university of kansas publications museum of natural history volume , no. , pp. - , figs. march , records of the fossil mammal sinclairella, family apatemyidae, from the chadronian and orellan by william a. clemens, jr. university of kansas lawrence university of kansas publications, museum of natural history editors: e. raymond hall, chairman, henry s. fitch, theodore h. eaton, jr. volume , no. , pp. - , figs. published march , university of kansas lawrence, kansas printed by harry (bud) timberlake, state printer topeka, kansas - records of the fossil mammal sinclairella, family apatemyidae, from the chadronian and orellan by william a. clemens, jr. introduction the family apatemyidae has a long geochronological range in north america, beginning in the torrejonian land-mammal age, but is represented by a relatively small number of fossils found at a few localities. two fossils of orellan age, found in northeastern colorado and described here, demonstrate that the geochronological range of the apatemyidae extends into the middle oligocene. isolated teeth of _sinclairella dakotensis_ jepsen, part of a sample of a chadronian local fauna collected by field parties from the webb school of california, are also described. i thank mr. raymond m. alf, webb school of california, claremont, california, and dr. peter robinson, university of colorado museum, boulder, colorado, for permitting me to describe the fossils they discovered. also dr. robinson made available the draft of a short paper he had prepared on the tooth found in weld county, colorado; his work was facilitated by a grant from the university of colorado council on research and creative work. i also gratefully acknowledge receipt of critical data and valuable comments from drs. edwin c. galbreath, glenn l. jepsen, and malcolm c. mckenna who is currently revising the paleocene apatemyids and studying the phylogenetic relationships of the family. the prefixes of catalogue numbers used in the text identify fossils in the collections of the following institutions: ku, museum of natural history, the university of kansas, lawrence; princeton, princeton museum, princeton, new jersey; ram-ucr, raymond alf museum, webb school of california, claremont, california (the permanent repository for these specimens will be the university of california, riverside); and ucm, university of colorado museum, boulder, colorado. the system of notations for teeth prescribed for use here is as follows: teeth in the upper half of the dentition are designated by a capital letter and a number; thus m is the notation for the upper second molar; teeth in the lower half of the dentition are designated by a lower-case letter and a number; thus p is the notation for the lower second premolar. family apatemyidae matthew, genus =sinclairella= jepsen, =sinclairella dakotensis= jepsen, the type of the species, princeton no. , was discovered in chadronian strata of the upper part of the chadron formation cropping out in big corral draw, approximately miles south-southwest of scenic, in southwestern south dakota (jepsen, , p. ). detailed descriptions of the type specimen are given in papers by jepsen ( ) and scott and jepsen ( ). isolated teeth of chadronian age referable to _sinclairella dakotensis_ have been discovered subsequently at a locality in nebraska and fossils of orellan age, also referable to _s. dakotensis_, have been collected at two localities in colorado. the sample from each locality is described separately. sioux county, northwestern nebraska _material._--ram-ucr nos. , left m ; , left m ; , right m ; , right m ; , right m ; , right m ; and , left m . _locality and stratigraphy._--these chadronian fossils were discovered by raymond alf and members of his field parties in several harvester ant mounds built in exposures of the chadron formation in sec. , t n, r w, sioux county, nebraska (alf, , and hough and alf, ). this is ucr locality v . the collectors carefully considered the possibility that some of the fossils found in the ant mounds were collected from younger strata by the harvester ants and concluded this was unlikely (alf, personal communication). _description and comments._--the cusps of ram-ucr no. , a left m , are sharp and the wear-facets resulting from occlusion with the lower dentition are small. the paraconule is a low, ill-defined cusp on the anterior margin of the crown; a metaconule is not present. a smooth stylar shelf is present labial to the metacone. the crown was supported by three roots. there are no interradicular crests. the crown of ram-ucr no. , a right m , is heavily abraded and many morphological details of the cusps have been destroyed. low interradicular crests linked the three roots of the tooth with a low, central prominence. as was the case with ram-ucr no. , no significant differences could be found in comparisons with illustrations of the teeth preserved in princeton no. . ram-ucr nos. , , , and all appear to be m 's. the talonids of these teeth are not elongated, their trigonids have quadrilateral outlines, and the paraconids are small but prominent, bladelike cusps. the trigonid of ram-ucr is elongated and the paraconid is a minute cusp; the tooth closely resembles the m of the type of _sinclairella dakotensis_. logan county, northeastern colorado _material._--ku no. (fig. ), a fragment of a left maxillary containing p and m - . _locality and stratigraphy._--the fossil was found in the center of the w- / , sec. , t n, r w, logan county, colorado, "... in the bed below _agnotocastor_ bed, cedar creek member...." (ronald h. pine, , field notes on file at the university of kansas). the bed so defined is part of unit in the lower division of the cedar creek member, as subdivided by galbreath ( : ) in stratigraphic section xii. the fauna obtained from unit is of orellan age. [illustration: fig. . _sinclairella dakotensis_ jepsen, ku no. , fragment of left maxillary with p and m - ; orellan, logan county, colorado; drawings by mrs. judith hood: a, labial view; b, occlusal view; both approximately × .] _description and comments._--p of ku no. has a large posterolingual cusp separated from the main cusp by a distinct groove, which deepens posteriorly. the posterolingual cusp is supported by the broad posterior root. p of the type specimen of _sinclairella dakotensis_ is described (jepsen, , p. ) as having an oval outline at the base of the crown, and a small, posterolingual cusp. a chip of enamel is missing from the posterior slope of the main cusp of the p of ku no. . the anterior slope of the main cusp is flattened, possibly the result of wear, and there is no evidence of a groove like that present on the p of the type specimen. only a few differences were found between the molars preserved in ku no. and their counterparts in the type specimen. a stylar shelf is present labial to the metacone of m of ku no. , but, unlike the type, its surface is smooth and there is no evidence of cusps. of the three small stylar cusps on the stylar shelf of m the smallest is in the position of a mesostyle. the m lacks a chip of enamel from the lingual surface of the hypocone. unlike the m of princeton no. , in occlusal view the posterior margin of the m of ku no. is convex posterior to the metacone. the anterior edge of the base of the zygomatic arch of ku no. was dorsal to m . the shallow oval depression in the maxillary dorsal to m might be the result of post-mortem distortion. the molars preserved in ku no. and their counterparts in the type specimen do not appear to be significantly different in size (table ) or morphology of the cusps. the only difference between the two specimens that might be of classificatory significance is the difference in size of the posterolingual cusp of p . at present the range of intraspecific variation in the morphology of p has not been documented for any species of apatemyid. the evolutionary trend or trends of the apatemyids (mckenna, , p. ) for progressive reduction of function of p probably were paralleled by similar trends in the evolution of the p . if so, the intraspecific variation in the morphology of p could be expected to be somewhat greater than that of the upper molars, for example. the morphological difference between the p 's of the type of _sinclairella dakotensis_ and ku no. is not extreme and does not exceed the range of intraspecific variation that could be expected for this element of the dentition. the close resemblances in size and morphology between the m - of princeton no. and ku no. also favor identification of the latter as part of a member of an orellan population of _sinclairella dakotensis_. weld county, northeastern colorado [illustration: fig. . _sinclairella dakotensis_ jepsen, ucm no. , right m ; orellan, weld county, colorado; drawing by mrs. judith hood: occlusal view, approximately × .] _material._--ucm no. (fig. ), is a right m . _locality and stratigraphy._--the tooth was discovered at the mellinger locality, sec. , t n, r w, weld county, colorado. the mellinger locality is in the cedar creek member, white river formation, and its fauna is considered to be of orellan age (patterson and mcgrew, , and galbreath, ). _description and comments._--ucm no. , which is more heavily abraded than ku no. , shows no evidence of a stylar cusp either anterolabial to the metacone or in the position of a mesostyle. a small stylar cusp is present anterolabial to the paracone. a notch that appears to have been cut through the enamel of the posterolabial corner of the crown could have received the parastylar apex of m . a similar notch is not present on the m of ku no. nor indicated in the illustrations of the m of princeton no. . the coronal dimensions of ucm no. (table ) do not appear to differ significantly from those of the m 's of ku no. and the type specimen of _sinclairella dakotensis_. comments with the discovery of orellan apatemyids the geochronological range of the family in north america is shown to extend from the torrejonian through the orellan land-mammal ages. the discoveries reported here enlarge the oligocene record of apatemyids to include not only the type specimen of _sinclairella dakotensis_, a skull and associated mandible from south dakota, but also seven isolated teeth, representing at least two individuals, from a chadronian fossil locality in nebraska and one specimen from each of two orellan fossil localities in northeastern colorado. simpson ( : , and : ) presented tabulations of the published records of american apatemyids and suggested the data indicated the populations of these mammals were of small size throughout the history of the family. the few pre-oligocene occurrences of apatemyids described subsequently (note mckenna, , figs. - , and p. ) and occurrences described here tend to reinforce simpson's interpretation. this interpretation may have to be modified to some degree, however, when current studies of collections of pre-oligocene apatemyids are completed (mckenna, personal communication). although information concerning the evolutionary trends of american apatemyids has been published, no data on the morphological variation in a population are available in the literature. an adequate basis for evaluating the significance of the morphological differences between the p 's of princeton no. and ku no. coupled with the similarities of their m - 's is lacking. in the evolution of american apatemyids the p underwent reduction in size and, apparently, curtailment of function. this history suggests the range of morphological variation of p in populations of _sinclairella dakotensis_ could be expected to be greater than that of the molars and encompass the morphological differences between the p 's of princeton no. and ku no. . the difference in age of the chadronian and orellan fossils does not constitute proof that they pertain to different species. although the identification is admittedly provisional until more fossils including other parts of the skeleton are discovered, the orellan fossils described here are referred to _sinclairella dakotensis_. table .--measurements (in millimeters) of teeth of sinclairella dakotensis jepsen. ========================================================================== | p | m | m -----------------------+------------+------------------+------------------ |length|width|length[ ]|width[ ]|length[ ]|width[ ] -----------------------+------+-----+---------+--------+---------+-------- princeton no. [ ] | . | . | . | . | . | . ram no. | | | . | . | | ram no. | | | | | . | . ku no. | . | . | . | . | . | . + ucm no. | | | | | . | . -----------------------+------+-----+---------+--------+---------+-------- | m | m +---------+--------+---------+-------- | length | width | length | width +---------+--------+---------+-------- princeton no. [ ] | . | . | . | . ram no. | . | . | | ram no. | | | . | . ram no. | | | . + | . ram no. | | | . | . ram no. | | | . | . ------------------------------------+---------+--------+---------+-------- [footnote : length defined as maximum dimension of the labial half of the crown measured parallel to a line drawn through the apices of paracone and metacone. width defined as maximum coronal dimension measured along line perpendicular to line defined by apices of paracone and metacone.] [footnote : dimensions provided by dr. glenn l. jepsen.] [footnote : dimensions taken from jepsen ( : ).] literature cited alf, r. . a new species of the rodent _pipestoneomys_ from the oligocene of nebraska. breviora, mus. comp. zool., no. , pp. - , figs. galbreath, e. c. . a contribution to the tertiary geology and paleontology of northeastern colorado. univ. kansas paleont. cont., vertebrata, art. , pp. - , pls., figs. hough, j., and alf, r. . a chadron mammalian fauna from nebraska. journ. paleon. : - , figs. jepsen, g. l. . a revision of the american apatemyidae and the description of a new genus, _sinclairella_, from the white river oligocene of south dakota. proc. amer. philos. soc., : - , pls., figs. mckenna, m. c. . fossil mammalia from the early wasatchian four mile fauna, eocene of northwest colorado. univ. california publ. in geol. sci., : - , figs. matthew, w. d. . the carnivora and insectivora of the bridger basin, middle eocene. mem. amer. mus. nat. hist., : - , pls. - , figs. patterson, b. and mcgrew, p. o. . a soricid and two erinaceids from the white river oligocene. geol. ser., field mus. nat. hist., : - , figs. - . scott, w. b. and jepsen, g. l. . the mammalian fauna of the white river oligocene--part i. insectivora and carnivora. trans. amer. philos. soc., n. s., : - , pls., figs. simpson, g. g. . tempo and mode in evolution. new york: columbia univ. press, xviii + pp., figs. . the major features of evolution. new york: columbia univ. press, xx + pp., figs. _transmitted june , ._ available by internet archive (http://www.archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see http://www.archive.org/details/monsterotherstor cranuoft the monster and other stories by stephen crane [illustration: "'if you ain't afraid, go do it then'"] illustrated new york and london harper & brothers publishers copyright, , by harper & brothers. all rights reserved. [illustration: "'henry johnson! rats!'"] contents the monster the blue hotel his new mittens illustrations "'if you ain't afraid, go do it then'" "no one would have suspected him of ever having washed a buggy" "'henry johnson! rats!'" "they bowed and smiled until a late hour" "the band played a waltz" "'what district?'" in the laboratory "they did not care much for john shipley" "'if i get six dollehs for bo'ding hennery johnson, i uhns it'" "the door swung portentously open" mrs. farragut "'it's about what nobody talks of--much,' said twelve" little horace "yelling like hawks at the white balls flew" "'i've got to go home'" "when he raised his voice to deny the charge" "'aw, come on!'" "a pair of very wet mittens" "brought a plate of food" "horace stared with sombre eyes at the plate of food" "some sort of bloody-handed person" "people, bowed forward" "eight cents' worth of something" "his head hung low" "'mam-ma! mam-ma! oh, mam-ma!'" the monster i little jim was, for the time, engine number , and he was making the run between syracuse and rochester. he was fourteen minutes behind time, and the throttle was wide open. in consequence, when he swung around the curve at the flower-bed, a wheel of his cart destroyed a peony. number slowed down at once and looked guiltily at his father, who was mowing the lawn. the doctor had his back to this accident, and he continued to pace slowly to and fro, pushing the mower. jim dropped the tongue of the cart. he looked at his father and at the broken flower. finally he went to the peony and tried to stand it on its pins, resuscitated, but the spine of it was hurt, and it would only hang limply from his hand. jim could do no reparation. he looked again towards his father. he went on to the lawn, very slowly, and kicking wretchedly at the turf. presently his father came along with the whirring machine, while the sweet, new grass blades spun from the knives. in a low voice, jim said, "pa!" the doctor was shaving this lawn as if it were a priest's chin. all during the season he had worked at it in the coolness and peace of the evenings after supper. even in the shadow of the cherry-trees the grass was strong and healthy. jim raised his voice a trifle. "pa!" the doctor paused, and with the howl of the machine no longer occupying the sense, one could hear the robins in the cherry-trees arranging their affairs. jim's hands were behind his back, and sometimes his fingers clasped and unclasped. again he said, "pa!" the child's fresh and rosy lip was lowered. the doctor stared down at his son, thrusting his head forward and frowning attentively. "what is it, jimmie?" "pa!" repeated the child at length. then he raised his finger and pointed at the flowerbed. "there!" "what?" said the doctor, frowning more. "what is it, jim?" after a period of silence, during which the child may have undergone a severe mental tumult, he raised his finger and repeated his former word--"there!" the father had respected this silence with perfect courtesy. afterwards his glance carefully followed the direction indicated by the child's finger, but he could see nothing which explained to him. "i don't understand what you mean, jimmie," he said. it seemed that the importance of the whole thing had taken away the boy's vocabulary, he could only reiterate, "there!" the doctor mused upon the situation, but he could make nothing of it. at last he said, "come, show me." together they crossed the lawn towards the flower-bed. at some yards from the broken peony jimmie began to lag. "there!" the word came almost breathlessly. "where?" said the doctor. jimmie kicked at the grass. "there!" he replied. the doctor was obliged to go forward alone. after some trouble he found the subject of the incident, the broken flower. turning then, he saw the child lurking at the rear and scanning his countenance. the father reflected. after a time he said, "jimmie, come here." with an infinite modesty of demeanor the child came forward. "jimmie, how did this happen?" the child answered, "now--i was playin' train--and--now--i runned over it." "you were doing what?" "i was playin' train." the father reflected again. "well, jimmie," he said, slowly, "i guess you had better not play train any more to-day. do you think you had better?" "no, sir," said jimmie. during the delivery of the judgment the child had not faced his father, and afterwards he went away, with his head lowered, shuffling his feet. ii it was apparent from jimmie's manner that he felt some kind of desire to efface himself. he went down to the stable. henry johnson, the negro who cared for the doctor's horses, was sponging the buggy. he grinned fraternally when he saw jimmie coming. these two were pals. in regard to almost everything in life they seemed to have minds precisely alike. of course there were points of emphatic divergence. for instance, it was plain from henry's talk that he was a very handsome negro, and he was known to be a light, a weight, and an eminence in the suburb of the town, where lived the larger number of the negroes, and obviously this glory was over jimmie's horizon; but he vaguely appreciated it and paid deference to henry for it mainly because henry appreciated it and deferred to himself. however, on all points of conduct as related to the doctor, who was the moon, they were in complete but unexpressed understanding. whenever jimmie became the victim of an eclipse he went to the stable to solace himself with henry's crimes. henry, with the elasticity of his race, could usually provide a sin to place himself on a footing with the disgraced one. perhaps he would remember that he had forgotten to put the hitching-strap in the back of the buggy on some recent occasion, and had been reprimanded by the doctor. then these two would commune subtly and without words concerning their moon, holding themselves sympathetically as people who had committed similar treasons. on the other hand, henry would sometimes choose to absolutely repudiate this idea, and when jimmie appeared in his shame would bully him most virtuously, preaching with assurance the precepts of the doctor's creed, and pointing out to jimmie all his abominations. jimmie did not discover that this was odious in his comrade. he accepted it and lived in its shadow with humility, merely trying to conciliate the saintly henry with acts of deference. won by this attitude, henry would sometimes allow the child to enjoy the felicity of squeezing the sponge over a buggy-wheel, even when jimmie was still gory from unspeakable deeds. whenever henry dwelt for a time in sackcloth, jimmie did not patronize him at all. this was a justice of his age, his condition. he did not know. besides, henry could drive a horse, and jimmie had a full sense of this sublimity. henry personally conducted the moon during the splendid journeys through the country roads, where farms spread on all sides, with sheep, cows, and other marvels abounding. "hello, jim!" said henry, poising his sponge. water was dripping from the buggy. sometimes the horses in the stalls stamped thunderingly on the pine floor. there was an atmosphere of hay and of harness. for a minute jimmie refused to take an interest in anything. he was very downcast. he could not even feel the wonders of wagon washing. henry, while at his work, narrowly observed him. "your pop done wallop yer, didn't he?" he said at last. "no," said jimmie, defensively; "he didn't." after this casual remark henry continued his labor, with a scowl of occupation. presently he said: "i done tol' yer many's th' time not to go a-foolin' an' a-projjeckin' with them flowers. yer pop don' like it nohow." as a matter of fact, henry had never mentioned flowers to the boy. jimmie preserved a gloomy silence, so henry began to use seductive wiles in this affair of washing a wagon. it was not until he began to spin a wheel on the tree, and the sprinkling water flew everywhere, that the boy was visibly moved. he had been seated on the sill of the carriage-house door, but at the beginning of this ceremony he arose and circled towards the buggy, with an interest that slowly consumed the remembrance of a late disgrace. johnson could then display all the dignity of a man whose duty it was to protect jimmie from a splashing. "look out, boy! look out! you done gwi' spile yer pants. i raikon your mommer don't 'low this foolishness, she know it. i ain't gwi' have you round yere spilin' yer pants, an' have mis' trescott light on me pressen'ly. 'deed i ain't." he spoke with an air of great irritation, but he was not annoyed at all. this tone was merely a part of his importance. in reality he was always delighted to have the child there to witness the business of the stable. for one thing, jimmie was invariably overcome with reverence when he was told how beautifully a harness was polished or a horse groomed. henry explained each detail of this kind with unction, procuring great joy from the child's admiration. iii after johnson had taken his supper in the kitchen, he went to his loft in the carriage house and dressed himself with much care. no belle of a court circle could bestow more mind on a toilet than did johnson. on second thought, he was more like a priest arraying himself for some parade of the church. as he emerged from his room and sauntered down the carriage-drive, no one would have suspected him of ever having washed a buggy. [illustration: "no one would have suspected him of ever having washed a buggy"] it was not altogether a matter of the lavender trousers, nor yet the straw hat with its bright silk band. the change was somewhere, far in the interior of henry. but there was no cake-walk hyperbole in it. he was simply a quiet, well-bred gentleman of position, wealth, and other necessary achievements out for an evening stroll, and he had never washed a wagon in his life. in the morning, when in his working-clothes, he had met a friend--"hello, pete!" "hello, henry!" now, in his effulgence, he encountered this same friend. his bow was not at all haughty. if it expressed anything, it expressed consummate generosity--"good-evenin', misteh washington." pete, who was very dirty, being at work in a potato-patch, responded in a mixture of abasement and appreciation--"good-evenin', misteh johnsing." the shimmering blue of the electric arc lamps was strong in the main street of the town. at numerous points it was conquered by the orange glare of the outnumbering gaslights in the windows of shops. through this radiant lane moved a crowd, which culminated in a throng before the post-office, awaiting the distribution of the evening mails. occasionally there came into it a shrill electric street-car, the motor singing like a cageful of grasshoppers, and possessing a great gong that clanged forth both warnings and simple noise. at the little theatre, which was a varnish and red plush miniature of one of the famous new york theatres, a company of strollers was to play "east lynne." the young men of the town were mainly gathered at the corners, in distinctive groups, which expressed various shades and lines of chumship, and had little to do with any social gradations. there they discussed everything with critical insight, passing the whole town in review as it swarmed in the street. when the gongs of the electric cars ceased for a moment to harry the ears, there could be heard the sound of the feet of the leisurely crowd on the bluestone pavement, and it was like the peaceful evening lashing at the shore of a lake. at the foot of the hill, where two lines of maples sentinelled the way, an electric lamp glowed high among the embowering branches, and made most wonderful shadow-etchings on the road below it. when johnson appeared amid the throng a member of one of the profane groups at a corner instantly telegraphed news of this extraordinary arrival to his companions. they hailed him. "hello, henry! going to walk for a cake to-night?" "ain't he smooth?" "why, you've got that cake right in your pocket, henry!" "throw out your chest a little more." henry was not ruffled in any way by these quiet admonitions and compliments. in reply he laughed a supremely good-natured, chuckling laugh, which nevertheless expressed an underground complacency of superior metal. young griscom, the lawyer, was just emerging from reifsnyder's barber shop, rubbing his chin contentedly. on the steps he dropped his hand and looked with wide eyes into the crowd. suddenly he bolted back into the shop. "wow!" he cried to the parliament; "you ought to see the coon that's coming!" reifsnyder and his assistant instantly poised their razors high and turned towards the window. two belathered heads reared from the chairs. the electric shine in the street caused an effect like water to them who looked through the glass from the yellow glamour of reifsnyder's shop. in fact, the people without resembled the inhabitants of a great aquarium that here had a square pane in it. presently into this frame swam the graceful form of henry johnson. "chee!" said reifsnyder. he and his assistant with one accord threw their obligations to the winds, and leaving their lathered victims helpless, advanced to the window. "ain't he a taisy?" said reifsnyder, marvelling. but the man in the first chair, with a grievance in his mind, had found a weapon. "why, that's only henry johnson, you blamed idiots! come on now, reif, and shave me. what do you think i am--a mummy?" reifsnyder turned, in a great excitement. "i bait you any money that vas not henry johnson! henry johnson! rats!" the scorn put into this last word made it an explosion. "that man was a pullman-car porter or someding. how could that be henry johnson?" he demanded, turbulently. "you vas crazy." the man in the first chair faced the barber in a storm of indignation. "didn't i give him those lavender trousers?" he roared. and young griscom, who had remained attentively at the window, said: "yes, i guess that was henry. it looked like him." "oh, vell," said reifsnyder, returning to his business, "if you think so! oh, vell!" he implied that he was submitting for the sake of amiability. finally the man in the second chair, mumbling from a mouth made timid by adjacent lather, said: "that was henry johnson all right. why, he always dresses like that when he wants to make a front! he's the biggest dude in town--anybody knows that." "chinger!" said reifsnyder. [illustration: "'henry johnson! rats!'"] henry was not at all oblivious of the wake of wondering ejaculation that streamed out behind him. on other occasions he had reaped this same joy, and he always had an eye for the demonstration. with a face beaming with happiness he turned away from the scene of his victories into a narrow side street, where the electric light still hung high, but only to exhibit a row of tumble-down houses leaning together like paralytics. the saffron miss bella farragut, in a calico frock, had been crouched on the front stoop, gossiping at long range, but she espied her approaching caller at a distance. she dashed around the corner of the house, galloping like a horse. henry saw it all, but he preserved the polite demeanor of a guest when a waiter spills claret down his cuff. in this awkward situation he was simply perfect. the duty of receiving mr. johnson fell upon mrs. farragut, because bella, in another room, was scrambling wildly into her best gown. the fat old woman met him with a great ivory smile, sweeping back with the door, and bowing low. "walk in, misteh johnson, walk in. how is you dis ebenin', misteh johnson--how is you?" henry's face showed like a reflector as he bowed and bowed, bending almost from his head to his ankles, "good-evenin', mis' fa'gut; good-evenin'. how is you dis evenin'? is all you' folks well, mis' fa'gut?" after a great deal of kowtow, they were planted in two chairs opposite each other in the living-room. here they exchanged the most tremendous civilities, until miss bella swept into the room, when there was more kowtow on all sides, and a smiling show of teeth that was like an illumination. the cooking-stove was of course in this drawing-room, and on the fire was some kind of a long-winded stew. mrs. farragut was obliged to arise and attend to it from time to time. also young sim came in and went to bed on his pallet in the corner. but to all these domesticities the three maintained an absolute dumbness. they bowed and smiled and ignored and imitated until a late hour, and if they had been the occupants of the most gorgeous salon in the world they could not have been more like three monkeys. after henry had gone, bella, who encouraged herself in the appropriation of phrases, said, "oh, ma, isn't he divine?" [illustration: "they bowed and smiled until a late hour"] iv a saturday evening was a sign always for a larger crowd to parade the thoroughfare. in summer the band played until ten o'clock in the little park. most of the young men of the town affected to be superior to this band, even to despise it; but in the still and fragrant evenings they invariably turned out in force, because the girls were sure to attend this concert, strolling slowly over the grass, linked closely in pairs, or preferably in threes, in the curious public dependence upon one another which was their inheritance. there was no particular social aspect to this gathering, save that group regarded group with interest, but mainly in silence. perhaps one girl would nudge another girl and suddenly say, "look! there goes gertie hodgson and her sister!" and they would appear to regard this as an event of importance. on a particular evening a rather large company of young men were gathered on the sidewalk that edged the park. they remained thus beyond the borders of the festivities because of their dignity, which would not exactly allow them to appear in anything which was so much fun for the younger lads. these latter were careering madly through the crowd, precipitating minor accidents from time to time, but usually fleeing like mist swept by the wind before retribution could lay hands upon them. the band played a waltz which involved a gift of prominence to the bass horn, and one of the young men on the sidewalk said that the music reminded him of the new engines on the hill pumping water into the reservoir. a similarity of this kind was not inconceivable, but the young man did not say it because he disliked the band's playing. he said it because it was fashionable to say that manner of thing concerning the band. however, over in the stand, billie harris, who played the snare-drum, was always surrounded by a throng of boys, who adored his every whack. after the mails from new york and rochester had been finally distributed, the crowd from the post-office added to the mass already in the park. the wind waved the leaves of the maples, and, high in the air, the blue-burning globes of the arc lamps caused the wonderful traceries of leaf shadows on the ground. when the light fell upon the upturned face of a girl, it caused it to glow with a wonderful pallor. a policeman came suddenly from the darkness and chased a gang of obstreperous little boys. they hooted him from a distance. the leader of the band had some of the mannerisms of the great musicians, and during a period of silence the crowd smiled when they saw him raise his hand to his brow, stroke it sentimentally, and glance upward with a look of poetic anguish. in the shivering light, which gave to the park an effect like a great vaulted hall, the throng swarmed, with a gentle murmur of dresses switching the turf, and with a steady hum of voices. [illustration: "the band played a waltz"] suddenly, without preliminary bars, there arose from afar the great hoarse roar of a factory whistle. it raised and swelled to a sinister note, and then it sang on the night wind one long call that held the crowd in the park immovable, speechless. the band-master had been about to vehemently let fall his hand to start the band on a thundering career through a popular march, but, smitten by this giant voice from the night, his hand dropped slowly to his knee, and, his mouth agape, he looked at his men in silence. the cry died away to a wail and then to stillness. it released the muscles of the company of young men on the sidewalk, who had been like statues, posed eagerly, lithely, their ears turned. and then they wheeled upon each other simultaneously, and, in a single explosion, they shouted, "one!" again the sound swelled in the night and roared its long ominous cry, and as it died away the crowd of young men wheeled upon each other and, in chorus, yelled, "two!" there was a moment of breathless waiting. then they bawled, "second district!" in a flash the company of indolent and cynical young men had vanished like a snowball disrupted by dynamite. v jake rogers was the first man to reach the home of tuscarora hose company number six. he had wrenched his key from his pocket as he tore down the street, and he jumped at the spring-lock like a demon. as the doors flew back before his hands he leaped and kicked the wedges from a pair of wheels, loosened a tongue from its clasp, and in the glare of the electric light which the town placed before each of its hose-houses the next comers beheld the spectacle of jake rogers bent like hickory in the manfulness of his pulling, and the heavy cart was moving slowly towards the doors. four men joined him at the time, and as they swung with the cart out into the street, dark figures sped towards them from the ponderous shadows back of the electric lamps. some set up the inevitable question, "what district?" "second," was replied to them in a compact howl. tuscarora hose company number six swept on a perilous wheel into niagara avenue, and as the men, attached to the cart by the rope which had been paid out from the windlass under the tongue, pulled madly in their fervor and abandon, the gong under the axle clanged incitingly. and sometimes the same cry was heard, "what district?" "second." [illustration: "what district"] on a grade johnnie thorpe fell, and exercising a singular muscular ability, rolled out in time from the track of the on-coming wheel, and arose, dishevelled and aggrieved, casting a look of mournful disenchantment upon the black crowd that poured after the machine. the cart seemed to be the apex of a dark wave that was whirling as if it had been a broken dam. back of the lad were stretches of lawn, and in that direction front-doors were banged by men who hoarsely shouted out into the clamorous avenue, "what district?" at one of these houses a woman came to the door bearing a lamp, shielding her face from its rays with her hands. across the cropped grass the avenue represented to her a kind of black torrent, upon which, nevertheless, fled numerous miraculous figures upon bicycles. she did not know that the towering light at the corner was continuing its nightly whine. suddenly a little boy somersaulted around the corner of the house as if he had been projected down a flight of stairs by a catapultian boot. he halted himself in front of the house by dint of a rather extraordinary evolution with his legs. "oh, ma," he gasped, "can i go? can i, ma?" she straightened with the coldness of the exterior mother-judgment, although the hand that held the lamp trembled slightly. "no, willie; you had better come to bed." instantly he began to buck and fume like a mustang. "oh, ma," he cried, contorting himself--"oh, ma, can't i go? please, ma, can't i go? can't i go, ma?" "it's half-past nine now, willie." he ended by wailing out a compromise: "well, just down to the corner, ma? just down to the corner?" from the avenue came the sound of rushing men who wildly shouted. somebody had grappled the bell-rope in the methodist church, and now over the town rang this solemn and terrible voice, speaking from the clouds. moved from its peaceful business, this bell gained a new spirit in the portentous night, and it swung the heart to and fro, up and down, with each peal of it. "just down to the corner, ma?" "willie, it's half-past nine now." [illustration: "they did not care much for john shipley"] vi the outlines of the house of dr. trescott had faded quietly into the evening, hiding a shape such as we call queen anne against the pall of the blackened sky. the neighborhood was at this time so quiet, and seemed so devoid of obstructions, that hannigan's dog thought it a good opportunity to prowl in forbidden precincts, and so came and pawed trescott's lawn, growling, and considering himself a formidable beast. later, peter washington strolled past the house and whistled, but there was no dim light shining from henry's loft, and presently peter went his way. the rays from the street, creeping in silvery waves over the grass, caused the row of shrubs along the drive to throw a clear, bold shade. a wisp of smoke came from one of the windows at the end of the house and drifted quietly into the branches of a cherry-tree. its companions followed it in slowly increasing numbers, and finally there was a current controlled by invisible banks which poured into the fruit-laden boughs of the cherry-tree. it was no more to be noted than if a troop of dim and silent gray monkeys had been climbing a grapevine into the clouds. after a moment the window brightened as if the four panes of it had been stained with blood, and a quick ear might have been led to imagine the fire-imps calling and calling, clan joining clan, gathering to the colors. from the street, however, the house maintained its dark quiet, insisting to a passer-by that it was the safe dwelling of people who chose to retire early to tranquil dreams. no one could have heard this low droning of the gathering clans. suddenly the panes of the red window tinkled and crashed to the ground, and at other windows there suddenly reared other flames, like bloody spectres at the apertures of a haunted house. this outbreak had been well planned, as if by professional revolutionists. a man's voice suddenly shouted: "fire! fire! fire!" hannigan had flung his pipe frenziedly from him because his lungs demanded room. he tumbled down from his perch, swung over the fence, and ran shouting towards the front-door of the trescotts'. then he hammered on the door, using his fists as if they were mallets. mrs. trescott instantly came to one of the windows on the second floor. afterwards she knew she had been about to say, "the doctor is not at home, but if you will leave your name, i will let him know as soon as he comes." hannigan's bawling was for a minute incoherent, but she understood that it was not about croup. "what?" she said, raising the window swiftly. "your house is on fire! you're all ablaze! move quick if--" his cries were resounding, in the street as if it were a cave of echoes. many feet pattered swiftly on the stones. there was one man who ran with an almost fabulous speed. he wore lavender trousers. a straw hat with a bright silk band was held half crumpled in his hand. as henry reached the front-door, hannigan had just broken the lock with a kick. a thick cloud of smoke poured over them, and henry, ducking his head, rushed into it. from hannigan's clamor he knew only one thing, but it turned him blue with horror. in the hall a lick of flame had found the cord that supported "signing the declaration." the engraving slumped suddenly down at one end, and then dropped to the floor, where it burst with the sound of a bomb. the fire was already roaring like a winter wind among the pines. at the head of the stairs mrs. trescott was waving her arms as if they were two reeds. "jimmie! save jimmie!" she screamed in henry's face. he plunged past her and disappeared, taking the long-familiar routes among these upper chambers, where he had once held office as a sort of second assistant house-maid. hannigan had followed him up the stairs, and grappled the arm of the maniacal woman there. his face was black with rage. "you must come down," he bellowed. she would only scream at him in reply: "jimmie! jimmie! save jimmie!" but he dragged her forth while she babbled at him. as they swung out into the open air a man ran across the lawn, and seizing a shutter, pulled it from its hinges and flung it far out upon the grass. then he frantically attacked the other shutters one by one. it was a kind of temporary insanity. "here, you," howled hannigan, "hold mrs. trescott--and stop--" the news had been telegraphed by a twist of the wrist of a neighbor who had gone to the fire-box at the corner, and the time when hannigan and his charge struggled out of the house was the time when the whistle roared its hoarse night call, smiting the crowd in the park, causing the leader of the band, who was about to order the first triumphal clang of a military march, to let his hand drop slowly to his knees. vii henry pawed awkwardly through the smoke in the upper halls. he had attempted to guide himself by the walls, but they were too hot. the paper was crimpling, and he expected at any moment to have a flame burst from under his hands. "jimmie!" he did not call very loud, as if in fear that the humming flames below would overhear him. "jimmie! oh, jimmie!" stumbling and panting, he speedily reached the entrance to jimmie's room and flung open the door. the little chamber had no smoke in it at all. it was faintly illuminated by a beautiful rosy light reflected circuitously from the flames that were consuming the house. the boy had apparently just been aroused by the noise. he sat in his bed, his lips apart, his eyes wide, while upon his little white-robed figure played caressingly the light from the fire. as the door flew open he had before him this apparition of his pal, a terror-stricken negro, all tousled and with wool scorching, who leaped upon him and bore him up in a blanket as if the whole affair were a case of kidnapping by a dreadful robber chief. without waiting to go through the usual short but complete process of wrinkling up his face, jimmie let out a gorgeous bawl, which resembled the expression of a calf's deepest terror. as johnson, bearing him, reeled into the smoke of the hall, he flung his arms about his neck and buried his face in the blanket. he called twice in muffled tones: "mam-ma! mam-ma!" when johnson came to the top of the stairs with his burden, he took a quick step backward. through the smoke that rolled to him he could see that the lower hall was all ablaze. he cried out then in a howl that resembled jimmie's former achievement. his legs gained a frightful faculty of bending sideways. swinging about precariously on these reedy legs, he made his way back slowly, back along the upper hall. from the way of him then, he had given up almost all idea of escaping from the burning house, and with it the desire. he was submitting, submitting because of his fathers, bending his mind in a most perfect slavery to this conflagration. he now clutched jimmie as unconsciously as when, running toward the house, he had clutched the hat with the bright silk band. suddenly he remembered a little private staircase which led from a bedroom to an apartment which the doctor had fitted up as a laboratory and work-house, where he used some of his leisure, and also hours when he might have been sleeping, in devoting himself to experiments which came in the way of his study and interest. when johnson recalled this stairway the submission to the blaze departed instantly. he had been perfectly familiar with it, but his confusion had destroyed the memory of it. in his sudden momentary apathy there had been little that resembled fear, but now, as a way of safety came to him, the old frantic terror caught him. he was no longer creature to the flames, and he was afraid of the battle with them. it was a singular and swift set of alternations in which he feared twice without submission, and submitted once without fear. "jimmie!" he wailed, as he staggered on his way. he wished this little inanimate body at his breast to participate in his tremblings. but the child had lain limp and still during these headlong charges and countercharges, and no sign came from him. johnson passed through two rooms and came to the head of the stairs. as he opened the door great billows of smoke poured out, but gripping jimmie closer, he plunged down through them. all manner of odors assailed him during this flight. they seemed to be alive with envy, hatred, and malice. at the entrance to the laboratory he confronted a strange spectacle. the room was like a garden in the region where might be burning flowers. flames of violet, crimson, green, blue, orange, and purple were blooming everywhere. there was one blaze that was precisely the hue of a delicate coral. in another place was a mass that lay merely in phosphorescent inaction like a pile of emeralds. but all these marvels were to be seen dimly through clouds of heaving, turning, deadly smoke. johnson halted for a moment on the threshold. he cried out again in the negro wail that had in it the sadness of the swamps. then he rushed across the room. an orange-colored flame leaped like a panther at the lavender trousers. this animal bit deeply into johnson. there was an explosion at one side, and suddenly before him there reared a delicate, trembling sapphire shape like a fairy lady. with a quiet smile she blocked his path and doomed him and jimmie. johnson shrieked, and then ducked in the manner of his race in fights. he aimed to pass under the left guard of the sapphire lady. but she was swifter than eagles, and her talons caught in him as he plunged past her. bowing his head as if his neck had been struck, johnson lurched forward, twisting this way and that way. he fell on his back. the still form in the blanket flung from his arms, rolled to the edge of the floor and beneath the window. johnson had fallen with his head at the base of an old-fashioned desk. there was a row of jars upon the top of this desk. for the most part, they were silent amid this rioting, but there was one which seemed to hold a scintillant and writhing serpent. suddenly the glass splintered, and a ruby-red snakelike thing poured its thick length out upon the top of the old desk. it coiled and hesitated, and then began to swim a languorous way down the mahogany slant. at the angle it waved its sizzling molten head to and fro over the closed eyes of the man beneath it. then, in a moment, with a mystic impulse, it moved again, and the red snake flowed directly down into johnson's upturned face. afterwards the trail of this creature seemed to reek, and amid flames and low explosions drops like red-hot jewels pattered softly down it at leisurely intervals. [illustration: "in the laboratory"] viii suddenly all roads led to dr. trescott's. the whole town flowed towards one point. chippeway hose company number one toiled desperately up bridge street hill even as the tuscaroras came in an impetuous sweep down niagara avenue. meanwhile the machine of the hook-and-ladder experts from across the creek was spinning on its way. the chief of the fire department had been playing poker in the rear room of whiteley's cigar-store, but at the first breath of the alarm he sprang through the door like a man escaping with the kitty. in whilomville, on these occasions, there was always a number of people who instantly turned their attention to the bells in the churches and school-houses. the bells not only emphasized the alarm, but it was the habit to send these sounds rolling across the sky in a stirring brazen uproar until the flames were practically vanquished. there was also a kind of rivalry as to which bell should be made to produce the greatest din. even the valley church, four miles away among the farms, had heard the voices of its brethren, and immediately added a quaint little yelp. dr. trescott had been driving homeward, slowly smoking a cigar, and feeling glad that this last case was now in complete obedience to him, like a wild animal that he had subdued, when he heard the long whistle, and chirped to his horse under the unlicensed but perfectly distinct impression that a fire had broken out in oakhurst, a new and rather high-flying suburb of the town which was at least two miles from his own home. but in the second blast and in the ensuing silence he read the designation of his own district. he was then only a few blocks from his house. he took out the whip and laid it lightly on the mare. surprised and frightened at this extraordinary action, she leaped forward, and as the reins straightened like steel bands, the doctor leaned backward a trifle. when the mare whirled him up to the closed gate he was wondering whose house could be afire. the man who had rung the signal-box yelled something at him, but he already knew. he left the mare to her will. in front of his door was a maniacal woman in a wrapper. "ned!" she screamed at sight of him. "jimmie! save jimmie!" trescott had grown hard and chill. "where?" he said. "where?" mrs. trescott's voice began to bubble. "up--up--up--" she pointed at the second-story windows. hannigan was already shouting: "don't go in that way! you can't go in that way!" trescott ran around the corner of the house and disappeared from them. he knew from the view he had taken of the main hall that it would be impossible to ascend from there. his hopes were fastened now to the stairway which led from the laboratory. the door which opened from this room out upon the lawn was fastened with a bolt and lock, but he kicked close to the lock and then close to the bolt. the door with a loud crash flew back. the doctor recoiled from the roll of smoke, and then bending low, he stepped into the garden of burning flowers. on the floor his stinging eyes could make out a form in a smouldering blanket near the window. then, as he carried his son towards the door, he saw that the whole lawn seemed now alive with men and boys, the leaders in the great charge that the whole town was making. they seized him and his burden, and overpowered him in wet blankets and water. but hannigan was howling: "johnson is in there yet! henry johnson is in there yet! he went in after the kid! johnson is in there yet!" these cries penetrated to the sleepy senses of trescott, and he struggled with his captors, swearing, unknown to him and to them, all the deep blasphemies of his medical-student days. he rose to his feet and went again towards the door of the laboratory. they endeavored to restrain him, although they were much affrighted at him. but a young man who was a brakeman on the railway, and lived in one of the rear streets near the trescotts, had gone into the laboratory and brought forth a thing which he laid on the grass. ix there were hoarse commands from in front of the house. "turn on your water, five!" "let 'er go, one!" the gathering crowd swayed this way and that way. the flames, towering high, cast a wild red light on their faces. there came the clangor of a gong from along some adjacent street. the crowd exclaimed at it. "here comes number three!" "that's three a-comin'!" a panting and irregular mob dashed into view, dragging a hose-cart. a cry of exultation arose from the little boys. "here's three!" the lads welcomed never-die hose company number three as if it was composed of a chariot dragged by a band of gods. the perspiring citizens flung themselves into the fray. the boys danced in impish joy at the displays of prowess. they acclaimed the approach of number two. they welcomed number four with cheers. they were so deeply moved by this whole affair that they bitterly guyed the late appearance of the hook and ladder company, whose heavy apparatus had almost stalled them on the bridge street hill. the lads hated and feared a fire, of course. they did not particularly want to have anybody's house burn, but still it was fine to see the gathering of the companies, and amid a great noise to watch their heroes perform all manner of prodigies. they were divided into parties over the worth of different companies, and supported their creeds with no small violence. for instance, in that part of the little city where number four had its home it would be most daring for a boy to contend the superiority of any other company. likewise, in another quarter, where a strange boy was asked which fire company was the best in whilomville, he was expected to answer "number one." feuds, which the boys forgot and remembered according to chance or the importance of some recent event, existed all through the town. they did not care much for john shipley, the chief of the department. it was true that he went to a fire with the speed of a falling angel, but when there he invariably lapsed into a certain still mood, which was almost a preoccupation, moving leisurely around the burning structure and surveying it, putting meanwhile at a cigar. this quiet man, who even when life was in danger seldom raised his voice, was not much to their fancy. now old sykes huntington, when he was chief, used to bellow continually like a bull and gesticulate in a sort of delirium. he was much finer as a spectacle than this shipley, who viewed a fire with the same steadiness that he viewed a raise in a large jack-pot. the greater number of the boys could never understand why the members of these companies persisted in re-electing shipley, although they often pretended to understand it, because "my father says" was a very formidable phrase in argument, and the fathers seemed almost unanimous in advocating shipley. at this time there was considerable discussion as to which company had gotten the first stream of water on the fire. most of the boys claimed that number five owned that distinction, but there was a determined minority who contended for number one. boys who were the blood adherents of other companies were obliged to choose between the two on this occasion, and the talk waxed warm. but a great rumor went among the crowds. it was told with hushed voices. afterwards a reverent silence fell even upon the boys. jimmie trescott and henry johnson had been burned to death, and dr. trescott himself had been most savagely hurt. the crowd did not even feel the police pushing at them. they raised their eyes, shining now with awe, towards the high flames. the man who had information was at his best. in low tones he described the whole affair. "that was the kid's room--in the corner there. he had measles or somethin', and this coon--johnson--was a-settin' up with 'im, and johnson got sleepy or somethin' and upset the lamp, and the doctor he was down in his office, and he came running up, and they all got burned together till they dragged 'em out." another man, always preserved for the deliverance of the final judgment, was saying: "oh, they'll die sure. burned to flinders. no chance. hull lot of 'em. anybody can see." the crowd concentrated its gaze still more closely upon these flags of fire which waved joyfully against the black sky. the bells of the town were clashing unceasingly. a little procession moved across the lawn and towards the street. there were three cots, borne by twelve of the firemen. the police moved sternly, but it needed no effort of theirs to open a lane for this slow cortege. the men who bore the cots were well known to the crowd, but in this solemn parade during the ringing of the bells and the shouting, and with the red glare upon the sky, they seemed utterly foreign, and whilomville paid them a deep respect. each man in this stretcher party had gained a reflected majesty. they were footmen to death, and the crowd made subtle obeisance to this august dignity derived from three prospective graves. one woman turned away with a shriek at sight of the covered body on the first stretcher, and people faced her suddenly in silent and mournful indignation. otherwise there was barely a sound as these twelve important men with measured tread carried their burdens through the throng. the little boys no longer discussed the merits of the different fire companies. for the greater part they had been routed. only the more courageous viewed closely the three figures veiled in yellow blankets. x old judge denning hagenthorpe, who lived nearly opposite the trescotts, had thrown his door wide open to receive the afflicted family. when it was publicly learned that the doctor and his son and the negro were still alive, it required a specially detailed policeman to prevent people from scaling the front porch and interviewing these sorely wounded. one old lady appeared with a miraculous poultice, and she quoted most damning scripture to the officer when he said that she could not pass him. throughout the night some lads old enough to be given privileges or to compel them from their mothers remained vigilantly upon the kerb in anticipation of a death or some such event. the reporter of the morning tribune rode thither on his bicycle every hour until three o'clock. six of the ten doctors in whilomville attended at judge hagenthorpe's house. almost at once they were able to know that trescott's burns were not vitally important. the child would possibly be scarred badly, but his life was undoubtedly safe. as for the negro henry johnson, he could not live. his body was frightfully seared, but more than that, he now had no face. his face had simply been burned away. trescott was always asking news of the two other patients. in the morning he seemed fresh and strong, so they told him that johnson was doomed. they then saw him stir on the bed, and sprang quickly to see if the bandages needed readjusting. in the sudden glance he threw from one to another he impressed them as being both leonine and impracticable. the morning paper announced the death of henry johnson. it contained a long interview with edward j. hannigan, in which the latter described in full the performance of johnson at the fire. there was also an editorial built from all the best words in the vocabulary of the staff. the town halted in its accustomed road of thought, and turned a reverent attention to the memory of this hostler. in the breasts of many people was the regret that they had not known enough to give him a hand and a lift when he was alive, and they judged themselves stupid and ungenerous for this failure. the name of henry johnson became suddenly the title of a saint to the little boys. the one who thought of it first could, by quoting it in an argument, at once overthrow his antagonist, whether it applied to the subject or whether it did not. "nigger, nigger, never die. black face and shiny eye." boys who had called this odious couplet in the rear of johnson's march buried the fact at the bottom of their hearts. later in the day miss bella farragut, of no. watermelon alley, announced that she had been engaged to marry mr. henry johnson. xi the old judge had a cane with an ivory head. he could never think at his best until he was leaning slightly on this stick and smoothing the white top with slow movements of his hands. it was also to him a kind of narcotic. if by any chance he mislaid it, he grew at once very irritable, and was likely to speak sharply to his sister, whose mental incapacity he had patiently endured for thirty years in the old mansion on ontario street. she was not at all aware of her brother's opinion of her endowments, and so it might be said that the judge had successfully dissembled for more than a quarter of a century, only risking the truth at the times when his cane was lost. on a particular day the judge sat in his armchair on the porch. the sunshine sprinkled through the lilac-bushes and poured great coins on the boards. the sparrows disputed in the trees that lined the pavements. the judge mused deeply, while his hands gently caressed the ivory head of his cane. finally he arose and entered the house, his brow still furrowed in a thoughtful frown. his stick thumped solemnly in regular beats. on the second floor he entered a room where dr. trescott was working about the bedside of henry johnson. the bandages on the negro's head allowed only one thing to appear, an eye, which unwinkingly stared at the judge. the later spoke to trescott on the condition of the patient. afterward he evidently had something further to say, but he seemed to be kept from it by the scrutiny of the unwinking eye, at which he furtively glanced from time to time. when jimmie trescott was sufficiently recovered, his mother had taken him to pay a visit to his grandparents in connecticut. the doctor had remained to take care of his patients, but as a matter of truth he spent most of his time at judge hagenthorpe's house, where lay henry johnson. here he slept and ate almost every meal in the long nights and days of his vigil. at dinner, and away from the magic of the unwinking eye, the judge said, suddenly, "trescott, do you think it is--" as trescott paused expectantly, the judge fingered his knife. he said, thoughtfully, "no one wants to advance such ideas, but somehow i think that that poor fellow ought to die." there was in trescott's face at once a look of recognition, as if in this tangent of the judge he saw an old problem. he merely sighed and answered, "who knows?" the words were spoken in a deep tone that gave them an elusive kind of significance. the judge retreated to the cold manner of the bench. "perhaps we may not talk with propriety of this kind of action, but i am induced to say that you are performing a questionable charity in preserving this negro's life. as near as i can understand, he will hereafter be a monster, a perfect monster, and probably with an affected brain. no man can observe you as i have observed you and not know that it was a matter of conscience with you, but i am afraid, my friend, that it is one of the blunders of virtue." the judge had delivered his views with his habitual oratory. the last three words he spoke with a particular emphasis, as if the phrase was his discovery. the doctor made a weary gesture. "he saved my boy's life." "yes," said the judge, swiftly--"yes, i know!" "and what am i to do?" said trescott, his eyes suddenly lighting like an outburst from smouldering peat. "what am i to do? he gave himself for--for jimmie. what am i to do for him?" the judge abased himself completely before these words. he lowered his eyes for a moment. he picked at his cucumbers. presently he braced himself straightly in his chair. "he will be your creation, you understand. he is purely your creation. nature has very evidently given him up. he is dead. you are restoring him to life. you are making him, and he will be a monster, and with no mind. "he will be what you like, judge," cried trescott, in sudden, polite fury. "he will be anything, but, by god! he saved my boy." the judge interrupted in a voice trembling with emotion: "trescott! trescott! don't i know?" trescott had subsided to a sullen mood. "yes, you know," he answered, acidly; "but you don't know all about your own boy being saved from death." this was a perfectly childish allusion to the judge's bachelorhood. trescott knew that the remark was infantile, but he seemed to take desperate delight in it. but it passed the judge completely. it was not his spot. "i am puzzled," said he, in profound thought. "i don't know what to say." trescott had become repentant. "don't think i don't appreciate what you say, judge. but--" "of course!" responded the judge, quickly. "of course." "it--" began trescott. "of course," said the judge. in silence they resumed their dinner. "well," said the judge, ultimately, "it is hard for a man to know what to do." "it is," said the doctor, fervidly. there was another silence. it was broken by the judge: "look here, trescott; i don't want you to think--" "no, certainly not," answered the doctor, earnestly. "well, i don't want you to think i would say anything to--it was only that i thought that i might be able to suggest to you that--perhaps--the affair was a little dubious." with an appearance of suddenly disclosing his real mental perturbation, the doctor said: "well, what would you do? would you kill him?" he asked, abruptly and sternly. "trescott, you fool," said the old man, gently. "oh, well, i know, judge, but then--" he turned red, and spoke with new violence: "say, he saved my boy--do you see? he saved my boy." "you bet he did," cried the judge, with enthusiasm. "you bet he did." and they remained for a time gazing at each other, their faces illuminated with memories of a certain deed. after another silence, the judge said, "it is hard for a man to know what to do." xii late one evening trescott, returning from a professional call, paused his buggy at the hagenthorpe gate. he tied the mare to the old tin-covered post, and entered the house. ultimately he appeared with a companion--a man who walked slowly and carefully, as if he were learning. he was wrapped to the heels in an old-fashioned ulster. they entered the buggy and drove away. after a silence only broken by the swift and musical humming of the wheels on the smooth road, trescott spoke. "henry," he said, "i've got you a home here with old alek williams. you will have everything you want to eat and a good place to sleep, and i hope you will get along there all right. i will pay all your expenses, and come to see you as often as i can. if you don't get along, i want you to let me know as soon as possible, and then we will do what we can to make it better." the dark figure at the doctor's side answered with a cheerful laugh. "these buggy wheels don' look like i washed 'em yesterday, docteh," he said. trescott hesitated for a moment, and then went on insistently, "i am taking you to alek williams, henry, and i--" the figure chuckled again. "no, 'deed! no, seh! alek williams don' know a hoss! 'deed he don't. he don' know a hoss from a pig." the laugh that followed was like the rattle of pebbles. trescott turned and looked sternly and coldly at the dim form in the gloom from the buggy-top. "henry," he said, "i didn't say anything about horses. i was saying--" "hoss? hoss?" said the quavering voice from these near shadows. "hoss? 'deed i don' know all erbout a boss! 'deed i don't." there was a satirical chuckle. at the end of three miles the mare slackened and the doctor leaned forward, peering, while holding tight reins. the wheels of the buggy bumped often over out-cropping bowlders. a window shone forth, a simple square of topaz on a great black hill-side. four dogs charged the buggy with ferocity, and when it did not promptly retreat, they circled courageously around the flanks, baying. a door opened near the window in the hill-side, and a man came and stood on a beach of yellow light. "yah! yah! you roveh! you susie! come yah! come yah this minit!" trescott called across the dark sea of grass, "hello, alek!" "hello!" "come down here and show me where to drive." the man plunged from the beach into the surf, and trescott could then only trace his course by the fervid and polite ejaculations of a host who was somewhere approaching. presently williams took the mare by the head, and uttering cries of welcome and scolding the swarming dogs, led the equipage towards the lights. when they halted at the door and trescott was climbing out, williams cried, "will she stand, docteh?" "she'll stand all right, but you better hold her for a minute. now, henry." the doctor turned and held both arms to the dark figure. it crawled to him painfully like a man going down a ladder. williams took the mare away to be tied to a little tree, and when he returned he found them awaiting him in the gloom beyond the rays from the door. he burst out then like a siphon pressed by a nervous thumb. "hennery! hennery, ma ol' frien'. well, if i ain' glade. if i ain' glade!" trescott had taken the silent shape by the arm and led it forward into the full revelation of the light. "well, now, alek, you can take henry and put him to bed, and in the morning i will--" near the end of this sentence old williams had come front to front with johnson. he gasped for a second, and then yelled the yell of a man stabbed in the heart. for a fraction of a moment trescott seemed to be looking for epithets. then he roared: "you old black chump! you old black--shut up! shut up! do you hear?" williams obeyed instantly in the matter of his screams, but he continued in a lowered voice: "ma lode amassy! who'd ever think? ma lode amassy!" trescott spoke again in the manner of a commander of a battalion. "alek!" the old negro again surrendered, but to himself he repeated in a whisper, "ma lode!" he was aghast and trembling. as these three points of widening shadows approached the golden doorway a hale old negress appeared there, bowing. "good-evenin', docteh! good-evenin'! come in! come in!" she had evidently just retired from a tempestuous struggle to place the room in order, but she was now bowing rapidly. she made the effort of a person swimming. "don't trouble yourself, mary," said trescott, entering. "i've brought henry for you to take care of, and all you've got to do is to carry out what i tell you." learning that he was not followed, he faced the door, and said, "come in, henry." johnson entered. "whee!" shrieked mrs. williams. she almost achieved a back somersault. six young members of the tribe of williams made a simultaneous plunge for a position behind the stove, and formed a wailing heap. xiii "you know very well that you and your family lived usually on less than three dollars a week, and now that dr. trescott pays you five dollars a week for johnson's board, you live like millionaires. you haven't done a stroke of work since johnson began to board with you--everybody knows that--and so what are you kicking about?" the judge sat in his chair on the porch, fondling his cane, and gazing down at old williams, who stood under the lilac-bushes. "yes, i know, jedge," said the negro, wagging his head in a puzzled manner. "tain't like as if i didn't 'preciate what the docteh done, but--but--well, yeh see, jedge," he added, gaining a new impetus, "it's--it's hard wuk. this ol' man nev' did wuk so hard. lode, no." "don't talk such nonsense, alek," spoke the judge, sharply. "you have never really worked in your life--anyhow, enough to support a family of sparrows, and now when you are in a more prosperous condition than ever before, you come around talking like an old fool." the negro began to scratch his head. "yeh see, jedge," he said at last, "my ol' 'ooman she cain't 'ceive no lady callahs, nohow." "hang lady callers'" said the judge, irascibly. "if you have flour in the barrel and meat in the pot, your wife can get along without receiving lady callers, can't she?" "but they won't come ainyhow, jedge," replied williams, with an air of still deeper stupefaction. "noner ma wife's frien's ner noner ma frien's 'll come near ma res'dence." "well, let them stay home if they are such silly people." the old negro seemed to be seeking a way to elude this argument, but evidently finding none, he was about to shuffle meekly off. he halted, however. "jedge," said he, "ma ol' 'ooman's near driv' abstracted." "your old woman is an idiot," responded the judge. williams came very close and peered solemnly through a branch of lilac. "judge," he whispered, "the chillens." "what about them?" dropping his voice to funereal depths, williams said, "they--they cain't eat." "can't eat!" scoffed the judge, loudly. "can't eat! you must think i am as big an old fool as you are. can't eat--the little rascals! what's to prevent them from eating?" in answer, williams said, with mournful emphasis, "hennery." moved with a kind of satisfaction at his tragic use of the name, he remained staring at the judge for a sign of its effect. the judge made a gesture of irritation. "come, now, you old scoundrel, don't beat around the bush any more. what are you up to? what do you want? speak out like a man, and don't give me any more of this tiresome rigamarole." "i ain't er-beatin' round 'bout nuffin, jedge," replied williams, indignantly. "no, seh; i say whatter got to say right out. 'deed i do." "well, say it, then." "jedge," began the negro, taking off his hat and switching his knee with it, "lode knows i'd do jes 'bout as much fer five dollehs er week as ainy cul'd man, but--but this yere business is awful, jedge. i raikon 'ain't been no sleep in--in my house sence docteh done fetch 'im." "well, what do you propose to do about it?" williams lifted his eyes from the ground and gazed off through the trees. "raikon i got good appetite, an' sleep jes like er dog, but he--he's done broke me all up. 'tain't no good, nohow. i wake up in the night; i hear 'im, mebbe, er-whimperin' an' er-whimperin', an' i sneak an' i sneak until i try th' do' to see if he locked in. an' he keep me er-puzzlin' an' er-quakin' all night long. don't know how'll do in th' winter. can't let 'im out where th' chillen is. he'll done freeze where he is now." williams spoke these sentences as if he were talking to himself. after a silence of deep reflection he continued: "folks go round sayin' he ain't hennery johnson at all. they say he's er devil!" "what?" cried the judge. "yesseh," repeated williams, in tones of injury, as if his veracity had been challenged. "yesseh. i'm er-tellin' it to yeh straight, jedge. plenty cul'd people folks up my way say it is a devil." "well, you don't think so yourself, do you?" "no. 'tain't no devil. it's hennery johnson." "well, then, what is the matter with you? you don't care what a lot of foolish people say. go on 'tending to your business, and pay no attention to such idle nonsense." "'tis nonsense, jedge; but he _looks_ like er devil." "what do you care what he looks like?" demanded the judge. "ma rent is two dollehs and er half er month," said williams, slowly. "it might just as well be ten thousand dollars a month," responded the judge. "you never pay it, anyhow." "then, anoth' thing," continued williams, in his reflective tone. "if he was all right in his haid i could stan' it; but, jedge, he's crazier 'n er loon. then when he looks like er devil, an' done skears all ma frien's away, an' ma chillens cain't eat, an' ma ole 'ooman jes raisin' cain all the time, an' ma rent two dollehs an' er half er month, an' him not right in his haid, it seems like five dollehs er week--" the judge's stick came down sharply and suddenly upon the floor of the porch. "there," he said, "i thought that was what you were driving at." williams began swinging his head from side to side in the strange racial mannerism. "now hol' on a minnet, jedge," he said, defensively. "'tain't like as if i didn't 'preciate what the docteh done. 'tain't that. docteh trescott is er kind man, an' 'tain't like as if i didn't 'preciate what he done; but--but--" "but what? you are getting painful, alek. now tell me this: did you ever have five dollars a week regularly before in your life?" williams at once drew himself up with great dignity, but in the pause after that question he drooped gradually to another attitude. in the end he answered, heroically: "no, jedge, i 'ain't. an' 'tain't like as if i was er-sayin' five dollehs wasn't er lot er money for a man like me. but, jedge, what er man oughter git fer this kinder wuk is er salary. yesseh, jedge," he repeated, with a great impressive gesture; "fer this kinder wuk er man oughter git er salary." he laid a terrible emphasis upon the final word. the judge laughed. "i know dr. trescott's mind concerning this affair, alek; and if you are dissatisfied with your boarder, he is quite ready to move him to some other place; so, if you care to leave word with me that you are tired of the arrangement and wish it changed, he will come and take johnson away." williams scratched his head again in deep perplexity. "five dollehs is er big price fer bo'd, but 'tain't no big price fer the bo'd of er crazy man," he said, finally. "what do you think you ought to get?" asked the judge. "well," answered alek, in the manner of one deep in a balancing of the scales, "he looks like er devil, an' done skears e'rybody, an' ma chillens cain't eat, an' i cain't sleep, an' he ain't right in his haid, an'--" "you told me all those things." after scratching his wool, and beating his knee with his hat, and gazing off through the trees and down at the ground, williams said, as he kicked nervously at the gravel, "well, jedge, i think it is wuth--" he stuttered. "worth what?" "six dollehs," answered williams, in a desperate outburst. the judge lay back in his great arm-chair and went through all the motions of a man laughing heartily, but he made no sound save a slight cough. williams had been watching him with apprehension. "well," said the judge, "do you call six dollars a salary?" "no, seh," promptly responded williams. "'tain't a salary. no, 'deed! 'tain't a salary." he looked with some anger upon the man who questioned his intelligence in this way. "well, supposing your children can't eat?" "i--" "and supposing he looks like a devil? and supposing all those things continue? would you be satisfied with six dollars a week?" recollections seemed to throng in williams's mind at these interrogations, and he answered dubiously. "of co'se a man who ain't right in his haid, an' looks like er devil--but six dollehs--" after these two attempts at a sentence williams suddenly appeared as an orator, with a great shiny palm waving in the air. "i tell yeh, jedge, six dollehs is six dollehs, but if i git six dollehs for bo'ding hennery johnson, i uhns it! i uhns it!" "i don't doubt that you earn six dollars for every week's work you do," said the judge. "well, if i bo'd hennery johnson fer six dollehs er week, i uhns it! i uhns it!" cried williams, wildly. [illustration: "'if i get six dollehs for bo'ding hennery johnson, i uhns it'"] xiv reifsnyder's assistant had gone to his supper, and the owner of the shop was trying to placate four men who wished to be shaved at once. reifsnyder was very garrulous--a fact which made him rather remarkable among barbers, who, as a class, are austerely speechless, having been taught silence by the hammering reiteration of a tradition. it is the customers who talk in the ordinary event. as reifsnyder waved his razor down the cheek of a man in the chair, he turned often to cool the impatience of the others with pleasant talk, which they did not particularly heed. "oh, he should have let him die," said bainbridge, a railway engineer, finally replying to one of the barber's orations. "shut up, reif, and go on with your business!" instead, reifsnyder paused shaving entirely, and turned to front the speaker. "let him die?" he demanded. "how vas that? how can you let a man die?" "by letting him die, you chump," said the engineer. the others laughed a little, and reifsnyder turned at once to his work, sullenly, as a man overwhelmed by the derision of numbers. "how vas that?" he grumbled later. "how can you let a man die when he vas done so much for you?" "'when he vas done so much for you?'" repeated bainbridge. "you better shave some people. how vas that? maybe this ain't a barber shop?" a man hitherto silent now said, "if i had been the doctor, i would have done the same thing." "of course," said reifsnyder. "any man vould do it. any man that vas not like you, you--old--flint-hearted--fish." he had sought the final words with painful care, and he delivered the collection triumphantly at bainbridge. the engineer laughed. the man in the chair now lifted himself higher, while reifsnyder began an elaborate ceremony of anointing and combing his hair. now free to join comfortably in the talk, the man said: "they say he is the most terrible thing in the world. young johnnie bernard--that drives the grocery wagon--saw him up at alek williams's shanty, and he says he couldn't eat anything for two days." "chee!" said reifsnyder. "well, what makes him so terrible?" asked another. "because he hasn't got any face," replied the barber and the engineer in duct. "hasn't got any face!" repeated the man. "how can he do without any face?" "he has no face in the front of his head. in the place where his face ought to grow." bainbridge sang these lines pathetically as he arose and hung his hat on a hook. the man in the chair was about to abdicate in his favor. "get a gait on you now," he said to reifsnyder. "i go out at . ." as the barber foamed the lather on the cheeks of the engineer he seemed to be thinking heavily. then suddenly he burst out. "how would you like to be with no face?" he cried to the assemblage. "oh, if i had to have a face like yours--" answered one customer. bainbridge's voice came from a sea of lather. "you're kicking because if losing faces became popular, you'd have to go out of business." "i don't think it will become so much popular," said reifsnyder. "not if it's got to be taken off in the way his was taken off," said another man. "i'd rather keep mine, if you don't mind." "i guess so!" cried the barber. "just think!" the shaving of bainbridge had arrived at a time of comparative liberty for him. "i wonder what the doctor says to himself?" he observed. "he may be sorry he made him live." "it was the only thing he could do," replied a man. the others seemed to agree with him. "supposing you were in his place," said one, "and johnson had saved your kid. what would you do?" "certainly!" "of course! you would do anything on earth for him. you'd take all the trouble in the world for him. and spend your last dollar on him. well, then?" "i wonder how it feels to be without any face?" said reifsnyder, musingly. the man who had previously spoken, feeling that he had expressed himself well, repeated the whole thing. "you would do anything on earth for him. you'd take all the trouble in the world for him. and spend your last dollar on him. well, then?" "no, but look," said reifsnyder; "supposing you don't got a face!" xv as soon as williams was hidden from the view of the old judge he began to gesture and talk to himself. an elation had evidently penetrated to his vitals, and caused him to dilate as if he had been filled with gas. he snapped his fingers in the air, and whistled fragments of triumphal music. at times, in his progress towards his shanty, he indulged in a shuffling movement that was really a dance. it was to be learned from the intermediate monologue that he had emerged from his trials laurelled and proud. he was the unconquerable alexander williams. nothing could exceed the bold self-reliance of his manner. his kingly stride, his heroic song, the derisive flourish of his hands--all betokened a man who had successfully defied the world. on his way he saw zeke paterson coming to town. they hailed each other at a distance of fifty yards. "how do, broth' paterson?" "how do, broth' williams?" they were both deacons. "is you' folks well, broth' paterson?" "middlin', middlin'. how's you' folks, broth' williams?" neither of them had slowed his pace in the smallest degree. they had simply begun this talk when a considerable space separated them, continued it as they passed, and added polite questions as they drifted steadily apart. williams's mind seemed to be a balloon. he had been so inflated that he had not noticed that paterson had definitely shied into the dry ditch as they came to the point of ordinary contact. afterwards, as he went a lonely way, he burst out again in song and pantomimic celebration of his estate. his feet moved in prancing steps. when he came in sight of his cabin, the fields were bathed in a blue dusk, and the light in the window was pale. cavorting and gesticulating, he gazed joyfully for some moments upon this light. then suddenly another idea seemed to attack his mind, and he stopped, with an air of being suddenly dampened. in the end he approached his home as if it were the fortress of an enemy. some dogs disputed his advance for a loud moment, and then discovering their lord, slunk away embarrassed. his reproaches were addressed to them in muffled tones. arriving at the door, he pushed it open with the timidity of a new thief. he thrust his head cautiously sideways, and his eyes met the eyes of his wife, who sat by the table, the lamp-light defining a half of her face. '"sh!" he said, uselessly. his glance travelled swiftly to the inner door which shielded the one bed-chamber. the pickaninnies, strewn upon the floor of the living-room, were softly snoring. after a hearty meal they had promptly dispersed themselves about the place and gone to sleep. "'sh!" said williams again to his motionless and silent wife. he had allowed only his head to appear. his wife, with one hand upon the edge of the table and the other at her knee, was regarding him with wide eyes and parted lips as if he were a spectre. she looked to be one who was living in terror, and even the familiar face at the door had thrilled her because it had come suddenly. williams broke the tense silence. "is he all right?" he whispered, waving his eyes towards the inner door. following his glance timorously, his wife nodded, and in a low tone answered: "i raikon he's done gone t' sleep." williams then slunk noiselessly across his threshold. he lifted a chair, and with infinite care placed it so that it faced the dreaded inner door. his wife moved slightly, so as to also squarely face it. a silence came upon them in which they seemed to be waiting for a calamity, pealing and deadly. williams finally coughed behind his hand. his wife started, and looked upon him in alarm. "pears like he done gwine keep quiet ternight," he breathed. they continually pointed their speech and their looks at the inner door, paying it the homage due to a corpse or a phantom. another long stillness followed this sentence. their eyes shone white and wide. a wagon rattled down the distant road. from their chairs they looked at the window, and the effect of the light in the cabin was a presentation of an intensely black and solemn night. the old woman adopted the attitude used always in church at funerals. at times she seemed to be upon the point of breaking out in prayer. "he mighty quiet ter-night," whispered williams. "was he good ter-day?" for answer his wife raised her eyes to the ceiling in the supplication of job. williams moved restlessly. finally he tiptoed to the door. he knelt slowly and without a sound, and placed his ear near the key-hole. hearing a noise behind him, he turned quickly. his wife was staring at him aghast. she stood in front of the stove, and her arms were spread out in the natural movement to protect all her sleeping ducklings. but williams arose without having touched the door. "i raikon he er-sleep," he said, fingering his wool. he debated with himself for some time. during this interval his wife remained, a great fat statue of a mother shielding her children. it was plain that his mind was swept suddenly by a wave of temerity. with a sounding step he moved towards the door. his fingers were almost upon the knob when he swiftly ducked and dodged away, clapping his hands to the back of his head. it was as if the portal had threatened him. there was a little tumult near the stove, where mrs. williams's desperate retreat had involved her feet with the prostrate children. after the panic williams bore traces of a feeling of shame. he returned to the charge. he firmly grasped the knob with his left hand, and with his other hand turned the key in the lock. he pushed the door, and as it swung portentously open he sprang nimbly to one side like the fearful slave liberating the lion. near the stove a group had formed, the terror stricken mother, with her arms stretched, and the aroused children clinging frenziedly to her skirts. the light streamed after the swinging door, and disclosed a room six feet one way and six feet the other way. it was small enough to enable the radiance to lay it plain. williams peered warily around the corner made by the door-post. suddenly he advanced, retired, and advanced again with a howl. his palsied family had expected him to spring backward, and at his howl they heaped themselves wondrously. but williams simply stood in the little room emitting his howls before an open window. "he's gone! he's gone! he's gone!" his eye and his hand had speedily proved the fact. he had even thrown open a little cupboard. presently he came flying out. he grabbed his hat, and hurled the outer door back upon its hinges. then he tumbled headlong into the night. he was yelling: "docteh trescott! docteh trescott!" he ran wildly through the fields, and galloped in the direction of town. he continued to call to trescott, as if the latter was within easy hearing. it was as if trescott was poised in the contemplative sky over the running negro, and could heed this reaching voice--"docteh trescott!" in the cabin, mrs. williams, supported by relays from the battalion of children, stood quaking watch until the truth of daylight came as a reinforcement and made the arrogant, strutting, swashbuckler children, and a mother who proclaimed her illimitable courage. [illustration: "the door swung portentously open"] xvi theresa page was giving a party. it was the outcome of a long series of arguments addressed to her mother, which had been overheard in part by her father. he had at last said five words, "oh, let her have it." the mother had then gladly capitulated. theresa had written nineteen invitations, and distributed them at recess to her schoolmates. later her mother had composed five large cakes, and still later a vast amount of lemonade. so the nine little girls and the ten little boys sat quite primly in the dining-room, while theresa and her mother plied them with cake and lemonade, and also with ice-cream. this primness sat now quite strangely upon them. it was owing to the presence of mrs. page. previously in the parlor alone with their games they had overturned a chair; the boys had let more or less of their hoodlum spirit shine forth. but when circumstances could be possibly magnified to warrant it, the girls made the boys victims of an insufferable pride, snubbing them mercilessly. so in the dining-room they resembled a class at sunday-school, if it were not for the subterranean smiles, gestures, rebuffs, and poutings which stamped the affair as a children's party. two little girls of this subdued gathering were planted in a settle with their backs to the broad window. they were beaming lovingly upon each other with an effect of scorning the boys. hearing a noise behind her at the window, one little girl turned to face it. instantly she screamed and sprang away, covering her face with her hands. "what was it? what was it?" cried every one in a roar. some slight movement of the eyes of the weeping and shuddering child informed the company that she had been frightened by an appearance at the window. at once they all faced the imperturbable window, and for a moment there was a silence. an astute lad made an immediate census of the other lads. the prank of slipping out and looming spectrally at a window was too venerable. but the little boys were all present and astonished. as they recovered their minds they uttered warlike cries, and through a side door sallied rapidly out against the terror. they vied with each other in daring. none wished particularly to encounter a dragon in the darkness of the garden, but there could be no faltering when the fair ones in the dining-room were present. calling to each other in stern voices, they went dragooning over the lawn, attacking the shadows with ferocity, but still with the caution of reasonable beings. they found, however, nothing new to the peace of the night. of course there was a lad who told a great lie. he described a grim figure, bending low and slinking off along the fence. he gave a number of details, rendering his lie more splendid by a repetition of certain forms which he recalled from romances. for instance, he insisted that he had heard the creature emit a hollow laugh. inside the house the little girl who had raised the alarm was still shuddering and weeping. with the utmost difficulty was she brought to a state approximating calmness by mrs. page. then she wanted to go home at once. page entered the house at this time. he had exiled himself until he concluded that this children's party was finished and gone. he was obliged to escort the little girl home because she screamed again when they opened the door and she saw the night. she was not coherent even to her mother. was it a man? she didn't know. it was simply a thing, a dreadful thing. xvii in watermelon alley the farraguts were spending their evening as usual on the little rickety porch. sometimes they howled gossip to other people on other rickety porches. the thin wail of a baby arose from a near house. a man had a terrific altercation with his wife, to which the alley paid no attention at all. there appeared suddenly before the farraguts a monster making a low and sweeping bow. there was an instant's pause, and then occurred something that resembled the effect of an upheaval of the earth's surface. the old woman hurled herself backward with a dreadful cry. young sim had been perched gracefully on a railing. at sight of the monster he simply fell over it to the ground. he made no sound, his eyes stuck out, his nerveless hands tried to grapple the rail to prevent a tumble, and then he vanished. bella, blubbering, and with her hair suddenly and mysteriously dishevelled, was crawling on her hands and knees fearsomely up the steps. standing before this wreck of a family gathering, the monster continued to bow. it even raised a deprecatory claw. "doh' make no botheration 'bout me, miss fa'gut," it said, politely. "no, 'deed. i jes drap in ter ax if yer well this evenin', miss fa'gut. don' make no botheration. no, 'deed. i gwine ax you to go to er daince with me, miss fa'gut. i ax you if i can have the magnifercent gratitude of you' company on that 'casion, miss fa'gut." the girl cast a miserable glance behind her. she was still crawling away. on the ground beside the porch young sim raised a strange bleat, which expressed both his fright and his lack of wind. presently the monster, with a fashionable amble, ascended the steps after the girl. she grovelled in a corner of the room as the creature took a chair. it seated itself very elegantly on the edge. it held an old cap in both hands. "don' make no botheration, miss fa'gut. don' make no botherations. no, 'deed. i jes drap in ter ax you if you won' do me the proud of acceptin' ma humble invitation to er daince, miss fa'gut." she shielded her eyes with her arms and tried to crawl past it, but the genial monster blocked the way. "i jes drap in ter ax you 'bout er daince, miss fa'gut. i ax you if i kin have the magnifercent gratitude of you' company on that 'casion, miss fa'gut." in a last outbreak of despair, the girl, shuddering and wailing, threw herself face downward on the floor, while the monster sat on the edge of the chair gabbling courteous invitations, and holding the old hat daintily to his stomach. at the back of the house, mrs. farragut, who was of enormous weight, and who for eight years had done little more than sit in an armchair and describe her various ailments, had with speed and agility scaled a high board fence. [illustration: "mrs. farragut"] xviii the black mass in the middle of trescott's property was hardly allowed to cool before the builders were at work on another house. it had sprung upward at a fabulous rate. it was like a magical composition born of the ashes. the doctor's office was the first part to be completed, and he had already moved in his new books and instruments and medicines. trescott sat before his desk when the chief of police arrived. "well, we found him," said the latter. "did you?" cried the doctor. "where?" "shambling around the streets at daylight this morning. i'll be blamed if i can figure on where he passed the night." "where is he now?" "oh, we jugged him. i didn't know what else to do with him. that's what i want you to tell me. of course we can't keep him. no charge could be made, you know." "i'll come down and get him." the official grinned retrospectively. "must say he had a fine career while he was out. first thing he did was to break up a children's party at page's. then he went to watermelon alley. whoo! he stampeded the whole outfit. men, women, and children running pell-mell, and yelling. they say one old woman broke her leg, or something, shinning over a fence. then he went right out on the main street, and an irish girl threw a fit, and there was a sort of a riot. he began to run, and a big crowd chased him, firing rocks. but he gave them the slip somehow down there by the foundry and in the railroad yard. we looked for him all night, but couldn't find him." "was he hurt any? did anybody hit him with a stone?" "guess there isn't much of him to hurt any more, is there? guess he's been hurt up to the limit. no. they never touched him. of course nobody really wanted to hit him, but you know how a crowd gets. it's like--it's like--" "yes, i know." for a moment the chief of the police looked reflectively at the floor. then he spoke hesitatingly. "you know jake winter's little girl was the one that he scared at the party. she is pretty sick, they say." "is she? why, they didn't call me. i always attend the winter family." "no? didn't they?" asked the chief, slowly. "well--you know--winter is--well, winter has gone clean crazy over this business. he wanted--he wanted to have you arrested." "have me arrested? the idiot! what in the name of wonder could he have me arrested for?" "of course. he is a fool. i told him to keep his trap shut. but then you know how he'll go all over town yapping about the thing. i thought i'd better tip you." "oh, he is of no consequence; but then, of course, i'm obliged to you, sam." "that's all right. well, you'll be down tonight and take him out, eh? you'll get a good welcome from the jailer. he don't like his job for a cent. he says you can have your man whenever you want him. he's got no use for him." "but what is this business of winter's about having me arrested?" "oh, it's a lot of chin about your having no right to allow this--this--this man to be at large. but i told him to tend to his own business. only i thought i'd better let you know. and i might as well say right now, doctor, that there is a good deal of talk about this thing. if i were you, i'd come to the jail pretty late at night, because there is likely to be a crowd around the door, and i'd bring a--er--mask, or some kind of a veil, anyhow." xix martha goodwin was single, and well along into the thin years. she lived with her married sister in whilomville. she performed nearly all the house-work in exchange for the privilege of existence. every one tacitly recognized her labor as a form of penance for the early end of her betrothed, who had died of small-pox, which he had not caught from her. but despite the strenuous and unceasing workaday of her life, she was a woman of great mind. she had adamantine opinions upon the situation in armenia, the condition of women in china, the flirtation between mrs. minster of niagara avenue and young griscom, the conflict in the bible class of the baptist sunday-school, the duty of the united states towards the cuban insurgents, and many other colossal matters. her fullest experience of violence was gained on an occasion when she had seen a hound clubbed, but in the plan which she had made for the reform of the world she advocated drastic measures. for instance, she contended that all the turks should be pushed into the sea and drowned, and that mrs. minster and young griscom should be hanged side by side on twin gallows. in fact, this woman of peace, who had seen only peace, argued constantly for a creed of illimitable ferocity. she was invulnerable on these questions, because eventually she overrode all opponents with a sniff. this sniff was an active force. it was to her antagonists like a bang over the head, and none was known to recover from this expression of exalted contempt. it left them windless and conquered. they never again came forward as candidates for suppression. and martha walked her kitchen with a stern brow, an invincible being like napoleon. nevertheless her acquaintances, from the pain of their defeats, had been long in secret revolt. it was in no wise a conspiracy, because they did not care to state their open rebellion, but nevertheless it was understood that any woman who could not coincide with one of martha's contentions was entitled to the support of others in the small circle. it amounted to an arrangement by which all were required to disbelieve any theory for which martha fought. this, however, did not prevent them from speaking of her mind with profound respect. two people bore the brunt of her ability. her sister kate was visibly afraid of her, while carrie dungen sailed across from her kitchen to sit respectfully at martha's feet and learn the business of the world. to be sure, afterwards, under another sun, she always laughed at martha and pretended to deride her ideas, but in the presence of the sovereign she always remained silent or admiring. kate, the sister, was of no consequence at all. her principal delusion was that she did all the work in the up-stairs rooms of the house, while martha did it down-stairs. the truth was seen only by the husband, who treated martha with a kindness that was half banter, half deference. martha herself had no suspicion that she was the only pillar of the domestic edifice. the situation was without definitions. martha made definitions, but she devoted them entirely to the armenians and griscom and the chinese and other subjects. her dreams, which in early days had been of love of meadows and the shade of trees, of the face of a man, were now involved otherwise, and they were companioned in the kitchen curiously, cuba, the hot-water kettle, armenia, the washing of the dishes, and the whole thing being jumbled. in regard to social misdemeanors, she who was simply the mausoleum of a dead passion was probably the most savage critic in town. this unknown woman, hidden in a kitchen as in a well, was sure to have a considerable effect of the one kind or the other in the life of the town. every time it moved a yard, she had personally contributed an inch. she could hammer so stoutly upon the door of a proposition that it would break from its hinges and fall upon her, but at any rate it moved. she was an engine, and the fact that she did not know that she was an engine contributed largely to the effect. one reason that she was formidable was that she did not even imagine that she was formidable. she remained a weak, innocent, and pig-headed creature, who alone would defy the universe if she thought the universe merited this proceeding. one day carrie dungen came across from her kitchen with speed. she had a great deal of grist. "oh," she cried, "henry johnson got away from where they was keeping him, and came to town last night, and scared everybody almost to death." martha was shining a dish-pan, polishing madly. no reasonable person could see cause for this operation, because the pan already glistened like silver. "well!" she ejaculated. she imparted to the word a deep meaning. "this, my prophecy, has come to pass." it was a habit. the overplus of information was choking carrie. before she could go on she was obliged to struggle for a moment. "and, oh, little sadie winter is awful sick, and they say jake winter was around this morning trying to get doctor trescott arrested. and poor old mrs. farragut sprained her ankle in trying to climb a fence. and there's a crowd around the jail all the time. they put henry in jail because they didn't know what else to do with him, i guess. they say he is perfectly terrible." martha finally released the dish-pan and confronted the headlong speaker. "well!" she said again, poising a great brown rag. kate had heard the excited new-comer, and drifted down from the novel in her room. she was a shivery little woman. her shoulder-blades seemed to be two panes of ice, for she was constantly shrugging and shrugging. "serves him right if he was to lose all his patients," she said suddenly, in blood-thirsty tones. she snipped her words out as if her lips were scissors. "well, he's likely to," shouted carrie dungen. "don't a lot of people say that they won't have him any more? if you're sick and nervous, doctor trescott would scare the life out of you, wouldn't he? he would me. i'd keep thinking." martha, stalking to and fro, sometimes surveyed the two other women with a contemplative frown. xx after the return from connecticut, little jimmie was at first much afraid of the monster who lived in the room over the carriage-house. he could not identify it in any way. gradually, however, his fear dwindled under the influence of a weird fascination. he sidled into closer and closer relations with it. one time the monster was seated on a box behind the stable basking in the rays of the afternoon sun. a heavy crepe veil was swathed about its head. little jimmie and many companions came around the corner of the stable. they were all in what was popularly known as the baby class, and consequently escaped from school a half-hour before the other children. they halted abruptly at sight of the figure on the box. jimmie waved his hand with the air of a proprietor. "there he is," he said. "o-o-o!" murmured all the little boys--"o-o-o!" they shrank back, and grouped according to courage or experience, as at the sound the monster slowly turned its head. jimmie had remained in the van alone. "don't be afraid! i won't let him hurt you," he said, delighted. "huh!" they replied, contemptuously. "we ain't afraid." jimmie seemed to reap all the joys of the owner and exhibitor of one of the world's marvels, while his audience remained at a distance--awed and entranced, fearful and envious. one of them addressed jimmie gloomily. "bet you dassent walk right up to him." he was an older boy than jimmie, and habitually oppressed him to a small degree. this new social elevation of the smaller lad probably seemed revolutionary to him. "huh!" said jimmie, with deep scorn. "dassent i? dassent i, hey? dassent i?" the group was immensely excited. it turned its eyes upon the boy that jimmie addressed. "no, you dassent," he said, stolidly, facing a moral defeat. he could see that jimmie was resolved. "no, you dassent," he repeated, doggedly. "ho?" cried jimmie. "you just watch!