to be lifted.
Her look so pitifully eager went to the younger sister’s
maternal heart.
“You poor, dear soul | Why didn't you send for
me before ?”
Aidgewise Feelin's 253
“Oh, Serry, don’t leave me again, will you ?”
When Mrs. Harkey returned she found Sarah sitting
by Emma’s side in the bed-chamber. Sarah looked
at her with all the grimness her jolly fat face could
express.
“You ain’t needed here,” she said coldly. “If you
want to do anything, find a man and send him for the
Doctor — quick. If she dies you’ll be her murderer.”
Mrs. Harkey was subdued by the bitterness of
accusation in Sarah's face as well as by Emma's
condition. She hurried down the Coolly and sent a
boy wildly galloping toward the town. Then she
went home and sat down by her own hearthstone
feeling deeply injured.
When the Doctor came he found a poor little boy
baby crying in Sarah’s arms. It was Emma’s seventh
child, but the ever sufficing mother-love looked from
her eyes undimmed, limitless as the air.
“Will it live, Doctor It’s so little,” she said, with
a sigh.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so !” said the Doctor, as if
its living were not entirely a blessing to itself or
others. “Yes, I’ve seen lots of lusty children begin
life like that. But,” he said to Sarah at the door, “she
needs better care than the babel ”
“She’ll git it,” said Sarah, with deep solemnity, “if
I have to move over here — and live.”
254 Prairie Folks
GROWING OLD
F’R forty years next Easter day,
Him and me in wind and weather
Have been a-gittin' bent 'n' gray,
Moggin' along together.
We’re not so very old, of course,
But still, we ain’t so awful spry
As when we went to singin’-school
Afoot and 'cross lots, him and I,
And walked back home the longest way;
An' the moon a-shinin’ on the snow,
Makin’ the road as bright as day,
An' his voice soundin’ low.
Land sakes Jest hear me talk,
Fºr all the world jest like a girl,
Me— nearly sixty | Well—awell !
I was so tall and strong, the curl
In my hair, Sim said, was like
The crinkles in a medder brook,
So brown and bright, but there !
I guess he got that from a book.
His talk in them there days was full
Of jest such nonsense — don’t you think
I didn’t like it, for I did;
I walked along there, glad to drink
His words in like the breath o' life,
Growing Old 255
Heavens and earth, what fools we women be
And when he asked me for his wife,
I answered “Yes,” of course, y’see.
An' then come work, and trouble bit —
Not much time for love talk then.
We bought a farm and mortgaged it,
And worked and slaved like all possessed
To lift that turrible grindin’ weight.
I washed and churned and sewed,
An' childrun come, till we had eight;
As han’some babes as ever growed
To walk beside a mother’s knee,
They helped me bear it all, y’see.
It ain’t been nothin’ else but scrub,
An' rub, and bake, and stew
The hull, hull time, over stove or tub;
No time to rest as men folks do.
I tell yeh, sometimes I sit and think
How nice the grave 'll be, jest
One nice, sweet, everlastin’ rest /
O don’t look scart 1 I mean
Jest what I say. Ain’t crazy yet,
But it’s enough to make me so.
Of course it ain’t no use to fret,
Who said it was It’s nacherl, though,
But, O if I was only there
In the past, and young once more,
256 Prairie Folks
An' had the crinkles in my hair,
An' arms as round and strong, and side
As it was then I’d— I’d —
I’d do it all over again like a fool,
I s'pose ! I’d take the pain,
An' work, an’ worry, babes and all.
I s'pose things go by some big rule
Of God’s own book, but my ol’ brain
Can't fix 'um up, so I’ll just wait
An' do my duty when it’s clear,
An' trust to Him to make it straight.
— Goodness noon is almost here,
And there the men come through the gate
THE SOCIABLE AT DUDLEY'S
THE SOCIABLE AT DUDLEY'S
I
JoHN JENNINGs was not one of those men who go to
a donation party with fifty cents’ worth of potatoes and
eat and carry away two dollars’ worth of turkey and
jelly-cake. When he drove his team around to the
front door for Mrs. Jennings, he had a sack of flour and
a quarter of a fine fat beef in his sleigh and a five-dollar
bill in his pocket-book, a contribution to Elder Wheat’s
Support.
Milton, his twenty-year-old son, was just driving out
of the yard, seated in a fine new cutter, drawn by a
magnificent young gray horse. He drew up as Mr.
Jennings spoke.
“Now be sure and don’t never leave him a minute
untied; and see that the harness is all right. Do you
hear, Milton ”
“Yes, I hear !” answered the young fellow, rather
impatiently, for he thought himself old enough and big
enough to look out for himself.
“Don’t race, will y’, Milton P’’ was his mother's
anxious question from the depth of her shawls.
“Not if I can help it,” was his equivocal response as
he chirruped to Marc Antony. The grand brute made
a rearing leap that brought a cry from the mother and a
259
26o Prairie Folks
laugh from the young driver, and swung into the road at
a flying pace. The night was clear and cold, the sleigh-
ing excellent, and the boy's heart was full of exultation.
It was a joy just to control such a horse as he drew
rein over that night. Large, with the long, lithe body
of a tiger and the broad, clear limbs of an elk, the gray
colt strode away up the road, his hoofs flinging a shower
of snow over the dasher. The lines were like steel
rods; the sleigh literally swung by them; the traces
hung slack inside the thills. The bell clashed out a
swift clamor; the runners seemed to hiss over the snow
as the duck-breasted cutter swung round the curves, and
softly rose and fell along the undulating road.
