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Main-Travelled Roads by Hamlin Garland

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Main-Travelled Roads

by Hamlin Garland

To
My Father And Mother Whose Half-Century Pilgrimage on the
Main-Travelled Road of Life Has Brought Them Only Toil and
Deprivation, This Book of Stories Is Dedicated By a Son to Whom
Every Day Brings a Deepening Sense of His Parents' Silent Heroism

Table of Contents

Preface
A Branch Road
Up the Coulee
Among the Corn Rows
The Return of a Private
Under the Lion's Paw
The Creamery Man
A Day's Pleasure
Mrs Ripley's Trip
Uncle Ethan Ripley
God's Ravens
A "Good Fellow's" Wife

PREFACE

In the summer of 1887, after having been three years in Boston and
six years absent from my old home in northern Iowa, I found
myself with money enough to pay my railway fare to Ordway,
South Dakota, where my father and mother were living, and as it
cost very little extra to go by way of Dubuque and Charles City, I
planned to visit Osage, Iowa, and the farm we had opened on Dry
Run prairie in 1871.

Up to this time I had written only a few poems and some articles
descriptive of boy life on the prairie, although I was doing a good
deal of thinking and lecturing on land reform, and was regarded as
a very intense -disciple of Herbert Spencer and Henry George a
singular combination, as I see it now. On my way westward, that
summer day in 1887, rural life presented itself from an entirely
new angle. The ugliness, the endless drudgery, and the loneliness
of the farmer's lot smote me with stern insistence. I was the
militant reformer.

The farther I got from Chicago the more depressing the landscape
became. It was bad enough in our former home in Mitchell
County, but my pity grew more intense as I passed from northwest
Iowa into southern Dakota. The houses, bare as boxes, dropped on
the treeless plains, the barbed-wire fences running at right angles,
and the towns mere assemblages of flimsy wooden sheds with
painted-pine battlement, produced on me the effect of an almost
helpless and sterile poverty.

My dark mood was deepened into bitterness by my father's farm,
where I found my mother imprisoned in a small cabin on the
enormous sunburned, treeless plain, with no expectation of ever
living anywhere else. Deserted by her sons and failing in health,
she endured the discomforts of her life uncomplainingly-but my
resentment of "things as they are" deepened during my talks with
her neighbors, who were all housed in the same unshaded cabins in
equal poverty and loneliness. The fact that at twenty-seven I was
without power to aid my mother in any substantial way added to
my despairing mood.

My savings for the two years of my teaching in Boston were not
sufficient to enable me to purchase my return ticket, and when my
father offered me a stacker's wages in the harvest field I accepted
and for two weeks or more proved my worth with the fork, which
was still mightier-with me-than the pen.

However, I did not entirely neglect the pen. In spite of the dust and
heat of the wheat rieks I dreamed of poems and stories. My mind
teemed with subjects for fiction, and one Sunday morning I set to
work on a story which had been suggested to me by a talk with my
mother, and a few hours later I read to her (seated on the low sill
of that treeless cottage) the first two thousand words of "Mrs.
Ripley's Trip," the first of the series of sketches which became
Main-Travelled Roads.

I did not succeed in finishing it, however, till after my return to
Boston in September. During the fall and winter of '87 and the
winter and spring of '88, I wrote the most of the stories in
Main-Travelled Roads, a novelette for the Century Magazine, and
a play called "Under the Wheel." The actual work of the
composition was carried on m the south attic room of Doctor
Cross's house at 21 Seaverns Avenue, Jamaica Plain.

The mood of bitterness in which these books were written was
renewed and augmented by a second visit to my parents in 1889,
for during my stay my mother suffered a stroke of paralysis due to
overwork and the dreadful heat of the summer. She grew better
before the time came for me to return to my teaching in Boston,
but I felt like a sneak as I took my way to the train, leaving my
mother and sister on that bleak and sun-baked plain.

"Old Paps Flaxen," "Jason Edwards," "A Spoil of Office," and
most of the stories gathered into the second volume of
Main-Travelled Roads were written in the shadow of these defeats.
If they seem unduly austere, let the reader remember the times in
which they were composed. That they were true of the farms of
that day no one can know better than I, for I was there-a farmer.

Life on the farms of Iowa and Wisconsin-even on the farms of
Dakota-has gained in beauty and security, I will admit, but there
are still wide stretches of territory in Kansas and Nebraska where
the farmhouse is a lonely shelter. Groves and lawns, better roads,
the rural free delivery, the telephone, and the motorcar have done
much to bring the farmer into a frame of mind where he is
contented with his lot, but much remains to be done before the
stream of young life from the country to the city can be checked.

The two volumes of Main-Travelled Roads can now be taken to be
what William Dean Howells called them, "historical fiction," for
they form a record of the farmer's life as I lived it and studied it. In
these two books is a record of the privations and hardships of the
men and women who subdued the midland wilderness and
prepared the way for the present golden age of agriculture.

HG.
March 1, 1922

The main-travelled road in the West (as everywhere) is hot and
dusty in summer, and desolate and drear with mud in fall and
spring, and in winter the winds sweep the snow across it; but it
does sometimes cross a rich meadow where the songs of the larks
and bobolinks and blackbirds are tangled. Follow it far enough, it
may lead past a bend in the river where the water laughs eternally
over its shallows.

Mainly it is long and wearyful and has a dull little town at one end,
and a home of toil at the other. Like the main-travelled road of life,
it is traversed by many classes of people, but the poor and the
weary predominate.

A BRANCH ROAD

I

"Keep the main-travelled road till you come to a branch leading
off-keep to the right."

IN the windless September dawn a voice went singing, a man's
voice, singing a cheap and common air. Yet something in the elan
of it all told he was young, jubilant, and a happy lover.

Above the level belt of timber to the east a vast dome of pale
undazzling gold was rising, silently and swiftly. Jays called in the
thickets where the maples flamed amid the green oaks, with
irregular splashes of red and orange. The grass was crisp with frost
under the feet, the road smooth and gray-white in color, the air was
indescribably sweet, resonant, and stimulating. No wonder the man
sang.

He came Into view around the curve in the lane. He had a fork on
his shoulder, a graceful and polished tool. His straw hat was tilted
on the back of his head, his rough, faded coat was buttoned close
to the chin, and he wore thin buckskin gloves on his hands. He
looked muscular and intelligent, and was evidently about
twenty-two or -three years of age.

As he walked on, and the sunrise came nearer to him, he stopped
his song. The broadening heavens had a majesty and sweetness
that made him forget the physical joy of happy youth. He grew
almost sad with the great vague thoughts and emotions which
rolled in his brain as the wonder of the morning grew.

He walked more slowly, mechanically following the road, his eyes
on the ever-shifting streaming banners of rose and pale green,
which made the east too glorious for any words to tell. The air was
so still it seemed to await expectantly the coming of the sun.

Then his mind flew back to Agnes. Would she see it? She was at
work, getting breakfast, but he hoped she had time to see it. He
was in that mood so common to him now, when he could not fully
enjoy any sight or sound unless he could share it with her. Far
down the road he heard the sharp clatter of a wagon. The roosters
were calling near and far, in many keys and tunes. The dogs were
barking, cattle bells jangling in the wooded pastures, and as the
youth passed farmhouses, lights in the kitchen windows showed
that the women were astir about breakfast, and the sound of voices
and curry-combs at the barn told that the men were at their daily
chores.

And the east bloomed broader. The dome of gold grew brighter,
the faint clouds here and there flamed with a flush of red. The frost
began to glisten with a reflected color. The youth dreamed as he
walked; his broad face and deep earnest eyes caught and reflected
some of the beauty and majesty of the sky.

But as he passed a farm gate and a young man of about his own
age joined him, his brow darkened. The other man was equipped
for work like himself.

"Hello, Will!"

"Hello, Ed!"

"Going down to help Dingman thrash?"

"Yes," replied Will shortly. It was easy to see he didn't welcome
company.

"So'm I. Who's goin' to do your thrashin-Dave McTurg?"

"Yes., I guess so. Haven't spoken to anybody yet."

They walked on side by side. Will didn't feel like being rudely
broken in on in this way. The two men were rivals, but Will, being
the victor, would have been magnanimous, only he wanted to be
alone with his lover's dream.

"When do you go back to the sem'?" Ed asked after a little.

"Term begins next week. I'll make a break about second week."

"Le's see: you graduate next year, don't yeh?"

"I expect to, if I don't slip up on it."

They walked on side by side, both handsome fellows; Ed a little
more showy in his face, which had a certain clean-cut precision of
line and a peculiar clear pallor that never browned under the sun.
He chewed vigorously on a quid of tobacco, one of his most
noticeable bad habits.

Teams could be heard clattering along on several roads now, and
jovial voices singing. One team coming along behind the two men,
the driver sung out in good-natured warning, "Get out o' the way,
there." And with a laugh and a chirp spurred his horses to pass
them.

Ed, with a swift understanding of the driver's trick, flung out his
left hand and caught the end-gate, threw his fork in, and leaped
after it. Will walked on, disdaining attempt to catch the wagon. On
all sides now the wagons of the plowmen or threshers were getting
out into the fields, with a pounding, rumbling sound.

The pale red sun was shooting light through the leaves, and
warming the boles of the great oaks that stood in the yard, and
melting the frost off the great gaudy threshing machine that stood
between the stacks. The interest, picturesqueness of it all got hold
of Will Hannan, accustomed to it as he was. The homes stood
about in a circle, hitched to the ends of the six sweeps, all shining
with frost.