--you just watch!" amid a silence he turned and marched towards the monster. but possibly the palpable wariness of his companions had an effect upon him that weighed more than his previous experience, for suddenly, when near to the monster, he halted dubiously. but his playmates immediately uttered a derisive shout, and it seemed to force him forward. he went to the monster and laid his hand delicately on its shoulder. "hello, henry," he said, in a voice that trembled a trifle. the monster was crooning a weird line of negro melody that was scarcely more than a thread of sound, and it paid no heed to the boy. jimmie: strutted back to his companions. they acclaimed him and hooted his opponent. amid this clamor the larger boy with difficulty preserved a dignified attitude. "i dassent, dassent i?" said jimmie to him. "now, you're so smart, let's see you do it!" this challenge brought forth renewed taunts from the others. the larger boy puffed out his checks. "well, i ain't afraid," he explained, sullenly. he had made a mistake in diplomacy, and now his small enemies were tumbling his prestige all about his ears. they crowed like roosters and bleated like lambs, and made many other noises which were supposed to bury him in ridicule and dishonor. "well, i ain't afraid," he continued to explain through the din. jimmie, the hero of the mob, was pitiless. "you ain't afraid, hey?" he sneered. "if you ain't afraid, go do it, then." "well, i would if i wanted to," the other retorted. his eyes wore an expression of profound misery, but he preserved steadily other portions of a pot-valiant air. he suddenly faced one of his persecutors. "if you're so smart, why don't you go do it?" this persecutor sank promptly through the group to the rear. the incident gave the badgered one a breathing-spell, and for a moment even turned the derision in another direction. he took advantage of his interval. "i'll do it if anybody else will," he announced, swaggering to and fro. candidates for the adventure did not come forward. to defend themselves from this counter-charge, the other boys again set up their crowing and bleating. for a while they would hear nothing from him. each time he opened his lips their chorus of noises made oratory impossible. but at last he was able to repeat that he would volunteer to dare as much in the affair as any other boy. "well, you go first," they shouted. but jimmie intervened to once more lead the populace against the large boy. "you're mighty brave, ain't you?" he said to him. "you dared me to do it, and i did--didn't i? now who's afraid?" the others cheered this view loudly, and they instantly resumed the baiting of the large boy. he shamefacedly scratched his left shin with his right foot. "well, i ain't afraid." he cast an eye at the monster. "well, i ain't afraid." with a glare of hatred at his squalling tormentors, he finally announced a grim intention. "well, i'll do it, then, since you're so fresh. now!" the mob subsided as with a formidable countenance he turned towards the impassive figure on the box. the advance was also a regular progression from high daring to craven hesitation. at last, when some yards from the monster, the lad came to a full halt, as if he had encountered a stone wall. the observant little boys in the distance promptly hooted. stung again by these cries, the lad sneaked two yards forward. he was crouched like a young cat ready for a backward spring. the crowd at the rear, beginning to respect this display, uttered some encouraging cries. suddenly the lad gathered himself together, made a white and desperate rush forward, touched the monster's shoulder with a far-outstretched finger, and sped away, while his laughter rang out wild, shrill, and exultant. the crowd of boys reverenced him at once, and began to throng into his camp, and look at him, and be his admirers. jimmie was discomfited for a moment, but he and the larger boy, without agreement or word of any kind, seemed to recognize a truce, and they swiftly combined and began to parade before the others. "why, it's just as easy as nothing," puffed the larger boy. "ain't it, jim?" "course," blew jimmie. "why, it's as e-e-easy." they were people of another class. if they had been decorated for courage on twelve battle-fields, they could not have made the other boys more ashamed of the situation. meanwhile they condescended to explain the emotions of the excursion, expressing unqualified contempt for any one who could hang back. "why, it ain't nothin'. he won't do nothin' to you," they told the others, in tones of exasperation. one of the very smallest boys in the party showed signs of a wistful desire to distinguish himself, and they turned their attention to him, pushing at his shoulders while he swung away from them, and hesitated dreamily. he was eventually induced to make furtive expedition, but it was only for a few yards. then he paused, motionless, gazing with open mouth. the vociferous entreaties of jimmie and the large boy had no power over him. mrs. hannigan had come out on her back porch with a pail of water. from this coign she had a view of the secluded portion of the trescott grounds that was behind the stable. she perceived the group of boys, and the monster on the box. she shaded her eyes with her hand to benefit her vision. she screeched then as if she was being murdered. "eddie! eddie! you come home this minute!" her son querulously demanded, "aw, what for?" "you come home this minute. do you hear?" the other boys seemed to think this visitation upon one of their number required them to preserve for a time the hang-dog air of a collection of culprits, and they remained in guilty silence until the little hannigan, wrathfully protesting, was pushed through the door of his home. mrs. hannigan cast a piercing glance over the group, stared with a bitter face at the trescott house, as if this new and handsome edifice was insulting her, and then followed her son. there was wavering in the party. an inroad by one mother always caused them to carefully sweep the horizon to see if there were more coming. "this is my yard," said jimmie, proudly. "we don't have to go home." the monster on the box had turned its black crepe countenance towards the sky, and was waving its arms in time to a religious chant. "look at him now," cried a little boy. they turned, and were transfixed by the solemnity and mystery of the indefinable gestures. the wail of the melody was mournful and slow. they drew back. it seemed to spellbind them with the power of a funeral. they were so absorbed that they did not hear the doctor's buggy drive up to the stable. trescott got out, tied his horse, and approached the group. jimmie saw him first, and at his look of dismay the others wheeled. "what's all this, jimmie?" asked trescott, in surprise. the lad advanced to the front of his companions, halted, and said nothing. trescott's face gloomed slightly as he scanned the scene. "what were you doing, jimmie?" "we was playin'," answered jimmie, huskily. "playing at what?" "just playin'." trescott looked gravely at the other boys, and asked them to please go home. they proceeded to the street much in the manner of frustrated and revealed assassins. the crime of trespass on another boy's place was still a crime when they had only accepted the other boy's cordial invitation, and they were used to being sent out of all manner of gardens upon the sudden appearance of a father or a mother. jimmie had wretchedly watched the departure of his companions. it involved the loss of his position as a lad who controlled the privileges of his father's grounds, but then he knew that in the beginning he had no right to ask so many boys to be his guests. once on the sidewalk, however, they speedily forgot their shame as trespassers, and the large boy launched forth in a description of his success in the late trial of courage. as they went rapidly up the street, the little boy who had made the furtive expedition cried out confidently from the rear, "yes, and i went almost up to him, didn't i, willie?" the large boy crushed him in a few words. "huh!" he scoffed. "you only went a little way. i went clear up to him." the pace of the other boys was so manly that the tiny thing had to trot, and he remained at the rear, getting entangled in their legs in his attempts to reach the front rank and become of some importance, dodging this way and that way, and always piping out his little claim to glory. xxi "by-the-way, grace," said trescott, looking into the dining-room from his office door, "i wish you would send jimmie to me before school-time." when jimmie came, he advanced so quietly that trescott did not at first note him. "oh," he said, wheeling from a cabinet, "here you are, young man." "yes, sir." trescott dropped into his chair and tapped the desk with a thoughtful finger. "jimmie, what were you doing in the back garden yesterday--you and the other boys--to henry?" "we weren't doing anything, pa." trescott looked sternly into the raised eyes of his son. "are you sure you were not annoying him in any way? now what were you doing, exactly?" "why, we--why, we--now--willie dalzel said i dassent go right up to him, and i did; and then he did; and then--the other boys were 'fraid; and then--you comed." trescott groaned deeply. his countenance was so clouded in sorrow that the lad, bewildered by the mystery of it, burst suddenly forth in dismal lamentations. "there, there. don't cry, jim," said trescott, going round the desk. "only--" he sat in a great leather reading-chair, and took the boy on his knee. "only i want to explain to you--" after jimmie had gone to school, and as trescott was about to start on his round of morning calls, a message arrived from doctor moser. it set forth that the latter's sister was dying in the old homestead, twenty miles away up the valley, and asked trescott to care for his patients for the day at least. there was also in the envelope a little history of each case and of what had already been done. trescott replied to the messenger that he would gladly assent to the arrangement. he noted that the first name on moser's list was winter, but this did not seem to strike him as an important fact. when its turn came, he rang the winter bell. "good-morning, mrs. winter," he said, cheerfully, as the door was opened. "doctor moser has been obliged to leave town to-day, and he has asked me to come in his stead. how is the little girl this morning?" mrs. winter had regarded him in stony surprise. at last she said: "come in! i'll see my husband." she bolted into the house. trescott entered the hall, and turned to the left into the sitting-room. presently winter shuffled through the door. his eyes flashed towards trescott. he did not betray any desire to advance far into the room. "what do you want?" he said. "what do i want? what do i want?" repeated trescott, lifting his head suddenly. he had heard an utterly new challenge in the night of the jungle. "yes, that's what i want to know," snapped winter. "what do you want?" trescott was silent for a moment. he consulted moser's memoranda. "i see that your little girl's case is a trifle serious," he remarked. "i would advise you to call a physician soon. i will leave you a copy of dr. moser's record to give to any one you may call." he paused to transcribe the record on a page of his note-book. tearing out the leaf, he extended it to winter as he moved towards the door. the latter shrunk against the wall. his head was hanging as he reached for the paper. this caused him to grasp air, and so trescott simply let the paper flutter to the feet of the other man. "good-morning," said trescott from the hall. this placid retreat seemed to suddenly arouse winter to ferocity. it was as if he had then recalled all the truths which he had formulated to hurl at trescott. so he followed him into the hall, and down the hall to the door, and through the door to the porch, barking in fiery rage from a respectful distance. as trescott imperturbably turned the mare's head down the road, winter stood on the porch, still yelping. he was like a little dog. xxii "have you heard the news?" cried carrie dungen as she sped towards martha's kitchen. "have you heard the news?" her eyes were shining with delight. "no," answered martha's sister kate, bending forward eagerly. "what was it? what was it?" carrie appeared triumphantly in the open door. "oh, there's been an awful scene between doctor trescott and jake winter. i never thought that jake winter had any pluck at all, but this morning he told the doctor just what he thought of him." "well, what did he think of him?" asked martha. "oh, he called him everything. mrs. howarth heard it through her front blinds. it was terrible, she says. it's all over town now. everybody knows it." "didn't the doctor answer back?" "no! mrs. howarth--she says he never said a word. he just walked down to his buggy and got in, and drove off as co-o-o-l. but jake gave him jinks, by all accounts." "but what did he say?" cried kate, shrill and excited. she was evidently at some kind of a feast. "oh, he told him that sadie had never been well since that night henry johnson frightened her at theresa page's party, and he held him responsible, and how dared he cross his threshold--and--and--and--" "and what?" said martha. "did he swear at him?" said kate, in fearsome glee. "no--not much. he did swear at him a little, but not more than a man does anyhow when he is real mad, mrs. howarth says." "o-oh!" breathed kate. "and did he call him any names?" martha, at her work, had been for a time in deep thought. she now interrupted the others. "it don't seem as if sadie winter had been sick since that time henry johnson got loose. she's been to school almost the whole time since then, hasn't she?" they combined upon her in immediate indignation. "school? school? i should say not. don't think for a moment. school!" martha wheeled from the sink. she held an iron spoon, and it seemed as if she was going to attack them. "sadie winter has passed here many a morning since then carrying her schoolbag. where was she going? to a wedding?" the others, long accustomed to a mental tyranny, speedily surrendered. "did she?" stammered kate. "i never saw her." carrie dungen made a weak gesture. "if i had been doctor trescott," exclaimed martha, loudly, "i'd have knocked that miserable jake winter's head off." kate and carrie, exchanging glances, made an alliance in the air. "i don't see why you say that, martha," replied carrie, with considerable boldness, gaining support and sympathy from kate's smile. "i don't see how anybody can be blamed for getting angry when their little girl gets almost scared to death and gets sick from it, and all that. besides, everybody says--" "oh, i don't care what everybody says," said martha. "well, you can't go against the whole town," answered carrie, in sudden sharp defiance. "no, martha, you can't go against the whole town," piped kate, following her leader rapidly. "'the whole town,'" cried martha. "i'd like to know what you call 'the whole town.' do you call these silly people who are scared of henry johnson 'the whole town'?" "why, martha," said carrie, in a reasoning tone, "you talk as if you wouldn't be scared of him!" "no more would i," retorted martha. "o-oh, martha, how you talk!" said kate. "why, the idea! everybody's afraid of him." carrie was grinning. "you've never seen him, have you?" she asked, seductively. "no," admitted martha. "well, then, how do you know that you wouldn't be scared?" martha confronted her. "have you ever seen him? no? well, then, how do you know you _would_ be scared?" the allied forces broke out in chorus: "but, martha, everybody says so. everybody says so." "everybody says what?" "everybody that's seen him say they were frightened almost to death. tisn't only women, but it's men too. it's awful." martha wagged her head solemnly. "i'd try not to be afraid of him." "but supposing you could not help it?" said kate. "yes, and look here," cried carrie. "i'll tell you another thing. the hannigans are going to move out of the house next door." "on account of him?" demanded martha. carrie nodded. "mrs. hannigan says so herself." "well, of all things!" ejaculated martha. "going to move, eh? you don't say so! where they going to move to?" "down on orchard avenue." "well, of all things! nice house?" "i don't know about that. i haven't heard. but there's lots of nice houses on orchard." "yes, but they're all taken," said kate. "there isn't a vacant house on orchard avenue." "oh yes, there is," said martha. "the old hampstead house is vacant." "oh, of course," said kate. "but then i don't believe mrs. hannigan would like it there. i wonder where they can be going to move to?" "i'm sure i don't know," sighed martha. "it must be to some place we don't know about." "well." said carrie dungen, after a general reflective silence, "it's easy enough to find out, anyhow." "who knows--around here?" asked kate. "why, mrs. smith, and there she is in her garden," said carrie, jumping to her feet. as she dashed out of the door, kate and martha crowded at the window. carrie's voice rang out from near the steps. "mrs. smith! mrs. smith! do you know where the hannigans are going to move to?" xxiii the autumn smote the leaves, and the trees of whilomville were panoplied in crimson and yellow. the winds grew stronger, and in the melancholy purple of the nights the home shine of a window became a finer thing. the little boys, watching the sear and sorrowful leaves drifting down from the maples, dreamed of the near time when they could heap bushels in the streets and burn them during the abrupt evenings. three men walked down the niagara avenue. as they approached judge hagenthorpe's house he came down his walk to meet them in the manner of one who has been waiting. "are you ready, judge?" one said. "all ready," he answered. the four then walked to trescott's house. he received them in his office, where he had been reading. he seemed surprised at this visit of four very active and influential citizens, but he had nothing to say of it. after they were all seated, trescott looked expectantly from one face to another. there was a little silence. it was broken by john twelve, the wholesale grocer, who was worth $ , , and reported to be worth over a million. "well, doctor," he said, with a short laugh, "i suppose we might as well admit at once that we've come to interfere in something which is none of our business." "why, what is it?" asked trescott, again looking from one face to another. he seemed to appeal particularly to judge hagenthorpe, but the old man had his chin lowered musingly to his cane, and would not look at him. "it's about what nobody talks of--much," said twelve. "it's about henry johnson." trescott squared himself in his chair. "yes?" he said. having delivered himself of the title, twelve seemed to become more easy. "yes," he answered, blandly, "we wanted to talk to you about it." "yes?" said trescott. [illustration: "'it's about what nobody talks of--much,' said twelve"] twelve abruptly advanced on the main attack. "now see here, trescott, we like you, and we have come to talk right out about this business. it may be none of our affairs and all that, and as for me, i don't mind if you tell me so; but i am not going to keep quiet and see you ruin yourself. and that's how we all feel." "i am not ruining myself," answered trescott. "no, maybe you are not exactly ruining yourself," said twelve, slowly, "but you are doing yourself a great deal of harm. you have changed from being the leading doctor in town to about the last one. it is mainly because there are always a large number of people who are very thoughtless fools, of course, but then that doesn't change the condition." a man who had not heretofore spoken said, solemnly, "it's the women." "well, what i want to say is this," resumed twelve: "even if there are a lot of fools in the world, we can't see any reason why you should ruin yourself by opposing them. you can't teach them anything, you know." "i am not trying to teach them anything." trescott smiled wearily. "i--it is a matter of--well--" "and there are a good many of us that admire you for it immensely," interrupted twelve; "but that isn't going to change the minds of all those ninnies." "it's the women," stated the advocate of this view again. "well, what i want to say is this," said twelve. "we want you to get out of this trouble and strike your old gait again. you are simply killing your practice through your infernal pigheadedness. now this thing is out of the ordinary, but there must be ways to--to beat the game somehow, you see. so we've talked it over--about a dozen of us--and, as i say, if you want to tell us to mind our own business, why, go ahead; but we've talked it over, and we've come to the conclusion that the only way to do is to get johnson a place somewhere off up the valley, and--" trescott wearily gestured. "you don't know, my friend. everybody is so afraid of him, they can't even give him good care. nobody can attend to him as i do myself." "but i have a little no-good farm up beyond clarence mountain that i was going to give to henry," cried twelve, aggrieved. "and if you--and if you--if you--through your house burning down, or anything--why, all the boys were prepared to take him right off your hands, and--and--" trescott arose and went to the window. he turned his back upon them. they sat waiting in silence. when he returned he kept his face in the shadow. "no, john twelve," he said, "it can't be done." there was another stillness. suddenly a man stirred on his chair. "well, then, a public institution--" he began. "no," said trescott; "public institutions are all very good, but he is not going to one." in the background of the group old judge hagenthorpe was thoughtfully smoothing the polished ivory head of his cane. xxiv trescott loudly stamped the snow from his feet and shook the flakes from his shoulders. when he entered the house he went at once to the dining-room, and then to the sitting-room. jimmie was there, reading painfully in a large book concerning giraffes and tigers and crocodiles. "where is your mother, jimmie?" asked trescott. "i don't know, pa," answered the boy. "i think she is up-stairs." trescott went to the foot of the stairs and called, but there came no answer. seeing that the door of the little drawing-room was open, he entered. the room was bathed in the half-light that came from the four dull panes of mica in the front of the great stove. as his eyes grew used to the shadows he saw his wife curled in an arm-chair. he went to her. "why, grace." he said, "didn't you hear me calling you?" she made no answer, and as he bent over the chair he heard her trying to smother a sob in the cushion. "grace!" he cried. "you're crying!" she raised her face. "i've got a headache, a dreadful headache, ned." "a headache?" he repeated, in surprise and incredulity. he pulled a chair close to hers. later, as he cast his eye over the zone of light shed by the dull red panes, he saw that a low table had been drawn close to the stove, and that it was burdened with many small cups and plates of uncut tea-cake. he remembered that the day was wednesday, and that his wife received on wednesdays. "who was here to-day, gracie?" he asked. from his shoulder there came a mumble, "mrs. twelve." "was she--um," he said. "why--didn't anna hagenthorpe come over?" the mumble from his shoulder continued, "she wasn't well enough." glancing down at the cups, trescott mechanically counted them. there were fifteen of them. "there, there," he said. "don't cry, grace. don't cry." the wind was whining round the house, and the snow beat aslant upon the windows. sometimes the coal in the stove settled with a crumbling sound, and the four panes of mica flashed a sudden new crimson. as he sat holding her head on his shoulder, trescott found himself occasionally trying to count the cups. there were fifteen of them. ------ the blue hotel i the palace hotel at fort romper was painted a light blue, a shade that is on the legs of a kind of heron, causing the bird to declare its position against any background. the palace hotel, then, was always screaming and howling in a way that made the dazzling winter landscape of nebraska seem only a gray swampish hush. it stood alone on the prairie, and when the snow was falling the town two hundred yards away was not visible. but when the traveller alighted at the railway station he was obliged to pass the palace hotel before he could come upon the company of low clapboard houses which composed fort romper, and it was not to be thought that any traveller could pass the palace hotel without looking at it. pat scully, the proprietor, had proved himself a master of strategy when he chose his paints. it is true that on clear days, when the great trans-continental expresses, long lines of swaying pullmans, swept through fort romper, passengers were overcome at the sight, and the cult that knows the brown-reds and the subdivisions of the dark greens of the east expressed shame, pity, horror, in a laugh. but to the citizens of this prairie town and to the people who would naturally stop there, pat scully had performed a feat. with this opulence and splendor, these creeds, classes, egotisms, that streamed through romper on the rails day after day, they had no color in common. as if the displayed delights of such a blue hotel were not sufficiently enticing, it was scully's habit to go every morning and evening to meet the leisurely trains that stopped at romper and work his seductions upon any man that he might see wavering, gripsack in hand. one morning, when a snow-crusted engine dragged its long string of freight cars and its one passenger coach to the station, scully performed the marvel of catching three men. one was a shaky and quick-eyed swede, with a great shining cheap valise; one was a tall bronzed cowboy, who was on his way to a ranch near the dakota line; one was a little silent man from the east, who didn't look it, and didn't announce it. scully practically made them prisoners. he was so nimble and merry and kindly that each probably felt it would be the height of brutality to try to escape. they trudged off over the creaking board sidewalks in the wake of the eager little irishman. he wore a heavy fur cap squeezed tightly down on his head. it caused his two red ears to stick out stiffly, as if they were made of tin. at last, scully, elaborately, with boisterous hospitality, conducted them through the portals of the blue hotel. the room which they entered was small. it seemed to be merely a proper temple for an enormous stove, which, in the centre, was humming with godlike violence. at various points on its surface the iron had become luminous and glowed yellow from the heat. beside the stove scully's son johnnie was playing high-five with an old farmer who had whiskers both gray and sandy. they were quarrelling. frequently the old farmer turned his face towards a box of sawdust--colored brown from tobacco juice--that was behind the stove, and spat with an air of great impatience and irritation. with a loud flourish of words scully destroyed the game of cards, and bustled his son up-stairs with part of the baggage of the new guests. he himself conducted them to three basins of the coldest water in the world. the cowboy and the easterner burnished themselves fiery-red with this water, until it seemed to be some kind of a metal polish. the swede, however, merely dipped his fingers gingerly and with trepidation. it was notable that throughout this series of small ceremonies the three travellers were made to feel that scully was very benevolent. he was conferring great favors upon them. he handed the towel from one to the other with an air of philanthropic impulse. afterwards they went to the first room, and, sitting about the stove, listened to scully's officious clamor at his daughters, who were preparing the mid-day meal. they reflected in the silence of experienced men who tread carefully amid new people. nevertheless, the old farmer, stationary, invincible in his chair near the warmest part of the stove, turned his face from the sawdust box frequently and addressed a glowing commonplace to the strangers. usually he was answered in short but adequate sentences by either the cowboy or the easterner. the swede said nothing. he seemed to be occupied in making furtive estimates of each man in the room. one might have thought that he had the sense of silly suspicion which comes to guilt. he resembled a badly frightened man. later, at dinner, he spoke a little, addressing his conversation entirely to scully. he volunteered that he had come from new york, where for ten years he had worked as a tailor. these facts seemed to strike scully as fascinating, and afterwards he volunteered that he had lived at romper for fourteen years. the swede asked about the crops and the price of labor. he seemed barely to listen to scully's extended replies. his eyes continued to rove from man to man. finally, with a laugh and a wink, he said that some of these western communities were very dangerous; and after his statement he straightened his legs under the table, tilted his head, and laughed again, loudly. it was plain that the demonstration had no meaning to the others. they looked at him wondering and in silence. ii as the men trooped heavily back into the front-room, the two little windows presented views of a turmoiling sea of snow. the huge arms of the wind were making attempts--mighty, circular, futile--to embrace the flakes as they sped. a gate-post like a still man with a blanched face stood aghast amid this profligate fury. in a hearty voice scully announced the presence of a blizzard. the guests of the blue hotel, lighting their pipes, assented with grunts of lazy masculine contentment. no island of the sea could be exempt in the degree of this little room with its humming stove. johnnie, son of scully, in a tone which defined his opinion of his ability as a card-player, challenged the old farmer of both gray and sandy whiskers to a game of high-five. the farmer agreed with a contemptuous and bitter scoff. they sat close to the stove, and squared their knees under a wide board. the cowboy and the easterner watched the game with interest. the swede remained near the window, aloof, but with a countenance that showed signs of an inexplicable excitement. the play of johnnie and the gray-beard was suddenly ended by another quarrel. the old man arose while casting a look of heated scorn at his adversary. he slowly buttoned his coat, and then stalked with fabulous dignity from the room. in the discreet silence of all other men the swede laughed. his laughter rang somehow childish. men by this time had begun to look at him askance, as if they wished to inquire what ailed him. a new game was formed jocosely. the cowboy volunteered to become the partner of johnnie, and they all then turned to ask the swede to throw in his lot with the little easterner, he asked some questions about the game, and, learning that it wore many names, and that he had played it when it was under an alias, he accepted the invitation. he strode towards the men nervously, as if he expected to be assaulted. finally, seated, he gazed from face to face and laughed shrilly. this laugh was so strange that the easterner looked up quickly, the cowboy sat intent and with his mouth open, and johnnie paused, holding the cards with still fingers. afterwards there was a short silence. then johnnie said, "well, let's get at it. come on now!" they pulled their chairs forward until their knees were bunched under the board. they began to play, and their interest in the game caused the others to forget the manner of the swede. the cowboy was a board-whacker. each time that he held superior cards he whanged them, one by one, with exceeding force, down upon the improvised table, and took the tricks with a glowing air of prowess and pride that sent thrills of indignation into the hearts of his opponents. a game with a board-whacker in it is sure to become intense. the countenances of the easterner and the swede were miserable whenever the cowboy thundered down his aces and kings, while johnnie, his eyes gleaming with joy, chuckled and chuckled. because of the absorbing play none considered the strange ways of the swede. they paid strict heed to the game. finally, during a lull caused by a new deal, the swede suddenly addressed johnnie: "i suppose there have been a good many men killed in this room." the jaws of the others dropped and they looked at him. "what in hell are you talking about?" said johnnie. the swede laughed again his blatant laugh, full of a kind of false courage and defiance. "oh, you know what i mean all right," he answered. "i'm a liar if i do!" johnnie protested. the card was halted, and the men stared at the swede. johnnie evidently felt that as the son of the proprietor he should make a direct inquiry. "now, what might you be drivin' at, mister?" he asked. the swede winked at him. it was a wink full of cunning. his fingers shook on the edge of the board. "oh, maybe you think i have been to nowheres. maybe you think i'm a tenderfoot?" "i don't know nothin' about you," answered johnnie, "and i don't give a damn where you've been. all i got to say is that i don't know what you're driving at. there hain't never been nobody killed in this room." the cowboy, who had been steadily gazing at the swede, then spoke: "what's wrong with you, mister?" apparently it seemed to the swede that he was formidably menaced. he shivered and turned white near the corners of his mouth. he sent an appealing glance in the direction of the little easterner. during these moments he did not forget to wear his air of advanced pot-valor. "they say they don't know what i mean," he remarked mockingly to the easterner. the latter answered after prolonged and cautious reflection. "i don't understand you," he said, impassively. the swede made a movement then which announced that he thought he had encountered treachery from the only quarter where he had expected sympathy, if not help. "oh, i see you are all against me. i see--" the cowboy was in a state of deep stupefaction. "say." he cried, as he tumbled the deck violently down upon the board "--say, what are you gittin' at, hey?" the swede sprang up with the celerity of a man escaping from a snake on the floor. "i don't want to fight!" he shouted. "i don't want to fight!" the cowboy stretched his long legs indolently and deliberately. his hands were in his pockets. he spat into the sawdust box. "well, who the hell thought you did?" he inquired. the swede backed rapidly towards a corner of the room. his hands were out protectingly in front of his chest, but he was making an obvious struggle to control his fright. "gentlemen," he quavered, "i suppose i am going to be killed before i can leave this house! i suppose i am going to be killed before i can leave this house!" in his eyes was the dying-swan look. through the windows could be seen the snow turning blue in the shadow of dusk. the wind tore at the house and some loose thing beat regularly against the clap-boards like a spirit tapping. a door opened, and scully himself entered. he paused in surprise as he noted the tragic attitude of the swede. then he said, "what's the matter here?" the swede answered him swiftly and eagerly: "these men are going to kill me." "kill you!" ejaculated scully. "kill you! what are you talkin'?" the swede made the gesture of a martyr. scully wheeled sternly upon his son. "what is this, johnnie?" the lad had grown sullen. "damned if i know," he answered. "i can't make no sense to it." he began to shuffle the cards, fluttering them together with an angry snap. "he says a good many men have been killed in this room, or something like that. and he says he's goin' to be killed here too. i don't know what ails him. he's crazy, i shouldn't wonder." scully then looked for explanation to the cowboy, but the cowboy simply shrugged his shoulders. "kill you?" said scully again to the swede. "kill you? man, you're off your nut." "oh, i know." burst out the swede. "i know what will happen. yes, i'm crazy--yes. yes, of course, i'm crazy--yes. but i know one thing--" there was a sort of sweat of misery and terror upon his face. "i know i won't get out of here alive." the cowboy drew a deep breath, as if his mind was passing into the last stages of dissolution. "well, i'm dog-goned," he whispered to himself. scully wheeled suddenly and faced his son. "you've been troublin' this man!" johnnie's voice was loud with its burden of grievance. "why, good gawd, i ain't done nothin' to 'im." the swede broke in. "gentlemen, do not disturb yourselves. i will leave this house. i will go away because"--he accused them dramatically with his glance--"because i do not want to be killed." scully was furious with his son. "will you tell me what is the matter, you young divil? what's the matter, anyhow? speak out!" "blame it!" cried johnnie in despair, "don't i tell you i don't know. he--he says we want to kill him, and that's all i know. i can't tell what ails him." the swede continued to repeat: "never mind, mr. scully; nevermind. i will leave this house. i will go away, because i do not wish to be killed. yes, of course, i am crazy--yes. but i know one thing! i will go away. i will leave this house. never mind, mr. scully; never mind. i will go away." "you will not go 'way," said scully. "you will not go 'way until i hear the reason of this business. if anybody has troubled you i will take care of him. this is my house. you are under my roof, and i will not allow any peaceable man to be troubled here." he cast a terrible eye upon johnnie, the cowboy, and the easterner. "never mind, mr. scully; never mind. i will go away. i do not wish to be killed." the swede moved towards the door, which opened upon the stairs. it was evidently his intention to go at once for his baggage. "no, no," shouted scully peremptorily; but the white-faced man slid by him and disappeared. "now," said scully severely, "what does this mane?" johnnie and the cowboy cried together: "why, we didn't do nothin' to 'im!" scully's eyes were cold. "no," he said, "you didn't?" johnnie swore a deep oath. "why this is the wildest loon i ever see. we didn't do nothin' at all. we were jest sittin' here play in' cards, and he--" the father suddenly spoke to the easterner. "mr. blanc," he asked, "what has these boys been doin'?" the easterner reflected again. "i didn't see anything wrong at all," he said at last, slowly. scully began to howl. "but what does it mane?" he stared ferociously at his son. "i have a mind to lather you for this, me boy." johnnie was frantic. "well, what have i done?" he bawled at his father. iii "i think you are tongue-tied," said scully finally to his son, the cowboy, and the easterner; and at the end of this scornful sentence he left the room. up-stairs the swede was swiftly fastening the straps of his great valise. once his back happened to be half turned towards the door, and, hearing a noise there, he wheeled and sprang up, uttering a loud cry. scully's wrinkled visage showed grimly in the light of the small lamp he carried. this yellow effulgence, streaming upward, colored only his prominent features, and left his eyes, for instance, in mysterious shadow. he resembled a murderer. "man! man!" he exclaimed, "have you gone daffy?" "oh, no! oh, no!" rejoined the other. "there are people in this world who know pretty nearly as much as you do--understand?" for a moment they stood gazing at each other. upon the swede's deathly pale checks were two spots brightly crimson and sharply edged, as if they had been carefully painted. scully placed the light on the table and sat himself on the edge of the bed. he spoke ruminatively. "by cracky, i never heard of such a thing in my life. it's a complete muddle. i can't, for the soul of me, think how you ever got this idea into your head." presently he lifted his eyes and asked: "and did you sure think they were going to kill you?" the swede scanned the old man as if he wished to see into his mind. "i did," he said at last. he obviously suspected that this answer might precipitate an outbreak. as he pulled on a strap his whole arm shook, the elbow wavering like a bit of paper. scully banged his hand impressively on the foot-board of the bed. "why, man, we're goin' to have a line of ilictric street-cars in this town next spring." "'a line of electric street-cars,'" repeated the swede, stupidly. "and," said scully, "there's a new railroad goin' to be built down from broken arm to here. not to mintion the four churches and the smashin' big brick school-house. then there's the big factory, too. why, in two years romper 'll be a _metropolis_." having finished the preparation of his baggage, the swede straightened himself. "mr. scully," he said, with sudden hardihood, "how much do i owe you?" "you don't owe me anythin'," said the old man, angrily. "yes, i do," retorted the swede. he took seventy-five cents from his pocket and tendered it to scully; but the latter snapped his fingers in disdainful refusal. however, it happened that they both stood gazing in a strange fashion at three silver pieces on the swede's open palm. "i'll not take your money," said scully at last. "not after what's been goin' on here." then a plan seemed to strike him. "here," he cried, picking up his lamp and moving towards the door. "here! come with me a minute." "no," said the swede, in overwhelming alarm. "yes," urged the old man. "come on! i want you to come and see a picter--just across the hall--in my room." the swede must have concluded that his hour was come. his jaw dropped and his teeth showed like a dead man's. he ultimately followed scully across the corridor, but he had the step of one hung in chains. scully flashed the light high on the wall of his own chamber. there was revealed a ridiculous photograph of a little girl. she was leaning against a balustrade of gorgeous decoration, and the formidable bang to her hair was prominent. the figure was as graceful as an upright sled-stake, and, withal, it was of the hue of lead. "there," said scully, tenderly, "that's the picter of my little girl that died. her name was carrie. she had the purtiest hair you ever saw! i was that fond of her, she--" turning then, he saw that the swede was not contemplating the picture at all, but, instead, was keeping keen watch on the gloom in the rear. "look, man!" cried scully, heartily. "that's the picter of my little gal that died. her name was carrie. and then here's the picter of my oldest boy, michael. he's a lawyer in lincoln, an' doin' well. i gave that boy a grand eddycation, and i'm glad for it now. he's a fine boy. look at 'im now. ain't he bold as blazes, him there in lincoln, an honored an' respicted gintleman. an honored an' respicted gintleman," concluded scully with a flourish. and, so saying, he smote the swede jovially on the back. the swede faintly smiled. "now," said the old man, "there's only one more thing." he dropped suddenly to the floor and thrust his head beneath the bed. the swede could hear his muffled voice. "i'd keep it under me piller if it wasn't for that boy johnnie. then there's the old woman--where is it now? i never put it twice in the same place. ah, now come out with you!" presently he backed clumsily from under the bed, dragging with him an old coat rolled into a bundle. "i've fetched him," he muttered. kneeling on the floor, he unrolled the coat and extracted from its heart a large yellow-brown whiskey bottle. his first maneuver was to hold the bottle up to the light. reassured, apparently, that nobody had been tampering with it, he thrust it with a generous movement towards the swede. the weak-kneed swede was about to eagerly clutch this element of strength, but he suddenly jerked his hand away and cast a look of horror upon scully. "drink," said the old man affectionately. he had risen to his feet, and now stood facing the swede. there was a silence. then again scully said: "drink!" the swede laughed wildly. he grabbed the bottle, put it to his mouth, and as his lips curled absurdly around the opening and his throat worked, he kept his glance, burning with hatred, upon the old man's face. iv after the departure of scully the three men, with the card-board still upon their knees, preserved for a long time an astounded silence. then johnnie said: "that's the dod-dangest swede i ever see." "he ain't no swede," said the cowboy, scornfully. "well, what is he then?" cried johnnie. "what is he then?" "it's my opinion," replied the cowboy deliberately, "he's some kind of a dutchman." it was a venerable custom of the country to entitle as swedes all light-haired men who spoke with a heavy tongue. in consequence the idea of the cowboy was not without its daring. "yes, sir," he repeated. "it's my opinion this feller is some kind of a dutchman." "well, he says he's a swede, anyhow," muttered johnnie, sulkily. he turned to the easterner: "what do you think, mr. blanc?" "oh, i don't know," replied the easterner. "well, what do you think makes him act that way?" asked the cowboy. "why, he's frightened." the easterner knocked his pipe against a rim of the stove. "he's clear frightened out of his boots." "what at?" cried johnnie and cowboy together. the easterner reflected over his answer. "what at?" cried the others again. "oh, i don't know, but it seems to me this man has been reading dime-novels, and he thinks he's right out in the middle of it--the shootin' and stabbin' and all." "but," said the cowboy, deeply scandalized, "this ain't wyoming, ner none of them places. this is nebrasker." "yes," added johnnie, "an' why don't he wait till he gits _out west?_" the travelled easterner laughed. "it isn't different there even--not in these days. but he thinks he's right in the middle of hell." johnnie and the cowboy mused long. "it's awful funny," remarked johnnie at last. "yes," said the cowboy. "this is a queer game. i hope we don't git snowed in, because then we'd have to stand this here man bein' around with us all the time. that wouldn't be no good." "i wish pop would throw him out," said johnnie. presently they heard a loud stamping on the stairs, accompanied by ringing jokes in the voice of old scully, and laughter, evidently from the swede. the men around the stove stared vacantly at each other. "gosh!" said the cowboy. the door flew open, and old scully, flushed and anecdotal, came into the room. he was jabbering at the swede, who followed him, laughing bravely. it was the entry of two roisterers from a banquet-hall. "come now," said scully sharply to the three seated men, "move up and give us a chance at the stove." the cowboy and the easterner obediently sidled their chairs to make room for the new-comers. johnnie, however, simply arranged himself in a more indolent attitude, and then remained motionless. "come! git over, there," said scully. "plenty of room on the other side of the stove," said johnnie. "do you think we want to sit in the draught?" roared the father. but the swede here interposed with a grandeur of confidence. "no, no. let the boy sit where he likes," he cried in a bullying voice to the father. "all right! all right!" said scully, deferentially. the cowboy and the easterner exchanged glances of wonder. the five chairs were formed in a crescent about one side of the stove. the swede began to talk; he talked arrogantly, profanely, angrily. johnnie, the cowboy, and the easterner maintained a morose silence, while old scully appeared to be receptive and eager, breaking in constantly with sympathetic ejaculations. finally the swede announced that he was thirsty. he moved in his chair, and said that he would go for a drink of water. "i'll git it for you," cried scully at once. "no," said the swede, contemptuously. "i'll get it for myself." he arose and stalked with the air of an owner off into the executive parts of the hotel. as soon as the swede was out of hearing scully sprang to his feet and whispered intensely to the others: "up-stairs he thought i was tryin' to poison 'im." "say," said johnnie, "this makes me sick. why don't you throw 'im out in the snow?" "why, he's all right now," declared scully. "it was only that he was from the east, and he thought this was a tough place. that's all. he's all right now." the cowboy looked with admiration upon the easterner. "you were straight," he said. "you were on to that there dutchman." "well," said johnnie to his father, "he may be all right now, but i don't see it. other time he was scared, but now he's too fresh." scully's speech was always a combination of irish brogue and idiom, western twang and idiom, and scraps of curiously formal diction taken from the story-books and newspapers, he now hurled a strange mass of language at the head of his son. "what do i keep? what do i keep? what do i keep?" he demanded, in a voice of thunder. he slapped his knee impressively, to indicate that he himself was going to make reply, and that all should heed. "i keep a hotel," he shouted. "a hotel, do you mind? a guest under my roof has sacred privileges. he is to be intimidated by none. not one word shall he hear that would prejudice him in favor of goin' away. i'll not have it. there's no place in this here town where they can say they iver took in a guest of mine because he was afraid to stay here." he wheeled suddenly upon the cowboy and the easterner. "am i right?" "yes, mr. scully," said the cowboy, "i think you're right." "yes, mr. scully," said the easterner, "i think you're right." v at six-o'clock supper, the swede fizzed like a fire-wheel. he sometimes seemed on the point of bursting into riotous song, and in all his madness he was encouraged by old scully. the easterner was incased in reserve; the cowboy sat in wide-mouthed amazement, forgetting to eat, while johnnie wrathily demolished great plates of food. the daughters of the house, when they were obliged to replenish the biscuits, approached as warily as indians, and, having succeeded in their purpose, fled with ill-concealed trepidation. the swede domineered the whole feast, and he gave it the appearance of a cruel bacchanal. he seemed to have grown suddenly taller; he gazed, brutally disdainful, into every face. his voice rang through the room. once when he jabbed out harpoon-fashion with his fork to pinion a biscuit, the weapon nearly impaled the hand of the easterner which had been stretched quietly out for the same biscuit. after supper, as the men filed towards the other room, the swede smote scully ruthlessly on the shoulder. "well, old boy, that was a good, square meal." johnnie looked hopefully at his father; he knew that shoulder was tender from an old fall; and, indeed, it appeared for a moment as if scully was going to flame out over the matter, but in the end he smiled a sickly smile and remained silent. the others understood from his manner that he was admitting his responsibility for the swede's new view-point. johnnie, however, addressed his parent in an aside. "why don't you license somebody to kick you down-stairs?" scully scowled darkly by way of reply. when they were gathered about the stove, the swede insisted on another game of high five. scully gently deprecated the plan at first, but the swede turned a wolfish glare upon him. the old man subsided, and the swede canvassed the others. in his tone there was always a great threat. the cowboy and the easterner both remarked indifferently that they would play. scully said that he would presently have to go to meet the . train, and so the swede turned menacingly upon johnnie. for a moment their glances crossed like blades, and then johnnie smiled and said, "yes, i'll play." they formed a square, with the little board on their knees. the easterner and the swede were again partners. as the play went on, it was noticeable that the cowboy was not board-whacking as usual. meanwhile, scully, near the lamp, had put on his spectacles and, with an appearance curiously like an old priest, was reading a newspaper. in time he went out to meet the . train, and, despite his precautions, a gust of polar wind whirled into the room as he opened the door. besides scattering the cards, it dulled the players to the marrow. the swede cursed frightfully. when scully returned, his entrance disturbed a cosey and friendly scene. the swede again cursed. but presently they were once more intent, their heads bent forward and their hands moving swiftly. the swede had adopted the fashion of board-whacking. scully took up his paper and for a long time remained immersed in matters which were extraordinarily remote from him. the lamp burned badly, and once he stopped to adjust the wick. the newspaper, as he turned from page to page, rustled with a slow and comfortable sound. then suddenly he heard three terrible words: "you are cheatin'!" such scenes often prove that there can be little of dramatic import in environment. any room can present a tragic front; any room can be comic. this little den was now hideous as a torture-chamber. the new faces of the men themselves had changed it upon the instant. the swede held a huge fist in front of johnnie's face, while the latter looked steadily over it into the blazing orbs of his accuser. the easterner had grown pallid; the cowboy's jaw had dropped in that expression of bovine amazement which was one of his important mannerisms. after the three words, the first sound in the room was made by scully's paper as it floated forgotten to his feet. his spectacles had also fallen from his nose, but by a clutch he had saved them in air. his hand, grasping the spectacles, now remained poised awkwardly and near his shoulder. he stared at the card-players. probably the silence was while a second elapsed. then, if the floor had been suddenly twitched out from under the men they could not have moved quicker. the five had projected themselves headlong towards a common point. it happened that johnnie, in rising to hurl himself upon the swede, had stumbled slightly because of his curiously instinctive care for the cards and the board. the loss of the moment allowed time for the arrival of scully, and also allowed the cowboy time to give the swede a great push which sent him staggering back. the men found tongue together, and hoarse shouts of rage, appeal, or fear burst from every throat. the cowboy pushed and jostled feverishly at the swede, and the easterner and scully clung wildly to johnnie; but, through the smoky air, above the swaying bodies of the peace-compellers, the eyes of the two warriors ever sought each other in glances of challenge that were at once hot and steely. of course the board had been overturned, and now the whole company of cards was scattered over the floor, where the boots of the men trampled the fat and painted kings and queens as they gazed with their silly eyes at the war that was waging above them. scully's voice was dominating the yells. "stop now? stop, i say! stop, now--" johnnie, as he struggled to burst through the rank formed by scully and the easterner, was crying, "well, he says i cheated! he says i cheated! i won't allow no man to say i cheated! if he says i cheated, he's a ------ ------!" the cowboy was telling the swede, "quit, now! quit, d'ye hear--" the screams of the swede never ceased: "he did cheat! i saw him! i saw him--" as for the easterner, he was importuning in a voice that was not heeded: "wait a moment, can't you? oh, wait a moment. what's the good of a fight over a game of cards? wait a moment--" in this tumult no complete sentences were clear. "cheat"--"quit"--"he says"--these fragments pierced the uproar and rang out sharply. it was remarkable that, whereas scully undoubtedly made the most noise, he was the least heard of any of the riotous band. then suddenly there was a great cessation. it was as if each man had paused for breath; and although the room was still lighted with the anger of men, it could be seen that there was no danger of immediate conflict, and at once johnnie, shouldering his way forward, almost succeeded in confronting the swede. "what did you say i cheated for? what did you say i cheated for? i don't cheat, and i won't let no man say i do!" the swede said, "i saw you! i saw you!" "well," cried johnnie, "i'll fight any man what says i cheat!" "no, you won't," said the cowboy. "not here." "ah, be still, can't you?" said scully, coming between them. the quiet was sufficient to allow the easterner's voice to be heard. he was repealing, "oh, wait a moment, can't you? what's the good of a fight over a game of cards? wait a moment!" johnnie, his red face appearing above his father's shoulder, hailed the swede again. "did you say i cheated?" the swede showed his teeth. "yes." "then," said johnnie, "we must fight." "yes, fight," roared the swede. he was like a demoniac. "yes, fight! i'll show you what kind of a man i am! i'll show you who you want to fight! maybe you think i can't fight! maybe you think i can't! i'll show you, you skin, you card-sharp! yes, you cheated! you cheated! you cheated!" "well, let's go at it, then, mister," said johnnie, coolly. the cowboy's brow was beaded with sweat from his efforts in intercepting all sorts of raids. he turned in despair to scully. "what are you goin' to do now?" a change had come over the celtic visage of the old man. he now seemed all eagerness; his eyes glowed. "we'll let them fight," he answered, stalwartly. "i can't put up with it any longer. i've stood this damned swede till i'm sick. we'll let them fight." vi the men prepared to go out-of-doors. the easterner was so nervous that he had great difficulty in getting his arms into the sleeves of his new leather coat. as the cowboy drew his fur cap down over his cars his hands trembled. in fact, johnnie and old scully were the only ones who displayed no agitation. these preliminaries were conducted without words. scully threw open the door. "well, come on," he said. instantly a terrific wind caused the flame of the lamp to struggle at its wick, while a puff of black smoke sprang from the chimney-top. the stove was in mid-current of the blast, and its voice swelled to equal the roar of the storm. some of the scarred and bedabbled cards were caught up from the floor and dashed helplessly against the farther wall. the men lowered their heads and plunged into the tempest as into a sea. no snow was falling, but great whirls and clouds of flakes, swept up from the ground by the frantic winds, were streaming southward with the speed of bullets. the covered land was blue with the sheen of an unearthly satin, and there was no other hue save where, at the low, black railway station--which seemed incredibly distant--one light gleamed like a tiny jewel. as the men floundered into a thigh deep drift, it was known that the swede was bawling out something. scully went to him, put a hand on his shoulder and projected an ear. "what's that you say?" he shouted. "i say," bawled the swede again, "i won't stand much show against this gang. i know you'll all pitch on me." scully smote him reproachfully on the arm. "tut, man!" he yelled. the wind tore the words from scully's lips and scattered them far alee. "you are all a gang of--" boomed the swede, but the storm also seized the remainder of this sentence. immediately turning their backs upon the wind, the men had swung around a corner to the sheltered side of the hotel. it was the function of the little house to preserve here, amid this great devastation of snow, an irregular v-shape of heavily incrusted grass, which crackled beneath the feet. one could imagine the great drifts piled against the windward side. when the party reached the comparative peace of this spot it was found that the swede was still bellowing. "oh, i know what kind of a thing this is! i know you'll all pitch on me. i can't lick you all!" scully turned upon him panther fashion. "you'll not have to whip all of us. you'll have to whip my son johnnie. an' the man what troubles you durin' that time will have me to dale with." the arrangements were swiftly made. the two men faced each other, obedient to the harsh commands of scully, whose face, in the subtly luminous gloom, could be seen set in the austere impersonal lines that are pictured on the countenances of the roman veterans. the easterner's teeth were chattering, and he was hopping up and down like a mechanical toy. the cowboy stood rock-like. the contestants had not stripped off any clothing. each was in his ordinary attire. their fists were up, and they eyed each other in a calm that had the elements of leonine cruelty in it. during this pause, the easterner's mind, like a film, took lasting impressions of three men--the iron-nerved master of the ceremony; the swede, pale, motionless, terrible; and johnnie, serene yet ferocious, brutish yet heroic. the entire prelude had in it a tragedy greater than the tragedy of action, and this aspect was accentuated by the long, mellow cry of the blizzard, as it sped the tumbling and wailing flakes into the black abyss of the south. "now!" said scully. the two combatants leaped forward and crashed together like bullocks. there was heard the cushioned sound of blows, and of a curse squeezing out from between the tight teeth of one. as for the spectators, the easterner's pent-up breath exploded from him with a pop of relief, absolute relief from the tension of the preliminaries. the cowboy bounded into the air with a yowl. scully was immovable as from supreme amazement and fear at the fury of the fight which he himself had permitted and arranged. for a time the encounter in the darkness was such a perplexity of flying arms that it presented no more detail than would a swiftly revolving wheel. occasionally a face, as if illumined by a flash of light, would shine out, ghastly and marked with pink spots. a moment later, the men might have been known as shadows, if it were not for the involuntary utterance of oaths that came from them in whispers. suddenly a holocaust of warlike desire caught the cowboy, and he bolted forward with the speed of a broncho. "go it, johnnie! go it! kill him! kill him!" scully confronted him. "kape back," he said; and by his glance the cowboy could tell that this man was johnnie's father. to the easterner there was a monotony of unchangeable fighting that was an abomination. this confused mingling was eternal to his sense, which was concentrated in a longing for the end, the priceless end. once the fighters lurched near him, and as he scrambled hastily backward he heard them breathe like men on the rack. "kill him, johnnie! kill him! kill him! kill him!" the cowboy's face was contorted like one of those agony masks in museums. "keep still," said scully, icily. then there was a sudden loud grunt, incomplete, cut short, and johnnie's body swung away from the swede and fell with sickening heaviness to the grass. the cowboy was barely in time to prevent the mad swede from flinging himself upon his prone adversary. "no, you don't," said the cowboy, interposing an arm. "wait a second." scully was at his son's side. "johnnie! johnnie, me boy!" his voice had a quality of melancholy tenderness. "johnnie! can you go on with it?" he looked anxiously down into the bloody, pulpy face of his son. there was a moment of silence, and then johnnie answered in his ordinary voice, "yes, i--it--yes." assisted by his father he struggled to his feet. "wait a bit now till you git your wind," said the old man. a few paces away the cowboy was lecturing the swede. "no, you don't! wait a second!" the easterner was plucking at scully's sleeve. "oh, this is enough," he pleaded. "this is enough! let it go as it stands. this is enough!" "bill," said scully, "git out of the road." the cowboy stepped aside. "now." the combatants were actuated by a new caution as they advanced towards collision. they glared at each other, and then the swede aimed a lightning blow that carried with it his entire weight. johnnie was evidently half stupid from weakness, but he miraculously dodged, and his fist sent the over-balanced swede sprawling. the cowboy, scully, and the easterner burst into a cheer that was like a chorus of triumphant soldiery, but before its conclusion the swede had scuffled agilely to his feet and come in berserk abandon at his foe. there was another perplexity of flying arms, and johnnie's body again swung away and fell, even as a bundle might fall from a roof. the swede instantly staggered to a little wind-waved tree and leaned upon it, breathing like an engine, while his savage and flame-lit eyes roamed from face to face as the men bent over johnnie. there was a splendor of isolation in his situation at this time which the easterner felt once when, lifting his eyes from the man on the ground, he beheld that mysterious and lonely figure, waiting. "arc you any good yet, johnnie?" asked scully in a broken voice. the son gasped and opened his eyes languidly. after a moment he answered, "no--i ain't--any good--any--more." then, from shame and bodily ill he began to weep, the tears furrowing down through the blood-stains on his face. "he was too--too--too heavy for me." scully straightened and addressed the waiting figure. "stranger," he said, evenly, "it's all up with our side." then his voice changed into that vibrant huskiness which is commonly the tone of the most simple and deadly announcements. "johnnie is whipped." without replying, the victor moved off on the route to the front door of the hotel. the cowboy was formulating new and un-spellable blasphemies. the easterner was startled to find that they were out in a wind that seemed to come direct from the shadowed arctic floes. he heard again the wail of the snow as it was flung to its grave in the south. he knew now that all this time the cold had been sinking into him deeper and deeper, and he wondered that he had not perished. he felt indifferent to the condition of the vanquished man. "johnnie, can you walk?" asked scully. "did i hurt--hurt him any?" asked the son. "can you walk, boy? can you walk?" johnnie's voice was suddenly strong. there was a robust impatience in it. "i asked you whether i hurt him any!" "yes, yes, johnnie," answered the cowboy, consolingly; "he's hurt a good deal." they raised him from the ground, and as soon as he was on his feet he went tottering off, rebuffing all attempts at assistance. when the party rounded the corner they were fairly blinded by the pelting of the snow. it burned their faces like fire. the cowboy carried johnnie through the drift to the door. as they entered some cards again rose from the floor and beat against the wall. the easterner rushed to the stove. he was so profoundly chilled that he almost dared to embrace the glowing iron. the swede was not in the room. johnnie sank into a chair, and, folding his arms on his knees, buried his face in them. scully, warming one foot and then the other at a rim of the stove, muttered to himself with celtic mournfulness. the cowboy had removed his fur cap, and with a dazed and rueful air he was running one hand through his tousled locks. from overhead they could hear the creaking of boards, as the swede tramped here and there in his room. the sad quiet was broken by the sudden flinging open of a door that led towards the kitchen. it was instantly followed by an inrush of women. they precipitated themselves upon johnnie amid a chorus of lamentation. before they carried their prey off to the kitchen, there to be bathed and harangued with that mixture of sympathy and abuse which is a feat of their sex, the mother straightened herself and fixed old scully with an eye of stern reproach. "shame be upon you, patrick scully!" she cried. "your own son, too. shame be upon you!" "there, now! be quiet, now!" said the old man, weakly. "shame be upon you, patrick scully!" the girls, rallying to this slogan, sniffed disdainfully in the direction of those trembling accomplices, the cowboy and the easterner. presently they bore johnnie away, and left the three men to dismal reflection. vii "i'd like to fight this here dutchman myself," said the cowboy, breaking a long silence. scully wagged his head sadly. "no, that wouldn't do. it wouldn't be right. it wouldn't be right." "well, why wouldn't it?" argued the cowboy. "i don't see no harm in it." "no," answered scully, with mournful heroism. "it wouldn't be right. it was johnnie's fight, and now we mustn't whip the man just because he whipped johnnie." "yes, that's true enough," said the cowboy; "but--he better not get fresh with me, because i couldn't stand no more of it." "you'll not say a word to him," commanded scully, and even then they heard the tread of the swede on the stairs. his entrance was made theatric. he swept the door back with a bang and swaggered to the middle of the room. no one looked at him. "well," he cried, insolently, at scully, "i s'pose you'll tell me now how much i owe you?" the old man remained stolid. "you don't owe me nothin'." "huh!" said the swede, "huh! don't owe 'im nothin'." the cowboy addressed the swede. "stranger, i don't see how you come to be so gay around here." old scully was instantly alert. "stop!" he shouted, holding his hand forth, fingers upward. "bill, you shut up!" the cowboy spat carelessly into the sawdust box. "i didn't say a word, did i?" he asked. "mr. scully," called the swede, "how much do i owe you?" it was seen that he was attired for departure, and that he had his valise in his hand. "you don't owe me nothin'," repeated scully in his same imperturbable way. "huh!" said the swede. "i guess you're right. i guess if it was any way at all, you'd owe me somethin'. that's what i guess." he turned to the cowboy. "'kill him! kill him! kill him!'" he mimicked, and then guffawed victoriously. "'kill him!'" he was convulsed with ironical humor. but he might have been jeering the dead. the three men were immovable and silent, staring with glassy eyes at the stove. the swede opened the door and passed into the storm, giving one derisive glance backward at the still group. as soon as the door was closed, scully and the cowboy leaped to their feet and began to curse. they trampled to and fro, waving their arms and smashing into the air with their fists. "oh, but that was a hard minute!" wailed scully. "that was a hard minute! him there leerin' and scoffin'! one bang at his nose was worth forty dollars to me that minute! how did you stand it, bill?" "how did i stand it?" cried the cowboy in a quivering voice. "how did i stand it? oh!" the old man burst into sudden brogue. "i'd loike to take that swade," he wailed, "and hould 'im down on a shtone flure and bate 'im to a jelly wid a shtick!" the cowboy groaned in sympathy. "i'd like to git him by the neck and ha-ammer him "--he brought his hand down on a chair with a noise like a pistol-shot--"hammer that there dutchman until he couldn't tell himself from a dead coyote!" "i'd bate 'im until he--" "i'd show _him_ some things--" and then together they raised a yearning, fanatic cry--"oh-o-oh! if we only could--" "yes!" "yes!" "and then i'd--" "o-o-oh!" viii the swede, tightly gripping his valise, tacked across the face of the storm as if he carried sails. he was following a line of little naked, gasping trees, which he knew must mark the way of the road. his face, fresh from the pounding of johnnie's fists, felt more pleasure than pain in the wind and the driving snow. a number of square shapes loomed upon him finally, and he knew them as the houses of the main body of the town. he found a street and made travel along it, leaning heavily upon the wind whenever, at a corner, a terrific blast caught him. he might have been in a deserted village. we picture the world as thick with conquering and elate humanity, but here, with the bugles of the tempest pealing, it was hard to imagine a peopled earth. one viewed the existence of man then as a marvel, and conceded a glamour of wonder to these lice which were caused to cling to a whirling, fire-smote, ice-locked, disease-stricken, space-lost bulb. the conceit of man was explained by this storm to be the very engine of life. one was a coxcomb not to die in it. however, the swede found a saloon. in front of it an indomitable red light was burning, and the snow-flakes were made blood color as they flew through the circumscribed territory of the lamp's shining. the swede pushed open the door of the saloon and entered. a sanded expanse was before him, and at the end of it four men sat about a table drinking. down one side of the room extended a radiant bar, and its guardian was leaning upon his elbows listening to the talk of the men at the table. the swede dropped his valise upon the floor, and, smiling fraternally upon the barkeeper, said, "gimme some whiskey, will you?" the man placed a bottle, a whiskey-glass, and a glass of ice-thick water upon the bar. the swede poured himself an abnormal portion of whiskey and drank it in three gulps. "pretty bad night," remarked the bartender, indifferently. he was making the pretension of blindness which is usually a distinction of his class; but it could have been seen that he was furtively studying the half-erased blood-stains on the face of the swede. "bad night," he said again. "oh, it's good enough for me," replied the swede, hardily, as he poured himself some more whiskey. the barkeeper took his coin and maneuvered it through its reception by the highly nickelled cash-machine. a bell rang; a card labelled " cts." had appeared. "no," continued the swede, "this isn't too bad weather. it's good enough for me." "so?" murmured the barkeeper, languidly. the copious drams made the swede's eyes swim, and he breathed a trifle heavier. "yes, i like this weather. i like it. it suits me." it was apparently his design to impart a deep significance to these words. "so?" murmured the bartender again. he turned to gaze dreamily at the scroll-like birds and bird-like scrolls which had been drawn with soap upon the mirrors back of the bar. "well, i guess i'll take another drink," said the swede, presently. "have something?" "no, thanks; i'm not drinkin'," answered the bartender. afterwards he asked, "how did you hurt your face?" the swede immediately began to boast loudly. "why, in a fight. i thumped the soul out of a man down here at scully's hotel." the interest of the four men at the table was at last aroused. "who was it?" said one. "johnnie scully," blustered the swede. "son of the man what runs it. he will be pretty near dead for some weeks, i can tell you. i made a nice thing of him, i did. he couldn't get up. they carried him in the house. have a drink?" instantly the men in some subtle way incased themselves in reserve. "no, thanks," said one. the group was of curious formation. two were prominent local business men; one was the district-attorney; and one was a professional gambler of the kind known as "square." but a scrutiny of the group would not have enabled an observer to pick the gambler from the men of more reputable pursuits. he was, in fact, a man so delicate in manner, when among people of fair class, and so judicious in his choice of victims, that in the strictly masculine part of the town's life he had come to be explicitly trusted and admired. people called him a thoroughbred. the fear and contempt with which his craft was regarded was undoubtedly the reason that his quiet dignity shone conspicuous above the quiet dignity of men who might be merely hatters, billiard markers, or grocery-clerks. beyond an occasional unwary traveller, who came by rail, this gambler was supposed to prey solely upon reckless and senile farmers, who, when flush with good crops, drove into town in all the pride and confidence of an absolutely invulnerable stupidity. hearing at times in circuitous fashion of the despoilment of such a farmer, the important men of romper invariably laughed in contempt of the victim, and, if they thought of the wolf at all, it was with a kind of pride at the knowledge that he would never dare think of attacking their wisdom and courage. besides, it was popular that this gambler had a real wife and two real children in a neat cottage in a suburb, where he led an exemplary home life; and when any one even suggested a discrepancy in his character, the crowd immediately vociferated descriptions of this virtuous family circle. then men who led exemplary home lives, and men who did not lead exemplary home lives, all subsided in a bunch, remarking that there was nothing more to be said. however, when a restriction was placed upon him--as, for instance, when a strong clique of members of the new pollywog club refused to permit him, even as a spectator, to appear in the rooms of the organization--the candor and gentleness with which he accepted the judgment disarmed many of his foes and made his friends more desperately partisan. he invariably distinguished between himself and a respectable romper man so quickly and frankly that his manner actually appeared to be a continual broadcast compliment. and one must not forget to declare the fundamental fact of his entire position in romper. it is irrefutable that in all affairs outside of his business, in all matters that occur eternally and commonly between man and man, this thieving card-player was so generous, so just, so moral, that, in a contest, he could have put to flight the consciences of nine-tenths of the citizens of romper. and so it happened that he was seated in this saloon with the two prominent local merchants and the district-attorney. the swede continued to drink raw whiskey, meanwhile babbling at the barkeeper and trying to induce him to indulge in potations. "come on. have a drink. come on. what--no? well, have a little one, then. by gawd, i've whipped a man to-night, and i want to celebrate. i whipped him good, too. gentlemen," the swede cried to the men at the table, "have a drink?" "ssh!" said the barkeeper. the group at the table, although furtively attentive, had been pretending to be deep in talk, but now a man lifted his eyes towards the swede and said, shortly, "thanks. we don't want any more." at this reply the swede ruffled out his chest like a rooster. "well," he exploded, "it seems i can't get anybody to drink with me in this town. seems so, don't it? well!" "ssh!" said the barkeeper. "say," snarled the swede, "don't you try to shut me up. i won't have it. i'm a gentleman, and i want people to drink with me. and i want 'em to drink with me now. _now_--do you understand?" he rapped the bar with his knuckles. years of experience had calloused the bartender. he merely grew sulky. "i hear you," he answered. "well," cried the swede, "listen hard then. see those men over there? well, they're going to drink with me, and don't you forget it. now you watch." "hi!" yelled the barkeeper, "this won't do!" "why won't it?" demanded the swede. he stalked over to the table, and by chance laid his hand upon the shoulder of the gambler. "how about this?" he asked, wrathfully. "i asked you to drink with me." the gambler simply twisted his head and spoke over his shoulder. "my friend, i don't know you." "oh, hell!" answered the swede, "come and have a drink." "now, my boy," advised the gambler, kindly, "take your hand off my shoulder and go 'way and mind your own business." he was a little, slim man, and it seemed strange to hear him use this tone of heroic patronage to the burly swede. the other men at the table said nothing. "what! you won't drink with me, you little dude? i'll make you then! i'll make you!" the swede had grasped the gambler frenziedly at the throat, and was dragging him from his chair. the other men sprang up. the barkeeper dashed around the corner of his bar. there was a great tumult, and then was seen a long blade in the hand of the gambler. it shot forward, and a human body, this citadel of virtue, wisdom, power, was pierced as easily as if it had been a melon. the swede fell with a cry of supreme astonishment. the prominent merchants and the district attorney must have at once tumbled out of the place backward. the bartender found himself hanging limply to the arm of a chair and gazing into the eyes of a murderer. "henry," said the latter, as he wiped his knife on one of the towels that hung beneath the bar-rail, "you tell 'em where to find me. i'll be home, waiting for 'em." then he vanished. a moment afterwards the barkeeper was in the street dinning through the storm for help, and, moreover, companionship. the corpse of the swede, alone in the saloon, had its eyes fixed upon a dreadful legend that dwelt atop of the cash-machine: "this registers the amount of your purchase." ix months later, the cowboy was frying pork over the stove of a little ranch near the dakota line, when there was a quick thud of hoofs outside, and presently the easterner entered with the letters and the papers. "well," said the easterner at once, "the chap that killed the swede has got three years. wasn't much, was it?" "he has? three years?" the cowboy poised his pan of pork, while he ruminated upon the news. "three years. that ain't much." "no. it was a light sentence," replied the easterner as he unbuckled his spurs. "seems there was a good deal of sympathy for him in romper." "if the bartender had been any good," observed the cowboy, thoughtfully, "he would have gone in and cracked that there dutchman on the head with a bottle in the beginnin' of it and stopped all this here murderin'." "yes, a thousand things might have happened," said the easterner, tartly. the cowboy returned his pan of pork to the fire, but his philosophy continued. "it's funny, ain't it? if he hadn't said johnnie was cheatin' he'd be alive this minute. he was an awful fool. game played for fun, too. not for money. i believe he was crazy." "i feel sorry for that gambler," said the easterner. "oh, so do i," said the cowboy. "he don't deserve none of it for killin' who he did." "the swede might not have been killed if everything had been square." "might not have been killed?" exclaimed the cowboy. "everythin' square? why, when he said that johnnie was cheatin' and acted like such a jackass? and then in the saloon he fairly walked up to git hurt?" with these arguments the cowboy browbeat the easterner and reduced him to rage. "you're a fool!" cried the easterner, viciously. "you're a bigger jackass than the swede by a million majority. now let me tell you one thing. let me tell you something. listen! johnnie _was_ cheating!" "'johnnie,'" said the cowboy, blankly. there was a minute of silence, and then he said, robustly, "why, no. the game was only for fun." "fun or not," said the easterner, "johnnie was cheating. i saw him. i know it. i saw him. and i refused to stand up and be a man. i let the swede fight it out alone. and you--you were simply puffing around the place and wanting to fight. and then old scully himself! we are all in it! this poor gambler isn't even a noun. he is kind of an adverb. every sin is the result of a collaboration. we, five of us, have collaborated in the murder of this swede. usually there are from a dozen to forty women really involved in every murder, but in this case it seems to be only five men--you, i, johnnie, old scully, and that fool of an unfortunate gambler came merely as a culmination, the apex of a human movement, and gets all the punishment." the cowboy, injured and rebellious, cried out blindly into this fog of mysterious theory: "well, i didn't do anythin', did i?" ------ his new mittens i little horace was walking home from school, brilliantly decorated by a pair of new red mittens. a number of boys were snowballing gleefully in a field. they hailed him. "come on, horace! we're having a battle." [illustration: "little horace"] horace was sad. "no," he said, "i can't. i've got to go home." at noon his mother had admonished him: "now, horace, you come straight home as soon as school is out. do you hear? and don't you get them nice new mittens all wet, either. do you hear?" also his aunt had said: "i declare, emily, it's a shame the way you allow that child to ruin his things." she had meant mittens. to his mother, horace had dutifully replied, "yes'm." but he now loitered in the vicinity of the group of uproarious boys, who were yelling like hawks as the white balls flew. [illustration: "...yelling like hawks as the white balls flew"] some of them immediately analyzed this extraordinary hesitancy. "hah!" they paused to scoff, "afraid of your new mittens, ain't you?" some smaller boys, who were not yet so wise in discerning motives, applauded this attack with unreasonable vehemence. "a-fray-ed of his mit-tens! a-fray-ed of his mit-tens." they sang these lines to cruel and monotonous music which is as old perhaps as american childhood, and which it is the privilege of the emancipated adult to completely forget. "afray-ed of his mit-tens!" horace cast a tortured glance towards his playmates, and then dropped his eyes to the snow at his feet. presently he turned to the trunk of one of the great maple-trees that lined the curb. he made a pretence of closely examining the rough and virile bark. to his mind, this familiar street of whilomville seemed to grow dark in the thick shadow of shame. the trees and the houses were now palled in purple. "a-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" the terrible music had in it a meaning from the moonlit war-drums of chanting cannibals. [illustration: "horace: i've got to go home."] at last horace, with supreme effort, raised his head. "'tain't them i care about," he said, gruffly. "i've got to go home. that's all." whereupon each boy held his left forefinger as if it were a pencil and began to sharpen it derisively with his right forefinger. they came closer, and sang like a trained chorus, "a-fray-ed of his mittens!" when he raised his voice to deny the charge it was simply lost in the screams of the mob. he was alone, fronting all the traditions of boyhood held before him by inexorable representatives. to such a low state had he fallen that one lad, a mere baby, outflanked him and then struck him in the cheek with a heavy snowball. the act was acclaimed with loud jeers. horace turned to dart at his assailant, but there was an immediate demonstration on the other flank, and he found himself obliged to keep his face towards the hilarious crew of tormentors. the baby retreated in safety to the rear of the crowd, where he was received with fulsome compliments upon his daring. horace retreated slowly up the walk. he continually tried to make them heed him, but the only sound was the chant, "a-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" in this desperate withdrawal the beset and haggard boy suffered more than is the common lot of man. [illustration: "when he raised his voice to deny the charge"] being a boy himself, he did not understand boys at all. he had, of course, the dismal conviction that they were going to dog him to his grave. but near the corner of the field they suddenly seemed to forget all about it. indeed, they possessed only the malevolence of so many flitter-headed sparrows. the interest had swung capriciously to some other matter. in a moment they were off in the field again, carousing amid the snow. some authoritative boy had probably said, "aw, come on!" [illustration: "aw, come on!"] as the pursuit ceased, horace ceased his retreat. he spent some time in what was evidently an attempt to adjust his self respect, and then began to wander furtively down towards the group. he, too, had undergone an important change. perhaps his sharp agony was only as durable as the malevolence of the others. in this boyish life obedience to some unformulated creed of manners was enforced with capricious but merciless rigor. however, they were, after all, his comrades, his friends. they did not heed his return. they were engaged in an altercation. it had evidently been planned that this battle was between indians and soldiers. the smaller and weaker boys had been induced to appear as indians in the initial skirmish, but they were now very sick of it, and were reluctantly but steadfastly, affirming their desire for a change of caste. the larger boys had all won great distinction, devastating indians materially, and they wished the war to go on as planned. they explained vociferously that it was proper for the soldiers always to thrash the indians. the little boys did not pretend to deny the truth of this argument; they confined themselves to the simple statement that, in that case, they wished to be soldiers. each little boy willingly appealed to the others to remain indians, but as for himself he reiterated his desire to enlist as a soldier. the larger boys were in despair over this dearth of enthusiasm in the small indians. they alternately wheedled and bullied, but they could not persuade the little boys, who were really suffering dreadful humiliation rather than submit to another onslaught of soldiers. they were called all the baby names that had the power of stinging deep into their pride, but they remained firm. then a formidable lad, a leader of reputation, one who could whip many boys that wore long trousers, suddenly blew out his checks and shouted, "well, all right then. i'll be an indian myself. now." the little boys greeted with cheers this addition to their wearied ranks, and seemed then content. but matters were not mended in the least, because all of the personal following of the formidable lad, with the addition of every outsider, spontaneously forsook the flag and declared themselves indians. there were now no soldiers. the indians had carried everything unanimously. the formidable lad used his influence, but his influence could not shake the loyalty of his friends, who refused to fight under any colors but his colors. plainly there was nothing for it but to coerce the little ones. the formidable lad again became a soldier, and then graciously permitted to join him all the real fighting strength of the crowd, leaving behind a most forlorn band of little indians. then the soldiers attacked the indians, exhorting them to opposition at the same time. the indians at first adopted a policy of hurried surrender, but this had no success, as none of the surrenders were accepted. they then turned to flee, bawling out protests. the ferocious soldiers pursued them amid shouts. the battle widened, developing all manner of marvellous detail. horace had turned towards home several times, but, as a matter of fact, this scene held him in a spell. it was fascinating beyond anything which the grown man understands. he had always in the back of his head a sense of guilt, even a sense of impending punishment for disobedience, but they could not weigh with the delirium of this snow-battle. ii one of the raiding soldiers, espying horace, called out in passing, "a-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" horace flinched at this renewal, and the other lad paused to taunt him again. horace scooped some snow, moulded it into a ball, and flung it at the other. "ho!" cried the boy, "you're an indian, are you? hey, fellers, here's an indian that ain't been killed yet." he and horace engaged in a duel in which both were in such haste to mould snowballs that they had little time for aiming. horace once struck his opponent squarely in the chest. "hey," he shouted, "you're dead. you can't fight any more, pete. i killed you. you're dead." the other boy flushed red, but he continued frantically to make ammunition. "you never touched me!" he retorted, glowering. "you never touched me! where, now?" he added, defiantly. "where did you hit me?" "on the coat! right on your breast! you can't fight any more! you're dead!" "you never!" "i did, too! hey, fellers, ain't he dead? i hit 'im square!" "he never!" nobody had seen the affair, but some of the boys took sides in absolute accordance with their friendship for one of the concerned parties. horace's opponent went about contending, "he never touched me! he never came near me! he never came near me!" the formidable leader now came forward and accosted horace. "what was you? an indian? well, then, you're dead--that's all. he hit you. i saw him." "me?" shrieked horace. "he never came within a mile of me----" at that moment he heard his name called in a certain familiar tune of two notes, with the last note shrill and prolonged. he looked towards the sidewalk, and saw his mother standing there in her widow's weeds, with two brown paper parcels under her arm. a silence had fallen upon all the boys. horace moved slowly towards his mother. she did not seem to note his approach; she was gazing austerely off through the naked branches of the maples where two crimson sunset bars lay on the deep blue sky. at a distance of ten paces horace made a desperate venture. "oh, ma," he whined, "can't i stay out for a while?" "no," she answered solemnly, "you come with me." horace knew that profile; it was the inexorable profile. but he continued to plead, because it was not beyond his mind that a great show of suffering now might diminish his suffering later. he did not dare to look back at his playmates. it was already a public scandal that he could not stay out as late as other boys, and he could imagine his standing now that he had been again dragged off by his mother in sight of the whole world. he was a profoundly miserable human being. aunt martha opened the door for them. light streamed about her straight skirt. "oh," she said, "so you found him on the road, eh? well, i declare! it was about time!" horace slunk into the kitchen. the stove, straddling out on its four iron legs, was gently humming. aunt martha had evidently just lighted the lamp, for she went to it and began to twist the wick experimentally. [illustration: "let's see them mittens."] "now," said the mother, "let's see them mittens." horace's chin sank. the aspiration of the criminal, the passionate desire for an asylum from retribution, from justice, was aflame in his heart. "i--i--don't--don't know where they are." he gasped finally, as he passed his hand over his pockets. "horace," intoned his mother, "you are tellin' me a story!" "'tain't a story," he answered, just above his breath. he looked like a sheep-stealer. his mother held him by the arm, and began to search his pockets. almost at once she was able to bring forth a pair of very wet mittens. "well, i declare!" cried aunt martha. the two women went close to the lamp, and minutely examined the mittens, turning them over and over. afterwards, when horace looked up, his mother's sad-lined, homely face was turned towards him. he burst into tears. his mother drew a chair near the stove. "just you sit there now, until i tell you to git off." he sidled meekly into the chair. his mother and his aunt went briskly about the business of preparing supper. they did not display a knowledge of his existence; they carried an effect of oblivion so far that they even did not speak to each other. presently they went into the dining and living room; horace could hear the dishes rattling. his aunt martha brought a plate of food, placed it on a chair near him, and went away without a word. [illustration: "brought a plate of food"] horace instantly decided that he would not touch a morsel of the food. he had often used this ruse in dealing with his mother. he did not know why it brought her to terms, but certainly it sometimes did. the mother looked up when the aunt returned to the other room. "is he eatin' his supper?" she asked. the maiden aunt, fortified in ignorance, gazed with pity and contempt upon this interest. "well, now, emily, how do i know?" she queried. "was i goin' to stand over 'im? of all the worryin' you do about that child! it's a shame the way you're bringin' up that child." "well, he ought to eat somethin'. it won't do fer him to go without eatin'," the mother retorted, weakly. aunt martha, profoundly scorning the policy of concession which these words meant, uttered a long, contemptuous sigh. iii alone in the kitchen, horace stared with sombre eyes at the plate of food. for a long time he betrayed no sign of yielding. his mood was adamantine. he was resolved not to sell his vengeance for bread, cold ham, and a pickle, and yet it must be known that the sight of them affected him powerfully. the pickle in particular was notable for its seductive charm. he surveyed it darkly. [illustration: "horace stared with sombre eyes at the plate of food"] but at last, unable to longer endure his state, his attitude in the presence of the pickle, he put out an inquisitive finger and touched it, and it was cool and green and plump. then a full conception of the cruel woe of his situation swept upon him suddenly, and his eyes filled with tears, which began to move down his cheeks. he sniffled. his heart was black with hatred. he painted in his mind scenes of deadly retribution. his mother would be taught that he was not one to endure persecution meekly, without raising an arm in his defence. and so his dreams were of a slaughter of feelings, and near the end of them his mother was pictured as coming, bowed with pain, to his feet. weeping, she implored his charity. would he forgive her? no; his once tender heart had been turned to stone by her injustice. he could not forgive her. she must pay the inexorable penalty. the first item in this horrible plan was the refusal of the food. this he knew by experience would work havoc in his mother's heart. and so he grimly waited. but suddenly it occurred to him that the first part of his revenge was in danger of failing. the thought struck him that his mother might not capitulate in the usual way. according to his recollection, the time was more than due when she should come in, worried, sadly affectionate, and ask him if he was ill. it had then been his custom to hint in a resigned voice that he was the victim of secret disease, but that he preferred to suffer in silence and alone. if she was obdurate in her anxiety, he always asked her in a gloomy, low voice to go away and leave him to suffer in silence and alone in the darkness without food. he had known this maneuvering to result even in pie. but what was the meaning of the long pause and the stillness? had his old and valued ruse betrayed him? as the truth sank into his mind, he supremely loathed life, the world, his mother. her heart was beating back the besiegers; he was a defeated child. he wept for a time before deciding upon the final stroke. he would run away. in a remote corner of the world he would become some sort of bloody-handed person driven to a life of crime by the barbarity of his mother. she should never know his fate. he would torture her for years with doubts and doubts, and drive her implacably to a repentant grave. nor would aunt martha escape. some day, a century hence, when his mother was dead, he would write to his aunt martha, and point out her part in the blighting of his life. for one blow against him now he would, in time, deal back a thousand--aye, ten thousand. [illustration: "some sort of bloody-handed person"] he arose and took his coat and cap. as he moved stealthily towards the door he cast a glance backward at the pickle. he was tempted to take it, but he knew that if he left the plate inviolate his mother would feel even worse. a blue snow was falling. people, bowed forward, were moving briskly along the walks. the electric lamps hummed amid showers of flakes. as horace emerged from the kitchen, a shrill squall drove the flakes around the corner of the house. he cowered away from it, and its violence illumined his mind vaguely in new directions. he deliberated upon a choice of remote corners of the globe. he found that he had no plans which were definite enough in a geographical way, but without much loss of time he decided upon california. he moved briskly as far as his mother's front gate on the road to california. he was off at last. his success was a trifle dreadful; his throat choked. [illustration: "people, bowed forward"] but at the gate he paused. he did not know if his journey to california would be shorter if he went down niagara avenue or off through hogan street. as the storm was very cold and the point was very important, he decided to withdraw for reflection to the wood-shed. he entered the dark shanty, and took seat upon the old chopping-block upon which he was supposed to perform for a few minutes every afternoon when he returned from school. the wind screamed and shouted at the loose boards, and there was a rift of snow on the floor to leeward of a crack. here the idea of starting for california on such a night departed from his mind, leaving him ruminating miserably upon his martyrdom. he saw nothing for it but to sleep all night in the wood-shed and start for california in the morning bright and early. thinking of his bed, he kicked over the floor and found that the innumerable chips were all frozen tightly, bedded in ice. later he viewed with joy some signs of excitement in the house. the flare of a lamp moved rapidly from window to window. then the kitchen door slammed loudly and a shawled figure sped towards the gate. at last he was making them feel his power. the shivering child's face was lit with saturnine glee as in the darkness of the wood-shed he gloated over the evidences of consternation in his home. the shawled figure had been his aunt martha dashing with the alarm to the neighbors. the cold of the wood-shed was tormenting him. he endured only because of the terror he was causing. but then it occurred to him that, if they instituted a search for him, they would probably examine the wood-shed. he knew that it would not be manful to be caught so soon. he was not positive now that he was going to remain away forever, but at any rate he was bound to inflict some more damage before allowing himself to be captured. if he merely succeeded in making his mother angry, she would thrash him on sight. he must prolong the time in order to be safe. if he held out properly, he was sure of a welcome of love, even though he should drip with crimes. evidently the storm had increased, for when he went out it swung him violently with its rough and merciless strength. panting, stung, half blinded with the driving flakes, he was now a waif, exiled, friendless, and poor. with a bursting heart, he thought of his home and his mother. to his forlorn vision they were as far away as heaven. iv horace was undergoing changes of feeling so rapidly that he was merely moved hither and then thither like a kite. he was now aghast at the merciless ferocity of his mother. it was she who had thrust him into this wild storm, and she was perfectly indifferent to his fate, perfectly indifferent. the forlorn wanderer could no longer weep. the strong sobs caught at his throat, making his breath come in short, quick snuffles. all in him was conquered save the enigmatical childish ideal of form, manner. this principle still held out, and it was the only thing between him and submission. when he surrendered, he must surrender in a way that deferred to the undefined code. he longed simply to go to the kitchen and stumble in, but his unfathomable sense of fitness forbade him. presently he found himself at the head of niagara avenue, staring through the snow into the blazing windows of stickney's butcher-shop. stickney was the family butcher, not so much because of a superiority to other whilomville butchers as because he lived next door and had been an intimate friend of the father of horace. rows of glowing pigs hung head downward back of the tables, which bore huge pieces of red beef. clumps of attenuated turkeys were suspended here and there. stickney, hale and smiling, was bantering with a woman in a cloak, who, with a monster basket on her arm, was dickering for eight cents' worth of some thing. horace watched them through a crusted pane. when the woman came out and passed him, he went towards the door. he touched the latch with his finger, but withdrew again suddenly to the sidewalk. inside stickney was whistling cheerily and assorting his knives. [illustration: "eight cents worth of something"] finally horace went desperately forward, opened the door, and entered the shop. his head hung low. stickney stopped whistling. "hello, young man," he cried, "what brings you here?" [illustration: "his head hung low"] horace halted, but said nothing. he swung one foot to and fro over the saw-dust floor. stickney had placed his two fat hands palms downward and wide apart on the table, in the attitude of a butcher facing a customer, but now he straightened. "here," he said, "what's wrong? what's wrong, kid?" "nothin'," answered horace, huskily. he labored for a moment with something in his throat, and afterwards added, "o'ny----i've----i've run away, and--" "run away!" shouted stickney. "run away from what? who?" "from----home," answered horace. "i don't like it there any more. i----" he had arranged an oration to win the sympathy of the butcher; he had prepared a table setting forth the merits of his case in the most logical fashion, but it was as if the wind had been knocked out of his mind. "i've run away. i----" stickney reached an enormous hand over the array of beef, and firmly grappled the emigrant. then he swung himself to horace's side. his face was stretched with laughter, and he playfully shook his prisoner. "come----come----come. what dashed nonsense is this? run away, hey? run away?" whereupon the child's long-tried spirit found vent in howls. "come, come," said stickney, busily. "never mind now, never mind. you just come along with me. it'll be all right. i'll fix it. never you mind." five minutes later the butcher, with a great ulster over his apron, was leading the boy homeward. at the very threshold, horace raised his last flag of pride. "no----no," he sobbed. "i don't want to. i don't want to go in there." he braced his foot against the step and made a very respectable resistance. "now, horace," cried the butcher. he thrust open the door with a bang. "hello there!" across the dark kitchen the door to the living-room opened and aunt martha appeared. "you've found him!" she screamed. "we've come to make a call," roared the butcher. at the entrance to the living-room a silence fell upon them all. upon a couch horace saw his mother lying limp, pale as death, her eyes gleaming with pain. there was an electric pause before she swung a waxen hand towards horace. "my child," she murmured, tremulously. whereupon the sinister person addressed, with a prolonged wail of grief and joy, ran to her with speed. "mam-ma! mam-ma! oh, mam-ma!" she was not able to speak in a known tongue as she folded him in her weak arms. [illustration: "'mam-ma! mam-ma! oh, mam-ma!'"] aunt martha turned defiantly upon the butcher because her face betrayed her. she was crying. she made a gesture half military, half feminine. "won't you have a glass of our root-beer, mr. stickney? we make it ourselves." university of kansas publications museum of natural history volume , no. , pp. - april , distribution of some nebraskan mammals by j. knox jones, jr. university of kansas lawrence university of kansas publications, museum of natural history editors: e. raymond hall, chairman, a. byron leonard, robert w. wilson volume , no. , pp. - published april , university of kansas lawrence, kansas printed by ferd voiland, jr., state printer topeka, kansas - distribution of some nebraskan mammals by j. knox jones, jr. because military service will interrupt my study of nebraskan mammals, i am here placing on record certain information on the geographic distribution of several species--information that is thought pertinent to current studies of some of my associates. most of this information is provided by specimens recently collected by me and other representatives of the university of kansas museum of natural history, although specimens from other collections provide some of the records herein reported. the other collections are the biological surveys collection of the united states national museum (usbs), the hastings museum (hm), the nebraska game, forestation and parks commission (ngfpc), the university of california museum of vertebrate zoology (mvz), the university of michigan museum of zoology (mz) and the university of nebraska state museum (nsm). grateful acknowledgment hereby is made to persons in charge of these several collections for lending the materials concerned. specimens mentioned in the following accounts are in the university of kansas museum of natural history, except as otherwise stated. all measurements are in millimeters. color terms are those of ridgway ( ). a part of the funds for field work was made available by the national science foundation and the kansas university endowment association. =sorex cinereus haydeni.= (baird). cinereous shrew.--two male shrews were trapped on april , , among rocks along an old railroad fill, mi. n, / mi. e of octavia, butler county, thus extending the known geographic range of _s. c. haydeni_ approximately miles southward from a line connecting perch, rock county, nebraska, with wall lake, sac county, iowa (see jackson, : - ), and providing the first record of occurrence in the platte river valley. two additional specimens, taken on july , , are from - / mi. n of ord, valley county, along the loup river, a tributary of the platte from the north. =blarina brevicauda carolinensis= (bachman). short-tailed shrew.--j. s. findley and i, in a forthcoming paper, review the distribution of _blarina brevicauda_ in the great plains region, recording _b. b. carolinensis_ from the extreme southeastern and southwestern counties of nebraska. a series of five shrews of this species recently obtained from three miles south and two miles east of nebraska city in otoe county, average significantly smaller in both the cranial and the external measurements than typical _b. b. brevicauda_ and fall well within the range of _carolinensis_. average and extreme external measurements of the four adults from otoe county, three males and one female, are as follows: total length, ( - ); length of tail-vertebrae, . ( - ); length of hind foot, . ( - ). another specimen from mi. s, - / mi. e of peru, nemaha county, also is referable to _carolinensis_. these recent records indicate that the range of _b. b. carolinensis_ extends up the missouri river valley, approximately to nebraska city, otoe county. five specimens from louisville, cass county, the next county northward, along the river, are referable to _b. b. brevicauda_. =eptesicus fuscus fuscus.= (beauvois). big brown bat.--one big brown bat was obtained on july , , from one mile west of niobrara, knox county. while not so dark in dorsal coloration as some specimens of _e. f. fuscus_ from eastern nebraska (cass and sarpy counties), this specimen is noticeably darker than a series of _e. f. pallidus_ from ft. niobrara wildlife refuge, mi. e of valentine, cherry county, being near ( " _j_) snuff brown as opposed to near ( ' _i_) buckthorn brown. previous to the taking of this specimen, webb and jones ( : ) reported as _e. f. pallidus_ a specimen, saved as a skull only, which was picked up dead at niobrara. it seems best to assign these two bats from the vicinity of niobrara, knox county, to _e. f. fuscus_. =sciurus carolinensis carolinensis= gmelin. gray squirrel.--an adult male gray squirrel shot by mr. terry a. vaughan in the heavily timbered bluffs of the missouri river, mi. s, mi. e of nebraska city, otoe county, on october , , provides the only museum specimen of a gray squirrel from nebraska known to me. residents in the area concerned report small numbers of this squirrel as still occurring on the heavily wooded bluffs along the missouri river in nemaha, otoe and richardson counties, nebraska, at least as far north as nebraska city. gray squirrels from nebraska have been reported twice before in the literature as follows: "mouth of platte [river]" (baird, : ) and barada, richardson county (jones and webb, : ). swenk ( : ), while listing no actual records, says of this squirrel, "common in the timber along watercourses of southeastern nebraska, but greatly outnumbered everywhere by [_sciurus niger_] _rufiventer_. i have no records west of the th meridian nor north of the platte." =spermophilus franklinii= (sabine). franklin ground squirrel.