On either hand the snow stood billowed against the
fences and amid the wide fields of corn-stalks bleached
in the wind. Over in the east, above the line of timber
skirting Cedar Creek, the vast, slightly gibbous moon
was rising, sending along the crusted snow a broad path
of light. Other sleighs could be heard through the still,
cold air. Far away a party of four or five were singing
a chorus as they spun along the road.
Something sweet and unnamable was stirring in the
young fellow’s brain as he spun along in the marvellously
still and radiant night. He wished Eileen were with
him. The vast and cloudless blue vault of sky glittered
with stars, which even the radiant moon could not dim.
Not a breath of air was stirring save that made by the
swift, strong stride of the horse.
It was a night for youth and love and bells, and Mil-
ton felt this consciously, and felt it by singing : —
The Sociable at Dudley's 261
“Stars of the summer night,
Hide in your azure deeps, –
She sleeps — my lady sleeps.”
He was on his way to get Bettie Moss, one of his
old sweethearts, who had become more deeply concerned
with the life of Edwin Blackler. He had taken the
matter with sunny philosophy, even before meeting
Eileen Deering at the Seminary, and he was now on
his way to bring about peace between Ed and Bettie,
who had lately quarrelled. Incidentally he expected to
enjoy the sleigh-ride.
“Stiddy, boy Ho, boy! Stiddy, old fellow,” he
called soothingly to Marc, as he neared the gate and
whirled up to the door. A girl came to the door as he
drove up, her head wrapped in a white hood, a shawl on
her arms. She had been waiting for him.
“Hello, Milt. That you ?”
“It’s me. Been waiting **
“I should say I had. Begun tº think you’d gone
back on me. Everybody else’s gone.”
“Well! Hop in here before you freeze; we’ll not
be the last ones there. Yes, bring the shawl; you’ll
need it tº keep the snow off your face,” he called
authoritatively.
“”Tain’t snowin', is it ” she asked as she shut the
door and came to the sleigh's side.
“Clear as a bell,” he said as he helped her in.
“Then where’ll the snow come from * *
“From Marc’s heels.”
262 Prairie Folks
“Goodness sakes you don’t expect me tº ride after
that wild-headed critter, do you ?”
His answer was a chirp which sent Marc halfway to
the gate before Bettie could catch her breath. The
reins stiffened in his hands. Bettie clung to him,
shrieking at every turn in the road.
“Milton Jennings, if you tip us over, I’ll — ”
Milton laughed, drew the colt down to a steady, swift
stride, and Bettie put her hands back under the robe.
“I wonder who that is ahead P’’ he asked after a few
minutes, which brought them in sound of bells.
“I guess it’s Cy Hurd ; it sounded like his bells
when he went past. I guess it’s him and Bill an’
Belle an” Cad Hines.”
“Expect to see Ed there f * asked Milton, after a
little pause.
“I don’t care whether I ever see him again or not,”
she snapped.
“Oh, yes, you do l’ he answered, feeling somehow
her insincerity.
<< Well — I don’t | ?”
Milton didn’t care to push the peace-making any
further. However, he had curiosity enough to ask,
“What upset things ’tween you ºn Ed : ”
“Oh, nothing.”
“You mean none o' my business ”
“I didn’t say so.”
“No, you didn’t need to,” he laughed, and she joined
1ſl.
“Yes, that’s Cy Hurd. I know that laugh of his
The Sociable at Dudley’s 263
far's I c'n hear it,” said Bettie as they jingled along.
“I wonder who’s with him * *
“We’ll mighty soon see,” said Milton, as he wound
the lines around his hands and braced his feet, giving a
low whistle, which seemed to run through the colt’s
blood like fire. His stride did not increase in rate, but
its reach grew majestic as he seemed to lengthen and
lower. His broad feet flung great disks of hard-packed
snow over the dasher, and under the clash of his bells
the noise of the other team grew plainer.
“Get out of the way,” sang Milton, as he approached
the other team. There was challenge and exultation in
his tone.
“Hello | In a hurry ” shouted those in front, with-
out increasing their own pace.
“Ya-as, something of a hurry,” drawled Milton in
a disguised voice.
“Wa—al Turn out an’ go by if you are.”
“No, thankee, I'll just let m' nag nibble the hay out
o' your box an’ take it easy.”
<< Sure o’ that P*
“You bet high I am.” Milton nudged Bettie, who
was laughing with delight. “It’s Bill an’ his bays.
He thinks there isn’t a team in the country can keep
up with him. “Get out o' the way there !” he shouted
again. “I’m in a hurry.”
“Let 'em out, let ’em out, Bill,” they heard Cy say,
and the bays sprang forward along the level road, the
bells ringing like mad, the snow flying, the girls scream-
ing at every lurch of the sleighs. But Marc’s head still
264 Prairie Folks
shook haughtily above the end gate; still the foam from
his lips fell upon the hay in the box ahead.
“Git out o' this Yip !” yelled Bill to his bays, but
Marc merely made a lunging leap and tugged at the
lines as if asking for more liberty. Milton gave him his
head, and laughed to see the great limbs rise and fall like
the pistons of an engine. They swept over the weeds
like a hawk skimming the stubble of a wheat-field.
“Git out o’ the way or I’ll run right over your back,”
yelled Milton again.
“Try it,” was the reply.
“Grab hold of me, Bettie, and lean to the right.
When we turn this corner I’m going to take the inside
track and pass ‘em.”
“You’ll tip us over — ”
“No, I won’t Do as I tell you.”