The driver was oiling the great tarry cogwheels underneath.
Laughing fellows were wrestling about the yard. Ed Kinney had
scaled the highest stack, and stood ready to throw the first sheaf.
The sun, lighting him where he stood, made his fork handle gleam
like dull gold. Cheery words, jests, and snatches of song
everywhere. Dingman bustled about giving his orders and placing
his men, and the voice of big Dave McTurg was heard calling to
the men as they raised the long stacker into place:

"Heave-ho, there! Up she rises!"

And, best of all, Will caught a glirnpse of a smiling girl face at the
kitchen window that made the blood beat m his throat.

"Hello, Will!" was the general greeting, given with some constraint
by most of the young fellows, for Will had been going to Rock
River to school for some years, and there was a little feeling of
jealousy on the part of those who pretended to sneer at the
"seminary chaps like Will Hannan and Milton Jennings."

Dingrnan came up. "Will, I guess you'd better go on the stack with
Ed."

"All ready. Hurrah, there!" said David in his soft but resonant bass
voice that always had a laugh in it. "Come, come, every sucker of
yeh git hold o' something. All ready!" He waved his hand at the
driver, who climbed upon his platform. Everybody scrambled into
place.

"Chk, chk! All ready, boys! Stiddy there, Dan! Chk, chkl All ready,
boys! Stiddy there, boys! All ready now!" The horses began to
strain at the sweeps. The cylinder began to hum.

"Grab a root there! Where's my band cutter? Here, you, climb on
here!" And David reached down and pulled Shep Watson up by the
shoulder with his gigantic hand.

Boo-oo-oom, Boo-woo-woo-oom-oom-ow-owm, yarryarr! The
whirling cylinder boomed, roared, and snarled as it rose in speed.
At last, when its tone became a rattling yell, David nodded to the
pitchers, rasped his hands together, the sheaves began to fall from
the stack, the band cutter, knife in hand, slashed the bands in
twain, and the feeder with easy majestic motion gathered them
under his arm, rolled them out into an even belt of entering wheat,
on which the cylinder tore with its frightful, ferocious snarl.

Will was very happy in Its quiet way. He enjoyed the smooth roll
of his great muscles, the sense of power he felt in his hands as he
lifted, turned, and swung the heavy sheaves two by two down upon
the table, where the band cutter madly slashed away. His frame,
sturdy rather than tall, was nevertheless lithe, and he made a fine
figure to look at, so Agnes thought, as she came out a moment and
bowed and smiled to both the young men.

This scene, one of the jolliest and most sociable of the western
farm, had a charm quite aside from human companionship. The
beautiful yellow straw entering the cylinder; the clear
yellow-brown wheat pulsing out at the side; the broken straw,
chaff, and dust puffing out on the great stacker; the cheery
whistling and calling of the driver; the keen, crisp air, and the
bright sun somehow weirdly suggestive of the passage of time.

Will and Agnes had arrived at a tacit understanding of mutual love
only the night before, and Will was power-fully moved to glance
often toward the house, but feared somehow the jokes of his
companions. He worked on, therefore, methodically, eagerly; but
his thoughts were on the future-the rustle of the oak tree nearby,
the noise of whose sere leaves he could distinguish beneath the
booming snarl of the machine; on the sky, where great fleets of
clouds were sailing on the rising wind, like merchantmen bound to
some land of love and plenty.

When the Dingmans first came in, only a couple of years before,
Agnes had been at once surrounded by a swarm of suitors. Her
pleasant face and her abounding good nature made her an instant
favorite with all. Will, however, had disdained to become one of
the crowd, and held himself aloof, as he could easily do, being
away at school most of the time.

The second winter, however, Agnes also attended the seminary,
and Will saw her daily and grew to love her. He had been just a bit
jealous of Ed Kinney all the time, for Ed had a certain rakish grace
in dancing and a dashing skill in handling a team which made him
a dangerous rival.

But, as Will worked beside him all this Monday, he felt so secure
in his knowledge of the caress Agnes had given him at parting the
night before that he was perfectly happy-so happy that he didn't
care to talk, only to work on and dream as he worked.

Shrewd David McTurg had his joke when the machine stopped for
a few minutes. "Well, you fellers do better'n I expected yeh to,
after bein' out so late last night. The first feller I find gappin' has
got to treat to the apples."

"Keep your eye on me," said Shep.

"You?" laughed one of the others. "Anybody knows if a girl so
much as looked crossways at you, you'd fall in a fit."

"Another thing," said David. "I can't have you fellers carryin' grain,
going to the house too often for fried cakes or cookies."

"Now you git out," said Bill Young from the straw pile. "You ain't
goin' to have all the fun to yerself."

Will's blood began to grow hot in his face. If Bill had said much
more, or mentioned her name, he would have silenced him. To
have this rough joking come so close upon the holiest and most
exquisite evening of his life was horrible. It was not the words they
said, but the tones they used, that vulgarized it all. He breathed a
sigh of relief when the sound of the machine began again.

This jesting made him more wary, and when the call for dinner
sounded and he knew he was going in to see her, he shrank from it.
He took no part in the race of the dust-blackened, half-famished
men to get at the washing place first. He took no part in the scurry
to get seats at the first table.

Threshing time was always a season of great trial to
- the housewife. To have a dozen men with the appetites of
dragons to cook for was no small task for a couple of women, in
addition to their other everyday duties. Preparations usually began
the night before with a raid on a hen roost, for "biled chickun"
formed the piece de resistance of the dinner. The table, enlarged
by boards, filled the sitting room. Extra seats were made out of
planks placed on chairs, and dishes were borrowed of neighbors
who came for such aid, in their turn.

Sometimes the neighboring women came in to help; but Agnes and
her mother were determined to manage the job alone this year, and
so the girl, with a neat dark dress, her eyes shining, her cheeks
flushed with the work, received the men as they came in dusty,
coatless, with grime - behind their ears, but a jolly good smile on
every face.

Most of them were farmers of the neighborhood and schoolmates.
The only one she shrank from was Young, with his hard, glittering
eyes and red, sordid face. She received their jokes, their noise,
with a silent smile which showed her even teeth and dimpled her
round cheek.- "She was good for sore eyes," as one of the fellows
said to Shep. She seemed deliciously sweet and dainty to these
roughly dressed fellows.

They ranged along the table with a great deal of noise, boots
thumping, squeaking, knives and forks rattling, voices bellowing
out.

"Now hold on, Steve! Can't have yeh so near that chickun!"

"Move along, Shep! I want to be next to the kitchen door! I won't
get nothin' with you on that side o' me."

"Oh, that's too thin! I see what you're-"

"No, I won't need any sugar, if you just smile into it." This from
gallant David, greeted with roars of laughter.

"Now, Dave, s'pose your wife 'ud hear o' that?"

"She'd snatch 'im bald-headed, that's what she'd do."

"Say, somebody drive that ceow down this way," said Bill.

"Don't get off that drive! It's too old," criticised Shep, passing the
milk jug.

Potatoes were seized, cut in halves, sopped in gravy, and taken
one, two! Corn cakes went into great jaws like coal into a steam
engine. Knives in the right hand cut and scooped gravy up. Great,
muscular, grimy, but wholesome fellows they were, feeding like
ancient Norse, and capable of working like demons. They were
deep in the process; half-hidden by steam from the potatoes and
stew, in less than sixty seconds from their entrance.

With a shrinking from the comments of the others upon his regard
for Agnes, Will assumed a reserved and almost haughty air toward
his fellow workmen, and a curious coldness toward her. As he
went in, she came forward smiling brightly.

"There's one more place, Will." A tender, involuntary droop in her
voice betrayed her, and Will felt a wave of hot blood surge over
him as the rest roared.

"Ha, ha! Oh, there'd be a place for him!"

"Don't worry, Will! Always room for you here!"

Will took his seat with a sudden angry flame. "Why can't she keep
it from these fools?" was his thought. He didn't even thank her for
showing him the chair.

She flushed vividly, but smiled back. She was so proud and happy,
she didn't care very much if they did know it. But as Will looked at
her with that quick angry glance, and took his seat with scowling
brow, she was hurt and puzzled. She redoubled her exertions to
please him, and by so doing added to the amusement of the crowd
that gnawed chicken bones, rattled cups, knives and forks, and
joked as they ate with small grace and no material loss of time.

Will remained silent through it all, eating in marked contrast to the
others, using his fork instead of his knife in eating his potato,'and
drinking his tea from his cup rather than from his saucer-
"finickies" which did not escape the notice of the girl nor the.
sharp eyes of the other workmen.

"See that? That's the way we do down to the sem! See? Fork for
pie in yer right hand! Hey? I can't do it. Watch me."

When Agnes leaned over to say, "Won't you have some more tea,
Will?" they nudged each other and grinned. "Aha! What did I tell
you?"

Agnes saw at last that for some reason Will didn't want her to
show her regard for him, that be was ashamed of it in some way,
and she was wounded. To cover it up, she resorted to the feminine
device of smiling and chatting with the others. She asked Ed if he
wouldn't have another piece of pie.

"I will-with a fork, please."

"This is 'bout the only place you can use a fork," said Bill Young,
anticipating a laugh by his own broad grin.

"Oh, that's too old," said Shep Watson. "Don't drag that out agin. A
man that'll eat seven taters-"

"Shows who docs the work."