--a specimen from mi. nw of lisco, in morrill county (nsm ), extends the known geographic range of _s. franklinii_ approximately miles westward along the platte river valley from kearney, buffalo county (see howell, : ), and suggests a westward movement of this ground squirrel along the platte river in recent years. =perognathus flavescens flavescens= merriam. plains pocket mouse.--_p. f. flavescens_ occurs in the sand hills and adjacent mixed-grass plains of central nebraska. eastern marginal records of occurrence are: neligh, antelope county, (mvz , nsm ); mi. e of ravenna, buffalo county, (mz); unspecified locality in adams county, (hm). =perognathus flavescens perniger= osgood. plains pocket mouse.--this mouse occurs in northeastern nebraska. osgood ( : ), in the original description of the subspecies, listed two specimens from verdigris [verdigre], knox county. additional records of occurrence are: beemer, cuming county, (usbs); - / mi. se of niobrara, knox county, ; - / mi. s of pilger, stanton county, . the two specimens from beemer are typical _perniger_. all of the other nebraskan specimens are intergrades between _p. f. flavescens_, geographically adjacent to the west, and _p. f. perniger_ to the east but are best referred to _perniger_ on the basis of greater total length, larger cranial measurements and darker dorsal coloration. _p. f. perniger_ was originally described (osgood, _op. cit._) on the basis of its darker dorsal coloration and encroachment of the lateral line on the posterior parts of the venter. the latter character is not present in all nebraskan specimens. mice from the two localities in knox county have buffy underparts; those from other nebraskan localities do not. of nine specimens of _p. f. perniger_ examined from elk river, sherburne county, minnesota, none has buffy underparts whereas a specimen from randolph, fremont county, iowa (nsm) does. in addition, in two of five specimens of _p. f. flavescens_ from kelso, hooker county, (mz) the lateral line encroaches on the underparts. the encroachment of the lateral line on the underparts, or failure of the line to do so, is thought to be only an individual variation and of no taxonomic use. =perognathus flavus piperi= goldman. buffy pocket mouse.--in the description of _p. f. bunkeri_, cockrum ( : ) allocated to the new subspecies, without comment, a specimen from alliance, box butte county. i have examined this specimen along with all other nebraskan specimens known to me and, although all approach _bunkeri_ in cranial measurements, they seem best referred to _piperi_ on the basis of darker dorsal coloration and larger external measurements. additional records of occurrence, several of them marginal to the eastward, are: mi. s of antioch, garden county, (mz); kelso, hooker county, (mz); mi. n of bridgeport, morrill county, (mvz); mi. n of mitchell, scotts bluff county, (nsm). a specimen not seen by me that was reported from valentine, cherry county (beed, : ), is presumably also best referred to _p. f. piperi_. no specimens of _p. flavus_ are known to me from south of the platte river in southwestern nebraska although they probably occur there. if so, they may be referable to _p. f. bunkeri_, which is found in counties of kansas adjoining the southwestern part of nebraska. =perognathus hispidus paradoxus= merriam. hispid pocket mouse.--this subspecies occurs commonly in central-and western-nebraska. eastern marginal records of occurrence are: mi. se of niobrara, knox county, (ngfpc); mi. e, mi. s of ord, ; bladen, webster county, (hm). =perognathus hispidus spilotus= merriam. hispid pocket mouse.--jones and webb ( : ) first reported this subspecies in nebraska as from mi. se of rulo, richardson county. additional records of occurrence are: mi. sw of barnston, gage county, (ngfpc); bennet, (nsm), mi. nw of lincoln, (nsm), - / mi. s of lincoln, (nsm), lancaster county; peru, nemaha county, (ngfpc); mi. s, mi. e of nebraska city, otoe county, ; barada, richardson county, (nsm); pleasant dale, seward county, (nsm); mi. s of williams, thayer county, . glass ( : ) referred a specimen from mi. nw of lincoln, lancaster county, to _p. h. paradoxus_. in discussing the zone of intergradation between _spilotus_ and _paradoxus_, geographically adjacent to the west, he wrote (_op. cit._: ), "it is evident that it proceeds northeastwards, toward the missouri river since specimens from eastern nebraska, a juvenile from webster county and an adult from lancaster county, are both typical _paradoxus_." i have examined the specimen from webster county referred to by glass and agree that it is _paradoxus_. i have not seen the specimen from mi. nw of lincoln; however, another specimen from there, two others from lancaster county, and one from seward county (see above), are here referred to _p. h. spilotus_, rather than _p. h. paradoxus_, on the basis of notably darker dorsal coloration and smaller external and cranial measurements. the range of _p. h. spilotus_ in nebraska, as presently known, therefore, is limited to the eastern, more humid part of the state, south of the platte river. =peromyscus maniculatus osgoodi= mearns. deer mouse.--swenk ( : ) reported this subspecies, under the name _peromyscus nebrascensis_, from glen, and dice ( : ) reported the subspecies from agate, both localities being in sioux county in the northwestern part of the state. osgood ( ), however, did not mention nebraskan specimens of this subspecies and excluded it from the state on his (_op. cit._) distribution map of the subspecies of _p. maniculatus_. in addition, quay ( : ) reports, as _p. m. nebrascensis_, deer mice obtained by him in the badlands of northern sioux county and adjacent niobrara county, wyoming. four deer mice referable to _p. m. osgoodi_ have been obtained from several localities on the pine ridge in dawes county as follows: mi. e of chadron, ; chadron state park, ; mi. sw of crawford, . when compared with specimens of _p. m. nebrascensis_, geographically adjacent to the east, these mice are seen to be notably darker and less buffy than _nebrascensis_ and to average significantly larger in both external and cranial measurements. all deer mice from the pine ridge and adjacent badlands of extreme northwestern nebraska probably are best referred to _p. m. osgoodi_. external measurements of two adult females are respectively: total length, , ; length of tail-vertebrae, , ; length of hind foot, , ; length of ear, , . =neotoma floridana campestris= j. a. allen. florida wood rat.--five wood rats from mi. n, mi. w of parks, dundy county, in extreme southwestern nebraska, provide the first record of occurrence of this subspecies in nebraska. these animals were trapped in outlying sheds at the rock creek state fish hatchery. two large wood-rat houses were in a dense thicket of brush and young trees in a small draw on the west side of the most westwardly hatchery lake. brown rats (_rattus norvegicus_) inhabited a combination garage-storage barn at the hatchery and no wood rats were taken there. =microtus pennsylvanicus pennsylvanicus= (ord). pennsylvania meadow mouse.--this subspecies occurs in eastern and central nebraska (see bailey, : and swenk, : ). additional records of occurrence are as follows: mi. e of rising city, butler county, ; mi. se of laurel, cedar county, ; wayne, , and - / mi. e of wayne, , wayne county; - / mi. n of ord, valley county, . =synaptomys cooperi gossii= (coues). cooper lemming mouse.--fichter and hanson ( : - ) reported the first known occurrence of this microtine in nebraska, recording specimens from several localities in lancaster county and one from near valentine, cherry county. recent records of this mouse which help to clarify its distribution in nebraska are as follows: mi. n, / mi. e of octavia, butler county, ; mi. n, mi. w of parks, dundy county, ; mi. n of pleasant dale, seward county, . an adult female from dundy county provides the westernmost record of distribution of the species in north america. the animal was trapped on november , , in association with _microtus pennsylvanicus modestus_ in a marshy area at the rock creek state fish hatchery on spring-fed rock creek. the pelage on the back is notably darker than in _s. c. gossii_, and resembles _s. c. paludis_ from the cimarron river drainage in meade county, kansas, but in the sum total of its characters it most closely resembles _s. c. gossii_ among named subspecies. =mustela rixosa campestris= jackson. least weasel.--the least weasel occurs in eastern and central nebraska (see swenk, : - and hall, : ) but is known by only a single specimen from each locality of record save for the area around inland, clay county (swenk, _op. cit._). additional records of the distribution of this mustelid in nebraska are: hastings, adams county, (hm); schuyler, colfax county, (ngfpc); goehner, seward county, (nsm); mi. s of ord, valley county, (ngfpc). the last mentioned specimen, a skull only, was obtained from a pellet of an unidentified raptorial bird. literature cited bailey, v. . revision of american voles of the genus microtus. n. amer. fauna, : - , june . baird, s. f. . explorations and surveys for a railroad route from the mississippi river to the pacific ocean. war department. (mammals, part ): xxxii + , july . beed, w. e. . a preliminary study of the animal ecology of the niobrara game preserve. bull. conserv. dept., conserv. surv. div., univ. nebraska, : - , october. cockrum, e. l. . a new pocket mouse (genus perognathus) from kansas. univ. kansas publ., mus. nat. hist., : - , december . dice, l. r. . variation of the deer mice (_peromyscus maniculatus_) on the sand hills of nebraska and adjacent areas. contrib. univ. michigan lab. vert. genetics, : - , july. fichter, e. h., and m. f. hanson. . the goss lemming mouse, _synaptomys cooperi gossii_ (coues), in nebraska. bull. univ. nebraska state mus., : - , september. glass, b. p. . geographic variation in perognathus hispidus. jour. mamm., : - , june . hall, e. r. . american weasels. univ. kansas publ., mus. nat. hist., : - , december . howell, a. h. . revision of north american ground squirrels with a classification of the north american sciuridae. n. amer. fauna, : - , may . jackson, h. h. t. . a taxonomic review of the american long-tailed shrews. n. amer. fauna, :vi + , july . jones, j. k. jr., and o. l. webb. . notes on mammals from richardson county, nebraska. jour. mamm., : - , august . osgood, w. h. . two new pocket mice of the genus _perognathus_. proc. biol. soc. washington, : - , june . . revision of the mice of the american genus peromyscus. n. amer. fauna, : - , april . quay, w. b. . notes on some bats from nebraska and wyoming. jour. mamm., : - , may . ridgway, r. . color standards and color nomenclature. washington, d. c. privately printed, iv + , pls. swenk, m. h. . a preliminary review of the mammals of nebraska. proc. nebraska acad. sci., : - . . notes on mustek campestris jackson, and on the american forms of least weasels. jour. mamm., : - , november . webb, o. l., and j. k. jones, jr. . an annotated checklist of nebraskan bats. univ. kansas publ., mus. nat. hist., : - , may . _transmitted january , ._ - * * * * * transcriber's notes: bold text is shown within =equal signs=. italicized text is shown within _underscores_. in the early days along the overland trail in nebraska territory, in . by gilbert l. cole, . compiled by mrs. a. hardy. press of franklin hudson publishing company, kansas city, mo. [illustration: gilbert l. cole.] copyright, , by gilbert l. cole, beatrice, neb. testimonials. a true story plainly told, of immense historical value and fascinating interest from beginning to end. dr. geo. w. crofts, beatrice, nebraska. i have read every word of "in the early days," written by mr. gilbert l. cole, with great interest and profit. the language is well chosen, the word-pictures are vivid, and the subject-matter is of historic value. the story is fascinating in the extreme, and i only wished it were longer. the story should be printed and distributed for the people in general to read. july , . c. a. fulmer, _superintendent of public schools_, beatrice, neb. at a single sitting, with intense interest, i have read the manuscript of "in the early days." it is a very entertaining narrative of adventure, a vivid portrayal of conditions and an instructive history of events as they came into the personal experience and under the observation of the writer fifty-three years ago. an exceedingly valuable contribution to the too meager literature of a time so near in years, but so distant in conditions as to make the truth about it seem stranger than fiction. rev. n. a. martin, _pastor, centenary m. e. church_, beatrice, neb. nebraska state historical society. lincoln, nebraska, july , . _to whom it may concern_: the manuscript account of the overland trip by mr. gilbert l. cole of beatrice, nebraska, in my opinion is a very carefully written story of great interest to the whole public, and particularly to nebraskans. it reads like a novel, and the succession of adventures holds the interest of the reader to the end. the records of trips across the nebraska territory as early as this one are very incomplete, and mr. cole has done a real public service in putting into print so complete a record of these experiences. i predict that it will find a wide circulation among lovers of travel and of nebraska history. very sincerely, jay amos barrett, _curator and librarian nebraska state historical society_, author of "nebraska and the nation"; "civil government of nebraska." executive chamber, lincoln, nebraska, july , . _to whom it may concern_: it gives me great pleasure to say that the publication, "in the early days," written by mr. gilbert l. cole, of beatrice, nebraska, is a very interesting and profitable work to read. it bears upon many subjects of great historical value and no doubt will prove a very interesting book to all who read it and i take pleasure in recommending the same. very respectfully, john h. mickey, _governor_. _to whom it may concern_: it is with pleasure i write a few words of commendation for the book written by mr. gilbert l. cole, of beatrice, nebraska, entitled "in the early days." it is well prepared and full of interest from beginning to the end. it is of great value to every nebraskan. _july , ._ d. l. thomas, _pastor grace m. e. church_, lincoln, neb. an interesting, thrilling and delightful bit of prairie history hitherto unwritten and unsung, which most opportunely and completely supplies a missing link in the stories of the great westland. mrs. a. hardy, _president beatrice woman's club_, beatrice, neb. beatrice, neb., july , . i have just read "in the early days," by col. g. l. cole, and i find it an interesting and instructive narrative, clothed in good diction and pleasing style. few of the argonauts took time or trouble to make note of the events of their journey and our california gold episode is remarkably barren of literature, a fact which makes col. cole's book doubly interesting and valuable. m. t. cummings contents. chapter i.--setting up altars of remembrance, chapter ii.--"god could not be everywhere, and so he made mothers," chapter iii.--"but somewhere the master has a counterpart of each," chapter iv.--our prairies are a book whose pages hold many stories, chapter v.--a worthy object reached for and missed is a first step toward success, chapter vi.--"'tis only a snowbank's tears, i ween," chapter vii.--we stepped over the ridge and courted the favor of new and untried waters, chapter viii.--we had no flag to unfurl, but its sentiment was within us, chapter ix.--we listened to each other's rehearsals, and became mutual sympathizers and encouragers, chapter x.--boots and saddles call, chapter xi.--"but all comes right in the end," chapter xii.--each day makes its own paragraphs and punctuation marks, introductory. if one is necessary, the only apology i can offer for presenting this little volume to the public is that it may serve to record for time to come some of the adventures of that long and wearisome journey, together with my impressions of the beautiful plains, mountains and rivers of the great and then comparatively unknown territory of nebraska. they were presented to me fresh from the hand of nature, in all their beauty and glory. and by reference to the daily journal i kept along the trail, the impressions made upon my mind have remained through these long years, bright and clear. the author. in the early days along the overland trail in nebraska territory, in . chapter i. setting up altars of remembrance. it has been said that once upon a time heaven placed a kiss upon the lips of earth and therefrom sprang the fair state of nebraska. it was while the prairies were still dimpling under this first kiss that the events related in this little volume became part and parcel of my life and experience, as gathered from a trip made across the continent in the morning glow of a territory now occupying high and honorable position in the calendar of states and nations. on the th day of march, , a caravan consisting of twenty-four men, one woman (our captain, w. w. wadsworth being accompanied by his wife), forty-four head of horses and mules and eight wagons, gathered itself together from the little city of monroe, michigan, and adjacent country, and, setting its face toward the western horizon, started for the newly found gold fields of california, where it expected to unloose from the storage quarters of nature sufficient of shining wealth to insure peace and plenty to twenty-five life-times and their dependencies. as is usual upon such occasions, this march morning departure from home and friends was a strange commingling of sadness and gladness, of hope and fear, for in those days whoever went into the regions beyond the missouri river were considered as already lost to the world. it was going into the dark unknown and untried places of earth whose farewells always surrounded those who remained at home with an atmosphere of foreboding. nothing of importance occurred during our travel through the states, except the general bad roads, which caused us to make slow progress. crossing the mississippi river at warsaw, illinois, we kept along the northern tier of counties in missouri, which were heavily timbered and sparsely settled. bearing south-west, we arrived at st. joseph, missouri, on the first day of may. the town was a collection of one-story, cheap, wooden buildings, located along the river and black snake hollow. the inhabitants appeared to be chiefly french and half-breed indians. the principal business was selling outfits to immigrants and trading horses, mules and cattle. there was one steam ferry-boat, which had several days crossing registered ahead. the level land below the town was the camping-place of our colony. after two or three days at this point, we drove up to the town of savannah, where we laid in new supplies and passed on to the missouri river, where we crossed by hand-ferry at savannah landing, now called amazonia. here we pressed for the first time the soil of the then unsettled plains of the great west. working our way through the heavily timbered bottom, we camped under the bluffs, wet and weary. we remained here over sunday, it having been decided to observe the sabbath days as a time of rest. we usually rested wednesday afternoons also. just after crossing the river, we had a number of set-backs; beginning with the crippling of a wheel while passing through a growth of timber. as we examined the broken spokes, we realized that they would soon have to be replaced by new ones, and that the wise thing to do was to provide for them while in the region of timber; so we stopped, cut jack-oak, made it into lengths and stored them in the wagon until time and place were more opportune for wheel-wrighting. this broken wheel proved to be a hoodoo, as will appear at intervals during the story of the next few weeks. in attempting to cross the slough which lies near to and parallel with the river for a long distance, my team and wagon, leading the others, no sooner got fairly on to the slough, which was crusted over, than the wagon sank in clear to its bed, and the horses sank until they were resting on their bellies as completely as though they were entirely without legs. and there we were, the longed-for bluffs just before us, and yet as unapproachable as if they were located in ireland. a party of campers, numbering some fifty or seventy-five, who were resting near by, came to our relief. the horses were extricated, and, after we had carried the contents of the wagon to the bluff shore, they drew the wagon out with cow-teams, whose flat, broad hoofs kept them from sinking. cow-teams were used quite extensively in those days, being very docile and also swift walkers. here under the bluffs over-hanging the missouri, we completed our organization, for it was not only necessary that every man go armed, but also each man knew his special duty and place. w. w. wadsworth, a brave and noble man, was by common consent made captain. four men were detailed each night to stand guard, two till o'clock, when they were relieved by two others, who served till daylight. monday morning came, and at sunrise we started on the trail that led up the hollow and on to the great plains of kansas and nebraska. the day was warm and bright and clear. the sight before us was the most beautiful i had ever seen. not a tree nor an obstacle was in sight; only the great rolling sea of brightest green beneath us and the vivid blue above. i think it must have been just such a scene as this that inspired a modern writer to pen those expressive and much admired lines: "i'm glad the sky is painted blue and the grass is painted green, and a lot of nice fresh air all sandwiched in between." sky, air, grass; what an abundance of them! in all the pristine splendor of fifty-three years ago, was ours upon that spring morning. this, then, was the land which in later years was called the "great american desert." i have now lived in nebraska for a quarter of a century and know whereof i speak when i say that in those days the grass was as green and luxuriant as it is today; the rivers were fringed with willow green as they are today; the prairie roses, like pink stars, dotted the trail sides through which we passed; and, later on, clumps of golden-rod smiled upon us with their sun-hued faces; the rains fell as they have been falling all these years, and several kinds of birds sang their praises of it all. this was "the barren, sandy desert," as i saw it more than half a hundred years ago. perhaps right here it will be well to ask the reader to bear in mind the fact that the boundary lines of nebraska in , were different from the boundary lines of today. they extended many miles farther south, and so many miles farther west, that we stepped out of nebraska on to the summit of the sierra nevada mountains into california. it was at this stage of our journey, that, in going out, very early in the morning to catch my horse, i noticed ahead of me something sticking up above the grass. stepping aside to see what it might be, i found a new-made grave; just a tiny grave; at its head was the object i had seen--a bit of board bearing the inscription, "our only child, little mary." how my heart saddened as i looked upon it! the tiny mound seemed bulging with buried hopes and happiness as the first rays of a new sun fell across it, for well i knew that somewhere on the trail ahead of us there were empty arms, aching hearts, and bitter longings for the baby who was sleeping so quietly upon the bosom of the prairie. the first indians we saw were at wolf creek, where they had made a bridge of logs and brush, and charged us fifty cents per wagon to pass over it. we paid it and drove on, coming northwest to the vicinity of the big blue river, at a point near where barneston, gage county, is now located. as a couple of horsemen, a comrade and myself, riding in advance, came suddenly to the big blue, where, on the opposite bank stood a party of thirty or forty indians. we fell back, and when the train came up a detail was made of eight men to drive the teams and the other sixteen were to wade the river, rifles in hand. in making preparations to ford the river, captain wadsworth, as a precaution of safety, placed his wife in the bottom of their wagon-bed, and piled sacks of flour around her as a protection in case of a fight. being one of the skirmish line, i remember how cold and blue the water was, and that it was so deep as to come into our vest pockets. we walked up to the indians and said "how," and gave some presents of copper cents and tobacco. we soon saw that they were merely looking on to see us ford the stream. they were pawnees, and were gaily dressed and armed with bows and arrows. we passed several pipes among them, and, seeing that they were quiet, the train was signalled, and all came through the ford without any mishap, excepting, that the water came up from four to six inches in the wagon-bed, making the ride extremely hazardous and uncomfortable for mrs. wadsworth, who was necessarily drawn through the water in an alarming and nerve-trying manner. but she was one of the bravest of women, and in this instance, as in many others of danger and fatigue before we reached our journey's end, she displayed such courage and good temper, as to win the admiration of all the company. the sacks of flour and other contents of the wagons were pretty badly wet, and, after we were again on the open prairie, we bade the indians good-bye, and all hands proceeded to dismount the wagons, and spread their contents on the grass to dry. an "altar of remembrance," is sure to be established at each of these halting places along life's trail. a company of kin-folk and neighbor-folk hitting the trail simultaneously, having a common goal and actuated by common interests, are drawn wonderfully close together by the varied incidents and conditions of the march, and, at the spots thus made sacred, memory never fails to halt, as in later life it makes its rounds up and down the years. not fewer in number than the stars, which hang above them at night, are the altars of remembrance, which will forever mark the line of immigration and civilization from east to west across our prairie country. chapter ii. "god could not be everywhere and so he made mothers." we now moved on in the direction of diller and endicott, where we joined the main line of immigration coming through from st. joe, and, crossing the big blue where marysville, kansas, is located, we were soon coming up the little blue, passing up on the east side, and about one-half mile this side of fairbury. our trail now lay along the uplands through the day, where we could see the long line of covered wagons, sometimes two or three abreast, drawing itself in its windings like a huge white snake across this great sea of rolling green. this line could be seen many miles to the front and rear so far that the major portion of it seemed to the observer to be motionless. this immense concourse of travellers was self-divided into trail families or travelling neighborhoods, as it were; and while each party was bound together by local ties of friendship and affection, there still ran through the entire procession a chord of common interest and sympathy, a something which, in a sense, made the whole line kin. this fact was most touchingly exemplified one day in the region of the blue. i was driving across a bad slough, close behind a man who belonged to another party, from where i did not know. himself, wife and little daughter lived in the covered wagon he was driving. the piece of ground was an unusually bad one, and both his wagon and mine being heavily loaded, we stopped as soon as we had pulled through, in order that the horses might rest; our wagons standing abreast and about ten or twelve feet apart. in the side of his wagon cover next to me was a flap-door, which, the day being fine, was fastened open. as we sat our loads and exchanged remarks, his little girl, a beautiful child, apparently three or four years old, came from the recesses of the wagon-home, and standing in the opening of the door, looked coyly and smilingly out at her father and myself. she made a beautiful picture, with her curls and dimples, and, as i didn't know any baby talk at that time, i playfully snapped my fingers at her. the thought of moving on evidently came to the father very suddenly, for, without any preliminary symptoms and not realizing that the little one was standing so nearly out of the door, he swung his long whip, and, as it cracked over the horses' backs, they gave a sudden lurch, throwing the little girl out of the door and directly in front of the hind wheel of the heavily laden wagon, which, in an instant had passed over the child's body at the waist line, the pretty head and hands reaching up on one side of the wheel, and the feet on the other, as the middle was pressed down into the still boggy soil. the little life was snuffed out in the twinkling of an eye. the mother, seeing her darling fall, jumped from the door, and such excruciating sobs of agony i hope never to hear again. but why say it in that way when i can hear them still, even as i write? it seemed but a moment of time till men and women were gathered about the wagon, helping to gather the crushed form from the prairie, and giving assistance and sympathy in such measure and earnestness as verified the truth of the words, "a touch of sorrow makes the whole world kin." when started again, the trail soon led to a stream, called the big sandy; i believe it is in the northwest part of fillmore county, where, about nine o'clock, a. m., we were suddenly alarmed by the unearthly whoops and yells of one hundred or more indians (pawnees), all mounted and riding up and down across the trail on the open upland opposite us, about a good rifle shot distant. our company was the only people there. a courier was immediately sent back for reinforcements. we hastily put our camp in position of defense (as we had been drilled) by placing our wagons in a circle with our stock and ourselves inside. the indians constantly kept up their noise, and rode up and down, brandishing their arms at us, and every minute we thought they would make a break for us. we soon had recruits mounted and well armed coming up, when our captain assumed command, and all were assigned to their positions. this was kept up until about four p. m., when we decided that our numbers would warrant us in making a forward movement. as a preliminary, skirmishers were ordered forward toward the creek, through some timber and underbrush, i being one of them. my pardner and i, coming to the creek first, discovered an empty whiskey barrel, and going a little farther into the brush, discovered two tents. creeping carefully up to them, we heard groans as of some one in great pain. peeping through a hole in the tent we saw two white men, who, on entering the tent, we learned were badly wounded by knife and bullet. from them we learned the following facts, which caused all our fear and trouble of the morning: the two white men were post-keepers at that point, and, of course, had whiskey to sell. two large trains had camped there the night before; the campers got on a drunk, quarreled, and had a general fight, during which the post-keepers were wounded. on the trail over where the indians were, some immigrants were camped, and a guard had been placed at the roadside. one of the indians, hearing the noise down at the post, started out to see what was going on. coming along the trail, the guard called to him to halt, but as he did not do so the guard fired, killing him on the spot. the campers immediately hitched up and moved on. later the dead indian was found by the other indians lying in the road. it was this that aroused their anger and kept us on the ragged edge for several hours. the indians all rode off as we approached them, and as the trail was now clear our train moved ahead, travelling all night and keeping out all the mounted ones as front and rear guards. we now come to the "last leaving of the little blue," and pass on to the upland without wood or water, thirty-three miles east of ft. kearney, leading to the great platte valley. meanwhile my broken wheel had completely collapsed. having a kit of tools with me, i set about shaping spokes out of the oak wood gathered several days before. while i was doing this others of the men rode a number of miles in search of fuel with which to make a fire to set the tire. it was nearly night and in a drizzling rain when we came to the line of the reservation. a trooper, sitting on his horse, informed us that we would have to keep off of the reservation or else go clear through if once we started. this meant three or four miles' further ride through the darkness and rain, and so we camped right there, without supper or even fire to make some coffee. we hitched up in the morning and drove into the fort, where we were very kindly treated by the commanding officer, whose name, i think, was mcarthur. he tendered us a large room with tables, pen and ink, paper and "envelope paper," where we wrote the first letters home from nebraska, which, i believe, were all received with much joy. the greater part of the troops were absent from the fort on a scout. after buying a few things we had forgotten to bring with us and getting rested, we moved on our journey again, going up on the south side of the platte river. before leaving this region i want to speak of the marvelous beauty of the platte river islands, a magnificent view of which could be had from the bluffs. looking out upon the long stretch of river either way were islands and islands of every size whatever, from three feet in diameter to those which contained miles of area, resting here and there in the most artistic disregard of position and relation to each other, the small and the great alike wearing its own mantle of sheerest willow-green. there are comparatively few of these island beauty spots in the whole wide world. when the maker of the universe gathered up his emeralds and then dropped them with careless hand upon a few of earth's waters. he wrought nowhere a more beautiful effect than in the platte islands of nebraska. it was well that at this point we had an extra amount of kindness tendered us and so much unusual beauty to look upon, for a great sorrow was about to come upon us. just as we were leaving the little blue, thirty-three miles back, one of our party, robert nelson, became ill, and in spite of the best nursing and treatment that the company could give he rapidly grew worse, and it soon became evident that his disease was cholera, which was already quite prevalent thereabout. mrs. wadsworth, that most excellent woman, gave to him her special care, taking him into the tent occupied by herself and husband, which, in fact, was the only tent in the outfit. it was lew wallace who once said that "god couldn't be everywhere, and so he made mothers." our captain's wife was a true mother to the sick boy, but she couldn't save him. at o'clock sunday afternoon, may th, about sixty miles beyond kearney, his soul passed on, and we were bowed under our first bereavement. we dug his grave in the sand a little way off the trail. we wrapped his blanket about him and sewed it, and at sunrise monday morning laid him to rest. the end-gate from my wagon had been shaped into a grave-board and, with his name cut upon it, was planted to mark his resting-place. it was a sorrowful little company that performed these last services for one who was beloved by all. just before dying, robert had requested that his grave might be covered with willow branches, and so a comrade and myself rode our horses out to one of the islands and brought in big bunches of willows and tucked them about him, as he had desired. truly our prairies have been a stage upon which much more of tragedy than of comedy has been enacted. chapter iii. "but somewhere the master has a counterpart of each." "o lord almighty, aid thou me to see my way more clear. i find it hard to tell right from wrong, and i find myself beset with tangled wires. o god, i feel that i am ignorant, and fall into many devices. these are strange paths wherein thou hast set my feet, but i feel that through thy help and through great anguish, i am learning." this modern prayer, as prayed by the hero of a modern tale, would have fitted most completely into the spirit and conditions prevailing in our camp on a certain morning in early june, , as we were completing arrangements preparatory to the extremely dangerous crossing of the platte river, owing to its treacherous quicksand bottom. despite the old proverb, "never cross a bridge till you get to it," we had, because of the very absence of a bridge, been running ahead of ourselves during the entire trip, to make the dreaded crossing over this deceptive and gormandizing stream. we had now caught up with our imaginings and found them to be realities. there was not much joshing among the boys that morning as we made the rounds of the horses and wagons and saw that every buckle and strap and gear was in the best possible condition, for to halt in the stream to adjust a mishap would mean death. "once started, never stop," was the ominous admonition of the hour. about o'clock, all things being in readiness, two of us were sent out to wade across the river and mark the route by sticking in the sand long willow branches, with which we were laden for that purpose. the route staked, we returned and the train lined up. it need not require any great feat of imagination on the part of the reader to hear how dirge-like the first hoofs and wheels sounded as they parted the waters and led the way. every man except the drivers waded alongside the horses to render assistance if it should be required. mrs. wadsworth was remarkably brave, sitting her wagon with white, but calm face. scarcely a word was spoken during the entire crossing, which occupied about twenty-five minutes. we passed on the way the remains of two or three wagons standing on end and nearly buried in the sand. they were grewsome reminders of what had been, as well as of what might be. but without a halt or break, we drove clear through and on to dry land. to say that we all felt happy at seeing the crossing behind us does not half express our feelings. the nervous strain had been terrible, and at no time in our journey had we been so nearly taxed to the utmost. one man dug out a demijohn of brandy from his traps and treated all hands, remarking, "that the success of that undertaking merits something extraordinary." the crossing was made at the south fork of the platte, immediately where it flows into the main river. what is now known as north platte and south platte was then known as north fork and south fork of platte river. it was at the south fork and just before we crossed that i shot and killed my first buffalo. it was also very early in the morning, and while i was still on guard duty. a bunch of five of them came down to the river to drink, buffalo being as plentiful in that region, and time, as domestic cattle are here today. my first shot only wounded the creature, who led me quite a lively chase before i succeeded in killing him. we soon had his hide off, and an abundance of luscious, juicy steak for breakfast. i remember that we sent some to another company that was camping not far distant. this was our first and last fresh meat for many a day. a few days after this an incident occurred in camp that bordered on the tragic, but finally ended in good feeling. my guard mate, named charley stewart, and myself were the two youngest in the company, and, being guards together, were great friends. he was a native of cincinnati, well educated, and had a fund of stories and recitations that he used to get off when we were on guard together. this night we were camped on the side of some little hills near some ravines. the moon was shining, but there were dark clouds occasionally passing, so that at times it was quite dark. it was near midnight and we would be relieved in an hour. we had been the "grand rounds" out among the stock, and came to the nearest wagon which was facing the animals that were picketed out on the slope. stewart was armed with a "colt's army," while i had a double-barreled shot-gun, loaded with buckshot. i was sitting on the double-tree, on the right side of the tongue, which was propped up with the neck-yoke. stewart sat on the tongue, about an arm's length ahead of me, i holding my gun between my knees, with the butt on the ground. stewart was getting off one of his stories, and, had about reached the climax, when i saw something running low to the ground, in among the stock. thinking it was an indian, on all fours, to stampede the animals, i instantly leveled my gun, and, as i was following it to an opening in the herd, my gun came in contact with stewart's face at the moment of discharge, stewart falling backward, hanging to the wagon-tongue by his legs and feet. my first thought was that i had killed him. he recovered in a moment, and began cursing and calling me vile names; accusing me of attempting to murder him, etc. during these moments, in his frenzy, he was trying to get his revolver out from under him, swearing he would kill me. taking in the situation, i dropped my gun, jumped over the wagon tongue, as he was getting on to his feet, and engaged in what proved to be a desperate fight for the revolver. we were both sometimes struggling on the ground, then again on our knees, he repeatedly striking me in the face and elsewhere, still accusing me of trying to murder him. as i had no chance to explain things, the struggle went on. finally i threw him, and held him down until he was too much exhausted to continue the fight any longer, and, having wrested the revolver from him, i helped him to his feet. in trying to pacify him, i led him out to where the object ran that i had fired at, and there lay the dead body of a large gray wolf, with several buckshot holes in his side. stewart was speechless. looking at the wolf, and then at me, he suddenly realized his mistake, and repeatedly begged my pardon. we agreed never to mention the affair to any one in the company. taking the wolf by the ears, we dragged him back to the wagon, where i picked up my gun, and gave stewart his revolver. i have often thought what would have been the consequence of that shot, had i not killed the wolf. along in this vicinity, the bluff comes down to the river, and, consequently, we had to take to the hills, which were mostly deep sand, making heavy hauling. this trail brought us into ash hollow, a few miles from its mouth. coming down to where it opened out on the platte, about noon, we turned out for lunch. here was a party of sioux indians, camped in tents made of buffalo skins. they were friendly, as all of that tribe were that summer. this is the place where general kearney, several years later, had a terrific battle with the same tribe, which was then on the war-path along this valley. my hoodoo wheel had recently been giving me trouble. the spokes that i made of green oak, having become dry and wobbly, i had been on the outlook for a cast-off wheel, that i might appropriate the spokes. hence it was, that, after luncheon i took my rifle, and started out across the bottom, where, within a few rods of the river, and about a half a mile off the road which turned close along the bluff, i came upon an old broken-down wagon, almost hidden in the grass. taking the measure of the spokes, i found to my great joy, that they were just the right size and length. looking around, i saw the train moving on, at a good pace, almost three-quarters of a mile away. i was delayed some time in getting the wheel off the axle-tree. succeeding at last, i fired my rifle toward the train, but no one looked around, all evidently supposing that i was on ahead. it was an awful hot afternoon, and i was getting warmed up myself. i reloaded my rifle, looked at the receding train, and made up my mind to have that wheel if it took the balance of the day to get it into camp. i started by rolling it by hand, then by dragging it behind me, then i ran my rifle through the hub and got it up on my shoulder, when i moved off at a good pace. the sun shining hot, soon began to melt the tar in the hub, which began running down my back, both on the inside and outside of my clothes, as well as down along my rifle. i finally got back to the road, very tired, stopping to rest, hoping a wagon would come along to help me out, but not one came in sight that afternoon. in short, i rolled, dragged and carried that wheel; my neck, shoulders and back daubed over with tar, until the train turned out to camp, when, i being missed, was discovered away back in the road with my wheel. when relief came to me, i was nearly tired out with my exertions, and want of water to drink. some of the men set to work taking the wheel apart and fitting the spokes and getting the wheel ready to set the tire. others had collected a couple of gunny-sacks full of the only fuel of the platte valley, viz., "buffalo-chips," and they soon had the job completed. the boys nearly wore themselves out, laughing and jeering at me, saying they were sorry they had no feathers to go with the tar, and calling me a variety of choice pet names. the wheel, when finished and adjusted, proved to be the best part of the wagon, and, better than all else, had provided a season of mirth to the whole company, which, considering the all too serious environments of our march, was really a much needed tonic and diversion. we learned so many wonderful lessons in those days, lessons that have never been made into books. we learned from nature; we learned from animal nature; we learned from human nature; and where are they who studied from the same page as did i? so often and so completely have the slides been changed, that among all the faces now shown by life's stereopticon, mine alone remains of the original twenty-five, of the trail of ' . but somewhere the master has a counterpart of each. chapter iv. our prairies are a book, whose pages hold many stories. we have just been passing through an extremely interesting portion of nebraska, a portion which today is known as western nebraska, where those wonderful formations, scott's bluff, courthouse rock and chimney rock, are standing now, even as they did in the early ' 's. courthouse rock a little way off really looked a credit to its name. it was a huge affair, and, in its ragged, irregular outline, seemed to impart to the traveller a sense of protection and fair dealing. scott's bluff was an immense formation, and sometime during its history nature's forces had cleft it in two parts, making an avenue through its center at least one hundred feet wide, through which we all passed, as the trail led through instead of around the bluff. chimney rock in outline resembled an immense funnel. the whole thing was at least two hundred feet in height, the chimney part, starting about midway, was about fifty feet square; its top sloped off like the roof of a shanty. beginning at the top, the chimney was split down about one quarter of its length. on the perpendicular part of this rock a good many names had been cut by men who had scaled the base, and, reaching as far on to the chimney as they could, cut their names into its surface. so clear was the atmosphere that when several miles distant we could see the rock and men who looked like ants as they crept and crawled up its sides. as one stops to decipher the inscriptions upon this boulder the sense of distance is entirely lost, and the traveller finds himself trying to compare it with that other obelisk in central park, new york. as he thinks about them, the truth comes gradually to him that there can be no comparison, since the one is a masterpiece from the hand of nature and the other is but a work of art. these formations are not really rock, but of a hard marle substance, and while each is far remote from the others, the same colored strata is seen in all of them, showing conclusively that once upon a time the surface of the ground in that region was many feet higher than it was in or than it is today, and that by erosion or upheaval large portions of the soil were displaced and carried away, these three chunks remaining intact and as specimens of conditions existing many centuries ago. i have been through the art galleries of our own country and through many of those in europe; i have seen much of the natural scenery in the old world as well as in the new; but not once have i seen anything which surpassed in loveliness and grandeur the pictures which may be seen throughout nature's gallery in nebraska and through which the trail of ' led us. landscapes, waterscapes, rocks, and skies and atmosphere were here found in the perfection of light, shadow, perspective, color, and effect. added to these fixed features were those of life and animation, contributed by herds of buffalo grazing on the plains, here and there a bunch of antelope galloping about, and everywhere wolf, coyote, and prairie dog, while a quaint and picturesque charm came from the far-reaching line of covered wagons and the many groups of campers, each with its own curl of ascending smoke, which, to the immigrant, always indicated that upon that particular patch of ground, for that particular time, a home had been established. in this connection i find myself thinking about the various modes of travel resorted to in those primitive days, when roads and bridges as we have them today were still far in the future. the wagons were generally drawn by cattle teams, from two to five yokes to the wagon. the number of wagons would be all the way from one to one hundred. the larger trains were difficult to pass, as they took up the road for so long a distance that sometimes we would move on in the night in order to get past them. among the smaller teams we would frequently notice that one yoke would be of cows, some of them giving milk right along. the cattle teams as a rule started out earlier in the morning and drove later at night than did the horse and mule teams; hence, we would sometimes see a certain train for two or three days before we would have an opportunity to get ahead of them. this was the cause of frequent quarrels among drivers of both cattle and horse teams; the former being largely in the majority and having the road, many of them seemed to take delight in keeping the horse teams out of the road and crowding them into narrow places. these little pleasantries were indulged in generally by people from missouri, as many of them seemed to think their state covered the entire distance to california. as to classes and conditions constituting the immigration, they might be divided up somewhat as follows: there were the proprietors or partners, owners of the teams and outfits; then there were men going along with them who had bargained with the owners before leaving home, some for a certain amount paid down, some to work for a certain time or to pay a certain amount at the journey's end. this was to pay for their grub and use of tents and wagons. these men were also to help drive and care for the stock, doing their share of camp and guard duty. there were others travelling with a single pack animal, loaded with their outfits and provisions. these men always travelled on foot. then there were some with hand-carts, others with wheelbarrows, trudging along and making good time. occasionally we would see a man with a pack like a knapsack on his back and a canteen strapped on to him and a long cane in either hand. these men would just walk away from everybody. a couple of incidents along here will serve to show how these conditions sometimes worked. we were turned into camp one evening, and as we were getting supper there came along a man pushing a light handcart, loaded with traps and provisions, and asked permission to camp with us, which was readily granted. he was a stout, hearty, good-natured fellow, possessed of a rich irish accent, and in the best of humor commenced to prepare his supper. just about this time there came into camp another lone man, leading a diminutive donkey, not much larger than a good-sized sheep. the donkey, on halting, gave us a salute that simply silenced the ordinary mule. the two men got acquainted immediately, and by the time their supper was over they had struck a bargain to put their effects together by way of hitching the donkey to the cart, and so move on together. they made a collar for the donkey out of gunny-sack, and we gave them some rope for traces. then, taking off the hand-bar of the cart, they put the donkey into the shafts and tried things on by leading it around through the camp till it was time to turn in. everything went first-rate, and they were so happy over their transportation prospects that they scarcely slept during the whole night. in the morning they were up bright and early, one making the coffee and the other oiling the iron axle-trees and packing the cart. starting out quite early, they bade us goodby with hearty cheer, saying they would let the folks in california know that we were coming, etc. about o'clock we came to a little narrow creek, the bottom being miry and several feet below the surface of the ground. there upon the bank stood the two friends who had so joyously bidden us goodby only a few hours before. the cart was a wreck, with one shaft and one spindle broken. it appeared that the donkey had got mired in crossing the creek and in floundering about had twisted off the shaft and broken one of the wheels. we left them there bewailing their misfortune and blaming each other for the carelessness which worked the mishap. we never saw them again. this incident is an illustration of those cases where a man obtained his passage by contributing something to the outfit and working his way through. there were quite a number of this class, they having no property rights in the train. at the usual time we turned in for dinner near by a camp of two or three wagons. on the side of one wagon was a doctor's sign, who, we afterwards learned, was the proprietor of the train. as we were quietly eating and resting we suddenly heard some one cursing and yelling in the other camp, and saw two men, one the hired man and the other the doctor, the latter being armed with a neck-yoke and chasing the hired man around the wagon, and both running as fast as they could. they had made several circuits, the doctor striking at the man with all his might at each turn, when some of us went over to try to stop the fight. just at this point, the hired man, as he turned the rear of the wagon, whipped out an allen revolver and turning shot the doctor in the mouth, the charge coming out nearly under the ear. the doctor and the neckyoke struck the ground about the same time. his eyes were blinded by powder and he had the appearance of being dangerously if not fatally wounded. everybody was more or less excited except the hired man. from expressions all around in both trains, the hired man seemed to have the most friends. there were many instances of this kind, though none quite so tragic, the quarrels usually arising from the owner of the wagons constantly brow-beating and finding fault with the hired man. again i saw an instance where two men were equal partners all around, in four horses, harness and wagon. they seemed to have quarreled so much that they agreed to divide up and quit travelling together. they divided up their horses and provisions, and then measured off the wagon-bed and sawed it in two parts, also the reach, and then flipped a copper cent to see which should have the front part of the wagon. after the division they each went to work and fixed up his part of the wagon as best he could, and drove on alone. the entire trip from monroe, michigan, our starting-point, to hangtown, the point of landing in california, covered , miles, and we were five months, lacking six days, in making it. today the same trip can be made in a half week, with every comfort and luxury which money and invention can provide. there is probably nothing that marks the progress of civilization more distinctly than do the perfected modes and conveniences of travel. it is strange, but true, however, that so long as our prairies shall stretch themselves from river to ocean the imprint of the overland trail can never be obliterated. today, after a lapse of over fifty years, whoever passes within seeing distance of the old trail can, upon the crest of grain and grass, note its serpentine windings, as marked by a light and sickly color of green. i myself have followed it from a car-window as traced in yellow green upon an immense field of growing corn. no amount of cultivation can ever restore to that long-trodden path its pristine vigor and productiveness. our prairies are a book, whose pages hold many stories writ by many people. tragedy, comedy, pathos, love and valor, duly punctuated by life's rests and stops, whose interest shall appeal to human hearts as long as their green cover enfolds them. chapter v. a worthy object reached for and missed is a first step toward success. who, among the many persons contributing for a wage, to the convenience of everyday life in these latter times, is more waited and watched for, and brings more of joy, and more of sorrow when he comes, than the postman. in the days of trailing, our post accommodations were extremely few and very far between. there were no mailing points, except at the government forts, fort kearney and laramie being the only two on the entire trip, soldiers carrying the mail to and from the forts either way. after leaving fort kearney, the next mailing point east, was fort laramie. before leaving home, i had been entrusted with a package of letters by hon. isaac p. christiancy, from his wife, to her brother, james mcclosky, who had been on the plains some fourteen years, and who was supposed to be living near fort laramie. when within a couple of days' drive of the fort we came to a building which proved to be a store, and which was surrounded by several wigwams. upon halting and going into the store, we found ourselves face to face with the man we were wanting to meet, mr. mcclosky. he was glad to see us, and overjoyed to receive the package of letters. he stepped out of doors and gave a whoop or two, and immediately indians began to come in from all directions. he ordered them to take our stock out on the ranch, feed and guard it, and bring it in in the morning. he treated us generously to supper and breakfast, including many delicacies to which we had long been strangers. in consideration of my bringing the letters to him, he invited me to sleep in his store, and, in the morning, introduced me to his indian wife and two sons, also, to several other women who were engaged in an adjoining room, in cutting and making buckskin coats, pants and moccasins, presenting me with an elegant pair of the latter. his wife was a bright and interesting woman, to whom he was deeply attached. his two boys were bright, manly fellows, the oldest of whom, about ten years old, was soon to be taken to st. joe or council bluffs and placed in school. at an early hour in the morning, the indians brought in the stock, in fine condition, and we hitched up and bade our host goodbye. he sent word to his sister at home, and seemed much affected at our parting. this was the first morning when, in starting out, we knew anything about what was ahead of us; what we would meet, or what the roads and crossings would be. in fact, every one we saw, were going the same as ourselves, consequently, all were quite ignorant of what the day might bring forth. on this morning, we knew the conditions of the roads for several days ahead, and, that fort laramie was thirty-six miles before us. shortly after going into camp toward sunset, a party of horsemen was seen galloping toward us, who, on nearer approach, proved to be a band of ten or twelve indians. when within about one hundred yards, they halted and dismounted, each holding his horse. the chief rode up to us, saluted and dismounted. he was a sharp-eyed young fellow, showing beneath his blanket the dress-coat of a private soldier and non-commissioned officer's sword. he gave us to understand that they were sioux, and had been on the warpath for some pawnees, also that they were hungry and would like to have us give them something to eat. after assuring him that we would do so, he ordered his men to advance, which they did after picketing their ponies, coming up and setting themselves on the grass in a semi-circle. we soon noticed that they carried spears made of a straight sword-blade thrust into the end of a staff. on two or three of the spears were dangling one or more fresh scalps, on which the blood was yet scarcely dry. on pointing to them, one of the indians drew his knife, and taking a weed by the top, quickly cut it off, saying as he did so, "pawnees." his illustration of how the thing was done was entirely satisfactory. we gave the grub to the chief, who in turn, handed it out to the men as they sat on the ground. when through eating, they mounted their ponies, waved us a salute and were off. the balance of the day was spent in writing home letters, which we expected to deliver on the morrow at the post. about o'clock the next morning, we came to laramie river, near where it empties into the north platte, which we crossed on a bridge, the first one we had seen on the whole route. at this point a road turns off, leading up to the fort, about one mile distant. being selected to deliver the mail, i rode out to the fort, which was made up of a parade-ground protected by earth-works, with the usual stores, quarters, barracks, etc., the sutler and post-office being combined. on entering the sutler's, about the first person i saw was the young leader of the indians, who had lunched at our camp the afternoon before. he was now dressed in the uniform of a soldier, recognizing me as soon as we met with a grunt and a "how." delivering the mail, i rode out in another direction to intercept the train. when about one-half mile from the fort i came to a sentinel, pacing his beat all alone. he was just as neat and clean as though doing duty at the general's headquarters, with his spotless white gloves, polished gun, and accoutrements. in a commanding tone of voice, he ordered me to halt. asking permission to pass, which was readily granted, i rode on a couple of miles, when i met some indians with their families, who were on the march with ponies, dogs, women, and papooses. long spruce poles were lashed each side of the ponies' necks, the other ends trailing on the ground. the poles, being slatted across, were made to hold their plunder or very old people and sometimes the women and children. the dogs, like the ponies, were all packed with a pole or two fastened to their necks; the whole making an interesting picture. overtaking the train about noon, we camped at bitter cottonwood creek, the location being beautifully described by the author of the novel, "prairie flower." our standard rations during these days consisted of hardtack, bacon, and coffee; of course, varying it as we could whenever we came to a government fort. i recall how, on a certain sunday afternoon, we men decided to make some doughnuts, as we had saved some fat drippings from the bacon. not one of us had any idea as to the necessary ingredients or the manner of compounding them, but we remembered how doughnuts used to look and taste at home. so we all took a hand at them, trying to imitate the pattern as well as our ignorance and poor judgment would suggest. well, they looked a trifle peculiar, but we thoroughly enjoyed them, for they were the first we had since leaving home, and proved to be the last until we were boarding in california. one thing was sure; our outdoor mode of living gave us fine appetites and a keen relish for almost anything. and then again, persons can endure almost any sort of privation as long as they can see a gold mine ahead of them, from which they are sure to fill their pockets with nuggets of the pure stuff. what a happy arrangement it is on the part of providence that not too much knowledge of the future comes to us at any one time! just enough to keep us pushing forward and toward the ideal we have set for ourselves, which, even though we miss it, adds strength to purpose as well as to muscle. a worthy object reached for and missed is a first step towards success. chapter vi. "'tis only a snowbank's tears, i ween." we are now approaching the foot-hills of the rocky mountains. the fertile plains through which we have been passing are being merged into rocky hills, the level parts being mostly gravelly barrens. the roads are hard and flinty, like pounded glass, which were making some of the cattle-teams and droves very lame and foot-sore. when one got so it could not walk, it was killed and skinned. other lame ones were lashed to the side of a heavy wagon, partially sunk in the ground, their lame foot fastened on the hub of a wheel, when a piece of the raw hide was brought over the hoof and fastened about the fet-lock, protecting the hoof until it had time to heal. this mode of veterinary treatment, although crude, lessened the suffering among the cattle very materially. the streams along here, the la barge, la bonte, and deer creek, were all shallow with rocky bottoms and excellent water. here we frequently took the stock upon the hills at night, where the bunch-grass grows among the sage brush. this grass, as its name indicates, grows in bunches about a foot high and about the same in diameter, bearing a profusion of yellow seeds about the size of a kernel of wheat. this makes excellent feed, and the stock is very fond of it. at this point mother nature is gradually changing the old scenes for new ones. the big brawny mountains with their little ones clustered at their feet are just before us; while the platte river, which for many miles has been our constant companion, will soon be a thing of the past, as we are close to the crossing, and once over we shall see the river no more. this river which stretches itself in graceful curves across an entire state, is one of peculiar construction and characteristics. at a certain point it is terrifying, even to its best friends. in curve, color, contour, and graceful foliage, it is a magnificent stretch of beauty; while as a stream of utility its presence has ever been a benediction to the country through which it passes. as a tribute to its general excellence, i place here the beautiful lines (name of author unknown to me), entitled: in the cradle of the platte. a little stream in the cañon ran, in the cañon deep and long, when a stout old oak at its side began to sing to it this song, "oh, why do you laugh and weep and sing, and why do you hurry by, for you're only a noisy little thing, while a great strong oak am i; a hundred years i shall stand alone, and the world will look at me; while you will bubble and babble on and die at last in the sea." "so proud and lofty," the stream replied, "you're a king of the forest true; but your roots were dead and your leaves all dried had i not watered you." the oak tree rustled its leaves of green to the little stream below; "'tis only a snowbank's tears, i ween, could talk to a monarch so. but where are you going so fast, so fast, and what do you think to do? is there anything in the world at last for a babbling brook like you?" "so fast, so fast,--why should i wait," the hurrying water said, "when yonder by the cañon gate the farmer waits for bread?" out on the rainless desert land my hurrying footsteps go; i kiss the earth, i kiss the sand, i make the harvest grow. "and many a farmer, when the sky has turned to heated brass, and all the plain is hot and dry, gives thanks to see me pass. by many a sluice and ditch and lane they lead me left and right, for it is i who turns the plain to gardens of delight." then hurrying on, the dashing stream into a river grew, and rock and mountain made a seam to let its torrent through; and where the burning desert lay, a happy river ran; a thousand miles it coursed its way, and blessed the homes of man. vain was the oak tree's proud conceit, dethroned the monarch lay; the brook that babbled at its feet had washed its roots away. still in the cañon's heart there springs the desert's diadem, and shepherds bless the day that brings the snow-bank's tears to them. we crossed the river on a ferry-boat that was large enough to hold four wagons and some saddle-horses. the boat was run by a cable stretched taut up stream fifteen or twenty feet from the boat. a line from the bow and stern of the boat connected it with a single block which ran on the cable. when ready to start, the bow-line was hauled taut, the stern line slacked off to the proper angle, when, the current passing against the side of the boat, it was propelled across very rapidly. the river here was rapid, the water cold and deep, with a strong undercurrent. we had to wait nearly a whole day before it came our turn to take our wagons over. in the meantime we were detailed as follows: ten men were selected to get the wagons aboard the boat, cross over with them and guard them until all were carried over; three or four men were sent across and up the river to catch and care for the stock as it came out of the river near a clump of cottonwoods. one of the company, named owen powers, a strong, courageous young man and a good swimmer, volunteered to ride the lead horse in and across to induce the other animals to follow, the balance of the company herding them, as they were all loose near the edge of the river. when everything was ready, powers stripped off, and mounting the horse he had selected, rode out into the stream. the other animals, forty-seven of them followed, and when a few feet from the shore had to swim. everything was going all right until powers reached the middle of the river, when an undercurrent struck his horse, laying him over partly on his side. powers leaned forward to encourage his horse, when the animal suddenly threw up his head, striking him a terrible blow squarely in the face. he was stunned and fell off alongside the horse. it now seemed as though both he and his horse would be drowned, as all the other stock began to press close up to them. he soon recovered, however, and as he partially pulled himself on to his horse, we could plainly see that his face and breast were covered with blood. we shouted at him words of encouragement, cheering him from both sides of the river. while his struggling form was hanging to the horse's mane, the other animals all floundered about him, pulling for the shore for dear life. the men on the other side were ready to catch him as he landed, nearly exhausted by his struggles and the blow he had received. they carried him up the bank and leaned him against a tree, one man taking care of him while the others caught the animals, or rather corralled them, until the rest of us got across and went to their assistance. we brought the young man's clothes with us and fixed him up, washing him and stanching his bleeding nose and mouth. he had an awful looking face; his eyes were blackened, nose flattened and mouth cut. however, he soon revived and was helped by a couple of the men down to the wagons. we then gathered the stock, went down to the train, hitched up, and drove into camp. we now soon came to the sweetwater river. the country here is more hilly and rocky, and the valleys narrower and more barren. the main range of wind river mountains could be plainly seen in the distance, while close upon our left were the sweetwater mountains. the difference in scenery after leaving the river and plains was such as to awaken new emotions and fire one with a new kind of admiration. the immensity and fixedness of the mountains awakened a keener sense of stability, of firmness of purpose, and a sort of _expect great things and do great things spirit_; while the sense of beauty appreciation was in no wise narrowed as it followed the lights and shades of jut and crevice, and the rosy, scintillating bits of sun as a new day dropped them with leisure hand upon summit and sides, or later the tender glow of crimson and blue and gold, as the gathered sun-bits trailed themselves behind the mountains for the night. when making up our outfit back in the states, by oversight or want of knowledge of what we would need, we had neglected to lay in a supply of horse-nails, which we now began to be sorely in need of, as the horses' shoes were fast wearing out and becoming loose. it was just here that we came one day to a man sitting by the roadside with a half-bushel measure full of horse nails to sell at the modest price of a "bit" or twelve and one-half cents apiece. no amount of remonstrance or argument about taking advantage of one's necessity could bring down the price; so i paid him ten dollars in gold for eighty nails. i really wanted to be alone with that man for awhile, i loved him so. he, like some others who had crossed the plains before, knew of the opportunity to sell such things as the trailers might be short of at any price they might see fit to ask. it was here, too, that we came upon the great independence rock, an immense boulder, lying isolated on the bank of the sweetwater river. it was oblong, with an oval-shaped top, as large as a block of buildings. it was of such form that parties could walk up and over it lengthwise, thereby getting a fine view of the surrounding country. about a mile beyond was the devil's gate, a crack or rent in the mountain, which was probably about fifty feet wide, the surface of the walls showing that by some sort of force they had been separated, projections on one side finding corresponding indentations on the other. the river in its original course had run around the range, but now it ran leaping and roaring through the gate. there was considerable alkali in this section. we had already lost two horses from drinking it, and several others barely recovered from the effects. chapter vii. we stepped over the ridge and courted the favor of new and untried waters. between independence rock and devil's gate we cross the river, which is about four feet deep and thirty or forty feet wide. there was a man lying down in the shade of his tent, who had logs enough fastened together to hold one wagon, which he kindly loaned the use of for fifty cents for each wagon, we to do the work of ferrying. rather than to wet our traps, we paid the price. the stock was driven through the ford. we camped at the base of some rocky cliffs, and while we were getting our supper an indian was noticed peering from behind some rocks, taking a view of the camp. one of the boys got his rifle from the wagon and fired at him. he drew in his head and we saw no more of him, but kept a strong guard out all night. the trail that followed up the sweetwater was generally a very good road, with good camping-place's and fair grass for stock; while grass and sage brush for fuel and excellent water made the trip of about ninety miles very pleasant, as compared with some of the former route. we now came to the last-leaving of the sweetwater, which is within ten miles of the highest elevation of the south pass. the springs and the little stream on which we were camped, across which one could have stepped, was the last water we saw that flowed into the atlantic. we were upon the summit or dividing line of the continent. with our faces to the southward, the stream at our left flowed east and into the atlantic, while that upon our right flowed west into the pacific. there was something not altogether pleasant in considering the conditions. following and crossing and studying the streams as we had so long been doing, it was not without a tinge of regret and broken fellowship that we stepped over the ridge and courted the favor of new and untried waters. the abrupt ending of the great wind river mountain range was at our right. these mountains are always more or less capped with snow. to the south, perhaps one hundred miles, could be seen the main ridge of the rocky mountains looming up faintly against the sky. the landscape, looking at it from the camp, was certainly pleasing, if not beautiful. during the day there could be seen bunches of deer, antelope, and elk grazing and running about on the ridges, the whole making a picture never to be forgotten. the sky was clear, the air pure and invigorating, the sun shone warm by day and the stars bright at night. the spot proved to be a "parting of the ways" in more than one sense, for it was here, before the breaking of camp, that the company decided to separate, not as to interests, but as to modes of travel. some of our wagons were pretty nearly worn out, and, as we had but little in them, there were sixteen men who that night decided to give up their five wagons and resort to "packing." consequently the remaining three wagons, including captain and mrs. wadsworth, bade us goodby and pulled out in the morning. this parting of the trail, as had been the case in the parting of the waters, was not without its smack of regret. for four months we had travelled as one family, each having at heart the interest and comfort of the others. there had been days of sickness and an hour of death; there was a grave at the roadside; there had had been times of danger and disheartenment; all of which marshalled themselves to memory's foreground as the question of division was talked _pro_ and _con_ by the entire family while camped at the base of the snow-capped mountains on that midsummer night. after the departure of the three wagons we who remained resolutely set ourselves to work to prepare, as best we could, ourselves and our belongings for the packing mode of travel. for three days and nights we remained there busily engaged. we took our wagons to pieces, cutting out such pieces as were necessary to make our pack saddles. one bunch of men worked at the saddles, another bunch separated the harnesses and put them in shape for the saddles, while others made big pouches or saddle-bags out of the wagon covers, in which to carry provisions and cooking utensils. the spot upon which our camp was located was in the vicinity of what is now known as smith's pass, wyoming. during one of our afternoons here nature treated us to one of the grandest spectacles ever witnessed by mortal eyes. we first noticed a small cloud gathering about the top of the mountain, which presently commenced circling around the peak, occasionally reaching over far enough to drop down upon us a few sprinkles of water, although the sun was shining brightly where we were. as the cloud continued to circle, it increased in size, momentum, and density of color, spreading out like a huge umbrella. soon thunder could be heard, growing louder and more frequent until it became one continuous roar, fairly shaking the earth. long, vivid flashes of lightning chased each other in rapid succession over the crags and lost themselves in crevice and ravine. all work was forgotten. in fact, one would as soon think of making saddles in the immediate presence of the almighty as in the presence of that terrific, but sublime spectacle upon the mountain heights. every man stood in reverential attitude and gazed in speechless wonder and admiration. david and moses and the christ had much to do with mountains in their day; and, as we watched the power of the elements that afternoon, we realized as never before how david could hear the floods clap their hands and see expressions of joy or anger upon the faces of the mountains; and how mount sinai might have looked as it became the meeting-place of the lord and moses and the tables of stone. the storm lasted about an hour, and when at last nature seemed to have exhausted herself the great mountain-top stood out again in the clear sunlight, wearing a new mantle of the whitest snow. during our three-days' camp we had a number of callers from other trains, also six or eight indians, among whom we divided such things as we could not take with us. in the evening of the last day, we made a rousing camp-fire out of our wagon wheels, which we piled on top of each other, kindling a fire under them, around which we became reminiscent and grew rested for an early start on the morrow. all things finally ready, we brought up the animals in the morning to fit their saddles and packs to them. one very quiet animal was packed with some camp-kettles, coffee-pots, and other cooking traps. as soon as he was let loose and heard the tinware rattle he broke and ran, bringing up in a quagmire up to his sides. the saddle had turned, and his hind feet stepping into the pack well nigh ruined all our cooking utensils. we managed to pull him out of the mire and quieted him down, but we could never again put anything on him that rattled. we took our guns and provisions and only such clothing as we had on, leaving all else behind. i remember putting on a pair of new boots that i had brought from home, which i did not take off until i had been some time in california, nor any other of my clothes, lying down in my blanket on the ground, like the rest of the animals. as we turned out for noon, we saw off toward the mountain a drove of eleven elk. i took my rifle and creeping behind rocks and through ravines, tried to get in range of them, but with all my caution, they kept just beyond my reach. but i had a little luck toward night just as we were turning into camp. out by a bunch of sagebrush sat the largest jack rabbit i ever saw. i raised my rifle and hit him squarely in the neck, killing him. i took him by the hind feet and slung him over my shoulder, and as i hung hold of his feet in front, his wounded neck came down to my heels behind. his ears were as long as a mule's ears. we dressed it and made it into rabbit stew by putting into the kettle first a layer of bacon and then one of rabbit, and then a layer of dumpling, which we made from flour and water, putting in layer after layer of this sort until our four camp-kettles were filled. we had a late supper that night. it was between and o'clock before our stews were done to a turn, but what a luscious feast was ours when they were finally ready. i can think of no supper in my whole life that i have enjoyed so much as i did that one. we had plenty left over for our sixteen breakfasts the next morning, and some of the boys packed the remainder as a relish for the noon meal. soon after our start in the morning, we came to the big sandy, a stream tributary to green river. the land here had more of the appearance of a desert than any we had yet seen. out on the plain the trail forked, the left hand leading via fort bridges and salt lake city, while the right hand led over what is known as sublett's cut-off. being undecided as to which fork to follow, we finally submitted it to vote, which proved to be a large majority in favor of the cut-off, it having been reported that the mormons were inciting the indians to attack immigrants. the road here was hard and flinty, and, for more than a mile passed down a steep hill, at the bottom of which we noticed that wagon tires were worn half through owing to the wheels being locked for such a long distance. this was green river valley, and, where we made our crossing, the water being deep and cold, with a swift current. there was a good ferry boat, on which, after nearly a day's waiting, we ferried over our pack animals at one dollar per head; the balance of the stock we swam across. a short way on we had to ford a fork of the same river, and were then in an extremely mountainous country, up one side and down the other, until we reached bear river valley. we came down off the uplands into the valley and beside the river to camp, where we had an experience as exasperating as it was unexpected. seeing some fine looking grass, half knee high, we started for it, when all at once clouds of the most persistent and venomous mosquitos filled the air, covering the animals, which began stamping and running about, some of them lying down and rolling in great torment. we hurried the packs and saddles off them and sent a guard of men back to the hills with them. the rest of us wrapped ourselves head and ears and laid down in the grass without supper or water for man or beast. about o'clock in the morning, the mosquitos having cooled down to some extent, the guard brought in the pack animals, which we loaded, and, like the arab, "silently stole away." returning to the road and getting the balance of the stock, we moved along the base of the hills, and about sunrise came to a beautiful spring branch, which crossed the trail, refreshing us with its cool, sparkling water. here we went up into the hills and into camp for a day and a night, to rest and recuperate from our terrible experience of the night before. it was now the first of july. by keeping close to the base of the hills we found good travelling and an abundance of clear spring-water. at nights we camped high up in the hills, where the mosquito was not. chapter viii. we had no flag to unfurl, but its sentiment was within us. "it ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance by solemn acts of devotion to god almighty. it ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, bells, bonfires and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward for evermore." these words, written by john adams to his wife the day following the declaration of independence, and regarding that act and day, were evidently the sounding of the key-note of american patriotism. it has long been one of uncle sam's legends that "he who starts across the continent is most sure to leave his religion on the east side of the missouri river." conditions in nebraska to-day refute the truth of this statement, however. whatever may be the rule or exception concerning an american traveller's religion, the genuineness of his patriotism and his fidelity to it are rarely questioned. hence it was that during the early july days the varied events of the past few months betook themselves to the recesses of our natures, and patriotism asserted its right of pre-emption. the day of july d was somewhat eventful and perhaps somewhat preparatory to the th, in that i did a bit of horse-trading, as my riding-horse, through a hole in his shoe, had got a gravel into his foot, which made him so lame that i had been walking and leading him for the last ten days. we had just come to soda springs, where there was a village of shoshone indians, numbering about one thousand, among whom was an indian trader named mcclelland, who was buying or trading for broken-down stock. i soon struck him for a trade. he finally offered me, even up, a small native mule for my lame horse, and we soon traded. i then bought an indian saddle for two dollars, and, mounting, rode back to camp with great joy to myself and amusement of the balance of the company. i had walked for the last two hundred miles, keeping up with the rest of them, and consequently was nearly broken down; and now that i had what proved to be the toughest and easiest riding animal in the bunch, i was to be congratulated. i afterwards saw the horse i had traded for the mule in sacramento, hitched to a dray. his owner valued him at four hundred dollars. we had gone into camp close to the indians, right among their wigwams, in fact, and, though it was independence eve, the weather was cool and chilling, which, together with the jabbering and grunting of the indians and their papooses, made sleeping almost impossible. we had not been in camp more than an hour when three or four packers rode up on their way to the "states." they were the first persons travelling eastward that we had met since leaving the missouri river. one of the men had been wounded with a charge of buckshot a few hours before, and there being no surgeon present, some of us held him while others picked out the shot and dressed his wounds. soda springs was in the extreme eastern part of what is now the state of idaho, at which point there is a town bearing the same name, soda springs. indeed, the th of july found us in a settlement of springs, beer spring and steamboat spring being in close proximity to soda springs. beer spring is barrel-shaped, its surface about level with the ground surface. it was always full to the top, and we could look down into the water at least twenty feet and see large bubbles that were constantly rising, a few feet apart, one chasing another to the surface, where they immediately collapsed. the peculiarity of the water was that one could sip down a gallon at a time without any inconvenience. the celebrated steamboat spring came out of a hole in a level rock. the water was quite hot, and the steam, puffing out at regular intervals, presented an interesting sight. we remained in camp during the forenoon and celebrated the th of july as best we could. i am quite positive that we could not have repeated in concert the memorable words which open this chapter, but, while the letter of the injunction was absent, the spirit was with us and we carried it out in considerable detail, the indians joining with us. we shot at a mark, we ran horse-races with the indians and also foot-races. we had no bells to ring, but we had plenty of noise and games and sports. we had no flag to unfurl, but its sentiment was within us; and when we had finished we were prouder than ever to be americans. after dinner we packed up and started out again, our trail leading us up in the top of the mountains, where, after going into camp for the night, it began to snow, so i had to quit writing in my diary. we spent a very uncomfortable night, and got out of the place early, going down into a warmer atmosphere and to a level stretch of deep sand covered with a thick growth of sagebrush. having neglected to fill our canteens while on the mountain, we had to travel all day in the sand, under a scorching sun, without a drop of water. this was our first severe experience in water-hunger, and we thought of the deserts yet to be crossed. at night we were delighted with coming to a stream, by the side of which we made camp, ourselves and our animals quite exhausted with the day's experiences. the country along here was very rough and mountainous, making travelling very difficult, so much so that two or more men dropped out to rest up. we were soon in the region of the "city of rocks," which was not a great distance south of fort hall, in oregon. this place, to all appearance, was surrounded by a range of high hills, circular in form and perhaps a quarter mile in diameter. a small stream of mountain water ran through it, near which we made our noon meal. from about the center of this circle arose two grand, colossal steeples of solid rock, rising from two hundred to three hundred feet high; in outline they resembled church steeples. from the base of these great turrets, allowing the eyes to follow the circular mountains, could be seen a striking resemblance to a great city in ruins. tall columns rose with broad facades and colossal archings over the broad entrances, which seemed to lead into those great temples of nature. many of the formations strongly resembled huge lions crouched and guarding the passageways. altogether the spot was one of intense interest and stood as strong evidence that "the manuscript of god remains writ large in waves and woods and rocks." in crossing the valley of raft river, which is tributary to the snake river, and finally empties into the columbia, we came to a deep, ditch-like crack in the earth, partly filled with water and soft mud. it was about a rod in width, but so long that we could not see its end either up or down the valley as far as the eye could reach, so there was no possible show to head it or go around it. scattered along its length we could see a dozen or more wagons standing on their heads, as it were, in this almost bottomless ditch of mud and water, each waiting for the bank to be dug out in front of it, when a long cattle-team would haul it out. after looking the situation over, we put our wits to work for some means of crossing, and finally hit upon what proved to be a feasible plan. a part of the men stripped off, plunged in and made their way through to the opposite bank. we then led the animals up, one at a time, secured a good strong lariat around its neck, and threw the end of it across to the men on the other side. then we just pushed the brute into the ditch and the men ahold of the lariat pulled him through. we then did up our traps in light bundles and threw them across. after everything else was over, we took turns in being pulled through at the end of the lariat. this was a successful way of getting over, but, o my! we were the dirtiest lot of men and animals one ever saw. we were little more than one-quarter mile from raft river, and we lost no time in getting there and wading out in the clear, running water, about two feet deep, with rocky bottom, where we and the animals were washed sleek and clean. leaving the river we entered a narrow defile in the mountain, where horses and men were crowded close together. one of the men having a rifle with the hammer underneath the barrel attempted to mount his horse without stopping and accidentally discharged his gun, the shot shot taking effect in the horse's side. as i happened to be walking on the other side of the wounded horse i was fortunate in not getting some part of the discharge. we pulled the pack off the horse and led him a few steps off the road, where he soon fell dead. we camped for the night farther up this ravine. it was the same place where, a few years afterward, some immigrants were massacred, when a part of the wright family was killed and others badly wounded. years afterward i became well acquainted with the survivors. their description of the place and its surroundings left no doubt in my mind that our ravine camping-spot was identical with that of their massacre. our passage up goose creek valley was extremely slow and difficult, the valley in places being no wider than the road, while in other places rocks and streams were so thick and close together that the way was almost impassible. we camped in this valley at nightfall, and, as there was no feed in sight for the animals, several of us took them up on the mountain side and gave them a feed of bunch grass, one man and myself remaining to guard them. very soon a storm came up, dark clouds, deep thunder, sharp lightning, and a perfect deluge of rain were sweeping through the mountains. we brought the animals as close together as we could, tied them to the sagebrush, and kept going among them, talking to them and quieting them as best we could, for they were whinnying and trembling with fear. it was an awful night. over and above the roaring storm could be heard the howling of wolves, which added much terror to the situation. on being relieved at daylight and going down to camp, the men were trying to find themselves and a lot of traps that were missing. it seemed that the men had lain down in a bunch on a narrow bit of ground close to the creek, and when the rain began to fall they drew a canvas wagon cover over them for protection, when, without any sound or warning that could be heard above the storm, a tide of water came down upon them which fairly washed them off the earth. they got tangled up in the wagon cover and were being washed down the creek, not knowing in the darkness when or where they were going to land. they kept together by all keeping hold of the wagon cover, but for which some or all of them might have lost their lives. they were finally washed up against a rocky projection and pulled themselves ashore. we were a sorry-looking lot--wet, cold, dilapidated, and suffering from the terror and fright of the night. after breakfast we went out to hunt for our missing goods, some of which we found caught in the brush; some was washed beyond finding. this was sunday morning and the weather had cleared up bright. all nature seemed anxious to make amends for her outrageous conduct of the night before. we concluded to stop here until monday morning, and spread our traps out to dry, and cook some rice, and rest and replenish in a general sense. chapter ix. we listened to each other's rehearsals and became mutual sympathizers and encouragers. we travelled up goose creek for several days till we got to its head, on the great divide that separates the snake river from the humboldt. the second or third day up the creek we had a genuine surprise that put us all in the best of humor again. it was no less than the overtaking of the three wagons that left us in the south pass, where we commenced packing. captain wadsworth's wagon was mired down and part of the team. we all turned in and soon had him out. we were all glad to meet again, and all our men were delighted to meet and shake hands with mrs. wadsworth, who was equally as joyful as ourselves. we camped together that night and had a good visit. it was a genuine family reunion. how thoroughly we listened to each other's rehearsals and became mutual sympathizers and encouragers! this was the last time the original company ever met together. some of our boys, whose stock was nearly worn out, concluded that they would join the three wagons and take more time to get through. this move reduced our little company of packers to six men and ten animals. in the morning we bade them all goodby (some of them for the last time), swung into our saddles, and moved on. after crossing the divide we entered pleasant valley, which, with its level floor, abundant grass, and willow-fringed stream of cool water, was very appropriately named. as our provisions were now getting short, i was on the lookout for game of any sort that would furnish food. after dinner, taking my rifle, i went along down the stream as it led off the road, when a pair of ducks flew up and alighted a short distance below. these were the first ducks i had seen since leaving the platte, and, being out for something to eat, i was particularly glad to see them. i watched them settle, and then creeping up through tall wild rice i got a shot and killed one of them. i quickly reloaded. as i was out there alone i was necessarily on my guard. the duck was about twenty-five feet from the bank, and as the water was deep and cold and no one with me i concluded not to go in after it. so i took out the ramrod, screwed the wormer to it, lengthened it out with willow cuttings fastened one to another, and then shoved it out on the water until the wormer touched the duck, which i managed to twist into the game and draw it ashore. we had an elegant supper that night. the next day or two i came to a pond where were sitting five snipe. i killed the whole bunch, and they helped to make another square meal. we were now near the border of the great desert proper, where, out of the midst of a level plain, stood a lone mountain known as the "old crater," which, together with its surroundings, had all the appearance of an extinct volcano. the plain round about this mountain had been rent in narrow cracks or crevices leading in various directions from the mountain off on to the plain, some of them crossing the trail, where we had to push and jump the stock across them. in dropping a rock into them there seemed to be no bottom. all about them the ground was covered with pieces of broken lava, largely composed of gravel stones that had been welded together by intense heat. a half mile or so from the mountain stood a block of the same material, which was nearly square in shape and larger than a thirty-by-forty-foot barn. we made good time here after coming off the mountain, although we suffered intensely for want of water, the sun being very hot. however, we soon found ourselves in the "thousand spring valley," and, being influenced by its name, expected to have, for that day at least, all the water we could drink. but, as is sometimes the case, there was "water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink." near the entrance of the valley, which is about thirty miles long, is the great rock spring, deriving its name, i presume, from its flowing out from under an immense rock, forming a pool or basin of the brightest and clearest of water, but so warm that neither man nor beast could drink it. we all waded around through the basin, the water being about two feet deep. after a few more miles, we could see ahead of us clouds of steam vapor rising from the earth in various places. we came to the first group of boiling springs at noon, nearly famished for water that one could drink. we turned out for a resting-while. some went to look for cool water, and found none, while others made some coffee with boiling water from a spring, of which there were hundreds on a very few acres of ground. some of the springs were six to ten feet across and three or four inches deep. we set our coffee-pots right in a spring and made coffee in a very short time. the hot sun pouring down on us, and boiling springs all about us, and no cold water to drink, made the place desirable for only one thing--to get away from. toward night we turned off into the hills and looked for water, where, tramping over the rocks and brush, supperless, until nearly midnight, we found a most delicious spring. we all drank together, men and animals, and together laid down and slept. a little farther along, one day at noon, while we were drinking our coffee, two wild geese flew over and down the river. watching them sail along as if to light at a certain point, i took my rifle and followed. the trail led to the right and over a range of hills, coming into the valley again several miles ahead, and the direction in which i was pursuing the geese being a tangent, i soon lost sight of the company. i went hurriedly on down the river bottom, much of which was covered with wild rice, very thick and almost as high as my head. the course and windings of the river here were, as elsewhere, marked by the willows along the banks. i was now a mile or so from the trail, and coming quite near where i expected to find the game. passing cautiously by a clump of willows i noticed something white on the dead grass, which, upon investigation, proved to be a human skeleton in a perfect state of preservation. i picked up the skull, looked it over, and picked off the under jaw which was filled with beautiful teeth. putting these in my pocket and replacing the skull, i moved carefully forward, expecting to soon see the geese. picking my way through the stiff mud, i saw several moccasin tracks. i was just on the point of turning back when i saw the head of an indian to my left, within easy range of my rifle. looking hurriedly about me, i saw another at my right and quite a distance to the rear. in a moment they drew their heads down into the grass. i immediately realized the danger of retreating back into open ground, so i plunged forward into the wild rice, gripping my rifle with one hand and making a path through the rice with the other. i ran along in this way until my strength was nearly gone and the hand i worked the rice with was lacerated and bleeding. i faced about, dropped to my knees, and, with rifle cocked, awaited developments. after resting a few minutes and getting over my scare i started in the direction of the trail, hoping to get out of the rice and the willows into the open. again i had to rest. my hands and arms were now both so lame and sore i could scarcely use them. when i finally got out of the rice, i straightened up and ran like a deer, expecting at every jump i made to be pursued and shot. i made straight for a bend in the slough which was partly filled with water. the opposite bank being lined with willows, some of them began to move a little and i concluded some one was coming through them. levelling my rifle and with finger on the trigger, i heard some one shout to me not to shoot. it was a white man, who wanted to cross the slough. he ran into the water and mud far enough so that i could reach him and pull him on to the bank. he, too, had encountered the indians in the rice and willows, and for a time was unable to stand, being completely exhausted with fear and his efforts to escape. as soon as he could walk, we started away from that locality with what strength and energy we had left. he was there alone and unarmed, looking for strayed cattle, and had been skulking and hiding from indians for more than an hour before i came along. i, being well armed, might have discouraged them in their hunt for either one of us. at least they never got in my way after our first sight of each other. my hands were now swollen and very painful. the stranger carried my gun, and in a couple of hours we overtook my comrades. as i got on to my mule i thought what a fool i had been to go alone so far on a wild-goose chase. that day's experience ended my hunting at any considerable distance from camp. while we were still trailing close beside the humboldt river a most remarkable and pathetic incident occurred, the vicinity being that now known as elko, in elko county, nevada. we had been camping over night in the humboldt mountains, and on our way out in the morning i chanced to be some distance ahead. riding down a steep, narrow place, walled in on either side, i could catch only a glimpse of the humboldt river as it spun along just ahead of me. just before emerging from this narrow place i heard loud screaming for help, although as yet i could see no one. coming out into the open, i saw a man in the river struggling with a span of horses to which was still attached the running gear of a wagon. a few rods below him were his wife and two children about five and three years old, floating down the strong current in the wagon bed. i swam my mule across, and the minute i reached the land, i jumped off, and, leaving my rifle on the ground, ran over the rocks down stream after the woman and children, who were screaming at the top of their voices. the river made a short bend around some rocks on which i ran out, and, wading a short distance, i was able to grasp the corner of the the wagon bed as it came along, which was already well filled with water. holding to it, the current swept it against the shore, where the woman handed her children out to me and then climbed ashore herself. as soon as all were on land, the woman, hugging her children with one arm, knelt at my feet and clasping me about the knees sobbed as though her heart would break, as she kept repeating that i had saved their lives, and expressing her thanks for the rescue. as soon as i could collect my wits i began to tug at the wagon-bed, and then the woman helped, and together we got it where it was safe. then we led the children up to where the man had got ashore with his team. by this time the rest of our train had crossed the river and were with the man and his horses. when they learned just what had happened, they became very indignant because the man had apparently abandoned his wife and children to the mercies of the river, while he exerted himself to save his team. quicker than i can tell it, the tongue of the man's wagon was set up on end, and hasty preparations being made to hang the man from the end of it. almost frantic with what she saw, the wife again threw herself at my feet and begged me to save her husband. her tears and entreaties, probably more than all i said, finally quieted the men, although some of them were still in favor of throwing him in the river. we eventually helped them get their wagon together, when we moved on and left them. at this place the river runs down into a cañon, where we had to ford it four times in ten miles, the stream changing that many times from one side of the rocky walls to the other. we made the last ford about middle afternoon, and as it was sunday, we put out for the day and night. "up with my tent, here will i lie to-night. but where to-morrow? well, all's well for that." chapter x. boots and saddles call. [illustration: music] in nearly all lifetimes and in nearly all undertakings, there will occur seasons which severally try not merely one's faith and courage, but one's power of physical endurance as well; seasons when one's spirits are fagged and stand in need of a reveille, or "boots and saddles" call. the march of our little company during these mid-july days, with their privations and sufferings, could scarcely have been maintained, but for the notes of cheer which, by memory's route, came to us from out the silent places of the past, or, on the wings of hope, alighted among us from off the heights of the future. the humboldt river, which by this time had become to us quite a memorable stream, was winding and crooked after coming out of the cañon, and could be traced through the desert only by the willows that grew along its banks and around its shallow pools. our route lay on the left bank all the way down to the "sink." it was the middle of july, with never a cloud in the sky, not a tree or shade of any kind. the ground was heated like an oven and covered more or less by an alkali sand, which parched our lips while the sun was blistering our noses. the river from here down to its sink is like all desert streams in the dry season. it does not have a continuous current, but the water lies in pools, alternating with places where the bed is dry and bare. in its windings it averaged about twenty-five miles from one bend to another, the trail leading a straight line like a railroad from one point to another. these points were our camping-places. as it was useless to stop between them we had to make the river or perish. the willows were already browsed down to mere stubs, consequently there was little or no feed for the stock. wherever we could find any grass, there we took the animals and tended them until they got their fill. there was no game to be seen nor anything that had life, except horned toads and lizards. the former could be seen in the sand all day. they were of all sizes, ranging from a kernel of corn to a common toad, each ornamented with the same covering of horns, beginning with a turk's crescent on the tip of the nose. as to the lizards, none could be seen during the day, but at night there would be a whole family of them lying right against