They were nearing a wide corner, where the road
turned to the right and bore due south through the woods.
Milton caught sight of the turn, gave a quick twist of
the lines around his hands, leaned over the dasher and
spoke shrilly : —
“Git out o' this, Marc l’”
The splendid brute swerved to the right, and made a
leap that seemed to lift the sleigh and all into the air.
The snow flew in such stinging showers Milton could
see nothing. The sleigh was on one runner, heeling
like a yacht in a gale; the girl was clinging to his neck;
he could hear the bells of the other sleigh to his left;
Marc was passing them; he heard shouts and the swish
of a whip. Another convulsive effort of the gray, and
The Sociable at Dudley's 265
then Milton found himself in the road again, in the
moonlight, where the apparently unwearied horse, with
head out-thrust, nostril wide-blown, and body squared,
was trotting like a veteran on the track. The team
was behind.
“Stiddy, boy l’”
Milton soothed Marc down to a long, easy pace;
then turned to Bettie, who had uncovered her face
again.
“How d'y' like it ”
“My sakes I don’t want any more of that. If I’d
'a' known you was goin’ tº drive like that I wouldn't
'a' come. You’re worse’n Ed. I expected every min-
ute we’d be down in the ditch. But, oh! ain’t he jest
splendid ” she added, in admiration of the horse.
“Don’t y’ want to drive him ”
“Oh, yes; let me try. I drive our teams.”
She took the lines, and at Milton’s suggestion wound
them around her hands. She looked very pretty with
the moon shining on her face, her eyes big and black
with excitement, and Milton immediately put his arm
around her, and laid his head on her shoulder.
“Milton Jennings, if you don’t —”
“Look out,” he cried in mock alarm, “don’t you
drop those lines l’” He gave her a severe hug.
“Milton Jennings, you let go me !”
“That’s what you said before.”
“Take these lines.”
“Can’t do it,” he laughed; “my hands are cold. Got
to warm them, see ?” He pulled off his mitten and
266 Prairie Folks
put his icy hand under her chin. The horse was going
at a tremendous pace again.
“O-o-o-oh If you don’t take these lines I’ll drop
'em, so there !”
“Don’t y” do it,” he called warningly; but she did,
and boxed his ears soundly while he was getting Marc
in hand again. Bettie’s rage was fleeting as the blown
breath from Marc’s nostrils, and when Milton turned
to her again all was as if his deportment had been grave
and cavalier.
The stinging air made itself felt, and they drew close
under their huge buffalo robes as Marc strode steadily
forward. The dark groves fell behind, the clashing bells
marked the rods and miles, and kept time to the songs
they hummed.
“Jingle, bells Jingle, bells I
Jingle all the way.
Oh, what joy it is to ride
In a one-horse open sleigh.”
They overtook another laughing, singing load of
young folks—a great wood sleigh packed full with boys
and girls, two and two —hooded girls, and boys with
caps drawn down over their ears. A babel of tongues
arose from the sweeping, creaking bob-sleigh, and rose
into the silent air like a mighty peal of laughter.
II
A schoolHouse set beneath the shelter of great oaks
was the centre of motion and sound. On one side of it
The Sociable at Dudley's 267
the teams stood shaking their bells under their insuffi-
cient blankets, making a soft chorus of fitful trills heard
in the pauses of the merry shrieks of the boys playing
“pom-pom pull-away ” across the road before the house,
which radiated light and laughter. A group of young
men stood on the porch as Milton drove up.
“Hello, Milt,” said a familiar voice as he reined
Marc close to the step.
“That you, Shep ”
“Chuss, it’s me,” replied Shep.
“How'd you know me so far off?”
“Puh ! Don’t y’s’pose I know that horse an’ those
bells — Miss Moss, allow me — ” He helped her out
with elaborate courtesy. “The supper and the old folks
are here, and the girls and boys and the fun is over to
Dudley's,” he explained as he helped Bettie out.
“I’ll be back soon’s I put my horse up,” said Milton
to Bettie. “You go in and get good ‘n’ warm, and then
we’ll go over to the house.”
“I saved a place in the barn for you, Milt. I knew
you’d never let Marc stand out in the snow,” said
Shephard as he sprang in beside Milton.
“I knew you would. What's the news Is Ed
here t'night 2 °
“Yeh-up. On deck with Sºfye Kinney. It’ll
make him swear when he finds out who Bettie come
with.”
“Let him. Are the Yohe boys here * *
“Yep. They’re alwiss on hand, like a sore thumb.
Bill's been drinking, and is likely to give Ed trouble,
268 Prairie Folks
He never’ll give Bettie up without a fight. Look out
he don’t jump onto your neck.”
“No danger o’ that,” said Milton, coolly.
The Yohe boys were strangers in the neighborhood.
They had come in with the wave of harvest help from
the South and had stayed on into the winter, making
few friends and a large number of enemies among the
young men of the Grove. Everybody admitted that
they had metal in them, for they instantly paid court to
the prettiest girls in the neighborhood without regard to
any prior claims.
And the girls were attracted by these Missourians,
their air of mysterious wickedness, and their muscular
swagger, precisely as a flock of barn-yard fowl are inter-
ested in the strange bird thrust among them.
But the Southerners had muscles like wildcats, and
their feats of broil and battle commanded a certain re-
spectful consideration. In fact, most of the young men
of the district were afraid of the red-faced, bold-eyed
strangers, one of the few exceptions being Milton, and
another Shephard Watson, his friend and room-mate at
the Rock River Seminary. Neither of these boys being
at all athletic, it was rather curious that Bill and Joe
Yohe should treat them with so much consideration.