"Yes, with his jaws," put in Jim Wheelock, the driver. "If you'd put
in a little more work with soap 'n' water before comin' in to dinner,
it 'ud be a religious idee," said David.

"It ain't healthy to wash."

"Well, you'll live forever, then."

"He ain't washed his face sence I knew 'im."

"Oh, that's a little too tought! He washes once a week," said Ed
Kinney.

"Back of his ears?" inquired David, who was munching a
doughnut, his black eyes twinkling with fun.

"What's the cause of it?"

"Dade says she won't kiss 'im if he don't." Everybody roared.

"Good fer Dade! I wouldn't if I was in her place."

Wheelock gripped a chicken leg imperturbably, and left it bare as a
toothpick with one or two bites at it. His face shone in two clean
sections around his nose and mouth. Behind his ears the dirt lay
undisturbed. The grease on his hands could not be washed off.

Will began to suffer now because Agnes treated the other fellows
too well. With a lover's exacting jealousy, he wanted her in some
way to hide their tenderness from the rest, but to show her
indifference to men like Young and Kinney. He didn't stop to
inquire of himself the justice of such a demand, nor just how it
was to be done. He only insisted she ought to do it.

He rose and left the table at the end of his dinner, without having
spoken to her, without even a tender, significant glance, and he
knew, too, that she was troubled and hurt. But he was suffering. It
seemed as if he had lost something sweet, lost it irrecoverably.

He noticed Ed Kinney and Bill Young were the last to come out,
just before the machine started up again after dinner, and he saw
them pause outside the threshold and laugh back at Agnes standing
in the doorway. Why couldn't she keep those fellows at a distance,
not go out of her way to bandy jokes with them?

Some way the elation of the morning was gone. He worked on
doggedly now, without looking up, without listening to the leaves,
without seeing the sunlighted clouds. Of course he didn't think that
she meant anything by it, but it irritated him and made him
unhappy. She gave herself too freely.

Toward the middle of the afternoon the machine stopped for a
time for some repairing; and while Will lay on his stack in the
bright yellow sunshine, shelling wheat in his hands and listening to
the wind in the oaks, he heard his name and her name mentioned
on the other side of the machine, where the measuring box stood.
He listened.

"She's pretty sweet on him, ain't she? Did yeh notus how she stood
around over him?"

"Yes; an' did yeh see him when she passed the cup o' tea down
over his shoulder?"

Will got up, white with wrath as they laughed.

"Some way he didn't seem to enjoy it as I would. I wish she'd reach
her arm over my neck that way."

Will walked around the machine, and came on the group lying on
the chaff near the straw pile.

"Say, I want you fellers to understand that I won't have any more of
this talk. I won't have it."

There was a dead silence. Then Bill Young rose up.

"What yeh goen' to do about Ut?" be sneered.

"I'm going to stop it."

The wolf rose in Young. He moved forward, his ferocious soul
flaming from his eyes.

"W'y, you damned seminary dude, I can break you in two!"

An answering glare came into Will's eyes. He grasped and slightly
shook his fork, which he had brought with him unconsciously.

"If you make one motion at me, I'll smash your head like an
eggshell!" His voice was low but terrific. There was a tone m it
that made his own blood stop in his veins. "If you think I'm going
to roll around on this ground with a hyena like you, you've
mistaken your man. I'll kill you, but I won't fight with such men as
you are."

Bill quailed and slunk away, muttering some epithet like "coward."

"I don't care what you call me, but just remember what I say: you
keep your tongue off that girl's affairs."

"That's the talk!" said David. "Stand up for your girl always, but
don't use a fork. You can handle him without that:'

"I don't propose to try," said Will, as he turned away. As be did so,
he caught a glimpse of Ed Kinney at the well, pumping a pail of
water for Agnes, who stood beside him, the sun on her beautiful
yellow hair. She was laughing at something Ed was saying as he
slowly moved the handle up and down.

Instantly, like a foaming, turbid flood, his rage swept out toward
her. "It's all her fault," he thought, grinding his teeth. "She's a fool.
If she'd hold herself in like other girls! But no; she must smile and
smile at everybody." It was a beautiful picture, but it sent a shiver
through him.

He worked on with teeth set, white with rage. He had an impulse
that would ?have made him assault her with words as with a knife.
He was possessed with a terrible passion which was hitherto latent
in him, and which he now felt to be his worst self. But he was
powerless to exorcise it. His set teeth ached with the stress of his
muscular tension, and his eyes smarted with the strain.

He had always prided himself on being cool, calm, above these
absurd quarrels that his companions had so often indulged in. He
didn't suppose he could be so moved. As he worked on, his rage
settled down into a sort of stubborn bitterness-stubborn bitterness
of conflict between this evil nature and his usual self. It was the
instinct of possession, the organic feeling of proprietor-ship of a
woman, which rose to the surface and mastered him. He was not a
self-analyst, of course, being young, though he was more
introspective than the ordinary farmer.

He had a great deal of time to think it over as he worked on there,
pitching the heavy bundles, but still he did not get rid of the
miserable desire to punish Agnes; and when she came out, looking
very pretty in her straw hat, and came around near his stack, he
knew she came to see him, to have an explanation, a smile; and yet
he worked away with his hat pulled over his eyes, hardly noticing
her.

Ed went over to the edge of the stack and chatted with her; and
she-poor girl!-feeling Will's neglect, could only put a good face on
the matter, and show that she didn't mind it, by laughing back at
Ed.

All this Will saw, though he didn't appear to be looking. And when
Jim Wheelock-Dirty Jim-with his whip in his hand, came up and
playfully pretended to pour oil on her hair, and she laughingly
struck at him with a handful of straw, Will wouldn't have looked at
her if she had called him by name.

She looked so bright and charming in her snowy apron and her
boy's straw hat tipped jauntily over one pink ear that David and
Steve and Bill, and even Shep, found a way to get a word with her,
and the poor fellows in the high straw pile looked their
disappoimment and shook their forks in mock rage at the lucky
dogs on the ground. But Will worked on like a fiend, while the
dapples of light and shade fell on the bright face of the merry girl.

To save his soul from hell flames he couldn't have gone over there
and smiled at her. It was impossible. A wall of bronze seemed to
have arisen between them. Yesterday, last night, seemed a dream.
The clasp of her hands at his neck, the touch of her lips, were like
the caresses of an ideal in some dim reverie.

As night drew on, the men worked with a steadier, more
mechanical action. No one spoke now. Each man was intent on his
work. No one had any strength or breath to waste. The driver on
his power changed his weight on weary feet, and whistled and sang
at the tired horses. The feeder, his face gray with dust, rolled the
grain into the cylinder so even, so steady, so swift that it ran on
with a sullen, booming roar. Far up on the straw pile the stackers
worked with the steady, rhythmic action of men rowing a boat,
their figures looming vague and dim in the flying dust and chaff,
outlined against the glorious yellow and orange-tinted clouds.

"Phe-e-eew-ee," whistled the driver with the sweet, cheery, rising
notes of a bird. "Chk, chk, chk! Phe-e-eewee. Go on there, boys!
Chk, chk, chk! Step up, there Dan, step up! (Snap!) Phe-e-eew-ee!
G'-wan-g'-wan, g'-wan! Chk, clik, chk! Wheest, wheest, wheest!
Clik, chk!"

In the house the women were setting the table for supper. The sun
had gone down behind the oaks, flinging glorious rose color and
orange shadows along the edges of the slate-blue clouds. Agnes
stopped her work at the kitchen window to look up at the sky and
cry silently. "What was the matter with Will?" She felt a sort of
distrust of him now. She thought she knew him so well, but now
he was so strange.

"Come, Aggie," said Mrs. Dingman, "they're gettin' most down to
the bottom of the stack. They'll be pilin' in here soon."

"Phe-e-eew-ee! G'-wan, Doll! G'-wan, boys! Chk, chk, chk!
Phe-e-eew-ee!" called the driver out in the dusk, cheerily swinging
the whip over the horses' backs. Boomoo-oo-oom! roared the
machine, with a muffled, monotonous, solemn tone. "G'-wan,
boys! G'-wan, g'-wan!"

Will had worked unceasingly all day. His muscles ached with
fatigue. His hands trembled. He clenched his teeth, however, and
worked on, determined not to yield. He wanted them to understand
that he could do as much pitching as any of them and read Caesar's
Commentaries besides. It seemed as if each bundle were the last
he could raise. The sinews of his wrist pained him so, they seemed
swollen to twice their natural size. But still he worked on grimly,
while the dusk fell and the air grew chill.

At last the bottom bundle was pitched up, and he got down on his
knees to help scrape the loose wheat into baskets. What a sweet
relief it was to kneel down, to release the fork and let the worn and
cramping muscles settle into rest! A new note came into the
driver's voice, a soothing tone, full of kindness and admiration for
the work his team had done.

"Wo-o-o, lads! Stiddy-y-y, boys! Wo-o-o, there, Dan. Stiddy,
stiddy, old man! Ho, there!" The cylinder took on a lower key, with
short rising yells, as it ran empty for a moment. The horses had
been going so long that they came to a stop reluctantly. At last
David called, "Turn out!" The men seized the ends of the sweep,
David uncoupled the tumbling rods, and Shep threw a sheaf of
grain into the cylinder, choking it into silence.

The stillness and the dusk were very impressive. So long had the
bell-metal cogwheel sung its deafening song into Will's ear that, as
he walked away into the dusk, he had a weird feeling of being
suddenly deaf, and his legs were so numb that he could hardly feel
the earth. He stumbled away like a man paralyzed.