one, having crept under the blankets to keep warm, i suppose, as the nights were quite cool. upon getting up in the morning we would take our blankets by one end and give a jerk, and the lizards would roll out like so many links of weinerwurst. about midway to the river we began to get uncomfortably short of provisions, having only some parched coffee, a little sugar, and a few quarts of broken hardtack. we had neither flour nor meat for more than two weeks. but of all our sufferings the greatest was that of thirst. it was so intense that we forgot our hunger and our wearied and wornout condition. our sole thought was of water, and when we talked about what amount we would drink when we came to a good spring no one ever estimated less than a barrel full, and we honestly believed we could drink that much at a single draught. we had, in a degree, become "loony" on the subject, particularly in the middle of the day, when one could not raise moisture in his mouth to even spit. for about ten days the only water we had was obtained from the pools by which we would camp. these pools were stagnant and their edges invariably lined with dead cattle that had died while trying to get a drink. selecting a carcass that was solid enough to hold us up, we would walk out into the pool on it, taking a blanket with us, which we would swash around and get as full of water as it would hold, then carrying it ashore, two men, one holding each end, would twist the filthy water out into a pan, which in turn would be emptied into our canteens, to last until the next camping-place. as the stomach would not retain this water for even a moment, it was only used to moisten the tongue and throat. one afternoon we noticed on the side of a mountain spur off to our left a green spot part way up its side. we looked at the spot and then at the bend to which we were going, and as each seemed to be about equi-distant we concluded to go to the mountains, believing we would find water. well, if any of you have had any experience in travelling toward a mountain you, as did we, probably under-estimated the distance. we left the trail at o'clock and tramped until nearly sundown before we began to make the ascent, always keeping our eyes on that green spot. about an hour after dark we came into the bed of a dry creek, and believing that it would eventually lead us to water, we followed it up until about midnight, when we came to water in a ditch about two feet wide and a few inches deep. ourselves and animals being nearly exhausted, we just laid down in that stream, and i guess each one came pretty near drinking his barrel of water. we pulled off the packs and let the animals go loose in the feed, which was very good, while we were soon stretched out and sound asleep. when we woke in the morning the sun was well up and sending down its scorching rays into our faces. we made some coffee, drank it and felt better. we stayed there until noon, as the animals were still getting good feed, and we--well, we were getting all the water we wanted. we filled our canteens with it, and after making necessary preparations started to strike the river again, which we could plainly see from our mountain perch, also slow moving trains, as they plod their weary way over the plain. we reached the river about sundown and as we looked against the western horizon, began to see quite distinctly the snow-capped range of the sierra nevada mountains. they looked grand and formidable to us, knowing that we must climb up and over them before we could reach our journey's end. they held no terror for us, however, for we knew that we should suffer neither from heat nor thirst during our trail over their broad, friendly sides. for a couple of days we had been trying the experiment of camping during the day and travelling at night, but we soon got enough of that way of getting along. the traveling at night was all right, but to camp all day with a scorching sun overhead and a burning sand under our feet was more than we could endure, so we again worked by day and slept at night. there was no fuel along here except willows, and they were so green it was impossible to coax them into a blaze. we finally resorted to a willow crane, which we made by sticking a couple of willows into the sand, arching them over toward each other and tying them together, hanging our coffee-pot between them, underneath which we made a fire of dead grass tied in knots. for a long time we laid on the sand and fed that fire with knotted grass, but _boil_ the coffee would not. we had now reached the sink of the humboldt, which was a small lake, perhaps ten or twelve miles long and two or three miles wide. the upper half was quite shallow, with soft, miry bottom covered with flags and rushes. the lower half was clear, open water, rounding off at its lower end with a smooth, sandy beach, making it a very pretty thing to look at, but its water was so brackish as to be unpalatable for drinking purposes. we camped for the night near its flags and rushes, a large quantity of which we cut and brought in for the animals, which seemed to give them new life and ambition. we also cut as many bundles as we could carry away bound to the backs of our loose stock, for we still had forty-two miles more of desert, without wood, water or grass, before reaching the carson river. while camping in this vicinity two pelicans sailed around and lighted in the clear lake, beyond reach of rifle-shot. these were the first birds of the kind i had ever seen outside of a showman's cage, and i was determined to have one of them if possible; so, with rifle in hand, i waded out till the water came up under my arms, and, not being able to go any farther, i fired, but without avail. in looking about me as i waded back, i saw a little white tent a short way off, just on the edge of the lake. going to it, i found a lone man about half drunk. i asked him what he was doing there, and he said he had some alcohol to sell at five dollars a quart. i bought a quart, my canteen full, and went back to camp. we succeeded in making coffee of the strongest kind and enough of it to fill our six canteens. we divided the alcohol equally among us and mixed it with the coffee. this arrangement was an experiment, but we found upon trial that one swallow of this mixture would make a person bat his eyes and step about quite lively, while two of them would make a man forget most of his troubles. i remember that it was about mid-afternoon when we finally packed and left the humboldt river for the last time, which we did with but few regrets. it was our intention to make as much as possible of the humboldt desert during the night. a few miles out the trail forked, the one to the right being "trucke route" and the other "carson route"; we decided upon the latter. near the forks were some campers, two sets of them, who were quarreling as to which route was the better. they finally began to shoot at each other and were still at it when we passed out of hearing, not knowing or caring how the duel might end. toward sundown we came to the salt wells, twelve miles from the sink, the water in them being as salt as the strongest brine. this was the last salt water we saw on our journey. about midnight we came to some tents, wagons, and a corral of stock; we were then nearly half the distance across the desert. at the tent water was sold at the very low price of "six bits" a gallon. we bought one gallon apiece for each of the animals and as much as we needed to drink at the time for ourselves. we did not care to dilute the contents of our canteens. we gave the stock a feed and moved on. the night was moonlighted, very bright and pleasant, but awfully still, rendered so seemingly by the surroundings, or perhaps by the lack of surroundings, for there could be heard no rushing of waters, no murmuring of forests no rustling of grasses. all of nature's music-pieces had been left far behind. there was nothing but sand, and it was at rest except as our footfalls caused it to vibrate. the broad and barren expanse, the white light of the full moon full upon it, the curvings and windings of the trail upon the sand, the steady onward march of our caravan, all combined to make a subject worthy the brush of a millet. we travelled in silence mostly. there was reverence in the atmosphere and we could not evade it. we did not even try. akin to this scene must have been the one which inspired longfellow to write: "art is the child of nature; yes, her darling child, in whom we trace the features of the mother's face, her aspect and her mien." chapter xi. "but all comes right in the end." from this point on to carson river the route was continuously strewn with the carcasses of stock that had perished there, some of them years before. owing probably to the dry climate and the fact that the greater part of the desert was covered with alkali and crystalized soda, the bodies of these animals remained perfect, as they had fallen. the sand glistening in their eyes gave them a very lifelike appearance. at intervals could be seen wagons, all complete except the cover, with two to four yoke of cattle lying dead, with the yokes on their necks, the chains still in the rings, just as they fell and died, most of them with their tongues hanging from their mouths. daylight came just as we got to the loose sand. the moment the sun rose above the horizon its influence could be seen and felt, and in an hour or two several cattle-teams had perished near us. first one ox would drop as though he were shot, and in a few minutes others would sink down, and almost before the owner could realize the condition of things, a part or the whole of his team would lie dead. for the want of vegetables or acid of some kind, i had been troubled for a week or so with an attack of scurvy in my mouth, the gums being swollen because of the alkali dust. this not only caused me pain and misery, but created a strong and constant desire for something sour. while riding past an ox team i noticed a jug in the front end of the wagon. upon inquiry of the driver, i found that the jug contained vinegar. i offered him a silver dollar for a cupful, but he refused to part with any of it, saying that he might need it himself before he got through. he was afoot on the off side of the wagon, where the jug was setting. i was sort of crazy mad and drawing my revolver, i rode around the rear of the wagon, thinking i would kill the fellow and take his jug of vinegar. but when he began to run for his life around the front yoke of cattle i came to my senses and hastened away from his outfit. we could now see a few scattering, tall trees outlining the carson river, also long mountain spurs reaching almost out into the sand, covered with a short growth of pine timber. in leaving the sand about o'clock a. m. i noticed a large open tent near by. i rode up and into the tent, and, looking about, saw among other things one bottle of gherkin pickles about one quart of them. i asked the price. it was five dollars, and i paid it gladly as the owner passed the bottle over to me. i saw in that bottle of pickles my day of deliverance and salvation, and drawing my long knife from my bootleg soon drew the cork and filled my fevered mouth with pickles. i assure my readers that i can taste those gherkins to this day. the proprietor, who evidently thought that i was a "little off," brought me to a sense of realization by telling me that his tent was not a mule stable and that i had better get out. his voice and expression made me feel that i might be in danger of losing my pickles, so i waited not on ceremony, but beat a hasty and complete retreat. we had now finished the desert which, with all its events and experiences, was already behind us. we had travelled more than one thousand miles with no tree in sight, and our feelings can easily be imagined when, in looking a short distance ahead, we saw a clump of trees--real trees, green trees, shade-giving trees. we instantly became, as it were, initiated into the tree-worshipping sect. we were soon, men and beasts, within the cooling shade, and the packs stripped from the poor, tired animals, when they were led into the shallow water of the carson, where they drank and bathed to their heart's content, and were then turned loose into a stretch of good grass. we couldn't treat ourselves as well as we had treated our animals, for we had only a bite of hardtack crumbs, which we washed down with some of the "elixir of life" from our canteens. but we stretched ourselves underneath the friendly trees and, just letting loose of everything, slept until nearly noon the next day. the vicinity in which we camped seemed to have been pre-empted by a number of parties, who lived in tents and sold provisions to the immigrants. the settlement was called "ragtown." after coming out of our long sleep and taking in the situation of our whereabouts we were soon ready to take up our westward march, which, in two days, brought us to the first real house we had seen since leaving the missouri. this house was known as "mormon station." it was a good-sized story and half building, with a lean-to on one side and a broad porch on the other, along which was a beautiful little stream of cold, clear water. cups were hanging on the porch columns for the use of immigrants. there were also long benches for them to sit and rest on. connected with this house was a stock ranch and a cultivated farm of sixty acres, mostly all in vegetables. within was a large store of supplies. well, we didn't stop long for compliments, for our mouths were watering for some of those onions, lettuce, cabbage, new potatoes, pickles, steak and bacon, etc. we laid in a generous supply of the whole thing, including soft and hard bread and a bucket of milk. we also got a new coffeepot, as our old one had neither spout nor handle. after making our purchases we selected our camping-site and proceeded to make ourselves comfortable, after disposing of the stock in grass up to its eyes. we were going to have a supper fit for the gods, and everybody became busy. the boss coffee-maker attended strictly to his business, and some others cut and sliced an onion that was as large as a plate, covering it with salt and pepper and vinegar, which we ate as a "starter." we had an elegant supper and appetites to match. after supper some of the men went back to the store and laid in a supply of fresh bread and steak for breakfast. they brought back some pipes and tobacco, and for a long time we sat around our campfire smoking and reciting many experiences incident to our journey across the continent. with pangs of hunger and thirst appeased, our pipes filled to the brim and the smoke therefrom curling and twisting itself into cloud-banks, we were a supremely happy lot, and with the poet was ready to sing: "the road is rough and the day is cold, and the landscape's sour and bare, and the milestones, once such charming friends, half-hearted welcomes wear. there's trouble before and trouble behind, and a troublesome present to mend, and the road goes up and the road goes down, _but it all comes right in the end._" we decided to remain in this place another day, thereby giving ourselves and the stock time to secure the rest which we so greatly needed. it was during our stay here that in loading my rifle for a duck the stock broke in two. in making this little book, i cannot pass the incident by without a few parting words in memory of my faithful old friend and protector. in make and style the gun was known as a kentucky rifle, with curled maple stock the entire length of the barrel, underneath which was a "patch box," set lock, and a brass plate. since we began to pack i had carried it continually on my shoulders, exposed to weather and elements, hot air and desert heat, until the varied exposures had so weakened it that it broke while being loaded. i had carried it on my shoulders for such a long time that my shirt and vest became worn through, and the brass plate, heated by the scorching sun, did a remarkable piece of pyro-sculpture by burning into my bare shoulders a pair of shoulder straps that continued with me more than a year. carson valley, through which our route lay, seemed to be twenty or more miles wide when we first entered it, but it narrowed as it continued toward the sierras until it became not more than a mile in width at the point where it pushed itself far into the mountain range. upon the morning of our departure, we were early astir, and, turning to the right, left the valley that had been to us a mecca of rest and replenishment, and entered the dark cañon, which is but a few rods wide, with perpendicular sides of rock so high that daylight seemed to be dropped down from overhead. through this cañon flowed a rushing, roaring torrent of water, and as the bed of the cañon is very steep and made up mostly of round stones and boulders ranging in size from a marble to a load of hay, one can imagine something of the difficulties we had to encounter during the first four miles of our ascent. in addition to the well-nigh impassable track, was the most deafening and distracting accumulation of noises ever heard since the time of babel. the water as it roared and rushed and dropped itself from boulder to boulder, the rattling and banging of empty wagons, the cracking of the drivers' whips, the shouting of the men, and the repetitions and reverberations of it all as the high walls caught them up and tossed them back and forth on their way to the exit, gave an impression that the cañon was engaged in grand opera with all stops open. after spending one entire day here we emerged into what is known as hope valley, and its name in no wise belied its nature. in its quietude we took a new hold of ourselves, remaining in camp within its enclosure during the night. the valley is a large estuary or basin upon the first great bench of the range. its center seemed to consist of a quagmire, as one could not walk far out on it and stock could not go at all. some of us took our knives and 'twixt rolling and crawling on our stomachs, got to where the grass was and cut and brought in enough to bait our horses and mules. we started again at daylight next morning, and as the roads were fairly good we made twelve miles, which brought us to the shore of mountain lake. the weather here was cold during the night, the water near the edge of the lake freezing to the thickness of window glass. we were among quite heavy timber of pine and fir. this place might be called the second point in line of ascent. about one-half mile distant was the region of perpetual snow, in full sight, toward which we climbed and worked most assiduously, the line being very steep and the trail exceedingly zigzagged. resting-places were only to be had on the upper side of the great trees. it was here that a four mule team, hitched to a splendid carry-all, got started backward down the mountain, the driver jumping from his seat. the whole outfit going down the mountain end over end and brought up against a large tree, the vehicle completely wrecked. the mules landed farther down. arriving at the snow line, we found grass and even flowers growing and blooming in soil moistened by the melting snow. the notch in the summit of the mountains through which we had to pass was four miles distant from this point. the trail leading up was of a circular form, like a winding stair, turning to the left, and the entire distance was completely covered with snow, or more properly ice crystals as coarse as shelled corn, which made the road-bed so hard that a wheel or an animal's foot scarcely made an impression on it. we reached the summit about noon, august th, where we halted to rest and, as did moses, "to view the landscape o'er." looking back and down upon the circular road we could plainly see many outfits of men, animals, and wagons, as they slowly worked their way up and around the great circle which we had just completed. thinking we might see the missouri river or some eastern town from our great altitude, we looked far out to the east; but the fact was we could see but a very little way as compared with our view on the plains. on a point high up on the rocks i spied a flag, which proved to be a section from a red woolen shirt. upon going to it i found in a small cavity in the highest peak a bottle having upon its label the inscription, "take a drink and pass on." we went down to the edge of the timber on the california side and spent a night on the hard snow. we had wood for fire, snow for water, and pine boughs for beds, but no feed for our hungry beasts. having laid in a good supply of provisions at mormon station, among which was a big sack of hard bread, we gave the animals a ration apiece of the same, promising them something better as soon as it could be had. this was our first night in california, having heretofore been travelling, since leaving the missouri river valley, in the territory of nebraska, except as we passed through a little corner of oregon, near ft. hall. after an early breakfast, we left the region of snow and went down among the timber and into a milder atmosphere. we passed through a place called tragedy springs, whose history, we afterwards learned, was indicated by its name. leek springs was the name of our next stopping place, which, from its appearance, evidently a favorite resort of all who passed that way. it so happened, however, that we were the only parties camping there that night. realizing that we were very near our journey's end, we made these last evenings together as pleasant and as restful as possible. i remember this evening in particular, also the following morning, when, upon bestirring ourselves, we found that our sack of hard bread had been eaten and the sack torn to pieces. the frying pan had been licked clean, and things generally disturbed. upon investigation we soon found that the camp had been invaded by two grizzly bears. they had walked all around us while we slept, evidently smelling of each one, as was indicated by the large, plain tracks which they had left, not only in the camp, but across the road also as they took their departure. during the day we had opportunity to buy some hay for our stock, and at night we made ourselves at home among the heaviest white pine timber i ever saw. to test the size of the trees, we selected one that was representative of more than half the trees in that vicinity, and four of us joined hands and tried to circle the tree, but could not. they were so large and so near together that it seemed as though more than one-half of the ground and air was taken up by them. they had only a few stub branches for a top. their bodies were as straight and as smooth as a ship's mast, and so tall that in looking at them one usually had to throw one's head back twice before seeing their tops. the western slope of the sierras was much more gradual in its descent than on the eastern side, the former reaching from the summit to the valley of the sacramento, about one hundred miles, while the ascent on the eastern side, from the leaving of carson valley, is about twenty-four miles. the travel along here was quiet and easy, and as we had reason to believe that we were in close proximity to the gold mines, we were constantly looking out for them. we found a sort of restaurant on the hillside, where we treated ourselves to sardines and vinegar, coffee and crackers; and a little later we came upon some men actually engaged in gold-digging, the first we had ever seen. the place was called weber creek diggings. there were several chinamen in the group, who, with their broad bamboo hats and their incessant chatter, were certainly a great curiosity to us. we passed on and soon came to diamond spring diggings, where we spent the night under an immense lone tree. the ground was rich with gold here, and if we had gone to digging and washing the very spot on which we slept we could all of us have made a snug fortune; but it was not for us to get rich so quickly. this was our last night together, hangtown, or placerville, eldorado county, as it is to-day, being but a few miles distant. we reached hangtown in time for breakfast, after which we all rode up the dividing ridge, from the top of which we looked down upon the busiest town and richest mining district in that country. the hill was long and steep, and thereby hangs a tale. the saddle had worked up on my mule's shoulders, which i had not noticed, my mind being so wholly given to our new surroundings. in a second of time, and with no admonition whatever, that mule kicked both hind feet into the air, and i was made to turn a complete somersault over his head landing on the flat of my back just in front of him. he stopped and looked at me with a malicious smile in his eye, as much as to say: "we will now quit even." the breath was knocked out of me. the boys picked me up and brushed the dirt off, but i never mounted the mule again. we closed our social relations right there. to think he should be so ungrateful as to treat me in that way after i had watched over him with so much care and tenderness! we had swam many a stream together; i had even divided my bread with him; i had reposed so much confidence in him that many a night had i slept with the loose end of his lariat tied to my wrist. when we returned to town i sold both my mule and pony. after we had treated ourselves to a bath, shave, haircut, and some new clothes we started out to prospect for individual interests, and became separated. two of the company i have never seen since we parted that afternoon, august , . chapter xii. each day makes its own paragraphs and punctuation marks. "i am dreaming to-night of the days gone by, when i camped in the open so free and grand. * * * * * those days have gone; each passing year has made the buoyant steps grow slow, but the pictures stay to comfort and cheer the days that come and the days that go." during the preparation of the previous chapters i have once again been twenty-four years old. once again i have lived over those five months, so alternated with lights and shadows, but above which the star of hope never for a moment lacked luster or definiteness. the entire route from monroe, michigan, to hangtown, was one great book, having new lessons and illustrations for each day. some of them were beautiful beyond description; others were terrible beyond compare, and so hard to understand. each day made its own paragraphs and punctuation marks, and how surprising and unexpected many of them were! commas would become semicolons and periods give place to exclamation points, in the most reckless sort of fashion. the event which had been planned as a period to a day's doings would often instead become a hyphen, leading into and connecting us with conditions wholly undreamed of. to-day as i look back upon the more than fifty intervening years i realize that the wealth that i gathered from the wayside of each day's doings has enriched my whole after-life far beyond the nuggets which i digged from the mines. nature never does anything half-heartedly. her every lesson, picture, and song is an inspirer and enricher to all who would learn, look, and listen aright. all of our company, excepting the one who still sleeps in his prairie bed, eventually reached the "promised land." captain and mrs. wadsworth, then as before, were noted and esteemed for their noble manhood and womanhood. the captain in time was made marshal of placerville and did much for the advancement of its interests. both he and his wife died after being in california about seven years. charley stewart, the young man with whom i had the midnight tussle, returned to his home in a few months, dying shortly thereafter. he had made the trip hoping to benefit his impaired health, but was disappointed in the result. i kept in touch with several of the others for some time. after two years i returned home by way of the isthmus, when other and new interests claimed my time and attention, and i would only hear now and again that one and then another and yet others had left the trail and passed over the dividing ridge into the land where camps neither break nor move on. the story of our trail has of necessity been told in monologue, as only i of all the number am here to tell it. the pictures upon memory's walls, a few relics, and a golden band upon my wife's finger, made into a wedding-ring from gold that i myself had dug, are the links which unite _these_ days to _those_ days. _on the affinities of leptarctus primus of leidy._ by j. l. wortman. _author's edition, extracted from_ bulletin of the american museum of natural history, vol. vi, article viii, pp. - . _new york, july , ._ article viii.--on the affinities of leptarctus primus of leidy. by j. l. wortman. up to the present time but very little has been known of the existence of the peculiarly american family procyonidæ in any deposits older than the very latest quaternary. leidy has described and figured[ ] an isolated last upper tooth, from the loup fork deposits of nebraska, under the name of _leptarctus primus_, which has been referred to this family. the museum expedition of last year into this region was successful in obtaining additional material, which we provisionally refer to leidy's species. =leptarctus primus= _leidy_. the specimen consists of the right ramus of the lower jaw, carrying the third and fourth premolars and the canine. the condyle is broken away, but the coronoid process and the angle are preserved. the specimen is from a young individual in which the last premolar had just cut the gum. the alveoli of all the other teeth are present and in a good state of preservation. the dental formula is as follows: i._ , c._ , pm._ , m._ . the incisors are not preserved, but their alveoli indicate that they were much crowded, the outside one being placed almost directly in front of the canine, and the middle one pushed back considerably out of position. this series is in marked contrast with that of the raccoon, in which the crowns of the incisors form almost a straight line across the jaw, and the middle one is crowded backwards to a very slight extent. the canine is peculiar and differs markedly from that of the raccoon. it is rather robust, very much recurved and grooved by a deep vertical sulcus upon its antero-internal face. this sulcus is but faintly indicated in the raccoon. the postero-external face of the crown is marked by a sharp ridge which becomes more prominent near the apex. the first premolar is not preserved, but its alveolus indicates that it was a single-rooted tooth, placed behind the canine after the intervention of a very short diastema. the second premolar is bifanged; its crown is composed of a principal cusp, to which is added behind a small though very distinct second cusp. there is in addition to these cusps a distinct basal cingulum, most prominent in the region of the heel. the third premolar, like the second, is double rooted; its crown moreover is made up of two cusps, the posterior being almost as large as the principal one. these cusps do not stand in the line of the long axis of the jaw, but are placed very obliquely to it. the heel is not very prominent, but the basal cingulum is well developed, both in front and behind. as compared with the raccoon, the second premolar is more complex in that it has two cusps instead of one. in the third premolar the posterior cusp is much better developed, and placed more obliquely than in the corresponding tooth of _procyon_; the heel is moreover not so broad. the first molar is not preserved, but judging from the size of its roots it was decidedly the longest tooth of the series. the second molar was likewise bifanged but much smaller; it was placed close against the base of the coronoid. the whole jaw has, relatively, a greater depth than that of the raccoon, and is remarkably straight upon its lower border, whereas in the recent genus it is considerably curved. the condyle is not preserved, and the angle is somewhat damaged, but it was apparently not so strongly inflected as in the raccoon. the masseteric fossa is deep and prominent, and the coronoid is high and broad. the inferior dental canal is placed higher than it is in the raccoon, being slightly above the tooth line. the symphysis is relatively deeper and more robust than in _procyon_, and the chin is heavier and more abruptly rounded. the jaw of _leptarctus_ differs from that of _cercoleptes_ in the following characters: the coronoid is broader and of less vertical extent; the condyle is not placed so high; the angle is elevated above the lower border of the ramus, which is straight and not concave as it is in _cercoleptes_. in the depth of the symphysis and abrupt rounding of the chin the two genera are similar. _cercoleptes_, moreover, has a moderately deep groove upon the antero-internal face of the canine, but differs from that of _leptarctus_ in having an external groove as well. _cercoleptes_ again resembles _leptarctus_ in having only three premolars in the lower jaw; the middle one, however, has only a single cusp upon the crown, whereas _leptarctus_ has two. as compared with _bassaricyon_,[ ] the jaw is more robust, shorter and deeper, with a more prominent chin. the two genera differ again in the number of premolars. altogether, _leptarctus_ appears to offer a number of transitional characters between the more typical procyonidæ and the aberrant _cercoleptes_. this is especially to be seen in the proportions of the jaw, the reduction of the number of premolars, the reduction in size of the last molar, as well as the depth of the mandibular symphysis. footnotes: [ ] extinct fauna of dakota. [ ] see j. a. allen's paper, proc. phil. acad., , p. . transcriber's note: "quartenary" was amended to "quaternary" in the first paragraph. transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. words printed in italics are noted with underscores: _italics_. to and through nebraska. by a pennsylvania girl. this little work, which claims no merit but truth is humbly dedicated to the many dear friends, who by their kindness made the long journey and work pleasant to _the author_, frances i. sims fulton. lincoln, neb. journal company, state printers, . a word to the reader. if you wish to read of the going and settling of the nebraska mutual aid colony, of bradford, pa., in northwestern neb., their trials and triumphs, and of the elkhorn, niobrara, and keya paha rivers and valleys, read chapter i. of the country of the winding elkhorn, chapter ii. of the great platte valley, chapter iii. of the beautiful big blue and republican, chapter iv. of nebraska's history and resources in general, her climate, school and liquor laws, and capital, chapter v. if you wish a car-window view of the big kinzua bridge (highest in the world), and niagara falls and canada, chapter vi. and now, a word of explanation, that you may clearly understand _just why_ this little book--if such it may be called, came to be written. we do not want it to be thought an emigration scheme, but only what a pennsylvania girl heard, saw, and thought of nebraska. and to make it more interesting we will give our experience with all the fun thrown in, for we really thought we had quite an enjoyable time and learned lessons that may be useful for others to know. and simply give everything just as they were, and the true color to all that we touch upon, simply stating facts as we gathered them here and there during a stay of almost three months of going up and down, around and across the state from dakota to kansas-- miles on the s.c. & p.r.r., on the u.p.r.r., and on the b. & m.r.r., the three roads that traverse the state from east to west. it is truly an unbiased work, so do not chip and shave at what may seem incredible, but, as you read, remember you read only truth. my brother, c. t. fulton, was the originator of the colony movement; and he with father, an elder brother, and myself were members. my parents, now past the hale vigor of life, consented to go, providing the location was not chosen too far north, and all the good plans and rules were fully carried out. father made a tour of the state in , and was much pleased with it, especially central nebraska. i was anxious to "claim" with the rest that i might have a farm to give to my youngest brother, now too young to enter a claim for himself--claimants must be twenty-one years of age. when he was but twelve years old, i promised that for his abstaining from the use of tobacco and intoxicating drinks in every shape and form, until he was twenty-one years old, i would present him with a watch and chain. the time of the pledge had not yet expired, but he had faithfully kept his promise thus far, and i knew he would unto the end. he had said: "for a gold watch, sister, i will make it good for life;" but now insisted that he did not deserve anything for doing that which was only right he should do; yet i felt it would well repay me for a life pledge did i give him many times the price of a gold watch. what could be better than to put him in possession of acres of rich farming land that, with industry, would yield him an independent living? with all this in view, i entered with a zeal into the spirit of the movement, and with my brothers was ready to go with the rest. as father had served in the late war, his was to be a soldier's claim, which brother charles, invested with the power of attorney, could select and enter for him. but our well arranged plans were badly spoiled when the location was chosen so far north, and so far from railroads. my parents thought they could not go there, and we children felt we could not go without them, yet they wrote c. and i to go, see for ourselves, and if we thought best they would be with us. when the time of going came c. was unavoidably detained at home, but thought he would be able to join me in a couple of weeks, and as i had friends among the colonists on whom i could depend for care it was decided that i should go. when a little girl of eleven summers i aspired to the writing of a "yellow backed novel," after the pattern of beadle's dime books, and as a matter of course planned my book from what i had read in other like fiction of the same color. but already tired of reading of perfection i never saw, or heard tell of except in story, my heroes and heroines were to be only common, every-day people, with common names and features. the plan, as near as i can remember, was as follows: a squatter's cabin hid away in a lonely forest in the wild west. the squatter is a sort of out-law, with two daughters, mary and jane, good, sensible girls, and each has a lover; not handsome, but brave and true, who with the help of the good dog "danger," often rescues them from death by preying wolves, bears, panthers, and prowling indians. the concluding chapter was to be, "the reclaiming of the father from his wicked ways. a double wedding, and together they all abandon the old home, and the old life, and float down a beautiful river to a better life in a new home." armed with slate and pencil, and hid away in the summer-house, or locked in the library, i would write away until i came to a crack mid-way down the slate, and there i would always pause to read what i had written, and think what to say next. but i would soon be called to my neglected school books, and then would hastily rub out what i had written, lest others would learn of my secret project; yet the story would be re-written as soon as i could again steal away. but the crack in my slate was a bridge i never crossed with my book. ah! what is the work that has not its bridges of difficulties to cross? and how often we stop there and turning back, rub out all we have done? "rome was not built in a day," yet i, a child, thought to write a book in a day, when no one was looking. i have since learned that it takes lesson and lessons, read and re-read, and many too that are not learned from books, and then the book will be--only a little pamphlet after all. through nebraska. chapter i. going and settling of the nebraska mutual aid colony of bradford, pa., in northern nebraska--a description of the country in which they located, which embraces the elkhorn, niobrara and keya paha valleys--their first summer's work and harvest. true loyalty, as well as true charity, begins at home. then allow us to begin this with words of love of our own native land,--the state of all that proud columbia holds within her fair arms the nearest and dearest to us; the land purchased from the dusky but rightful owners, then one vast forest, well filled with game, while the beautiful streams abounded with fish. but this rich hunting ground they gave up in a peaceful treaty with the noble quaker, william penn; in after years to become the "keystone," and one of the richest states of all the union. inexhaustible mineral wealth is stored away among her broad mountain ranges, while her valleys yield riches to the farmer in fields of golden grain. indeed, the wealth in grain, lumber, coal, iron, and oil that are gathered from her bosom cannot be told--affording her children the best of living; but they have grown, multiplied, and gathered in until the old home can no longer hold them all; and some must needs go out from her sheltering arms of law, order, and love, and seek new homes in the "far west," to live much the same life our forefathers lived in the land where william penn said: "i will found a free colony for all mankind." away in the northwestern part of the state, in mckean county, a pleasant country village was platted, a miniature philadelphia, by daniel kingbury, in or about the year . lying between the east and west branches of the tunagwant--or big cove--creek, and hid away from the busy world by the rough, rugged hills that surround it, until in , when oil was found in flowing wells among the hills, and in the valleys, and by the quiet little village of inhabitants was transformed into a perfect beehive of , busy people, buying and selling oil and oil lands, drilling wells that flowed with wealth, until the owners scarce knew what to do with their money; and, forgetting it is a long lane that has no turning, and a deep sea that has no bottom, lived as though there was no bottom to their wells, in all the luxury the country could afford. and even to the laboring class money came so easily that drillers and pumpers could scarce be told from a member of the standard oil company. bradford has been a home to many for only a few years. yet years pass quickly by in that land of excitement: building snug, temporary homes, with every convenience crowded in, and enjoying the society of a free, social, intelligent people. bradford is a place where all can be suited. the principal churches are well represented; the theaters and operas well sustained. the truly good go hand in hand; those who live for society and the world can find enough to engross their entire time and attention, while the wicked can find depth enough for the worst of living. we have often thought it no wonder that but few were allowed to carry away wealth from the oil country; for, to obtain the fortune sought, many live a life contrary to their hearts' teachings, and only for worldly gain and pleasure. bradford is nicely situated in the valley "where the waters meet," and surrounded by a chain or net-work of hills, that are called spurs of the alleghany mountains, which are yet well wooded by a variety of forest trees, that in autumn show innumerable shades and tinges. from among the trees many oil derricks rear their "crowned heads" seventy-five feet high, which, if not a feature of beauty, is quite an added interest and wealth to the rugged hills. from many of those oil wells a flow of gas is kept constantly burning, which livens the darkest night. thus bradford has been the center of one of the richest oil fields, and like former oil metropolis has produced wealth almost beyond reckoning. many have come poor, and gone rich. but the majority have lived and spent their money even more lavishingly than it came--so often counting on and spending money that never reached their grasp. but as the tubing and drills began to touch the bottom of this great hidden sea of oil, when flowing wells had to be pumped, and dry holes were reported from territory that had once shown the best production, did they begin to reckon their living, and wonder where all their money had gone. then new fields were tested, some flashing up with a brilliancy that lured many away, only to soon go out, not leaving bright coals for the deluded ones to hover over; and they again were compelled to seek new fields of labor and living, until now bradford boasts of but , inhabitants. thus people are gathered and scattered by life in the oil country. and to show how fortunes in oil are made and lost, we quote the great excitement of nov., , when oil went up, up, and oil exchanges, not only at bradford, but from new york to cincinnati, were crowded with the rich and poor, old and young, strong men and weak women, investing their every dollar in the rapidly advancing oil. many who had labored hard, and saved close, invested their _all_; dreaming with open eyes of a still advancing price, when they would sell and realize a fortune in a few hours. many rose the morning of the th, congratulating themselves upon the wealth the day would bring. what a world of pleasure the anticipation brought. but as the day advanced, the "bears" began to bear down, and all the tossing of the "bulls of the ring" could not hoist the bears with the standard on top. so from $ . per barrel oil fell to $ . . the bright pictures and happy dreams of the morning were all gone, and with them every penny, and often more than their own were swept. men accustomed to oil-exchange life, said it was the hardest day they had ever known there. one remarked, that there were not only pale faces there, but faces that were _green_ with despair. this was only one day. fortunes are made and lost daily, hourly. when the market is "dull," quietness reigns, and oil-men walk with a measured tread. but when it is "up" excitement is more than keeping pace with it. tired of this fluctuating life of ups and downs, many determined to at last take horace greeley's advice and "go west and grow up with the country," and banded themselves together under the title of "the nebraska mutual aid colony." first called together by c. t. fulton, of bradford pa., in january, , to which about ten men answered. a colony was talked over, and another meeting appointed, which received so much encouragement by way of interest shown and number in attendance, that pompelion hall was secured for further meetings. week after week they met, every day adding new names to the list, until they numbered about fifty. then came the electing of the officers for the year, and the arranging and adopting of the constitution and by-laws. allow me to give you a summary of the colony laws. every name signed must be accompanied by the paying of two dollars as an initiation fee; but soon an assessment was laid of five dollars each, the paying of which entitled one to a charter membership. this money was to defray expenses, and purchase acres of land to be platted into streets and lots, reserving necessary grounds for churches, schools, and public buildings. each charter member was entitled to two lots--a business and residence lot, and a pro rata share of, and interest in the residue of remaining lots. every member taking or buying lands was to do so within a radius of ten miles of the town site. "the manufacture and sale of spirituous or malt liquors shall forever be prohibited as a beverage. also the keeping of gambling houses." on the th of march, when the charter membership numbered seventy-three, a committee of three was sent to look up a location. the committee returned april th; and members gathered to hear their report, and where they had located. when it was known it was in northern nebraska, instead of in the platte valley, as was the general wish, and only six miles from the dakota line, in the new county of brown, an almost unheard of locality, many were greatly disappointed, and felt they could not go so far north, and so near the sioux indian reservation, which lay across the line in southern dakota. indeed, the choosing of the location in this unthought-of part of the state, where nothing but government land is to be had, was a general upsetting of many well laid plans of the majority of the people. but at last, after many meetings, much talking, planning, and voting, transportation was arranged for over the lake shore and michigan southern, chicago and northwestern, and sioux city and pacific r. rs., and the th of april appointed for the starting of the first party of colonists. we wonder, will those of the colony who are scattered over the plains of nebraska, tell, in talking over the "meeting times" when anticipation showed them their homes in the west, and hopes ran high for a settlement and town all their own, tell how they felt like eager pilgrims getting ready to launch their "mayflower" to be tossed and landed on a wild waste of prairie, they knew not where? we need scarce attempt a description of the "getting ready," as only those who have left dear old homes, surrounded by every strong hold kindred, church, school, and our social nature can tie, can realize what it is to tear away from these endearments and follow stern duty, and live the life they knew the first years in their new home would bring them; and, too, people who had known the comforts and luxuries of the easy life, that only those who have lived in the oil country can know, living and enjoying the best their money could bring them, some of whom have followed the oil since its first advent in venango county, chasing it in a sort of butterfly fashion, flitting from venango to crawford, butler, clarion, and mckean counties (all of penna.); making and losing fortune after fortune, until, heart-sick and poorer than when they began, they resolve to spend their labor upon something more substantial, and where they will not be crowded out by standard or monopoly. the good-bye parties were given, presents exchanged, packing done, homes broken up, luncheon prepared for a three days' journey, and many sleepless heads were pillowed late monday night to wake early tuesday morning to "hurry and get ready." 'twas a cold, cheerless morning; but it mattered not; no one stopped to remark the weather; it was only the going that was thought or talked of by the departing ones and those left behind. and thus we gathered with many curious ones who came only to see the exodus, until the depot and all about was crowded. some laughing and joking, trying to keep up brave hearts, while here and there were companies of dear friends almost lost in the sorrow of the "good-bye" hour. the departing ones, going perhaps to never more return, leaving those behind whom they could scarce hope to again see. the aged father and mother, sisters and brothers, while wives and children were left behind for a season. and oh! the multitude of dear friends formed by long and pleasant associations to say "good bye" to forever, and long letters to promise telling all about the new life in the new home. one merry party of young folks were the center of attraction for the hilarity they displayed on this solemn occasion, many asking, "are they as merry as they appear?" while they laughed and chattered away, saying all the funny things they could summon to their tongues' end, and all just to keep back the sobs and tears. again and again were the "good byes" said, the "god bless you" repeated many times, and, as the hour-hand pointed to ten, we knew we soon must go. true to time the train rolled up to the depot, to take on its load of human freight to be landed , miles from home. another clasping of hands in the last hurried farewell, the good wishes repeated, and we were hustled into the train, that soon started with an ominous whistle westward; sending back a wave of tear-stained handkerchiefs, while we received the same, mingled with cheers from encouraging ones left behind. the very clouds seemed to weep a sad farewell in flakes of pure snow, emblematic of the pure love of true friends, which indeed is heaven-born. then faster came the snow-flakes, as faster fell the tears until a perfect shower had fallen; beautifying the earth with purity, even as souls are purified by love. we were glad to see the snow as it seemed more befitting the departing hour than bright sunshine. looking back we saw the leader of the merry party, and whose eyes then sparkled with assumed joyousness, now flooded with tears that coursed down the cheeks yet pale with pent up emotion. ah! where is the reader of hearts, by the smiles we wear, and the songs we sing? around and among the hills our train wound and bradford was quickly lost sight of. but, eager to make the best of the situation, we dried our tears and busied ourselves storing away luggage and lunch baskets, and arranging everything for comfort sake. this accomplished, those of us who were strangers began making friends, which was an easy task, for were we not all bound together under one bond whose law was mutual aid? all going to perhaps share the same toil and disadvantages, as well as the same pleasures of the new home? then we settled down and had our dinners from our baskets. we heard a number complain of a lump in their throat that would scarcely allow them to swallow a bite, although the baskets were well filled with all the good things a lunch basket can be stored with. when nearing jamestown, n.y., we had a good view of lake chautauqua, now placid and calm, but when summer comes will bear on her bosom people from almost everywhere; for it is fast becoming one of the most popular summer resorts. the lake is eighteen miles long and three miles wide. then down into pennsylvania, again. as we were nearing meadville, we saw the best farming land of all seen during the day. no hills to speak of after leaving jamestown; perhaps they were what some would call hills, but to us who are used to real up-and-down hills, they lose their significance. the snow-storm followed us to meadville, where we rested twenty minutes, a number of us employing the time in the childish sport of snow-balling. we thought it rather novel to snow-ball so near the month of buds and blossoms, and supposed it would be the last "ball" of the season, unless one of dakota's big snow-storms would slide over the line, just a little ways, and give us a taste of dakota's clime. as we were now "all aboard" from the different points, we went calling among the colonists and found we numbered in all sixty-five men, women, and children, and pearl payne the only colony babe. each one did their part to wear away the day, and, despite the sad farewells of the morning, really seemed to enjoy the picnic. smiles and jokes, oranges and bananas were in plenty, while cigars were passed to the gentlemen, oranges to the ladies, and chewing gum to the children. even the canaries sang their songs from the cages hung to the racks. thus our first day passed, and evening found us nearing cleveland--leaving darkness to hide from our view the beautiful city and lake erie. we felt more than the usual solemnity of the twilight hour, when told we were going over the same road that was once strewn with flowers for him whom columbia bowed her head in prayers and tears, such as she never but once uttered or shed before, and brought to mind lines i then had written: bloom now most beautiful, ye flowers, your loveliness we'll strew from washington to cleveland's soil, the funeral cortege through. in that loved land that gave him birth we lay him down to rest, 'tis but his mangled form alone, his soul is with the blest. not cleveland's soil alone is moist with many a falling tear, a mist is over all this land for him we loved most dear. "nearer, my god, to thee," we sing; in mournful strains and slow, while in the tomb we gently lay, our martyred garfield low. songs sang in the early even-tide were never a lullaby to me, but rather the midnight hoot of the owl, so, while others turn seats, take up cushions and place them crosswise from seat to seat, and cuddled down to wooing sleep, i will busy myself with my pen. and as this may be read by many who never climbed a mountain, as well as those who never trod prairie land, i will attempt a description of the land we leave behind us. but mr. clark disturbs me every now and then, getting hungry, and thinking "it's most time to eat," and goes to hush mr. fuller to sleep, and while doing so steals away his bright, new coffee pot, in which his wife has prepared a two days' drinking; but mr. c's generosity is making way with it in treating all who will take a sup, until he is now rinsing the grounds. thus fun is kept going by a few, chasing sleep away from many who fain would dream of home. "home!" the word we left behind us, and the word we go to seek; the word that charms the weary wandering ones more than all others, for there are found the sweetest if not the richest comforts of life. and of home i now would write; but my heart and hand almost fail me. i know i cannot do justice to the grand old mountains and hills, the beautiful valleys and streams that have known us since childhood's happy days, when we learned to love them with our first loving. everyone goes, leaving some spot dearer than all others behind. 'tis not that we do not love our homes in the east, but a hope for a better in a land we may learn to love, that takes us west, and also the same spirit of enterprise and adventure that has peopled all parts of the world. when the sun rose wednesday morning it found us in indiana. we were surprised to see the low land, with here and there a hill of white sand, on which a few scrubby oaks grew. it almost gave me an ague chill to see so much ground covered with water that looked as though it meant to stay. yet this land held its riches, for the farm houses were large and well built, and the fields were already quite green. but these were quickly lost sight of for a view of lake michigan, second in size of the five great lakes, and the only one lying wholly in the u.s. area, , square miles; greatest length, miles, and greatest width, miles. the waters seemed to come to greet us, as wave after wave rolled in with foamy crest, only to die out on the sandy shore, along which we bounded. and, well, we could only look and look again, and speed on, with a sigh that we must pass the beautiful waters so quickly by, only to soon tread the busy, thronged streets of chicago. the height of the buildings of brick and stone gives the streets a decidedly narrow appearance. a party of sight-seers was piloted around by mr. gibson, who spared no pains nor lost an opportunity of showing his party every attention. but our time was so limited that it was but little of chicago we saw. can only speak of the great court house, which is built of stone, with granite pillars and trimmings. the chicago river, of dirty water, crowded with fishing and towing boats, being dressed and rigged by busy sailors, was quite interesting. it made us heartsick to see the poor women and children, who were anxiously looking for coal and rags, themselves only a mere rag of humanity. i shook my head and said, "wouldn't like to live here," and was not sorry when we were seated in a clean new coach of the s.c. & p.r.r., and rolled out on the c. & n.w. road. over the switches, past the dirty flagmen, with their inseparable pipe (wonder if they are the husbands and fathers of the coal and rag pickers?) out on to the broad land of illinois--rolling prairie, we would call it, with scarcely a slump or stone. farmers turning up the dark soil, and herds of cattle grazing everywhere in the great fields that were fenced about with board, barb-wire, and neatly trimmed hedge fence, the hedge already showing green. the farms are larger than our eastern farms, for the houses are so far apart; but here there are no hills to separate neighbors. crossed the mississippi river about four p.m., and when mid-way over was told, "now, we are in iowa." river rather clear, and about a mile in width. iowa farmers, too, were busy: some burning off the old grass, which was a novel sight to us. daylight left us when near cedar rapids. how queer! it always gets dark just when we come to some interesting place we wanted so much to see. well, all were tired enough for a whole night's rest, and looking more like a delegation from "blackville"--from the soot and cinder-dirt--than a "party from bradford," and apparently as happy as darkies at a camp-meeting, we sought our rest early, that we might rise about three o'clock, to see the hills of the coal region of boone county by moonlight. i pressed my face close to the window, and peered out into the night, so anxious to see a hill once more. travelers from the east miss the rough, rugged hills of home! the sun rose when near denison, iowa,--as one remarked, "not from behind a hill, but right out of the ground"--ushering in another beautiful day. at missouri valley we were joined by mr. j. r. buchanan, who came to see us across the missouri river, which was done in transfer boats--three coaches taken across at a time. as the first boat was leaving, we stood upon the shore, and looked with surprise at the dull lead-color of the water. we knew the word missouri signified muddy, and have often read of the unchanging muddy color of the water, yet we never realize what we read as what we see. we searched the sandy shore in vain for a pebble to carry away as a memento of the "big muddy," but "nary a one" could we find, so had to be content with a little sand. was told the water was healthy to drink, but as for looks, we would not use it for mopping our floors with. the river is about three-fourths of a mile in width here. a bridge will soon be completed at this point, the piers of which are now built, and then the boats will be abandoned. when it came our turn to cross, we were all taken on deck, where we had a grand view. looking north and south on the broad, rolling river, east to the bluffy shores of iowa we had just left, and west to the level lands of nebraska, which were greeted with "three rousing huzzahs for the state that was to be the future home of so many of our party." yet we knew the merry shouts were echoed with sighs from sad hearts within. some, we knew, felt they entered the state never to return, and know no other home. to those who had come with their every earthly possession, and who would be almost compelled to stay whether they were pleased or not, it certainly was a moment of much feeling. how different with those of us who carried our return tickets, and had a home to return to! it was not expected that all would be pleased; some would no doubt return more devoted to the old home than before. we watched the leaden waves roll by, down, on down, just as though they had not helped to bear us on their bosom to--we did not know what. how little the waves knew or cared! and never a song they sang to us; no rocks or pebbles to play upon. truly, "silently flow the deep waters." only the plowing through the water of the boat, and the splash of the waves against its side as we floated down and across. how like the world are the waters! we cross over, and the ripple we cause dies out on the shore; the break of the wave is soon healed, and they flow on just as before. but, reader, do we not leave footprints upon the shores that show whence we came, and whither we have gone? and where is the voyager upon life's sea that does not cast wheat and chaff, roses and thorns upon the waves as they cross over? grant, father, that it may be more of the wheat than chaff, more of the roses than thorns we cast adrift upon the sea of _our_ life; and though they may be tempest tossed, yet in thy hands they will be gathered, not lost. when we reached the shore, we were again seated in our coach, and switched on to nebraska's _terra firma_. mr. j. r. buchanan refers to beaver county, pa., as his birth-place, but had left his native state when yet a boy, and had wandered westward, and now resides in missouri valley, the general passenger agent of the s.c. & p.r.r. co., which office we afterward learned he fills with true dignity and a generosity becoming the company he represents. he spoke with tenderness of the good old land of pennsylvania, and displayed a hearty interest in the people who had just come from there. indeed, there was much kindness expressed for "the colony going to the niobrara country" all the way along, and many were the compliments paid. do not blame us for self praise; we flattered ourselves that we _did_ well sustain the old family honors of "the keystone." while nearing blair, the singers serenaded mr. b. with "ten thousand miles away" and other appropriate songs in which he joined, and then with an earnest "god bless you," left us. reader, i will have to travel this road again, and then i will tell you all about it. i have no time or chance to write now. the day is calm and bright, and more like a real picnic or pleasure excursion than a day of travel to a land of "doubt." when the train stopped any time at a station, a number of us would get off, walk about, and gather half-unfolded cottonwood and box elder leaves until "all aboard" was sung out, and we were on with the rest--to go calling and visit with our neighbors until the next station was reached. this relieved the monotony of the constant going, and rested us from the jog and jolt of the cars. one of the doings of the day was the gathering of a button string; mementos from the colony folks, that i might remember each one. i felt i was going only to soon leave them--they to scatter over the plains, and i to return perhaps never to again see nebraska, and 'twas with a mingling of sadness with all the fun of the gathering, that i received a button from this one, a key or coin from that one, and scribbled down the name in my memorandum. i knew they would speak to me long after we had separated, and tell how the givers looked, or what they said as they gave them to me, thinking, no doubt, it was only child's play. mr. gibson continued with the party, just as obliging as ever, until we reached fremont, where he turned back to look after more travelers from the east, as he is eastern passenger agent of the s.c. & p.r.r. he received the thanks of all for the kindness and patience he displayed in piloting a party of impatient emigrants through a three days' journey. mr. familton, who joined us at denison, iowa, and was going to help the claim hunters, took pity on our empty looking lunch baskets, and kindly had a number to take dinner at west point and supper at neligh with him. it was a real treat to eat a meal from a well spread table again. i must say i was disappointed; i had fancied the prairies would already be in waving grass; instead, they were yet brown and sere with the dead grass of last year excepting where they had been run over with fire, and that i could scarcely tell from plowed ground--it has the same rough appearance, and the soil is so very dark. yet, the farther west we went, the better all seemed to be pleased. thus, with song and sight-seeing, the day passed. "old sol" hid his smiling face from us when near clearwater, and what a grand "good night" he bade us! and what beauty he spread out before us, going down like a great ball of fire, setting ablaze every little sheet of water, and windows in houses far away! indeed, the windows were all we could see of the houses. we were all wide awake to the lovely scene so new to us. lizzie saw this, laura that, and al, if told to look at the lovely sunset (but who had a better taste for wild game) would invariably exclaim: oh! the prairie chickens! the ducks! the ducks! and wish for his gun to try his luck. thus nothing was lost, but everything enjoyed, until we stopped at a small town where a couple of intoxicated men, claiming to be cow-boys, came swaggering through our car to see the party of "tenderfeet," as new arrivals from the east are termed by some, but were soon shown that their company was not congenial and led out of the car. my only defense is in flight and in getting out of the way; so i hid between the seats and held my ears. oh! dear! why did i come west? i thought; but the train whistle blew and away we flew leaving our tormenters behind, and no one hurt. thus ended our first battle with the much dreaded cow-boys; yet we were assured by others that they were not cow-boys, as they, with all their wildness, would not be guilty of such an act. about o'clock, thursday night, we arrived at our last station, stuart, holt county. our coach was switched on a side-track, doors locked, blinds pulled down, and there we slept until the dawning of our first morning in nebraska. the station agent had been apprised of our coming, and had made comfortable the depot and a baggage car with a good fire; that the men who had been traveling in other coaches and could not find room in the two hotels of the town, could find a comfortable resting place for the night. we felt refreshed after a night of quiet rest, and the salubrious air of the morning put us in fine spirits, and we flocked from the car like birds out of a cage, and could have flown like freed birds to their nests, some forty miles farther north-west, where the colonists expected to find their nests of homes. but instead, we quietly walked around the depot, and listened to a lark that sang us a sweet serenade from amid the grass close by; but we had to chase it up with a "shoo," and a flying clod before we could see the songster. then by way of initiation into the life of the "wild west," a mark was pinned to a telegraph pole; and would you believe it, reader, the spirit of the country had so taken hold of us already that we took right hold of a big revolver, took aim, pulled the trigger, and after the smoke had cleared away, looked--and--well--we missed paper and pole, but hit the prairie beyond; where most of the shots were sown that followed. a number of citizens of stuart had gathered about to see the "pack of irish and german emigrants," expected, while others who knew what kind of people were coming, came with a hearty welcome for us. foremost among these were messrs. john and james skirving, merchants and stockmen, who, with their welcome extended an invitation to a number to breakfast. but before going, several of us stepped upon the scales to note the effect the climate would have upon our avoirdupois. as i wrote down lbs., i thought, "if my weight increases to lbs., i will sure come again and stay." then we scattered to look around until breakfast was ready. we espied a great red-wheeled something--i didn't know what, but full of curiosity went to see. a gentleman standing near asked: "are you ladies of the colony that arrived last night?" "yes, sir, and we are wondering what this is." "why, that's an ox plow, and turns four furrows at one time." "oh! we didn't know but that it was a western sulky." it was amusing to hear the guesses made as to what the farming implements were we saw along the way, by these new farmers. but we went to breakfast at mr. john skirving's wiser than most of them as far as ox-plows were concerned. what a breakfast! and how we did eat of the bread, ham, eggs, honey, and everything good. just felt as though we had never been to breakfast before, and ate accordingly. that noted western appetite must have made an attack upon us already, for soon after weighing ourselves to see if the climate had affected a change yet, the weight slipped on to--reader, i promised you i would tell you the truth and the whole truth; but it is rather hard when it comes right down to the point of the pen to write ninety-six. and some of the others that liked honey better than i did, weighed more than two pounds heavier. now what do you think of a climate like that? but we must add that we afterwards tested the difference in the scales, and in reality we had only eaten--i mean we had only gained one and a half pound from the salubrious air of the morning. dinner and supper were the same in place, price, and quality, but not in quantity. when we went to the car for our luggage, we found mr. clark lying there trying to sleep. "home-sick?" we asked. "no, but i'm nigh sick abed; didn't get any sleep last night." no, he was not homesick, only he fain would sleep and dream of home. first meeting of the n.m.a.c. was held on a board pile near the depot, to appoint a committee to secure transportation to the location. the coming of the colony from pennsylvania had been noised abroad through the papers, and people were coming from every direction to secure a home near them, and the best of the land was fast being claimed by strangers, and the colonists felt anxious to be off on the morrow. the day was pleasant, and our people spent it in seeing what was to be seen in and about stuart, rendering a unanimous "pleased" in the evening. mr. john skirving kindly gave three comfortable rooms above his store to the use of the colonists, and the ladies and children with the husbands went to house-keeping there friday evening. _saturday morning._ pleasant. all is bustle and stir to get the men started to the location, and at last with oxen, horses, mules, and ponies, eight teams in all, attached to wagons and hacks, and loaded with the big tent and provisions, they were off. while the ladies who were disappointed at being left behind; merrily waved each load away. but it proved quite fortunate that we were left behind, as saturday was the last of the pleasant days. sunday was cool, rained some, and that western wind commenced to blow. we wanted to show that we were keepers of the sabbath by attending services at the one church of the town. but, as the morning was unpleasant, we remained at the colony home and wrote letters to the dear ones of home, telling of our safe arrival. many were the letters sent post haste from stuart the following day to anxious ones in the east. in the afternoon it was pleasant enough for a walk across the prairie, about a quarter of a mile, to the elkhorn river. when we reached the river i looked round and exclaimed: why! what town is that? completely turned already and didn't know the town i had just left. the river has its source about fifteen miles south-west of stuart, and is only a brook in width here, yet quite deep and very swift. the water is a smoky color, but so clear the fish will not be caught with hook and line, spears and seine are used instead. like all the streams we have noticed in nebraska it is very crooked, yet we do not wonder that the water does not know where to run, there is no "up or down" to this country; it is all just over to us; so the streams cut across here, and wind around there, making angles, loops, and turns, around which the water rushes, boiling and bubbling,--cross i guess because it has so many twists and turns to make; don't know what else would make it flow so swiftly in this level country. but hear what prof. aughey says: "the elkhorn river is one of the most beautiful streams of the state. it rises west of holt and elkhorn counties. near its source the valley widens to a very great breadth, and the bluffs bordering it are low and often inappreciable. the general direction of the main river approximates to miles. its direction is southeast. it empties into the platte in the western part of sarpy county. for a large part of its course the elkhorn flows over rock bottom. it has considerable fall, and its steady, large volume of waters will render it a most valuable manufacturing region." we had not realized that as we went west from the missouri river we made a constant ascent of several feet to the mile, else we would not have wondered at the rapid flow of the river. the clearness of the water is owing to its being gathered from innumerable lakelets; while the smoky color is from the dead grass that cover its banks and some places its bed. then going a little farther on we prospected a sod house, and found it quite a decent affair. walls three feet thick, and eight feet high; plastered inside with native lime, which makes them smooth and white; roof made of boards, tarred paper, and a covering of sod. the lady of the house tells me the house is warm in winter, and cool in summer. had a drink of good water from the well which is fifteen feet deep, and walled up with barrels with the ends knocked out. the common way of drawing water is by a rope, swung over a pulley on a frame several feet high, which brings to the top a zinc bucket the shape and length of a joint of stove pipe, with a wooden bottom. in the bottom is a hole over which a little trap door or valve is fastened with leather hinges. you swing the bucket over a trough, and let it down upon a peg fastened there, that raises the trap door and leaves the water out. some use a windlass. it seemed awkward to us at first, but it is a cheap pump, and one must get used to a good many inconveniences in a new country. but we who are used to dipping water from springs, are not able to be a judge of pumps. am told the water is easily obtained, and generally good; though what is called hard water. the country is almost a dead level, without a tree or bush in sight. but when on a perfect level the prairie seems to raise around you, forming a sort of dish with you in the center. can see the sand hills fifteen miles to the southwest quite distinctly. farm houses, mostly sod, dot the surrounding country. _monday, th._ cool, with some rain, high wind, and little sunshine. for the sake of a quiet place where i could write, i sought and found a very pleasant stopping place with the family of mr. john skirving, of whom i have before spoken, and who had but lately brought his family from jefferson city, iowa. _tuesday._ a very disagreeable day; driving rain, that goes through everything, came down all day. do wonder how the claim hunters in camp near the keya paha river will enjoy this kind of weather, with nothing but their tent for shelter. _wednesday._ about the same as yesterday, cold and wet; would have snowed, but the wind blew the flakes to pieces and it came down a fine rain. mrs. s. thinks she will go back to iowa, and i wonder if it rains at home. _thursday._ and still it rains and blows! _friday._ a better day. last night the wind blew so hard that i got out of bed and packed my satchel preparatory to being blown farther west, and dressed ready for the trip. the mode of travel was so new to me i scarcely knew what to wear. everything in readiness, i lay me down and quietly waited the going of the roof, but found myself snug in bed in the morning, and a roof over me. the wind was greatly calmed, and i hastened to view the ruins of the storm of the night, but found nothing had been disturbed, only my slumber. the wind seems to make more noise than our eastern winds of the same force; and eastern people seem to make more noise about the wind than western people do. don't think that i was frightened; there is nothing like being ready for emergencies! i had heard so much of the storms and winds of the west, that i half expected a ride on the clouds before i returned. the clouds cleared away, and the sun shone out brightly, and soon the wind had the mud so dried that it was pleasant walking. the soil is so mixed with sand that the mud is never more than a couple of inches deep here, and is soon dried. when dry a sandy dust settles over everything, but not a dirty dust. a number of the colony men returned to-day. _saturday._ pleasant. the most of the men have returned. the majority in good heart and looking well despite the weather and exposure they have been subject to, and have selected claims. but a few are discouraged and think they will look for lands elsewhere. they found the land first thought of so taken that they had to go still farther northwest--some going as far west as holt creek, and so scattered that but few of them can be neighbors. this is a disappointment not looked for, they expected to be so located that the same church and school would serve them all. emigrant wagons have been going through stuart in numbers daily, through wind and rain, all going in that direction, to locate near the colony. the section they had selected for a town plot had also been claimed by strangers. yet, i am told, the colonists might have located more in a body had they gone about their claim-hunting more deliberately. and the storm helped to scatter them. the tent which was purchased with colony funds, and a few individual dollars, proved to be a poor bargain. when first pitched there was a small rent near the top, which the wind soon whipped into a disagreeably large opening. but the wind brought the tent to the ground, and it was rightly mended, and hoisted in a more sheltered spot. but, alas! down came the tent again, and as many as could found shelter in the homes of the old settlers. some selected their claims, plowed a few furrows, and laid four poles in the shape of a pen, or made signs of improvement in some way, and then went east to niobrara city, or west to long pine, to a land office and had the papers taken out for their claims. others, thinking there was no need of such hurried precautions, returned to stuart to spend the sabbath, and lost their claims. one party selected a claim, hastened to a land office to secure it, and arrived just in time to see a stranger sign his name to the necessary documents making it his. will explain more about claim-taking when i have learned more about it. _sunday, may._ bright and warm. would not have known there had been any rain during the past week by the ground, which is nicely dried, and walking pleasant. a number of us attended sunday school and preaching in the forenoon, and were well entertained and pleased with the manner in which the sunday school was conducted, while the organ in the corner made it quite home-like. we were glad to know there were earnest workers even here, where we were told the sabbath was not observed; and but for our attendance here would have been led to believe it were so. teams going, and stores open to people who come many miles to do their trading on this day; yet it is done quietly and orderly. the minister rose and said, with countenance beaming with earnestness: "i thank god there are true christians to be found along this elkhorn valley, and these strangers who are with us to-day show by their presence they are not strangers to christ; god's house will always be sought and found by his people." while our hearts were filled with thanksgiving, that the god we love is very god everywhere, and unto him we can look for care and protection at all times. in the evening we again gathered, and listened to a sermon on temperance, which, we were glad to know, fell upon a temperance people, as far as we knew our brother and sister colonists. after joining in "what a friend we have in jesus" we went away feeling refreshed from "the fountain that freely flows for all," and walked home under the same stars that made beautiful the night for friends far away. ah! we had begun to measure the distance from home already, and did not dare to think how far we were from its shelter. but, as the stars are, so is god high over all; and the story of his love is just the same the wide world over. _monday._ pleasant. colonists making preparation to start to the location to-morrow, with their families. some who have none but themselves to care for, have started. _tuesday._ rains. folks disappointed. _wednesday._ rains and blows. discouraging. _thursday._ blows and rains. _very_ discouraging. the early settlers say they never knew such a long rain at this season. guess it is raining everywhere; letters are coming telling of a snow in some places nine and ten inches deep, on the th of april; of hard frozen ground, and continuous rains. it is very discouraging for the colony folks to be so detained; but they are thankful they are snug in comfortable quarters, in stuart, instead of out they scarcely know where. some have prepared muslin tents to live in until they can build their log or sod houses. they are learning that those who left their families behind until a home was prepared for them, acted wisely. i cannot realize as they do the disappointment they have met with, yet i am greatly in sympathy with them. with the first letter received from home came this word from father: "i feel that my advanced years will not warrant me in changing homes." well, that settled the matter of my taking a claim, even though the land proved the best. yet i am anxious to see and know all, now that i am here, for history's sake, and intend going to the colony grounds with the rest. brother charley has written me from plum creek, dawson county, to meet him at fremont as soon as i can, and he will show me some of the beauties of the platte valley; but i cannot leave until i have done this part of nebraska justice. mr. and mrs. s. show me every kindness, and in such a way that i am made to feel perfectly at home; in turn i try to assist mrs. s. with her household duties, and give every care and attention to wee nellie, who is quite ill. i started on my journey breathing the prayer that god would take me into his own care and keeping, and raise up kind friends to make the way pleasant. i trusted all to him, and now in answer, am receiving their care and protection as one of their own. thus the time passes pleasantly, while i eat and sleep with an appetite and soundness i never knew before--though i fancy mrs. s's skill as a cook has a bearing on my appetite, as well as the climate--yet every one experiences an increase of appetite, and also of weight. one of our party whom we had called "the pale man" for want of his right name, had thrown aside his "soft beaver" and adopted a stockman's wide rimmed sombrero traded his complexion to the winds for a bronze, and gained eight pounds in the eleven days he has been out taking the weather just as it came, and wherever it found him. _friday._ rain has ceased and it shows signs of clearing off. it does not take long for ground and grass to dry off enough for a prairie fire, and they have been seen at distances all around stuart at night, reminding us of the gas-lights on the bradford hills. the prairies look like new mown hay-fields; but they are not the hay-fields of pennsylvania; a coarse, woody grass that must be burnt off, to allow the young grass to show itself when it comes in the spring. have seen some very poor and neglected looking cattle that have lived all winter upon the prairie without shelter. i am told that, not anticipating so long a winter, many disposed of their hay last fall, and now have to drive their cattle out to the "divides,"--hills between rivers--to pasture on the prairie; and this cold wet weather has been very hard on them, many of the weak ones dying. it has been a novel sight, to watch a little girl about ten years old herding sheep near town; handling her pony with a masterly hand, galloping around the herd if they begin to scatter out, and driving them, into the corral. i must add that i have also seen some fine looking cattle. i must tell you all the bad with the good. during all this time, and despite the disagreeable weather, emigrants keep up the line of march through stuart, all heading for the niobrara country, traveling in their "prairie schooners," as the great hoop-covered wagon is called, into which, often are packed their every worldly possession, and have room to pile in a large family on top. sometimes a sheet-iron stove is carried along at the rear of the wagon, which, when needed, they set up inside and put the pipe through a hole in the covering. those who do not have this convenience carry wood with them and build a fire on the ground to cook by; cooking utensils are generally packed in a box at the side or front. the coverings of the wagons are of all shades and materials; muslin, ducking, ticking, overall stuff, and oil-cloth. when oil-cloth is not used they are often patched over the top with their oil-cloth table covers. the women and children generally do the driving, while the men and boys bring up the rear with horses and cattle of all grades, from poor weak calves that look ready to lay them down and die, to fine, fat animals, that show they have had a good living where they came from. many of these people are from iowa, are intelligent and show a good education. one lady we talked with was from michigan; had four bright little children with her, the youngest about a year old; had come from missouri valley in the wagon; but told us of once before leaving michigan and trying life in texas; but not being suited with the country, had returned, as they were now traveling, in only a wagon, spending ten weeks on the way. she was driver and nurse both, while her husband attended to several valuable texas horses. another lady said: "oh! we are from mizzurie; been on the way three weeks." "how can you travel through such weather?" "oh! we don't mind it, we have a good ducking cover that keeps out the rain, and when the wind blows very hard we tie the wagon down." "never get sick?" "no." "not even a cold?" "oh! no, feel better now than when we started." "how many miles can you go in a day?" "we average about twenty." the sun and wind soon tans their faces a reddish brown, but they look healthy, happy, and contented. thus you see, there is a needed class of people in the west that think no hardship to pick up and thus go whither their fancy may lead them, and to this class in a great measure we owe the opening up of the western country. _saturday morning._ cloudy and threatened more storm, but cleared off nicely after a few stray flakes of "beautiful snow" had fallen. all getting ready to make a start to the colony location. hearing that mr. lewis, one of the colonists, would start with the rest with a team of oxen, i engaged a passage in his wagon. i wanted to go west as the majority go, and enter into the full meaning and spirit of it all; so, much to the surprise of many, i donned a broad brimmed sombrero, and left stuart about one o'clock, perched on the spring seat of a double bed wagon, in company with mrs. gilman, who came from bradford last week. mr. lewis finds it easier driving, to walk, and is accompanied by mr. boggs, who i judge has passed his three score years. thinking i might get hungry on the way or have to tent out, mrs. s. gave me a loaf of bread, some butter, meat, and stewed currants to bring along; but the first thing done was the spilling of the juice off the currants. come, reader, go with me on my first ride over the plains of nebraska behind oxen; of course they do not prance, pace, gallop, or trot; i think they simply walk, but time will tell how fast they can jog along. sorry we cannot give you the shelter of a "prairie schooner," for the wind does not forget to blow, and it is a little cool. mr. l. has already named his matched brindles, "brock and broady," and as they were taken from the herd but yesterday, and have not been under the yoke long, they are rather untutored; but mr. l. is tutoring them with a long lash whip, and i think he will have them pretty well trained by the time we reach the end of our journey. "whoa, there broady! get up! it's after one and dear only knows how far we have got to go. don't turn 'round so, you'll upset the wagon!" we are going directly north-west. this, that looks like great furrows running parallel with the road, i am told, is the old wagon train road running from omaha to the black hills. it runs directly through stuart, but i took it to be a narrow potato patch all dug up in deep rows. i see when they get tired of the old ruts, they just drive along side and make a new road which soon wears as deep as the old. no road taxes to pay or work done on the roads here, and never a stone to cause a jolt. the jolting done is caused in going from one rut to another. here we are four miles from stuart, and wading through a two-mile stretch of wet ground, all standing in water. no signs of habitation, not even stuart to be seen from this point. mr. lewis wishes for a longer whip-stock or handle; i'll keep a look out and perhaps i will find one. now about ten miles on our way and stuart in plain view. there must be a raise and fall in the ground that i cannot notice in going over it. land is better here mr. b. says, and all homesteaded. away to our right are a few little houses, sod and frame. while to the left, miles away, are to be seen the sand-hills, looking like great dark waves. the walking is so good here that i think i will relieve the--oxen of about pounds. you see i have been gaining in my avoirdupois. i enjoy walking over this old road, gathering dried grasses and pebbles, wishing they could speak and tell of the long emigrant trains that had tented at night by the wayside; of travelers going west to find new homes away out on the wild plains; of the heavy freight trains carrying supplies to the indian agencies and the black hills; of the buffalo stampede and indian "whoop" these prairies had echoed with, but which gave way to civilization only a few years ago, and now under its protection, we go over the same road in perfect safety, where robbery and massacres have no doubt been committed. oh! the change of time! twelve miles from stuart, why would you believe it, here's a real little hill with a small stream at the bottom. ash creek it is called, but i skip it with ease, and as i stop to play a moment in the clear water and gather a pebble from its gravelly bed, i answer j. g. holland in kathrina with: surely, "the crystal brooks _are_ sweeter for singing to the thirsty brutes that dip their bearded muzzles in their foam," and thought what a source of delight this little stream is to the many that pass this way. then viewed the remains of a sod house on the hillside, and wondered what king or queen of the prairie had reigned within this castle of the west, the roof now tumbled in and the walls falling. ah! there is plenty of food for thought, and plenty of time to think as the oxen jog along, and i bring up the rear, seeing and hearing for your sake, reader. only a little way from the creek, and we pass the first house that stands near the road, and that has not been here long, for it is quite new. the white-haired children playing about the door will not bother their neighbors much, or get out of the yard and run off for awhile at least, as there is no other house in sight, and the boundless prairie is their dooryard. happy mother! happy children! now we are all aboard the wagon, and i have read what i have written of the leave taking of home; mr. b. wipes his eyes as it brings back memories of the good byes to him; mr. l. says, "that's very truly written," and mrs. g. whispers, "i must have one of your books, sims." all this is encouraging, and helps me to keep up brave heart, and put forth every effort to the work i have begun, and which is so much of an undertaking for me. "oh! mr. lewis, there it is!" "is what?" "why, that stick for a whip-handle." i had been watching all the way along, and it was the only stick i had seen, and some poor unfortunate had lost it. the sun is getting low, and mr. l. thinks we had better stop over night at this old log-house, eighteen miles from stuart, and goes to talk to the landlord about lodging. i view the prospects without and think of way-side inns i have read of in story, but never seen before, and am not sorry when he returns and reports: "already crowded with travelers," and flourishing his new whip starts brock and broady, though tired and panting, into a trot toward the niobrara, and soon we are nearing another little stream called willow creek, named from the few little willow bushes growing along its banks, the first bushes seen all the way along. it is some wider than ash creek, and as there is no bridge we must ride across. mr. l. is afraid the oxen are thirsty and will go straight for the water and upset the wagon. oh, dear! i'll just shut my eyes until we are on the other side. there, mr. b. thinks he sees a nest of prairie chicken eggs and goes to secure some for a novelty, but changes his mind and thinks he'll not disturb that nest of white puff-balls, and returns to the wagon quite crestfallen. heavy looking clouds gathering in the west, obscure the setting sun, which is a real disappointment. the dawning and fading of the days in nebraska are indeed grand, and i did so want a sunset feast this evening, for i could view it over the bluffy shores of the niobrara river. getting dark again, just when the country is growing most interesting. mr. b. and l. say, "bad day to-morrow, more rain sure;" i consult my barometer and it indicates fair weather. if it is correct i will name it vennor, if not i shall dub it wiggins. thermometer stands at °, think i had better walk and get warmed up; a heavy cloth suit, mohair ulster and gossamer is scarcely sufficient to keep the chilly wind out. one mile further on and darkness overtakes us while sticking on the banks of rock creek, a stream some larger than willow creek, and bridged with poles for pedestrians, on which we crossed; but the oxen, almost tired out, seemed unequal for the pull up the hill. mr. l. uses the whip, while mr. b. pushes, and mrs. g. and i stand on a little rock that juts out of the hill--first stone or rock seen since we entered the state, and pity the oxen, but there they stick. ah! here is a man coming with an empty wagon and two horses; now he will help us up the hill. "can you give me a lift?" mr. l. asks. "i'm sorry i can't help you gentlemen, but that off-horse is _terribly weak_. the other horse is all right, but you can see for yourself, gentlemen, how weak that off-horse is." and away he goes, rather brisk for a weak horse. while we come to the conclusion that he has not been west long enough to learn the ways of true western kindness. (we afterwards learned he was lately from pennsylvania.) but here comes mr. ross and mr. connelly who have walked all the way from stuart. again the oxen pull, the men push, but not a foot gained; wagon only settling firmer into the mud. the men debate and wonder what to do. "why not unload the trunks and carry them up the hill?" i ask. spoopendike like, someone laughed at my suggestion, but no sooner said than mr. l. was handing down a trunk with, "that's it--only thing we can do; here help with this trunk," and a goodly part of the load is carried to the top of the hill by the men, while i carry the guns. how brave we are growing, and how determined to go west; and the oxen follow without further trouble. when within a mile and a half of the river, those of us who can, walk, as it is dangerous driving after dark, and we take across, down a hill, across a little canyon, at the head of which stands a little house with a light in the window that looks inviting, but on we go, across a narrow channel of the river, on to an island covered with diamond willow bushes, and a few trees. see a light from several "prairie schooners" that have cast anchor amid the bushes, and which make a very good harbor for these ships of the west. "what kind of a shanty is this?" "why that is a wholesale and retail store, but the merchant doesn't think worth while to light up in the evening." on we walk over a sort of corduroy road made of bushes, and so tired i can scarcely take another step. "well, is this the place?" i asked as we stopped to look in at the open door of a double log house, on a company of people who are gathered about an organ and singing, "what a friend we have in jesus." "no, just across the river where you see that light." another bridge is crossed, and we set us down in aunty slack's hotel about o'clock. tired? yes, and _so glad_ to get to _somewhere_. mr. john newell, who lives near the keya paha, left stuart shortly after we did, with mrs. and miss lizzie, laura, and verdie ross, in his hack, but soon passed us with his broncho ponies and had reached here before dark. three other travelers were here for the night, a keya paha man, a mr. philips, of iowa, and mr. truesdale, of bradford, pa. "how did the rest get started?" mrs. r. asks of her husband. "well, mr. morrison started with his oxen, with willie taylor, and mrs. m. and mrs. taylor rode in the buggy tied to the rear end of the wagon. mr. barnwell and several others made a start with his team of oxen. but mr. taylor's horses would not pull a pound, so he will have to take them back to the owner and hunt up a team of oxen." we had expected to all start at the same time, and perhaps tent out at night. a good supper is refreshing to tired travelers, but it is late before we get laid down to sleep. at last the ladies are given two beds in a new apartment just erected last week, and built of cedar logs with a sod roof, while the men throw themselves down on blankets and comforts on the floor, while the family occupies the old part. about twelve o'clock the rain began to patter on the sod shingles of the roof over head, which by dawn was thoroughly soaked, and gently pouring down upon the sleepers on the floor, causing a general uprising, and driving them from the room. it won't leak on our side of the house, so let's sleep awhile longer; but just as we were dropping into the arms of morpheus, spat! came a drop on our pillow, which said, "get up!" in stronger terms than mother ever did. i never saw a finer shower inside a house before. what a crowd we made for the little log house, Ã� feet, built four years ago, and which served as kitchen, dining room, chamber, and parlor, and well crowded with furniture, without the addition of fourteen rain-bound travelers, beside the family, which consisted of mrs. slack, proprietress, a daughter and son-in-law, and a hired girl, heads in all to be sheltered by this old sod roof made by a heavy ridge pole, or log laid across at the comb, which supports slabs or boards laid from the wall, then brush and dried grass, and then the sod. the walls are well chinked and whitened. the door is the full height of the wall, and the tallest of the men have to strictly observe etiquette, and bow as they enter and leave the house. mr. boggs invariably strikes a horse shoe suspended to the ceiling with his head, and keeps "good luck" constantly on the swing over us. the roof being old and well settled, keeps it from leaking badly; but mrs. s. says there is danger of it sliding off or caving in. dear me! i feel like crawling under the table for protection. rain! rain! think i will give the barometer the full name of r. stone wiggins! have a mind to throw him into the river by way of immersion, but fear he would stick in a sand-bar and never predict another storm, so will just hang him on the wall out side to be sprinkled. the new house is entirely abandoned, fires drowned out, organ, sewing machine, lunch baskets, and bedding protected as well as can be with carpet and rubber coats. how glad i am that i have no luggage along to get soaked. my butter and meat was lost out on the prairie or in the river--hope it is meat cast adrift for some hungry traveler--and some one has used my loaf for a cushion, and how sad its countenance! don't care if it does get wet! so i just pin my straw hat to the wall and allow it to rain on, as free from care as any one can be under such circumstances. i wanted experience, and am being gratified, only in a rather dampening way. some find seats on the bed, boxes, chairs, trunk, and wood-box, while the rest stand. we pass the day talking of homes left behind and prospects of the new. seven other travelers came in for dinner, and went again to their wagons tucked around in the canyons. the house across the river is also crowded, and leaking worse than the _hotel_ where we are stopping. indeed, we feel thankful for the shelter we have as we think of the travelers unprotected in only their wagons, and wonder where the rest of our party are. the river is swollen into a fretful stream and the sound of the waters makes us even more homesick. "more rain, more grass," "more rain, more rest," we repeated, and every thing else that had a jingle of comfort in it; but oftener heard, "i _do wish_ it would stop!" "when _will_ it clear off?" "does it _always_ rain here?" it did promise to clear off a couple of times, only to cloud up again, and so the day went as it came, leaving sixteen souls crowded in the cabin to spend the night as best we could. just how was a real puzzle to all. but midnight solves the question. reader, i wish you were here, seated on this spring wagon seat with me by the stove, i then would be spared the pain of a description. did you ever read mark twain's "roughing it?" or "innocents abroad?" well, there are a few _innocents abroad_, just now, _roughing it_ to their hearts' content. the landlady, daughter, and maid, with laura, have laid them down crosswise on the bed. the daughter's husband finds sleep among some blankets, on the floor at the side of the bed. mr. ross, almost sick, sticks his head under the table and feet under the cupboard and snores. mrs. ross occupies the only rocker--there, i knew she would rock on mr. philips who is stretched out on a one blanket just behind her! double up, mr. p., and stick your knees between the rockers and you'll stand a better chance. if you was a real birdie, mrs. gilman, or even a chicken, you might perch on the side of that box. to sleep in that position would be dangerous; dream of falling sure and might not be all a dream, and then, mr. boggs would be startled from his slumbers. poor man! we do pity him! six feet two inches tall; too much to get all of himself fixed in a comfortable position at one time. now bolt upright on a chair, now stretched out on the floor, now doubled up; and now he is on two chairs looking like the last grasshopper of the raid. hush! lizzie, you'll disturb the thirteen sleepers. mr. lewis has turned the soft side of a chair up for a pillow before the stove, and list--he snores a dreamy snore of home-sweet-ho-om-me. mr. truesdale is rather fidgety, snugly tucked in behind the stove on a pile of kindling wood. i'm afraid he will black his ears on the pots and kettles that serve as a back ground for his head, but better that than nothing. am afraid mr. newell, who is seated on an inverted wooden pail, will loose his head in the wood-box, for want of a head rest, if he doesn't stop nodding so far back. hold tight to your book, mr. n., you may wake again and read a few more words of kathrina. here, laura, get up and let your little sister, verdie, lie down on the bed. "that table is better to eat off than sleep on," lizzie says, and crawls down to claim a part of my wagon seat in which i have been driving my thoughts along with pencil and paper, and by way of a jog, give the stove a punch with a stick of wood, every now and then; casting a sly glance to see if the old lady looks cross in her sleep, because we are burning all her dry wood up, and dry wood is a rather scarce article just now. but can't be helped. the feathery side of these boards are down, the covers all wet in the other room, and these sleepers must be kept warm. roll over, mr. lewis, and give mrs. ross room whereon to place her feet and take a little sleep! now mrs. r.'s feet are not large if she does weigh over two hundred pounds; small a plenty; but not quite as small as the unoccupied space, that's all. well, it's monday now, 'tis one o'clock, dear me; wonder what ails my eyes; feels like there's sand in them. i wink, and wink, but the oftener, the longer. do believe i'm getting sleepy too! what will i do? to sleep here would insure a nod over on the stove; no room on the floor without danger of kicks from booted sleepers. lizzie, says, "get up on the table, sims," it will hold a little thing like you. so i leave the seat solely to her and mount the table, fully realizing that "necessity is the mother of invention," and that western people do just as they can, mostly. so all cuddled up together, in a little weenty heap, i double up my pillow and laugh myself to sleep. i know you will not blame me if i dream of home so bright-- i'll see you in the morning so now a kind "good night". as there is no room for the muses to visit me here i'll not attempt further poetizing but go to sleep and dream i am snug in my own little bed at home. glad father and mother do not know where their daughter is seeking rest for to-night. "get up, sims, it's five o'clock and mrs. s. wants to set the table for breakfast," and i start up, rubbing my eyes, wishing i could sleep longer, and wondering why i hadn't come west long ago, and hadn't always slept on a table? i only woke once during the night, and as the lamp was left burning, could see that mrs. r. had found a place for her feet, and all were sound asleep. empty stomachs, weariness, and dampened spirits are surely three good opiates which, taken together, will make one sleep in almost any position. do wonder if "mark" ever slept on an extension table when he was out west? don't think he did, believe he'd use the dirty floor before he'd think of the table; so i am ahead in this chapter. well, the fun was equal to the occasion, and i think no one will ever regret the time spent in the little log house at "morrison's bridge," and cheerfully paid their $ . for their four meals and two nights' lodging, only as we jogged along through the cold next day, all thought they would have had a bite of supper, and not gone hungry to the floor, to sleep. _monday morning._ cold, cloudy, and threatening more rain. start about eight o'clock for the keya paha, mr. n. with the ross ladies ahead, while the walkers stay with our "span of brindles" to help push them up the hill, and i walk to relieve them of my weight. but we have reached the table-land, and as i have made my impress in the sand and mud of this hill of science, i gladly resume my seat in the wagon with mrs. gilman, who is freezing with a blanket pinned on over her shawl. boo! the wind blows cold, and it sprinkles and tries to snow, and soon i too am almost freezing with all my wraps on, my head well protected with fascinator, hat, and veil. how foolish i was to start on such a trip without good warm mittens. "let's get back on the trunks, mrs. g., and turn our backs to the wind." but that is not all sufficient and mr. l. says he cannot wear his overcoat while walking and kindly offers it to me, and i right willingly crawl into it, and pull it up over my ears, and draw my hands up in the sleeves, and try hard to think i am warm. i can scarcely see out through all this bundling, but i must keep