Bill was standing before the huge cannon stove, talk-
ing with Bettie, when Milton and Shephard returned to
the schoolhouse. The man’s hard black eyes were
filled with a baleful fire, and his wolfish teeth shone
through his long red mustache. It made Milton mutter
under his breath to see how innocently Bettie laughed
The Sociable at Dudley's 269
with him. She never dreamed, and could not have com-
prehended, the vileness of the man’s whole life and
thought. No lizard revelled in the mud more hideously
than he. His conversation reeked with obscenity. His
tongue dropped poison each moment when among his
own sex, and his eyes blazed it forth when in the
presence of women.
“Hello, Bill,” said Milton, with easy indifference.
“How goes it ”
“Oh, 'bout so-so You rather got ahead o' me
t’night, didn’t yeh ”
“Well, rather. The man that gets ahead o' me has
got tº drive a good team, eh?” He looked at Bettie.
“I’d like to try it,” said Bill.
“Well, let’s go across the road,” said Milton to
Bettie, anxious to get her out of the way of Bill.
They had to run the gauntlet of the whooping boys
outside, but Bettie proved too fleet of foot for them all.
When they entered the Dudley house opposite, her
cheeks were hot with color, but the roguish gleam in
her eyes changed to a curiously haughty and disdainful
look as she passed Blackler, who stood desolately beside
the door, looking awkward and sullen.
Milton was a great favorite, and had no time to say
anything more to Bettie as peace-maker. He reached
Ed as soon as possible.
“Ed, what’s up between you and Bettie : ”
“Oh, I don’t know. I can’t find out,” Blackler re-
plied, and he spurred himself desperately into the fun.
27o Prairie Folks
III
“It’ll make Ed Blackler squirm tº see Betsey come
in on Milt Jennings's arm,” said Bill to Shephard after
Milton went out.
“Wal, chuss. I denk it will.” Shephard was look-
ing round the room, where the old people were noisily
eating supper, and the steaming oysters and the cold
chicken’s savory smell went to his heart. One of the
motherly managers of the feast bustled up to him.
“Shephard, you run over tº the house an’ tell the
young folks that they can come over tº supper about
eight o'clock; that’ll be in a half an hour. You under-
stand * *
“Oh, I’m so hungry ! Can't y” give me a hunk o'
chicken tº stay m” stomach ”
Mrs. Councill laughed. “I’ll fish you out a drum-
stick,” she said. And he went away, gnawing upon it
hungrily. Bill went with him, still belching forth
against Blackler.
“Jim said he heard he said he’d slap my face fºr a
cent. I wish he would. I’d lick the life out of 'im in
a minnit.”
“Why don’t you pitch into Milt He's got her
now. He's the one y’d orto be dammin’.”
“Oh, he don’t mean nothin’ by it. He don’t care
for her. I saw him down to town at the show with
the girl he’s after. He's jest makin’ Ed mad.”
A game of “Copenhagen º’ was going on as they en-
tered. Bettie was in the midst of it, but Milton, in the
The Sociable at Dudley’s 271
corner, was looking on and talking with a group of those
who had outgrown such games.
The ring of noisy, flushed, and laughter-intoxicated
young people filled the room nearly to the wall, and
round and round the ring flew Bettie, pursued by Joe
Yohe.
“Go it, Joe l’” yelled Bill.
“You’re good fºr 'im,” yelled Shephard.
Milton laughed and clapped his hands. “Hot foot,
Bettie l’’
Like another Atalanta, the superb young girl sped,
now dodging through the ring, now doubling as her
pursuer tried to catch her by turning back. At last
she made the third circuit, and, breathless and laughing,
took her place in the line. But Joe rushed upon her,
determined to steal a kiss anyhow.
“H”yarel H’yarel None o’ that.”
“That’s no fair,” cried the rest, and he was caught
by a dozen hands.
“She didn’t go round three times,” he said.
“Yes, she did,” cried a dozen voices.
“You shut up,” he retorted brutally, looking at Ed
Blackler, who had not spoken at all. Ed glared back, but
said nothing. Bettie ignored Ed, and the game went on.
“There's going to be trouble here to-night,” said
Milton to Shephard.
Shephard, as the ring dissolved, stepped into the mid-
dle of the room and flourished his chicken-leg as if it
were a baton. After the burst of laughter, his sonorous
voice made itself heard.
272 Prairie Folks
“Come to supper | Everybody take his girl if he
can, and if he can’t — get the other feller's girl.”
Bill Yohe sprang toward Bettie, but Milton had
touched her on the arm.
“Not t'night, Bill,” he smilingly said.
Bill grinned in reply and made off toward another
well-known belle, Ella Pratt, who accepted his escort.
Ed Blackler, with gloomy desperation, took Maud
Peters, the most depressingly plain girl in the room,
an action which did not escape Bettie's eyes, and which
softened her heart toward him; but she did not let him
see it.
Supper was served on the desks, each couple seated in
the drab-colored wooden seats as if they were at school.
A very comfortable arrangement for those who occupied
the back seats, but torture to the adults who were
obliged to cramp their legs inside the desk where the
primer class sat on school-days.
Bettie saw with tenderness how devotedly poor Ed
served Maud. He could not have taken a better method
of heaping coals of fire on her head.
Ed was entirely unconscious of her softening, how-
ever, for he could not look around from where he sat.
He heard her laughing and believed she was happy.
He had not taken poor Maud for the purpose of showing
his penitence, for he had no such feeling in his heart; he
was, on the contrary, rather gloomy and reckless. He
was not in a mood to show a front of indifference.