He took out his handkerchief, wiped the dust from his face as best
he could, shook his coat, dusted his shoulders with a grain sack,
and was starting away, when Mr. Dingman, a rather feeble elderly
man, came up.

"Come, Will, supper's all ready. Go in and eat."

"I guess I'll go home to supper."

"Oh, no, that won't do. The women'll be expecting yeh to stay."

The men were laughing at the well, the warm yellow light shone
from the kitchen, the chill air making it seem very inviting, and
she was there, waiting! But the demon rose in him. He knew Agnes
would expect him, that she would cry that night with
disappointment, but his face hardened. "I guess I'll go home," he
said, and his tone was relentless. He turned and walked away,
hungry, tired
-so tired he stumbled, and so unhappy he could have wept.

II

ON Thursday the county fair was to be held. The fair is one of the
gala days of the year in the country districts of the West, and one
of the times when the country lover rises above expense to the
extravagance of hiring a top buggy in which to take his sweetheart
to the neighboring town.

It was customary to prepare for this long beforehand, for the
demand for top buggies was so great the livery-men grew
dictatorial and took no chances. Slowly but surely the country
beaux began to compete with the clerks, and in many cases
actually outbid them, as they furnished their own horses and could
bid higher, in consequence, on the carriages.

Will had secured his brother's "rig," and early on Thursday
morning he was at work, busily washing the mud from the
carriage, dusting the cushions, and polishing up the buckles and
rosettes on his horses' harnesses. It was a beautiful, crisp, clear
dawn-the ideal day for a ride; and Will was singing as he worked.
He had regained his real sell, and, having passed through a bitter
period of shame, was now joyous with anticipation of forgiveness.
He looked forward to the day with its chances of doing a thousand
little things to show his regret and his love.

He had not seen Agnes since Monday, because Tuesday he did not
go back to help thresh, and Wednesday he had been obliged to go
to town to see about board for the coming term; but he felt sure of
her. It had all been arranged the Sunday before; she'd expect him,
and he was to call at eight o'clock.

He polished up the colts with merry tick-tack of the brush and
comb, and after the last stroke on their shining limbs, threw his
tools in the box and went to the house.

"Pretty sharp last night," said his brother John, who was scrubbing
his face at the cistern.

"Should say so by that rim of ice," Will replied, dipping his hands
into the icy water.

"I ought'o stay home today an' dig tates," continued the older man
thoughtfully as they went into the wood-shed and wiped
consecutively on the long roller towel. "Some o' them Early Rose
lay right on top o' the ground. They'll get nipped sure."

"Oh, I guess not. You'd better go, Jack; you don't get away very
often. And then it would disappoint Nettie and the children so.
Their little hearts are overflowing," he ended as the door opened
and two sturdy little boys rushed out.

"B'ekfuss, Poppa; all yeady!"

The kitchen table was set near the stove; the room was full of sun,
and the smell of sizzling sausages and the aroma of coffee filled
the room. The kettle was doing its duty cheerily, and the wife with
flushed face and smiling eyes was hurrying to and fro, her heart
full of anticipation of the day's outing.

There was a hilarity almost like some strange intoxication on the
part of the two children. They danced, and chattered, and clapped
their chubby brown hands, and ran to the windows ceaselessly.

"Is yuncle Will goin' yide flour buggy?"

"Yus; the buggy and the colts."

"Is he goin' to take his girl?"

Will blushed a little, and John roared.

"Yes, I'm goin'-"

"Is Aggie your girl?"

"H'yer! h'yer! young man," called John, "you're gettin' personal."

"Well, set up," said Nettie, and with a good deal of clatter they
drew around the cheerful table.

Will had already begun to see the pathos, the pitiful significance of
this great joy over a day's outing, and he took himself a little to
task at his own selfish freedom. He resolved to stay at home some
time and let Nettie go in his place. A few hours in the middle of
the day on Sunday, three or four holidays in summer; the rest for
this cheerful little wife and her patient husband was work-work
that some way accomplished so little and left no trace on their
souls that was beautiful.

While they were eating breakfast, teams began to clatter by, huge
lumber wagons with three seats across, and a boy or two jouncing
up and down with the dinner baskets near the end-gate. The
children rushed to the window each time to announce who it was,
and how many there were in.

But as Johnny said "firteen" each time, and Ned wavered between
"seven" and "sixteen," it was doubtful if they could be relied upon.
They had very little appetite, so keen was their anticipation of the
ride and the wonderful sights before them. Their little hearts
shuddered with joy at every fresh token of preparation-a joy that
made Will say, "Poor little men!"

They vibrated between the house and the barn while the chores
were being finished, and their happy cries started the young
roosters into a renewed season of crowing. And when at last the
wagon was brought out and the horses hitched to it, they danced
like mad sprites.

After they had driven away, Will brought out the colts, hitched
them in, and drove them to the hitching post. Then he leisurely
dressed himself in his best suit, blacked his boots with
considerable exertion, and at about 7:3o o'clock climbed into his
carriage and gathered up the reins.

He was quite happy again. The crisp, bracing air, the strong pull of
the spirited young team put all thought of sorrow behind him. He
had planned it all out. He would first put his arm around her and
kiss her-there would not need to be any words to tell her how sorry
and ashamed he was. She would know!

Now, when he was alone and going toward her on a beautiful
morning, the anger and bitterness of Monday fled away, became
unreal, and the sweet dream of the Sunday parting grew the reality.
She was waiting for him now. She had on her pretty blue dress and
the wide hat that always made her look so arch. He had said about
eight o'clock.

The swift team was carrying him along the crossroad, which was
little travelled, and he was alone with his thoughts. He fell again
upon his plans. Another year at school for them both, and then he'd
go into a law office. Judge Brown had told him he'd give
him-"Whoa! Ho!"

There was a swift lurch that sent him flying over the dasher. A
confused vision of a roadside ditch full of weeds and bushes, and
then he felt the reins in his hands and heard the snorting horses
trample on the hard road.

He rose dizzy, bruised, and covered with dust. The team he held
securely and soon quieted. He saw the cause of it all: the right
forewheel had come off, letting the front of the buggy drop. He
unhitched the excited team from the carriage, drove them to the
fence and tied them securely, then went back to find the wheel and
the "nut" whose failure to hold its place had done all the mischief.
He soon had the wheel on, but to find the burr was a harder task.
Back and forth he ranged, looking, scraping in the dust, searching
the weeds.

He knew that sometimes a wheel will run without the burr for
many rods before corning off, and so each time he extended his
search. He traversed the entire half-mile several times, each time
his rage and disappointment getting more bitter. He ground his
teeth in a fever of vexation and dismay.

He had a vision of Agnes waiting, wondering why he did not
come. It was this vision that kept him from seeing the burr in the
wheel-track, partly covered by a clod.

Once he passed it looking wildly at his watch, which was showing
nine o'clock. Another time he passed it with eyes dimmed with a
mist that was almost tears of anger.

There is no contrivance that will replace an axle burr, and
farmyards have no unused axle burrs, and so Will searched. Each
moment he said: "I'll give it up, get onto one of the horses, and go
down and tell her." But searching for a lost axle burr is like
fishing: the searcher expects each moment to find it. And so he
groped, and ran breathlessly, furiously, back and forth, and at last
kicked away the clod that covered it, and hurried, hot and dusty,
cursing his stupidity, back to the team.

It was ten o'clock as he climbed again into the buggy and started
his team on a swift trot down the road. What would she think? He
saw her now with tearful eyes and pouting lips. She was sitting at
the window, with hat and gloves on; the rest had gone, and she was
waiting for him.

But she'd know something had happened, because he had promised
to be there at eight. He had told her what team he'd have. (He had
forgotten at this moment the doubt and distrust he had given her on
Monday.) She'd know he'd surely come.

But there was no smiling or tearful face watching at the window as
he came down the lane at a tearing pace and turned into the yard.
The house was silent and the curtains down. The silence sent a
chill to his heart. Something rose up in his throat to choke him.

"Agnes!" he called. "Hello! I'm here at last!"

There was no reply. As he sat there, the part he had played on
Monday came back to him. She may be sick! he thought with a
cold thrill of fear.

An old man came around the corner of the house with a potato
fork in his hands, his teeth displayed in a grin.

"She ain't here. She's gone."

"Gone!"

"Yes-more'n an hour ago."

"Who'd she go with?"

"Ed Kinney," said the old fellow with a malicious grin. "I guess
your goose is cooked."

Will lashed the horses into a run and swung round the yard and out
of the gate. His face was white as a dead man's, and his teeth were
set like a vise. He glared straight ahead. The team ran wildly,
steadily homeward, while their driver guided them unconsciously.
He did not see them. His mind was filled with a tempest of rages,
despairs, and shames.

That ride he will never forget. In it he threw away all his plans.
He gave up his year's schooling. He gave up his law aspirations. He
deserted his brother and his friends. In the dizzying whirl of
passions he had only one clear idea-to get away, to go West, to get
away from the sneers and laughter of his neighbors, and to make
her suffer by it all.

He drove into the yard, did not stop to unharness the team, but
rushed into the house and began packing his trunk. His plan was
formed, which was to drive to Cedarville and hire someone to
bring the team back. He had no thought of anything but the shame,
the insult she had put upon him. Her action on Monday took on the
same levity it wore then, and excited him in the same way. He saw
her laughing with Ed over his dismay. He sat down and wrote a
letter to her at last-a letter that came from the ferocity of the
medieval savage in him:

"It you want to go to hell with Ed Kinney, you can. I won't say a
word. That's where he'll take you. You won't see me again."