watch and see all i can of the country as i pass along. yet, it is just the same all the way, with the only variation of, from level, to slightly undulating prairie land. not a tree, bush, stump, or stone to be seen. followed the old train road for several miles and then left it, and traveled north over an almost trackless prairie. during the day's travel we met but two parties, both of whom were colonists on their way to long pine to take claims in that neighborhood. passed close to two log houses just being built, and two squads of tenters who peered out at us with their sunburnt faces looking as contented as though they were perfectly satisfied with their situation. the oxen walked right along, although the load was heavy and the ground soft, and we kept up a steady line of march toward the keya paha, near where most of the colonists had selected their claims, and as we neared their lands, the country took on a better appearance. the wind sweeps straight across, and the misting rain from clouds that look to be resting upon the earth, makes it a very gloomy outlook, and very disagreeable. yet i would not acknowledge it. i was determined, if possible, to make the trip without taking cold. so mrs. g. and i kept up the fun until we were too cold to laugh, and then began to ask: "how much farther do we have to go? when will we reach there?" until we were ashamed to ask again, so sat quiet, wedged down between trunks and a plow, and asked no more questions. "oh, joy! mrs. g., there's a house; and i do believe that is mrs. ross with lizzie and laura standing at the door. i'll just wave them a signal of distress, and they will be ready to receive us with open arms." and soon we are safely landed at mr. j. newell's door, where a married brother lives. they gave us a kindly welcome, and a good warm dinner. after we had rested, mr. n. took the ladies three miles farther on to the banks of the keya paha river, which is miles from the niobrara and from stuart, arriving there about four p.m. mr. and mrs. john kuhn, with whom the party expected to make their home until they could get their tents up, received us very kindly, making us feel quite at home. mrs. k. is postmistress of brewer postoffice, and her table was well supplied with good reading matter. i took up a copy of "our continent" to read while i rested, and opened directly to a poem by h. a. lavely: "the sweetest songs are never sung; the fairest pictures never hung; the fondest hopes are never told-- they are the heart's most cherished gold." they were like a voice directly from the pleasant days of last summer, when the author with his family was breathing mountain air at dubois city, pa., when we exchanged poems of our own versing, and mrs. l. added her beautiful children's stories. he had sent them to me last christmas time, just after composing them, and now i find them in print away on the very frontier of civilization. how little writers know how far the words they pen for the public to read, will reach out! were they prophetic for our colonists? _tuesday, th of may_, dawned without a cloud, and how bright everything looks when the clouds have rolled away. why, the poor backward buds look as though they would smile right open. what a change from that of yesterday! reader, i wish i could tell you all about my may day, but the story is a long one--too long for the pages of my little book. and now mrs. ross and the girls are ready with baskets to go with me to gather what we can find in the way of flowers and leaves along the hillside and valley of the keya paha. for flowers we gather blossoms of the wild plum, cherry, and currant, a flower they call buffalo beans, and one little violet. but the leaves were not forgotten, and twigs were gathered of every different tree and bush then in leaf. they were of the box elder, wild gooseberry, and buck bush or snow berry. visited the spring where mr. kuhn's family obtained their water; a beautiful place, with moss and overhanging trees and bushes, and altogether quite homelike. then to the river where we gathered pebbles of almost every color from the sandy shore. we threw, and threw, to cast a stone on the dakota side, and when this childish play was crowned with success, after we had made many a splash in the water, we returned to the house where mr. j. newell waited for us with a spring wagon, and in which, lizzie, laura and i took seats, and were off to visit the stone butte, twelve miles west. up on the table-land we drove, then down into the valley; and now close to the river, and now up and down over the spurrs of the bluff; past the colonists' tent, and now mr. n. has invited a miss sibolt and miss minn to join our maying party. the bottom land shows a luxuriant growth of grass of last year's growing, and acres of wild plum and choke cherry bushes, now white with blossoms, and so mingled that i cannot tell them apart. if they bear as they blossom, there will be an abundance of both. a few scattered trees, mostly burr or scrub oak and elms are left standing in the valley; but not a tree on the table-land over which the road ran most of the way. the stone butte is an abrupt hill, or mound, which stands alone on a slightly undulating prairie. it covers a space of about acres at the base; is feet from base to the broad top; it is covered with white stones that at a distance give it the appearance of a snow capped mountain, and can be seen for many miles. some say they are a limestone, and when burnt, make a good quality of lime; others that they are only a sand-stone. they leave a chalky mark with the touch, and to me are a curious formation, and look as though they had been boiled up and stirred over from some great mush pot, and fell in a shower of confusion just here, as there are no others to be seen but those on the butte. oh! what a story they could tell to geologists; tell of ages past when these strange features of this wonderful country were formed! but they are all silent to me, and i can only look and wonder, and turn over and look under for some poor indian's hidden treasure, but all we found were pieces of petrified wood and bone, a moss agate, and a little indian dart. lizzie found a species of dandelion, the only flower found on the butte, and gave it to me, for i felt quite lost without a dear old dandelion in my hand on my may day, and which never failed me before. i have termed them "earth's stars," for they will peep through the grassy sod whenever the clouds will allow. it is the same in color, but single, and the leaves different. we called and hallooed, ah echo coming back to us from, we did not know where; surely not from raymond's buttes, which we can see quite distinctly, though they are thirty-five miles away. maybe 'twas a war whoop from a sioux brave hid among the bluffs, almost four miles to the north, and we took it for an echo to our own voice. the view obtained from this elevated point was grand. a wide stretch of rolling prairie, with the keya paha river to the north. though the river is but two and one-half miles away, yet the water is lost to view, and we look beyond to the great range of bluffs extending far east and west along its northern banks, and which belong to the sioux indian reservation, they are covered with grass, but without shrubbery of any kind, yet on their sides a few gray stones or rocks can be seen even from here. south of the butte a short distance is a small stream called holt creek. near it we can see two "claim takers" preparing their homes; aside from these but two other houses, a plowman, and some cattle are the only signs of life. mr. n. tells me the butte is on the claim taken by mr. tiffiny, and messrs. fuller's and wood's and others of the colony are near. after all the sight-seeing and gathering is done, i sit me down on a rock all alone, to have a quiet think all to myself. do you wonder, reader, that i feel lonely and homesick, amid scenes so strange and new? wonder will our many friends of the years agone think of me and keep the day for me in places where, with them, i have gathered the wild flowers and leaves of spring? but mr. n. comes up and interrupts me with: "do you know, miss fulton, your keeping a may-day seems so strange to me? do not think our western girls would think of such a thing!" "since you wonder at it, i will tell you, very briefly, my story. it was instituted by mere accident by me in , and i have kept the th of may of every year since then in nature's untrained gardens, gathering of all the different flowers and leaves that are in bloom, or have unfolded, and note the difference in the seasons, and also the difference in the years to me. no happier girl ever sang a song than did i on my first may-day; and the woodland was never more beautiful, dressed in the bright robes of an early spring. every tree in full leaf, every wild flower of spring in bloom, and i could not but gather of all--even the tiniest. the next th of may, i, by mere happening, went to the woods, and remembering it was the anniversary of my accidental maying of the previous year, i stopped to gather as before; but the flowers were not so beautiful, nor the leaves so large. then, too, i was very sad over the serious illness of a loved sister. i cannot tell of all the years, but in ' i searched for may flowers with tear-dimmed eyes--sister may was dead, and everywhere it was desolate. ' . "a belated snow cloud shook to the ground" a few flakes, and we gathered only sticks for bouquets, with buds scarcely swollen. in ' , i climbed point mccoy near bellefont, pa., a peak of the muncy mountains and a range of the alleghanys, and looked for miles, and miles away, over mountains and vales, and gathered of flowers that almost painted the mountain side, they were so plentiful and bright. last year i gathered the flowers of home with my own dear mother, and shared them with may, by laying them on her grave. to-day, all things have been entirely new and strange; but while i celebrate it on the wild boundless plains of nebraska, yet almost untouched by the hand of man, dear father and mother are visiting the favorite mossy log, the spring in the wood, and the moss covered rocks where we children played at "house-keeping," and in my name, will gather and put to press leaves and flowers for me. ah! yes! and are so lonely thinking of their daughter so far away. the sweetest flower gathered in all the years was myrtle--sister maggie's oldest child--who came to me for a may-flower in ' . but while the flowers bloomed for my gathering in ' , the grass was growing green upon her grave. and i know sister will not forget to gather and place on the sacred mound, "auntie pet's" tribute of love. thus it is with a mingling of pleasures and pains, of smiles and tears that i am queen of my maying, with no brighter eyes to usurp my crown, for it is all my own day and of all the days of the year the dearest to me. "i think, mr. newell, we can live _good_ lives and yet not make the _most_ of life; our lives need crowding with much that is good and useful; and this is only the crowding in of a day that is very good and useful to me. for on this day i retrospect the past, and think of the hopes that bloomed and faded with the flowers of other years, and prospect the future, and wonder what will the harvest be that is now budding with the leaves for me and which i alone must garner." after a last look at the wide, wide country, that in a few years will be fully occupied with the busy children of earth, we left "stone butte," carrying from its stony, grassy sides and top many curious mementos of our may-day in nebraska. then i went farther north-west to visit the home of a "squaw man"--the term used for indians who cannot endure the torture of the sun dance, and also white men that marry indian maidens. on our way we passed a neatly built sod house, in which two young men lived who had lately come from delaware, and were engaged in stock-raising, and enjoyed the life because they were doing well, as one of them remarked to mr. n. i tell these little things that those who do not already know, may understand how nebraska is populated with people from everywhere. soon we halted at the noble (?) white man's door, and all but lizzie ventured in, and by way of excuse asked for a drink or _minnie_ in the sioux language. "mr. squaw" was not at home, and "mrs. squaw," poor woman, acted as though she would like to hide from us, but without a word handed us a dipper of water from which we very lightly sipped, and then turned her back to us, and gave her entire attention to a bright, pretty babe which she held closely in her arms, and wrapped about it a new shawl which hung about her own shoulders. the children were bright and pretty, with brown, curly hair, and no one would guess there was a drop of indian blood in their veins. but the mother is only a half-breed, as her father was a frenchman. yet in features, at least, the indian largely predominates. large powerful frame, dusky complexion, thin straight hair neatly braided into two jet black braids, while the indispensable brass ear drops dangled from her ears. her dress was a calico wrapper of no mean color or make-up. we could not learn much of the expression of her countenance, as she kept her face turned from us, and we did not wish to be rude. but standing thus she gave us a good opportunity to take a survey of their _tepee_. the house was of sod with mother earth floors, and was divided into two apartments by calico curtains. the first was the kitchen with stove, table, benches, and shelves for a cupboard. the room contained a bed covered with blankets, which with a bench was all that was to be seen except the walls, and they looked like a sort of harness shop. the furniture was all of home make, but there was an air of order and neatness i had not expected. the woman had been preparing kinnikinic tobacco for her white chief to smoke. it is made by scraping the bark from the red willow, then drying, and usually mixing with an equal quantity of natural leaf tobacco, and is said to make "pleasant smoking." ah, well! i thought, it is only squaws that will go to so much pains to supply their liege lords with tobacco. she can, but will not speak english, as her husband laughs at her awkward attempts. so not a word could we draw from her. she answered our "good bye," with a nod of the head and a motion of the lips. i know she was glad when the "pale faces" were gone, and we left feeling so sorry for her and indignant, all agreeing that any man who would marry a squaw is not worthy of even a squaw's love and labor; labor is what they expect and demand of them, and as a rule, the squaw is the better of the two. their husbands are held in great favor by those of their own tribe, and they generally occupy the land allowed by the government to every indian, male or female, but which the indians are slow to avail themselves of. they receive blankets and clothing every spring and fall, meat every ten days, rations of sugar, rice, coffee, tobacco, bread and flour every week. indians are not considered as citizens of the united states, and have no part in our law-making, yet are controlled by them. they are kept as uncle sam's unruly subjects, unfit for any kind of service to him. why not give them whereon to place their feet on an equal footing with the white children and made to work or starve; "to sink or swim; live or die; survive or perish?" what a noble motto that would be for them to adopt! we then turn for our homeward trip, a distance of fifteen miles, but no one stops to count miles here, where roads could not be better. when within six miles of mr. kuhn's, we stopped by invitation given in the morning, and took tea with mrs. w., who received us with: "you don't know how much good it does me to have you ladies come!" then led the way into her sod house, saying, "i wish we had our new house built, so we could entertain you better." but her house was more interesting to us with its floorless kitchen, and room covered with a neat rag carpet underlaid with straw. the room was separated from the kitchen by being a step higher, and two posts where the door would have been had the partition been finished. the beds and chairs were of home manufacture, but the chairs were cushioned, and the beds neatly arranged with embroidered shams, and looked so comfortable that while the rest of the party prospected without, i asked to lie down and rest, and was soon growing drowsy with my comfortable position when mrs. w. roused me with: "i cannot spare your company long enough for you to go to sleep. no one knows how i long for company; indeed, my very soul grows hungry at times for society." poor woman! she looked every word she spoke, and my heart went right out to her in pity, and i asked her to tell us her experience. i will quote her words and tell her story, as it is the language and experience of many who come out from homes of comfort, surrounded by friends, to build up and regain their lost fortunes in the west. mrs. w's. appearance was that of a lady of refinement, and had once known the comforts and luxuries of a good home in the east. but misfortunes overtook them, and they came to the west to regain what they had lost. had settled there about three years before and engaged in stock raising. the first year the winter was long and severe, and many of their cattle died; but were more successful the succeeding years, and during the coming summer were ready to build a new house, not of sod, but of lumber. "we had been thinking of leaving this country, but this colony settling here will help it so much, and now we will stay." her books of poems were piled up against the plastered wall, showing she had a taste for the beautiful. after a very pleasant couple of hours we bade her good-bye, and made our last start for home. the only flowers found on the way were the buffalo beans and a couple of clusters of white flowers that looked like daisies, but are almost stemless. on our way we drove over a prairie dog town, frightening the little barkers into their underground homes. here and there a doggie sentinel kept his position on the roof of his house which is only a little mound, barking with a fine squeaky bark to frighten us away and warn others to keep inside; but did we but turn toward him and wink, he wasn't there any more. stopped for a few moments at the colony tent and found only about six of the family at home, including a gentleman from new jersey who had joined them. the day had been almost cloudless and pleasantly warm, and as we finished our journey it was made thrice beautiful by the setting sun, suggesting the crowning thought: will i have another may-day, and where? wednesday was pleasant, and i spent it writing letters and sending to many friends pressed leaves and flowers and my maying in nebraska. the remainder of the week was bright; but showery. "wiggins" was kept hanging on a tree in the door yard, to be consulted with about storms, and he generally predicted one, and a shower would come. we did so want the rain to cease long enough for the river to fall that we might cross over on horse-back to the other side and take a ramble over the bluffs of dakota, and perhaps get a sight of a sioux. as it kept so wet the colonists did not pitch their tents, and mr. kuhn's house was well filled with weather stayed emigrants. mr. and mrs. morrison, mrs. taylor, and will came tuesday. they had not come to any stopping place when darkness settled upon them saturday night and the ladies slept in the buggy, and men under the wagon. when daylight came they found they were not far from the first house along the way where they spent sunday. monday they went to the niobrara river and stopped at the little house at the bridge; and tuesday finished the journey. their faces were burnt with the sun and wind; but the ladies dosed them with sweet cream, which acted admirably. mr. taylor returned his horses to their former owner, bought a team of oxen, and left stuart on monday, but over-fed them, and was all the week coming with sick oxen. mr. barnwell's oxen stampeded one night and were not found for over a week. such were the trials of a few of the n.m.a.c. perhaps you can learn from their experiences. i have already learned that, if possible, it is best to have your home selected, and a shelter prepared, and then bring your family and household goods. bring what you really need, rather than dispose of it at a sacrifice. do not expect to, anywhere, find a land of perpetual sunshine or a country just the same as the one you left. do not leave pa. expecting to find the same old "keystone" in nebraska; were it just the same you would not come. expect disappointments and trials, and do not be discouraged when they come, and wish yourself "back to the good old home." adopt for your motto, "what _others_ have done _i_ can do." allow me to give you mr. and mrs. k.'s story; it will tell you more than any of the colonists can ever tell, as they have lived through the disadvantages of the first opening of this country. mr. k. says: "april of ' i came to this country to look up a home where i could have good cattle range. when we came to this spot we liked it and laid some logs crosswise to look like a foundation and mark the spot. went further west, but returned and pitched our tent; and in a week, with the help of a young man who accompanied us, the kitchen part of our house was under roof. while we worked at the house mrs. k. and our two girls made garden. we then returned thirty-five miles for our goods and stock, and came back in may to find the garden growing nicely. brought a two months' supply of groceries with us, as there was no town nearer than keya paha, thirty miles east at the mouth of the river; there in fact, was about the nearest house. "ours was the first house on the south side of the river, and i soon had word sent me by spotted tail, chief of the sioux, to get off his reservation. i told the bearer of his message to tell mr. spotted tail, that i was not on his land but in nebraska, and on surveyed land; so to come ahead. but was never disturbed in any way by the indians, whose reservation lay just across the river. they often come, a number together, and want to trade clothing and blankets furnished them by the government, giving a blanket for a mere trinket or few pounds of meat, and would exchange a pony for a couple quarts of whisky. but it is worth more than a pony to put whisky into their hands, as it is strictly prohibited, and severely punished by law, as it puts them right on the war-path. "the next winter a mail route was established, and our house was made burton post-office, afterwards changed to brewer. it was carried from keya paha here and on to the rose bud agency twice a week. after a time it was dropped, but resumed again, and now goes west to valentine, a distance of about sixty miles. "the nearest church and school was at keya paha. now we have a school house three miles away, where they also have preaching, the minister (m.e.) coming from keya paha." mrs. k. who is brave as woman can be, and knows well the use of firearms, says: "i have stayed for a week at a time with only mr. k.'s father, who is blind and quite feeble, for company. had only the lower part of our windows in then, and never lock our doors. have given many a meal to the indians, who go off with a "thank you," or a grunt of satisfaction. they do not always ask for a meal, but i generally give them something to eat as our cattle swim the river and graze on reservation lands. anyway, kindness is never lost. my two daughters have gone alone to keya paha often. i have made the trip without meeting a soul on the way. "the latch string of our door has always hung out to every one. the indians would be more apt to disturb us if they thought we were afraid of them." it was a real novelty and carried me back to my grandmother's days, to "pull the string and hear the latch fly up" on their kitchen door. their house, a double log, is built at the foot of the bluff and about seventy rods from the river, and is surrounded by quite a grove of burr oak and other trees. they came with twelve head of cattle and now have over eighty, which could command a good price did they wish to sell. thus, with sunshine and showers the week passes quickly enough, and brought again the sabbath bright and clear, but windy. a number of us took a walk one and one-half miles up the valley to the colony tent; went by way of a large oak tree, in the branches of which the body of an indian chief had been laid to rest more than four years ago. from the bleached bones and pieces of clothing and blanket that were yet strewn about beneath the tree, it was evident he had been of powerful frame, and had been dressed in a coat much the same as a soldier's dress coat, with the usual decoration of brass buttons. wrapped in his blanket and buffalo robe, he had been tied with thongs to the lower limbs, which were so low that the wolves had torn the body down. when we reached the tent under which they had expected to hold their meetings and sabbath-school, we found it, like many of their well-meant plans, now flat on the ground. it had come down amid the rain and wind of last night on the sleepers, and we found the tenters busy with needles trying to get it in order for pitching. none busier prodding their finger ends than was mr. clark. "what have you been doing all this time, mr. c.?" i asked. "what have i been doing? why it has just kept me busy to keep from drowning, blowing away, freezing, and starving to death. it is about all a man can attend to at one time. haven't been idling any time away, i can tell you." we felt sorry for the troubles of the poor men, but learned this lesson from their experience--never buy a tent so old and rotten that it won't hold to the fastenings, to go out on the prairies of nebraska with; it takes good strong material to stand the wind. in the afternoon we all went up on to the table-land to see the prairies burn. a great sheet of flame sweeping over the prairie is indeed a grand sight, but rather sad to see what was the tall waving grass of last year go up in a blaze and cloud of smoke only to leave great patches of blackened earth. yet it is soon brightened by the new growth of grass which could not show itself for so long if the old was not burnt. some say it is necessary to burn the old grass off, and at the same time destroy myriads of grasshoppers and insects of a destructive nature, and also give the rattlesnake a scorching. while others say, burning year after year is hurtful to the soil, and burns out the grass roots; also that decayed vegetation is better than ashes for a sandy soil. these fires have been a great hindrance to the growth of forest trees. fire-brakes are made by plowing a number of furrows, which is often planted in corn or potatoes. i fancy i would have a good wide potato patch all round my farm if i had one, and never allow fire on it. to prevent being caught in a prairie fire, one should always carry a supply of matches. if a fire is seen coming, start a fire which of course will burn from you, and in a few minutes after the fire has passed over the ground, it can be walked over, and you soon have a cleared spot, where the fire cannot reach you. _monday, st._ bright and pleasant, and mr. k. finishes his corn planting. a description of the country in which the colony located. as this is to be my last day here, i must tell you all there is yet to be told of this country. there are so many left behind that will be interested in knowing all about the country their friends have gone to, so i will try to be very explicit, and state clearly all i have learned and seen of it. allow me to begin with the great range of bluffs that closely follow the north side of the river. we can only see their broken, irregular, steep, and sloping sides, now green with grass, on which cattle are grazing--that swim the river to pasture off the "soo" (as sioux is pronounced) lands. the reservation is very large, and as the agency is far west of this, they do not occupy this part much, only to now and then take a stroll over it. the difference between a hill and a bluff is, that a bluff is only half a hill, or hill only on one side. the ground rises to a height, and then maintains that height for miles and miles, which is called table-land. then comes the keya paha river, which here is the dividing line between dakota and nebraska. it is miles long. at its mouth, where it empties into the niobrara, it is feet wide. here, thirty-five miles north-west, it is about feet wide, and feet deep. the water flows swiftly over its sandy bed, but mr. k. says "there is rock bottom here." the sand is very white and clean, and the water is clear and pleasant to the taste. the banks are fringed with bushes, principally willow. the valley on the south side is from one-fourth to one and one half-miles wide, and from the growth of grass and bushes would think the soil is quite rich. the timber is pine, burr oak, and cottonwood principally, while there are a few cedar, elm, ash, box elder and basswood to be found. the oak, elm, and box elder are about all i have seen, as the timber is hid in the canyons. scarcely a tree to be seen on the table-lands. wild plums, choke cherries, and grapes are the only fruits of the country. no one has yet attempted fruit culture. the plums are much the same in size and quality as our cultivated plums. they grow on tall bushes, instead of trees, and are so interwoven with the cherry bushes, and in blossom so much alike, i cannot tell plum from cherry bush. they both grow in great patches along the valley, and form a support for the grape vines that grow abundantly, which are much the same as the "chicken grapes" of pennsylvania. i must not over-look the dwarf or sand-hill cherry, which, however, would not be a hard matter, were it not for the little white blossoms that cover the crooked little sticks, generally about a foot in height, that come up and spread in every direction. it is not choice of its bed, but seems to prefer sandy soil. have been told they are pleasant to the taste and refreshing. then comes the wild gooseberry, which is used, but the wild black currants are not gathered. both grow abundantly as does also the snowberry, the same we cultivate for garden shrubbery. wild hops are starting up every where, among the bushes and ready to climb; are said to be equally as good as the poled hops of home. "beautiful wild flowers will be plenty here in a couple of weeks," mrs. k. says, but i cannot wait to see them. the most abundant, now, is the buffalo bean, of which i have before spoken, also called ground plum, and prairie clover: plum from the shape of the pod it bears in clusters, often beautifully shaded with red, and prairie clover from the flower, that resembles a large clover head in shape, and often in color, shading from a dark violet to a pale pink, growing in clusters, and blooming so freely, it makes a very pretty prairie flower. it belongs to the pulse order, and the beans it bears can be cooked as ordinary beans and eaten--if at starvation point. of the other flowers gathered mention was made on my may-day. mr. k. has a number of good springs of water on his farm, and it is easily obtained on the table-land. it cannot be termed soft water, yet not very hard. about one-half of the land i am told is good tillable land, the other half too sandy for anything but pasture lands. soil is from eighteen inches to two feet deep. i will here quote some of the objections to the country offered by those who were not pleased. time only can tell how correct they are. "it is too far north. will never be a general farming or fruit growing country. summer season will be too short for corn to ripen. too spotted with sand hills to ever be thickly settled. afraid of drouth. too far from railroad and market, and don't think it will have a railroad nearer soon. those sioux are not pleasant neighbors. winters will be long and cold." but all agree that it is a healthy country, and free from malaria. others say, "beautiful country. not as cold as in pennsylvania. of course we can raise fruit; where wild fruit will grow tame fruit can be cultivated. those sand hills are just what we want; no one will take them, and while our cattle are grazing on them, we will cultivate our farms." we feel like quoting a copy often set for us to scribble over when a little girl at school, with only a little alteration. "many men of many minds, many lands of many kinds"--to scatter over--and away some have gone, seeking homes elsewhere. those who have remained are getting breaking done, and making garden and planting sod corn and potatoes, which with broom corn is about all they can raise on new ground the first summer. next will come the building of their log and sod shanties, and setting out of their timber culture, which is done by plowing ten acres of ground and sticking in cuttings from the cottonwood, which grows readily and rapidly. there are a few people scattered over the country who have engaged in stock raising, but have done little farming and improving. so you see it is almost untouched, and not yet tested as to what it will be as a general farming country. years of labor and trials of these new-comers will tell the story of its worth. i sincerely hope it will prove to be all that is good for their sake! i hide myself away from the buzz and hum of voices below, in the quiet of an upper room that i may tell you these things which have been so interesting to me to learn, and hope they may be interesting to read. but here comes lizzie saying, "why, sims, you look like a witch hiding away up here; do come down." and i go and take a walk with mrs. k. down to see their cattle corral. the name of corral was so foreign i was anxious to know all about it. it is a square enclosure built of heavy poles, with sheds on the north and west sides with straw or grass roof for shelter, and is all the protection from the cold the cattle have during the winter. only the milk cows are corraled during the summer nights. a little log stable for the horses completes the corral, while of course hay and straw are stacked near. then she took me to see a dugout in the side of a hill, in a sheltered ravine, or draw, and surrounded by trees. it is not a genuine dugout, but enough of the real to be highly interesting to me. it was occupied by a middle-aged man who is mr. k.'s partner in the stock business, and a french boy, their herder. the man was intelligent, and looked altogether out of place as he sat there in the gloom of the one little room, lighted only by a half window and the open door, and, too, he was suffering from asthma. i asked: "do you not find this a poor house for an asthmatic?" "no, i do not find that it has that effect; i am as well here as i was before i came west." the room was about Ã� , and feet high. the front of the house and part of the roof was built of logs and poles, and the rest was made when god made the hill. they had only made the cavity in which they lived, floor enough for the pole bed to stand on. to me it seemed too lonely for any enjoyment except solitude--so far removed from the busy throngs of the world. but the greater part of the stockman's time is spent in out-door life, and their homes are only retreats for the night. we then climbed the hill that i might have a last view of sunset on the keya paha. i cannot tell you of its beauty, as i gaze in admiration and wonder, for sun, moon, and stars, have all left their natural course, or else i am turned all wrong. _tuesday._ another pleasant day. mrs. k., whom i have learned to regard as a dear friend, and i, take our last walk and talk together, going first to the grave of a granddaughter on the hill, enclosed with a railing and protected from the prairie wolves by pieces of iron. oh! i thought, as i watched the tears course down mrs. k's. cheek as she talked of her "darling," there is many a sacred spot unmarked by marble monument on these great broad plains of nebraska. "you see there is no doctor nearer than keya paha, and by the time we got him here he could do her no good." another disadvantage early settlers labor under. then to the river that i might see it flow for the last time, and gather sand and pebbles of almost every color that mingle with it. i felt it was my last goodbye to this country and i wished to carry as much of it away in my satchel and in memory as possible. we then returned to the house, and soon mr. newell who was going to stuart, came, and with whom i had made sure of a passage back. mrs. k. and all insisted my stay was not near long enough, but letters had been forwarded to me from stuart from brother c. asking me to join him. and miss cody, with whom i had been corresponding for some time, insisted on my being with her soon; so i was anxious to be on my way, and improved the first opportunity to be off. so, chasing lizzie for a kiss, who declared, "i cannot say good-bye to sims," and bidding them all a last farewell, with much surface merriment to hide sadness, and soon the little group of friends were left behind. i wonder did they see through my assuming and know how sorry i was to part from them?--mrs. k., who had been so kind, and the colony people all? i felt i had an interest in the battle that had already begun with them. had i not anticipated a share of the battle and also of the spoils when i thought of being one with them. i did feel so sorry that the location was such that the majority had not been pleased, and our good plans could not be carried out. it was not supposed as night after night the hall was crowded with eager anxious ones, that all would reach the land of promise. but even had those who come been settled together there would have been quite a nice settlement of people. the territory being so spotted with sand hills was the great hindrance to a body of people settling down as the colony had expected to, all together as one settlement. one cannot tell, to look over it, just where the sandy spots are, as it is all covered with grass. they are only a slight raise in the ground and are all sizes, from one to many acres. one-half section would be good claimable land, and the other half no good. in some places i can see the sand in the road that drifts off the unbroken ground. we stopped for dinner at mr. newell's brother's, whose wife is a daughter of mr. kuhn's, and then the final start is made for the niobrara. the country looks so different to me now as i return over the same road behind horses, and the sun is bright and warm. the tenters have gone to building log houses, and there are now four houses to be seen along the way. am told most of the land is taken. we pass close to one of the houses, where the husband is plowing and the wife dropping seed corn; and we stop for a few minutes, that i may learn one way of planting sod corn. the dropper walks after the plow and drops the corn close to the edge of the furrow, and it comes up between the edges of the sod. another way is to cut a hole in the sod with an ax, and drop the corn in the hole, and step on it while you plant the next hill--i mean hole--of corn. one little, lone, oak tree was all the tree seen along the road, and not a stone. i really miss the jolting of the stones of pennsylvania roads. but strewed all along are pebbles, and in places perfect beds of them. i cannot keep my eyes off the ground for looking at them, and, at last, to satisfy my wishing for "a lot of those pretty pebbles to carry home," mr. n. stops, and we both alight and try who can find the prettiest. as i gather, i cannot but wonder how god put these pebbles away up here! reader, if all this prairie land was waters, it would make a good sized sea, not a storm tossed sea but water in rolling waves. it looks as though it had been the bed of a body of water, and the water leaked out or ran down the niobrara river, cutting out the canyons as it went, and now the sea has all gone to grass. mr. n. drives close to the edge of an irregular series of canyons that i may have a better view. "i do wish you would tell me, mr. n., how these canyons have been made?" "why, by the action of the wind and water." "yes, i suppose; but looks more like the work of an immense scoop-shovel, and all done in the dark; they are so irregular in shape, size, and depth." most that i see on this side of the river are dry, grassy, and barren of tree or bush, while off on the other side, can be seen many well filled with burr oak, pine, and cedar. views such as i have had from the stone butte, along the keya paha, on the broad plains, and now of the valley of the niobrara well repays me for all my long rides, and sets my mind in a perfect query of how and when was all this wonderful work done? i hope i shall be permitted to some day come again, and if i cannot get over the ground any other way, i will take another ride behind oxen. several years ago these canyons afforded good hiding places for stray(?) ponies and horses that strayed from their owners by the maneuvering of "doc." middleton, and his gang of "pony boys," as those who steal or run off horses from the indians are called. but they did not confine themselves to indian ponies alone, and horses and cattle were stolen without personal regard for the owner. but their leader has been safe in the penitentiary at lincoln for some time, and the gang in part disbanded; yet depredations are still committed by them, which has its effect upon some of the colonists, who feel that they do not care to settle where they would be apt to lose their horses so unceremoniously. a one-armed traveler, who took shelter from the storm with a sick wife on the island, had one of his horses stolen last week, which is causing a good deal of indignation. their favorite rendezvous before the band was broken was at "morrison's bridge," where we spent the rainy sabbath. oh, dear! would i have laid me down so peacefully to sleep on the table that night had i known more of the history of the little house and the dark canyons about? but the house has another keeper, and nothing remains but the story of other days to intimidate us now, and we found it neat and clean, and quite inviting after our long ride. after supper i went out to take a good look at the niobrara river, or _running water_. boiling and surging, its muddy waves hurried by, as though it was over anxious to reach the missouri, into which it empties. it has its source in wyoming, and is miles long. where it enters the state, it is a clear, sparkling stream, only feet wide; but by the time it gathers and rushes over so much sand, which it keeps in a constant stir, changing its sand bars every few hours, it loses its clearness, and at this point is about feet wide. like the missouri river, its banks are almost entirely of a dark sand, without a pebble. so i gathered sand again, and after quite a search, found a couple of little stones, same color of the sand, and these i put in my satchel to be carried to pennsylvania, to help recall this sunset picture on the "running water," and, for a more substantial lean for memory i go with mr. n. on to the island to look for a diamond willow stick to carry home to father for a cane. the island is almost covered with these tall willow bushes. the bridge was built about four years ago. the piers are heavy logs pounded deep into the sand of the river bed, and it is planked with logs, and bushes and sod. it has passed heavy freight trains bound for the indian agency and the black hills, and what a mingling of emigrants from every direction have paid their toll and crossed over to find new homes beyond! three wagons pass by this evening, and one of the men stopped to buy milk from mrs. slack "to make turn-over cake;" and made enquiry, saying: "where is that colony from pennsylvania located? we would like to get near it." it is quite a compliment to the colony that so many come so far to settle near them; but has been quite a hindrance. long before the colony arrived, people were gathering in and occupying the best of the land, and thus scattering the little band of colonists. indeed the fame of the colony will people this country by many times the number of actual settlers it itself will bring. mrs. s. insists that i "give her some music on the organ," and i attempt "home sweet, home," but my voice fails me, and i sing "sweet hour of prayer," as more befitting. home for me is not on the niobrara, and in early morn we leave it to flow on just as before, and we go on toward stuart, casting back good-bye glances at its strangely beautiful valley. the bluffs hug the river so close that the valley is not wide, but the canyons that cut into the bluffs help to make it quite an interesting picture. there is not much more to be told about the country on the south side of the river. it is not sought after by the claim-hunters as the land on the north is. a few new houses can be seen, showing that a few are persuaded to test it. the grass is showing green, and where it was burnt off on the north side of the valley, and was only black, barren patches a little more than a week ago, now are bright and green. a few new flowers have sprung up by the way-side. the sweetest in fragrance is what they call the wild onion. the root is the shape and taste of an onion, and also the stem when bruised has quite an onion smell; but the tiny, pale pink flower reminds me of the old may pinks for fragrance. another tiny flower is very much like mother's treasured pink oxalis; but is only the bloom of wood sorrel. it opens in morning and closes at evening, and acts so much like the oxalis, i could scarcely be persuaded it was not; but the leaves convinced me. i think the setting sun of nebraska must impart some of its rays to the flowers, that give them a different tinge; and, too, the flowers seem to come with the leaves, and bloom so soon after peeping through the sod. the pretty blue and white starlike iris was the only flower to be found about stuart when i left. we have passed a number of emigrant wagons, and--"oh, horror! mr. newell, look out for the red-skins!" "where, miss fulton, where?" "why there, on the wagon and about it, and see, they are setting fire to the prairie; and oh dear! one of them is coming toward us with some sort of a weapon in his hand. guess i'll wrap this bright red indian blanket around me and perhaps they will take me for a 'soo' and spare me scalp." reader i have a mind to say "continued in the next" or "subscribe for the ledger and read the rest," but that would be unkind to leave you in suspense, though i fear you are growing sleepy over this the first chapter even, and i would like to have some thrilling adventure to wake you up. but the "look out for the red skins," was in great red letters on a prairie schooner, and there they were, men with coats and hats painted a bright red, taking their dinner about a fire which the wind is trying to carry farther, and one is vigorously stamping it out. another, a mere boy with a stick in his hand, comes to inquire the road to the bridge "where you don't have to pay toll?" poor men, they look as though they hadn't ten cents to spare. so ends my adventure with the "red skins." but here comes another train of emigrants; ladies traveling in a covered carriage, while the horses, cattle, people, and all show they come from a land of plenty, and bring a goodly share of worldly goods along. they tell mr. n. they came from hall county, nebraska, where vegetation is at least two weeks ahead of this country, but came to take up government land. so it is, some go with nothing, while others sell good homes and go with a plenty to build up another where they can have the land for the claiming of it. the sun has not been so bright, and the wind is cool and strong, but i have been well protected by this thick warm indian blanket, yet i am not sorry when i alight at mr. skirvings door and receive a hearty welcome, and "just in time for a good dinner." the colonists' first summer's work and harvest. it would not do to take the colonists to their homes on the frontier, and not tell more of them. i shall copy from letters received. from a letter received from one whom i know had nothing left after reaching there but his pluck and energy, i quote: "brewer, p.o. brown co., neb., "december , ' . "our harvest has been good. every man of the colony is better satisfied than they were last spring, as their crops have done better than they expected. my sod corn yielded bushels (shelled) per acre. potatoes bushels. beans , and i never raised larger vegetables than we did this summer on sod. on old ground corn , wheat to , and oats to bushels per acre. after the first year we can raise all kinds of grain. for building a sod house, it costs nothing besides the labor, but for the floor, doors and windows. i built one to do me for the summer, and was surprised at the comfort we took in it; and now have a log house ready for use, a sod barn of two rooms, one for my cow, and the other for the chickens and ducks, a good cave, and a well of good water at eight feet. "there are men in the canyons that take out building logs. they charge from twenty-five to thirty-five dollars per forty logs, sixteen and twenty feet long. to have these logs hauled costs two and two and one-half dollars per day, and it takes two days to make the trip. but those who have the time and teams can do their own hauling and get their own logs, as the trees belong to "uncle sam." "the neighbors all turn out and help at the raising. the timber in the canyons are mostly pine. our first frost was th september, and our first cold weather began last week. a number of the colonists built good frame houses. i have been offered $ . for my claims, but i come to stay, and stay i will." from another: "we are all in good health and like our western homes. yet we have some drawbacks; the worst is the want of society, and fruit. are going to have a reunion february." "brewer, jan., . "you wished to know what we can do in the winter. i have been getting wood, and sitting by the fire. weather beautiful until th december, but the thermometer has said "below zero," ever since christmas. the lowest was twenty degrees. the land is all taken around here (near the stone butte) and we expect in a couple of years to have schools and plenty of neighbors." those who located near stuart and long pine, are all doing well, and no sickness reported from climating. i have not heard of one being out of employment. one remarked: "this is a good country for the few of us that came." i believe that the majority of the first party took claims; but the little handful of colonists are nothing in number to the settlers that have gathered in from everywhere, and occupy the land with them. of the horse thieves before spoken of i would add, that the "vigilantes" have been at work among them, hanging a number to the nearest tree, and lodging a greater number in jail. it is to be hoped that these severe measures will be all sufficient to rid the country of these outlaws. may the "colonists" dwell in peace and prosperity, and may the harvest of the future prove rich in all things good! chapter ii. over the sioux city & pacific r.r. from valentine to the missouri valley.--a visit to ft. niobrara. i was advised to go to valentine, the present terminus of the s.c. & p.r.r., and also to visit fort niobrara only a few miles from valentine, as i would find much that was interesting to write about. long pine was also spoken of as a point of interest, and as mr. buchanan, gen. pass. agt. of the road, had so kindly prepared my way by sending letters of introduction to lieut. davis, quartermaster at the fort, and also to the station agent at valentine, i felt i would not give it up as others advised me to, as valentine is considered one of the wicked places of nebraska, on account of the cow-boys of that neighborhood making it their head-quarters. i had been so often assured of the respect the cow boys entertain for ladies, that i put aside all fears, and left on a freight train, friday evening, may th, taking mrs. peck, a quiet middle-aged lady with me for company. passenger trains go through stuart at night, and we availed ourselves of the freight caboose in order to see the country by daylight. a quiet looking commercial agent, and a "half-breed" who busies himself with a book, are the only passengers besides mrs. peck and i. there is not much to tell of this country. it is one vast plain with here a house, and there a house, and here and there a house, and that's about all; very little farming done, no trees, no bushes, no nothing but prairie. there, the cars jerk, jerk, jerk, and shake, shake, shake! must be going up grade! mrs. p. is fat, the agent lean and i am neither; but we all jerk, shake and nod. mrs. p. holds herself to the chair, the agent braces himself against the stove, and i--well i just shake and laugh. it isn't good manners, i know, but mrs. p. looks so frightened, and the agent so queer, that my facial muscles will twitch; so i hide my face and enjoy the fun. there, we are running smooth now. agent remarks that his wife has written him of a terrible cyclone in kansas city last sunday. cyclone last sunday! what if it had passed along the niobrara and upset the little house with all aboard into the river. one don't know when to be thankful, do they? newport and bassett are passed, but they are only mere stations, and not worthy the name of town. the indian has left our company for that of the train-men, and as mrs. p.'s husband is a merchant, and she is prospecting for a location for a store, she and the agent, who seems quite pleasant, find plenty to talk about. there, puffing up grade again! and the jerking, nodding and shaking begins. mrs. p. holds her head, the agent tries to look unconcerned, and as though he didn't shake one bit, and i just put my head out of the window, and watch the country. saw three antelope running at a distance; are smaller than deer. the land is quite level, but we are seldom out of sight of sand-hills or bluffs. country looks better and more settled as we near long pine, where several of the colonists have located, and i have notified them of our coming, and there! i see a couple of them coming to the depot to meet us. as the sun has not yet hid behind the "rockies," we proposed a walk to long pine creek, not a mile away. the tops of the tallest trees that grow along it, tower just enough above the table-land to be seen from the cars; and as we did not expect to stop on our return, we made haste to see all we could. but by the time we got down to the valley it was so dark we could only see enough to make us very much wish to see more. so we returned disappointed to the hotel, to wait for the regular passenger train, which was not due until about midnight. the evening was being pleasantly passed with music and song, when my eyes rested upon a couple of pictures that hung on the wall, and despite the company about me, i was carried over a bridge of sad thoughts to a home where pictures of the same had hung about a little bed, and in fancy i am tucking little niece "myrtle" away for the night, after she has repeated her evening prayer to me, and i hear her say: "oh! auntie! i forgot to say, "god bless everybody." the prayer is repeated, good-night kisses given, and "mollie doll" folded close in her arms to go to sleep, too. but the sweet voice is silent now, "mollie" laid away with the sacred playthings, the playful hands closer folded, and the pictures look down on me, far, so far from home; and i leave the singers to their songs while i think. to add to my loneliness, mrs. p. says she is afraid to venture to valentine, and i do not like to insist, lest something might occur, and the rest try to persuade me not to go. i had advised lieut. davis of my coming, and he had written me to telephone him on my arrival at the depot, and he would have me conveyed to the fort immediately. but better than all, came the thought, "the lord, in whose care and protection i left home, has carried me safe and well this far; cannot i trust him all the way?" my faith is renewed, and i said: "you do not need to go with me, mrs. p., i can go alone. the lord has always provided friends for me when i was in need of them, and i know he will not forsake me now." mrs. p. hesitated, but at last, gathering strength from my confidence, says: "well, i believe i will go, after all." "almost train time," the landlady informs us, and we all go down to the depot to meet it. the night is clear and frosty, and the moon just rising. the train stopped for some time, and we talked of colony matters until our friends left us, insisting that we should stop on our return, and spend sunday at long pine. i turn my seat, and read the few passengers. just at my back a fat, fatherly looking old gentleman bows his head in sleep. that gentleman back of mrs. p. looks so thoughtful. how attentive that gentleman across the aisle is to that aged lady! suppose she is his dear old mother! "why there is 'mr. agent!' and there--well, i scarcely know what that is in the back seat." a bushy head rests against the window, and a pair of red shoes swings in the aisle from over the arm of the seat. but while i look at the queer picture, and wonder what it is, it spits a great splash of tobacco juice into the aisle, and the query is solved, it's only a man. always safe in saying there is a man about when you see tobacco juice flying like that. overalls of reddish brown, coat of gray, face to match the overalls in color, and hair to match the coat in gray, while a shabby cap crowns the picture that forms our background. mr. agent tells the thoughtful man a funny story. the old lady wakes up, and the fatherly old gent rouses. "you ladies belong to the colony from pennsylvania, do you not?" he asked. "i am a member of the colony," i replied. "i am glad to have an opportunity to enquire about them; how are they getting along?" i gave him all the information i could, and soon all were conversing as lonely travelers will, without waiting for any ceremonial introductions. but soon "ainsworth" is called out, and the agent leaves us with a pleasant "good evening" to all. the elderly man proves to be j. wesley tucker, receiver at the united states land office, at valentine, but says it is too rough and bad to take his family there, and tells stories of the wild shooting, and of the cow-boy. the thoughtful man is rev. joseph herbert, of union park seminary, chicago, who will spend his vacation in preaching at ainsworth and valentine, and this is his first visit to valentine, and is the first minister that has been bold enough to attempt to hold services there. he asks; "is the colony supplied with a minister? the superintendent of our mission talks of sending one to them if they would wish it." "they have no minister, and are feeling quite lost without preaching, as nearly all are members of some church, and almost every denomination is represented; but i scarcely know where services could be held; no church and no school house nearer than three miles." "oh! we hold services in log or sod houses, anywhere we can get the people together." i then spoke of my mission of writing up the history of the colony, and their settling, and the country they located in, and why i went to valentine, and remarked: "i gathered some very interesting history from----" "well if you believe all old ---- tells you, you may just believe everything," came from the man in the back-ground, who had not ventured a word before, and with this he took a seat nearer the rest of us, and listened to mr. t. telling of the country, and of the utter recklessness and desperation of the cow-boys; how they shot at random, not caring where their bullets flew, and taking especial delight in testing the courage of strangers by the "whiz of the bullets about their ears." "is there any place where i can stop and go back, and not go on to valentine," i asked. "no, miss, you are bound for valentine now;" and added for comfort sake, "no danger of you getting shot, _unless_ by _mere accident_. they are very respectful to ladies, in fact, are never known to insult a lady. pretty good hearted boys when sober, but when they are on a spree, they are as _wild_ as _wild_ can be;" with an ominous shake of his head. "do you think they will be on a spree when i get there?" "can't say, indeed; _hope not_." "a man came not long ago, and to test his courage or see how high he could jump, they shot about his feet and cut bullet holes through his hat, and the poor fellow left, not waiting to pick up his overcoat and baggage. a woman is carrying a bullet in her arm now where a stray one lodged that came through the house. after this bit of information was delivered, he went into the other car to take a smoke. i readily understood it was more for his own amusement than ours that he related all this, and that he enjoyed emphasizing the most important words. the gentlemen across the aisle handed me his card with: "i go on the same errand that you do, and visit the chaplain of the fort, so do not be alarmed, that gentleman was only trying to test your courage." i read the card: p. d. mcandrews, editor of storm lake _tribune_, storm lake, iowa. the minister looked interested, but only remarked: "i fear no personal harm, the only fear i have is that i may not be able to do them as much good as others of more experience could." i thought if any one needed to have fear, it was he, as his work would be among them. mrs. p. whispered: "oh! isn't it awful, are you alarmed?" "not as much as i appear to be, the gentleman evidently enjoyed teasing us, and i enjoyed seeing him so amused. we will reach there after sunrise and go as soon as we can to the fort; we will not stop to learn much of valentine, i know all i care to now." the stranger, who by this time i had figured out as a pony boy--i could not think what else would give him such a countenance as he wore--changed the subject with: "that man," referring to judge t., "don't need to say there is no alkali along here, i freighted over this very country long before this railroad was built, and the alkali water has made the horses sick many a time. but i suppose it is wearing out, as the country has changed a good bit since then; there wasn't near as much grass growing over these sand hills then as there is now." then by way of an apology for his appearance, remarked: "i tell you freighting is hard on a man, to drive day after day through all kinds of weather and sleep out at night soon makes a fellow look old. i look to be fifty, and i am only thirty-five years old. my folks all live in ohio, and i am the only one from the old home." poor man! i thought, is that what gives you such a hardened expression; and i have been judging you so harshly. "the only one from the old home," had a tone of sadness that set me to thinking, and i pressed my face close to the window pane, and had a good long think all to myself, while the rest dropped off to sleep. is there not another aboard this train who is the only one away from the old home? and all alone, too. yet i feel many dear ones are with me in heart, and to-night dear father's voice trembled as he breathed an evening benediction upon his children, and invokes the care and protection of him who is god over all upon a daughter, now so far beyond the shelter of the dear old home; while a loving mother whispers a fervent "amen." by brothers and sisters i am not forgotten while remembering their own at the altar, nor by their little ones; and in fancy i see them, white robed for bed, sweetly lisping, "god bless auntie pet, and bring her safe home." and ever lifting my own heart in prayer for protection and resting entirely upon god's mercy and goodness, i go and feel i am not _alone_. had it not been for my faith in the power of prayer, i would not have undertaken this journey; but i thought as i looked up at the bright moon, could one of your stray beams creep in at mother's window, and tell her where you look down upon her daughter to-night, would it be a night of sleep and rest to her? i was glad they could rest in blissful ignorance, and i would write and tell them all about it when i was safe back. of course i had written of my intended trip, but they did not know the character of valentine, nor did i until i was about ready to start. but i knew mr. buchanan would not ask me to go where it was not proper i should go. so gathering all these comforting thoughts together, i rested, but did not care to sleep, for-- oh, moon! 'tis rest by far more sweet, to feast upon thy loveliness, than sleep. humming ten thousand (or , ) miles away, home, sweet home, and the lord's prayer to the same air, i keep myself company. it was as bright and beautiful as night could be. the broad plains were so lit up i could see far away over a rolling prairie and sand-hills glistening in the frosty air; while many lakelets made a picture of silvery sheen i had never looked upon before. the moon peeped up at me from its reflection in their clear waters, and i watched it floating along, skipping from lakelet to lakelet, keeping pace alongside as though it, too, was going to preach in or write up valentine, and was eager to be there with the rest of us. it was a night too lovely to waste in sleep, so i waked every moment of it until the sun came up and put the moon and stars out, and lit up the great sandy plains, with a greater light that changed the picture to one not so beautiful, but more interesting from its plainer view. it is beyond the power of my pen to paint the picture of this country as i saw it in the early morning light, while standing at the rear door of the car. through sand-cuts, over sand-banks, and now over level grassy plains. the little rose bushes leafing out, ready to bloom, and sticking out through the sandiest beds they could find. where scarcely anything else would think of growing were tiny bushes of sand-cherries, white with blossoms. it seemed the picture was unrolled from beneath the wheels on a great canvas while we stood still; but the cars fairly bounded over the straight, level road until about six o'clock, when "valentine," rings through the car, and judge tucker cautioned me to "get ready to die," and we land at valentine. he and rev. herbert went to breakfast at a restaurant (the only public eating house, meals cents), and mr. mcandrew, his mother, mrs. p., and i went into the depot, and lost no time in telephoning to the fort that there were four passengers awaiting the arrival of the ambulance, and then gathered about the stove to warm. finding there was little warmth to be had from it, mrs. p. and i thought we would take a walk about the depot in the bright sun. but i soon noticed a number of men gathered about a saloon door, and fearing they might take my poke hat for a target, i told mrs. p. i thought it was pleasanter if not warmer inside. i seated myself close to that dear old scotch lady, whom i felt was more of a protection to me than a company of soldiers would be. all was quiet at first, but as there is no hotel in valentine, the depot is used as a resting place by the cow-boys, and a number of them came in, but all quiet and orderly, and only gave us a glance of surprise and wonder. not one bold, impudent stare did we receive from any one of them, and soon all fears were removed, and i quietly watched them. one whom i would take to be a ranch owner, had lodged in the depot, and came down stairs laughing and talking, with an occasional profane word, of the fun of the night before. he was a large, red-faced young looking man, with an air of ownership and authority; and the boys seemed to go to him for their orders, which were given in a brotherly sort of way, and some were right off to obey. all wore leather leggings, some trimmed with fur; heavy boots, and great spurs clanking; their leather belt of revolvers, and dirk, and the stockman's sombrero. some were rather fine looking in features, but all wore an air of reckless daring rather than of hardened wickedness. one who threw himself down to sleep on an improvised bed on the seats in the waiting room, looked only a mere boy in years, rather delicate in features, and showed he had not been long at the life he was now leading; and it was evident he had once known a better life. another, equally as young in years, showed a much more hardened expression; yet he, too, looked like a run-away from a good home. one poor weather-beaten boy came in and passed us without turning his head, and i thought him an old gray-headed man, but when i saw his face i knew he could not be more than twenty-five. he seemed to be a general favorite that was about to leave them, for, "i'm sorry you are going away, jimmie," "you'll be sure to write to us, jimmie, and let us know how you get along down there," and like expressions came from a number. i did not hear a profane word or rough expression from anyone, excepting the one before spoken of. i watched them closely, trying to read them, and thought: "poor boys! where are your mothers, your sisters, your homes?" for theirs is a life that knows no home, and so often their life has a violent ending, going out in the darkness of a wild misspent life. as the ambulance would not be there for some time, and i could not think of breakfasting at the restaurant, mrs. p. and i went to a store and got some crackers and cheese, on which we breakfasted in the depot. then, tired and worn out from my night of watching, and all fear banished, i fell asleep with my head resting on the window-sill; but was soon aroused by rev. herbert coming in to ask us if we wished to walk about and see the town. the town site is on a level stretch of land, half surrounded by what looks to be a beautiful natural wall, broken and picturesque with gray rocks and pine trees. it is a range of high bluffs that at a distance look to be almost perpendicular, that follow the north side of the minnechaduza river, or swift running water, which flows south-east, and is tributary to the niobrara. the river is so much below the level of the table-land that it can not be seen at a distance, so it was only a glimpse we obtained of this strange beauty. but for your benefit we give the description of it by another whose time was not so limited. "the view on the minnechaduza is as romantic and picturesque as many of the more visited sights of our country. approaching it from the south, when within about yards of the stream the level plain on which valentine is built is broken by numerous deep ravines with stately pines growing on their steep sides. looking from the point of the bluffs, the stream flowing in a serpentine course, and often doubling upon itself, appears a small amber colored rivulet. along the valley, which is about one-half mile wide, there are more or less of pine and oak. the stumps speak of a time when it was thickly wooded. the opposite banks or bluffs, which are more than feet higher than those on the south, are an interesting picture. there are just enough trees on them to form a pretty landscape without hiding from view the rugged cliffs on which they grow. the ravines that cut the banks into sharp bluffs and crags are lost to view in their own wanderings." valentine, i am told, is the county seat of cherry county, which was but lately organized. last christmas there was but one house on the town site, but about six weeks ago the railroad was completed from thatcher to this point, and as thatcher was built right amid the sand banks near the niobrara river, the people living there left their sandy homes and came here; and now there is one hardware, one furniture, and two general stores; a large store-house for government goods for the sioux indians, a newspaper, restaurant, and five saloons, a hotel and number of houses in course of erection, also the united states land office of the minnechaduza district, that includes the government land of brown, cherry, and sioux counties. in all i counted about twenty-five houses, and three tents that served as houses. but this is not to be the terminus of the sioux city and pacific railroad very long, as it, too, is "going west," just where is not known. about eight o'clock a soldier boy in blue came with the ambulance, and returning to the depot for my satchel and ulster, which i had left there in the care of no one, but found all safe, our party of four bade rev. herbert good-bye and left him to his work with our most earnest wishes for his success. he had already secured the little restaurant, which was kept by respectable people, to hold services in. from valentine we could see frederick's peak, and which looked to be but a short distance away. when we had gone about two miles in that direction the driver said if we were not in haste to reach the fort he would drive out of the way some distance that we might have a better view of it; and after going quite a ways, halted on an eminence, and then we were yet several miles from it. it is a lone mound or butte that rears a queerly capped point high above all other eminences around it. at that distance, it looked to be almost too steep to be climbed, and crowned with a large rounding rock. i was wishing i could stop over sunday at the fort, as i found my time would be too limited, by even extending it to monday, to get anything like a view, or gather any information of the country. but mrs. p. insisted on returning that afternoon rather than to risk her life one night so near the indians. the ride was interesting, but very unpleasant from a strong wind that was cold and cutting despite the bright sun. i had fancied i would see a fort such as they had in "ye olden times"--a block house with loop-holes to shoot through at the indians. but instead i found fort niobrara more like a pleasant little village of nicely built houses, most of them of adobe brick, and arranged on three sides of a square. the officers' homes on the south side, all cottage houses, but large, handsomely built, and commodious. on the east are public buildings, chapel, library, lecture room, hall for balls and entertainments, etc. along the north are the soldiers' buildings; eating, sleeping, and reading rooms; also separate drinking and billiard rooms for the officers and privates. the drinking and playing of the privates, at least are under restrictions; nothing but beer is allowed them, and betting is punished. on this side is the armory, store-houses of government goods, a general store, tailor, harness, and various shops. at the rear of the buildings are the stables--one for the gray and another for the sorrel horses--about one hundred of each, and also about seventy-five mules. the square is nicely trimmed and laid out in walks and planted in small trees, as it is but four years since the post, as it is more properly termed, was established. it all looked very pleasant, and i asked the driver if, as a rule, the soldiers enjoyed the life. he answered that it was a very monotonous life, as it is seldom they are called out to duty, and they are only wishing the indians would give them a chance at a skirmish. the privates receive thirteen dollars per month, are boarded and kept in clothing. extra work receives extra pay; for driving to the depot once every day, and many days oftener, he received fifteen cents per day. those of the privates who marry and bring their wives there--and but few are allowed that privilege--do so with the understanding that their wives are expected to cook, wash, or sew for the soldiers in return for their own keeping. after a drive around the square, mr. mca. and mother alighted at the chaplain's, and mrs. p. and i at lieutenant g. b. davis', and were kindly received by both mr. and mrs. davis, but the lieutenant was soon called away to engage in a cavalry drill, or sham battle; but mrs. d. entertained us very pleasantly, which was no little task, as i never was so dull and stupid as i grew to be after sitting for a short time in their cosy parlor. how provoking to be so, when there was so much of interest about me, and my time so limited. mrs. d. insisted on my lying down and taking some rest, which i gladly consented to do, providing they would not allow me to sleep long. i quickly fell into a doze, and dreamt the indians were coming over the bluffs to take the fort, and in getting away from them i got right out of bed, and was back in the parlor in less than ten minutes. mrs. d. then proposed a walk to some of the public buildings; but we were driven back by a gust of wind and rain, that swept over the bluffs that hem them in on the north-west, carrying with it a cloud of sand and dust. the clouds soon passed over, and we started over to see the cavalry drill, but again were driven back by the rain, and we watched the cavalrymen trooping in, after the battle had been fought, the greys in one company, and sorrels in another. there were only about soldiers at the post. the keeping up of a post is a great cost, yet it is a needed expense, as the knowledge of the soldiers being so near helps to keep the indians quiet. yet i could not see what would hinder them from overpowering that little handful of soldiers, despite their two gatling guns, that would shoot , indians per minute, if every bullet would count, if they were so disposed. but they have learned that such an outbreak would be retaliated by other troops, and call down the indignation of their sole keeper and support--"uncle sam." we were interested in hearing lieut. davis speak in words of highest praise of lieut. cherry, whose death in was so untimely and sad, as he was soon to bear a highly estimable young lady away from near my own home as a bride, whom he met at washington, d.c., in ' , where he spent a portion of a leave of absence granted him in recognition of brave and conspicuous services at the battle of the little big horn, known as custer's massacre. he was a graduate of west point, was a brave, intelligent, rising young officer. not only was he a good soldier, but also a man of upright life, and his untimely and violent death brought grief to many hearts, and robbed the world of a good man and a patriot. as the story of his death, and what it led to is interesting, i will briefly repeat it: some time before this event happened, there were good grounds for believing that there was a band formed between some of the soldiers and rough characters about the fort to rob the paymaster, but it became known, and a company was sent to guard him from long pine. not long after this a half-breed killed another in a saloon row, near the fort, and lieut. cherry was detailed to arrest the murderer. lieut. c. took with him a small squad of soldiers, and two indian scouts. when they had been out two days, the murderer was discovered in some rock fastnesses, and as the lieutenant was about to secure him, he was shot by one of the soldiers of the squad by the name of locke, in order to let the fugitive escape. the murderer of lieut. c. escaped in the confusion that followed, but spotted tail, chief of the sioux indians, who held the lieutenant in great esteem, ordered out a company of spies under crow dog, one of his under chiefs, to hunt him down. they followed his trail until near fort pierre, where they found him under arrest. they wanted to bring him back to fort niobrara, but were not allowed to. he was tried and paid the penalty of life for life--a poor return for such a one as he had taken. he was evidently one of the band before mentioned, but ignorant of this the lieutenant had chosen him to be a help, and instead was the taker of his life. when crow dog returned without the murderer of lieut. c., spotted tail was very angry, and put him under arrest. soon after, when the indians were about to start on their annual hunt, spotted tail would not let crow dog go, which made the feud still greater. in the fall, when spotted tail was about to start to washington to consult about the agency lands, crow dog had his wife drive his wagon up to spotted tail's tepee, and call him out, when crow dog, who lay concealed in the wagon, rose up and shot him, and made his escape, but was so closely followed that after three days he came into fort niobrara, and gave himself up. he has been twice tried, and twice sentenced to death, but has again been granted a new trial, and is now a prisoner at fort pierre. the new county is named cherry in honor of the beloved lieutenant. while taking tea, we informed lieut. davis that it was our intention to return on a combination train that would leave valentine about o'clock. finding we would then have little time to reach the train, he immediately ordered the ambulance, and telephoned to hold the train a half hour for our arrival, as it was then time for it to leave. and bidding our kind entertainers a hasty good bye, we were soon on our way. although i felt i could not do fort niobrara and the strange beauty of the surrounding country justice by cutting my visit so short, yet i was glad to be off on a day train, as the regular passenger train left after night, and my confidence in the cow-boys and the rough looking characters seen on the street, was not sufficiently established by their quiet demeanor of the morning to fancy meeting a night train. the riddled sign-boards showed that there was a great amount of ammunition used there, and we did not care to have any of it used on us, or our good opinion of them spoiled by a longer stay, and, too, we wanted to have a daylight view of the country from there to long pine. so we did not feel sorry to see the driver lash the four mules into a gallop. at the bridge, spanning the niobrara, we met rev. herbert and a couple of others on their way to the fort, who told us they thought the train had already started; but the driver only urged the mules to a greater speed, and as i clung to the side of the ambulance, i asked: "do mules ever run off?" "sometimes they do." "well, do you think that is what these mules are doing now?" "no, i guess not." and as if to make sure they would, he reached out and wielded the long lash whip, and we understood that he not only wished to make the train on time, but also show us how soldier boys can drive "government mules." the thought that they were mules of the "u.s." brand did not add to our ease of mind any, for we had always heard them quoted as the very worst of mules. mrs. p. shook her head, and said she did believe they were running off, and i got in a good position to make a hasty exit if necessary, and then watched them run. after all we enjoyed the ride of four and a half miles in less than minutes, and thanked the driver for it as he helped us into the depot in plenty of time for the train. mr. tucker brought us some beautiful specimens of petrified wood--chips from a petrified log, found along the minnechaduza, as a reminder of our trip to valentine. several cow-boys were in the depot, but as quiet as in the morning. i employed the time in gathering information about the country from mr. t. he informed me there was some good table-land beyond the bluffs, which would be claimed by settlers, and in a couple of years the large cattle ranches would have to go further west to find herding ground. they are driven westward just as the indians and buffalo are, by the settling up of the country. valentine is near the north boundary of the state, is west of the th meridian, and miles distant from the missouri river. when about ready to start, who should come to board the train but the man whom i thought must be a pony boy. "oh, mrs. p.! that bad man is going too, and see! we will have to travel in only a baggage car!" "well, we cannot help ourselves now. the ambulance has started back, and we cannot stay here, so we are compelled to go." mr. t. remarked: "he does look like a bad man; but don't you know you make your own company very often, and i am assured you will be well treated by the train-men, and even that bad-looking man; and to help you all i can, i will speak to the conductor in your behalf. the two chairs of the coach were placed at our use, while the conductor and stranger occupied the tool-chest. one side-door was kept open that i might sit back and yet have a good view. mrs. p., not in the least discomforted by our position, was soon nodding in her chair, and i felt very much alone. "where music is, his satanic majesty cannot enter," i thought, and as i sat with book and pencil in hand, writing a few words now and then, i sang--just loud enough to be heard, many of the good old hymns and songs, and ended with, "dreaming of home." i wanted to make that man think of "home and mother," if he ever had any. stopping now and then to ask him some question about the country in the most respectful way, and as though he was the only one who knew anything about it, and was always answered in the most respectful manner. i sat near the door, and was prepared to jump right out into a sand-bank if anything should happen; but nothing occurred to make any one jump, only mrs. p., when i gave her a pinch to wake her up and whisper to her "to please keep awake for i feel dreadful lonely." well, all i got written was: left valentine about : in a baggage and mail car, over the sandy roads, now crossing the niobrara bridge feet long, feet high; river not wide; no timber to be seen; now over a sand fill and through a sand cut feet deep, and feet wide at top, and at bottom. men are kept constantly at work to remove the sand that drifts into the cuts. thatcher, seven miles from v., a few faces peer up at the train from their dug-out homes, station house, and one Ã� deserted store-house almost entirely covered with the signs, "butter, vegetables, and eggs," out of which, i am told, thousands of dollars' worth have been sold. think it must have been canned goods, for old tin fruit cans are strewn all around. to our right is a chain of sand hills, while to the left it is a level grassy plain. the most of these lakelets, spoken of before, i am told, are only here during rainy seasons. raining most of the time now. arabia, one house, and a tent that gives it an arabic look. wood lake, one house. named from a lakelet and one tree. some one has taken a claim here, and built a sod house. beyond this there is scarcely a house to be seen. johnstown, two houses, a tent, and water tank. country taking on a better appearance--farm houses dotting the country in every direction. country still grows better as we near ainsworth, a pretty little town, a little distance to the left. will tell you of this place again. crossing the long pine creek, one mile west of long pine town, we reach long pine about six o'clock. mrs. p. says she does not care to go the rest of the way alone, so i have concluded to stop there over sabbath. i feel like heaping praises and thanks upon these men who have so kindly considered our presence. not even in their conversation with each other have i noticed the use of one slang or profane word, and felt like begging pardon of the stranger for thinking so wrongly of him. allow me to go back and tell you of ainsworth: ainsworth is located near bone creek, on the homestead of mrs. n. j. osborne, and mr. hall. it is situated on a gently rolling prairie, fifteen miles south of the niobrara river, sand hills four miles south, and twelve miles west. townsite was platted august, , and now has one newspaper, two general stores, two hardware stores, two lumber yards, two land offices, two livery stables, one drug store, one restaurant, and a millinery, barber, blacksmith shop, and last of all to be mentioned, two saloons. a m.e. church is organized with a membership of thirteen. i would take you right over this same ground, reader, after a lapse of seven months, and tell you of what i have learned of ainsworth, and its growth since then. brown county was organized in march, , and ainsworth has been decided as the county seat, as it is in the centre of the populated portion of the county. but the vote is disputed, and contested by the people of long pine precinct, so it yet is an undecided question. statistics of last july gave $ , of assessed property; eight americans to one foreigner. i quote this to show that it is not all foreigners that go west. "the population of ainsworth is now ; has three banks, and a number of business houses have been added, and a congregational church (the result of the labor of rev. joseph herbert, during his vacation months), a public building, and a $ , school house. "claims taken last spring can now be sold for from $ , to $ , . a bridge has been built across the niobrara, due north of ainsworth. there is a good deal of vacant government land north of the river, yet much of the best has been taken, but there are several thousand acres, good farm and grazing land, yet vacant in the county. there is a continual stream of land seekers coming in, and it is fast being taken. the sod and log 'shanties,' are fast giving way to frame dwellings, and the face of the country is beginning to assume a different appearance. fair quality of land is selling for from three to ten dollars per acre. "the weather has been so favorable (dec. , ' ) that farmers are still plowing. first frost occurred sept. th. mr. cook, of this place, has about , head of cattle; does not provide feed or shelter for them during the winter, yet loses very few. some look fat enough for market now, with no other feed than the prairie grass. "school houses are now being built in nearly all the school districts. the voting population of the county at last election was , . i will give you the production of the soil, and allow you to judge of its merit: wheat from to bushels per acre; oats to bushels per acre; potatoes, weighing - / pounds, and bushels per acre; cabbage, pounds----" this information i received from mr. p. d. mcandrew, who was so favorably impressed with the country, when on his visit to fort niobrara, that he disposed of his _tribune_ office, and returned, and took a claim near the stone butte, of which i have before spoken, and located at ainsworth. i would add that valentine has not made much advancement, as it is of later birth, and the cow-boys still hold sway, verifying mr. tucker's stories as only too true by added deeds of life-taking. you may be interested in knowing what success rev. herbert had in preaching in such a place. he says of the first sabbath: "held services in the restaurant at ten a.m., with an audience of about twenty. one saloon keeper offered to close his bar, and give me the use of the saloon for the hour. all promised to close their bars for the time, but did not. the day was very much as saturday; if any difference the stores did a more rushing business. as far as i was privileged to meet with the cow-boys, they treated me well. they molest those only who join them in their dissipations, and yet show fear of them. no doubt there are some very low characters among them, but there is chivalry (if it may so be called) that will not brook an insult to a lady. many of them are fugitives from justice under assumed names; others are runaways from homes in the eastern states, led to it by exciting stories of western life, found in the cheap fiction of the times, and the accounts of such men as the james boys. but there are many who remember no other life. they spend most of their time during the summer in the saddle, seldom seeing any but their companions. their nights are spent rolled in their blankets, with the sky for their roof and sod for a pillow. they all look older than their years would warrant them in looking." long pine. after supper i walked out to see the bridge across the long pine creek of which i have before spoken. but i was too tired to enjoy the scenery and see it all, and concluded if the morrow was the sabbath, there could be no harm in spending a part of it quietly seeing some of nature's grandeur, and returned to the severance house and retired early to have a long night of rest. there is no bar connected with this hotel, although the only one in town, and a weary traveler surely rests the better for its absence. the morning was bright and pleasant, and mrs. h. l. glover, of long pine, mr. h. l. hubletz, and mr. l. a. ross, of the colony, and myself started early for the bridge. it is feet in length, and feet high. the view obtained from it is grand indeed. looking south the narrow stream is soon lost to view by its winding course, but its way is marked by the cedar and pine trees that grow in its narrow valley, and which tower above the table-land just enough to be seen. just above the bridge, from among the rocks that jut out of the bank high above the water, seven distinct springs gush and drip, and find their way down the bank into the stream below, mingling with the waters of the pine and forming quite a deep pool of clear water. but like other nebraska waters it is up and away, and with a rush and ripple glides under the bridge, around the bluffs, and far away to the north, until it kisses the waters of the niobrara. we can follow its course north only a little way farther than we can south, but the valley and stream is wider, the bluffs higher, and the trees loftier. it is not enough to view it at such a distance, and as height adds to grandeur more than depth, we want to get right down to the water's edge and look up at the strangely formed walls that hem them in. so we cross the bridge to the west and down the steep bank, clinging to bushes and branches to help us on our way, until we stop to drink from the springs. the water is cool and very pleasant to the taste. then stop on a foot bridge across the pool to dip our hands in the running water, and gather a memento from its pebbly bed. on the opposite shore we view the remains of a deserted dugout and wondered who would leave so romantic a spot. then along a well worn path that followed the stream's winding way, climbing along the bluff's edges, now pulling ourselves up by a cedar bush, and now swinging down by a grape-vine, we followed on until mrs. g. remarked: "this is an old indian path," which sent a cold wave over me, and looking about, half expecting to see a wandering sioux, and not caring to meet so formidable a traveler on such a narrow pathway, i proposed that we would go no farther. so back to the bridge and beyond we went, following down the stream. some places the bluffs rise gradually to the table-land and are so grown with trees and bushes one can scarce tell them from pennsylvania hills; but as a rule, they are steep, often perpendicular, from twenty-five to seventy-five feet high, forming a wall of powdered sand and clay that is so hard and compact that we could carve our initials, and many an f. f. i left to crumble away with the bluffs. laden with pebbles gathered from the highest points, cones from the pine trees, and flowers from the valley and sand hills, i went back from my sabbath day's ramble with a mind full of wonder and a clear conscience. for had i not stood before preachers more powerful and no less eloquent than many who go out well versed in theology, and, too, preachers that have declaimed god's wonderful works and power ever since he spake them into existence and will ever be found at their post until the end. but how tired we all were by the time we reached mrs. g.'s home, where a good dinner was awaiting our whetted appetites! that over, mr. h. stole out to sunday school, and mr. r. sat down to the organ. but soon a familiar chord struck home to my heart, and immediately every mile of the distance that lay between me and home came before me. "homesick?" yes; so homesick i almost fainted with the first thought, but i slipped away, and offered up a prayer: my only help, but one that is all powerful in every hour and need. mr. glover told us of a mrs. danks, living near long pine, who had come from pennsylvania, and was very anxious to see some one from her native state, and mr. ross and i went to call on her, and found her in a large double log house on the banks of the pine--a very pretty spot they claimed three years ago. though ill, she was overjoyed to see us, and said: "i heard of the colony from pennsylvania, and told my husband i must go to see them as soon as i was able. indeed, i felt if i could only see some one from home, it would almost cure me!" it happened that mr. r. knew some of her friends living in pittsburgh, pennsylvania, and what a treat the call was to all of us! she told us of their settling there, and how they had sheltered crow dog and black crow, when they were being taken away as prisoners. how they, and the few families living along the creek, had always held their sabbath school and prayer meetings in their homes, and mentioned mr. skinner, a neighbor living not far away, who could tell us so much, as they had been living there longer, and had had more experience in pioneering. and on we went, along the creek over a half mile, to make another call. we found mr. and mrs. skinner both so kind and interesting, and their home so crowded with curiosities, which our limited time would not allow us to examine, that we yielded to their solicitation, and promised to spend monday with them. we finished the doings of our sabbath at long pine by attending m.e. services at the school house, held by rev. f. f. thomas. _monday_--spent the entire day at the "pilgrim's retreat," as the skinner homestead is called, enjoying its romantic scenery, and best of all, mrs. s.'s company. the house is almost hid by trees, which are leafing out, but above the tree tops, on the other side of the creek, "dizzy peak" towers feet high from the water's edge. white cliffs are several points, not so towering as dizzy peak. hidden among these cliffs are several canyons irregular in shape and size. mrs. s. took me through a full suite of rooms among these canyons; and "wild cat gulch," feet long, so named in honor of the killing of a wild cat within its walls by adelbert skinner, only a year ago, was explored. white cliffs was climbed, and tired out, we sat us down in the "parlor" of the canyons, and listened to mrs. s.'s story of her trials and triumphs. there, i know mrs. s. will object to that word, "triumph," for she says: "god led us there to do that work, and we only did our duty." we enjoyed listening to her story, as an earnest, christian spirit was so plainly visible through it all, and we repeat it to show how god can and will care for his children when they call upon him. mrs. i. s. skinner's story. "my husband had been in very poor health for some time, and in the spring of , with the hope that he would regain not only his health, but much he had spent in doctoring, we sought a home along the niobrara. ignorant of the existence of the "pony-boy clan," we pitched our tent on the south side of the river, about a mile from where morrison's bridge has since been built; had only been there a few days, when a couple of young men came, one by the name of morrison, and the other "doc middleton," the noted leader of the gang of horse-thieves that surrounded us, but who was introduced as james shepherd; who after asking mr. s. if he was a minister, requested him to come to the little house across the river (same house where i slept on the table) and perform a marriage ceremony. on the appointed evening mr. s. forded the river, and united him in marriage with a miss richards. the room was crowded with armed men, "ready for a surprise from the indians," they said, while the groom laid his arms off while the ceremony was being performed. mr. s., judging the real character of the men, left as soon as his duty was performed. about a month after this, a heavy reward was offered for the arrest of doc. middleton, and two men, llewellyn and hazen by name, came to middleton's tent that was hid away in a canyon, and falsely represented that they were authorized to present some papers to him, the signing of which, and leaving the country, would recall the reward. his wife strongly objected, but he, glad to so free himself--and at that time sick--signed the papers; and then was told there was one more paper to sign, and requested to ride out a short way with them. he cheerfully mounted his pony and rode with them, but had not gone far until hazen fell behind, and shot several times at him, badly wounding him. he in turn shot hazen three times and left him for dead. this happened on sunday morning, so near our tent that we heard the shooting. mr. s. was soon at the scene, and helped convey hazen to our tent, after which llewellyn fled. middleton was taken to the "morrison house." there the two men lay, not a mile apart. the one surrounded by a host of followers and friends, whose lives were already dark with crime and wickedness, and swearing vengeance on the betrayer of their leader, and also on anyone who would harbor or help him. the other, with only us two to stand in defiance of all their threats, and render him what aid we in our weakness could. and believing we defended a worthy man, mr. s. declared he would protect him with his life, and would shoot anyone who would attempt to force an entrance into our tent. fearing some would persist in coming, and knowing he would put his threats into execution if forced to it, i went to the brow of the hill and entreated those who came to turn back. when at last mr. morrison said he would go, woman's strongest weapon came to my help; my tears prevailed, and he too turned back, and we were not again disturbed. our oldest boy, adelbert, then years old, was started to keya paha for a physician, and at night our three other little boys, the youngest but two years old, were tucked away in the wagon, a little way from the tent, and left in the care of the lord, while mr. s. and i watched the long dark night through, with guns and revolvers ready for instant action. twice only, when we thought the man was dying, did we use a light, for fear it would make a mark at long range. we had brought a good supply of medicine with us, and knowing well its use, we administered to the man, and morning came and found him still living. once only did i creep out through the darkness to assure myself that our children were safe. monday i went to see middleton, and carried him some medicine which he very badly needed. after night-fall, adelbert and the doctor came, and with them, two men, friends of hazen, whom they met, and who inquired of the doctor of hazen's whereabouts. the doctor after assuring himself that they were his friends, told them his mission, and brought them along, and with their help hazen was taken away that night in a wagon; they acting as guards, the doctor as nurse, and mr. s. as driver. hazen's home was in the south-east part of the state; and they took him to columbus, then the nearest railway point. it was a great relief when they were safely started, but i was not sure they would be allowed to land in safety. mr. s. would not be back until thursday, and there i was, all alone with the children, my own strength nothing to depend on to defend myself against the many who felt indignant at the course we had pursued. the nearest neighbor that we knew was truly loyal, lived fifteen miles away. of course i knew the use of firearms, but that was not much to depend upon, and suffering from heart disease i was almost prostrated through the trouble. threats were sent to me by the children that if mr. s. dared to return, he would be shot down without mercy, and warning us all to leave as quickly as possible if we would save ourselves. i was helpless to do any thing but just stay and take whatever the lord would allow to befall us. i expected every night that our cattle would be run off, and we would be robbed of everything we had. one dear old lady, who lived near, stayed a couple of nights with us, but at last told me, for the safety of her life she could not come again, and urged me to go with her to her home. "oh, sister robinson," i cried, "you _must not_ leave me!" and then the thought came, how very selfish of me to ask her to risk her own life for my sake, and i told her i could stay alone. when we were coming here, i felt the lord was leading us, and i could not refrain from singing, "through this changing world below, lead me gently, gently, as i go; trusting thee, i cannot stray, i can never, never lose my way." and my faith and trust did not fail me until i saw mrs. r. going over the hill to her home, and my utter loneliness and helplessness came upon me with so much force, that i cried aloud, "oh, lord, why didst you lead us into all this trouble?" but a voice seemed to whisper, "fear not; they that are for thee are more than they that are against thee." and immediately my faith and trust were not only renewed, but greatly strengthened, and i felt that i dwelt in safety even though surrounded by those who would do me harm. it was not long until mrs. r. came back, saying she had come to stay with me, for after she got home she thought how selfish she had acted in thinking so much of her own safety, and leaving me all alone. but i assured her my fears were all dispelled, and i would not allow her to remain. yet i could not but feel uneasy about mr. s., and especially as the appointed time for his return passed, and the time of anxious waiting and watching was lengthened out until the next monday. on sunday a company of soldiers came and took "doc" middleton a prisoner. his term in the penitentiary will expire in june, and i do hope he has learned a lesson that will lead him to a better life; for he was rather a fine looking man, and is now only thirty-two years old. (i will here add that middleton left the penitentiary at the close of his term seemingly a reformed man, vowing to leave the west with all his bad deeds behind.) llewellyn received $ for his trouble, and hazen $ for his death blow, for he only lived about a year after he was shot. i must say we did not approve of the way in which they attempted to take middleton. we did not locate there after all this happened, but went eight miles further on, to a hay ranch, and with help put up between four and five hundred tons of hay. we lived in constant watching even there, and only remained the summer, and came and homesteaded this place, which we could now sell for a good price, but we do not care to try life on the frontier again. in praise of the much talked-of cow-boys, i must say we never experienced any trouble from them, although many have found shelter for a night under our roof; and if they came when mr. s. was away, they would always, without my asking, disarm themselves, and hand their revolvers to me, and ask me to lay them away until morning. this was done to assure me that i was safe at their hands. i repeat her story word for word as nearly as possible, knowing well i repeat only truth. and now to her collection of curiosities--but can only mention a few: one was a piece of a mastodon's jaw-bone, found along the creek, two feet long, with teeth that would weigh about two pounds. they unearthed the perfect skeleton, but as it crumbled on exposure to the air, they left it to harden before disturbing it; and when they returned much had been carried away. the head was six feet long, and tusks, ten feet, of which they have a piece seven inches in length, fifteen inches in circumference, and weighs eight pounds, yet it was taken from near the point. mrs. s. broke a piece off and gave to me. it is a chalky white, and shows a growth of moss like that of moss agate. she has gathered from around her home agates and moss agates and pebbles of all colors. as she handed them to me one by one, shading them from a pink topaz to a ruby, i could not help touching them to my tongue to see if they did not taste; they were so clear and rich-looking. it seemed odd to see a chestnut burr and nut cased as a curiosity. but what puzzled me most was a beaver's tail and paw, and we exhausted our guessing powers over it, and then had to be told. she gave it to me with numerous other things to carry home as curiosities. there are plenty of beaver along the creek, and i could scarcely be persuaded that some naughty george washington with his little hatchet had not felled a number of trees, and hacked around, instead of the beaver with only their four front teeth. the timber along the creek is burr oak, black walnut, white ash, pine, cedar, hackberry, elm, ironwood, and cottonwood. i was sorry to hear of a saw mill being in operation on the creek, sawing up quite a good deal of lumber. rev. thomas makes his home with mr. skinner, and from him i learned he was the first minister that held services in long pine, which was in april, ' , in the railroad eating house, and has since held regular services every two weeks. also preaches at ainsworth, johnstown, pleasant dale, and brinkerhoff; only seventy of a membership in all. well, the pleasantest day must have an end, and after tea, a swing between the tall oak trees of their dooryard, another drink from the spring across the creek, a pleasant walk and talk with miss flora kenaston, the school-mistress of long pine, another look at giddy peak and white cliffs, and "tramp tramp, tramp," on the organ, in which mr. s. joined, for he was one of the yankee soldier boys from york state, and with many thanks and promises of remembrance, i leave my newly-formed friends, carrying with me tokens of their kindness, but, best of all, fond memories of my day at "pilgrim's retreat." but before i leave on the train to-night i must tell you of the beginning of long pine, and what it now is. the town was located in june, ' . the first train was run the following october. mr. t. h. glover opened the first store. then came mr. h. j. severance and pitched a boarding tent, Ã� , from which they fed the workmen on the railroad, accommodating fifty to eighty men at a meal. but the tent was followed by a good hotel which was opened on thanksgiving day. now there is one bank, two general stores, one hardware, one grocery, one drug, and one feed store, a billiard hall, saloon, and a restaurant. population . from a letter received from c. b. glover, written december , i glean the following: "you would scarcely recognize long pine as the little village you visited last may. there have been a good many substantial buildings put up since then. notably is the railroad eating house, Ã� , ten two-story buildings, and many one-story. long pine is now the end of both passenger and freight division. the brown county bank has moved into their Ã� two-story building; masonic hall occupying the second story. the g.a.r. occupying the upper room of i. h. skinner's hardware, where also religious services are regularly held. preparations are being made for a good old fashioned christmas tree. the high school, under the able management of rev. m. laverty, is proving a success in every sense of the word. mr. ritterbush is putting in a $ , flouring mill on the pine, one-half mile from town, also a saw mill at the same place. the saw mill of mr. upstill, on the pine, three-fourths mile from town, has been running nearly all summer sawing pine and black walnut lumber. crops were good, wheat going thirty bushels per acre, and corn on sod thirty. vegetables big. a potato raised by mr. sheldon, near morrison's bridge, actually measured twenty-four inches in circumference, one way, and twenty and one-half short way. it was sent to kansas to show what the sand hills of north-western nebraska can produce. our government lands are fast disappearing, but by taking time, and making thorough examination of what is left, good homesteads and pre-emptions can be had by going back from the railroad ten, fifteen, and twenty miles. "the land here is not all the same grade, a portion being fit for nothing but grazing. this is why people cannot locate at random. timber culture relinquishments are selling for from $ to $ , ; deeded lands from $ to $ , per acres. most of this land has been taken up during the past year. "i have made an estimate of the government land still untaken in our county, and find as follows: "brown county has townships, sections to a township, quarters to a section, , quarter sections. we have about , voters. allowing one claim to each voter, as some have two and others none, it will leave , claims standing open for entry under the homestead, pre-emption, and timber culture laws. "long pine is geographically in the center of the county, and fifteen miles south of the niobrara river. regarding the proposed bridge across the river, it is not yet completed; think it will be this winter." from an entirely uninterested party, and one who knows the country well, i would quote: "should say that perhaps one-third of brown county is too sandy for cultivation; but a great portion of it will average favorably with the states of michigan and indiana, and i think further developments will prove the sand-hills that so many complain of, to be a good producing soil." water is good and easily obtained. the lumber and trees talked of, are all in the narrow valley of the creek, and almost completely hid by its depth, so that looking around on the table-land, not a tree is to be seen. all that can be seen at a distance is the tops of the tallest trees, which look like bushes. long pine and valentine are just the opposite in scenery. the sand-hills seen about long pine, and all through this country, are of a clear, white sand. but there, the train is whistling, and i must go. though my time has been so pleasantly and profitably spent here, yet i am glad to be eastward bound. well, i declare! here is mr. mcandrew and his mother on their way back from valentine, and also the agent, mr. gerdes, who says he was out on the keya paha yesterday (sunday) and took a big order from a new merchant just opening a store near the colony. mr. mca. says they had a grand good time at the fort, but not so pleasant was the coming from valentine to-night, as a number of the cow-boys seen at the depot saturday morning are aboard and were drinking, playing cards, and grew quite loud over their betting. as he and his mother were the only passengers besides them, it was very unpleasant. the roughest one, he tells me, was the one i took for a ranch owner; and the most civil, the one i thought had known a better life. and there the poor boy lay, monopolizing five seats for his sole use, by turning three, and taking the cushions up from five, four to lie on, and one to prop up the back of the middle seat. it is a gift given only to cow-boys to monopolize so much room, for almost anyone would sooner hang themselves to a rack, than ask that boy for a seat; so he and his companions are allowed to quietly sleep. how glad we are to reach stuart at last, and to be welcomed by mrs. wood in the "wee sma'" hours with: "glad you are safe back." stuart at the opening of was an almost untouched prairie spot, miles from missouri valley, iowa; but in july, , mr. john carberry brought his family from atkinson, and they had a "fourth" all to themselves on their newly taken homestead, which now forms a part of the town plat, surveyed in the fall of ' ; at that time having but two occupants, carberry and halleck. in november, the same year, the first train puffed into the new town of stuart, so named, in honor of peter stuart, a scotchman living on a homestead adjoining the town-site on the south. reader, do you know how an oil town is built up? well, the building up of a town along the line of a western railroad that opens up a new, rich country, is very much the same. one by one they gather at first, until the territory is tested, then in numbers, coming from everywhere. but the soil of nebraska is more lasting than the hidden sea of oil of pennsylvania, so about the only difference is that the western town is permanent. temporary buildings are quickly erected at first, and then the substantial ones when time and money are more plenty. so "stirring stuart" gathered, until we now count one church (pres.), which was used for a school room last winter, two hotels, two general stores, principal of which is mr. john skirving, two hardware and farm implement stores, one drug store, two lumber yards, a harness and blacksmith shop, and a bank. not far from stuart, i am told, was an indian camping ground, which was visited but two years ago by about a hundred of them, "tenting again on the old camp ground." and i doubt not but that the winding elkhorn has here looked on wilder scenes than it did on the morning of the th of april, ' , when the little party of colonists stepped down and out from their homes in the old "keystone" into the "promised land," and shot at the telegraph pole, and missed it. but i will not repeat the story of the first chapter. now that the old year of ' has fled since the time of which i have written, i must add what improvements, or a few at least, that the lapse of time has brought to the little town that can very appropriately be termed "the plymouth rock of the n.m.a.c." from the stuart _ledger_ we quote: the methodists have organized with a membership of twenty-four, and steps have been taken for the building of a church. services now held every alternate sunday by rev. mallory, of keya paha, in the presbyterian church, of which rev. benson is pastor. union sunday school meets every sunday, also the band of hope, a temperance organization. a new school house, Ã� , where over children gather to be instructed by mr. c. a. manville and miss mamie woods. an opera house Ã� , two stories high, mrs. arter's building, Ã� , two stories. two m.d.'s have been added, a dentist, and a photographer. it is useless to attempt to quote all, so will close with music from the stuart cornet band. from a letter received from "sunny side" from the pen of mrs. w. w. warner, dec. : "population of stuart is now , an increase of within the last two months. building is still progressing, and emigrants continue to come in their 'schooners.' "no good government land to be had near town. soil from one to three feet deep. first frost oct. . first snow, middle of november, hardly enough to speak of, and no more until d of december." but to return to our story. my "saratoga" was a "traveling companion"; of my own thinking up, but much more convenient, and which served as satchel and pillow. for the benefit of lady readers, i will describe its make-up. two yards of cloth, desired width, bind ends with tape, and work corresponding eyelet holes in both ends, and put on pockets, closed with buttons, and then fold the ends to the middle of the cloth, and sew up the sides, a string to lace the ends together, and your satchel is ready to put your dress skirts, or mine at least, in full length; roll or fold the satchel, and use a shawl-strap. i did not want to be burdened and annoyed with a trunk, and improvised the above, and was really surprised at its worth as a traveling companion; so much can be carried, and smoother than if folded in a trunk or common satchel; and also used as a pillow. this with a convenient hand-satchel was all i used. these packed, and good-byes said to the remaining colonists, and the dear friends that had been friends indeed to me, and kissing "wee nellie" last of all, i bid farewell to stuart. the moon had just risen to see me off. again i am with friends. mr. lahaye, one of the colonists, was returning to bradford for his family. mrs. peck and her daughter, mrs. shank, of stuart, were also aboard. of atkinson, nine miles east of stuart, i have since gleaned the following from an old schoolmate, rev. a. c. spencer, of that place: "when i came to atkinson, first of march, ' , i found two stores, two hotels, one drug store, one saloon, and three residences. now we have a population of , a large school building (our schools have a nine month's session), m.e. and presbyterian churches, each costing about $ , , a good grist mill, and one paper, the atkinson _graphic_, several stores, and many other conveniences too numerous to mention. last march, but about fifty voters were in atkinson precinct; now about . there has been a wonderful immigration to this part of holt county during the past summer, principally from illinois, wisconsin, and iowa, though quite a number from ohio, pennsylvania, and new york. six miles east of this place, where not a house was to be seen the th of last march, is now a finely settled community, with a school house, sunday school, and preaching every two weeks. some good government lands can be had eight to twenty-five miles from town, but will all be taken by next may. atkinson is near the elkhorn river, and water is easily obtained at to feet. coal is seven to ten dollars per ton." i awoke at o'neill just in time to see all but seven of our crowded coach get off. some coming even from valentine, a distance of miles, to attend robinson's circus--but shows are a rarity here. the light of a rising sun made a pleasing view of o'neill and surrounding country: the town a little distance from the depot, gently rolling prairie, the river with its fringe of willow bushes, and here and there settlers' homes with their culture of timber. o'neill was founded in by gen. o'neill, a leader of the fenians, and a colony of his own countrymen. it is now the county seat of holt county, and has a population of about . has three churches, catholic, presbyterian, and m.e.; community is largely catholic. it has three papers, the _frontier_, holt county _banner_, both republican, and o'neill _tribune_, democratic, and three saloons. it is about a mile from the river. gen. o'neill died a few years ago in omaha. neligh, the county seat of antelope county, is situated near the elkhorn, which is to feet wide, and to feet deep at this point. the town was platted feb., , by j. d. neligh. railroad was completed, and trains commenced running aug. , ' . gates college located at neligh by the columbus congregational association, aug. ' . u.s. land office removed to neligh in ' . m.e. church built in ' . county seat located oct. , ' . court house in course of erection, a private enterprise by the citizens. i quote from a letter received from j. m. coleman, and who has also given a long list of the business houses of neligh, but it is useless to repeat, as every department of business and trade is well represented, and is all a population of , enterprising people will bring into a western town. to write up all the towns along the way would be but to repeat much that has already been said of others, and the story of their added years of existence, that has made them what the frontier towns of to-day will be in a few years. then why gather or glean further? the valley of the elkhorn is beautiful and interesting in its bright, new robes of green. at battle creek, near norfolk, the grass was almost weaving high. it was interesting to note the advance in the growth of vegetation as we went south through madison, stanton, cuming and dodge counties. that this chapter may be complete, i would add all i know of the road to missouri valley--its starting point--and for this we have mr. j. r. buchanan for authority. there was once a small burg called desoto, about five miles south of the present blair, which was located by the s.c. & p.r.r. company in , and named for the veteran, john i. blair, of blairstown, new jersey, who was one of the leading spirits in the building of the road. blair being a railroad town soon wholly absorbed desoto. the land was worth $ . per acre. to-day blair has at least , of a population; is the prosperous county seat of washington county. land in the vicinity is worth from $ . to $ . per acre. the soil has no superior; this year showed on an average of twenty-five bushels of wheat per acre, and ordinarily yields sixty to eighty bushels of corn. land up the elkhorn valley five years ago was $ . to $ . per acre, now it is worth from $ . to $ . . the s.c. & p.r.r. proper was built from sioux city, iowa, and reached fremont, nebraska, in . it had a small land grant of only about , acres. the fremont, elkhorn valley and missouri river railroad was organized and subsequently built from fremont to valentine, the direct route that nature made from the missouri river to the black hills. as to the terminus of this road, no one yet knows. whether, or when it will go to the pacific coast is a question for the future. the missouri river proper is about , feet wide. in preparing to bridge it the channel has been confined by a system of willow mattress work, until the bridge channel is covered by three spans feet each or , feet. the bridge is feet above water and rests on four abutments built on caissons sank to the rock fifty feet beneath the bed of the river. this bridge was completed in november, , at a cost of over $ , , . but good-bye, reader; the conductor says this is fremont, and i must leave the s.c. for the u.p.r.r. and begin a new chapter. chapter iii. over the u.p.r.r. from north platte to omaha and lincoln.