The oysters steamed; the heels of the boys’ boots
thumped in wild delight; the women bustled about;
The Sociable at Dudley’s 273
the girls giggled, and the men roared with laughter.
Everybody ate as if he and she had never tasted oyster-
soup and chicken before, and the cakes and pies went
the way of the oyster-soup like corn before a troop of
winter turkeys.
Bill Yohe, by way of a joke, put some frosting down
Cy Hurd's back, and, by way of delicate attention to
Ella, alternately shoved her out of the seat and pulled
her back again, while Joe hurled a chicken-leg at Cad
Hines as she stood in the entry-way. Will Kinney
told Sary Hines for the fourth time how his team had
run away, interrupted by his fear that some kind of pie
would get away untasted.
“An' so I laid the lines down — H’yarel Gimme
another handful of crackers, Merry, - an’ I laid the
lines down while I went tº find – Nary a noyster I
can hold any more. Mrs. Moss, I’m ready fºr pie now
— an’ so I noticed ole Frank’s eye kind o’ roll, but
thinksi, I c'n git holt o’ the lines if he – Yes’m, I
alwiss eat mince; won’t you try some, Sary – an’—
an’— so, jest as I gut my axe—You bet ! I’m goin’ t
try a piece of every kind if it busts my stummick. Gutta
git my money’s worth.”
Milton was in his best mood and was very attractive
in his mirth. His fine teeth shone and his yellow curls
shook under the stress of his laughter. He wrestled with
Bettie for the choice bits of cake, delighting in the touch
of her firm, sweet flesh; and, as for Bettie, she was
almost charmed to oblivion of Ed by the superior attrac-
tions of Milton’s town-bred manners. Ed looked singu-
T
274. Prairie Folks
larly awkward and lonesome as he sat sprawled out in
one of the low seats, and curiously enough his uncouth-
ness and disconsolateness of attitude won her heart back
again.
Everybody, with the usual rustic freedom, had remarks
to make upon the situation.
“Wal, Bettie, made a swop, hew yeh ’’ said Councill.
“Hello, Milt; thought you had a girl down town.”
“Oh, I keep one at each end of the line,” said Milton,
with his ready laugh.
“Wal, I swan tº gudgeon I can’t keep track o' you
town fellers. You're too many fºr me!” said Mrs.
Councill.
Carrie Hines came up behind Milton and Bettie and
put her arms around their necks, bringing their cheeks
together. Bettie grew purple with anger and embarrass-
ment, but Milton, with his usual readiness, said, “Thank
you,” and reached for the tittering malefactor's waist.
Nobody noticed it, for the room was full of such romping.
The men were standing around the stove discussing
political outlooks, and the matrons were busy with the
serving of the supper. Out of doors the indefatigable
boys were beginning again on “pom-pom pull-away.”
Supper over, the young folks all returned to the house
across the way, leaving the men of elderly blood to talk
on the Grange and the uselessness of the middlemen.
Sport began again in the Dudley farmhouse by a dozen
or so of the young people “ forming on ” for “Weevily
Wheat.”
“Weevily Wheat” was a “donation dance.” As it
The Sociable at Dudley's 275
would have been wicked to have a fiddle to play the
music, singers were substituted with stirring effect, and
a song was sung, while the couples bowed and balanced
and swung in rhythm to it: —
“Come hither, my love, and trip together
In the morning early,
I’ll give to you the parting hand,
Although I love you dearly.
But I won’t have none of y’r weevily wheat,
An' I won't have mome of y’r barley,
But I’ll have some flour in a half an hour
To bake a cake for Charley.
“Oh, Charley, he is a fine young man ;
Charley, he is a dandy.
Oh, Charley, he’s a fine young man,
Fºr he buys the girls some candy.
Oh, I won’t have none o' y’r weevily wheat,
I won’t have mone o' y’r barley,
But I’ll have some flour in a half an hour
To bake a cake for Charley.
“Oh, Charley, he's,” etc.
Milton was soon in the thick of this most charming
old-fashioned dance, which probably dates back to dances
on the green in England or Norway. Bettie was a good
dancer, and as she grew excited with the rhythm and swing
of the quaint, plaintive music, her form grew supple at
the waist and her large limbs light. The pair moved up
and back between the two ranks of singers, then down
the outside, and laughed in glee when they accelerated
276 Prairie Folks
the pace at the time when they were swinging down the
centre. All faces were aglow and eyes shining.
Bill’s red face and bullet eyes were not beautiful, but
the grace and power of his body were unmistakable. He
was excited by the music, the alcohol he had been drink-
ing, and by the presence of the girls, and threw himself
into the play with dangerous abandon.
Under his ill-fitting coat his muscles rolled swift and
silent. His tall boots were brilliantly blue and starred
with gold at the top, and his pantaloons were tucked
inside the tops to let their glory strike the eye. His
physical strength and grace and variety of “steps” called
forth many smiles and admiring exclamations from the
girls, and caused the young men to lose interest in
“Weevily Wheat.”
When a new set was called for, Bill made a determined
assault on Bettie and secured her, for she did not have
the firmness to refuse. But the singers grew weary, and
the set soon broke up. A game of forfeits was substi-
tuted. This also dwindled down to a mere excuse for
lovers to kiss each other, and the whole company soon
separated into little groups to chatter and romp. Some
few sat at the table in the parlor and played “authors.”