This he signed and sealed, and then he bowed his head and wept
like a girl. But his tears did not soften the effect of the letter. It
went as straight to its mark as he meant it should. It tore a seared
and ragged path to an innocent, happy heart, and be took a savage
pleasure in the thought of it as he rode away on the cars toward
the South.

III

The seven years lying between 188o and 1887 made a great
change in Rock River and in The adjacent farming land. Signs
changed and firms went out of business with characteristic
Western ease of shift. The trees grew rapidly, dwarfing The houses
beneath them, and contrasts of
newness and decay thickened.

Will found The country changed, as he walked along The dusty
road from Rock River toward "The Comers." The landscape was at
its fairest and liberalest, with its seas of corn deep green and
moving with a mournful rustle, in sharp contrast to its flashing
blades; its gleaming fields of barley, and its wheat already mottled
with soft gold in The midst of its pea-green.

The changes were in The hedges, grown higher, In The greater
predominance of cornfields and cattle pastures, but especially in
The destruction of homes. As he passed on Will saw The grass
growing and cattle feeding on a dozen places where homes had
once stood. They had given place to The large farm and The stock
raiser. Still The whole scene was bountiful and very beautiful to
The
eye.

It was especially grateful to Will, for he had spent nearly all his
years of absence among The rocks, treeless swells, and bleak cliffs
of The Southwest. The crickets rising before his dusty feet
appeared
to him something sweet and suggestive and The cattle feeding in
The clover moved him to deep thought-they were so peaceful and
slow-motioned.

As he reached a little popple tree by The roadside, he stopped,
removed his broad-brimmed hat, put his elbows on The fence, and
looked hungrily upon The scene. The sky was deeply blue, with
only here and there a huge, heavy, slow-moving, massive, sharply
outlined cloud sailing like a berg of ice in a shoreless sea of azure.

In the fields the men were harvesting the ripened oats and barley,
and The sound of their machines clattering, now low, now loud,
came to his ears. Flies buzzed near him, and a king bird clattered
overhead. He noticed again, as he had many a time when a boy,
that The softened sound of The far-off reaper was at times exactly
like The hum of a bluebottle fly buzzing heedlessly about his ears.

A slender and very handsome young man was shocking grain near
The fence, working so desperately he did not see Will until greeted
by him. He looked up, replied to The greeting, but kept on till he
had finished his last stook, then he came to the shade of the tree
and took off his hat

"Nice day to sit under a tree and fish."

Will smiled. "I ought to know you, I suppose; I used to live here
years ago."

"Guess not; we came in three years ago."

The young man was quick-spoken and very pleasant to look at.
Will felt freer with him.

"Are The Kinneys still living over there?" He nodded at a group of
large buildings.

"Tom lives there. Old man lives with Ed. Tom ousted The old man
some way, nobody seems to know how, and so he lives with Ed."

Will wanted to ask after Agnes, but hardly felt able. "I s'pose John
Hannan is on his old farm?"

"Yes. Got a good crop this year."

Will looked again at The fields of rustling wheat over which The
clouds rippled, and said with an air of conviction: "This lays over
Arizona, dead sure."

"You're from Arizona, then?"

"Yes-a good ways from it"' Will replied in a way that stopped
further question. "Good luck!" he added as he walked on down The
road toward The creek, musing. "And the spring-I wonder if that's
there yet. I'd like a drink." The sun seemed hotter than at noon, and
he walked slowly. At the bridge that spanned the meadow brook,
just where it widened over a sandy ford, he paused again. He hung
over the rail and looked at the minnows swimming there.

"I wonder if they're The same identical chaps that used to boil and
glitter there when I was a boy-looks so. Men change from one
generation to another, but The fish remain The same. The same
eternal procession of types. I suppose Darwin 'ud say their
environment remains The same."

He hung for a long time over The railing, thinking of a vast
number of things, mostly vague, flitting things, looking into the
clear depths of the brook, and listening to the delicious liquid note
of a blackbird swinging on the willow. Red lilies starred the grass
with fire, and goldenrod and chicory grew everywhere; purple and
orange and yellow-green the prevailing tints.

Suddenly a water snake wriggled across the dark pool above the
ford, and the minnows disappeared under the shadow of the
bridge. Then Will sighed, lifted his head, and walked on. There
seemed to be something prophetic in it, and he drew a long breath.
That's the way his plans broke and faded away.

Human life does not move with the regularity of a clock. In living
there are gaps and silences when the soul stands still in its flight
through abysses-and then there come times of trial and times of
struggle when we grow old without knowing it. Body and soul
change appallingly.

Seven years of hard, busy life had made changes in Will.

His face had grown bold, resolute, and rugged, some of its delicacy
and all of its boyish quality gone. His figure was stouter, erect as
of old, but less graceful. He bore himself like a man accustomed to
look out for himself in all kinds of places. It was only at times that
there came into his deep eyes a preoccupied, almost sad look that
showed kinship with his old self.

This look was on his face as he walked toward the clump of trees
on the right of the road.

He reached the grove of popple trees and made his way at once to
the spring. When he saw it, it gave him a shock. They had let it fill
up with leaves and dirt.

Overcome by the memories of the past, he flung him-sell down on
the cool and shadowy bank, and gave him-sell up to the bittersweet
reveries of a man returning to his boyhood's home. He was filled
somehow with a strange and powerful feeling of the passage of
time; with a vague feeling of the mystery and elusiveness of
human life. The leaves whispered it overhead, the birds sang it in
chorus with the insects, and far above, in the measureless spaces of
sky, the hawk told it in the silence and majesty of his flight from
cloud to cloud.

It was a feeling hardly to be expressed in word~ one of those
emotions whose springs lie far back in the brain. He lay so still, the
chipmunks came curiously up to

A Branch Road

35

his very feet, only to scurry away when he stirred like a sleeper in
pain.

He had cut himself off entirely from the life at The Corners. He
had sent money home to John, but had concealed his own address
carefully. The enormity of this folly now came back to him,
racking him till he groaned.

He heard the patter of feet and the half-mumbled monologue of a
running child. He roused up and faced a small boy, who started
back in terror like a wild fawn. He was deeply surprised to find a
man there where only boys and squirrels now came. He stuck his
fist in his eye, and was backing away when Will spoke.

"Hold on, sonny! Nobody's hit you. Come, I ain't goin' to eat yeh."
He took a bit of money from his pocket. "Come here and tell me
your name. I want to talk with you."

The boy crept upon the dime.

Will smiled. "You ought to be a Kinney. What is your name?"

"Tomath Dickinthon Kinney. I'm thix and a half. I've got a colt,"
lisped the youngster breathlessly as he crept toward the money.

"Oh, you are, eh? Well, now, are you Tom's boy or Ed's?"

"Tomth's boy. Uncle Ed hith gal-"

"Ed got a boy?"

"Yeth, thir- lii baby. Aunt Agg letth me hold 'im"

"Agg! Is that her name?"

"That's what Uncle Ed callth her."

The man's head fell, and it was a long time before he asked his
next question.

"How is she, anyhow?"

"Purty well," piped the boy with a prolongation of the last words
into a kind of chirp. "She'th been thick, though," he added.

"Been sick? How long?"

"Oh, a long time. But she ain't thick abed; she'th awuul poor,
though. Gran'pa thayth she'th poor ath a rake."

"Oh, he does, eh?"

"Yeth, thir. Uncle Ed he jawth her, then she crieth."

Will's anger and remorse broke out in a groaning curse. "O my
God! I see it all. That great lunkin' houn' has made life a hell fer
her." Then that letter came back to his mind; he had never been
able to put it out of his mind-he never would till he saw her and
asked her pardon.

"Here, my boy, I want you to tell me some more. Where does your
Aunt Agnes live?"

"At gran'pa'th. You know where my gran'pa livth?"

"Well, you do. Now I want you to take this letter to her. Give it to
her." He wrote a little note and folded it. "Now dust out o' here."

The boy slipped away through the trees like a rabbit; his little
brown feet hardly rustled. He was like some little wood animal.
Left alone, the man went back into a reverie that lasted till the
shadows fell on the thick little grove around the spring. He rose ~
last and, taking his stick in hand, walked out to the wood again and
stood there, gazing at the sky. He seemed loath to go farther. The
sky was full of flame-colored clouds floating in a yellow-green
sea, where bars of faint pink streamed broadly away.

As he stood there, feeling the wind lift his hair, listening to the
crickets' ever-present crying, and facing the majesty of space, a
strange sadness and despair came into his eyes.

Drawing a quick breath, he leaped the fence and was about going
on up the road, when he heard, at a little distance, the sound of a
drove of cattle approaching, and he stood aside to allow them to
pass. They snuffed and shied at the silent figure by the fence, and
hurried by with snappug heels-a peculiar sound that made the man
smile with pleasure.

An old man was driving the cows, crying out:

"St, boy, there! Go on, there. Whay, boss!"

Will knew that hard-featured, wiry old man, now entering his
second childhood and beginning to limp painfully. He had his
hands full of hard clods which he threw impatiently at the
lumbering animals.

"Good evening, uncle!"

"I ain't y'r uncle, young man."

His dim eyes did not recognize the boy he had chased out of his
plum patch years before.