--a description of the great platte valley. i felt rather lonely after i had bid good-bye to my friends, but a depot is no place to stop and think, so i straightway attended to putting some unnecessary baggage in the care of the baggage-master until i returned, who said: "just passed a resolution to-day to charge storage on baggage that is left over, but if you will allow me to remove the check, i will care for it without charge." one little act of kindness shown me already. at the u.p. depot i introduced myself to mr. jay reynolds, ticket agent, who held letters for me, and my ticket over the u.p. road, which brother had secured and left in his care. he greeted me with: "am glad to know you are safe, miss fulton, your brother was disappointed at not meeting you here, and telegraphed but could get no answer. feared you had gone to valentine and been shot." "am sorry to have caused him so much uneasiness," i replied, "but the telegram came to stuart when i was out at the location, and so could not let him hear from me, which is one of the disadvantages of colonizing on the frontier." "your brother said he would direct your letters in my care, and i have been inquiring for you--but you must stop on your return and see the beauties of fremont. mrs. reynolds will be glad to meet you." well, i thought, more friends to make the way pleasant, and as it was not yet train time, i went to the post-office. the streets were thronged with people observing decoration day. it was a real treat to see the blooming flowers and green lawns of the "forest city;" i was almost tempted to pluck a snow-ball from a bush in the railroad garden. i certainly was carried past greener fields as the train bounded westward along the platte valley, than i had seen north on the elkhorn. the platte river is a broad, shallow stream, with low banks, and barren of everything but sand. now we are close to its banks, and again it is lost in the distance. the valley is very wide; all the land occupied and much under cultivation. i viewed the setting sun through the spray of a fountain in the railroad garden at grand island, tinging every drop of water with its amber light, making it a beautiful sight. grand island is one of the prettiest places along the way, named from an island in the river forty miles long and from one to three miles wide. i was anxious to see kearney, but darkness settled down and hindered all further sight-seeing. the coach was crowded, and one poor old gentleman was "confidenced" out of sixty dollars, which made him almost sick, but his wife declares, "it is just good for him--no business to let the man get his hand on his money!" "i will turn your seats for you, ladies, as soon as we have room," the conductor says; but the lady going to cheyenne, who shares my seat, assisted, and we turn our seats without help, and i, thinking of the old gentleman's experience, lie on my pocket, and put my gloves on to protect my ring from sliding off, and sleep until two o'clock, when the conductor wakes me with, "almost at north platte, miss." i had written miss arta cody to meet me, but did not know the hour would be so unreasonable. i scarcely expected to find her at the depot, but there she was standing in the chilly night air, ready to welcome me with, "i am so glad you have come, frances!" we had never met before, but had grown quite familiar through our letters, and it was pleasant to be received with the same familiarity and not as a stranger. we were quickly driven to her home, and found mrs. cody waiting to greet me. to tell you of all the pleasures of my visit at the home of "buffalo bill," and of the trophies he has gathered from the hunt, chase, and trail, and seeing and hearing much that was interesting, and gleaning much of the real life of the noted western scout from mrs. c., whom we found to be a lady of refinement and pleasing manners, would make a long story. their beautiful home is nicely situated one-half mile from the suburbs of north platte. the family consists of three daughters: arta, the eldest is a true brunette, with clear, dark complexion, black hair, perfect features, and eyes that are beyond description in color and expression, and which sparkle with the girlish life of the sweet teens. her education has by no means been neglected, but instead is taking a thorough course in boarding school. orra, a very pleasant but delicate child of eleven summers, with her father's finely cut features and his generous big-heartedness; and wee babe irma, the cherished pet of all. their only son, kit carson, died young. it is not often we meet mother, daughters, and sisters so affectionate as are mrs. c, arta, and orra. mr. cody's life is not a home life, and the mother and daughters cling to each other, trying to fill the void the husband and father's almost constant absence makes. he has amassed enough of this world's wealth and comfort to quietly enjoy life with his family. but a quiet life would be so contrary to the life he has always known, that it could be no enjoyment to him. to show how from his early boyhood, he drifted into the life of the "wild west," and which has become second nature to him, i quote the following from "the life of buffalo bill." his father, isaac cody, was one of the original surveyors of davenport, iowa, and for several years drove stage between chicago and davenport. was also justice of the peace, and served one term in the legislature from iowa. removed to kansas in , and established a trading post at salt creek valley, near the kickapoo agency. at this time kansas was occupied by numerous tribes of indians who were settled on reservations, and through the territory ran the great highway to california and salt lake city, traveled by thousands of gold-seekers and mormons. living so near the indians, "billy" soon became acquainted with their language, and joined them in their sport, learning to throw the lance and shoot with bow and arrow. in his father spoke in public in favor of the enabling act, that had just passed, and was twice stabbed in the breast by a pro-slavery man, and by this class his life was constantly threatened; and made a burden from ill health caused by the wounds, until in ' , when he died. after the mother and children all alone had prepared the body for burial, in the loft of their log cabin at valley falls, a party of armed men came to take the life that had just gone out. billy, their only living son, was their mainstay and support, doing service as a herder, and giving his earnings to his mother. the first blood he brought was in a quarrel over a little school-girl sweet-heart, during the only term of school he ever attended, and thinking he had almost killed his little boy adversary, he fled, and took refuge in a freight wagon going to fort kearney, which took him from home for forty days, and then returned to find he was freely forgiven for the slight wound he had inflicted. later he entered the employ of the great freighters, russell, majors & waddell, his duty being to help with a large drove of beef cattle going to salt lake city to supply gen. a. s. johnson's army, then operating against the mormons, who at that time were so bitter that they employed the help of the indians to massacre over-land freighters and emigrants. the great freighting business of this firm was done in wagons carrying a capacity of , pounds, and drawn by from eight to ten teams of oxen. a train consisted of twenty-five wagons. we must remember this was before a railroad spanned the continent, and was the only means of transportation beyond the states. it was on his first trip as freight boy that billy cody killed his first indian. when just beyond old ft. kearney they were surprised by a party of indians, and the three night herders while rounding up the cattle, were killed. the rest of the party retreated after killing several braves, and when near plum creek, billy became separated from the rest, and seeing an indian peering at him over the bluffs of the creek, took aim and brought to the dust his first indian. this "first shot" won for him a name and notoriety enjoyed by none nearly so young as he, and filled him with ambition and daring for the life he has since led. progressing from freight boy to pony express rider, stage driver, hunter, trapper, and indian scout in behalf of the government, which office he filled well and was one of the best, if not the very best, scouts of the plains; was married in march, ' , to miss louisa fredrica, of french descent, of st. louis; was elected to legislature in , but the place was filled by another while he continued his exhibitions on the stage. when any one is at loss for a name for anything they wish to speak of, they just call it buffalo ---- and as a consequence, there are buffalo gnats, buffalo birds, buffalo fish, buffalo beans, peas, berries, moss, grass, burrs, and "buffalo bill," a title given to william cody, when he furnished buffalo meat for the u.p.r.r. builders and hunted with the grand duke alexis, and has killed as high as sixty-nine in one day. i did not at the time of visiting north platte think of writing up the country so generally, so did not make extra exertions to see and learn of the country as i should have done. and as there was a shower almost every afternoon of my stay, we did not get to drive out as miss arta and i had planned to do. north platte, the county-seat of lincoln county, is located miles west of omaha, and is , feet above the sea level, between and near the junction of the north and south platte rivers. the u.p.r.r. was finished to this point first of december, , and at christmas time there were twenty buildings erected on the town site. before the advent of the railroad, when all provisions had to be freighted, one poor meal cost from one to two dollars. north platte is now nicely built up with good homes and business houses, and rapidly improving in every way. the united states land office of the western district embraces the government land of cheyenne, keith, lincoln, a part of dawson, frontier, gosper, and custer counties and all unorganized territory. all i can see of the surrounding country is very level and is used for grazing land, as stock raising is the principal occupation of the people. alkali is quite visible on the surface, but mrs. c. says both it and the sand are fast disappearing, and the rainfall increasing. no trees to be seen but those which have been cultivated. mrs. c. in speaking of the insatiable appetite and stealthy habits of the indians, told of a dinner she had prepared at a great expense and painstaking for six officers of ft. mcpherson, whom mr. c. had invited to share with him, and while she was receiving them at the front door six indians entered at a rear door, surrounded the table, and without ceremony or carving knife, were devouring her nicely roasted chickens and highly enjoying the good things they had found when they were discovered, which was not until she led the way to the dining room, thinking with so much pride of the delicacies she had prepared, and how they would enjoy it. "well, the dinner was completely spoiled by the six uninvited guests, but while i cried with mortification, the officers laughed and enjoyed the joke." ft. mcpherson was located eighteen miles east of north platte, but was abandoned four years ago. notwithstanding their kindness and entertaining home i was anxious to be on the home way, and biding mrs. c. and arta good-bye at the depot, i left monday evening for plum creek. how little i thought when i kissed the dear child orra good-bye, and whom i had already learned to love, that i would have the sad duty of adding a tribute to her memory. together we took my last walk about their home, gathering pebbles from their gravel walks, flowers from the lawn and leaves from the trees, for me to carry away. i left her a very happy child over the anticipation of a trip to the east where the family would join mr. cody for some time. i cannot do better than to quote from a letter received from the sorrow-stricken mother. "orra, my precious darling, that promised so fair, was called from us on the th of october, ' , and we carried her remains to rochester, n. y., and laid them by the side of her little brother, in a grave lined with evergreens and flowers. when we visited the sacred spot last summer, she said: 'mamma, won't you lay me by brother's side when i die?' oh, how soon we have had to grant her request! if it was not for the hope of heaven and again meeting there, my affliction would be more than i could bear, but i have consigned her to him who gave my lovely child to me for these short years, and can say, 'thy will be done.'" night traveling again debarred our seeing much that would have been interesting, but it was my most convenient train, and an elderly lady from ft. collins, colorado, made the way pleasant by telling of how they had gone to colorado from iowa, four years ago, and now could not be induced to return. lived at the foot of mountains that had never been without a snow-cap since she first saw them. arrived at plum creek about ten o'clock, and as i had no friends to meet me here, asked to be directed to a hotel, and remarked that we preferred a temperance hotel. "that's all the kind we keep here," the gentleman replied with an injured air, and i was shown to the johnston house. i had written to old friends and neighbors who had left pennsylvania about a year ago, and located twenty-five miles south-west of plum creek, to meet me here; but letters do not find their way out to the little sod post-offices very promptly, and as i waited their coming tuesday, i spent the day in gathering of the early history of plum creek. through the kindness of mrs. e. d. johnston, we were introduced to judge r. b. pierce, who came from maryland to plum creek, in april, , and was soon after elected county judge, which office he still holds. he told how they had found no signs of a town but a station house, and lived in box-cars with a family of five children until he built a house, which was the first dwelling-house on the present town-site. one daniel freeman had located and platted a town-site one mile east, but the railroad company located the station just a mile further west. judge pierce gave me a supplement of the dawson county _pioneer_, of date july th, , from which i gather the following history: "on june th, , gov. w. h. james issued a proclamation for the organization of the county. at the first election, held july , ' , at the store of d. freeman, there were but thirteen votes cast, and the entire population of the county did not exceed forty souls, all told. but the centennial fourth found a population of , prosperous people, of whom are residents of plum creek, which was incorporated march, , and named for a creek a few miles east tributary to the platte; and which in old staging days was an important point. "the creek rises in a bluffy region and flows north-east, the bluffs affording good hiding places for the stealthy indians. "among the improvements of the time is a bridge spanning the platte river, three miles south of the town, the completion of which was celebrated july th, ' , and was the first river bridge west of columbus. "in ' the court house was built. we will quote in full of the churches, to show that those who go west do not always leave their religion behind. as early as , the rev. father ryan, of the catholic church, held services at the old station house. in the fall of ' , rev. w. wilson organized the first methodist society in the county, with a membership of about thirty. in april, ' , right rev. bishop clarkson organized plum creek parish, and a church was built in ' , which was the first church built in the town. in ' the missionary baptist society was formed. in ' the presbyterian congregation was organized by rev. s. m. robinson, state missionary. "settlements in plum creek precinct were like angels' visits, few and far between, until april th, , when the philadelphia nebraska colony arrived, having left philadelphia, pennsylvania, april d, under charge of f. j. pearson. "in this colony there were sixty-five men, women, and children. their first habitation was four boxcars, kindly placed on a side track by the u.p.r.r. co. for their use until they could build their houses." i met one of these colonists, b. f. krier, editor _pioneer_, whom i questioned as to their prosperity. he said: "those who remained have done well, but some returned, and others have wandered, farther west, until there is not many of us left; only about eight families that are now residents of the town. we were so completely eaten out by the grasshoppers in ' - , and in there was a drought, and it was very discouraging." i thought of the sixty-five colonists who had just landed and drove their stakes in the soil of northern nebraska, and hoped they may be driven deep and firm, and their trials be less severe. "the union pacific windmill was their only guide to lead them over the treeless, stoneless, trackless prairie, and served the purpose of light-house to many a prairie-bewildered traveler. a few days after they landed, they had an indian scare. but the seven sioux, whose mission was supposed to be that of looking after horses to steal, seeing they were prepared for them, turned and rode off. six miles west of plum creek in , the indians wrecked a freight train, in which two men were killed, and two escaped; one minus a scalp, but still living." mrs. e. d. johnston told of how they came in , and opened a hotel in a Ã� shanty, with a sod kitchen attached; and how the cattle men, who were their principal stoppers, slept on boxes and in any way they could, while they enlarged their hotel at different times until it is now the johnston house, the largest and best hotel in plum creek. while interviewing judge pierce, a man entered the office, to transact some business, and as he left, the judge remarked-- "that man came to me to be married about a year ago, and i asked him how old the lady was he wished to marry. 'just fifteen,' he answered. i can't grant you a license, then; you will have to wait a year. 'wait?' no; he got a buggy, drove post-haste down into kansas, and was married. he lives near your friends, and if you wish i will see if he can take you out with him." so, through his help, i took passage in mr. john anderson's wagon, wednesday noon, along with his young wife, and a family just from luzerne county, pennsylvania. the wind was strong and the sun warm, but i was eager to improve even this opportunity to get to my friends. going south-east from plum creek, we pass over land that is quite white with alkali, but beyond the river there is little surface indication of it. for the novelty of crossing the platte river on foot, i walked the bridge, one mile in length, and when almost across met mr. joseph butterbaugh--our old neighbor--coming to town, and who was greatly surprised, as they had not received my letter. we had not gone far until our faces were burning with the hot wind and sun, and for a protection we tied our handkerchiefs across our faces, just below our eyes. the load was heavy, and we went slowly west along the green valley, the river away to our right, and a range of bluffs to our left, which increase in height as we go westward. passed finely improved homes that had been taken by the first settlers, and others where the new beginners yet lived in their "brown stone fronts" (sod houses). four years ago this valley was occupied by texas cattle, , in one herd, making it dangerous for travelers. stopped for a drink at a large and very neat story and a-half sod house built with an l; shingled roof, and walls as smooth and white as any lathed and plastered walls, and can be papered as well. sod houses are built right on the top of the ground, without the digging or building of a foundation. the sod is plowed and cut the desired size, and then built the same as brick, placing the grassy side down. the heat of the summer can hardly penetrate the thick walls, and, too, they prove a good protection from the cold winds of winter. sod corrals are used for sheep. almost every family have their "western post-office:" a little box nailed to a post near the road, where the mail carrier deposits and receives the mail. now for many miles west the government land is taken, and the railroad land bought. much of the land is cultivated and the rest used for pasture. the corn is just peeping through the sod. passed two school houses, one a sod, and the other an Ã� frame, where the teacher received twenty-five dollars per month. it is also used for holding preaching, sunday school, and society meetings in. it is twenty miles to mr. anderson's home, and it is now dark; but the stars creep out from the ether blue, and the new moon looks down upon us lonely travelers. "oh, moon, before you have waned, may i be safe in my own native land!" i wished, when i first saw its golden crest. i know dear mother will be wishing the same for me, and involuntarily sang: "i gaze on the moon as i tread the drear wild, and feel that my mother now thinks of her child, as she looks on that moon from our own cottage door, thro' the woodbine whose fragrance shall cheer me some more." i could not say "no more." to chase sadness away i sang, and was joined by mr. a., who was familiar with the songs of the old "key note," and together we sang many of the dear old familiar pieces. but none could i sing with more emphasis than-- "oh give me back my native hills, rough, rugged though they be, no other land, no other clime is half so dear to me." but i struck the key note of his heart when i sang, "there's a light in the window for thee," in which he joined at first, but stopped, saying: "i can't sing that; 'twas the last song i sung with my brothers and sisters the night before i left my kentucky home, nine years ago, and i don't think i have tried to sing it since." all along the valley faint lights glimmered from lonely little homes. i thought every cottager should have an alpine horn, and as the sun goes down, a "good night" shouted from east to west along the valley, until it echoed from bluff to bluff. but the longest journey must have an end, and at last we halted at mr. a.'s door, too late for me to go farther. but was off early in the morning on horseback, with zeke butterbaugh, who was herding for mr. a., to take his mother by surprise, and breakfast with her. well, reader, i would not ask anyone, even my worst enemy, to go with me on that morning ride. rough? there now, don't say anything more about it. it is good to forget some things; i can feel the top of my head flying off yet with every jolt, as that horse _tried_ to trot--perhaps it was my poke hat that was coming off. if the poor animal had had a shoe on, i would have quoted mark twain, hung my hat on its ear and looked for a nail in its foot. when we reached mrs. b.'s home, we found it deserted, and we had to go three miles farther on. six miles before breakfast. "now, zeke, we will go direct; take straight across and i will follow: mind, we don't want to be going round many corners." "well, watch, or your horse will tramp in a gopher hole and throw you; can you stand another trot?" and i would switch my trotter, but would soon have to rein him up, and laugh at my attempt at riding. it was not long until we were within sight of the house where zeke's sister lived, and when within hearing distance we ordered--"breakfast for two!" when near the house we concentrated all our equestrian skill into a "grand gallop." mrs. b. and lydia were watching and wondering who was coming; but my laugh betrayed me, and when we drew reins on our noble ponies at the door, i was received with: "i just knew that was pet fulton by the laugh;" and as i slipped down, right into their arms, i thought after all the ride was well worth the taking, and the morning a grand one. rising before the sun, i watched its coming, and the mirage on the river, showing distinctly the river, islands, and towns; but all faded away as the mirage died out, and then the ride over the green prairie, bright with flowers, and at eight o'clock breakfasting with old friends. we swung around the circle of indiana county friends, the butterbaughs and fairbanks, until monday. must say i enjoyed the _swing_ very much. took a long ramble over the bluffs that range east and west, a half mile south of mr. j. b.'s home. climbed bluff after bluff, only to come to a jumping off place of from to feet straight down. to peer over these places required a good deal of nerve, but i held tight to the grass or a soap weed stalk, and looked. we climbed to the top of one of the highest, from which we could see across the valley to the platte river three miles away--the river a mile in width, and the wide valley beyond, to the bluffs that range along its northern bounds. the u.p.r.r. runs on the north side of the river, and mr. b. says the trains can be seen for forty miles. plum creek, twenty miles to the east, is in plain view, the buildings quite distinguishable. then comes cozad, willow island--almost opposite, and gothenburg, where the first house was built last february, and now has about twenty. i would add the following from a letter received dec. , ' : gothenburg has now good buildings, and in the county where but five families lived in the spring of ' , now are , and that number is to be more than doubled by spring. but to the bluffs again. to the south, east, and west, it is wave after wave of bluffs covered with buffalo grass; not a tree or bush in sight until we get down into the canyons, which wind around among the hills and bluffs like a grassy stream, without a drop of water, stone or pebble; now it is only a brook in width, now a creek, and almost a river. the pockets that line the canyons are like great chambers, and are of every size, shape and height. a clay like soil they call calcine, in strata from white to reddish brown, forms their walls. they seemed like excellent homes for wild cats, and as we were only armed with a sunflower stalk which we used for a staff (how æsthetic we have grown since coming west!) we did not care to prospect--would much rather look at the deer tracks. the timber in the canyons are ash, elm, hackberry, box elder, and cottonwood, but mr. b. has to go fifteen miles for wood as it is all taken near him. wild plums, choke cherries, currants, mountain cranberries, and snow berries grow in wild profusion, and are overrun with grape-vines. found a very pretty pincushion cactus in bloom, and i thought to bring it home to transplant; but cactus are not "fine" for bouquets nor fragrant; and if they were, who would risk a smell at a cactus flower? but i did think i would like a prairie dog for a pet, and a full grown doggie was caught and boxed for me. had a great mind to attempt bringing a jack rabbit also, and open up a nebraska menagerie when i returned. jack rabbits are larger than the common rabbits and very deceitful, and if shot at will pretend they are hurt, even if not touched. a hunter from the east shot at one, and seeing it hop off so lame, threw down his gun and ran to catch it--well, he didn't catch the rabbit, and spent two days in searching before he found his gun. _sunday._ we attended sabbath school in the sod school house, and monday morning early were off on the long ride back to plum creek with mr. and mrs. h. fairbanks and miss laura f. we picnicked at dinner time. under a shade tree? no, indeed; not a tree to be seen--only a few willows on the islands in the river, showing that where it is protected from fires, timber will grow. but in a few years this valley will be a garden of cultivated timber and fields. i must speak of the brightest flower that is blooming on it now; 'tis the buffalo pea, with blossoms same as our flowering pea, in shape, color, and fragrance, but it is not a climber. how could it be, unless it twined round a grass stalk? the platte valley is from six to fifteen miles wide, but much the widest part of the valley is north of the river. the bluffs on the north are rolling, and on the south abrupt. in the little stretch of the valley that i have seen, there is no sand worthy of notice. water is obtained at from twenty to fifty feet on the valley, but on the table-land at a much greater depth. before we reached the bridge, we heard it was broken down, and no one could cross. "cannot we ford it?" i asked. "no, the quicksand makes it dangerous." "can we cross on a boat, then?" "a boat would soon stick on a sand bar. no way of crossing if the bridge is down." but we found the bridge so tied together that pedestrians could cross. as i stooped to dip my hand in the muddy waves of the platte i thought it was little to be admired but for its width, and the few green islands. the banks are low, and destitute of everything but grass. the platte river is about , miles long. it is formed by the uniting of the south platte that rises in colorado, and the north platte that rises in wyoming. running east through nebraska, it divides into the north and south platte. about two-thirds of the state being on the north. it finds an outlet in the missouri river at plattsmouth, neb. it has a fall of about feet to the mile, and is broad, shallow, and rapid--running over a great bed of sand that is constantly washing and changing, and so mingled with the waters that it robs it of its brightness. its shallowness is thought to be owing to a system of under ground drainage through a bed of sand, and supplies the republican river in the southern part of the state, which is feet lower than the platte. we were fortunate in securing a hack for the remaining three miles of our journey, and ten o'clock found me waiting for the eastern bound train. i would add that plum creek now has a population of . i have described dawson county more fully as it was in central nebraska our colony first thought of locating, and a number of them have bought large tracts of land in the south-western part of the county. that the platte valley is very fertile is beyond a doubt. it is useless to give depth of soil and its production, but will add the following: mr. joseph butterbaugh reports for his harvest of , bushels wheat from acres. corn averaged bushels, shelled; oats to ; and barley about bushels per acre. first frost was on the th of october. winter generally begins last of december, and ends with february. the hottest day of last summer was degrees in the shade. january , , it was degrees below, which is the lowest it has yet (january ) fallen, and has been as high as above since. the next point of interest on the road is kearney, where the b. & m.r.r. forms a junction with the u.p.r.r. in looking over the early history of buffalo county we find it much the same, except in dates a little earlier than that of dawson county. first settlers in the county were mormons, in , but all left in ' . the county was not organized until in ' , and the first tax list shows but thirty-eight names. kearney, the county-seat, is on the north side of the river miles west and little south of omaha, and miles west of lincoln. lots in kearney was first offered for sale in ' , but the town was not properly organized until in ' . since that time its growth has been rapid; building on a solid foundation and bringing its churches and schools with it, and now has under good way a canal to utilize the waters of the platte. fremont the "forest city," is truly so named from the many trees that hide much of the city from view, large heavy bodied trees of poplar, maple, box elder, and many others that have been cultivated. fremont, named in honor of general fremont and his great overland tour in and, was platted in on lands which the pawnee indians had claimed but which had been bought from them, receiving $ , in gold and silver and $ , in goods. in ' mr. s. turner swam the platte river and towed the logs across that built the old stage house which his mother mrs. margaret turner kept, but which has given way to the large and commodious "new york hotel." the th of july, ' , was celebrated at fremont by about one hundred whites and a multitude of indians; but now it can boast of over , inhabitants, fine schools and churches. it is the junction of the u.p.r.r. and the s.c. & p.r.r. i must add that it was the only place of all that i visited where i found any sickness, and that was on the decrease, but diphtheria had been bad for some time, owing, some thought, to the use of water obtained too near the surface, and the many shade trees, as some of the houses are entirely obscured from the direct rays of the sun. i will not attempt to touch on the country as we neared omaha along the way, as it is all improved lands, and i do not like its appearance as well as much of the unimproved land i have seen. we reached omaha about seven o'clock. i took a carriage for the millard hotel and had breakfast. at the request of my brother i called on mr. leavitt burnham, who has held the office of land commissioner of the u.p.r.r. land company since , and fills it honestly and well. omaha, the "grand gateway of the west," was named for the omaha indians, who were the original landholders, but with whom a treaty was made in . william d. brown, who for two or three years had been ferrying the "pike's peak or bust" gold hunters from iowa to nebraska shores, and "busted" from nebraska to iowa, in disgust entered the present site of omaha, then known as the lone tree ferry, as a homestead in the same year. in the next year the city of omaha was founded. the "general marion" was the first ferry steamer that plied across the missouri at this point, for not until in ' was the bridge completed. all honor to the name of harrison johnston, who plowed the first furrow of which there is any record, paying the indians ten dollars for the permit. he also built the first frame house in omaha, and which is yet standing near the old capitol on capitol hill. the first religious services held in omaha were under an arbor erected for the first celebration of the fourth of july, by rev. i. heaton, congregationalist. council bluffs, just opposite omaha, on the iowa shore, was, in the early days, used as a "camping ground" by the mormons, where they gathered until a sufficient number was ready to make a train and take up the line of march over the then great barren plains of nebraska. omaha is situated on a plateau, over fifty feet above the river, which is navigable for steamers only at high water tides. it is miles from chicago, and miles north of st. louis. it was the capital of nebraska until it was made a state. what omaha now is would be vain for me to attempt to tell. that it is nebraska's principal city, with , inhabitants, is all-sufficient. i had written my friends living near lincoln to meet me on monday, and as this was tuesday there was no one to meet me when i reached lincoln, about four o'clock. giving my baggage in charge of the baggage-master, and asking him to take good care of my doggie, i asked to be directed to a hotel, and left word where my friends would find me. the arlington house was crowded, and then i grew determined to in some way reach my friends. had i known where they lived i could have employed a liveryman to take me to them. i knew they lived four miles west of lincoln, and that was all. well, i thought, there cannot be many homoeopathic physicians in lincoln, and one of them will surely know where gardners live, for their doctor was often called when living in pennsylvania. but a better thought came--that of the baptist minister, as they attended that church. i told the clerk at the hotel my dilemma, and through his kindness i learned where the minister lived, whom, after a long walk, i found. "i am sorry i have no way of taking you to your friends, but as it is late we would be glad to have you stop with us to-night, and we will find a way to-morrow." i thankfully declined his kind offer, and he then directed me to deacon keefer's, where cousin gertrude made her home while attending school. after another rather long walk, tired and bewildered, i made inquiry of a gentleman i met. "keefer? do they keep a boarding-house?" "i believe so." "ah, well, if you will follow me i will show you right to the house." another mile walk, and it wasn't the right keefer's; but they searched the city directory, and found that i had to more than retrace my steps. "since i have taken you so far out of your way, miss, i will help you to find the right place," and at last swung open the right gate; and as i stood waiting an answer to my ring, i thought i had seen about all of lincoln in my walking up and down--at least all i cared to. but the welcome "trude's cousin pet" received from the keefer family, added to the kindness others had shown me, robbed my discomfiture of much of its unpleasantness. soon another plate was added to the tea-table, and i was seated drinking iced-tea and eating strawberries from their own garden, as though i was an old friend, instead of a straggling stranger. through it all i learned a lesson of kindness that nothing but experience could have taught me. after tea mr. ed and miss marcia keefer drove me out to my friends, and as i told them how i thought of finding them through the doctors, cousin maggie said: "well, my girlie, you would have failed in that, for in the four years we have lived in nebraska we have never had to employ a doctor." and, reader, now "let's take a rest," but wish to add before closing this chapter, that the u.p.r.r. was the first road built in nebraska. ground was broken at omaha, december , , but ' found only forty miles of track laid. the road reached julesburg, now denver junction, in june, ' , and the "golden spike" driven may , , which connected the union pacific with the central pacific railroad, and was the first railroad that spanned the continent. the present mileage is , miles, and several hundred miles is in course of construction. j. w. morse, of omaha, is general passenger agent. the lands the company yet have for sale are in custer, lincoln, and cheyenne counties, where some government land is yet to be had. a colony, known as the "ex-soldiers' colony," was formed in lincoln, nebraska, in . it accepted members from everywhere, and now april , ' , shows a roll of over two hundred members, many of whom have gone to the location, forty miles north-east of north platte, in unorganized territory, and near the loup river. six hundred and forty acres were platted into a town site in spring of ' , and named logan, in honor of gen. john a. logan. quite a number are already occupying their town lots, and building permanent homes, and most of the land within reach has been claimed by the colonists. the land is all government land, of which about one-half is good farming land, and rest fit only for grazing. this is only one of the many colonies that have been planted on nebraska soil thus early in ' , but is one that will be watched with much interest, composed as it is of the good old "boys in blue." chapter iv. over the b. & m.r.r. from lincoln to mccook, via wymore, and return via hastings.--a description of the republican and blue valleys.--the saratoga of nebraska. we rested just one delightful week, talking the old days over, making point lace, stealing the first ripe cherries, and pulling grass for "danger"--danger of it biting me or getting away--my prairie dog, which had found a home in a barrel. one evening cousin andy said: "i'll give you twenty-five cents for your dog, pet?" "now, cousin, don't insult the poor dog by such a price. they say they make nice pets, and i am going to take my dog home for norval. but that reminds me i must give it some fresh grass," and away i went, gathering the tenderest, but, alas! the barrel was empty, and a hole gnawed in the side told the story. i wanted to sell the dog then, and would have taken almost any price for the naughty danger, that, though full grown, was no bigger than a norway rat; but no one seemed to want to buy him. the weather was very warm, but poor "wiggins" was left on the parlor table in the hotel at plum creek one night, and in the morning i found him scalped, and all his prophetic powers destroyed, so we did not know just when to look out for a storm, but thunder storms, accompanied with heavy rains, came frequently during the week, generally at night, but by morning the ground would be in good working order. our cousin, a. m. gardner, formerly of franklin, pennsylvania, for several years was one of the fortunate oil men of the venango county field, but a couple of years of adverse fortunes swept all, and leaving their beautiful home on gardner's hill, came west, and are now earnestly at work building upon a surer foundation. when i was ready to be off for wymore, tuesday, salt creek valley was entirely covered with water, and even the high built road was so completely hidden that the drive over it was dangerous, but cousin rob wilhelm took me as far as a horse could go, and thanks to a high-built railroad and my light luggage, we were able to walk the rest of the way. the overflow of salt creek valley is not an uncommon occurrence in the spring of the year. this basin or valley covers about acres, and is rather a barren looking spot. in dry weather the salt gathers until the ground is quite white, and before the days of railroads, settlers gathered salt for their cattle from this valley. the water has an ebb and flow, being highest in the morning and lowest in afternoon. i had been directed to call upon mr. r. r. randall, immigration agent of the b. & m.r.r., for information about southern nebraska, and while i waited for the train, i called upon him in his office, on the third floor of the depot, and told him i had seen northern and central nebraska, and was anxious to know all i could of southern nebraska. after a few moments conversation, he asked: "what part of pennsylvania are you from, miss fulton?" "indiana county." "indeed? why, i have been there to visit a good old auntie; but she is dead now, bless her dear soul," and straightway set about showing me all kindness and interest. at first i flattered myself that it was good to hail from the home of his "good old auntie," but i soon learned that i only received the same kindness and attention that every one does at his hands. "now, miss fulton, i would like you to see all you can of southern nebraska, and just tell the plain truth about it. for, remember, that truth is the great factor that leads to wealth and happiness;" then seeing me safe aboard the train, i was on my way to see more friends and more of the state. a young lady, who was a cripple, shared her seat with me, but her face was so mild and sweet i soon forgot the crutch at her side. she told me she was called home by the sudden illness of a brother, who was not expected to live, and whom she had not seen since in january last. poor girl! i could truly sympathize with her through my own experience: i parted with a darling sister on her fifteenth birthday, and three months after her lifeless form was brought home to me without one word of warning, and i fully realized what it would be to receive word of my young brother, whom i had not seen since in january, being seriously ill. when her station was reached, the brakeman very kindly helped her off and my pleasant company was gone with my most earnest wishes that she might find her brother better. the sun was very bright and warm, and to watch the country hurt my eyes, so i gave my attention to the passengers. before me sat a perfect snapper of a miss, so cross looking, and just the reverse in expression from her who had sat with me. another lady was very richly dressed, but that was her most attractive feature; yet she was shown much attention by a number. another was a mother with two sweet children, but so cold and dignified, i wondered she did not freeze the love of her little ones. such people are as good as an arctic wave, and i enjoy them just as much. in the rear of the coach were a party of emigrants that look as though they had just crossed the briny wave. they are the first foreigners i have yet met with in the cars, and they go to join a settlement of their own countrymen. foreigners locate as closely together as possible. i was just beginning to grow lonely when an elderly gentlemen whom i had noticed looking at me quite earnestly, came to me and asked: "are you not going to wymore, miss?" "yes, sir." "to mr. fulton's?" "why, yes. you know my friends then?" "yes, and it was your resemblance to one of the girls, that i knew where you were going." no one had ever before told me that i favored this cousin in looks, but then there are just as many different eyes in this world as there are different people. "i met miss emma at the depot a few days ago, and she was disappointed at the non-arrival of a cousin, and i knew at first glance that you was the one she had expected." "you know where they live then?" "yes, and if there is no one at the train to meet you, i will see you to the house." with this kind offer, mr. burch, one of wymore's bankers went back to his seat. as i had supposed, my friends had grown tired meeting me when i didn't come, as i had written to them i would be there the previous week. but mr. burch kindly took one of my satchels, and left me at my uncle's door. "bless me! here is pet at last!" and dear aunt jane's arms are around me, and scolding me for disappointing them so often. "the girls and ed have been to the depot so often, and i wanted them to go to-day, but they said they just knew you wouldn't come. i thought you would surely be here to eat your birthday dinner with us yesterday." "well, auntie, salt valley was overflooded, and i couldn't get to the depot; so i ate it with cousin maggie. but that is the way; i come just when i am given up for good." then came uncle john, emma, annie, mary, ed, and dorsie, with his motherless little gracie and arthur. after the first greeting was over, aunt said: "what a blessing it is that norval got well!" "norval got well? why aunt, what do you mean?" "didn't they write to you about his being so sick?" "no, not a word." "well, he was very low with scarlet fever, but he is able to be about now." "oh! how thankful i am! what if norval had died, and i away!" and then i told of the lady i had met that was going to see her brother, perhaps already dead, and how it had brought with such force the thought of what such word would be to me about norval. how little we know what god in his great loving kindness is sparing us! i cannot tell you all the pleasure of this visit. to be at "uncle john's" was like being at home; for we had always lived in the same village and on adjoining farms. then too, we all had the story of the year to tell since they had left pennsylvania for nebraska. but the saddest story of all was the death of dorsie's wife, mary jane, and baby ruth, with malaria fever. to tell you of this country, allow me to begin with blue springs--a town just one mile east, on the line of the u.p.r.r., and on the banks of the big blue river, which is a beautiful stream of great volume, and banks thickly wooded with heavy timber--honey locust, elm, box elder, burr oak, cottonwood, hickory, and black walnut. the trees and bushes grow down into the very water's edge, and dip their branches in its waves of blue. this river rises in hamilton county, nebraska, and joins the republican river in kansas. is about miles long. i cannot do better than to give you mr. tyler's story as he gave it to us. he is a hale, hearty man of years, yet looks scarce ; and just as genteel in his bearing as though his lot had ever been cast among the cultured of our eastern cities, instead of among the early settlers of nebraska, as well as with the soldiers of the mexican war. he says: "in i was going to join johnston's army in utah, but i landed in this place with only fifty cents in my pocket, and went to work for j. h. johnston, who had taken the first claim, when the county was first surveyed and organized. about the only settlers here at that time were jacob poof, m. stere, and henry and bill elliott, for whom bill creek is named. the houses were built of unhewn logs. "soon after i came there was talk of a rich widow that was coming among us, and sure enough she did come, and bought the first house that had been built in blue springs (it was a double log house), and opened the first store. but we yet had to go to brownville, miles away, on the missouri river for many things, as the 'rich widow's' capital was only three hundred dollars. yet, that was a great sum to pioneer settlers. indeed, it was few groceries we used; i have often made pies out of flour and water and green grapes without any sugar; and we thought them quite a treat. but we used a good deal of corn, which was ground in a sheet-iron mill that would hold about two quarts, and which was nailed to a post for everybody to use. "well, we thought we must have a fourth of july that year, and for two months before, we told every one that passed this way to come, and tell everybody else to come. and come they did--walking, riding in ox wagons, and any way at all--until in all there was of us. the ladies in sunbonnets and very plain dresses; there was one silk dress in the crowd, and some of the men shoeless. everyone brought all the dishes they had along, and we had quite a dinner on fried fish and corn dodgers. for three days before, men had been fishing and grinding corn. the river was full of catfish which weighed from to pounds. we sent to brownville, and bought a fat pig to fry our fish and dodgers with. a mr. garber read the declaration of independence, we sang some war songs, and ended with a dance that lasted until broad daylight. very little whiskey was used, and there was no disturbance of any kind. so our first 'fourth' in blue springs was a success. i worked all summer for fifty cents per day, and took my pay in corn which the widow bought at cents per bushel. i was a widower, and--well, that corn money paid our marriage fee in the spring of ' . one year i sold bushels of corn at a dollar per bushel to travelers and freighters, as this is near the old road to ft. kearney. with that money, i bought acres of land, just across the river, in ' , and sold it in ' for $ , . it could not now be bought for $ , . "the sioux indians gave us a scare in ' , but we all gathered together in our big house (the widow's and mine), and the twelve men of us prepared to give them battle; but they were more anxious to give battle to the otoe indians on the reservation. "the otoe indians only bothered us by always begging for 'their poor pappoose.' my wife gave them leave to take some pumpkins out of the field, and the first thing we knew, they were hauling them away with their ponies. "our first religious service was in ' , by a m.e. minister from beatrice. our first doctor in ' . we received our mail once a week from nebraska city, miles away. the postmaster received two dollars a year salary, but the mail was all kept in a cigar box, and everybody went and got their own mail. it afterward was carried from mission creek, miles away, by a boy that was hired to go every sunday morning. the u.p.r.r. was built in ' . "my wife and i visited our friends in eastern pennsylvania, and surprised them with our genteel appearance. they thought, from the life we led, we would be little better than the savages. my brothers wanted me to remain east, but i felt penned up in the city where i couldn't see farther than across the street, and i told them: 'you can run out to new york, boston, philadelphia, and around in a few hours, but how much of this great country do you see? no, i will go back to my home on the blue.' i am the only one of the old settlers left, and everybody calls me 'pap tyler.'" i prolonged my visit until the th of july that i might see what the fourth of ' would be in blue springs. it was ushered in with the boom of guns and ringing of bells, and instead of the of ' , there were about , gathered with the bright morning. of course there were old ladies with bonnets, aside, and rude men smoking, but there was not that lack of intelligence and refinement one might expect to find in a country yet so comparatively new. i thought, as i looked over the people, could our eastern towns do better? and only one intoxicated man. i marked him--fifth drunken man i have seen since entering the state. the programme of the day was as follows: song--_the red, white, and blue_. declaration of independence--recited by minnie marsham, a miss of twelve years. song--_night before the battle_. toast--_our schools_. responded to by j. c. burch. toast--_our railroads_. rev. j. m. pryse. music--by the band. toast--_our neighbors_. rev. e. h. burrington. rev. h. w. warner closed the toasting with, "how, when, and why," and with the song, "the flag without a stain," all adjourned for their dinners. mr. and mrs. tyler invited me to go with them, but i preferred to eat my dinner under the flag with a stain--a rebel flag of eleven stars and three stripes--a captured relic of the late war that hung at half mast. in afternoon they gathered again to listen to "pap tyler" and pete tom tell of the early days. but the usual th of july storm scattered the celebrators and spoiled the evening display of fire-works. wymore is beautifully located near indian creek and blue river. it was almost an undisturbed prairie until the b. & m.r.r. came this way in the spring of ' , and then, topsy-like, it "dis growed right up out of the ground," and became a railroad division town. the plot covers acres, a part of which was samuel wymore's homestead, who settled here sixteen years ago, and it does appear that every lot will be needed. one can scarce think that where but two years ago a dozen little shanties held all the people of wymore, now are so many neatly built homes and even elegant residences sheltering over , . to tell you what it now is would take too long. three papers, three banks, a neat congregational church; methodists hold meetings in the opera hall, presbyterians in the school-house; both expect to have churches of their own within a year; with all the business houses of a rising western town crowded in. a fine quarry of lime-stone just south on indian creek which has greatly helped the building up of wymore. the heavy groves of trees along the creeks and rivers are certainly a feature of beauty. the days were oppressively warm, but the nights cool and the evenings delightful. the sunset's picture i have looked upon almost every evening here is beyond the skill of the painter's brush, or the writer's pen to portray. truly "sunset is the soul of the day." it is thought that in the near future wymore and blue springs will shake hands across bill creek and be one city. success to the shake. the otoe indian reservation lies but a mile south-east of wymore. it is a tract of land that was given to the otoe indians in , but one-half was sold five years ago. it now extends ten miles north and south, and six and three-fourths miles east and west, and extends two miles into kansas. i will quote a few notes i took on a trip over it with uncle john, annie, and mary. left wymore eight o'clock, drove through blue springs, crossed the blue on the bridge above the mill where the river is feet wide, went six miles and crossed wild cat creek, two miles south and crossed another creek, two miles further to liberty, a town with a population of , on the b. & m.r.r., on, on, we went, going north, east, south, and west, and cutting across, and down by the school building of the agency, a fine building pleasantly located, with quite an orchard at the rear. ate our lunch in the house that the agent had occupied. a new town is located at the u.p.r.r. depot, yet called "the agency." it numbers twelve houses and all built since the lands were sold the th of last may. passed by some indian graves, but i never had a "hankering" for dead indians, so did not dig any up, as so many do. i felt real sorry that the poor indian's last resting place was so desecrated. the men, and chiefs especially, are buried in a sitting posture, wrapped in their blankets, and their pony is killed and the head placed at the head of the grave and the tail tied to a pole and hoisted at the foot; but the women and children are buried with little ceremony, and no pony given them upon which to ride to the "happy hunting-ground." this tribe of indians were among the best, but warring with other tribes decreased their number until but were left to take up a new home in the indian territory. the land is rolling, soil black loam, and two feet or more deep; in places the grass was over a foot high. from uncle's farm we could see mission and plum creeks, showing that the land is well watered. the sun was very warm, but with a covered carriage, and fanned with nebraska breezes we were able to travel all the day. did not reach home until the stars were shining. for the benefit of others, i want to tell of the wisest man i ever saw working corn. i am sorry i cannot tell just how his tent was attached to his cultivator, but it was a square frame covered with muslin, and the ends hanging over the sides several inches which acted as fans; minus a hat he was taking the weather cool. now i believe in taking these days when it says ° in the shade, cool, and if you can't take them cool, take them as cool as you can any way. my thermometer did not do so, but left in the sun it ran as high as it could and then boiled over and broke the bulb. there were frequent showers and one or two storms, and though they came in the night, i was up and as near ready, as i could get, for a cyclone. aunt jane wants me to stay until a hot wind blows for a day or two, almost taking one's breath, filling the air with dust, and shriveling the leaves. but i leave her, wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron, while she throws an old shoe after me, and with gracie and arthur by the hand, i go to the depot to take the : p.m. train, july th. i cried once when i was bidding friends good bye, and had the rest all crying and feeling bad, so i made up my mind never to cry again at such a time if it was possible. i did not know that i would ever see these dear friends again, but i tried to think i would, and left them as though i would soon be back; and now i am going farther from home and friends. out from wymore, past fields of golden grain already in the sheaf, and nicely growing corn waving in the wind. now it is gently rolling, and now bluffy, crossing many little streams, and now a great grassy meadow. but here is what i wrote, and as it may convey a better idea of the country, i will give my notes just as i took them as i rode along: odell, a town not so large by half as wymore. three great long corn cribs, yet well filled. about the only fence is the snow fence, used to prevent the snow from drifting into the cuts. grass not so tall as seen on the reservation. here are nicely built homes, and the beginners' cabins hiding in the cosy places. long furrows of breaking for next year's planting. the streams are so like narrow gullies, and so covered with bushes and trees that one has to look quick and close to see the dark muddy water that covers the bottom. diller, a small town, but i know the "fourth" was here by the bowery or dancing platforms, and the flags that still wave. great fields of corn and grassy stretches. am watching the banks, and i do believe the soil is running out, only about a foot until it changes to a clay. few homes. indian creek. conductor watching to show me the noted "wild bill's" cabin, and now just through the cut he points to a low log cabin, where wild bill killed four men out of six, who had come to take his life, and as they were in the wrong and he in the right, he received much praise, for thus ridding the world of worse than useless men, and so nobly defending government property, which they wanted to take out of his hands. there is the creek running close to the cabin, and up the hill from the stream is the road that was then the "golden trail," no longer used by gold seekers, pony-express riders, stage drivers, wild indians, and emigrants that then went guarded by soldiers from fort kearney. the stream is so thickly wooded, i fancy it offered a good hiding place, and was one of the dangerous passes in the road; but here we are at endicott, a town some larger than those we have passed. is situated near the centre of the southern part of jefferson county. now we are passing through a very fine country with winding streams. i stand at the rear door, and watch and write, but i cannot tell all. reynolds, a small town. low bluffs to our left, and rose creek to the right. good homes and also dug-outs. cattle-corrals, long fields of corn not so good as some i have seen. the little houses cling close to the hillsides and are hemmed about with groves of trees. wild roses in bloom, corn and oats getting smaller again; wonder if the country is running out? here is a field smothered with sunflowers: wonder why oscar wilde didn't take a homestead here? rose creek has crossed to the left; what a wilderness of small trees and bushes follow its course! i do declare! here's a real rail fence! but not a staken-rider fence. would have told you more about it, but was past it so soon. rather poor looking rye and oats. few fields enclosed with barb-wire. plenty of cattle grazing. hubbell. four miles east of rose creek; stream strong enough for mill power; only one mile north of kansas. train stops here for supper, but i shall wait and take mine with friends in hardy. hubbell is in thayer county, which was organized in . town platted in ' , on the farm of hubbell johnston; has a population of . a good school house. i have since learned that this year's yield of oats was fifty to seventy-five, wheat twenty to thirty, corn thirty to seventy-five bushels per acre in this neighborhood. i walked up main street, with pencil and book in hand, and was referred to ---- ---- for information, who asked-- "are you writing for the _inter ocean_?" "no, i am not writing for any company," i replied. "i received a letter from the publishers a few days ago, saying that a lady would be here, writing up the republican valley for their publication." i was indeed glad, to know i had sisters in the same work. we pass chester and harbine, and just at sunset reach hardy, nuckolls county. i had written to my friend, rev. j. angus lowe, to meet "an old schoolmate" at the train. he had grown so tall and ministerial looking since we had last met, that i did not recognize him, and he allowed me to pass him while he peered into the faces of the men. but soon i heard some one say, "i declare, it's belle fulton," and grasping my hand, gives me a hearty greeting. then he led me to his neat little home just beyond the lutheran church, quite a nicely finished building that points its spire heavenward through his labors. the evening and much of the night is passed before i have answered all the questions, and told all about his brothers and sisters and the friends of our native village. the next day he took his wife and three little ones and myself on a long drive into kansas to show me the beauties of the "garden of the west." the republican river leaves nebraska a little west of hardy, and we cross it a mile south. the water of the river is clear and sparkling, and has a rapid flow. then over what is called "first bottom" land, with tall, waving grass, and brightened with clusters of flowers. the prettiest is the buffalo moss, a bright red flower, so like our portulacca that one would take its clusters for beds of that flower. while the sensitive rose grows in clusters of tiny, downy balls, of a faint pink, with a delicate fragrance like that of the sweet brier. they grow on a low, trailing vine, covered with fine thorns; leaves sensitive. i gathered of these flowers for pressing. now we are on second bottom land. corn! corn! it makes me tired to think of little girls dropping pumpkin seeds in but one row of these great fields, some a mile long, and so well worked, there is scarcely a weed to be seen. some are working their corn for the last time. it is almost ready to hang its tassel in the breeze. the broad blades make one great sea of green on all sides of us. fine timber cultures of black walnut, maple, box elder, and cottonwood. stopped for dinner with mrs. stover, one of mr. lowe's church people. they located here some years ago, and now have a nicely improved home. i was shown their milk house, with a stream of water flowing through it, pumped by a wind-mill. well, i thought, it is not so hard to give up our springs when one can have such conveniences as this, and have flowing water in any direction. i was thankful to my friends for the view of the land of "smoky waters," but it seemed a necessity that i close my visit with them and go on to red cloud, much as i would liked to have prolonged my stay with them. mr. lowe said as he bade me good-bye: "you are the first one who has visited us from pennsylvania, and it does seem we cannot have you go so soon, yet this short stay has been a great pleasure to us." i was almost yielding to their entreaties but my plans were laid, and i _must_ go, and sunset saw me off. all the country seen before dark was very pretty. passing over a bridge i was told: "this is dry creek." sure enough--sandy bed and banks, trees, bushes and bridge, everything but the water; and it is there only in wet weather. i have been told of two streams called lost creeks that rise five miles north-west of hardy, and flow in parallel lines with each other for several miles, when they are both suddenly lost in a subterranean passage, and are not seen again until they flow out on the north banks of the republican. so, reader, if you hear tell of a dry creek or lost creek, you will know what they are. superior is a nicely built town of inhabitants, situated on a plateau. the republican river is bridged here, and a large mill built. i did not catch the name as the brakeman sang it out, and i asked of one i thought was only a mere school boy, who answered: "i did not understand, but will learn." coming back, he informs me with much emphasis that it is superior, and straightway goes off enlarging on the beauties and excellences of the country, and of the fossil remains he has gathered in the republican valley, adding: "oh! i _just love_ to go fossiling! don't you _love_ to go fossiling, miss?" "i don't know, i never went," i replied, and had a mind to add, "i know it is just too _lovely_ for _anything_." it was not necessary for him to say he was from the east, we eastern people soon tell where we are from if we talk at all, and if we do not tell it in words our manners and tones do. new englanders, new yorkers, and pennamites all have their own way of saying and doing things. i went to the "valley house" for the night and took the early train next morning for mccook which is in about the same longitude as valentine and north platte, and thus i would go about the same distance west on all of the three railroads. i will not tell of the way out, only of my ride on the engine. i have always greatly admired and wondered at the workings of a locomotive, and can readily understand how an engineer can learn to love his engine, they seem so much a thing of life and animation. the great throbbing heart of the centennial--the corliss engine, excited my admiration more than all the rest of machinery hall; and next to the corliss comes the locomotive. i had gone to the round house in wymore with my cousins and was told all about the engines, the air-brakes, and all that, but, oh, dear! i didn't know anything after all. we planned to have a ride on one before i left, but our plans failed. and when at cambridge the conductor came in haste and asked me if i would like a ride on the engine, i followed without a thought, only that my long wished for opportunity had come. not until i was occupying the fireman's seat did i think of what i was doing. i looked out of the window and saw the conductor quietly telling the fireman something that amused them both, and i at once knew they meant to give me "a mile a minute" ride. well i felt provoked and ashamed that i had allowed my impulsiveness to walk me right into the cab of an engine; but i was there and it was too late to turn back, so to master the situation i appeared quite unconcerned, and only asked how far it was to indianola. "fourteen miles," was the reply. well, the fireman watched the steam clock and shoveled in coal, and the engineer never took his eyes off the track which was as straight as a bee-line before us, and i just held on to the seat and my poke hat, and let them go, and tried to count the telegraph poles as they flew by the wrong way. after all it was a grand ride, only i felt out of place. when nearing indianola they ran slow to get in on time, and when they had stopped i asked what time they had made, and was answered, eighteen minutes. the conductor came immediately to help me from the cab and as he did so, asked: "well, did they go pretty fast?" "i don't know, did they?" i replied. i was glad to get back to the passenger coach and soon we were at mccook. after the train had gone some time i missed a wrap i had left on the seat, and hastily had a telegram sent after it. after lunching at the railroad eating house, i set about gathering information about the little "magic city" which was located may th , and now has a population of . it is miles east of denver, on the north banks of the republican river, on a gradually rising slope, while south of the river it is bluffy. it is a division station and is nicely built up with very tastily arranged cottages. only for the newness of the place i could have fancied i was walking up congress street in bradford, pennsylvania. everything has air of freshness and brightness. the first house was built in june, ' . i am surprised at the architectural taste displayed in the new towns of the west. surely the east is becoming old and falling behind. it is seldom a house is finished without paint; and it is a great help to the appearance of the town and country, as those who can afford a frame house, build one that will look well at a distance. pipes are now being laid for water works. the water is to be carried from the river to a reservoir capable of holding , gallons and located on the hill. this is being done by the lincoln land company at a cost of $ , . it has a daily and weekly paper, the mccook _tribune_, first issued in june, ' . the printing office was then in a sod house near the river, then called fairview post-office, near which, about twenty farmers had gathered. the b. & m.r.r. was completed through to colorado winter of ' . good building stone can be obtained from stony point, but three miles west. mccook has its brick kiln as has almost all the towns along the way. good clay is easily obtained, and brick is cheaper than in the east. from a copy of the daily _tribune_, i read a long list of business firms and professional cards, and finished with, "_no saloons_." the congregationalists have a fine church building. the catholics worship in the churchill house, but all other denominations are given the use of the congregational church until they can build. i called upon rev. g. dungan, pastor of the congregational church. he was from home, but i was kindly invited by his mother, who was just from the east, to rest in their cosy parlor. it is few of our ministers of the east that are furnished with homes such as was this minister of mccook. i was then directed to mrs. c. c. clark, who is superintendent of the sunday school, and found her a lady of intelligence and refinement. she told of their sabbath school, and of the good attendance, and how the ladies had bought the church organ, and of the society in general. "you would be surprised to know the refinement and culture to be found in these newly built western towns. if you will remain with us a few days, i will take you out into the country to see how nicely people can and do live in the sod houses and dugouts. and we will also go on an engine into colorado. it is too bad to come so near and go back without seeing that state. passengers very often ride on the engine on this road, and consider it a great treat; so it was only through kindness that you were invited into the cab, as you had asked the conductor to point out all that was of interest, along the way." the rainfall this year will be sufficient for the growing of the crops, with only another good rain. almost everyone has bought or taken claims. one engineer has taken a homestead and timber claim, and bought acres. so he has acres, and his wife has gone to live on the homestead, while he continues on the road until they have money enough to go into stock-raising. this valley does not show any sand to speak of until in the western part of hitchcock county. following the winding course of the republican river, through the eight counties of nebraska through which it flows, it measures miles. the th north latitude, is the south boundary line of nebraska. as the republican river flows through the southern tier of counties, it is easy to locate its latitude. it has a fall of feet per mile, is well sustained by innumerable creeks on the north, and many from the south. these streams are more or less wooded with ash, elm, and cottonwood, and each have their cosy valley. it certainly will be a thickly populated stretch of nebraska. the timber, the out crops of limestone, the brick clay, the rich soil, and the stock raising facilities, plenty of water and winter grazing, and the mill power of the river cannot and will not be overlooked. but hark! the train is coming, and i must go. a catholic priest and two eastern travelers, returning from colorado, are the only passengers in this coach. the seats are covered with sand, and window sills drifted full. i brush a seat next to the river side and prepare to write. must tell you first that my wrap was handed me by the porter, so if i was not in colorado, it was. the prairies are dotted with white thistle flowers, that look like pond lilies on a sea of green. the buffalo grass is so short that it does not hide the tiniest flower. now we are alongside the river; sand-bars in all shapes and little islands of green--there it winds to the south and is lost to sight--herds of cattle--corn field--river again with willow fringed bank--cattle on a sand-bar, so it cannot be quicksand, or they would not be there long--river gone again--tall willow grove--wire fencing--creek i suppose, but it is only a brook in width. now a broad, beautiful valley. dear me! this field must be five miles long, and cattle grazing in it--all fenced in until we reach indianola, one of the veteran towns of red willow county. the town-site was surveyed in , and is now the county seat. of course its growth was slow until the advent of the b. & m., and now it numbers over inhabitants. "this way with your sorghum cane, and get your 'lasses' from the big sorghum mill." see a church steeple, court house, and school house--great herd of cattle--wilderness of sunflowers turning their bright faces to the sun--now nothing but grass--corral made of logs--corn and potatoes--out of the old sod into the nice new frame--river beautifully wooded--valley about four miles wide from bluff to bluff--dog town, but don't seem to be any doggies at home--board fence. cambridge. close to the bridge and near medicine creek; population ; a flouring mill; in furnas county now. the flowers that i see are the prairie rose shaded from white to pink, thistles, white and pink cactuses, purple shoestring, a yellow flower, and sunflowers. abrupt bluffs like those of valentine. buffalo burs, and buffalo wallows. country looking fine. grain good. arapahoe. quite a town on the level valley; good situation. valley broad, and bluffs a gradual rise to the table-lands; fields of grain and corn on their sloping side. this young city is situated on the most northern point of the river and twenty-two miles from kansas, and is only forty miles from plum creek on the platte river, and many from that neighborhood come with their grain to the arapahoe mills as there are two flouring mills here. it is the county-seat of furnas county, was platted in . river well timbered; corn and oats good; grain in sheaf; stumps, stumps, bless the dear old stumps! glad to see them! didn't think any one could live in that house, but people can live in very open houses here; stakenridered fence, sod house, here is a stream no wider than our spring run, yet it cuts deep and trees grow on its banks. river close; trees--there, it and the trees are both gone south. here are two harvesters at work, reaping and binding the golden grain. oxford. only town on both sides of the railroad, all others are to the north; town located by the lincoln land company; population about ; a baptist church; good stone for building near; damming the river for mills and factories; a creamery is being talked of. sheep, sheep, and cattle, cattle--what has cattle? cattle has what all things has out west. guess what! why grass to be sure. scenery beautiful; in harlan county now, and we go on past watson, spring hill, and melrose, small towns, but will not be so long. here we are at orleans. a beautifully situated town on a plateau, a little distance to the north; excuse, me, please, until i brush the dust from the seat before me for an old lady that has just entered the car; i am glad to have her company. stately elms cast their shadows over a bright little stream called elm creek that winds around at the foot of the bluff upon which the town is built. i like the scenery here very much, and, too, the town it is so nicely built. it is near the center of the county, and for a time was the county seat, and built a good court-house, but their right was disputed, and the county seat was carried to alma, six miles east. the railroad reached this point in ' , at which time it had of a population. it has advanced even through the loss of the county seat. an m.e. college, brick-yard, and grist-mill are some of its interests. land rolling; oats ripe; buffalo grass; good grazing land. cutting grain with oxen; a large field of barley; good bottom land; large herds and little homes; cutting hay with a reaper and the old sod's tumbled in, telling a story of trials no doubt. alma. quite a good town, of inhabitants, but it is built upon the table-land so out of sight i cannot see much of it. but this is the county seat before spoken of, and i am told is a live town. that old lady is growing talky; has just sold her homestead near orleans for $ , and now she is going to visit and live on the interest of her money. came from new york ten years ago with her fatherless children. the two eastern men and myself were the only passengers in this car, so i just wrote and hummed away until i drove the men away to the end of the car where they could hear each other talking. i am so glad the old lady will talk. republican city. small, but pretty town with good surrounding country. population . why, there's a wind-mill! water must be easily obtained or they would be more plenty. naponee. small town. no stop here. widespread valley; corn in tassel; grain in sheaf; wheat splendid. one flour mill and a creamery. bloomington--the "highland city"--the county seat of franklin county, and is a town like all the other towns along this beautiful valley, nicely located, and built up with beautiful homes and public buildings, and besides having large brick m.e. and presbyterian churches, a large normal school building, the bloomington flour mills, a large creamery, and the u.s. land office. i am told that the indians are excellent judges of land and are very loth to leave a good stretch of country, although they do not make much use of the rich soil. the pawnees were the original land-holders of the republican valley, and i do not wonder that they held so tenaciously to it. it has surely grown into a grand possession for their white brothers. i am so tired, if you will excuse me, reader, i will just write half and use a dash for the rest of the words cor--, pota--, bush--, tre--, riv--. wish i could make tracks on that sand bar! old lady says "that wild sage is good to break up the ague," and i have been told it is a good preventive for malaria in any form. driftwood! i wonder where it came from. there, the river is out of sight, and no tre-- or bus--; well, i am tired saying that; going to say something else. sensitive roses, yellow flowers, that's much better than to be talking about the river all the time. but here it is again; the most fickle stream i have ever seen! you think you will have bright waters to look upon for awhile, and just then you haven't. but, there, we have gone five miles now, and we are at franklin, a real good solid town. first house built july, . i never can guess how many people live in a town by looking at it from a car window. how do i know how many there are at work in the creamery, flouring mill, and woolen factory? and how many pupils are studying in the franklin academy, a fine two-story building erected by the republican valley congregational association at a cost of $ , ? first term opened dec. , . the present worth of the institution is $ , , and they propose to make that sum $ , . one hundred and seven students have been enrolled during the present term. and how many little boys and girls in the common school building? or how many are in their nicely painted homes, and those log houses, and sod houses, and dug-outs in the side of the hill, with the stovepipe sticking out of the ground? it takes all kinds of people to make a world, and all kinds of houses to make a city. country good. fields of corn, wheat, rye, oats, millet, broom corn, and all _sich_--good all the way along this valley. riverton. a small town situated right in the valley. was almost entirely laid in ashes in , but phoenix-like is rising again. am told the b. & m. co. have , acres of land for sale in this neighborhood at $ . to $ per acre, on ten years' time and six per cent interest. great fields of pasture and grain; wild hay lands; alongside the river now; there, it is gone to run under that bridge away over near the foot of the grassy wall of the bluffs. why, would you believe it! here's the republican river. haven't seen it for a couple of minutes. but it brings trees and bushes with it, and an island. but now around the bluffs and away it goes. reader, i have told you the "here she comes" and "there she goes" of the river to show you its winding course. one minute it would be hugging the bluffs on the north side, and then, as though ashamed of the "hug," and thought it "hadn't ought to," takes a direct south-western course for the south bluffs, and hug them awhile. oh, the naughty river! but, there, the old lady is tired and has stopped talking, and i will follow her example. tired? yes, indeed! have been writing almost constantly since i left mccook, now miles away, and am right glad to hear the conductor call red cloud! hearing that ex-gov. garber was one of the early settlers of red cloud, i made haste to call upon him before it grew dark, for the sunbeams were already aslant when we arrived, and supper was to be eaten. as i stepped out upon the porch of the "valley house" there sat a toad; first western toad i had seen, and it looked so like the toadies that hop over our porch at home that i couldn't help but pat it with my foot. but it hopped away from me and left me to think of home. the new moon of may had hung its golden crest over me in the valley of the niobrara, the june moon in the valley of the platte, and now, looking up from the republican valley, the new july moon smiled upon me in a rather reproving way for being yet further from home than when it last came, and, too, after all my wishing. so i turned my earnest wishes into a silent prayer: "dear father, take me home before the moon has again run its course!" i found the ex-governor seated on the piazza of his cosy cottage, enjoying the beautiful evening. he received me kindly, and invited me into the parlor, where i was introduced to mrs. garber, a very pleasant lady, and soon i was listening to the following story: "i was one of the first men in webster county; came with two brothers, and several others, and took for my soldier's claim the land upon which much of red cloud is now built, th july, . there were no other settlers nearer than guide rock, and but two there. in august several settlers came with their families, and this neighborhood was frequently visited by the indians, who were then killing the white hunters for taking their game, and a couple had been killed near here. the people stockaded this knoll, upon which my house is built, with a wall of logs, and a trench. in this fort, feet square, they lived the first winter, but i stayed in my dugout home, which you may have noticed in the side of the hill where you crossed the little bridge. i chose this spot then for my future home. i have been in many different states, but was never so well satisfied with any place as i was with this spot on the republican river. the prairie was covered with buffalo grass, and as buffalo were very plenty, we did not want for meat. there were also plenty of elk, antelope, and deer. "in april, ' , webster county was organized. the commissioners met in my dug-out. at the first election there were but forty-five votes polled. first winter there were religious services held, and in the summer of ' , we had school. our mail was carried from hebron, thayer county, fifty miles east. the town site was platted in october, ' , and we named it for red cloud, chief of the indian tribe." the governor looked quite in place in his elegant home, but as he told of the early days, it was hard to fancy him occupying a dug-out, and i could not help asking him how he got about in his little home, for he is a large man. he laughingly told how he had lived, his dried buffalo meat hung to the ceiling, and added: "i spent many a happy day there." gov. silas garber was elected governor of nebraska in - , serving well and with much honor his two terms. this is an instance of out of a dugout into the capitol. true nobility and usefulness cannot be hidden even by the most humble abode. the home mother earth affords her children of nebraska is much the same as the homes the great forests of the east gave to our forefathers, and have given shelter to many she is now proud to call nebraska's children. when i spoke of returning to the hotel, the governor said: "we would like to have you remain with us to-night, if you will," and as mrs. garber added her invitation, i readily accepted their kindness, for it was not given as a mere act of form. i forgot my weariness in the pleasure of the evening, hearing the governor tell of pioneer days and doings, and mrs. g. of california's clime and scenery--her native state. the morning was bright and refreshing, and we spent its hours seeing the surrounding beauties of their home. "come, miss fulton, see this grove of trees i planted but eight years ago--fine, large trees they are now; and this clover and timothy; some think we cannot grow either in nebraska, but it is a mistake," while mrs. g. says: "there is such a beautiful wild flower blooming along the path, and if i can find it will pluck it for you," and together we go searching in the dewy grass for flowers, while the governor goes for his horse and phaeton to take me to the depot. mrs. g. is a lady of true culture and refinement, yet most unassuming and social in her manners. before i left, they gave me a large photograph of their home. as the governor drove me around to see more of red cloud before taking me to the depot, he took me by his Ã� hillside home, remarking as he pointed it out: "i am sorry it has been so destroyed; it might have yet made a good home for some one," then by the first frame house built in red cloud, which he erected for a store room, where he traded with the indians for their furs. he hauled the lumber for this house from grand island, over sixty miles of trackless prairie, while some went to beatrice, miles away, for their lumber, and where they then got most of their groceries. as we drove through the broad streets, and looked on red cloud from centre to suburb, i did not wonder at the touch of pride with which governor garber pointed out the advance the little spot of land had made that he paid for in years of service to his country. when the b. & m.r.r. reached red cloud in ' , it was a town of inhabitants; now it numbers , . it is the end of a division of the b. & m. from wymore, and also from omaha; is the county seat of webster county, and surrounded by a rich country--need i add more? amboy. a little station four miles east of red cloud; little stream, with bushes; and now we are crossing dry creek; corn looks short. cowles. beautiful rolling prairie but no timber; plenty of draws that have to be bridged; shan't write much to-day for you know it is sunday, and i feel kind of wicked; wonder what will happen to me for traveling to-day; am listening to those travelers from the east tell to another how badly disappointed they were in colorado. one who is an asthmatic thinks it strange if the melting at noon-day and freezing at night will cure asthma; felt better in red cloud than any place. other one says he wouldn't take $ , and climb pike's peak again, while others are more than repaid by the trip. a wide grassy plain to the right, with homes and groves of trees. blue hill. a small town; great corn cribs; a level scope of country. o, rose, that blooms and wastes thy fragrance on this wide spread plain, what is thy life? to beautify only one little spot of earth, to cheer you travelers with one glance, and sweeten one breath of air; mayhap to be seen by only one out of the many that pass me by. but god sowed the seed and smiles upon me even here. bloom, little flower, all the way along, sing to us travelers your own quiet song, speak to us softly, gently, and low, are they well and happy? flowers, do you know? excuse this simple rhyme, but i am so homesick. this country is good all the way along and i do not need to repeat it so often. nicely improved farms and homes surrounded by fine groves of trees. i see one man at work with his harvester; the only desecrator of the sabbath i have noticed, and he may be a seventh day baptist. ayr was but a small town, so we go on to hastings, a town of over , inhabitants, and the county seat of adams county. is ninety-six miles west from lincoln, and miles west of the missouri river. the b. & m.r.r. was built through hastings in the spring of , but it was not a station until the st. joe and denver city r.r. (now the st. joe & western division of the u.p.r.r.) was extended to this point in the following autumn, and a town was platted on the homestead of w. micklin, and named in honor of t. d. hastings, one of the contractors of the st. jo. & d.c.r.r. a post-office was established the same year, the postmaster receiving a salary of one dollar per month. now, the salary is $ , per annum, and is the third post-office in the state for business done. it is located on a level prairie, and is nicely built up with good houses, although it has suffered badly from fires. i notice a good many windmills, so i presume water runs deep here. the surrounding country is rich farming land, all crops looking good. harvard, sutton, grafton, fairmont, exeter, friend, and dorchester, are all towns worthy of note, but it is the same old story about them all. i notice the churches are well attended. a poor insane boy came upon the train, and showed signs of fight and, as usual, i beat a retreat to the rear of the car, but did not better my position by getting near a poor, inebriated young man, in a drunken stupor. i count him sixth, but am told he came from denver in that condition, so i will give colorado the honor (?) of the sixth count. i cannot but compare the two young men: the one, i am told, was a good young man, but was suddenly robbed of his reason. if it was he that was intoxicated, i would not wonder at it. i never could understand how any one in their right mind could deliberately drag themselves down to such a depth, and present such a picture of sin and shame to the world as this poor besotted one does. everyone looks on him with contempt, as he passes up the aisle for a drink; but expressions of pity come from all for the one bereft of reason, and i ask, which of the two is the most insane? but i don't intend to preach a temperance sermon if it is sunday. crete. quite a pretty town half hid among the trees that line the big blue river. the valley of the blue must be very fertile, as every plant, shrub, and tree shows a very luxuriant growth. crete is surely a cosy retreat. the congregational church of the state has made it a centre of its work. here are located doane college and the permanent grounds of the n.s.s.a.a. lincoln. well, here i am, and no familiar face to greet me. i asked a lady to watch my baggage for me, while i hastened to the post-office, and when i returned the train was gone and the depot closed. i stood looking through the window at my baggage inside, and turning my mind upside-down, and wrongside out, and when it was sort of crosswise and i didn't know just what to do, i asked of a man strolling around if he had anything to do with the depot. "no. i am a stranger here, and am only waiting to see the ticket agent." after explaining matters to him i asked him to "please speak to the ticket agent about that baggage for me," which he readily promised to do, and i started to walk to my friends, expecting to meet them on the way. after going some distance i thought i had placed a great deal of confidence in a stranger, and had a mind to turn back, but the sun was melting hot, and i kept right on. after i had gone over a mile, i was given a seat in a carriage of one of my friends' neighbors, and was taken to their door, and gave them another surprise, for they thought i had made a mistake in the date, as they were quite sure no train was run on that road on sunday. _monday._ mr. gardner went for my baggage, but returned without it, and with a countenance too sober for joking said: "well, your baggage is not to be found, and no one seems to know anything about it." "oh! pet," maggie said, "i am so sorry we did not go to meet you, for this would not have happened. what did you leave?" "everything i had." "your silk dress too?" "yes, but don't mention that; money would replace it, but no amount could give me back my autograph album and button string which is filled and gathered from so many that i will never again see; and all my writings, so much that i could never replace. no, i _must_ not lose it!" and then i stole away and went to him whom i knew could help me. some may not, but i have faith that help is given us for the minor as well as the great things of life, and as i prayed this lesson came to me--how alarmed i am over the loss of a little worldly possessions, and a few poems and scraps of writing, when so much of the heavenly possession is lost through carelessness, and each day is a page written in my life's history that will not be read and judged by this world alone, but by the great judge of all things. and, too, it is manuscript that cannot be altered or rewritten. i would not allow myself to think that my baggage was gone for good, nor would i shed one tear until i was sure, and then, if gone, i would just take a good cry over it, and--but won't i hug my dusty satchels if i only get hold of them again, and never, never be so careless again. i supposed the stranger whom i had asked to speak to the ticket agent for me had improved the opportunity i gave him to secure it for his own. so it was a rather hopeless expression that i wore, as cousin maggie took me to the city in the afternoon. the day was away up among the nineties, and we could not go fast. i thought, never horse traveled so slow, and felt as though i could walk, and even push to make time. but i kept quiet and didn't even say "get up, nellie!" i suppose a mile a minute would have been slow to me then. when at last i reached the depot my first thought was to go right to mr. randall with my trouble, but was told he was about to leave on the train. i peered into the faces of those gathered about the depot, but failing to find him, i turned to look at the sacred spot where i had last seen may baggage, little dreaming that i would find it, but there it all was, even my fan. "oh dear, i am _so_ glad!" and i fussed away, talking to my satchels, and telling them how glad i was to see them, and was about to give them the promised "great big hug," when i found i was attracting attention, and turning to an elderly lady i asked her to please watch my baggage for a few moments. how soon we forget our good promises to do better.