Bettie was becoming annoyed by the attentions of
Bill, and, to get rid of him, went with Miss Lytle, Mil-
ton, and two or three others into another room and shut
the door. This was not very unusual, but poor Blackler
seemed to feel it a direct affront to him and was em-
bittered. He was sitting by Ella Pratt when Bill Yohe
Swaggered up to him.
The Sociable at Dudley's 277
“Say I Do you know where your girl is ”
“No, an’ I don’t care.”
“Wall It's time y” cared. She's in the other room
there. Milt Jennings has cut you out.”
“You’re a liar,” cried the loyal lover, leaping to his
feet.
Spat ' Yohe’s open palm resounded upon the pale
face of Blackler, whose eyes had a wild glare in them,
and the next moment they were rolling on the floor like
a couple of dogs, the stronger and older man above, the
valiant lover below. The house resounded with sudden
screams, a hurry of feet followed, then a hush, in the
midst of which was heard the unsubdued voice of
Blackler as he rose to his feet.
“You’re a - ?”
Another dull stroke with the knotted fist, and the
young fellow went to the floor again, while Joe Yohe,
like a wild beast roused at the sight of blood, stood
above the form of his brother (who had leaped upon the
fallen man), shouting with the hoarse, raucous note of a
tiger: —
“Give 'im hell! I’ll back yeh.”
Bettie pushed through the ring of men and women
who were looking on in delicious horror — pushed
through quickly and yet with dignity. Her head was
thrown back, and the strange look on her face was
thrilling. Facing the angry men with a gesture of
superb scorn and fearlessness, she spoke, and in the
deep hush her quiet words were strangely impressive: —
“Bill Yohe, what do you think you’re doing ”
278 Prairie Folks
For a moment the men were abashed, and, starting
back, they allowed Blackler, dazed, bleeding, and half
strangled, to rise to his feet. He would have sprung
against them both, for he had not heard or realized who
was speaking, but Bettie laid her hand on his arm, and
the haughty droop of her eyelids changed as she said in
a tender voice : —
“Never mind, Ed; they ain’t worth mindin’ſ ”
Her usual self came back quickly as she led him
away. Friends began to mutter now, and the Swagger
of the brothers threatened further trouble. Their eyes
rolled, their knotted hands swung about like bludgeons.
Threats, horrible snarls, and oaths poured from their
lips. But there were heard at this critical moment rapid
footsteps — a round, jovial voice — and bursting through
the door came the great form and golden head of Lime
Gilman.
“Hold on here ! What's all this ” he said, leaping
with an ominously good-natured smile into the open
space before the two men, whose restless pacing stopped
at the sound of his voice. His sunny, laughing blue eyes
swept around him, taking in the situation at a glance.
He continued to smile, but his teeth came together.
“Git out o' this, you hounds ! Git I’’ he said, in the
same jovial tone. “You ! You,” he said to Bill, slap-
ping him lightly on the breast with the back of his lax
fingers. Bill struck at him ferociously, but the slope-
shouldered giant sent it by with his left wrist, kicking
the feet of the striker from under him with a frightful
swing of his right foot, — a trick which appalled Joe.
The Sociable at Dudley’s 279
“Clear the track there,” ordered Lime. “It’s against
the law tº fight at a donation; so out y' go.”
Bill crawled painfully to his feet.
“I’ll pay you for this yet.”
“Any time but now. Git out, ºr I’ll kick you out.”
Lime's voice changed now. The silent crowd made
way for them, and, seizing Joe by the shoulder and
pushing Bill before him, the giant passed out into the
open air. There he pushed Bill off the porch into the
snow, and kicked his brother over him with this parting
word : —
“You infernal hyenies Kickin’s too good fºr
you. If you ever want me, look around an’ you’ll
find me.”
Then, to the spectators who thronged after, he apolo-
gized : —
“I hate tº fight, and especially to kick a man; but
they’s times when a man’s got tº do it. Now, jest go
back and have a good time. Don’t let them hyenies
spoil all y’r fun.”
That ended it. All knew Lime. Everybody had
heard that he could lift one end of a separator and
toss a two-bushel sack filled with wheat over the hind
wheel of a wagon, and the terror of his kick was not
unknown to them. They were certain the Yohes
would not return, and all went back into the house and
attempted to go on with the games. But it was impos-
sible; such exciting events must be discussed, and the
story was told and retold by each one.
When Milton returned to the parlor, he saw Bettie,
28O Prairie Folks
tender, dignified, and grave, bending over Blackler, bath-
ing his bruised face. Milton had never admired her
more than at that moment; she looked so womanly.
She no longer cared what people thought.
The other girls, pale and tearful and a little hysterical,
stood about, close to their sweethearts. They enjoyed
the excitement, however, and the fight appealed to
something organic in them.
The donation party was at an end, that was clear,
and the people began to get ready to go home. Bettie
started to thank Lyman for his help. .
“Don’t say anything. I'd 'a' done it jest the same
fºr anybody. It ain’t the thing to come to a donation
and git up a row.”
Milton hardly knew whether to ask Bettie to go back
with him or not, but Blackler relieved him from embar-
rassment by rousing up and saying : —
“Oh, I’m all right now, Bettie. Hyere's yer girl,
Milt. See the eye I’ve got on me She says she won’t
ride home with any such — ”
“Ed, what in the world do you mean * * Bettie
could hardly understand her lover's sudden exultation;
it was still a very serious matter to her, in spite of the
complete reconciliation which had come with the assault.
She felt in a degree guilty, and that feeling kept her still
tearful and subdued, but Ed leered and winked with his
good eye in uncontrollable delight. Milton turned to
Bettie at last, and said : —
“Well ! I’ll get Marc around to the door in a few
minutes. Get your things on.”