"I don't know yeh, neither."

"Oh, you will, later on. I'm from the East. I'm a sort of a relative to
John Hannan."

"I wanto know if y' be!" the old man exclaimed, peering closer.

"Yes. I'm just up from Rock River. John's harvesting, I s'pose?"

"Where's the youngest one-Will?"

"William? Oh! he's a bad aig-he lit out fr the West somewhere. He
was a hard boy. He stole a hatful o' my plums once. He left home
kind o' sudden. He! he! I s'pose he was purty well cut up jest about
them days."

"How's that?"

The old man chuckled.

"Well, y' see, they was both courtin' Agnes then, an' my son cut
William out. Then William he lit out f'r the West, Arizony 'r
California 'r somewhere out West. Never been back sence."

"Ain't, heh?"

"No. But they say he's makin' a terrible lot o' money," the old man
said in a hushed voice. "But the way he makes it is awful scaly. I
tell my wife if I had a son like that an' he'd send me home a bushel
basket o' money, earnt like that, I wouldn't touch finger to it-no,
sir!"

"You wouldn't? Why?"

"'Cause it ain't right. It ain't made right no way, you-"

"But how is it made? What's the feller's trade?"

"He's a gambler-that's his trade! He plays cards, and every cent is
bloody. I wouldn't touch such money no how you could fix it~"

"Wouldn't, hay?" The young man straightened up. "Well,
look-a-here, old man: did you ever hear of a man foreclosing a
mortgage on a widow and two boys, getting a farm f'r one quarter
what it was really worth? You damned old hypocrite! I know all
about you and your whole tribe-you old bloodsucker!"

The old man's jaw fell; he began to back away.

"Your neighbors tell some good stories about you. Now skip along
after those cows or I'll tickle your old legs for you!"

The old man, appalled and dazed at this sudden change of manner,
backed away, and at last turned and racked off up the road, looking
back with a wild face at which the young man laughed
remorselessly.

"The doggoned old skeesucks!" Will soliloquized as he walked up
the road. "So that's the kind of a character he's been givin' me!"

"Hullo! A whippoorwrn. Takes a man back into childhood-No,
don't 'whip poor Will'; he's got all he can bear now."

He came at last to the little farm Dingman had owned, and he
stopped in sorrowful surprise. The barn had been moved away, the
garden plowed up, and the house, turned into a granary, stood with
boards nailed across its dusty cobwebbed windows. The tears
started into the man's eyes; he stood staring at it silently.

In the face of this house the seven years that he had last lived
stretched away into a wild waste of time. It stood as a symbol of
his wasted, ruined life. It was personal, intimately personal, this
decay of her home.

All that last scene came back to him: the booming roar of the
threshing machine, the cheery whistle of the driver, the loud,
merry shouts of the men. He remembered how warmly the
lamplight streamed out of that door as he turned away tired,
hungry, sullen with rage and jealousy. Oh, if he had only had the
courage of a man!

Then he thought of the boy's words. She was sick. Ed abused her.
She had met her punishment. A hundred times he had been over
the whole scene. A thousand times he had seen her at the pump
smiling at Ed Kinney, the sun lighting her bare head; and he never
thought of it without hardening.

At this very gate he had driven up that last forenoon, to find that
she had gone with Ed. He had lived that sickening, depressing
moment over many times, but not times enough to keep down the
bitter passion he had felt then, and felt now as he went over it in
detail.

He was so happy and confident that morning, so perfectly certain
that all would be made right by a kiss and a cheery jest. And now!
Here he stood sick with despair and doubt of all the world. He
turned away from the desolate homestead and walked on.

"But I'll see her-just once more. And then-" And again the mighty
significance, responsibility of life fell upon him. He felt as young
people seldom do the irrevocableness of living, the determinate,
unalterable character of living. He determined to begin to live in
some new way-just how he could not say.

IV

OLD man Kinney and his wife were getting their Sunday school
lessons with much bickering, when Will drove up the next day to
the dilapidated gate and hitched his team to a leaning post under
the oaks. Will saw the old man's head at the open window, but no
one else, though he
looked eagerly for Agnes as he walked up the familiar path. There
stood the great oak under whose shade he had grown to be a man.
How close the great tree seemed to stand to his heart, some way!
As the wind stirred in the leaves, it was like a rustle of greeting.

In that low old house they had all lived, and his mother had toiled
for thirty years. A sort of prison after all. There they were all born,
and there his father and his little sister had died. And then it had
passed into old Kinney's hands.

Walking along up the path he felt a serious weakness in his limbs,
and he made a pretense of stopping to look at a flowerbed
containing nothing but weeds. After seven years of separation he
was about to face once more the woman whose life came so near
being a part of his- Agnes, now a wife and a mother.

How would she look? Would her face have that oldtime peachy
bloom, her mouth that peculiar beautiful curve? She was large and
fair, he recalled, hair yellow and shining, eyes blue-He roused
himself. This was nonsense! He was trembling. He composed
himself by looking around again.

"The old scoundrel has let the weeds choke out the flowers and
surround the beehives. Old man Kinney neverbelieved in anything
but a petty utility."

Will set his teeth, and marched up to the door and struck it like a
man delivering a challenge. Kinney opened the door, and started
back in fear when he saw who it was.

"How de do? How de do?" said Will, walking in' his eyes fixed on
a woman seated beyond, a child in her lap.

Agnes rose, without a word; a fawnlike, startled widening of the
eyes, her breath coming quick, and her face flushing. They couldn't
speak; they only looked at each other an instant, then Will
shivered, passed his hand over his eyes, and sat down.

There was no one there but the old people, who were looking at
him in bewilderment. They did not notice any confusion in Agnes's
face. She recovered first.

"I'm glad to see you back, Will," she said, rising and putting the
sleeping child down in a neighboring room. As she gave him her
hand, he said:

"I'm glad to get back, Agnes. I hadn't ought to have gone." Then he
turned to the old people: "I'm Will Hannan. You needn't be scared,
daddy; I was jokin' last night."

"Dew tell! I wanto know!" exclaimed granny. "Wal I never! An,
you're my little Willy boy who ust 'o he in my class. Well! well!
W'y, Pa, ain't he growed tall! Growed handsome tew. I ust 'o think
he was a drelful humly boy; but my sakes, that mustache-"

"Wal, he give me a tumble scare last night. My land! scared me out
of a year's growth," cackled the old man.

This gave them all a chance to laugh and the air was cleared. It
gave Agnes time to recover herself and to be able to meet Will's
eyes. Will himself was powerfully moved; his throat swelled and
tears came to his eyes everytime he looked at her.

$he was worn and wasted incredibly. The blue of her eyes seemed
dimmed and faded by weeping, and the oldtime scariet of her lips
had been washed away. The sinews of her neck showed painfully
when she turned her head, and her trembling hands were worn,
discolored, and lumpy at the joints.

Poor girl! She felt that she was under scrutiny, and her eyes felt hot
and restless. She wished to run away and cry, but she dared not.
She stayed, while Will began to tell her of his life and to ask
questions about old friends.

The old people took it up and relieved her of any share in it; and
Will, seeing that she was suffering, told some funny stories which
made the old people cackle in spite of themselves.

But it was forced merriment on Will's part. Once in a while Agnes
smiled with just a little flash of the old-time sunny temper. But
there was no dimple in the cheek now, and the smile had more
suggestion of an invalid~r even a skeleton. He was almost ready to
take her in his arms and weep, her face appealed so pitifully to
him.

"It's most time f'r Ed to be gittin' back, ain't it' Pa?"

"Sh'd say 'twas! He jist went over to Hobkirk's to trade horses. It's
dretful tryin' to me to have him go off tradin' horses on Sunday.
Seems if he might wait till a rainy day, 'r do it evenin's. I never did
believe in horse tradin' anyhow."

"Have y' come back to stay, Willie?" asked the old lady.

"Well-it's hard-tellin'," answered Will, looking at Agnes.

"Well, Agnes, ain't you goin' to get no dinner? I'm 'bout ready fr
dinner. We must git to church eariy today. Elder Wheat is goin' to
preach an' they'll be a crowd. He's goin' to hold communion."

"You'll stay to dinner, Will?" asked Agnes.

"Yes-if you wish it."

"I do wish it."

"Thank you; I want to have a good visit with you. I don't know
when I'll see you again."

As she moved about, getting dinner on the table, Will sat with
gloomy face, listening to the "clack" of the old man. The room was
a poor little sitting room, with furniture worn and shapeless; hardly
a touch of pleasant color, save here and there a little bit of Agnes's
handiwork. The lounge, covered with calico, was rickety; the
rocking chair matched it, and the carpet of rags was patched and
darned with twine in twenty places. Everywhere was the influence
of the Kinneys. The furniture looked like them, in fact.

Agnes was outwardly calm, but her real distraction did not escape
Mrs. Kinney's hawklike eyes.

"Well, I declare if you hain't put the butter on in one o' my blue
chainy saucers! Now you know I don't allow that saucer to be took
down by nobody. I don't see what's got into yeh. Anybody'd s'pose
you never see any comp'ny b'fore-wouldn't they, Pa?"

"Sh'd say th' would," said Pa, stopping short in a long story about
Ed. "Seems if we couldn't keep anything in this' house sep'rit from
the rest. Ed he uses my currycomb-"

He launched out a long list of grievances, which Will shut his ears
to as completely as possible, and was thinking how to stop him,
when there was a sudden crash. Agnes had dropped a plate.