--i hastened to mr. randall's office, found him without a thought of going away. i first told him how much i was pleased with the republican valley, and then about my baggage. "why, child! did you go away and leave it here?" "yes, i did; and i have left it again in care of a real dressy old lady, and must go and see to it." when i reached the waiting room the old lady and baggage were both gone. turning to my cousin, who had just entered, i asked: "maggie gardner, what did you do with that baggage?" "nothing; i did not know you had found it." then, addressing a couple who sat near, i said: "i do wish you would tell me where that baggage went to." "the conductor carried it away." "where did he go to?" "i don't know, miss." dear me; helped the old lady aboard with my baggage, i thought. "why, what's the matter now, miss fulton?" asked mr. randall, who had followed me. "what's gone?" "why, my baggage; it's gone again." "well, that's too bad; but come with me and perhaps we may find it in here." and we entered the baggage room just in time to save gov. garber's house from blowing away (the picture), but found the rest all carefully stored. twice lost and twice found; twice sad and twice glad, and a good lesson learned. the burlington and missouri river railroad first began work at plattsmouth, on the missouri river, in , and reached lincoln july , . from lincoln it reaches out in six different lines. but this table will give a better idea of the great network of railroads under the b. & m. co.'s control. the several divisions and their mileage are as follows: pacific junction to kearney omaha line nebraska city to central city nebraska city to beatrice atchison to columbus crete to red cloud table rock to wymore hastings to culbertson denver extension kenesaw cut-off to oxford chester to hebron dewitt to west line odell to washington, kan. nemaha to salem the burlington and missouri river railroad, being a part of the c.b. & q. system, forms in connection with the latter road the famous "burlington route," known as the shortest and quickest line between chicago and denver, and being the only line under one management, tedious and unnecessary delays and transfers at the missouri river are entirely avoided. p. s. eustis of omaha, neb., who is very highly spoken of, stands at the head of the b. & m.r.r. as its worthy general passenger agent, while r. r. randall of lincoln, neb., immigration agent b. & m.r.r. co., of whom i have before spoken, will kindly and most honestly direct all who come to him seeking homes in the south platte country. his thorough knowledge of the western country and western life, having spent most of his years on the frontier, particularly qualifies him for this office. milford. "the saratoga of nebraska." so termed for its beautiful "big blue" river, which affords good boating and bathing facilities, its wealth of thick groves of large trees, and the "dripping spring," that drips and sparkles as it falls over a rock at the river bank. as before, mr. randall had prepared my way, and a carriage awaited me at the depot. i was conveyed to the home of mr. j. h. culver, where i took tea. mrs. culver is a daughter of milford's pioneer, mr. j. l. davison, who located at m. in , and built the first house. he built a mill in ' , and from the mill, and the fording of the river at this point by the mormons, indians, and emigrants, was derived the name for the town that afterward grew up about him. through the kindness of the davison family our stay at milford was made very pleasant. riding out in the evening to see the rich farming land of the valley, and in the morning a row on the river and ramble through the groves that have been a resting-place to so many weary travelers and a pleasure ground for many a picnic party. indeed, milford is the common resort for the lincoln pleasure parties. it is twenty miles due west of the capital, on the b. & m.r.r., which was built in . mr. davison told of how they had first located on salt creek, near where is now the city of lincoln, but was then only wild, unbroken prairies. finding the "big blue" was a better mill stream, he moved his stakes and drove them deep for a permanent home on its banks. he first built a log house, and soon a frame, hauling his lumber from plattsmouth. a saw-mill was soon built on the "blue," and lumber was plenty right at hand. the ford was abandoned for a bridge he built in ' , and to his flouring-mill came grain for a hundred miles away, as there was none other nearer than ashland. this being the principal crossing-place of the blue, all the vegetables they could raise were readily sold. mrs. culver told of selling thirty-five dollars' worth of vegetables from her little garden patch in one week, adding: "we children were competing to see who could make the most from our garden that week, and i came out only a few dollars ahead of the rest." mrs. d. told of how with the aid of a large dog, and armed with a broom, she had defended a neighbor's daughter from being carried away captive by a band of indians. the story of their pioneering days was very interesting, but space will not allow me to repeat it. in the morning i was taken through three very pretty groves. one lies high on a bluff, and is indeed a pretty spot, named "shady cliff." then winding down canyon seata, _little_ canyon, we crossed the river to the harbor, an island which is covered with large cottonwood, elm, hickory, and ash, and woven among the branches are many grapevines--one we measured being sixteen inches in circumference--while a cottonwood measured eighteen feet in circumference. surely it has been a harbor where many weary ones have cast anchor for a rest. another grove, the retreat, is even more thickly wooded and vined over, and we found its shade a very pleasant retreat on that bright sunny morning. but pleasanter still was the row of a mile down the river to the "sparkling springs." reader, go ask professor aughey about the rocks over which this spring flows. all i can tell you is, it looks like a great mass of dark clay into which had been stirred an equal quantity of shells of all sizes, but which had decayed and left only their impression on the hardened rock. the river is feet wide and has a rock bottom which makes it fine for bathing in, and the depth and volume of water is sufficient for the running of small steamers. school was first held in mr. davison's house in ' . the first church was erected by the congregational society in ' . first newspaper was established in ' , by j. h. culver, and gained a state reputation under the name of the "blue valley _record_." rev. h. a. french began the publication of the "_congregational news_" in ' . the "milford _ozone_" is the leading organ of the day, so named for the health-giving atmosphere that the milfordites enjoy. a post-office was established in ' , j. s. davison acting as postmaster. mail was received once a week from nebraska city, via camden. the mail was distributed from a dry goods box until in ' , j. h. culver was appointed postmaster, and a modern post-office was established. the old mill was destroyed by fire in ' , and is now replaced by a large stone and brick building costing $ , , and has a capacity of barrels per day. the population of milford is about . we cross the iron bridge that now spans the river to the east banks and take a view of the new town of east milford laid out on an eighty acre plot that borders on the river and gradually rises to the east. it is a private enterprise to establish a larger town on this particularly favored spot, where those who wish may have a home within easy reach of the capital and yet have all the beauty and advantage of a riverside home. i could scarcely resist the temptation to select a residence lot and make my home on the beautiful blue, the prettiest spot i have yet found in nebraska. chapter v. nebraska and her capital. nebraska is so named from the nebraska, or platte river. it is derived from the indian _ne_ (water) and _bras_ (shallow), and means shallow water. in extent it is miles from east to west, and to from north to south, and has an area of , square miles that lie between parallels ° and ° north latitude, and ° and ° west longitude. the omahas, pawnees, otoes, sioux, and other indian tribes were the original land-holders, and buffalo, elk, deer, and antelope the only herds that grazed from its great green pasture lands. but in , "uncle sam" thought the grassy desert worthy of some notice, and made it a territory, and in adopted it as the th state, and chose for its motto "_equality before the law_." the governors of nebraska territory were: francis burt, . t. b. cuming, - . mark w. izard, - . w. a. richardson, . j. s. morton, - . samuel w. black, - . alvin saunders, - . david butler, - . of the state-- david butler, - . william h. james, - . robert w. furnas, - . silas garber, - . albinus nance, - . james w. dawes, . allow me to quote from the _centennial gazetteer of united states_: "surface.--nebraska is a part of that vast plain which extends along the eastern base of the rocky mountains, and gently slopes down toward the missouri river. the surface is flat or gently undulating. there are no ranges or elevations in the state that might be termed mountains. the soil consists for the most part of a black and porous loam, which is slightly mixed with sand and lime. the streams now in deeply eroded valleys with broad alluvial flood grounds of the greatest fertility, which are generally well timbered with cottonwood, poplar, ash, and other deciduous trees. the uplands are undulating prairie. late surveys establish the fact that the aggregate area of the bottom lands is from , , to , , of acres. "the climate of nebraska is on the whole similar to that of other states of the great mississippi plains in the same latitude. the mean annual temperature varies from ° in the northern sections to ° in the most southern. but owing to greater elevation, the western part of the state is somewhat colder than the eastern. in winter the westerly winds sweeping down from the rocky mountains, often depress the thermometer to ° and sometimes ° below zero; while in the summer a temperature of ° and over is not unusual. in the southern tier of counties the mean temperature of the summer is - / °, and of winter, - / °. the greatest amount of rain and snow fall ( to inches) falls in the missouri valley, and thence westward the rainfall steadily decreases to inches near fort kearney, inches to the western counties, and inches in the south-western corner of the state. "population.--nebraska had in a population of , , and in , , . of these, , were natives of the united states, including , natives of the state. the foreign born population numbered , . "education.--nebraska has more organized schools, more school houses, and those of a superior character; more money invested in buildings, books, etc., than were ever had before in any state of the same age. the land endowed for the public schools embraces one-eighteenth of the entire area of the state-- , , acres." the school lands are sold at not less than seven dollars per acre, which will yield a fund of not less than $ , , , and are leased at from six to ten per cent interest on a valuation of $ . to $ per acre. the principal is invested in bonds, and held inviolate and undiminished while the interest and income alone is used. the state is in a most excellent financial condition, and is abundantly supplied with schools, churches, colleges, and the various charitable and reformatory institutions. every church is well represented in nebraska. the methodist stands first in numbers, while the presbyterian, baptist, and congregational are of about equal strength. the catholic church is fully represented. the united states census for shows that nebraska has the lowest percentage of illiteracy of any state in the union. iowa comes second. allow me to compare nebraska and pennsylvania: nebraska, . per cent cannot read, . per cent cannot write; pennsylvania, . per cent cannot read, . per cent cannot write. total population of nebraska, , ; pennsylvania, , , . geographically, nebraska is situated near the centre of the united states, and has an average altitude of , feet above the level of the sea, varying from , feet at the missouri river to , feet at the colorado state line. the climate of nebraska is noted for its salubrity, its wholesomeness, and healthfulness. the dryness of the air, particularly in the winter, is the redeeming feature of the low temperature that is sometimes very suddenly brought about by strong, cold winds, yet the average temperature of the winter of was but °, and of the summer °. i only wish to add that i have noticed that the western people in general have a much healthier and robust appearance than do eastern people. later statistics than the united states census of are not accessible for my present purpose, but the figures of that year--since which time there has been rapid developments--will speak volumes for the giant young state, the youngest but one in the union. the taxable values of nebraska in amounted to $ , , , an increase of nearly forty per cent in ten years, being but $ , , in . during the same time its population had increased from , to , , nearly four-fold. the present population of nebraska probably exceeds , , and its capacity for supporting population is beyond all limits as yet. with a population as dense as ohio, or seventy-five persons to the square mile, nebraska would contain , , souls. with as dense a population as massachusetts, or to the square mile, nebraska would have , , people. the grain product of nebraska had increased from , bushels in to , bushels in , an average increase of per cent per year. in there was raised in the state: wheat , , . corn , , . oats , , . mr. d. h. wheeler, secretary of the state board of agriculture, has prepared the following summary of all crop reports received by him up to nov. , : corn, yield per acre bushels. quality per cent. potatoes, irish bushels. quality per cent. potatoes, sweet bushels. quality per cent. hay, average tame and wild tons per a. quality per cent. sorghum, yield per acre gallons. grapes, yield and quality per cent. apples, yield and quality per cent. pears, yield and quality per cent. condition of orchards per cent. spring wheat threshed at date per cent. grade of spring wheat, no. . first frost, oct. . corn ready for market, dec. . in there were raised in the state , hogs, and in a total of , , an increase of nearly per cent. there are raised annually at the present time in nebraska over , cattle and , sheep. the high license liquor law was passed in nebraska in , requiring the paying of $ , for license to sell liquor in a town of , inhabitants or more, and $ elsewhere, all of which is thrown into the common school fund and must be paid before a drink is sold. liquor dealers and saloon keepers are responsible for all damages or harm done by or to those to whom they have sold liquor while under its influence. during my stay of almost three months in the state, i saw but seven intoxicated men and i looked sharp and counted every one who showed the least signs of having been drinking. there are but few hotels in the state that keep a bar. i did not learn of one. lincoln has , of a population and but twelve saloons. drinking is not popular in nebraska. i will add section of nebraska's laws on the rights of married women. "the property, real and personal, which any woman in this state may own at the time of her marriage, and the rents, issues, profits, or proceeds thereof, and any real, personal, or mixed property which shall come to her by descent, devise, or the gift of any person except her husband, or which she shall acquire by purchase or otherwise, shall remain her sole and separate property, notwithstanding her marriage, and shall not be subject to the disposal of her husband, or liable for his debts. "the property of the husband shall not be liable for any debt contracted by the wife before marriage." the overland pony express, which was the first regular mail transportation across the state, was started in and lasted two years. the distance from st. joseph, missouri, to san francisco was about , miles and was run in thirteen days. the principal stations were st. joseph and marysville, mo.; ft. kearney, neb.; laramie and ft. bridger, wy. t.; salt lake, utah; camp floyd and carson city, nev.; placerville, sacramento, and san francisco, cal. express messengers left once a week with ten pounds of matter; salary $ , per month; carriage on one-fourth ounce was five dollars in gold. but in the two years the company's loss was $ , . election news was carried from st. joseph, mo., to denver city, col., a distance of miles in sixty-nine hours. a telegraph line was erected in nebraska, ; now nebraska can boast of nearly , miles of railroad. i want to say that i find it is the truly energetic and enterprising people who come west. people who have the energy and enterprise that enable them to leave the old home and endure the privations of a new country for a few years that they may live much better in the "after while," than they could hope to do in the old home, and are a people of ambition and true worth. the first lesson taught to those who come west by those who have gone before and know what it is to be strangers in a strange land, is true kindness and hospitality, and but few fail to learn it well and profit by it, and are ready to teach it by precept and example to those who follow. it is the same lesson our dear great-grandfathers and mothers learned when they helped to fell the forests and make a grand good state out of "penn's woods." but their children's children are forgetting it. yet i find that pennsylvania has furnished nebraska with some of her best people. would it not be a good idea for the pennamites of nebraska to each year hold pennsylvania day, and every one who come from the dear old hills, meet and have a general hand-shaking and talk with old neighbors and friends. i know nebraska could not but be proud of her pennsylvanian children. lincoln. in an act was passed by the state legislature, then in session at omaha, appointing a commission consisting of gov. butler, secretary of state t. p. kennard, and auditor of state j. gillespie to select and locate a new capital out on the frontier. after some search the present _capital_ site was chosen--then a wild waste of grasses, where a few scattered settlers gathered at a log cabin to receive the mail that once a week was carried to them on horseback to the lancaster post-office of lancaster county. the site is miles west of the missouri river, and , feet above sea level, and on the "divide" between antelope and salt creeks. acres were platted into lots and broad streets, reserving ample ground for all necessary public buildings, and the new capital was named in honor of him for whom columbia yet mourned. previous to the founding of lincoln by the state, a methodist minister named young had selected a part of the land, and founded a paper town and called it lancaster. the plan adopted for the locating of the capital of the new state was as follows: the capital should be located upon lands belonging to the state, and the money derived from the sale of the lots should build all the state buildings and institutions. after the selection by the commission there was a slight rush for town lots, but not until the summer of ' was the new town placed under the auctioneer's hammer, which, however, was thrown down in disgust as the bidders were so few and timid. in , col. george b. skinner conducted a three days' sale of lots, and in that time sold lots to the amount of $ , . when he received his wages--$ --he remarked that he would not give his pay for the whole town site. the building boom commenced at once, and early in ' from to houses were built. the main part of the state house was begun in ' , but the first legislature did not meet at the new capitol until in january, ' . from the sale of odd numbered blocks a sufficient sum was realized to build the capitol building, costing $ , , the state university, $ , , and state insane asylum $ , , and pay all other expenses and had left lots unsold. the state penitentiary was built at a cost of $ , in . the post-office, a very imposing building, was erected by the national government at a cost of $ , , finished in ' . twenty acres were reserved for the b. & m. depot. it is ground well occupied. the depot is a large brick building Ã� and three stories high, with lunch room, ladies' and gents' waiting rooms nicely furnished, baggage room, and broad hall and stairway leading to the telegraph and land offices on the second and third floors. ten trains arrive and depart daily carrying an aggregate of , passengers. the u.p. has ample railway accommodations. all churches and benevolent societies that applied for reservation were given three lots each, subject to the approval of the legislature, which afterward confirmed the grant. a congregational church was organized in ; german methodist, ' ; methodist episcopal and roman catholic, ' ; presbyterian, episcopal, baptist, and christian, ' ; universalist, ' ; african methodist, ' , and colored baptist, ' . a number have since been added. the state journal co. on the th of aug., , the day following the announcement that lancaster was _the place_ for the capital site there appeared in the _nebraska city press_ a prospectus for the publication of a weekly newspaper in lincoln, to be called the _nebraska commonwealth_, c. h. gere, editor. but not until the latter part of nov. did it have an established office in the new city. in the spring of ' the _commonwealth_ was changed to the nebraska _state journal_. as a daily it was first issued on the th of july, ' , the day the b. & m.r.r. ran its first train into lincoln, and upset all the old stage coaches that had been the only means of transportation to the capital. in ' the state journal co. moved into their handsome and spacious new building on the corner of p and th streets. it is built of stone and brick, four stories high, feet on p and on th streets. the officers are c. h. gere, pres.; a. h. mendenhall, vice pres.; j. r. clark, sec., and h. d. hathaway, treas. the company employs to hands. beside the _journal_ are the _democrat_ and _news_, daily; the _nebraska farmer_, semi-monthly; the _capital_, weekly; the _hesperian student_, monthly, published by the students of the university, and the _staats anzeiger_, a german paper, issued weekly. on my return from milford, wednesday, i sought and found no. g street, just in time to again take tea with the keefer family, and spend the night with them, intending to go to fremont next day. but mrs. k. insisted that she would not allow me to slight the capital in that way, and to her i am indebted for much of my sight-seeing in and about lincoln. thursday afternoon we went to the penitentiary to see a little of convict life. but the very little i saw made me wonder why any one who had once suffered imprisonment would be guilty of a second lawless act. two negro convicts in striped uniforms were lounging on the steps ready to take charge of the carriages, for it was visitor's day. only good behaved prisoners, whose terms have almost expired, are allowed to step beyond the iron bars and stone walls. we were taken around through all the departments--the kitchen, tailor shop, and laundry, and where brooms, trunks, harnesses, corn-shellers, and much that i cannot mention, are made. then there was the foundry, blacksmith shop, and stone yard, where stones were being sawed and dressed ready for use at the capitol building. the long double row of cells are so built of stone and cement that when once the door of iron bars closes upon a prisoner he has no chance of exit. they are Ã� feet, and furnished with an iron bedstead, and one berth above; a stool, and a lap-board to write on. they are allowed to write letters every three weeks, but what they write is read before it is sent, and what they receive is read before it is given to them. there are prisoners, a number of whom are from wyoming. their meals are given them as they pass to their cells. they were at one time seated at a table and given their meals together, but a disturbance arose among them and they used the knives and forks for weapons to fight with. and they carried them off secretly to their cells, and one almost succeeded in cutting his way through the wall. only those who occupy the same cell can hold any conversation. never a word is allowed to be exchanged outside the cells with each other. thus silently, like a noiseless machine, with bowed heads, not even exchanging a word, and scarcely a glance, with their elbow neighbor, they work the long days through, from six o'clock until seven, year in and year out. on the fourth of july they are given two or three hours in which they can dance, sing, and talk to each other, a privilege they improve to the greatest extent, and a general hand-shaking and meeting with old neighbors is the result. sunday, at nine a.m., they are marched in close file to the chapel, where rev. howe, city missionary, formerly a missionary in brooklyn and new york, gives them an hour of good talk, telling them of christ and him crucified, and of future reward and punishment, but no sectarian doctrines. he assures me some find the pearl of great price even within prison walls. they have an organ in the chapel and a choir composed of their best singers, and it is not often we hear better. rev. howe's daughter often accompanies her father and sings for them. they are readily brought to tears by the singing of home, sweet home, and the dear old hymns. through mr. howe's kind invitation we enjoyed his services with them, and as we rapped for admittance behind the bars, the attendant said: "make haste, the boys are coming"; and the iron door was quickly locked after we entered. a prisoner brought us chairs, and we watched the long line of convicts marching in, the right hand on the shoulder of the one before them, and their striped cap in the left. they filed into the seats and every arm was folded. it made me sigh to see the boyish faces, but a shudder would creep over me when, here and there, i marked a number wearing the hoary locks of age. as i looked into their faces i could not but think of the many little children i have talked to in happy school days gone by, and my words came back to me: "now, children, remember i will never forget you, and i will always be watching to see what good men and women you make; great philanthropists, teachers, and workers in the good work, good ministers, noble doctors, lawyers that will mete out true justice, honest laborers, and who knows but that a future mr. or mrs. president sits before me on a school bench? never, never allow me to see your name in disgrace." and i hear a chorus of little voices answer: "i'll be good, teacher, i'll be good." but before me were men who, in their innocent days of childhood, had as freely and well-meaningly promised to be good. but the one grand thought brightened the dark picture before me: god's great loving-kindness and tender mercy--a god not only to condemn but to forgive. nine-tenths of the prisoners, i am told, are here through intemperance. oh, ye liquor dealers that deal out ruin with your rum by the cask or sparkling goblet! ye poor wretched drunkard, social drinker, or fashionable tippler! why cannot you be men, such as your creator intended you should be? i sometimes think god will punish the _cause_, while man calls the effect to account. for my part, i will reach out my hand to help raise the poorest drunkard from the ditch rather than to shake hands with the largest liquor dealer in the land, be he ever so good (?) good! he knows what he deals out, and that mingled with his ill-gotten gains is the taint of ruined souls, souls for which he will have to answer for before the great judge who never granted a license to sin, nor decided our guilt by a jury. mrs. k. had secured a pass to take us to the insane asylum, but we felt we had seen enough of sadness, and returned home. _friday._ about two p.m. the sky was suddenly darkened with angry looking clouds, and i watched them with interest as they grew more threatening and the thunder spoke in louder tones. i was not anxious to witness a cyclone, but if one _must_ come, i wanted to watch its coming, and see all i could of it. but the winds swept the clouds rapidly by, and in a couple of hours the streets were dry, and we drove out to see the only damage done, which was the partial wreck of a brick building that was being erected. reports came in of a heavy fall of hail a few miles west that had the destroyed corn crop in some places. this was the hardest storm seen during my stay in the state. [errata. page , last line but one, in place of "nebraska is visited" read "nebraska is _not_ visited." third line from bottom leave out the word "not" from commencement of line.] nebraska is not visited, as some suppose, with the terrible cyclones and wind storms that sweep over some parts of the west; nor have i experienced the constant wind that i was told of before i came; yet nebraska has more windy weather than does pennsylvania. the sun comes down with power, and when the day is calm, is very oppressive; but the cool evenings revive and invigorate all nature. _saturday_ we spent in seeing the city from center to suburb and drinking from the artesian well in the government square. the water has many medical properties, and is used as a general "cure-all." climbing the many steps to the belfry of the university, we had a fine view of the city, looking north, east, south, and west, far over housetops. many are fine buildings of stone and brick, and many beautiful residences with well kept lawns. the streets are and feet wide. sixteen feet on each side are appropriated for sidewalks, five of which, in all but the business streets, is the walk proper--built of stone, brick, or plank--and the remaining eleven feet are planted with shade trees, and are as nicely kept as the door yards. the streets running north and south are numbered from first to twenty-fifth street. those from east to west are lettered from a to w. saturday evening--a beautiful moonlight night--just such a night as makes one wish for a ride. who can blame me if i take one? a friend has been telling how travelers among the rockies have to climb the mountains on mountain mules or burros. my curiosity is aroused to know if when i reach the foot of pike's peak, i can ascend. it would be aggravating to go so far and not be able to reach the peak just because i couldn't ride on a donkey. so mrs. k. engaged gussie chapman, a neighbor's boy, to bring his burro over _after dark_. all saddled, fanny waits at the door, and i must go. good bye, reader, i'll tell you all about my trip when i get back--i'll telegraph you at the nearest station. don't be uneasy about me; i am told that burros never run off, and if fanny should throw me i have only three feet to fall. i wonder what her great ears are for--but a happy thought strikes me, and i hang my poke hat on one and start. one by one her feet are lifted, one by one she sets them down; step by step we leave the gatepost, and go creeping 'round to a convenient puddle, when fanny flops her ears, and lands my hat in the middle. well, you cannot expect me to write poetry and go at this rate of speed. my thoughts and the muses can't keep pace with the donkey. most time to telegraph back to my friends who waved me away so grandly. but, dear me, i have been so lost in my reverie on the lovely night, and thoughts of how i could now climb pike's peak--_if i ever reached the foot of the mountain_,--that i did not notice that fanny had crept round the mud puddle, and was back leaning against the gate-post. another start, and fanny's little master follows to whip her up; but she acts as though she wanted to slide me off over her ears, and i beg him to desist, and we will just creep. poor little brute, you were created to creep along the dangerous mountain passes with your slow, cautious tread, and i won't try to force you into a trot. well, i went up street and down street, and then gave my seat to hettie keefer. "what does it eat?" i asked. "oh, old shoes and rags, old tin cans, and just anything at all." i wish i could tell you all about this queer little mexican burro, but hettie is back, and it is time to say good night. in , kansas was so flooded with exodus negroes that nebraska was asked to provide for a few, and over one hundred were sent to lincoln. near mr. k.'s home, they have a little church painted a crushed strawberry color, and in the afternoon, our curiosity led us right in among these poor negroes so lately from the rice and cotton fields and cane brakes of the sunny south, to see and hear them in their worship. they call themselves baptist, but, ignorant of their church belief, requested the rev. mr. gee, then minister of the lincoln baptist church, to come and baptise their infants. i went supplied with a large fan to hide a smiling countenance behind, but had no use for it in that way. their utter ignorance, and yet so earnest in the very little they knew, drove all the smiles away, and i wore an expression of pity instead. the paint is all on the outside of the house, and the altar, stand and seats are of rough make up. the whole audience turned the whites of their eyes upon us as we took a seat near the door. soon a powerful son of africa arose and said: "bruddering, i havn't long to maintain ye, but if ye'll pray for me for about the short space of fifteen minutes, i'll try to talk to ye. and moses lifted up his rod in de wilderness, dat all dat looked upon dat rod might be healed. now in dose days dey had what they called sarpents, but in dese days we call dem snakes, and if any one was bit by a snake and would look on dat rod he would be healed of de snake bite." how earnestly he talk to his "chilens" for de short space of time, until he suddenly broke off and said with a broad grin: "now my time is up. brudder, will you pray?" and while the brudder knelt in prayer the audience remained seated, hid their faces in their hands, and with their elbows resting on their knees, swayed their bodies to a continual humumum, and kept time with their feet; the louder the prayer, the louder grew the hum until the prayer could not be heard. one little topsy sat just opposite us keeping time to the prayer by bobbing her bare heels up and down from a pair of old slippers much too large for her, showing the ragged edges of a heelless stocking, while she eyed "de white folks in de corner." after prayer came the singing, if such it may be called. the minister lined out a hymn from the only hymn book in the house, and as he ended the last word he began to sing in the same breath, and the rest followed. it did not matter whether it was long, short, or particular meter, they could drawl out one word long enough to make six if necessary, and skip any that was in the way. it was only a perfect mumble of loud voices that is beyond description, and must be heard to be appreciated. but the minister cut the singing short, by saying: "excuse de balance," which we were glad to do. i was very much afraid he was getting "love among the roses" mixed in with the hymn. while they sang, a number walked up to the little pine table and threw down their offering of pennies and nickels with as much pride and pomp as though they gave great sums, some making two trips. two men stood at the table and reached out each time a piece of money was put down to draw it into the pile; but with all their caution they could not hinder one girl from taking up, no doubt, more than she put down, and not satisfied with that, again walked up and quickly snatched a piece of money without even pretending to throw some down. the minister closed with a benediction, and then announced that "brudder alexander would exhort to ye to-night and preach de gospel pint forward; and if de lord am willin, i'll be here too." a number gathered around and gave us the right hand of fellowship with an invitation to come again, which we gladly accepted, and evening found us again in the back seat with pencil and paper to take notes. brudder alexander began with: "peace be unto dis house while i try to speak a little space of time, while i talks of brudder joshua. my text am de first chapter of joshua, and de tenth verse. 'then joshua commanded the officers of the people, saying,' now joshua was a great wrastler and a war-man, and he made de walls of jericho to fall by blowen on de horns. oh, chilens! and fellow-mates, neber forget de book of joshua. look-yah! simon peta was de first bishop of rome, but de lord had on old worn-out clothes, and was sot upon an oxen, and eat moldy bread. and look-a-yah! don't i member de time, and don't i magine it will be terrible when de angel will come wid a big horn, and he'll give a big blah on de horn, and den look out; de fire will come, and de smoke will descend into heaven, and de earth will open up its mouth and not count the cost of houses. and look-a-yah! i hear dem say, de rocky mountains will fall on ye. oh, bruddering and fellow-mates, i clar i heard dem say, if ye be a child of god, hold out and prove faithful, and ye'll receive the crown, muzzle down. now chilen, my time is expended." and with this we left them to enjoy their prayer meeting alone, while we came home, ready to look on the most ridiculous picture that can be drawn by our famous artist in blackville, and believe it to be a true representation. poor children, no wonder the "true blue" fought four long years to set you free from a life of bondage that kept you in such utter ignorance. monday morning i felt all the time i had for lincoln had been "expended," and i bade my kind friends of the capital good-bye. chapter vi. home again from lincoln, nebraska, to indiana county pennsylvania. the kinzua bridge and niagara falls.--the conclusion. left lincoln monday morning, july , on the u.p.r.r. for fremont. passed fields of corn almost destroyed by the hail storm of last friday. it is sad to see some of the farmers cultivating the stubble of what but a few days ago was promising fields of corn. we followed the storm belt until near wahoo, where we again looked on fine fields. at valley, a small town, we changed cars and had a tiresome wait of a couple of hours. i was surprised to see a town in nebraska that seemed to be on the stand-still, but was told that it was too near omaha and fremont. a short ride from valley brought us to fremont. the first person i saw at the depot was mrs. euber, one of the colonists. before she had recognized me, i put my arm about her and said: "did you come to meet me, mrs. euber?" "why, sims, is this you! i thought you had gone back east long ago." after promising to spend my time with her, i went to speak to mr. reynolds, to whom i had written that i expected to be in fremont the previous week. "well," he said, "you have a great sin to answer for; when i received your card, i ordered a big bill of groceries, and mrs. reynolds had a great lot of good things prepared for your entertainment; and when you didn't come, i almost killed myself eating them up." sorry i had missed such a treat; and caused so much misery. i left him, promising to call for any he might have left, which i did, and i found he had not eaten them all--which quite relieved my guiltiness. i called on mrs. n. turner, one of fremont's earliest settlers, from whom i learned much of the early history of the country. she said as she shook my hand at parting: "i sincerely hope you will have a safe journey home, and find your dear mother well!" "thank you," i replied, "you could not have wished me any thing better." nothing can be more pleasant to me than to thus snatch acquaintances here and there, and though 'tis but a very short time we meet, yet i reap many good impressions, and many pleasing memories are stored away for future reference, in quiet hours. left fremont wednesday noon, july , with aching temples; but the thought that i was really going home at last, soon relieved my indisposition, and i was ready to write as i went; eastward bound, over level country of good pasture and hay lands. land, that, when we passed over the th april was void of a green spear; trees that then swayed their budding branches in the winds, now toss their leafy boughs. said good-bye to the winding elkhorn river, a little way east of fremont. wild roses and morning glories brighten the way. why! here we are at blair; but i have told of blair before, so will go on to the missouri river. and as we cross over i stand on the platform of the rear car where i can see the spray, and as i look down into the dark water and watch the furrow the boat leaves in the waves, i wonder where are all those that crossed over with me to the land i have just left. some have returned, but the majority have scattered over the plains of northwestern nebraska. i was aroused from my sad reverie by an aged gentleman who stood in the door, asking: "why, is this the way we cross the river? my! how strong the water must be to bear us up! oh, dear! be careful, sis, or you might fall off when the boat jars against the shore." "i am holding tight," i replied, "and if i do i will fall right in the boat or skiff swung at the stern." i did not then know that to fall into the missouri river is almost sure death, as the sand that is mixed with the water soon fills the clothing, and carries one to bottom--but we landed without a jar or jolt and leave the muddy waves for the sandy shores of iowa. reader, i wish i could tell you all about my home going--of my visit at marshalltown, iowa, with the pontious family--dear old friends of my grand-parents; at oswego, ill., with an uncle; at tiffin and mansfield, ohio, with more friends, and all i heard and saw along the way. allow me to skip along and only sketch the way here and there. july , : p.m. "will you tell me, please, when we cross the pennsylvania state line?" i asked of the conductor. "why, we crossed the line ten miles back." and i just put my hand out of the window and shake hands with the dear old state and throw a kiss to the hills and valleys, and that rocky bank covered with flowering vines. i thought there was an air of home in the breezes. the sun was going down, and shadows growing long when we stopped at meadville, and while others took supper i walked to the rear of the depot to the spot where our party had snow-balled only three months ago. the snow has melted, the merry party widely separated, and alone i gather leaves that then were only buds, and think. ah! their bright expectations were all in the bud then. have they unfolded into leaves as bright as these i gather? well, i am glad to pat the soil of my native state, and call it dear old "pa." but could my parents go with me i feel i would like to return again to nebraska, for though i could never love it as i always shall the "keystone," yet i have already learned to very highly respect and esteem nebraska for its worth as a state, and for the kind, intelligent people it holds within its arms. as i take my seat in the car, a young, well-dressed boy sits near me in a quiet state of intoxication. well, i am really ashamed! to think i have seen two drunken men to-day and only seven during my three months' stay in nebraska. so much good for the high license law. if you cannot have prohibition, have the next best thing, and drowned out all the little groggeries and make those who _will_ have it, pay the highest price. poor boy! you had better go to nebraska and take a homestead. "old sol" has just hid his face behind the dear old hills and it is too dark to see, so i sing to myself. my "fellow mates" hear the hum and wonder what makes me so happy. they don't know i am going home, do they? "salamanaca! change cars for bradford," and soon i am speeding on to b. over the r. & p. road. two young men and myself are the sole occupants of the car. "where do you stop when you go to b.?" one asks of the other. "at the ---- (naming one of the best hotels) generally, but they starve a fellow there. in fact, they do at all the hotels; none of them any good." "well, that's just my plain opinion," no. answers, and i cuddle down to sleep, fully assured that i am really near bradford, where everything is "no good," and "just too horrid for anything." suppose those young dandies are "oil princes"--"coal oil johnnies," you know--and can smash a hotel just for the amusement, but can't pay for their fun. when i arrived at bradford the young men watched me tug at my satchels as i got off, all alone, in the darkness of the midnight hour. i knew my brother would not be expecting me, and had made up my mind to take the street cars and go to the st. james. but no street cars were in waiting and only one carriage. "go to the ----, lady?" "no, i don't know that house," i replied; and giving my satchels in the ticket agent's care, i started out in the darkness, across the bridge, past dark streets and alleys, straight up main street, past open saloons and billiard halls, but not a policeman in sight. so i kept an eye looking out on each side while i walked straight ahead with as firm and measured tread as though i commanded a regiment of soldiers, and i guess the clerk at the st. james thought i did, for he gave me an elegant suite of rooms with three beds. i gave two of them to my imaginary guards, and knelt at the other to thank the dear father that he had brought me safely so near home. "how much for my lodging?" i asked, in the morning. "seventy-five cents." i almost choked as i repeated, "seventy-five cents! won't you please take fifty?" "why?" "because it is all the money i have, except a nickel." "i suppose it will have to do," he said, and i jingled my fifty cents on the counter as loudly as though it was a whole dollar, but could not help laughing heartily at the low ebb of my finances. the several little extras i had met with had taken about all. i then went to find brother charlie's boarding-place and surprised him at the breakfast table. august st, charley and i visited rock city, or rather, the city of rocks, just across the new york line. houses of rock they are in size, but are only inhabited by sight-seers. i wish i could describe them to you, reader. all i know is, they are conglomerate rocks, made up of snowy white pebbles from the size of a pea to a hickory nut, that glisten in the sunlight, making the rocks a crystal palace. as i dig and try to dislodge the brightest from its bed of hardened sand, i wonder how god made the cement that holds them so firmly in place, and how and why he brought these rocks to the surface just here and nowhere else. down, around, and under the rocks we climbed, getting lost in the great crevices, and trying to carve our names on the walls with the many that are chiseled there, but only succeeded in making "our mark." they are one of the beautiful, wonderful things that are beyond description. friday, august , i left on the rochester & pittsburgh r.r. for dubois. took a last look at main street with its busy throng, and then out among the grand old hills that tower round with their forests of trees and derricks, winding round past degoliar, custer city, howard junction, and crossing east branch of "tuna" creek. everything is dumped down in wild confusion here--mountains and valleys, hills and hollows, houses and shanties, tanks and derricks, rocks and stones, trees, bushes, flowers, logs, stumps, brush, and little brooks fringed with bright bergamot flowers which cast their crimson over the waters and lade the air with their perfume. on we go past lots of stations, but there are not many houses after we get fairly out of the land of derricks. through cuts and over tressels and fills--but now we are miles from b., and going slowly over the great kinzua bridge, which is the highest railway bridge in the world. it is , feet from abutment to abutment, and the height of rail above the bed of the creek is feet. kinzua creek is only a little stream that looks like a thread of silver in the great valley of hemlock forest. will mother earth ever again produce such a grand forest for her children? well, for once i feel quite high up in the world. even ex-president grant, with all the honors that were heaped upon him while he "swung around the circle," never felt so elevated as he did when he came to see this bridge, and exclaimed while crossing it, "judas priest, how high up we are!" it is well worth coming far to cross this bridge. i do not experience the fear i expected i would. the bridge is built wide, with foot walks at either side, and the cars run very slow. one hotel and a couple of little houses are all that can be seen excepting trees. i do hope the woodman will spare this great valley--its noble trees untouched--and allow it to forever remain as one of pennsylvania's grandest forest pictures. reader, i wish i could tell you of the great, broad, beautiful mountains of pennsylvania that lift their rounded tops , to , feet above sea level. but as the plains of nebraska are beyond description, so are the mountains. j. r. buchanan says: "no one can appreciate god until he has trod the plains and stood upon the mountain peaks." to see and learn of these great natural features of our land but enlarges our love for the great creator, who alone could spread out the plains and rear the mountains, and enrich them with just what his children need. to wind around among and climb the broad, rugged mountains of pennsylvania is to be constantly changing views of the most picturesque scenery of all the states of the union. arrived at dubois p.m. this road has only been in use since in june, and the people gather round as though it was yet a novelty to see the trains come in. i manage to land safely with all my luggage in hand, and make my way through the crowd to dr. smathers'. there stood francis watching the darkies pass on their way to camp meeting; but when he recognized this darkey, he danced a jig around me, and ran on before to tell mamma "auntie pet" had come. i could not wait until i reached the "wee margaretta" to call to her, and then came sister maggie, and were not we glad? and, oh! how thankful for all this mercy! and the new moon looked down upon us, and looked glad too. these were glad, happy days, but i was not yet home. father and norval came in a few days. norval to go with charley to nebraska, and father to take his daughter home. "well, frank, you look just like the same girl after all your wandering," father said, as he wiped his eyes after the first greeting: "yes, nothing seems to change pet, only she is much healthier looking than when she went away," maggie said. august . father and i started early for a forty mile drive home, through farming and timber country. about one-third is cleared land, the rest is woods, stumps, and stones. at noon "colonel" was fed, and we sat down under pine trees and took our lunch of dried buffalo meat from the west, peaches from the south, and apples from home. well, i thought, that is just the way this world gets mixed up. it takes a mixture to make a good dinner, and a mixture to make a good world. while going through punxsutawney (gnat-town), i read the sign over a shed, "farming implements." i looked, and saw one wagon, a plow, and something else, i guess it was a stump puller. i could not help comparing the great stock of farming implements seen in every little western town. along big mahoning creek, over good and bad roads, up hill and down we go, until we cross little mahoning--bless its bright waters!--and once more i look upon smicksburg, my own native town--the snuggest, dearest little town i ever did see! and surrounded by the prettiest hills. if i wasn't so tired, i'd make a bow to every hill and everybody. two miles farther on, up a long hill, and just as the sun sends its last rays aslant through the orchard, we halt at the gate of "centre plateau," and as i am much younger than father, i get out and swing wide the gate. it is good to hear the old gate creak a "welcome home" on its rusty hinges once more, and while father drives down the lane i slip through a hole in the fence, where the rails are crooked, and chase rosy up from her snug fence corner; said "how do you do," to goody and her calf, and start prim into a trot; and didn't we all run across the meadow to the gate, where my dear mother stood waiting for me. "mother, dear, your daughter is safe home at last," i said, "and won't leave you soon again!" poor mother was too glad to say much. i skipped along the path into the house, and hattie (charlie's wife) and i made such a fuss that we frightened emma and harry into a cry. i carried the milk to the spring-house for mother, and while she strains it away, i tell her all about uncle john's and the rest of the friends. come, reader, and sit down with me, and have a slice of my dear mother's bread and butter, and have some cream for your blackberries, and now let's eat. i've been hungry so long for a meal at home. and how good to go to my own little room, and thank god for this home coming at my own bedside, and then lay me down to sleep. then there were uncles, aunts, and cousins to visit and friends to see and tell all about my trip, and how i liked the west. then "colonel" was hitched up, and we children put off for a twenty mile ride to visit brother will's. first came sister lizzie to greet us, then dear may, shy little frantie, and squealing, kicking charlie boy was kissed--but where is will? "out at the oats field?" "come, may, take me to your papa; i can't wait until supper time to see him." together we climb the hill, then through the woods to the back field. leaving may to pick huckleberries and fight the "skeeters," i go through the stubble. stones are plenty, and i throw one at him. down goes the cradle and up goes his hat, with "three cheers for sister!" as we trudge down the hill, i said: "let's go west, will, where you have no hills to climb, and can do your farming with so much less labor. why, i didn't see a cradle nor a scythe while i was in nebraska. surely, it is the farmer's own state." "well, i would like to go if father and mother could go too, but i will endure the extra work here for the sake of being near them. if they could go along i would like to try life in the west." home again, and i must get to my writing, for i want to have my book out by the last of september. i had just got nicely interested, when mother puts her head in at the door, and says, with such a disappointed look: "oh! are you at your writing? i wanted you to help me pick some huckleberries for supper." now, who wouldn't go with a dear, good mother? the writing is put aside, and we go down the lane to the dear old woods, and the huckleberries are gathered. seated again-- "frank," father says, "i guess you will have to be my chore boy while norval is away. come, i'd like you to turn the grindstone for me while i make a corn cutter." now, who wouldn't turn a grindstone for a dear, good father? there stood father with a broken "sword of bunker hill" in his hand that he found on the battle field of bunker hill, in virginia. "now, father, if you are sure that was a rebel sword, i'll willingly turn until it is all ground up; but if it is a union sword, why then, "hang the old sword in its place," and sharpen up your old corn cutters, and don't let's turn swords into plowshares now even though it be a time of peace." i lock the door and again take up my pen. "rattle, rattle at the latch," and "oo witing, aunt pet? baby and emma wants to kiss aunt pet!" comes in baby voice through the key-hole. the key is quickly turned, and my little golden-haired "niece" and "lover" invade my sanctum sanctorum, and for a time i am a perfect martyr to kisses on the cheeks, mouth, and, as a last resort for an excuse, my little lover puts up his lips for a kiss "on oo nose." now, who wouldn't be a martyr to kisses--i mean baby kisses? thus my time went until the grapes and peaches were ripe, and then came the apples--golden apples, rosy-cheeked apples, and the russet brown. and didn't we children help to eat, gather, store away, and dry until i finished the drying in a hurry by setting fire to the dry house. the cold days came before i got rightly settled down to write again, and although cold blows the wind and the snow is piling high, while the thermometer says ° below, yet all i have to do is to take up a cracked slate and write. but i write right over the crack now until the slate is filled, and then it is copied off; i write i live the days all over again; eating mrs. skirving's good things, riding behind oxen and mules, crossing the niobrara, viewing the keya paha, standing on stone butte, walking the streets of valentine, and even yet i feel as though i was running the gauntlet, while the cowboys line the walks. government mules are running off with me, now i am enjoying the "pilgrim's retreat," and i go on until i have all told and every day lived over again in fond memory. and through it i learn a lesson of faith and trust. so i wrote away until february , when i again left my dear home for the west, to have my book published. went via dubois and bradford. left bradford march , for buffalo, on the r. & p.r.r. the country along this road presents a wild picture, but i fear it would be a dreary winter scene were i to attempt to paint it, for snow drifts are yet piled high along the fence corners. at buffalo i took the michigan central r.r. for chicago. i catch a glimpse of lake erie as we leave buffalo, and then we follow niagara river north to the falls. reader, i will do the best i can to tell you of my car-window view of niagara. we approach the falls from the south, and cross the new suspension bridge, about two miles north of the falls. just below the bridge we see the whirlpool, where capt. webb, in his reckless daring, lost his life. the river here is only about feet wide, but the water is over feet deep. the banks of the river are almost perpendicular, and about feet from top to the water's edge. looking up the river, we can catch only a glimpse of the falls, as the day is very dull, and it is snowing quite hard; but enough is seen to make it a grand picture. across the bridge, and we are slowly rolling over the queen's soil. directly south we go, following close to the river. when we are opposite the falls the train is stopped for a few minutes, while we all look and look again. had the weather been favorable, i would have been tempted to stop and see all that is to be seen. but i expect to return this way at a more favorable time, and shall not then pass this grand picture so quickly by. the spray rises high above the falls, and if the day was clear, i am told a rainbow could be seen arching through the mist. the banks of the river above the falls are low, and we can look over a broad sheet of blue water. but after it rushes over the falls it is lost to our view. i wish i could tell you more, and tell it better, but no pen can do justice to niagara falls. i was rather astonished at canada. why, i did not see more prairie or leveler land in the west than i did in passing through canada. the soil is dark red clay, and the land low and swampy. a little snow was to be seen along the way, but not as much as in new york; the country does not look very thrifty; poor houses and neglected farms; here and there are stretches of forest. crossed the detroit river on a boat as we did the missouri, but it is dark and i can only see the reflection of the electric light on the water as we cross to the michigan shore. the night is dark and i sleep all i can. i did not get to see much of michigan as we reached chicago at eight, friday morning. but there was a friend there to meet me with whom i spent five days in seeing a little mite of the great city. sunday, i attended some of the principal churches and was surprised at the quiet dress of the people generally and also to hear every one join in singing the good old tunes, and how nice it was; also a mission sunday-school in one of the bad parts of the city, where children are gathered from hovels of vice and sin by a few earnest christian people who delight in gathering up the little ones while they are easily influenced. well, i thought, chicago is not all wicked and bad. it has its philanthropists and earnest christian workers, who are doing noble work. monday, lincoln park was visited, and how i did enjoy its pleasant walks on that bright day, and throwing pebbles into lake michigan. tuesday, went to see the panorama of the battle of gettysburg. there now, don't ask me anything about it, only if you are in chicago while it is on exhibition, go to corner wabash avenue and hubbard court, pay your fifty cents and look for yourself. i was completely lost when i looked around, and felt that i had just woke up among the hills of pennsylvania. but painted among the beautiful hills was one of the saddest sights eyes ever looked upon. the picture was life size and only needed the boom of the artillery and the groans of the dying to give it life. wednesday morning brother charles came with a party of twenty, bound for the platte valley, nebraska, but i could not go with them as they went over the c. & n.w.r.r., and as i had been over that road, i wished to go over the c.b. & q.r.r. for a change; so we met only to separate. i left on the . , wednesday, and for a way traveled over the same road that i have before described. there is not much to tell of prairie land in the early spring time and i am too tired to write. we crossed the mississippi river at burlington, miles from chicago, but it is night and we are deprived of seeing what would be an interesting view. indeed it is little we see of iowa, "beautiful land," as so much of it is passed over in the night. miles from chicago, we cross the missouri river at plattsmouth. miles farther brings us to lincoln, arriving there at m. march . i surprised deacon keefer's again just at tea-time. mother keefer received me with open arms, and my welcome was most cordial from all, and i was invited to make my home with them during my stay in lincoln. my next work was to see about the printing of my book. i met mr. hathaway, of the state journal co., and found their work and terms satisfactory, and on the morning of the th of april, just one year from the day our colony left bradford and the work of writing my book began, i made an agreement with the journal company for the printing of it. i truly felt that with all its pleasures, it had been a year of hard labor. how often when i was busy plying the pen with all heart in the work, kind friends who wished me well would come to me with words of discouragement and ask me to lay aside my pen, saying: "i do not see how you are to manage about its publication, and all the labor it involves." "i do not know myself, but i have faith that if i do the work cheerfully, and to the best of my ability, and 'bearing well my burden in the heat of the day,' that the dear lord who cared for me all through my wanderings while gathering material for this work, and put it into the hearts of so many to befriend me, will not forsake me at the last." "did he forsake me," do you ask? "no, not for one moment." when asked for the name of some one in lincoln as security, i went to one of my good friends who put their name down without hesitation. "what security do you want of me?" i asked. "nothing, only do the best you can with your book." "the dear lord put it into your heart to do this in answer to my many prayers that when the way was dark, and my task heavy, helping hands would be reached out to me." "why god bless you, little girl! the lord will carry you through, so keep up brave heart, and do not be discouraged." i would like to tell you the name of this good friend, but suffice it to say he is one whom, when but a lad, abraham lincoln took into his confidence, and by example taught him many a lesson of big-heartedness such as only abraham lincoln could teach. _friday, may th._ i went to wymore to pay my last visit to my dear aunt, fearing that i would not find her there. but the dear father spared her life and she was able to put her arms about me and welcome me with: "the lord is very good to bring you to me in time. i was afraid you would come too late." sunday her spirit went down to the water's edge and she saw the lights upon the other shore and said: "what a beautiful light! oh! if i had my will i would cross over just now." but life lingered and i left her on monday. wednesday brought me this message: "mother has just fallen asleep." with this shadow of sorrow upon me i went to milford that day to begin my maying of ' with a row on the river and a sun-set view on the blue. "is there a touch lacking or a color wanting?" i asked, as i looked up to the western sky at the beautiful picture, and down upon the mirror of waters, and saw its reflection in its depth. the th of may dawned bright and beautiful; not a cloud flecked the sky all the livelong day. we gathered the violets so blue and the leaves so green of shady cliff and the retreat, talking busily of other may-days, and thinking of the loved ones at home who were keeping my may-day in the old familiar places. then back to lincoln carrying bright trophies of our maying at milford, and just at the close of day, when evening breathes her benediction, friends gathered round while two voices repeated: "with this ring i thee wed. by this token i promise to love and cherish." and now reader, hoping that i may some day meet you in _my_ "diary of a minister's wife," i bid you good-bye. [illustration: fremont, elkhorn and missouri valley r.r. and connections, to the free homes for the million.] one of ours by willa cather book one: on lovely creek i. claude wheeler opened his eyes before the sun was up and vigorously shook his younger brother, who lay in the other half of the same bed. "ralph, ralph, get awake! come down and help me wash the car." "what for?" "why, aren't we going to the circus today?" "car's all right. let me alone." the boy turned over and pulled the sheet up to his face, to shut out the light which was beginning to come through the curtainless windows. claude rose and dressed,--a simple operation which took very little time. he crept down two flights of stairs, feeling his way in the dusk, his red hair standing up in peaks, like a cock's comb. he went through the kitchen into the adjoining washroom, which held two porcelain stands with running water. everybody had washed before going to bed, apparently, and the bowls were ringed with a dark sediment which the hard, alkaline water had not dissolved. shutting the door on this disorder, he turned back to the kitchen, took mahailey's tin basin, doused his face and head in cold water, and began to plaster down his wet hair. old mahailey herself came in from the yard, with her apron full of corn-cobs to start a fire in the kitchen stove. she smiled at him in the foolish fond way she often had with him when they were alone. "what air you gittin' up for a-ready, boy? you goin' to the circus before breakfast? don't you make no noise, else you'll have 'em all down here before i git my fire a-goin'." "all right, mahailey." claude caught up his cap and ran out of doors, down the hillside toward the barn. the sun popped up over the edge of the prairie like a broad, smiling face; the light poured across the close-cropped august pastures and the hilly, timbered windings of lovely creek, a clear little stream with a sand bottom, that curled and twisted playfully about through the south section of the big wheeler ranch. it was a fine day to go to the circus at frankfort, a fine day to do anything; the sort of day that must, somehow, turn out well. claude backed the little ford car out of its shed, ran it up to the horse-tank, and began to throw water on the mud-crusted wheels and windshield. while he was at work the two hired men, dan and jerry, came shambling down the hill to feed the stock. jerry was grumbling and swearing about something, but claude wrung out his wet rags and, beyond a nod, paid no attention to them. somehow his father always managed to have the roughest and dirtiest hired men in the country working for him. claude had a grievance against jerry just now, because of his treatment of one of the horses. molly was a faithful old mare, the mother of many colts; claude and his younger brother had learned to ride on her. this man jerry, taking her out to work one morning, let her step on a board with a nail sticking up in it. he pulled the nail out of her foot, said nothing to anybody, and drove her to the cultivator all day. now she had been standing in her stall for weeks, patiently suffering, her body wretchedly thin, and her leg swollen until it looked like an elephant's. she would have to stand there, the veterinary said, until her hoof came off and she grew a new one, and she would always be stiff. jerry had not been discharged, and he exhibited the poor animal as if she were a credit to him. mahailey came out on the hilltop and rang the breakfast bell. after the hired men went up to the house, claude slipped into the barn to see that molly had got her share of oats. she was eating quietly, her head hanging, and her scaly, dead-looking foot lifted just a little from the ground. when he stroked her neck and talked to her she stopped grinding and gazed at him mournfully. she knew him, and wrinkled her nose and drew her upper lip back from her worn teeth, to show that she liked being petted. she let him touch her foot and examine her leg. when claude reached the kitchen, his mother was sitting at one end of the breakfast table, pouring weak coffee, his brother and dan and jerry were in their chairs, and mahailey was baking griddle cakes at the stove. a moment later mr. wheeler came down the enclosed stairway and walked the length of the table to his own place. he was a very large man, taller and broader than any of his neighbours. he seldom wore a coat in summer, and his rumpled shirt bulged out carelessly over the belt of his trousers. his florid face was clean shaven, likely to be a trifle tobacco-stained about the mouth, and it was conspicuous both for good-nature and coarse humour, and for an imperturbable physical composure. nobody in the county had ever seen nat wheeler flustered about anything, and nobody had ever heard him speak with complete seriousness. he kept up his easy-going, jocular affability even with his own family. as soon as he was seated, mr. wheeler reached for the two-pint sugar bowl and began to pour sugar into his coffee. ralph asked him if he were going to the circus. mr. wheeler winked. "i shouldn't wonder if i happened in town sometime before the elephants get away." he spoke very deliberately, with a state-of-maine drawl, and his voice was smooth and agreeable. "you boys better start in early, though. you can take the wagon and the mules, and load in the cowhides. the butcher has agreed to take them." claude put down his knife. "can't we have the car? i've washed it on purpose." "and what about dan and jerry? they want to see the circus just as much as you do, and i want the hides should go in; they're bringing a good price now. i don't mind about your washing the car; mud preserves the paint, they say, but it'll be all right this time, claude." the hired men haw-hawed and ralph giggled. claude's freckled face got very red. the pancake grew stiff and heavy in his mouth and was hard to swallow. his father knew he hated to drive the mules to town, and knew how he hated to go anywhere with dan and jerry. as for the hides, they were the skins of four steers that had perished in the blizzard last winter through the wanton carelessness of these same hired men, and the price they would bring would not half pay for the time his father had spent in stripping and curing them. they had lain in a shed loft all summer, and the wagon had been to town a dozen times. but today, when he wanted to go to frankfort clean and care-free, he must take these stinking hides and two coarse-mouthed men, and drive a pair of mules that always brayed and balked and behaved ridiculously in a crowd. probably his father had looked out of the window and seen him washing the car, and had put this up on him while he dressed. it was like his father's idea of a joke. mrs. wheeler looked at claude sympathetically, feeling that he was disappointed. perhaps she, too, suspected a joke. she had learned that humour might wear almost any guise. when claude started for the barn after breakfast, she came running down the path, calling to him faintly,--hurrying always made her short of breath. overtaking him, she looked up with solicitude, shading her eyes with her delicately formed hand. "if you want i should do up your linen coat, claude, i can iron it while you're hitching," she said wistfully. claude stood kicking at a bunch of mottled feathers that had once been a young chicken. his shoulders were drawn high, his mother saw, and his figure suggested energy and determined self-control. "you needn't mind, mother." he spoke rapidly, muttering his words. "i'd better wear my old clothes if i have to take the hides. they're greasy, and in the sun they'll smell worse than fertilizer." "the men can handle the hides, i should think. wouldn't you feel better in town to be dressed?" she was still blinking up at him. "don't bother about it. put me out a clean coloured shirt, if you want to. that's all right." he turned toward the barn, and his mother went slowly back the path up to the house. she was so plucky and so stooped, his dear mother! he guessed if she could stand having these men about, could cook and wash for them, he could drive them to town! half an hour after the wagon left, nat wheeler put on an alpaca coat and went off in the rattling buckboard in which, though he kept two automobiles, he still drove about the country. he said nothing to his wife; it was her business to guess whether or not he would be home for dinner. she and mahailey could have a good time scrubbing and sweeping all day, with no men around to bother them. there were few days in the year when wheeler did not drive off somewhere; to an auction sale, or a political convention, or a meeting of the farmers' telephone directors;--to see how his neighbours were getting on with their work, if there was nothing else to look after. he preferred his buckboard to a car because it was light, went easily over heavy or rough roads, and was so rickety that he never felt he must suggest his wife's accompanying him. besides he could see the country better when he didn't have to keep his mind on the road. he had come to this part of nebraska when the indians and the buffalo were still about, remembered the grasshopper year and the big cyclone, had watched the farms emerge one by one from the great rolling page where once only the wind wrote its story. he had encouraged new settlers to take up homesteads, urged on courtships, lent young fellows the money to marry on, seen families grow and prosper; until he felt a little as if all this were his own enterprise. the changes, not only those the years made, but those the seasons made, were interesting to him. people recognized nat wheeler and his cart a mile away. he sat massive and comfortable, weighing down one end of the slanting seat, his driving hand lying on his knee. even his german neighbours, the yoeders, who hated to stop work for a quarter of an hour on any account, were glad to see him coming. the merchants in the little towns about the county missed him if he didn't drop in once a week or so. he was active in politics; never ran for an office himself, but often took up the cause of a friend and conducted his campaign for him. the french saying, "joy of the street, sorrow of the home," was exemplified in mr. wheeler, though not at all in the french way. his own affairs were of secondary importance to him. in the early days he had homesteaded and bought and leased enough land to make him rich. now he had only to rent it out to good farmers who liked to work--he didn't, and of that he made no secret. when he was at home, he usually sat upstairs in the living room, reading newspapers. he subscribed for a dozen or more--the list included a weekly devoted to scandal--and he was well informed about what was going on in the world. he had magnificent health, and illness in himself or in other people struck him as humorous. to be sure, he never suffered from anything more perplexing than toothache or boils, or an occasional bilious attack. wheeler gave liberally to churches and charities, was always ready to lend money or machinery to a neighbour who was short of anything. he liked to tease and shock diffident people, and had an inexhaustible supply of funny stories. everybody marveled that he got on so well with his oldest son, bayliss wheeler. not that bayliss was exactly diffident, but he was a narrow gauge fellow, the sort of prudent young man one wouldn't expect nat wheeler to like. bayliss had a farm implement business in frankfort, and though he was still under thirty he had made a very considerable financial success. perhaps wheeler was proud of his son's business acumen. at any rate, he drove to town to see bayliss several times a week, went to sales and stock exhibits with him, and sat about his store for hours at a stretch, joking with the farmers who came in. wheeler had been a heavy drinker in his day, and was still a heavy feeder. bayliss was thin and dyspeptic, and a virulent prohibitionist; he would have liked to regulate everybody's diet by his own feeble constitution. even mrs. wheeler, who took the men god had apportioned her for granted, wondered how bayliss and his father could go off to conventions together and have a good time, since their ideas of what made a good time were so different. once every few years, mr. wheeler bought a new suit and a dozen stiff shirts and went back to maine to visit his brothers and sisters, who were very quiet, conventional people. but he was always glad to get home to his old clothes, his big farm, his buckboard, and bayliss. mrs. wheeler had come out from vermont to be principal of the high school, when frankfort was a frontier town and nat wheeler was a prosperous bachelor. he must have fancied her for the same reason he liked his son bayliss, because she was so different. there was this to be said for nat wheeler, that he liked every sort of human creature; he liked good people and honest people, and he liked rascals and hypocrites almost to the point of loving them. if he heard that a neighbour had played a sharp trick or done something particularly mean, he was sure to drive over to see the man at once, as if he hadn't hitherto appreciated him. there was a large, loafing dignity about claude's father. he liked to provoke others to uncouth laughter, but he never laughed immoderately himself. in telling stories about him, people often tried to imitate his smooth, senatorial voice, robust but never loud. even when he was hilariously delighted by anything,--as when poor mahailey, undressing in the dark on a summer night, sat down on the sticky fly-paper,--he was not boisterous. he was a jolly, easy-going father, indeed, for a boy who was not thin-skinned. ii claude and his mules rattled into frankfort just as the calliope went screaming down main street at the head of the circus parade. getting rid of his disagreeable freight and his uncongenial companions as soon as possible, he elbowed his way along the crowded sidewalk, looking for some of the neighbour boys. mr. wheeler was standing on the farmer's bank corner, towering a head above the throng, chaffing with a little hunchback who was setting up a shell-game. to avoid his father, claude turned and went in to his brother's store. the two big show windows were full of country children, their mothers standing behind them to watch the parade. bayliss was seated in the little glass cage where he did his writing and bookkeeping. he nodded at claude from his desk. "hello," said claude, bustling in as if he were in a great hurry. "have you seen ernest havel? i thought i might find him in here." bayliss swung round in his swivel chair to return a plough catalogue to the shelf. "what would he be in here for? better look for him in the saloon." nobody could put meaner insinuations into a slow, dry remark than bayliss. claude's cheeks flamed with anger. as he turned away, he noticed something unusual about his brother's face, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of asking him how he had got a black eye. ernest havel was a bohemian, and he usually drank a glass of beer when he came to town; but he was sober and thoughtful beyond the wont of young men. from bayliss' drawl one might have supposed that the boy was a drunken loafer. at that very moment claude saw his friend on the other side of the street, following the wagon of trained dogs that brought up the rear of the procession. he ran across, through a crowd of shouting youngsters, and caught ernest by the arm. "hello, where are you off to?" "i'm going to eat my lunch before show-time. i left my wagon out by the pumping station, on the creek. what about you?" "i've got no program. can i go along?" ernest smiled. "i expect. i've got enough lunch for two." "yes, i know. you always have. i'll join you later." claude would have liked to take ernest to the hotel for dinner. he had more than enough money in his pockets; and his father was a rich farmer. in the wheeler family a new thrasher or a new automobile was ordered without a question, but it was considered extravagant to go to a hotel for dinner. if his father or bayliss heard that he had been there-and bayliss heard everything they would say he was putting on airs, and would get back at him. he tried to excuse his cowardice to himself by saying that he was dirty and smelled of the hides; but in his heart he knew that he did not ask ernest to go to the hotel with him because he had been so brought up that it would be difficult for him to do this simple thing. he made some purchases at the fruit stand and the cigar counter, and then hurried out along the dusty road toward the pumping station. ernest's wagon was standing under the shade of some willow trees, on a little sandy bottom half enclosed by a loop of the creek which curved like a horseshoe. claude threw himself on the sand beside the stream and wiped the dust from his hot face. he felt he had now closed the door on his disagreeable morning. ernest produced his lunch basket. "i got a couple bottles of beer cooling in the creek," he said. "i knew you wouldn't want to go in a saloon." "oh, forget it!" claude muttered, ripping the cover off a jar of pickles. he was nineteen years old, and he was afraid to go into a saloon, and his friend knew he was afraid. after lunch, claude took out a handful of good cigars he had bought at the drugstore. ernest, who couldn't afford cigars, was pleased. he lit one, and as he smoked he kept looking at it with an air of pride and turning it around between his fingers. the horses stood with their heads over the wagon-box, munching their oats. the stream trickled by under the willow roots with a cool, persuasive sound. claude and ernest lay in the shade, their coats under their heads, talking very little. occasionally a motor dashed along the road toward town, and a cloud of dust and a smell of gasoline blew in over the creek bottom; but for the most part the silence of the warm, lazy summer noon was undisturbed. claude could usually forget his own vexations and chagrins when he was with ernest. the bohemian boy was never uncertain, was not pulled in two or three ways at once. he was simple and direct. he had a number of impersonal preoccupations; was interested in politics and history and in new inventions. claude felt that his friend lived in an atmosphere of mental liberty to which he himself could never hope to attain. after he had talked with ernest for awhile, the things that did not go right on the farm seemed less important. claude's mother was almost as fond of ernest as he was himself. when the two boys were going to high school, ernest often came over in the evening to study with claude, and while they worked at the long kitchen table mrs. wheeler brought her darning and sat near them, helping them with their latin and algebra. even old mahailey was enlightened by their words of wisdom. mrs. wheeler said she would never forget the night ernest arrived from the old country. his brother, joe havel, had gone to frankfort to meet him, and was to stop on the way home and leave some groceries for the wheelers. the train from the east was late; it was ten o'clock that night when mrs. wheeler, waiting in the kitchen, heard havel's wagon rumble across the little bridge over lovely creek. she opened the outside door, and presently joe came in with a bucket of salt fish in one hand and a sack of flour on his shoulder. while he took the fish down to the cellar for her, another figure appeared in the doorway; a young boy, short, stooped, with a flat cap on his head and a great oilcloth valise, such as pedlars carry, strapped to his back. he had fallen asleep in the wagon, and on waking and finding his brother gone, he had supposed they were at home and scrambled for his pack. he stood in the doorway, blinking his eyes at the light, looking astonished but eager to do whatever was required of him. what if one of her own boys, mrs. wheeler thought.... she went up to him and put her arm around him, laughing a little and saying in her quiet voice, just as if he could understand her, "why, you're only a little boy after all, aren't you?" ernest said afterwards that it was his first welcome to this country, though he had travelled so far, and had been pushed and hauled and shouted at for so many days, he had lost count of them. that night he and claude only shook hands and looked at each other suspiciously, but ever since they had been good friends. after their picnic the two boys went to the circus in a happy frame of mind. in the animal tent they met big leonard dawson, the oldest son of one of the wheelers' near neighbours, and the three sat together for the performance. leonard said he had come to town alone in his car; wouldn't claude ride out with him? claude was glad enough to turn the mules over to ralph, who didn't mind the hired men as much as he did. leonard was a strapping brown fellow of twenty-five, with big hands and big feet, white teeth, and flashing eyes full of energy. he and his father and two brothers not only worked their own big farm, but rented a quarter section from nat wheeler. they were master farmers. if there was a dry summer and a failure, leonard only laughed and stretched his long arms, and put in a bigger crop next year. claude was always a little reserved with leonard; he felt that the young man was rather contemptuous of the hap-hazard way in which things were done on the wheeler place, and thought his going to college a waste of money. leonard had not even gone through the frankfort high school, and he was already a more successful man than claude was ever likely to be. leonard did think these things, but he was fond of claude, all the same. at sunset the car was speeding over a fine stretch of smooth road across the level country that lay between frankfort and the rougher land along lovely creek. leonard's attention was largely given up to admiring the faultless behaviour of his engine. presently he chuckled to himself and turned to claude. "i wonder if you'd take it all right if i told you a joke on bayliss?" "i expect i would." claude's tone was not at all eager. "you saw bayliss today? notice anything queer about him, one eye a little off colour? did he tell you how he got it?" "no. i didn't ask him." "just as well. a lot of people did ask him, though, and he said he was hunting around his place for something in the dark and ran into a reaper. well, i'm the reaper!" claude looked interested. "you mean to say bayliss was in a fight?" leonard laughed. "lord, no! don't you know bayliss? i went in there to pay a bill yesterday, and susie gray and another girl came in to sell tickets for the firemen's dinner. an advance man for this circus was hanging around, and he began talking a little smart,--nothing rough, but the way such fellows will. the girls handed it back to him, and sold him three tickets and shut him up. i couldn't see how susie thought so quick what to say. the minute the girls went out bayliss started knocking them; said all the country girls were getting too fresh and knew more than they ought to about managing sporty men and right there i reached out and handed him one. i hit harder than i meant to. i meant to slap him, not to give him a black eye. but you can't always regulate things, and i was hot all over. i waited for him to come back at me. i'm bigger than he is, and i wanted to give him satisfaction. well, sir, he never moved a muscle! he stood there getting redder and redder, and his eyes watered. i don't say he cried, but his eyes watered. 'all right, bayliss,' said i. 'slow with your fists, if that's your principle; but slow with your tongue, too,--especially when the parties mentioned aren't present.'" "bayliss will never get over that," was claude's only comment. "he don't have to!" leonard threw up his head. "i'm a good customer; he can like it or lump it, till the price of binding twine goes down!" for the next few minutes the driver was occupied with trying to get up a long, rough hill on high gear. sometimes he could make that hill, and sometimes he couldn't, and he was not able to account for the difference. after he pulled the second lever with some disgust and let the car amble on as she would, he noticed that his companion was disconcerted. "i'll tell you what, leonard," claude spoke in a strained voice, "i think the fair thing for you to do is to get out here by the road and give me a chance." leonard swung his steering wheel savagely to pass a wagon on the down side of the hill. "what the devil are you talking about, boy?" "you think you've got our measure all right, but you ought to give me a chance first." leonard looked down in amazement at his own big brown hands, lying on the wheel. "you mortal fool kid, what would i be telling you all this for, if i didn't know you were another breed of cats? i never thought you got on too well with bayliss yourself." "i don't, but i won't have you thinking you can slap the men in my family whenever you feel like it." claude knew that his explanation sounded foolish, and his voice, in spite of all he could do, was weak and angry. young leonard dawson saw he had hurt the boy's feelings. "lord, claude, i know you're a fighter. bayliss never was. i went to school with him." the ride ended amicably, but claude wouldn't let leonard take him home. he jumped out of the car with a curt goodnight, and ran across the dusky fields toward the light that shone from the house on the hill. at the little bridge over the creek, he stopped to get his breath and to be sure that he was outwardly composed before he went in to see his mother. "ran against a reaper in the dark!" he muttered aloud, clenching his fist. listening to the deep singing of the frogs, and to the distant barking of the dogs up at the house, he grew calmer. nevertheless, he wondered why it was that one had sometimes to feel responsible for the behaviour of people whose natures were wholly antipathetic to one's own. iii the circus was on saturday. the next morning claude was standing at his dresser, shaving. his beard was already strong, a shade darker than his hair and not so red as his skin. his eyebrows and long lashes were a pale corn-colour--made his blue eyes seem lighter than they were, and, he thought, gave a look of shyness and weakness to the upper part of his face. he was exactly the sort of looking boy he didn't want to be. he especially hated his head,--so big that he had trouble in buying his hats, and uncompromisingly square in shape; a perfect block-head. his name was another source of humiliation. claude: it was a "chump" name, like elmer and roy; a hayseed name trying to be fine. in country schools there was always a red-headed, warty-handed, runny-nosed little boy who was called claude. his good physique he took for granted; smooth, muscular arms and legs, and strong shoulders, a farmer boy might be supposed to have. unfortunately he had none of his father's physical repose, and his strength often asserted itself inharmoniously. the storms that went on in his mind sometimes made him rise, or sit down, or lift something, more violently than there was any apparent reason for his doing. the household slept late on sunday morning; even mahailey did not get up until seven. the general signal for breakfast was the smell of doughnuts frying. this morning ralph rolled out of bed at the last minute and callously put on his clean underwear without taking a bath. this cost him not one regret, though he took time to polish his new ox-blood shoes tenderly with a pocket handkerchief. he reached the table when all the others were half through breakfast, and made his peace by genially asking his mother if she didn't want him to drive her to church in the car. "i'd like to go if i can get the work done in time," she said, doubtfully glancing at the clock. "can't mahailey tend to things for you this morning?" mrs. wheeler hesitated. "everything but the separator, she can. but she can't fit all the parts together. it's a good deal of work, you know." "now, mother," said ralph good-humouredly, as he emptied the syrup pitcher over his cakes, "you're prejudiced. nobody ever thinks of skimming milk now-a-days. every up-to-date farmer uses a separator." mrs. wheeler's pale eyes twinkled. "mahailey and i will never be quite up-to-date, ralph. we're old-fashioned, and i don't know but you'd better let us be. i could see the advantage of a separator if we milked half-a-dozen cows. it's a very ingenious machine. but it's a great deal more work to scald it and fit it together than it was to take care of the milk in the old way." "it won't be when you get used to it," ralph assured her. he was the chief mechanic of the wheeler farm, and when the farm implements and the automobiles did not give him enough to do, he went to town and bought machines for the house. as soon as mahailey got used to a washing-machine or a churn, ralph, to keep up with the bristling march of invention, brought home a still newer one. the mechanical dish-washer she had never been able to use, and patent flat-irons and oil-stoves drove her wild. claude told his mother to go upstairs and dress; he would scald the separator while ralph got the car ready. he was still working at it when his brother came in from the garage to wash his hands. "you really oughtn't to load mother up with things like this, ralph," he exclaimed fretfully. "did you ever try washing this damned thing yourself?" "of course i have. if mrs. dawson can manage it, i should think mother could." "mrs. dawson is a younger woman. anyhow, there's no point in trying to make machinists of mahailey and mother." ralph lifted his eyebrows to excuse claude's bluntness. "see here," he said persuasively, "don't you go encouraging her into thinking she can't change her ways. mother's entitled to all the labour-saving devices we can get her." claude rattled the thirty-odd graduated metal funnels which he was trying to fit together in their proper sequence. "well, if this is labour-saving" the younger boy giggled and ran upstairs for his panama hat. he never quarrelled. mrs. wheeler sometimes said it was wonderful, how much ralph would take from claude. after ralph and his mother had gone off in the car, mr. wheeler drove to see his german neighbour, gus yoeder, who had just bought a blooded bull. dan and jerry were pitching horseshoes down behind the barn. claude told mahailey he was going to the cellar to put up the swinging shelf she had been wanting, so that the rats couldn't get at her vegetables. "thank you, mr. claude. i don't know what does make the rats so bad. the cats catches one most every day, too." "i guess they come up from the barn. i've got a nice wide board down at the garage for your shelf." the cellar was cemented, cool and dry, with deep closets for canned fruit and flour and groceries, bins for coal and cobs, and a dark-room full of photographer's apparatus. claude took his place at the carpenter's bench under one of the square windows. mysterious objects stood about him in the grey twilight; electric batteries, old bicycles and typewriters, a machine for making cement fence-posts, a vulcanizer, a stereopticon with a broken lens. the mechanical toys ralph could not operate successfully, as well as those he had got tired of, were stored away here. if they were left in the barn, mr. wheeler saw them too often, and sometimes, when they happened to be in his way, he made sarcastic comments. claude had begged his mother to let him pile this lumber into a wagon and dump it into some washout hole along the creek; but mrs. wheeler said he must not think of such a thing; it would hurt ralph's feelings. nearly every time claude went into the cellar, he made a desperate resolve to clear the place out some day, reflecting bitterly that the money this wreckage cost would have put a boy through college decently. while claude was planing off the board he meant to suspend from the joists, mahailey left her work and came down to watch him. she made some pretence of hunting for pickled onions, then seated herself upon a cracker box; close at hand there was a plush "spring-rocker" with one arm gone, but it wouldn't have been her idea of good manners to sit there. her eyes had a kind of sleepy contentment in them as she followed claude's motions. she watched him as if he were a baby playing. her hands lay comfortably in her lap. "mr. ernest ain't been over for a long time. he ain't mad about nothin', is he?" "oh, no! he's awful busy this summer. i saw him in town yesterday. we went to the circus together." mahailey smiled and nodded. "that's nice. i'm glad for you two boys to have a good time. mr. ernest's a nice boy; i always liked him first rate. he's a little feller, though. he ain't big like you, is he? i guess he ain't as tall as mr. ralph, even." "not quite," said claude between strokes. "he's strong, though, and gets through a lot of work." "oh, i know! i know he is. i know he works hard. all them foreigners works hard, don't they, mr. claude? i reckon he liked the circus. maybe they don't have circuses like our'n, over where he come from." claude began to tell her about the clown elephant and the trained dogs, and she sat listening to him with her pleased, foolish smile; there was something wise and far-seeing about her smile, too. mahailey had come to them long ago, when claude was only a few months old. she had been brought west by a shiftless virginia family which went to pieces and scattered under the rigours of pioneer farm-life. when the mother of the family died, there was nowhere for mahailey to go, and mrs. wheeler took her in. mahailey had no one to take care of her, and mrs. wheeler had no one to help her with the work; it had turned out very well. mahailey had had a hard life in her young days, married to a savage mountaineer who often abused her and never provided for her. she could remember times when she sat in the cabin, beside an empty meal-barrel and a cold iron pot, waiting for "him" to bring home a squirrel he had shot or a chicken he had stolen. too often he brought nothing but a jug of mountain whiskey and a pair of brutal fists. she thought herself well off now, never to have to beg for food or go off into the woods to gather firing, to be sure of a warm bed and shoes and decent clothes. mahailey was one of eighteen children; most of them grew up lawless or half-witted, and two of her brothers, like her husband, ended their lives in jail. she had never been sent to school, and could not read or write. claude, when he was a little boy, tried to teach her to read, but what she learned one night she had forgotten by the next. she could count, and tell the time of day by the clock, and she was very proud of knowing the alphabet and of being able to spell out letters on the flour sacks and coffee packages. "that's a big a." she would murmur, "and that there's a little a." mahailey was shrewd in her estimate of people, and claude thought her judgment sound in a good many things. he knew she sensed all the shades of personal feeling, the accords and antipathies in the household, as keenly as he did, and he would have hated to lose her good opinion. she consulted him in all her little difficulties. if the leg of the kitchen table got wobbly, she knew he would put in new screws for her. when she broke a handle off her rolling pin, he put on another, and he fitted a haft to her favourite butcher-knife after every one else said it must be thrown away. these objects, after they had been mended, acquired a new value in her eyes, and she liked to work with them. when claude helped her lift or carry anything, he never avoided touching her, this she felt deeply. she suspected that ralph was a little ashamed of her, and would prefer to have some brisk young thing about the kitchen. on days like this, when other people were not about, mahailey liked to talk to claude about the things they did together when he was little; the sundays when they used to wander along the creek, hunting for wild grapes and watching the red squirrels; or trailed across the high pastures to a wild-plum thicket at the north end of the wheeler farm. claude could remember warm spring days when the plum bushes were all in blossom and mahailey used to lie down under them and sing to herself, as if the honey-heavy sweetness made her drowsy; songs without words, for the most part, though he recalled one mountain dirge which said over and over, "and they laid jesse james in his grave." iv the time was approaching for claude to go back to the struggling denominational college on the outskirts of the state capital, where he had already spent two dreary and unprofitable winters. "mother," he said one morning when he had an opportunity to speak to her alone, "i wish you would let me quit the temple, and go to the state university." she looked up from the mass of dough she was kneading. "but why, claude?" "well, i could learn more, for one thing. the professors at the temple aren't much good. most of them are just preachers who couldn't make a living at preaching." the look of pain that always disarmed claude came instantly into his mother's face. "son, don't say such things. i can't believe but teachers are more interested in their students when they are concerned for their spiritual development, as well as the mental. brother weldon said many of the professors at the state university are not christian men; they even boast of it, in some cases." "oh, i guess most of them are good men, all right; at any rate they know their subjects. these little pin-headed preachers like weldon do a lot of harm, running about the country talking. he's sent around to pull in students for his own school. if he didn't get them he'd lose his job. i wish he'd never got me. most of the fellows who flunk out at the state come to us, just as he did." "but how can there be any serious study where they give so much time to athletics and frivolity? they pay their football coach a larger salary than their president. and those fraternity houses are places where boys learn all sorts of evil. i've heard that dreadful things go on in them sometimes. besides, it would take more money, and you couldn't live as cheaply as you do at the chapins'." claude made no reply. he stood before her frowning and pulling at a calloused spot on the inside of his palm. mrs. wheeler looked at him wistfully. "i'm sure you must be able to study better in a quiet, serious atmosphere," she said. he sighed and turned away. if his mother had been the least bit unctuous, like brother weldon, he could have told her many enlightening facts. but she was so trusting and childlike, so faithful by nature and so ignorant of life as he knew it, that it was hopeless to argue with her. he could shock her and make her fear the world even more than she did, but he could never make her understand. his mother was old-fashioned. she thought dancing and card-playing dangerous pastimes--only rough people did such things when she was a girl in vermont--and "worldliness" only another word for wickedness. according to her conception of education, one should learn, not think; and above all, one must not enquire. the history of the human race, as it lay behind one, was already explained; and so was its destiny, which lay before. the mind should remain obediently within the theological concept of history. nat wheeler didn't care where his son went to school, but he, too, took it for granted that the religious institution was cheaper than the state university; and that because the students there looked shabbier they were less likely to become too knowing, and to be offensively intelligent at home. however, he referred the matter to bayliss one day when he was in town. "claude's got some notion he wants to go to the state university this winter." bayliss at once assumed that wise, better-be-prepared-for-the-worst expression which had made him seem shrewd and seasoned from boyhood. "i don't see any point in changing unless he's got good reasons." "well, he thinks that bunch of parsons at the temple don't make first-rate teachers." "i expect they can teach claude quite a bit yet. if he gets in with that fast football crowd at the state, there'll be no holding him." for some reason bayliss detested football. "this athletic business is a good deal over-done. if claude wants exercise, he might put in the fall wheat." that night mr. wheeler brought the subject up at supper, questioned claude, and tried to get at the cause of his discontent. his manner was jocular, as usual, and claude hated any public discussion of his personal affairs. he was afraid of his father's humour when it got too near him. claude might have enjoyed the large and somewhat gross cartoons with which mr. wheeler enlivened daily life, had they been of any other authorship. but he unreasonably wanted his father to be the most dignified, as he was certainly the handsomest and most intelligent, man in the community. moreover, claude couldn't bear ridicule very well. he squirmed before he was hit; saw it coming, invited it. mr. wheeler had observed this trait in him when he was a little chap, called it false pride, and often purposely outraged his feelings to harden him, as he had hardened claude's mother, who was afraid of everything but schoolbooks and prayer-meetings when he first married her. she was still more or less bewildered, but she had long ago got over any fear of him and any dread of living with him. she accepted everything about her husband as part of his rugged masculinity, and of that she was proud, in her quiet way. claude had never quite forgiven his father for some of his practical jokes. one warm spring day, when he was a boisterous little boy of five, playing in and out of the house, he heard his mother entreating mr. wheeler to go down to the orchard and pick the cherries from a tree that hung loaded. claude remembered that she persisted rather complainingly, saying that the cherries were too high for her to reach, and that even if she had a ladder it would hurt her back. mr. wheeler was always annoyed if his wife referred to any physical weakness, especially if she complained about her back. he got up and went out. after a while he returned. "all right now, evangeline," he called cheerily as he passed through the kitchen. "cherries won't give you any trouble. you and claude can run along and pick 'em as easy as can be." mrs. wheeler trustfully put on her sunbonnet, gave claude a little pail and took a big one herself, and they went down the pasture hill to the orchard, fenced in on the low land by the creek. the ground had been ploughed that spring to make it hold moisture, and claude was running happily along in one of the furrows, when he looked up and beheld a sight he could never forget. the beautiful, round-topped cherry tree, full of green leaves and red fruit,--his father had sawed it through! it lay on the ground beside its bleeding stump. with one scream claude became a little demon. he threw away his tin pail, jumped about howling and kicking the loose earth with his copper-toed shoes, until his mother was much more concerned for him than for the tree. "son, son," she cried, "it's your father's tree. he has a perfect right to cut it down if he wants to. he's often said the trees were too thick in here. maybe it will be better for the others." "'tain't so! he's a damn fool, damn fool!" claude bellowed, still hopping and kicking, almost choking with rage and hate. his mother dropped on her knees beside him. "claude, stop! i'd rather have the whole orchard cut down than hear you say such things." after she got him quieted they picked the cherries and went back to the house. claude had promised her that he would say nothing, but his father must have noticed the little boy's angry eyes fixed upon him all through dinner, and his expression of scorn. even then his flexible lips were only too well adapted to hold the picture of that feeling. for days afterward claude went down to the orchard and watched the tree grow sicker, wilt and wither away. god would surely punish a man who could do that, he thought. a violent temper and physical restlessness were the most conspicuous things about claude when he was a little boy. ralph was docile, and had a precocious sagacity for keeping out of trouble. quiet in manner, he was fertile in devising mischief, and easily persuaded his older brother, who was always looking for something to do, to execute his plans. it was usually claude who was caught red-handed. sitting mild and contemplative on his quilt on the floor, ralph would whisper to claude that it might be amusing