The Sociable at Dudley’s 28 I
Bettie and Ed stood close together by the door. She
was saying : —
“You’ll forgive me, won’t you, Ed : ”
“Why, course I will, Bettie. I was as much to blame
as you was. I no business to git mad till I knew what
I was gittin’ mad at.”
They were very tender now.
“I’ll — I’ll go home with you, if you want me to,
'stead of with Milt,” she quavered.
“No, I’ve got to take Sºfye home. It’s the square
thing.”
“All right, Ed, but come an’ let me talk it all
straight.”
“It’s all straight now ; let’s let it all go, what do
you say ”
“All right, Ed.”
There was a kiss which the rest pretended not to
hear, and bidding them all good night, Bettie ran out
to the fence, where Milton sat waiting.
The moon was riding high in the clear, cold sky, but
falling toward the west, as they swung into the wood
road. Through the branches of the oaks the stars, set
in the deep-blue, fathomless night, peered cold and
bright. There was no wind save the rush of air caused
by the motion of the sleigh. Neither of the young
people spoke for some time. They lay back in the
sleigh under the thick robes, listening to the chime of
the bells, the squeal of the runners, and the weirdly
sweet distant singing of another sleigh-load of young
people far ahead. *
282 Prairie Folks
Milton pulled Marc down to a slow trot, and, tighten-
ing his arm around Bettie's shoulders in a very brotherly
hug, said: —
“Well, I’m glad you and Ed have fixed things up
again. You’d always have been sorry.”
“It was all my fault, anyway,” replied the girl, with
a little tremor in her voice, “and it was all my fault
to-night, too. I no business to 'a' gone off an’ left him
that way.”
“Well, it’s all over now, anyway, and so I wouldn’t
worry any more about it,” said Milton, soothingly, and
then they fell into silence again.
The sagacious Marc Antony strode steadily away,
and the two young lovers went on with their dreaming.
Bettie was silent mainly, and Milton, his mind filled with
love for Eileen, was remembering the long rides they
had had together. And the horse's hoofs beat a steady
rhythm, the moon fell to the west, and the bells kept
cheery chime. The breath of the horse rose into the
air like steam. The house-dogs sent forth warning
howls as they went by. Once or twice they passed
houses where the windows were still lighted and where
lanterns were flashing around the barn, where the horses
were being put in for the night.
The lights were out at the home of Bettie when they
drove up, for the young people, however rapidly they
might go to the sociable, always returned much slower
than the old folks. Milton leaped out and held up his
arms to help his companion down. As she shook the
robes free, stood up and reached out for his arms, he
The Sociable at Dudley's 283
seized her round the waist, and, holding her clear of the
ground, kissed her in spite of her struggles.
<< Milton | ?”
“The last time, Bettie ; the last time,” he said, in
extenuation. With this mournful word on his lips he
leaped into the sleigh and was off like the wind. But
the listening girl heard his merry voice ringing out on
the still air. Suddenly something sweet and majestic
swept upon her—something which made her look up
into the glittering sky with vast yearning. In the awful
hush of the sky and the plain she heard the beat of her
own blood in her ears. She longed for song to express
the swelling of her throat and the wistful ache of her
heart.
AN AFTERWORD : OF WINDS,
SNOWS, AND THE STARS.
O witchery of the winter night
(With broad moon shouldering to the west) /
In the city streets the west wind sweeps
Before my feet in rustling flight;
The midnight snows in untracked heaps
Lie cold and desolate and white.
I stand and wait with upturned eyes,
Awed with the splendor of the skies
And star-trained progress of the moon.
The city walls dissolve like smoke
Beneath the magic of the moon,
And age falls from me like a cloak;
I hear sweet girlish voices ring
Clear as some softly stricken string —
(The moon is sailing to the west.)
The sleigh-bells clash in homeward flight;
With frost each horse’s breast is white—
(The big moon sinking to the west.)
>k >|< >k >k >k
“Good night, Lettie / ?”
“Good night, Ben /*
(The moon is sinking at the west.)
“Good night, my sweetheart.” Once again
The parting kiss while comrades wait
Impatient at the roadside gate,
And the red moon sinks beyond the west.
284

§§
ſºſ，
∞:
§§§#§§·
→ • • fh ， ， ,####ae
į###########
M،
&#'（）;
* º *ſºr :■!
ºſº
#####
·ſºſ
####
#####}}
###########fffff;"
#،####;:
ț¢
∞ #<（ſº
}$ſ;：}}į●§j
#############|#
：-）ſiſ#ffff;Caeſ
§§§·£§§
n######{
）[×]t.* …：
###############
-Wae##ſyſſae
#########
###### -·
%
\}， ·!,!?;: $ſ :§§×
::::::}}ſį#
§§§
#
ĶÅr:;
*::#ffff;
ț¢###########ſae}
}•#**ºĶī£####øſĶī£;##§&&sae
§ & . \，}3{###########ſ （ae
*aeſſſ*** r ）;bº######{}{}
####|×*：~
·wț¢;ſ;
r. 2，5%########
#########ſſſſſ:::：:
########
###############
*****žiżi ſſºſ:ſae§
ș+}ſae;
ſſſſſſſſſſſſſſſſſ:
##
（x^: *** + + wae +ae* {{r++++ +-+
-ſt:#:;};- * ?！*+* r+++.**}ſłſłºp №ae，
►***4*#:x+++; r（r+; */- -ył######&###
::::::::：&###.;-- :）!4#####
:::::：:y:：#############
p \;ſaķi. ĶĶ!r***
¿?#************#
###########
**șđ�ſu ſº:
}）;**ý ſ{!}}
-، ، ،tſ; ******
#:;;;;;;;;;;;*
*********.*************
{3;:::::};;;;;;;;;
*…
+ae،·ſae- ·----
|-¿####：$$$！！!!！-
#########################
* ;:ț#####};-;;;;;;;;ſ####
:ł siſae;!{
..?**~~,ș|- ſ.ſ. h
#####
yº !!!�
（~， , ，、***¿¿.*№ſ$··· w.