"Good land o' Goshen!" screamed Granny. "If you ain't the worst I
ever see. I'll bet that's my grapevine plate. If it is-well, of all the
mercies, it ain't! But it naight 'a' ben. I never see your beat-never!
That's the third plate since I came to live here."

"Oh, look-a-here, Granny," said Will desperately. "Don't make so
much fuss about the plate. What's it worth, anyway? Here's a
dollar."

Agnes cried quickly:

"Oh, don't do that, Will! It ain't her pate. It's my plate, and I can
break every plate in the house if I want'o," she cried defiantly.

"'Course you can," Will agreed.

"Well, she can't! Not while I'm around," put in Daddy. "I've helped
to pay f'r them plates, if she does call 'em hern-"

"What the devul is all this row about? Agg, can't you get along
without stirring up the old folks everytime I'm out o' the house?"

The speaker was Ed, now a tail and slouchily dressed man of
thirty-two or -three; his face still handsome in a certain dark,
cleanly cut style, but he wore a surly loo'k and lounged along in a
sort of hangdog style, in greasy overalls and vest unbuttoned.

"Hello, Will! I heard you'd got home. John told me as I came
along."

They shook bands, and Ed slouched down on the lounge. Will
could have kicked him for laying the blame of the dispute upon
Agnes; it showed him in a flash just how he treated her. He
disdained to quarrel; he simply silenced and dominated her.

Will asked a few questions about crops, with such grace as he
could show, and Ed, with keen eyes in his face, talked easily and
stridently.

"Dinner ready?" he asked of Agnes. "Where's Pete?"

"He's asleep."

"All right. Let 'im sleep. Well, let's go out an' set 'up. Come, Dad,
sling away that Bible and come to grub. Mother, what the devul
are you sniffling at? Say, now, look here. If I hear any more about
this row, I'll simply let you walk down to meeting. Come, Will, set
up."

He led the way out into the little kitchen where the dinner was set.

"What was the row about? Hain't been breakin' some dish, Agg?"

"Yes, she has."

"One o' the blue ones?" winked Ed.

"No, thank goodness, it was a white one."

"Well, now, I'll git into that dod-gasted cubberd some day an' break
the whole eternal outfit. I ain't goin' to have this damned jawin'
goin' on," he ended, brutally unconscious of his own "jawin'."

After this the dinner proceeded in comparative silence, Agnes
sobbing under breath. The room was small and very hot; the table
was warped so badly that the dishes had a tendency to slide to the
center; the walls were bare plaster grayed with time; the food was
poor and scant, and the flies absolutely swarmed upon everything,
like bees. Otherwise the room was clean and orderly.

"They say you've made a pile o' money out West, Bill. I'm glad of
it. We fellers back here don't make anything. It's a dam tight
squeeze. Agg, it seems to me the flies are devilish thick today.
Can't you drive 'em out?"

Agnes felt that she must vindicate herself a little. "I do drive 'em
out, but they come right in again. The screen door is broken, and
they come right in."

"I told Dad to fix that door."

"But he won't do it for me."

Ed rested his elbows on the table and fixed his bright black eyes on
his father.

"Say, what d'you mean by actin' like a mule? I swear I'll trade you
off f'r a yaller dog. What do I keep you round here. for anyway-to
look purty?"

"I guess I've as good a right here as you have, Ed Kinney."

"Oh, go soak y'r head, old man. If you don't tend out here a little
better, down goes your meat house! I won't drive you down to
meetin' till you promise to fix that door. Hear me!"

Daddy began to snivel. Agnes could not look up for shame. Will
felt sick. Ed laughed.

"I kin bring the old man to terms that way; he can't walk very well
late years, an' he can't drive my colt. You know what a cuss I used
to be about fast nags? Well, I'm just the same. Hobkirk's got a colt
I want. Say, that re-minds me: your team's out there by the fence. I
forgot. I'll go and put 'em up."

"No, never mind; I can't stay but a few minutes."

"Goin' to be round the country long?"

"A week-maybe."

Agnes looked up a moment and then let her eyes fall.

"Goin' back West, I s'pose?"

"No. May go East, to Europe mebbe."

"The devul y' say! You must 'a' made a ten-strike out West."

"They say it didn't come lawful," piped Daddy over his
blackberries and milk.

"Oh, you shet up. Who wants your put-in? Don't work in any o'
your Bible on us."

Daddy rose to go into the other room.

"Hold on, old man. You goin' to fix that door?"

"'Course I be," quavered he.

"Well see't y' do, that's all. Now git on y'r duds, an'

I'll go an' hitch up." He rose from the table. "Don't keep me
waiting."

He went out unceremoniously, and Agnes was alone with Will.

"Do you go to church? "he asked. She shook her head. "No, I don't
go anywhere now. I have too much to do; I haven't strength left.
And I'm not fit anyway."

"Agnes, I want to say something to you; not now-after they're
gone."

He went into the other room, leaving her to wash the dinner things.
She worked on in a curious, almost dazed way, a dream of
something sweet and irrevocable in her eyes. He represented so
much to her. His voice brought up times and places that thrilled
her like song. He was associated with all that was sweetest and
most carefree and most girlish in her life.

Ever since the boy had handed her that note she had been reliving
those days. In the midst of her drudgery she stopped to dream-to
let some picture come back into her mind. She was a student again
at the seminary, and stood in the recitation room with suffocating
beat of the heart. Will was waiting outside-waiting in a tremor like
her own, to walk home with her under the maples.

Then she remembered the painfully sweet mixture of pride and
fear with which she walked up the aisle of the little church behind
him. Her pretty new gown rustled, the dim light of the church had
something like romance in it, and he was so strong and handsome.
Her heart went out in a great silent cry to God-"Oh, let me be a girl
again!"

She did not look forward to happiness. She hadn't power to look
forward at all.

As she worked, she heard the high, shrill voices of the old people
as they bustled about and nagged at each other.

"Ma, where's my specticles?"

"I ain't seen y'r specticles."

"You have, too."

"I ain't neither."

"You had 'em this forenoon."

"Didn't no such thing. Them was my own brass-bowed ones. You
had yourn jest 'fore goin' to dinner. If you'd put 'em into a proper
place you'd find 'em again."

"I want'o know if I would," the old man snorted'.

"Wal, you'd orter know."

"Oh, you're awful smart, ain't yeh? You never have no trouble, and
use mine-do yeh?-an' lose 'em so't I can't

"And if this is the thing that goes on when I'm here, it must be hell
when visitors are gone," thought Will.

"Willy, ain't you goin' to meetin'?"

"No, not today. I want to visit a little with Agnes, then I've got to
drive back to John's."

"Wal, we must be goin'. Don't you leave them dishes f't me to
wash," she screamed at Agnes as she went out the door. "An' if we
don't get home by five, them caaves orter be fed."

As Agnes stood at the door to watch them drive away, Will studied
her, a smothering ache in his heart as he saw how thin and bent
and weary she was. In his soul he felt that she was a dying woman
unless she had rest and tender care.

As she turned, she saw something in his face-a pity and an agony
of self-accusation-that made her weak and white. She sank into a
chair, putting her hand on her chest, as if she felt a failing of
breath. Then the blood came back to her face, and her eyes filled
with tears.

"Don't-don't look at me like that," she said in a whisper. His pity
hurt her.

At sight of her sitting there pathetic, abashed, bewildered, like
some gentle animal, Will's throat contracted so that he could not
speak. His voice came at last in one terrible cry-"Oh, Agnes! for
God's sake forgive me!" He knelt by
her side and put his arm about her shoulders and kissed her bowed
head. A curious numbness involved his whole body; his voice was
husky, the tears burned in his eyes. His whole soul and body ached
with his pity and remorseful, self-accusing wrath.

"It was all my fault. Lay it all to me. .. I am the one to bear it. . . .
Oh, I've dreamed a thousand times of sayin' this to you, Aggie! I
thought if I could only see you again and ask your forgiveness, I'd-"
He ground his teeth together in his assault upon himself. "I threw
my life away an' killed you-that's what I did!"

He rose and raged up and down the room till he had mastered
himself.

"What did you think I meant that day of the thrashing?" he said,
turning suddenly. He spoke of it as if it were but a month or two
past.

She lifted her head and looked at him in a slow way. She seemed
to be remembering. The tears lay on her hollow cheeks.

"I thought you was ashamed of me. I didn't know-why-"

He uttered a snarl of sell-disgust.

"You couldn't know. Nobody could tell what I meant. But why
didn't you write? I was ready to come back. I only wanted an
excuse-only a line."

"How could I, Will-after your letter?"

He groaned and turned away.

"And Will, I-I got mad too. I couldn't write."

"Oh, that letter-I can see every line of it! F'r God's sake, don't think
of it again! But I didn't think, even when I wrote that letter, that I'd
find you where you are. I didn't think, I hoped anyhow, Ed Kinney
wouldn't-"

She stopped him with a startled look in her great eyes. "Don't talk
about him-it ain't right. I mean it don't do any good. What could I
do, after Father died? Mother and I. Besides, I waited three years
to hear from you, Will."

He gave a strange, choking cry. It burst from his throat
-that terrible thing, a man's sob of agony. She went on, curiously
calm now.

"Ed was good to me; and he offered a home, anyway, for Mother-"

"And all the time I was waiting for some line to break down my
cussed pride, so I could write to you and explain. But you did go
with Ed to the fair," he ended suddenly, seeking a morsel of
justification for himself.

"Yes. But I waited an' waited; and I thought you was mad at me,
and so when they came I-no, I didn't really go with Ed. There was
a wagonload of them."

"But I started," he explained, "but the wheel came off. I didn't send
word because I thought you'd feel sure I'd come. If you'd only
trusted me a little more- No! it was all my fault. I acted like a
crazy
fool. I didn't stop to reason about anything."

They sat in silence alter these explanations. The sound of the
snapping wings of the grasshoppers came through the~windows,
and a locust high in a poplar sent down his ringing whir.

"It can't be helped now, Will," Agnes said at last, her voice full of
the woman's resignation. "We've got to bear it."

Will straightened up. "Bear it?" He paused. "Yes, I s'pose so. If you
hadn't married Ed Kinney! Anybody but him. How did you do it?"

"Oh' I don't know," she answered, wearily brushing her hair back
from her eyes. "It seemed best when I did it-and it can't be helped
now." There was infinite, dull despair and resignation in her voice.

Will went over to the window. He thought how bright and
handsome Ed used to be, and he felt after all that it was no wonder
that she married him. Life pushes us into such things. Suddenly he
turned, something resolute and imperious in his eyes and voice.

"It can be helped, Aggie," he said. "Now just listen to me. We've
made an awful mistake. We've lost seven years o' life, but that's no
reason why we should waste the rest of it. Now hold on; don't
interrupt me just yet. I come back thinking just as much of you as
ever. I ain't going to say a word more about Ed; let the past stay
past. I'm going to talk about the future."

She looked at him in a daze of wonder as he went on. "Now I've
got some money, I've got a third interest in a ranch, and I've got a
standing offer to go back on the Sante Fee road as conductor.
There is a team standing out there. I'd like to make another trip to
Cedarville-with you-"

"Oh, Will, don't!" she cried; "for pity's sake don't talk-"

"Wait!" he said imperiously. "Now look at it Here you are in hell!
Caged up with two old crows picking the life out of you. They'll
kill you-I can see it; you're being killed by inches. You can't go
anywhere, you can't have anything. Life is just torture for you-"

She gave a little moan of anguish and despair and turned her face
to her chairback. Her shoulders shook with weeping, but she
listened. He went to her and stood with his hand on the chairback.

His voice trembled and broke. "There's just one way to get out of
this, Agnes. Come with me. He don't care for you; his whole idea
of women is that they are created for his pleasure and to keep
house. Your whole life is agony. Come! Don't cry. There's a
chance for life yet."

She didn't speak, but her sobs were less violent; his voice growing
stronger reassured her.

"I'm going East, maybe to Europe; and the woman who goes with
me will have nothing to do but get strong and well again. I've made
you suffer so, I ought to spend the rest of my life making you
happy. Come! My wife will sit with me on the deck of the steamer
and see the moon rise, and walk with me by the sea, till she gets
strong and happy again-till the dimples get back into her cheeks. I
never will rest till I see her eyes laugh again.

She rose flushed, wide-eyed, breathing hard with the emotion his
vibrant voice called up, but she could not speak. He put his hand
gently upon her shoulder, and she sank down again. And he went
on with hi~s appeal. There was something hypnotic, dominating in
his voice and eyes.

On his part there was no passion of an ignoble sort, only a passion
of pity and remorse, and a sweet, tender, reminiscent love. He did
not love the woman before him so much as the girl whose ghost
she was-the woman whose promise she was. He held himself
responsible for it all, and he throbbed with desire to repair the
ravage he had indirectly caused. There was nothing equivocal in
his position-nothing to disown. How others might look at it he did
not consider and did not care. His impetuous soul was carried to a
point where nothing came in to mar or divert.

"And then after you're well, after our trip, we'll come back to
Houston, and I'll build my wife a house that'Il make her eyes shine.
My cattle and my salary will give us a good living, and she can
have a piano and books, and go to the theater and concerts.
Come, what do you think of that?"

Then she heard his words beneath his voice Somehow, and they
produced pictures that dazzled her. Luminous shadows moved
before her eyes, drifting across the gray background of her poor,
starved, work-weary life.

As his voice ceased the rosy clouds faded, and she realized again
the faded, musty little room, the calico~ covered furniture, and
looking down at her own cheap and ill-fitting dress, she saw her
ugly hands lying there. Then she cried out with a gush of tears:

"Oh, Will, I'm so old and homely now, I ain't fit to go with you
now! Oh, why couldn't we have married then?"

She was seeing herself as she was then, and so was he; but it
deepened his resolution. How beautiful she used to be! He seemed
to see her there as if she stood in perpetual sunlight, with a w~arm
sheen in her hair and dimples in her cheeks.

She saw her thin red wrists, her gaunt and knotted hands. There
was a pitiful droop in the thin pale lips, and the tears fell slowly
from her drooping lashes. He went on:

"Well, it's no use to cry over what was. We must think of what
we're going to do. Don't worry about your looks; you'll be the
prettiest woman in the country when we get back. Don't wait,
Aggie; make up your mind."

She hesitated, and was lost.

"What will people say?"

"I don't care what they say," he flamed out. "They'd say, stay here
and be killed by inches. I say you've had your share of suffering.
They'd say-the liberal ones-stay and get a divorce; but how do we
know we can get one after you've been dragged through the mud of
a trial? We can get one just as well in some other state. Why
should you be worn out at thirty? What right or justice is there in
making you bear all your life the consequences of our-my
schoolboy folly?"

As he went on, his argument rose to the level of Browning's
philosophy.

"We can make this experience count for us yet. But we mustn't let
a mistake ruin us-it should teach us. What right has anyone to keep
you in a hole? God don't expect a toad to stay in a stump and starve
if it can get out. He don't ask the snakes to suffer as you do."

She had lost the threads of right and wrong out of her hands. She
was lost in a maze. She was not moved by passion. Flesh had
ceased to stir her; but there was vast power in the new and thrilling
words her deliverer spoke. He seemed to open a door for her, and
through it turrets shone and great ships crossed on dim blue seas.

"You can't live here, Aggie. You'll die in less than five years. It
would kill me to see you die here. Come! It's suicide."

She did not move, save the convulsive motion of her breath and
the nervous action of her fingers. She stared down at a spot in the
carpet; she couldn't face him.

He grew insistent, a sterner note creeping into his voice.

"If I leave this time, of course you know I never come back."

Her hoarse breathing, growing quicker each moment, was her only
reply.

"I'm done," he said with a note of angry disappointment. He did
not give her up, however. "I've told you what I'd do for you. Now if
you think-"

"Oh, give me time to think, Will!" she cried out, lifting her face.

He shook his head. "No. You might as well decide now. It won't be
any easier tomorrow. Come, one minute more and I go out o' that
door-unless-" He crossed the room slowly, doubtful himself of his
desperate last measure. "My hand is on the knob. Shall I open it?"

She stopped breathing; her fingers closed convulsively on the
chair. As he opened the door she sprang up.

"Don't go, Will! Don't go, please don't! I need you here-I-"

"That ain't the question. Are you going with me, Agnes?"

"Yes, yes! I tried to speak before. I trust you, Will; you'r-"

He flung the door open wide. "See the sunlight out there shining
on that field o' wheat? That's where I'll take you-out into the
sunshine. You shall see it shining on the Bay of Naples. Come, get
on your hat; don't take anything more'n you actually need. Leave
the past behind you."

The woman turned wildly and darted into the little bedroom. The
man listened. He whistled in surprise almost comical. He had
forgotten the baby. He could hear the mother talking, cooing.

"Mommie's 'ittle pet. She wasn't goin' to leave her 'ittle man-no,
she wasn't! There, there, don't 'e cry. Mommie ain't goin' away and
leave him-wicked Mommie ain't-'ittle treasure!"

She was confused again; and when she reappeared at the door,
with the child in her arms, there was a wandering look on her face
pititul to see. She tried to speak, tried to say, ''Please go, Will,"

He designedly failed to understand her whisper. He stepped
forward. "The baby! Sure enough. Why, certainly! to the mother
belongs the child. Blue eyes, thank heaven!"

He put his arm about them both. She obeyed silently. There was
something irresistible in his frank, clear eyes, his sunny smile, his
strong brown hand. He slammed the door behind them.

"That closes the door on your sufferings," he said' smiling down at
her. "Goodbye to it all."

The baby laughed and stretched out its hands toward the light.

"Boo, boo!" he cried.

"What's he talking about?"

She smiled in perfect trust and fearlessness, seeing her child's face
beside his own. "He says it's beautiful."

"Oh, he does? I can't follow his French accent."

She smiled again, in spite of herself. Will shuddered with a thrill
of fear, she was so weak and worn. But the sun shone on the
dazzling, rustling wheat, the fathomless sky blue, as a sea, bent
above them-and the world lay before them.

UP THE COULEE

A STORY OF WISCONSIN

"Keep the main-travelled road up the coulee-it's the second house
after crossin' the crick."

THE ride from Milwaukee to the Mississippi is a fine ride at any
time, superb in summer. To lean back in a reclining chair and
whirl away in a breezy July day, past lakes, groves of oak, past
fields of barley being reaped, past hayfields, where the heavy grass
is toppling before the swift sickle, is a panorama of delight, a road
full of delicious surprises, where down a sudden vista lakes open,
or a distant wooded hill looms darkly blue, or swift streams,
foaming deep down the solid rock, send whiffs of cool breezes in

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