#############}}##ģË#######：##ſſſſſſſſſſſſſ:{{};
******§ →|&#####8#}|:{ſ} ·¿¿.*-Prº －
################################################
-}}*-№########ğĚ· -ſae}|-§§ ·-· -
… • ſ}，A ~
• ſ--wº
######
#####}{x}{ſ}
:ț¢ £ și ºț¢&########4
ș
#####
Wſmºſ.
-{{#¡ķºffſ
####$#{{###ſ
[−]ſſſſſſſſſſſſae aetaeº
}ſºſſſſſſſſ#،
###-
ºffſ
\!###
№ſſºſº
{#######|-
::： * ：« ſærſgºi·faeſ;№ sé，-
¿¿ji·##ſț##ºſ ſaepe și
ſºšşſlae， ，
º###
štįſęſ，
3 ae
#####
■■■ ■-
&& ！! rºw
，####
įjį
####
##
#####|- #####
،#####ſºſ
#######
·######### º·#####
wſ•################}（£§§§§§§§§
###########
ſiſį####t.…}
ſ.
·ſ#№};######§！· P-· ae-●#）
¿######ſae!…§§ſae
###############£ſae***）·#######|-·#################：
#ſſſſſſſſſſſſſſ#№te·！ ！！ ！！！№ssae،ſ.¿º）[]##&##8-
#ffff;"}}};{ſſſſſſſſſſſſ#{ſ}}）：
3-
########ºſsºſ
…·∞∞∞∞∞∞，
Rºſſ;{}·####|[]
*ſaeº ， ， ！aeſ ºſ
：， ，ſae0
{{}};
§ț¢!####·：·
##############################################
}#ſaeº.·ºſ##
#####################################################
######################################################
##########################################################
######################################
###
#!!）
، ،
įjį
Fº:
#ffffffff;$$$fè！!!！!！!！！!!
&= ***
B
Eº
º
#8ſae
ſſſſſſ;};&##########################
ģ######################################||};
ſae ！ſſſſſſſſſſſſſſſſae-----{{#########ºffſ
#############################################################
ſae±#################
ſſſſſſſſſſſſſſſËſ.:ſae?ſ.
·∞ſºț¢&#;};}&{};ț¢-، - …，§?，at·ſaeĶſtº|-ſaevaeſ.
##########§:#țăſtºſſae#}}##
|-ſ.， ，
¿[]
ķ#ffff;
fh
º ：ºxaſ·ſae
|- -L?#####
ſſ#####
ſiae
●■■■■■ĶĒ.
šķ
}}
########};}}}}
####
3888;;
§§§
ffºſºſ
() ·{
tj
#
####################
###########● ####
Ë###--
} ·į}.*） ·→
******
######¿.***#:;·****
§§}}{{#########ț{3,}{ſiſ}:{{}}:}}};{--##::::
-·*, 3 }{ \;\ſięſſſſſſſſſſſ!!!};{}{\#}&};-
§§2）;ț¢;{ſ}\}\ſ*）?$áſ..----;&#ff;+****
:}:}}ſtº::te::; ·-·3×3，2×2,ſtºłae?！-- ****…**
į•-- --§;;;;;;;;;§§§§§
¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡####
##############{{};$
ſíºſ ſae
*
ſº:
{{#ifft*****
R
############ŁĘ
№ſſaeſaeĒģ
|-ſae
●i.~£i3;&########：#:ſ·r·ſ·r·ąrae…….…
¡¡¡¡¡¡¡#########################R，+，·，≤）ſſſſſſ-#######ſaesae·
#######################################################
##··
F
ķ;ſe yº ：
#
ſae
0
}}
#
¿
####
#####
ſºſ
¿
#####
ºsº ºšºlſtiſ
jį##
ſae
№ ſºttº
∞ √°.
ſis
#:
§
wºwº -> *
##########
vaesſae
į
Lae
№
##############
ſ ſyº ，ſi{∞§!ſae
##############
##############
###########
[]！
ſſſſſſſſſſſſſſſ
#####
####&###
#####
ſ.
！
）
####
#ffff;
[\ſ，]
#######
§§ſiſſae
########
{{！& ſae
Șºſ:（šſiſ
- #####
}
№ſſae;
#{#
į.
*********{{}}:{{:{
ſººſ ſą:
***********ş，
~~~~！）
→
§§####
~~####Ä####
###########
į{
##
Ë
Ď
į#####
}}¡
·#####
øſ ºg
#
§§
###
}}
#3
į
######
#######·
#########¿?
###############
#############
&#ffff;
ſaeae º
:::##########įț¢-
######################
Å$}};$;':·
，，…）ſae ſae， ſº
ģğ
ſae
}ğĘ
$$$$$-
č.#######
¿f::############š
----、£<;&#!***
####&#88
#######
Œu：
įſ;
∞
№ti
};
º
**
#
ºº:
y-gaer? ********
********::::::::::::
v.， "# {