to climb up and take the clock from the shelf, or to operate the sewing-machine. when they were older, and played out of doors, he had only to insinuate that claude was afraid, to make him try a frosted axe with his tongue, or jump from the shed roof. the usual hardships of country boyhood were not enough for claude; he imposed physical tests and penances upon himself. whenever he burned his finger, he followed mahailey's advice and held his hand close to the stove to "draw out the fire." one year he went to school all winter in his jacket, to make himself tough. his mother would button him up in his overcoat and put his dinner-pail in his hand and start him off. as soon as he got out of sight of the house, he pulled off his coat, rolled it under his arm, and scudded along the edge of the frozen fields, arriving at the frame schoolhouse panting and shivering, but very well pleased with himself. v claude waited for his elders to change their mind about where he should go to school; but no one seemed much concerned, not even his mother. two years ago, the young man whom mrs. wheeler called "brother weldon" had come out from lincoln, preaching in little towns and country churches, and recruiting students for the institution at which he taught in the winter. he had convinced mrs. wheeler that his college was the safest possible place for a boy who was leaving home for the first time. claude's mother was not discriminating about preachers. she believed them all chosen and sanctified, and was never happier than when she had one in the house to cook for and wait upon. she made young mr. weldon so comfortable that he remained under her roof for several weeks, occupying the spare room, where he spent the mornings in study and meditation. he appeared regularly at mealtime to ask a blessing upon the food and to sit with devout, downcast eyes while the chicken was being dismembered. his top-shaped head hung a little to one side, the thin hair was parted precisely over his high forehead and brushed in little ripples. he was soft spoken and apologetic in manner and took up as little room as possible. his meekness amused mr. wheeler, who liked to ply him with food and never failed to ask him gravely "what part of the chicken he would prefer," in order to hear him murmur, "a little of the white meat, if you please," while he drew his elbows close, as if he were adroitly sliding over a dangerous place. in the afternoon brother weldon usually put on a fresh lawn necktie and a hard, glistening straw hat which left a red streak across his forehead, tucked his bible under his arm, and went out to make calls. if he went far, ralph took him in the automobile. claude disliked this young man from the moment he first met him, and could scarcely answer him civilly. mrs. wheeler, always absent-minded, and now absorbed in her cherishing care of the visitor, did not notice claude's scornful silences until mahailey, whom such things never escaped, whispered to her over the stove one day: "mr. claude, he don't like the preacher. he just ain't got no use fur him, but don't you let on." as a result of brother weldon's sojourn at the farm, claude was sent to the temple college. claude had come to believe that the things and people he most disliked were the ones that were to shape his destiny. when the second week of september came round, he threw a few clothes and books into his trunk and said good-bye to his mother and mahailey. ralph took him into frankfort to catch the train for lincoln. after settling himself in the dirty day-coach, claude fell to meditating upon his prospects. there was a pullman car on the train, but to take a pullman for a daylight journey was one of the things a wheeler did not do. claude knew that he was going back to the wrong school, that he was wasting both time and money. he sneered at himself for his lack of spirit. if he had to do with strangers, he told himself, he could take up his case and fight for it. he could not assert himself against his father or mother, but he could be bold enough with the rest of the world. yet, if this were true, why did he continue to live with the tiresome chapins? the chapin household consisted of a brother and sister. edward chapin was a man of twenty-six, with an old, wasted face,--and he was still going to school, studying for the ministry. his sister annabelle kept house for him; that is to say, she did whatever housework was done. the brother supported himself and his sister by getting odd jobs from churches and religious societies; he "supplied" the pulpit when a minister was ill, did secretarial work for the college and the young men's christian association. claude's weekly payment for room and board, though a small sum, was very necessary to their comfort. chapin had been going to the temple college for four years, and it would probably take him two years more to complete the course. he conned his book on trolley-cars, or while he waited by the track on windy corners, and studied far into the night. his natural stupidity must have been something quite out of the ordinary; after years of reverential study, he could not read the greek testament without a lexicon and grammar at his elbow. he gave a great deal of time to the practice of elocution and oratory. at certain hours their frail domicile--it had been thinly built for the academic poor and sat upon concrete blocks in lieu of a foundation--re-echoed with his hoarse, overstrained voice, declaiming his own orations or those of wendell phillips. annabelle chapin was one of claude's classmates. she was not as dull as her brother; she could learn a conjugation and recognize the forms when she met with them again. but she was a gushing, silly girl, who found almost everything in their grubby life too good to be true; and she was, unfortunately, sentimental about claude. annabelle chanted her lessons over and over to herself while she cooked and scrubbed. she was one of those people who can make the finest things seem tame and flat merely by alluding to them. last winter she had recited the odes of horace about the house--it was exactly her notion of the student-like thing to do--until claude feared he would always associate that poet with the heaviness of hurriedly prepared luncheons. mrs. wheeler liked to feel that claude was assisting this worthy pair in their struggle for an education; but he had long ago decided that since neither of the chapins got anything out of their efforts but a kind of messy inefficiency, the struggle might better have been relinquished in the beginning. he took care of his own room; kept it bare and habitable, free from annabelle's attentions and decorations. but the flimsy pretences of light-housekeeping were very distasteful to him. he was born with a love of order, just as he was born with red hair. it was a personal attribute. the boy felt bitterly about the way in which he had been brought up, and about his hair and his freckles and his awkwardness. when he went to the theatre in lincoln, he took a seat in the gallery, because he knew that he looked like a green country boy. his clothes were never right. he bought collars that were too high and neckties that were too bright, and hid them away in his trunk. his one experiment with a tailor was unsuccessful. the tailor saw at once that his stammering client didn't know what he wanted, so he persuaded him that as the season was spring he needed light checked trousers and a blue serge coat and vest. when claude wore his new clothes to st. paul's church on sunday morning, the eyes of every one he met followed his smart legs down the street. for the next week he observed the legs of old men and young, and decided there wasn't another pair of checked pants in lincoln. he hung his new clothes up in his closet and never put them on again, though annabelle chapin watched for them wistfully. nevertheless, claude thought he could recognize a well-dressed man when he saw one. he even thought he could recognize a well-dressed woman. if an attractive woman got into the street car when he was on his way to or from temple place, he was distracted between the desire to look at her and the wish to seem indifferent. claude is on his way back to lincoln, with a fairly liberal allowance which does not contribute much to his comfort or pleasure. he has no friends or instructors whom he can regard with admiration, though the need to admire is just now uppermost in his nature. he is convinced that the people who might mean something to him will always misjudge him and pass him by. he is not so much afraid of loneliness as he is of accepting cheap substitutes; of making excuses to himself for a teacher who flatters him, of waking up some morning to find himself admiring a girl merely because she is accessible. he has a dread of easy compromises, and he is terribly afraid of being fooled. vi three months later, on a grey december day, claude was seated in the passenger coach of an accommodation freight train, going home for the holidays. he had a pile of books on the seat beside him and was reading, when the train stopped with a jerk that sent the volumes tumbling to the floor. he picked them up and looked at his watch. it was noon. the freight would lie here for an hour or more, until the east-bound passenger went by. claude left the car and walked slowly up the platform toward the station. a bundle of little spruce trees had been flung off near the freight office, and sent a smell of christmas into the cold air. a few drays stood about, the horses blanketed. the steam from the locomotive made a spreading, deep-violet stain as it curled up against the grey sky. claude went into a restaurant across the street and ordered an oyster stew. the proprietress, a plump little german woman with a frizzed bang, always remembered him from trip to trip. while he was eating his oysters she told him that she had just finished roasting a chicken with sweet potatoes, and if he liked he could have the first brown cut off the breast before the train-men came in for dinner. asking her to bring it along, he waited, sitting on a stool, his boots on the lead-pipe foot-rest, his elbows on the shiny brown counter, staring at a pyramid of tough looking bun-sandwiches under a glass globe. "i been lookin' for you every day," said mrs. voigt when she brought his plate. "i put plenty good gravy on dem sweet pertaters, ja." "thank you. you must be popular with your boarders." she giggled. "ja, all de train men is friends mit me. sometimes dey bring me a liddle schweizerkase from one of dem big saloons in omaha what de cherman beobles batronize. i ain't got no boys mein own self, so i got to fix up liddle tings for dem boys, eh?" she stood nursing her stumpy hands under her apron, watching every mouthful he ate so eagerly that she might have been tasting it herself. the train crew trooped in, shouting to her and asking what there was for dinner, and she ran about like an excited little hen, chuckling and cackling. claude wondered whether working-men were as nice as that to old women the world over. he didn't believe so. he liked to think that such geniality was common only in what he broadly called "the west." he bought a big cigar, and strolled up and down the platform, enjoying the fresh air until the passenger whistled in. after his freight train got under steam he did not open his books again, but sat looking out at the grey homesteads as they unrolled before him, with their stripped, dry cornfields, and the great ploughed stretches where the winter wheat was asleep. a starry sprinkling of snow lay like hoar-frost along the crumbly ridges between the furrows. claude believed he knew almost every farm between frankfort and lincoln, he had made the journey so often, on fast trains and slow. he went home for all the holidays, and had been again and again called back on various pretexts; when his mother was sick, when ralph overturned the car and broke his shoulder, when his father was kicked by a vicious stallion. it was not a wheeler custom to employ a nurse; if any one in the household was ill, it was understood that some member of the family would act in that capacity. claude was reflecting upon the fact that he had never gone home before in such good spirits. two fortunate things had happened to him since he went over this road three months ago. as soon as he reached lincoln in september, he had matriculated at the state university for special work in european history. the year before he had heard the head of the department lecture for some charity, and resolved that even if he were not allowed to change his college, he would manage to study under that man. the course claude selected was one upon which a student could put as much time as he chose. it was based upon the reading of historical sources, and the professor was notoriously greedy for full notebooks. claude's were of the fullest. he worked early and late at the university library, often got his supper in town and went back to read until closing hour. for the first time he was studying a subject which seemed to him vital, which had to do with events and ideas, instead of with lexicons and grammars. how often he had wished for ernest during the lectures! he could see ernest drinking them up, agreeing or dissenting in his independent way. the class was very large, and the professor spoke without notes,--he talked rapidly, as if he were addressing his equals, with none of the coaxing persuasiveness to which temple students were accustomed. his lectures were condensed like a legal brief, but there was a kind of dry fervour in his voice, and when he occasionally interrupted his exposition with purely personal comment, it seemed valuable and important. claude usually came out from these lectures with the feeling that the world was full of stimulating things, and that one was fortunate to be alive and to be able to find out about them. his reading that autumn actually made the future look brighter to him; seemed to promise him something. one of his chief difficulties had always been that he could not make himself believe in the importance of making money or spending it. if that were all, then life was not worth the trouble. the second good thing that had befallen him was that he had got to know some people he liked. this came about accidentally, after a football game between the temple eleven and the state university team--merely a practice game for the latter. claude was playing half-back with the temple. toward the close of the first quarter, he followed his interference safely around the right end, dodged a tackle which threatened to end the play, and broke loose for a ninety yard run down the field for a touchdown. he brought his eleven off with a good showing. the state men congratulated him warmly, and their coach went so far as to hint that if he ever wanted to make a change, there would be a place for him on the university team. claude had a proud moment, but even while coach ballinger was talking to him, the temple students rushed howling from the grandstand, and annabelle chapin, ridiculous in a sport suit of her own construction, bedecked with the temple colours and blowing a child's horn, positively threw herself upon his neck. he disengaged himself, not very gently, and stalked grimly away to the dressing shed.... what was the use, if you were always with the wrong crowd? julius erlich, who played quarter on the state team, took him aside and said affably: "come home to supper with me tonight, wheeler, and meet my mother. come along with us and dress in the armory. you have your clothes in your suitcase, haven't you?" "they're hardly clothes to go visiting in," claude replied doubtfully. "oh, that doesn't matter! we're all boys at home. mother wouldn't mind if you came in your track things." claude consented before he had time to frighten himself by imagining difficulties. the erlich boy often sat next him in the history class, and they had several times talked together. hitherto claude had felt that he "couldn't make erlich out," but this afternoon, while they dressed after their shower, they became good friends, all in a few minutes. claude was perhaps less tied-up in mind and body than usual. he was so astonished at finding himself on easy, confidential terms with erlich that he scarcely gave a thought to his second-day shirt and his collar with a broken edge,--wretched economies he had been trained to observe. they had not walked more than two blocks from the armory when julius turned in at a rambling wooden house with an unfenced, terraced lawn. he led claude around to the wing, and through a glass door into a big room that was all windows on three sides, above the wainscoting. the room was full of boys and young men, seated on long divans or perched on the arms of easy chairs, and they were all talking at once. on one of the couches a young man in a smoking jacket lay reading as composedly as if he were alone. "five of these are my brothers," said his host, "and the rest are friends." the company recognized claude and included him in their talk about the game. when the visitors had gone, julius introduced his brothers. they were all nice boys, claude thought, and had easy, agreeable manners. the three older ones were in business, but they too had been to the game that afternoon. claude had never before seen brothers who were so outspoken and frank with one another. to him they were very cordial; the one who was lying down came forward to shake hands, keeping the place in his book with his finger. on a table in the middle of the room were pipes and boxes of tobacco, cigars in a glass jar, and a big chinese bowl full of cigarettes. this provisionment seemed the more remarkable to claude because at home he had to smoke in the cowshed. the number of books astonished him almost as much; the wainscoting all around the room was built up in open bookcases, stuffed with volumes fat and thin, and they all looked interesting and hard-used. one of the brothers had been to a party the night before, and on coming home had put his dress-tie about the neck of a little plaster bust of byron that stood on the mantel. this head, with the tie at a rakish angle, drew claude's attention more than anything else in the room, and for some reason instantly made him wish he lived there. julius brought in his mother, and when they went to supper claude was seated beside her at one end of the long table. mrs. erlich seemed to him very young to be the head of such a family. her hair was still brown, and she wore it drawn over her ears and twisted in two little horns, like the ladies in old daguerreotypes. her face, too, suggested a daguerreotype; there was something old-fashioned and picturesque about it. her skin had the soft whiteness of white flowers that have been drenched by rain. she talked with quick gestures, and her decided little nod was quaint and very personal. her hazel-coloured eyes peered expectantly over her nose-glasses, always watching to see things turn out wonderfully well; always looking for some good german fairy in the cupboard or the cake-box, or in the steaming vapor of wash-day. the boys were discussing an engagement that had just been announced, and mrs. erlich began to tell claude a long story about how this brilliant young man had come to lincoln and met this beautiful young girl, who was already engaged to a cold and academic youth, and how after many heart-burnings the beautiful girl had broken with the wrong man and become betrothed to the right one, and now they were so happy, and every one, she asked claude to believe, was equally happy! in the middle of her narrative julius reminded her smilingly that since claude didn't know these people, he would hardly be interested in their romance, but she merely looked at him over her nose-glasses and said, "and is that so, herr julius!" one could see that she was a match for them. the conversation went racing from one thing to another. the brothers began to argue hotly about a new girl who was visiting in town; whether she was pretty, how pretty she was, whether she was naive. to claude this was like talk in a play. he had never heard a living person discussed and analysed thus before. he had never heard a family talk so much, or with anything like so much zest. here there was none of the poisonous reticence he had always associated with family gatherings, nor the awkwardness of people sitting with their hands in their lap, facing each other, each one guarding his secret or his suspicion, while he hunted for a safe subject to talk about. their fertility of phrase, too, astonished him; how could people find so much to say about one girl? to be sure, a good deal of it sounded far-fetched to him, but he sadly admitted that in such matters he was no judge. when they went back to the living room julius began to pick out airs on his guitar, and the bearded brother sat down to read. otto, the youngest, seeing a group of students passing the house, ran out on to the lawn and called them in,--two boys, and a girl with red cheeks and a fur stole. claude had made for a corner, and was perfectly content to be an on-looker, but mrs. erlich soon came and seated herself beside him. when the doors into the parlour were opened, she noticed his eyes straying to an engraving of napoleon which hung over the piano, and made him go and look at it. she told him it was a rare engraving, and she showed him a portrait of her great-grandfather, who was an officer in napoleon's army. to explain how this came about was a long story. as she talked to claude, mrs. erlich discovered that his eyes were not really pale, but only looked so because of his light lashes. they could say a great deal when they looked squarely into hers, and she liked what they said. she soon found out that he was discontented; how he hated the temple school, and why his mother wished him to go there. when the three who had been called in from the sidewalk took their leave, claude rose also. they were evidently familiars of the house, and their careless exit, with a gay "good-night, everybody!" gave him no practical suggestion as to what he ought to say or how he was to get out. julius made things more difficult by telling him to sit down, as it wasn't time to go yet. but mrs. erlich said it was time; he would have a long ride out to temple place. it was really very easy. she walked to the door with him and gave him his hat, patting his arm in a final way. "you will come often to see us. we are going to be friends." her forehead, with its neat curtains of brown hair, came something below claude's chin, and she peered up at him with that quaintly hopeful expression, as if--as if even he might turn out wonderfully well! certainly, nobody had ever looked at him like that before. "it's been lovely," he murmured to her, quite without embarrassment, and in happy unconsciousness he turned the knob and passed out through the glass door. while the freight train was puffing slowly across the winter country, leaving a black trail suspended in the still air, claude went over that experience minutely in his mind, as if he feared to lose something of it on approaching home. he could remember exactly how mrs. erlich and the boys had looked to him on that first night, could repeat almost word for word the conversation which had been so novel to him. then he had supposed the erlichs were rich people, but he found out afterwards that they were poor. the father was dead, and all the boys had to work, even those who were still in school. they merely knew how to live, he discovered, and spent their money on themselves, instead of on machines to do the work and machines to entertain people. machines, claude decided, could not make pleasure, whatever else they could do. they could not make agreeable people, either. in so far as he could see, the latter were made by judicious indulgence in almost everything he had been taught to shun. since that first visit, he had gone to the erlichs', not as often as he wished, certainly, but as often as he dared. some of the university boys seemed to drop in there whenever they felt like it, were almost members of the family; but they were better looking than he, and better company. to be sure, long baumgartner was an intimate of the house, and he was a gawky boy with big red hands and patched shoes; but he could at least speak german to the mother, and he played the piano, and seemed to know a great deal about music. claude didn't wish to be a bore. sometimes in the evening, when he left the library to smoke a cigar, he walked slowly past the erlichs' house, looking at the lighted windows of the sitting-room and wondering what was going on inside. before he went there to call, he racked his brain for things to talk about. if there had been a football game, or a good play at the theatre, that helped, of course. almost without realizing what he was doing, he tried to think things out and to justify his opinions to himself, so that he would have something to say when the erlich boys questioned him. he had grown up with the conviction that it was beneath his dignity to explain himself, just as it was to dress carefully, or to be caught taking pains about anything. ernest was the only person he knew who tried to state clearly just why he believed this or that; and people at home thought him very conceited and foreign. it wasn't american to explain yourself; you didn't have to! on the farm you said you would or you wouldn't; that roosevelt was all right, or that he was crazy. you weren't supposed to say more unless you were a stump speaker,--if you tried to say more, it was because you liked to hear yourself talk. since you never said anything, you didn't form the habit of thinking. if you got too much bored, you went to town and bought something new. but all the people he met at the erlichs' talked. if they asked him about a play or a book and he said it was "no good," they at once demanded why. the erlichs thought him a clam, but claude sometimes thought himself amazing. could it really be he, who was airing his opinions in this indelicate manner? he caught himself using words that had never crossed his lips before, that in his mind were associated only with the printed page. when he suddenly realized that he was using a word for the first time, and probably mispronouncing it, he would become as much confused as if he were trying to pass a lead dollar, would blush and stammer and let some one finish his sentence for him. claude couldn't resist occasionally dropping in at the erlichs' in the afternoon; then the boys were away, and he could have mrs. erlich to himself for half-an-hour. when she talked to him she taught him so much about life. he loved to hear her sing sentimental german songs as she worked; "spinn, spinn, du tochter mein." he didn't know why, but he simply adored it! every time he went away from her he felt happy and full of kindness, and thought about beech woods and walled towns, or about carl schurz and the romantic revolution. he had been to see mrs. erlich just before starting home for the holidays, and found her making german christmas cakes. she took him into the kitchen and explained the almost holy traditions that governed this complicated cookery. her excitement and seriousness as she beat and stirred were very pretty, claude thought. she told off on her fingers the many ingredients, but he believed there were things she did not name: the fragrance of old friendships, the glow of early memories, belief in wonder-working rhymes and songs. surely these were fine things to put into little cakes! after claude left her, he did something a wheeler didn't do; he went down to o street and sent her a box of the reddest roses he could find. in his pocket was the little note she had written to thank him. vii it was beginning to grow dark when claude reached the farm. while ralph stopped to put away the car, he walked on alone to the house. he never came back without emotion,--try as he would to pass lightly over these departures and returns which were all in the day's work. when he came up the hill like this, toward the tall house with its lighted windows, something always clutched at his heart. he both loved and hated to come home. he was always disappointed, and yet he always felt the rightness of returning to his own place. even when it broke his spirit and humbled his pride, he felt it was right that he should be thus humbled. he didn't question that the lowest state of mind was the truest, and that the less a man thought of himself, the more likely he was to be correct in his estimate. approaching the door, claude stopped a moment and peered in at the kitchen window. the table was set for supper, and mahailey was at the stove, stirring something in a big iron pot; cornmeal mush, probably,--she often made it for herself now that her teeth had begun to fail. she stood leaning over, embracing the pot with one arm, and with the other she beat the stiff contents, nodding her head in time to this rotary movement. confused emotions surged up in claude. he went in quickly and gave her a bearish hug. her face wrinkled up in the foolish grin he knew so well. "lord, how you scared me, mr. claude! a little more'n i'd 'a' had my mush all over the floor. you lookin' fine, you nice boy, you!" he knew mahailey was gladder to see him come home than any one except his mother. hearing mrs. wheeler's wandering, uncertain steps in the enclosed stairway, he opened the door and ran halfway up to meet her, putting his arm about her with the almost painful tenderness he always felt, but seldom was at liberty to show. she reached up both hands and stroked his hair for a moment, laughing as one does to a little boy, and telling him she believed it was redder every time he came back. "have we got all the corn in, mother?" "no, claude, we haven't. you know we're always behindhand. it's been fine, open weather for husking, too. but at least we've got rid of that miserable jerry; so there's something to be thankful for. he had one of his fits of temper in town one day, when he was hitching up to come home, and leonard dawson saw him beat one of our horses with the neck-yoke. leonard told your father, and spoke his mind, and your father discharged jerry. if you or ralph had told him, he most likely wouldn't have done anything about it. but i guess all fathers are the same." she chuckled confidingly, leaning on claude's arm as they descended the stairs. "i guess so. did he hurt the horse much? which one was it?" "the little black, pompey. i believe he is rather a mean horse. the men said one of the bones over the eye was broken, but he would probably come round all right." "pompey isn't mean; he's nervous. all the horses hated jerry, and they had good reason to." claude jerked his shoulders to shake off disgusting recollections of this mongrel man which flashed back into his mind. he had seen things happen in the barn that he positively couldn't tell his father. mr. wheeler came into the kitchen and stopped on his way upstairs long enough to say, "hello, claude. you look pretty well." "yes, sir. i'm all right, thank you." "bayliss tells me you've been playing football a good deal." "not more than usual. we played half a dozen games; generally got licked. the state has a fine team, though." "i ex-pect," mr. wheeler drawled as he strode upstairs. supper went as usual. dan kept grinning and blinking at claude, trying to discover whether he had already been informed of jerry's fate. ralph told him the neighbourhood gossip: gus yoeder, their german neighbour, was bringing suit against a farmer who had shot his dog. leonard dawson was going to marry susie grey. she was the girl on whose account leonard had slapped bayliss, claude remembered. after supper ralph and mr. wheeler went off in the car to a christmas entertainment at the country schoolhouse. claude and his mother sat down for a quiet talk by the hard-coal burner in the living room upstairs. claude liked this room, especially when his father was not there. the old carpet, the faded chairs, the secretary book-case, the spotty engraving with all the scenes from pilgrim's progress that hung over the sofa,--these things made him feel at home. ralph was always proposing to re-furnish the room in mission oak, but so far claude and his mother had saved it. claude drew up his favourite chair and began to tell mrs. wheeler about the erlich boys and their mother. she listened, but he could see that she was much more interested in hearing about the chapins, and whether edward's throat had improved, and where he had preached this fall. that was one of the disappointing things about coming home; he could never interest his mother in new things or people unless they in some way had to do with the church. he knew, too, she was always hoping to hear that he at last felt the need of coming closer to the church. she did not harass him about these things, but she had told him once or twice that nothing could happen in the world which would give her so much pleasure as to see him reconciled to christ. he realized, as he talked to her about the erlichs, that she was wondering whether they weren't very "worldly" people, and was apprehensive about their influence on him. the evening was rather a failure, and he went to bed early. claude had gone through a painful time of doubt and fear when he thought a great deal about religion. for several years, from fourteen to eighteen, he believed that he would be lost if he did not repent and undergo that mysterious change called conversion. but there was something stubborn in him that would not let him avail himself of the pardon offered. he felt condemned, but he did not want to renounce a world he as yet knew nothing of. he would like to go into life with all his vigour, with all his faculties free. he didn't want to be like the young men who said in prayer-meeting that they leaned on their saviour. he hated their way of meekly accepting permitted pleasures. in those days claude had a sharp physical fear of death. a funeral, the sight of a neighbour lying rigid in his black coffin, overwhelmed him with terror. he used to lie awake in the dark, plotting against death, trying to devise some plan of escaping it, angrily wishing he had never been born. was there no way out of the world but this? when he thought of the millions of lonely creatures rotting away under ground, life seemed nothing but a trap that caught people for one horrible end. there had never been a man so strong or so good that he had escaped. and yet he sometimes felt sure that he, claude wheeler, would escape; that he would actually invent some clever shift to save himself from dissolution. when he found it, he would tell nobody; he would be crafty and secret. putrefaction, decay.... he could not give his pleasant, warm body over to that filthiness! what did it mean, that verse in the bible, "he shall not suffer his holy one to see corruption"? if anything could cure an intelligent boy of morbid religious fears, it was a denominational school like that to which claude had been sent. now he dismissed all christian theology as something too full of evasions and sophistries to be reasoned about. the men who made it, he felt sure, were like the men who taught it. the noblest could be damned, according to their theory, while almost any mean-spirited parasite could be saved by faith. "faith," as he saw it exemplified in the faculty of the temple school, was a substitute for most of the manly qualities he admired. young men went into the ministry because they were timid or lazy and wanted society to take care of them; because they wanted to be pampered by kind, trusting women like his mother. though he wanted little to do with theology and theologians, claude would have said that he was a christian. he believed in god, and in the spirit of the four gospels, and in the sermon on the mount. he used to halt and stumble at "blessed are the meek," until one day he happened to think that this verse was meant exactly for people like mahailey; and surely she was blessed! viii on the sunday after christmas claude and ernest were walking along the banks of lovely creek. they had been as far as mr. wheeler's timber claim and back. it was like an autumn afternoon, so warm that they left their overcoats on the limb of a crooked elm by the pasture fence. the fields and the bare tree-tops seemed to be swimming in light. a few brown leaves still clung to the bushy trees along the creek. in the upper pasture, more than a mile from the house, the boys found a bittersweet vine that wound about a little dogwood and covered it with scarlet berries. it was like finding a christmas tree growing wild out of doors. they had just been talking about some of the books claude had brought home, and his history course. he was not able to tell ernest as much about the lectures as he had meant to, and he felt that this was more ernest's fault than his own; ernest was such a literal-minded fellow. when they came upon the bittersweet, they forgot their discussion and scrambled down the bank to admire the red clusters on the woody, smoke-coloured vine, and its pale gold leaves, ready to fall at a touch. the vine and the little tree it honoured, hidden away in the cleft of a ravine, had escaped the stripping winds, and the eyes of schoolchildren who sometimes took a short cut home through the pasture. at its roots, the creek trickled thinly along, black between two jagged crusts of melting ice. when they left the spot and climbed back to the level, claude again felt an itching to prod ernest out of his mild and reasonable mood. "what are you going to do after a while, ernest? do you mean to farm all your life?" "naturally. if i were going to learn a trade, i'd be at it before now. what makes you ask that?" "oh, i don't know! i suppose people must think about the future sometime. and you're so practical." "the future, eh?" ernest shut one eye and smiled. "that's a big word. after i get a place of my own and have a good start, i'm going home to see my old folks some winter. maybe i'll marry a nice girl and bring her back." "is that all?" "that's enough, if it turns out right, isn't it?" "perhaps. it wouldn't be for me. i don't believe i can ever settle down to anything. don't you feel that at this rate there isn't much in it?" "in what?" "in living at all, going on as we do. what do we get out of it? take a day like this: you waken up in the morning and you're glad to be alive; it's a good enough day for anything, and you feel sure something will happen. well, whether it's a workday or a holiday, it's all the same in the end. at night you go to bed--nothing has happened." "but what do you expect? what can happen to you, except in your own mind? if i get through my work, and get an afternoon off to see my friends like this, it's enough for me." "is it? well, if we've only got once to live, it seems like there ought to be something--well, something splendid about life, sometimes." ernest was sympathetic now. he drew nearer to claude as they walked along and looked at him sidewise with concern. "you americans are always looking for something outside yourselves to warm you up, and it is no way to do. in old countries, where not very much can happen to us, we know that,--and we learn to make the most of little things." "the martyrs must have found something outside themselves. otherwise they could have made themselves comfortable with little things." "why, i should say they were the ones who had nothing but their idea! it would be ridiculous to get burned at the stake for the sensation. sometimes i think the martyrs had a good deal of vanity to help them along, too." claude thought ernest had never been so tiresome. he squinted at a bright object across the fields and said cuttingly, "the fact is, ernest, you think a man ought to be satisfied with his board and clothes and sundays off, don't you?" ernest laughed rather mournfully. "it doesn't matter much what i think about it; things are as they are. nothing is going to reach down from the sky and pick a man up, i guess." claude muttered something to himself, twisting his chin about over his collar as if he had a bridle-bit in his mouth. the sun had dropped low, and the two boys, as mrs. wheeler watched them from the kitchen window, seemed to be walking beside a prairie fire. she smiled as she saw their black figures moving along on the crest of the hill against the golden sky; even at that distance the one looked so adaptable, and the other so unyielding. they were arguing, probably, and probably claude was on the wrong side. ix after the vacation claude again settled down to his reading in the university library. he worked at a table next the alcove where the books on painting and sculpture were kept. the art students, all of whom were girls, read and whispered together in this enclosure, and he could enjoy their company without having to talk to them. they were lively and friendly; they often asked him to lift heavy books and portfolios from the shelves, and greeted him gaily when he met them in the street or on the campus, and talked to him with the easy cordiality usual between boys and girls in a co-educational school. one of these girls, miss peachy millmore, was different from the others,--different from any girl claude had ever known. she came from georgia, and was spending the winter with her aunt on b street. although she was short and plump, miss millmore moved with what might be called a "carriage," and she had altogether more manner and more reserve than the western girls. her hair was yellow and curly,--the short ringlets about her ears were just the colour of a new chicken. her vivid blue eyes were a trifle too prominent, and a generous blush of colour mantled her cheeks. it seemed to pulsate there,-one had a desire to touch her cheeks to see if they were hot. the erlich brothers and their friends called her "the georgia peach." she was considered very pretty, and the university boys had rushed her when she first came to town. since then her vogue had somewhat declined. miss millmore often lingered about the campus to walk down town with claude. however he tried to adapt his long stride to her tripping gait, she was sure to get out of breath. she was always dropping her gloves or her sketchbook or her purse, and he liked to pick them up for her, and to pull on her rubbers, which kept slipping off at the heel. she was very kind to single him out and be so gracious to him, he thought. she even coaxed him to pose in his track clothes for the life class on saturday morning, telling him that he had "a magnificent physique," a compliment which covered him with confusion. but he posed, of course. claude looked forward to seeing peachy millmore, missed her if she were not in the alcove, found it quite natural that she should explain her absences to him,--tell him how often she washed her hair and how long it was when she uncoiled it. one friday in february julius erlich overtook claude on the campus and proposed that they should try the skating tomorrow. "yes, i'm going out," claude replied. "i've promised to teach miss millmore to skate. won't you come along and help me?" julius laughed indulgently. "oh, no! some other time. i don't want to break in on that." "nonsense! you could teach her better than i." "oh, i haven't the courage!" "what do you mean?" "you know what i mean." "no, i don't. why do you always laugh about that girl, anyhow?" julius made a little grimace. "she wrote some awfully slushy letters to phil bowen, and he read them aloud at the frat house one night." "didn't you slap him?" claude demanded, turning red. "well, i would have thought i would," said julius smiling, "but i didn't. they were too silly to make a fuss about. i've been wary of the georgia peach ever since. if you touched that sort of peach ever so lightly, it might remain in your hand." "i don't think so," replied claude haughtily. "she's only kind-hearted." "perhaps you're right. but i'm terribly afraid of girls who are too kindhearted," julius confessed. he had wanted to drop claude a word of warning for some time. claude kept his engagement with miss millmore. he took her out to the skating pond several times, indeed, though in the beginning he told her he feared her ankles were too weak. their last excursion was made by moonlight, and after that evening claude avoided miss millmore when he could do so without being rude. she was attractive to him no more. it was her way to subdue by clinging contact. one could scarcely call it design; it was a degree less subtle than that. she had already thus subdued a pale cousin in atlanta, and it was on this account that she had been sent north. she had, claude angrily admitted, no reserve,--though when one first met her she seemed to have so much. her eager susceptibility presented not the slightest temptation to him. he was a boy with strong impulses, and he detested the idea of trifling with them. the talk of the disreputable men his father kept about the place at home, instead of corrupting him, had given him a sharp disgust for sensuality. he had an almost hippolytean pride in candour. x the erlich family loved anniversaries, birthdays, occasions. that spring mrs. erlich's first cousin, wilhelmina schroeder-schatz, who sang with the chicago opera company, came to lincoln as soloist for the may festival. as the date of her engagement approached, her relatives began planning to entertain her. the matinee musical was to give a formal reception for the singer, so the erlichs decided upon a dinner. each member of the family invited one guest, and they had great difficulty in deciding which of their friends would be most appreciative of the honour. there were to be more men than women, because mrs. erlich remembered that cousin wilhelmina had never been partial to the society of her own sex. one evening when her sons were revising their list, mrs. erlich reminded them that she had not as yet named her guest. "for me," she said with decision, "you may put down claude wheeler." this announcement was met with groans and laughter. "you don't mean it, mother," the oldest son protested. "poor old claude wouldn't know what it was all about,--and one stick can spoil a dinner party." mrs. erlich shook her finger at him with conviction. "you will see; your cousin wilhelmina will be more interested in that boy than in any of the others!" julius thought if she were not too strongly opposed she might still yield her point. "for one thing, mother, claude hasn't any dinner clothes," he murmured. she nodded to him. "that has been attended to, herr julius. he is having some made. when i sounded him, he told me he could easily afford it." the boys said if things had gone as far as that, they supposed they would have to make the best of it, and the eldest wrote down "claude wheeler" with a flourish. if the erlich boys were apprehensive, their anxiety was nothing to claude's. he was to take mrs. erlich to madame schroeder-schatz's recital, and on the evening of the concert, when he appeared at the door, the boys dragged him in to look him over. otto turned on all the lights, and mrs. erlich, in her new black lace over white satin, fluttered into the parlour to see what figure her escort cut. claude pulled off his overcoat as he was bid, and presented himself in the sooty blackness of fresh broadcloth. mrs. erlich's eyes swept his long black legs, his smooth shoulders, and lastly his square red head, affectionately inclined toward her. she laughed and clapped her hands. "now all the girls will turn round in their seats to look, and wonder where i got him!" claude began to bestow her belongings in his overcoat pockets; opera glasses in one, fan in another. she put a lorgnette into her little bag, along with her powder-box, handkerchief and smelling salts,--there was even a little silver box of peppermint drops, in case she might begin to cough. she drew on her long gloves, arranged a lace scarf over her hair, and at last was ready to have the evening cloak which claude held wound about her. when she reached up and took his arm, bowing to her sons, they laughed and liked claude better. his steady, protecting air was a frame for the gay little picture she made. the dinner party came off the next evening. the guest of honour, madame wilhelmina schroeder-schatz, was some years younger than her cousin, augusta erlich. she was short, stalwart, with an enormous chest, a fine head, and a commanding presence. her great contralto voice, which she used without much discretion, was a really superb organ and gave people a pleasure as substantial as food and drink. at dinner she sat on the right of the oldest son. claude, beside mrs. erlich at the other end of the table, watched attentively the lady attired in green velvet and blazing rhinestones. after dinner, as madame schroeder-schatz swept out of the dining room, she dropped her cousin's arm and stopped before claude, who stood at attention behind his chair. "if cousin augusta can spare you, we must have a little talk together. we have been very far separated," she said. she led claude to one of the window seats in the living-room, at once complained of a draft, and sent him to hunt for her green scarf. he brought it and carefully put it about her shoulders; but after a few moments, she threw it off with a slightly annoyed air, as if she had never wanted it. claude with solicitude reminded her about the draft. "draft?" she said lifting her chin, "there is no draft here." she asked claude where he lived, how much land his father owned, what crops they raised, and about their poultry and dairy. when she was a child she had lived on a farm in bavaria, and she seemed to know a good deal about farming and live-stock. she was disapproving when claude told her they rented half their land to other farmers. "if i were a young man, i would begin to acquire land, and i would not stop until i had a whole county," she declared. she said that when she met new people, she liked to find out the way they made their living; her own way was a hard one. later in the evening madame schroeder-schatz graciously consented to sing for her cousins. when she sat down to the piano, she beckoned claude and asked him to turn for her. he shook his head, smiling ruefully. "i'm sorry i'm so stupid, but i don't know one note from another." she tapped his sleeve. "well, never mind. i may want the piano moved yet; you could do that for me, eh?" when madame schroeder-schatz was in mrs. erlich's bedroom, powdering her nose before she put on her wraps, she remarked, "what a pity, augusta, that you have not a daughter now, to marry to claude melnotte. he would make you a perfect son-in-law." "ah, if i only had!" sighed mrs. erlich. "or," continued madame schroeder-schatz, energetically pulling on her large carriage shoes, "if you were but a few years younger, it might not yet be too late. oh, don't be a fool, augusta! such things have happened, and will happen again. however, better a widow than to be tied to a sick man--like a stone about my neck! what a husband to go home to! and i a woman in full vigour. jas ist ein kreuz ich trage!" she smote her bosom, on the left side. having put on first a velvet coat, then a fur mantle, madame schroeder-schatz moved like a galleon out into the living room and kissed all her cousins, and claude wheeler, good-night. xi one warm afternoon in may claude sat in his upstairs room at the chapins', copying his thesis, which was to take the place of an examination in history. it was a criticism of the testimony of jeanne d'arc in her nine private examinations and the trial in ordinary. the professor had assigned him the subject with a flash of humour. although this evidence had been pawed over by so many hands since the fifteenth century, by the phlegmatic and the fiery, by rhapsodists and cynics, he felt sure that wheeler would not dismiss the case lightly. indeed, claude put a great deal of time and thought upon the matter, and for the time being it seemed quite the most important thing in his life. he worked from an english translation of the proces, but he kept the french text at his elbow, and some of her replies haunted him in the language in which they were spoken. it seemed to him that they were like the speech of her saints, of whom jeanne said, "the voice is beautiful, sweet and low, and it speaks in the french tongue." claude flattered himself that he had kept all personal feeling out of the paper; that it was a cold estimate of the girl's motives and character as indicated by the consistency and inconsistency of her replies; and of the change wrought in her by imprisonment and by "the fear of the fire." when he had copied the last page of his manuscript and sat contemplating the pile of written sheets, he felt that after all his conscientious study he really knew very little more about the maid of orleans than when he first heard of her from his mother, one day when he was a little boy. he had been shut up in the house with a cold, he remembered, and he found a picture of her in armour, in an old book, and took it down to the kitchen where his mother was making apple pies. she glanced at the picture, and while she went on rolling out the dough and fitting it to the pans, she told him the story. he had forgotten what she said,--it must have been very fragmentary,--but from that time on he knew the essential facts about joan of arc, and she was a living figure in his mind. she seemed to him then as clear as now, and now as miraculous as then. it was a curious thing, he reflected, that a character could perpetuate itself thus; by a picture, a word, a phrase, it could renew itself in every generation and be born over and over again in the minds of children. at that time he had never seen a map of france, and had a very poor opinion of any place farther away than chicago; yet he was perfectly prepared for the legend of joan of arc, and often thought about her when he was bringing in his cobs in the evening, or when he was sent to the windmill for water and stood shaking in the cold while the chilled pump brought it slowly up. he pictured her then very much as he did now; about her figure there gathered a luminous cloud, like dust, with soldiers in it... the banner with lilies... a great church... cities with walls. on this balmy spring afternoon, claude felt softened and reconciled to the world. like gibbon, he was sorry to have finished his labour,--and he could not see anything else as interesting ahead. he must soon be going home now. there would be a few examinations to sit through at the temple, a few more evenings with the erlichs, trips to the library to carry back the books he had been using,--and then he would suddenly find himself with nothing to do but take the train for frankfort. he rose with a sigh and began to fasten his history papers between covers. glancing out of the window, he decided that he would walk into town and carry his thesis, which was due today; the weather was too fine to sit bumping in a street car. the truth was, he wished to prolong his relations with his manuscript as far as possible. he struck off by the road,--it could scarcely be called a street, since it ran across raw prairie land where the buffalo-peas were in blossom. claude walked slower than was his custom, his straw hat pushed back on his head and the blaze of the sun full in his face. his body felt light in the scented wind, and he listened drowsily to the larks, singing on dried weeds and sunflower stalks. at this season their song is almost painful to hear, it is so sweet. he sometimes thought of this walk long afterward; it was memorable to him, though he could not say why. on reaching the university, he went directly to the department of european history, where he was to leave his thesis on a long table, with a pile of others. he rather dreaded this, and was glad when, just as he entered, the professor came out from his private office and took the bound manuscript into his own hands, nodding cordially. "your thesis? oh yes, jeanne d'arc. the proces. i had forgotten. interesting material, isn't it?" he opened the cover and ran over the pages. "i suppose you acquitted her on the evidence?" claude blushed. "yes, sir." "well, now you might read what michelet has to say about her. there's an old translation in the library. did you enjoy working on it?" "i did, very much." claude wished to heaven he could think of something to say. "you've got a good deal out of your course, altogether, haven't you? i'll be interested to see what you do next year. your work has been very satisfactory to me." the professor went back into his study, and claude was pleased to see that he carried the manuscript with him and did not leave it on the table with the others. xii between haying and harvest that summer ralph and mr. wheeler drove to denver in the big car, leaving claude and dan to cultivate the corn. when they returned mr. wheeler announced that he had a secret. after several days of reticence, during which he shut himself up in the sitting-room writing letters, and passed mysterious words and winks with ralph at table, he disclosed a project which swept away all claude's plans and purposes. on the return trip from denver mr. wheeler had made a detour down into yucca county, colorado, to visit an old friend who was in difficulties. tom wested was a maine man, from wheeler's own neighbourhood. several years ago he had lost his wife. now his health had broken down, and the denver doctors said he must retire from business and get into a low altitude. he wanted to go back to maine and live among his own people, but was too much discouraged and frightened about his condition even to undertake the sale of his ranch and live stock. mr. wheeler had been able to help his friend, and at the same time did a good stroke of business for himself. he owned a farm in maine, his share of his father's estate, which for years he had rented for little more than the up-keep. by making over this property, and assuming certain mortgages, he got wested's fine, well-watered ranch in exchange. he paid him a good price for his cattle, and promised to take the sick man back to maine and see him comfortably settled there. all this mr. wheeler explained to his family when he called them up to the living room one hot, breathless night after supper. mrs. wheeler, who seldom concerned herself with her husband's business affairs, asked absently why they bought more land, when they already had so much they could not farm half of it. "just like a woman, evangeline, just like a woman!" mr. wheeler replied indulgently. he was sitting in the full glare of the acetylene lamp, his neckband open, his collar and tie on the table beside him, fanning himself with a palm-leaf fan. "you might as well ask me why i want to make more money, when i haven't spent all i've got." he intended, he said, to put ralph on the colorado ranch and "give the boy some responsibility." ralph would have the help of wested's foreman, an old hand in the cattle business, who had agreed to stay on under the new management. mr. wheeler assured his wife that he wasn't taking advantage of poor wested; the timber on the maine place was really worth a good deal of money; but because his father had always been so proud of his great pine woods, he had never, he said, just felt like turning a sawmill loose in them. now he was trading a pleasant old farm that didn't bring in anything for a grama-grass ranch which ought to turn over a profit of ten or twelve thousand dollars in good cattle years, and wouldn't lose much in bad ones. he expected to spend about half his time out there with ralph. "when i'm away," he remarked genially, "you and mahailey won't have so much to do. you can devote yourselves to embroidery, so to speak." "if ralph is to live in colorado, and you are to be away from home half of the time, i don't see what is to become of this place," murmured mrs. wheeler, still in the dark. "not necessary for you to see, evangeline," her husband replied, stretching his big frame until the rocking chair creaked under him. "it will be claude's business to look after that." "claude?" mrs. wheeler brushed a lock of hair back from her damp forehead in vague alarm. "of course." he looked with twinkling eyes at his son's straight, silent figure in the corner. "you've had about enough theology, i presume? no ambition to be a preacher? this winter i mean to turn the farm over to you and give you a chance to straighten things out. you've been dissatisfied with the way the place is run for some time, haven't you? go ahead and put new blood into it. new ideas, if you want to; i've no objection. they're expensive, but let it go. you can fire dan if you want, and get what help you need." claude felt as if a trap had been sprung on him. he shaded his eyes with his hand. "i don't think i'm competent to run the place right," he said unsteadily. "well, you don't think i am either, claude, so we're up against it. it's always been my notion that the land was made for man, just as it's old dawson's that man was created to work the land. i don't mind your siding with the dawsons in this difference of opinion, if you can get their results." mrs. wheeler rose and slipped quickly from the room, feeling her way down the dark staircase to the kitchen. it was dusky and quiet there. mahailey sat in a corner, hemming dish-towels by the light of a smoky old brass lamp which was her own cherished luminary. mrs. wheeler walked up and down the long room in soft, silent agitation, both hands pressed tightly to her breast, where there was a physical ache of sympathy for claude. she remembered kind tom wested. he had stayed over night with them several times, and had come to them for consolation after his wife died. it seemed to her that his decline in health and loss of courage, mr. wheeler's fortuitous trip to denver, the old pine-wood farm in maine; were all things that fitted together and made a net to envelop her unfortunate son. she knew that he had been waiting impatiently for the autumn, and that for the first time he looked forward eagerly to going back to school. he was homesick for his friends, the erlichs, and his mind was all the time upon the history course he meant to take. yet all this would weigh nothing in the family councils probably he would not even speak of it--and he had not one substantial objection to offer to his father's wishes. his disappointment would be bitter. "why, it will almost break his heart," she murmured aloud. mahailey was a little deaf and heard nothing. she sat holding her work up to the light, driving her needle with a big brass thimble, nodding with sleepiness between stitches. though mrs. wheeler was scarcely conscious of it, the old woman's presence was a comfort to her, as she walked up and down with her drifting, uncertain step. she had left the sitting-room because she was afraid claude might get angry and say something hard to his father, and because she couldn't bear to see him hectored. claude had always found life hard to live; he suffered so much over little things,-and she suffered with him. for herself, she never felt disappointments. her husband's careless decisions did not disconcert her. if he declared that he would not plant a garden at all this year, she made no protest. it was mahailey who grumbled. if he felt like eating roast beef and went out and killed a steer, she did the best she could to take care of the meat, and if some of it spoiled she tried not to worry. when she was not lost in religious meditation, she was likely to be thinking about some one of the old books she read over and over. her personal life was so far removed from the scene of her daily activities that rash and violent men could not break in upon it. but where claude was concerned, she lived on another plane, dropped into the lower air, tainted with human breath and pulsating with poor, blind, passionate human feelings. it had always been so. and now, as she grew older, and her flesh had almost ceased to be concerned with pain or pleasure, like the wasted wax images in old churches, it still vibrated with his feelings and became quick again for him. his chagrins shrivelled her. when he was hurt and suffered silently, something ached in her. on the other hand, when he was happy, a wave of physical contentment went through her. if she wakened in the night and happened to think that he had been happy lately, she would lie softly and gratefully in her warm place. "rest, rest, perturbed spirit," she sometimes whispered to him in her mind, when she wakened thus and thought of him. there was a singular light in his eyes when he smiled at her on one of his good days, as if to tell her that all was well in his inner kingdom. she had seen that same look again and again, and she could always remember it in the dark,--a quick blue flash, tender and a little wild, as if he had seen a vision or glimpsed bright uncertainties. xiii the next few weeks were busy ones on the farm. before the wheat harvest was over, nat wheeler packed his leather trunk, put on his "store clothes," and set off to take tom welted back to maine. during his absence ralph began to outfit for life in yucca county. ralph liked being a great man with the frankfort merchants, and he had never before had such an opportunity as this. he bought a new shot gun, saddles, bridles, boots, long and short storm coats, a set of furniture for his own room, a fireless cooker, another music machine, and had them shipped to colorado. his mother, who did not like phonograph music, and detested phonograph monologues, begged him to take the machine at home, but he assured her that she would be dull without it on winter evenings. he wanted one of the latest make, put out under the name of a great american inventor. some of the ranches near wested's were owned by new york men who brought their families out there in the summer. ralph had heard about the dances they gave, and he way counting on being one of the guests. he asked claude to give him his dress suit, since claude wouldn't be needing it any more. "you can have it if you want it," said claude indifferently "but it won't fit you." "i'll take it in to fritz and have the pants cut off a little and the shoulders taken in," his brother replied lightly. claude was impassive. "go ahead. but if that old dutch man takes a whack at it, it will look like the devil." "i think i'll let him try. father won't say anything about what i've ordered for the house, but he isn't much for glad rags, you know." without more ado he threw claude's black clothes into the back seat of the ford and ran into town to enlist the services of the german tailor. mr. wheeler, when he returned, thought ralph had been rather free in expenditures, but ralph told him it wouldn't do to take over the new place too modestly. "the ranchers out there are all high-fliers. if we go to squeezing nickels, they won't think we mean business." the country neighbours, who were always amused at the wheelers' doings, got almost as much pleasure out of ralph's lavishness as he did himself. one said ralph had shipped a new piano out to yucca county, another heard he had ordered a billiard table. august yoeder, their prosperous german neighbour, asked grimly whether he could, maybe, get a place as hired man with ralph. leonard dawson, who was to be married in october, hailed claude in town one day and shouted; "my god, claude, there's nothing left in the furniture store for me and susie! ralph's bought everything but the coffins. he must be going to live like a prince out there." "i don't know anything about it," claude answered coolly. "it's not my enterprise." "no, you've got to stay on the old place and make it pay the debts, i understand." leonard jumped into his car, so that claude wouldn't have a chance to reply. mrs. wheeler, too, when she observed the magnitude of these preparations, began to feel that the new arrangement was not fair to claude, since he was the older boy and much the steadier. claude had always worked hard when he was at home, and made a good field hand, while ralph had never done much but tinker with machinery and run errands in his car. she couldn't understand why he was selected to manage an undertaking in which so much money was invested. "why, claude," she said dreamily one day, "if your father were an older man, i would almost think his judgment had begun to fail. won't we get dreadfully into debt at this rate?" "don't say anything, mother. it's father's money. he shan't think i want any of it." "i wish i could talk to bayliss. has he said anything?" "not to me, he hasn't." ralph and mr. wheeler took another flying trip to colorado, and when they came back ralph began coaxing his mother to give him bedding and table linen. he said he wasn't going to live like a savage, even in the sand hills. mahailey was outraged to see the linen she had washed and ironed and taken care of for so many years packed into boxes. she was out of temper most of the time now, and went about muttering to herself. the only possessions mahailey brought with her when she came to live with the wheelers, were a feather bed and three patchwork quilts, interlined with wool off the backs of virginia sheep, washed and carded by hand. the quilts had been made by her old mother, and given to her for a marriage portion. the patchwork on each was done in a different design; one was the popular "log-cabin" pattern, another the "laurel-leaf," the third the "blazing star." this quilt mahailey thought too good for use, and she had told mrs. wheeler that she was saving it "to give mr. claude when he got married." she slept on her feather bed in winter, and in summer she put it away in the attic. the attic was reached by a ladder which, because of her weak back, mrs. wheeler very seldom climbed. up there mahailey had things her own way, and thither she often retired to air the bedding stored away there, or to look at the pictures in the piles of old magazines. ralph facetiously called the attic "mahailey's library." one day, while things were being packed for the western ranch, mrs. wheeler, going to the foot of the ladder to call mahailey, narrowly escaped being knocked down by a large feather bed which came plumping through the trap door. a moment later mahailey herself descended backwards, holding to the rungs with one hand, and in the other arm carrying her quilts. "why, mahailey," gasped mrs. wheeler. "it's not winter yet; whatever are you getting your bed for?" "i'm just a-goin' to lay on my fedder bed," she broke out, "or direc'ly i won't have none. i ain't a-goin' to have mr. ralph carryin' off my quilts my mudder pieced fur me." mrs. wheeler tried to reason with her, but the old woman took up her bed in her arms and staggered down the hall with it, muttering and tossing her head like a horse in fly-time. that afternoon ralph brought a barrel and a bundle of straw into the kitchen and told mahailey to carry up preserves and canned fruit, and he would pack them. she went obediently to the cellar, and ralph took off his coat and began to line the barrel with straw. he was some time in doing this, but still mahailey had not returned. he went to the head of the stairs and whistled. "i'm a-comin', mr. ralph, i'm a-comin'! don't hurry me, i don't want to break nothin'." ralph waited a few minutes. "what are you doing down there, mahailey?" he fumed. "i could have emptied the whole cellar by this time. i suppose i'll have to do it myself." "i'm a-comin'. you'd git yourself all dusty down here." she came breathlessly up the stairs, carrying a hamper basket full of jars, her hands and face streaked with black. "well, i should say it is dusty!" ralph snorted. "you might clean your fruit closet once in awhile, you know, mahailey. you ought to see how mrs. dawson keeps hers. now, let's see." he sorted the jars on the table. "take back the grape jelly. if there's anything i hate, it's grape jelly. i know you have lots of it, but you can't work it off on me. and when you come up, don't forget the pickled peaches. i told you particularly, the pickled peaches!" "we ain't got no pickled peaches." mahailey stood by the cellar door, holding a corner of her apron up to her chin, with a queer, animal look of stubbornness in her face. "no pickled peaches? what nonsense, mahailey! i saw you making them here, only a few weeks ago." "i know you did, mr. ralph, but they ain't none now. i didn't have no luck with my peaches this year. i must 'a' let the air git at 'em. they all worked on me, an' i had to throw 'em out." ralph was thoroughly annoyed. "i never heard of such a thing, mahailey! you get more careless every year. think of wasting all that fruit and sugar! does mother know?" mahailey's low brow clouded. "i reckon she does. i don't wase your mudder's sugar. i never did wase nothin'," she muttered. her speech became queerer than ever when she was angry. ralph dashed down the cellar stairs, lit a lantern, and searched the fruit closet. sure enough, there were no pickled peaches. when he came back and began packing his fruit, mahailey stood watching him with a furtive expression, very much like the look that is in a chained coyote's eyes when a boy is showing him off to visitors and saying he wouldn't run away if he could. "go on with your work," ralph snapped. "don't stand there watching me!" that evening claude was sitting on the windmill platform, down by the barn, after a hard day's work ploughing for winter wheat. he was solacing himself with his pipe. no matter how much she loved him, or how sorry she felt for him, his mother could never bring herself to tell him he might smoke in the house. lights were shining from the upstairs rooms on the hill, and through the open windows sounded the singing snarl of a phonograph. a figure came stealing down the path. he knew by her low, padding step that it was mahailey, with her apron thrown over her head. she came up to him and touched him on the shoulder in a way which meant that what she had to say was confidential. "mr. claude, mr. ralph's done packed up a barr'l of your mudder's jelly an' pickles to take out there." "that's all right, mahailey. mr. wested was a widower, and i guess there wasn't anything of that sort put up at his place." she hesitated and bent lower. "he asked me fur them pickled peaches i made fur you, but i didn't give him none. i hid 'em all in my old cook-stove we done put down cellar when mr. ralph bought the new one. i didn't give him your mudder's new preserves, nudder. i give him the old last year's stuff we had left over, and now you an' your mudder'll have plenty." claude laughed. "oh, i don't care if ralph takes all the fruit on the place, mahailey!" she shrank back a little, saying confusedly, "no, i know you don't, mr. claude. i know you don't." "i surely ought not to take it out on her," claude thought, when he saw her disappointment. he rose and patted her on the back. "that's all right, mahailey. thank you for saving the peaches, anyhow." she shook her finger at him. "don't you let on!" he promised, and watched her slipping back over the zigzag path up the hill. xiv ralph and his father moved to the new ranch the last of august, and mr. wheeler wrote back that late in the fall he meant to ship a carload of grass steers to the home farm to be fattened during the winter. this, claude saw, would mean a need for fodder. there was a fifty-acre corn field west of the creek,--just on the sky-line when one looked out from the west windows of the house. claude decided to put this field into winter wheat, and early in september he began to cut and bind the corn that stood upon it for fodder. as soon as the corn was gathered, he would plough up the ground, and drill in the wheat when he planted the other wheat fields. this was claude's first innovation, and it did not meet with approval. when bayliss came out to spend sunday with his mother, he asked her what claude thought he was doing, anyhow. if he wanted to change the crop on that field, why didn't he plant oats in the spring, and then get into wheat next fall? cutting fodder and preparing the ground now, would only hold him back in his work. when mr. wheeler came home for a short visit, he jocosely referred to that quarter as "claude's wheat field." claude went ahead with what he had undertaken to do, but all through september he was nervous and apprehensive about the weather. heavy rains, if they came, would make him late with his wheat-planting, and then there would certainly be criticism. in reality, nobody cared much whether the planting was late or not, but claude thought they did, and sometimes in the morning he awoke in a state of panic because he wasn't getting ahead faster. he had dan and one of august yoeder's four sons to help him, and he worked early and late. the new field he ploughed and drilled himself. he put a great deal of young energy into it, and buried a great deal of discontent in its dark furrows. day after day he flung himself upon the land and planted it with what was fermenting in him, glad to be so tired at night that he could not think. ralph came home for leonard dawson's wedding, on the first of october. all the wheelers went to the wedding, even mahailey, and there was a great gathering of the country folk and townsmen. after ralph left, claude had the place to himself again, and the work went on as usual. the stock did well, and there were no vexatious interruptions. the fine weather held, and every morning when claude got up, another gold day stretched before him like a glittering carpet, leading...? when the question where the days were leading struck him on the edge of his bed, he hurried to dress and get down-stairs in time to fetch wood and coal for mahailey. they often reached the kitchen at the same moment, and she would shake her finger at him and say, "you come down to help me, you nice boy, you!" at least he was of some use to mahailey. his father could hire one of the yoeder boys to look after the place, but mahailey wouldn't let any one else save her old back. mrs. wheeler, as well as mahailey, enjoyed that fall. she slept late in the morning, and read and rested in the afternoon. she made herself some new house-dresses out of a grey material claude chose. "it's almost like being a bride, keeping house for just you, claude," she sometimes said. soon claude had the satisfaction of seeing a blush of green come up over his brown wheat fields, visible first in the dimples and little hollows, then flickering over the knobs and levels like a fugitive smile. he watched the green blades coming every day, when he and dan went afield with their wagons to gather corn. claude sent dan to shuck on the north quarter, and he worked on the south. he always brought in one more load a day than dan did,--that was to be expected. dan explained this very reasonably, claude thought, one afternoon when they were hooking up their teams. "it's all right for you to jump at that corn like you was a-beating carpets, claude; it's your corn, or anyways it's your paw's. them fields will always lay betwixt you and trouble. but a hired man's got no property but his back, and he has to save it. i figure that i've only got about so many jumps left in me, and i ain't a-going to jump too hard at no man's corn." "what's the matter? i haven't been hinting that you ought to jump any harder, have i?" "no, you ain't, but i just want you to know that there's reason in all things." with this dan got into his wagon and drove off. he had probably been meditating upon this declaration for some time. that afternoon claude suddenly stopped flinging white ears into the wagon beside him. it was about five o'clock, the yellowest hour of the autumn day. he stood lost in a forest of light, dry, rustling corn leaves, quite hidden away from the world. taking off his husking-gloves, he wiped the sweat from his face, climbed up to the wagon box, and lay down on the ivory-coloured corn. the horses cautiously advanced a step or two, and munched with great content at ears they tore from the stalks with their teeth. claude lay still, his arms under his head, looking up at the hard, polished blue sky, watching the flocks of crows go over from the fields where they fed on shattered grain, to their nests in the trees along lovely creek. he was thinking about what dan had said while they were hitching up. there was a great deal of truth in it, certainly. yet, as for him, he often felt that he would rather go out into the world and earn his bread among strangers than sweat under this half-responsibility for acres and crops that were not his own. he knew that his father was sometimes called a "land hog" by the country people, and he himself had begun to feel that it was not right they should have so much land,--to farm, or to rent, or to leave idle, as they chose. it was strange that in all the centuries the world had been going, the question of property had not been better adjusted. the people who had it were slaves to it, and the people who didn't have it were slaves to them. he sprang down into the gold light to finish his load. warm silence nestled over the cornfield. sometimes a light breeze rose for a moment and rattled the stiff, dry leaves, and he himself made a great rustling and crackling as he tore the husks from the ears. greedy crows were still cawing about before they flapped homeward. when he drove out to the highway, the sun was going down, and from his seat on the load he could see far and near. yonder was dan's wagon, coming in from the north quarter; over there was the roof of leonard dawson's new house, and his windmill, standing up black in the declining day. before him were the bluffs of the pasture, and the little trees, almost bare, huddled in violet shadow along the creek, and the wheeler farm-house on the hill, its windows all aflame with the last red fire of the sun. xv claude dreaded the inactivity of the winter, to which the farmer usually looks forward with pleasure. he made the thanksgiving football game a pretext for going up to lincoln,--went intending to stay three days and stayed ten. the first night, when he knocked at the glass door of the erlichs' sitting-room and took them by surprise, he thought he could never go back to the farm. approaching the house on that clear, frosty autumn evening, crossing the lawn strewn with crackling dry leaves, he told himself that he must not hope to find things the same. but they were the same. the boys were lounging and smoking about the square table with the lamp on it, and mrs. erlich was at the piano, playing one of mendelssohn's "songs without words." when he knocked, otto opened the door and called: "a surprise for you, mother! guess who's here." what a welcome she gave him, and how much she had to tell him! while they were all talking at once, henry, the oldest son, came downstairs dressed for a colonial ball, with satin breeches and stockings and a sword. his brothers began to point out the inaccuracies of his costume, telling him that he couldn't possibly call himself a french emigré unless he wore a powdered wig. henry took a book of memoirs from the shelf to prove to them that at the time when the french emigrés were coming to philadelphia, powder was going out of fashion. during this discussion, mrs. erlich drew claude aside and told him in excited whispers that her cousin wilhelmina, the singer, had at last been relieved of the invalid husband whom she had supported for so many years, and now was going to marry her accompanist, a man much younger than herself. after the french emigré had gone off to his party, two young instructors from the university dropped in, and mrs. erlich introduced claude as her "landed proprietor" who managed a big ranch out in one of the western counties. the instructors took their leave early, but claude stayed on. what was it that made life seem so much more interesting and attractive here than elsewhere? there was nothing wonderful about this room; a lot of books, a lamp... comfortable, hard-used furniture, some people whose lives were in no way remarkable--and yet he had the sense of being in a warm and gracious atmosphere, charged with generous enthusiasms and ennobled by romantic friendships. he was glad to see the same pictures on the wall; to find the swiss wood-cutter on the mantel, still bending under his load of faggots; to handle again the heavy brass paper-knife that in its time had cut so many interesting pages. he picked it up from the cover of a red book lying there,-one of trevelyan's volumes on garibaldi, which julius told him he must read before he was another week older. the next afternoon claude took mrs. erlich to the football game and came home with the family for dinner. he lingered on day after day, but after the first few evenings his heart was growing a little heavier all the time. the erlich boys had so many new interests he couldn't keep up with them; they had been going on, and he had been standing still. he wasn't conceited enough to mind that. the thing that hurt was the feeling of being out of it, of being lost in another kind of life in which ideas played but little part. he was a stranger who walked in and sat down here; but he belonged out in the big, lonely country, where people worked hard with their backs and got tired like the horses, and were too sleepy at night to think of anything to say. if mrs. erlich and her hungarian woman made lentil soup and potato dumplings and wiener-schnitzel for him, it only made the plain fare on the farm seem the heavier. when the second friday came round, he went to bid his friends good-bye and explained that he must be going home tomorrow. on leaving the house that night, he looked back at the ruddy windows and told himself that it was goodbye indeed, and not, as mrs. erlich had fondly said, auf wiedersehen. coming here only made him more discontented with his lot; his frail claim on this kind of life existed no longer. he must settle down into something that was his own, take hold of it with both hands, no matter how grim it was. the next day, during his journey out through the bleak winter country, he felt that he was going deeper and deeper into reality. claude had not written when he would be home, but on saturday there were always some of the neighbours in town. he rode out with one of the yoeder boys, and from their place walked on the rest of the way. he told his mother he was glad to be back again. he sometimes felt as if it were disloyal to her for him to be so happy with mrs. erlich. his mother had been shut away from the world on a farm for so many years; and even before that, vermont was no very stimulating place to grow up in, he guessed. she had not had a chance, any more than he had, at those things which make the mind more supple and keep the feeling young. the next morning it was snowing outside, and they had a long, pleasant sunday breakfast. mrs. wheeler said they wouldn't try to go to church, as claude must be tired. he worked about the place until noon, making the stock comfortable and looking after things that dan had neglected in his absence. after dinner he sat down at the secretary and wrote a long letter to his friends in lincoln. whenever he lifted his eyes for a moment, he saw the pasture bluffs and the softly falling snow. there was something beautiful about the submissive way in which the country met winter. it made one contented,--sad, too. he sealed his letter and lay down on the couch to read the paper, but was soon asleep. when he awoke the afternoon was already far gone. the clock on the shelf ticked loudly in the still room, the coal stove sent out a warm glow. the blooming plants in the south bow-window looked brighter and fresher than usual in the soft white light that came up from the snow. mrs. wheeler was reading by the west window, looking away from her book now and then to gaze off at the grey sky and the muffled fields. the creek made a winding violet chasm down through the pasture, and the trees followed it in a black thicket, curiously tufted with snow. claude lay for some time without speaking, watching his mother's profile against the glass, and thinking how good this soft, clinging snow-fall would be for his wheat fields. "what are you reading, mother?" he asked presently. she turned her head toward him. "nothing very new. i was just beginning 'paradise lost' again. i haven't read it for a long while." "read aloud, won't you? just wherever you happen to be. i like the sound of it." mrs. wheeler always read deliberately, giving each syllable its full value. her voice, naturally soft and rather wistful, trailed over the long measures and the threatening biblical names, all familiar to her and full of meaning. "a dungeon horrible, on all sides round as one great furnace flamed; yet from the flames no light, but rather darkness visible served only to discover sights of woe." her voice groped as if she were trying to realize something. the room was growing greyer as she read on through the turgid catalogue of the heathen gods, so packed with stories and pictures, so unaccountably glorious. at last the light failed, and mrs. wheeler closed the book. "that's fine," claude commented from the couch. "but milton couldn't have got along without the wicked, could he?" mrs. wheeler looked up. "is that a joke?" she asked slyly. "oh no, not at all! it just struck me that this part is so much more interesting than the books about perfect innocence in eden." "and yet i suppose it shouldn't be so," mrs. wheeler said slowly, as if in doubt. her son laughed and sat up, smoothing his rumpled hair. "the fact remains that it is, dear mother. and if you took all the great sinners out of the bible, you'd take out all the interesting characters, wouldn't you?" "except christ," she murmured. "yes, except christ. but i suppose the jews were honest when they thought him the most dangerous kind of criminal." "are you trying to tangle me up?" his mother inquired, with both reproach and amusement in her voice. claude went to the window where she was sitting, and looked out at the snowy fields, now becoming blue and desolate as the shadows deepened. "i only mean that even in the bible the people who were merely free from blame didn't amount to much." "ah, i see!" mrs. wheeler chuckled softly. "you are trying to get me back to faith and works. there's where you always balked when you were a little fellow. well, claude, i don't know as much about it as i did then. as i get older, i leave a good deal more to god. i believe he wants to save whatever is noble in this world, and that he knows more ways of doing it than i." she rose like a gentle shadow and rubbed her cheek against his flannel shirt-sleeve, murmuring, "i believe he is sometimes where we would least expect to find him,--even in proud, rebellious hearts." for a moment they clung together in the pale, clear square of the west window, as the two natures in one person sometimes meet and cling in a fated hour. xvi ralph and his father came home to spend the holidays, and on christmas day bayliss drove out from town for dinner. he arrived early, and after greeting his mother in the kitchen, went up to the sitting-room, which shone with a holiday neatness, and, for once, was warm enough for bayliss,--having a low circulation, he felt the cold acutely. he walked up and down, jingling the keys in his pockets and admiring his mother's winter chrysanthemums, which were still blooming. several times he paused before the old-fashioned secretary, looking through the glass doors at the volumes within. the sight of some of those books awoke disagreeable memories. when he was a boy of fourteen or fifteen, it used to make him bitterly jealous to hear his mother coaxing claude to read aloud to her. bayliss had never been bookish. even before he could read, when his mother told him stories, he at once began to prove to her how they could not possibly be true. later he found arithmetic and geography more interesting than "robinson crusoe." if he sat down with a book, he wanted to feel that he was learning something. his mother and claude were always talking over his head about the people in books and stories. though bayliss had a sentimental feeling about coming home, he considered that he had had a lonely boyhood. at the country school he had not been happy; he was the boy who always got the answers to the test problems when the others didn't, and he kept his arithmetic papers buttoned up in the inside pocket of his little jacket until he modestly handed them to the teacher, never giving a neighbour the benefit of his cleverness. leonard dawson and other lusty lads of his own age made life as terrifying for him as they could. in winter they used to throw him into a snow-drift, and then run away and leave him. in summer they made him eat live grasshoppers behind the schoolhouse, and put big bull-snakes in his dinner pail to surprise him. to this day, bayliss liked to see one of those fellows get into difficulties that his big fists couldn't get him out of. it was because bayliss was quick at figures and undersized for a farmer that his father sent him to town to learn the implement business. from the day he went to work, he managed to live on his small salary. he kept in his vest pocket a little day-book wherein he noted down all his expenditures,--like the millionaire about whom the baptist preachers were never tired of talking,-and his offering to the contribution box stood out conspicuous in his weekly account. in bayliss' voice, even when he used his insinuating drawl and said disagreeable things, there was something a little plaintive; the expression of a deep-seated sense of injury. he felt that he had always been misunderstood and underestimated. later after he went into business for himself, the young men of frankfort had never urged him to take part in their pleasures. he had not been asked to join the tennis club or the whist club. he envied claude his fine physique and his unreckoning, impulsive vitality, as if they had been given to his brother by unfair means and should rightly have been his. bayliss and his father were talking together before dinner when claude came in and was so inconsiderate as to put up a window, though he knew his brother hated a draft. in a moment bayliss addressed him without looking at him: "i see your friends, the erlichs, have bought out the jenkinson company, in lincoln; at least, they've given their notes." claude had promised his mother to keep his temper today, "yes, i saw it in the paper. i hope they'll succeed." "i doubt it." bayliss shook his head with his wisest look. "i understand they've put a mortgage on their home. that old woman will find herself without a roof one of these days." "i don't think so. the boys have wanted to go into business together for a long while. they are all intelligent and industrious; why shouldn't they get on?" claude flattered himself that he spoke in an easy, confidential way. bayliss screwed up his eyes. "i expect they're too fond of good living. they'll pay their interest, and spend whatever's left entertaining their friends. i didn't see the young fellow's name in the notice of incorporation, julius, do they call him?" "julius is going abroad to study this fall. he intends to be a professor." "what's the matter with him? does he have poor health?" at this moment the dinner bell sounded, ralph ran down from his room where he had been dressing, and they all descended to the kitchen to greet the turkey. the dinner progressed pleasantly. bayliss and his father talked politics, and ralph told stories about his neighbours in yucca county. bayliss was pleased that his mother had remembered he liked oyster stuffing, and he complimented her upon her mince pies. when he saw her pour a second cup of coffee for herself and for claude at the end of dinner, he said, in a gentle, grieved tone, "i'm sorry to see you taking two, mother." mrs. wheeler looked at him over the coffee-pot with a droll, guilty smile. "i don't believe coffee hurts me a particle, bayliss." "of course it does; it's a stimulant." what worse could it be, his tone implied! when you said anything was a "stimulant," you had sufficiently condemned it; there was no more noxious word. claude was in the upper hall, putting on his coat to go down to the barn and smoke a cigar, when bayliss came out from the sitting-room and detained him by an indefinite remark. "i believe there's to be a musical show in hastings saturday night." claude said he had heard something of the sort. "i was thinking," bayliss affected a careless tone, as if he thought of such things every day, "that we might make a party and take gladys and enid. the roads are pretty good." "it's a hard drive home, so late at night," claude objected. bayliss meant, of course, that claude should drive the party up and back in mr. wheeler's big car. bayliss never used his glistening cadillac for long, rough drives. "i guess mother would put us up overnight, and we needn't take the girls home till sunday morning. i'll get the tickets." "you'd better arrange it with the girls, then. i'll drive you, of course, if you want to go." claude escaped and went out, wishing that bayliss would do his own courting and not drag him into it. bayliss, who didn't know one tune from another, certainly didn't want to go to this concert, and it was doubtful whether enid royce would care much about going. gladys farmer was the best musician in frankfort, and she would probably like to hear it. claude and gladys were old friends, from their high school days, though they hadn't seen much of each other while he was going to college. several times this fall bayliss had asked claude to go somewhere with him on a sunday, and then stopped to "pick gladys up," as he said. claude didn't like it. he was disgusted, anyhow, when he saw that bayliss had made up his mind to marry gladys. she and her mother were so poor that he would probably succeed in the end, though so far gladys didn't seem to give him much encouragement. marrying bayliss, he thought, would be no joke for any woman, but gladys was the one girl in town whom he particularly ought not to marry. she was as extravagant as she was poor. though she taught in the frankfort high school for twelve hundred a year, she had prettier clothes than any of the other girls, except enid royce, whose father was a rich man. her new hats and suede shoes were discussed and criticized year in and year out. people said if she married bayliss wheeler, he would soon bring her down to hard facts. some hoped she would, and some hoped she wouldn't. as for claude, he had kept away from mrs. farmer's cheerful parlour ever since bayliss had begun to drop in there. he was disappointed in gladys. when he was offended, he seldom stopped to reason about his state of feeling. he avoided the person and the thought of the person, as if it were a sore spot in his mind. xvii it had been mr. wheeler's intention to stay at home until spring, but ralph wrote that he was having trouble with his foreman, so his father went out to the ranch in february. a few days after his departure there was a storm which gave people something to talk about for a year to come. the snow began to fall about noon on st. valentine's day, a soft, thick, wet snow that came down in billows and stuck to everything. later in the afternoon the wind rose, and wherever there was a shed, a tree, a hedge, or even a clump of tall weeds, drifts began to pile up. mrs. wheeler, looking anxiously out from the sitting-room windows, could see nothing but driving waves of soft white, which cut the tall house off from the rest of the world. claude and dan, down in the corral, where they were provisioning the cattle against bad weather, found the air so thick that they could scarcely breathe; their ears and mouths and nostrils were full of snow, their faces plastered with it. it melted constantly upon their clothing, and yet they were white from their boots to their caps as they worked,--there was no shaking it off. the air was not cold, only a little below freezing. when they came in for supper, the drifts had piled against the house until they covered the lower sashes of the kitchen windows, and as they opened the door, a frail wall of snow fell in behind them. mahailey came running with her broom and pail to sweep it up. "ain't it a turrible storm, mr. claude? i reckon poor mr. ernest won't git over tonight, will he? you never mind, honey; i'll wipe up that water. run along and git dry clothes on you, an' take a bath, or you'll ketch cold. th' ole tank's full of hot water for you." exceptional weather of any kind always delighted mahailey. mrs. wheeler met claude at the head of the stairs. "there's no danger of the steers getting snowed under along the creek, is there?" she asked anxiously. "no, i thought of that. we've driven them all into the little corral on the level, and shut the gates. it's over my head down in the creek bottom now. i haven't a dry stitch on me. i guess i'll follow mahailey's advice and get in the tub, if you can wait supper for me." "put your clothes outside the bathroom door, and i'll see to drying them for you." "yes, please. i'll need them tomorrow. i don't want to spoil my new corduroys. and, mother, see if you can make dan change. he's too wet and steamy to sit at the table with. tell him if anybody has to go out after supper, i'll go." mrs. wheeler hurried down stairs. dan, she knew, would rather sit all evening in wet clothes than take the trouble to put on dry ones. he tried to sneak past her to his own quarters behind the wash-room, and looked aggrieved when he heard her message. "i ain't got no other outside clothes, except my sunday ones," he objected. "well, claude says he'll go out if anybody has to. i guess you'll have to change for once, dan, or go to bed without your supper." she laughed quietly at his dejected expression as he slunk away. "mrs. wheeler," mahailey whispered, "can't i run down to the cellar an' git some of them nice strawberry preserves? mr. claude, he loves 'em on his hot biscuit. he don't eat the honey no more; he's got tired of it." "very well. i'll make the coffee good and strong; that will please him more than anything." claude came down feeling clean and warm and hungry. as he opened the stair door he sniffed the coffee and frying ham, and when mahailey bent over the oven the warm smell of browning biscuit rushed out with the heat. these combined odours somewhat dispersed dan's gloom when he came back in squeaky sunday shoes and a bunglesome cut-away coat. the latter was not required of him, but he wore it for revenge. during supper mrs. wheeler told them once again how, long ago when she was first married, there were no roads or fences west of frankfort. one winter night she sat on the roof of their first dugout nearly all night, holding up a lantern tied to a pole to guide mr. wheeler home through a snowstorm like this. mahailey, moving about the stove, watched over the group at the table. she liked to see the men fill themselves with food-though she did not count dan a man, by any means, and she looked out to see that mrs. wheeler did not forget to eat altogether, as she was apt to do when she fell to remembering things that had happened long ago. mahailey was in a happy frame of mind because her weather predictions had come true; only yesterday she had told mrs. wheeler there would be snow, because she had seen snowbirds. she regarded supper as more than usually important when claude put on his "velvet close," as she called his brown corduroys. after supper claude lay on the couch in the sitting room, while his mother read aloud to him from "bleak house,"--one of the few novels she loved. poor jo was drawing toward his end when claude suddenly sat up. "mother, i believe i'm too sleepy. i'll have to turn in. do you suppose it's still snowing?" he rose and went to look out, but the west windows were so plastered with snow that they were opaque. even from the one on the south he could see nothing for a moment; then mahailey must have carried her lamp to the kitchen window beneath, for all at once a broad yellow beam shone out into the choked air, and down it millions of snowflakes hurried like armies, an unceasing progression, moving as close as they could without forming a solid mass. claude struck the frozen window-frame with his fist, lifted the lower sash, and thrusting out his head tried to look abroad into the engulfed night. there was a solemnity about a storm of such magnitude; it gave one a feeling of infinity. the myriads of white particles that crossed the rays of lamplight seemed to have a quiet purpose, to be hurrying toward a definite end. a faint purity, like a fragrance almost too fine for human senses, exhaled from them as they clustered about his head and shoulders. his mother, looking under his lifted arm, strained her eyes to see out into that swarming movement, and murmured softly in her quavering voice: "ever thicker, thicker, thicker, froze the ice on lake and river; ever deeper, deeper, deeper, fell the snow o'er all the landscape." xviii claude's bedroom faced the east. the next morning, when he looked out of his windows, only the tops of the cedars in the front yard were visible. hurriedly putting on his clothes he ran to the west window at the end of the hall; lovely creek, and the deep ravine in which it flowed, had disappeared as if they had never been. the rough pasture was like a smooth field, except for humps and mounds like haycocks, where the snow had drifted over a post or a bush. at the kitchen stairs mahailey met him in gleeful excitement. "lord 'a' mercy, mr. claude, i can't git the storm door open. we're snowed in fas'." she looked like a tramp woman, in a jacket patched with many colours, her head tied up in an old black "fascinator," with ravelled yarn hanging down over her face like wild locks of hair. she kept this costume for calamitous occasions; appeared in it when the water-pipes were frozen and burst, or when spring storms flooded the coops and drowned her young chickens. the storm door opened outward. claude put his shoulder to it and pushed it a little way. then, with mahailey's fireshovel he dislodged enough snow to enable him to force back the door. dan came tramping in his stocking-feet across the kitchen to his boots, which were still drying behind the stove. "she's sure a bad one, claude," he remarked, blinking. "yes. i guess we won't try to go out till after breakfast. we'll have to dig our way to the barn, and i never thought to bring the shovels up last night." "th' ole snow shovels is in the cellar. i'll git 'em." "not now, mahailey. give us our breakfast before you do anything else." mrs. wheeler came down, pinning on her little shawl, her shoulders more bent than usual. "claude," she said fearfully, "the cedars in the front yard are all but covered. do you suppose our cattle could be buried?" he laughed. "no, mother. the cattle have been moving around all night, i expect." when the two men started out with the wooden snow shovels, mrs. wheeler and mahailey stood in the doorway, watching them. for a short distance from the house the path they dug was like a tunnel, and the white walls on either side were higher than their heads. on the breast of the hill the snow was not so deep, and they made better headway. they had to fight through a second heavy drift before they reached the barn, where they went in and warmed themselves among the horses and cows. dan was for getting next a warm cow and beginning to milk. "not yet," said claude. "i want to have a look at the hogs before we do anything here." the hog-house was built down in a draw behind the barn. when claude reached the edge of the gully, blown almost bare, he could look about him. the draw was full of snow, smooth... except in the middle, where there was a rumpled depression, resembling a great heap of tumbled bed-linen. dan gasped. "god a' mighty, claude, the roof's fell in! them hogs'll be smothered." "they will if we don't get at them pretty quick. run to the house and tell mother. mahailey will have to milk this morning, and get back here as fast as you can." the roof was a flat thatch, and the weight of the snow had been too much for it. claude wondered if he should have put on a new thatch that fall; but the old one wasn't leaky, and had seemed strong enough. when dan got back they took turns, one going ahead and throwing out as much snow as he could, the other handling the snow that fell back. after an hour or so of this work, dan leaned on his shovel. "we'll never do it, claude. two men couldn't throw all that snow out in a week. i'm about all in." "well, you can go back to the house and sit by the fire," claude called fiercely. he had taken off his coat and was working in his shirt and sweater. the sweat was rolling from his face, his back and arms ached, and his hands, which he couldn't keep dry, were blistered. there were thirty-seven hogs in the hog-house. dan sat down in the hole. "maybe if i could git a drink of water, i could hold on a-ways," he said dejectedly. it was past noon when they got into the shed; a cloud of steam rose, and they heard grunts. they found the pigs all lying in a heap at one end, and pulled the top ones off alive and squealing. twelve hogs, at the bottom of the pile, had been suffocated. they lay there wet and black in the snow, their bodies warm and smoking, but they were dead; there was no mistaking that. mrs. wheeler, in her husband's rubber boots and an old overcoat, came down with mahailey to view the scene of disaster. "you ought to git right at them hawgs an' butcher 'em today," mahailey called down to the men. she was standing on the edge of the draw, in her patched jacket and ravelled hood. claude, down in the hole, brushed the sleeve of his sweater across his streaming face. "butcher them?" he cried indignantly. "i wouldn't butcher them if i never saw meat again." "you ain't a-goin' to let all that good hawg-meat go to wase, air you, mr. claude?" mahailey pleaded. "they didn't have no sickness nor nuthin'. only you'll have to git right at 'em, or the meat won't be healthy." "it wouldn't be healthy for me, anyhow. i don't know what i will do with them, but i'm mighty sure i won't butcher them." "don't bother him, mahailey," mrs. wheeler cautioned her. "he's tired, and he has to fix some place for the live hogs." "i know he is, mam, but i could easy cut up one of them hawgs myself. i butchered my own little pig onct, in virginia. i could save the hams, anyways, and the spare-ribs. we ain't had no spare-ribs for ever so long." what with the ache in his back and his chagrin at losing the pigs, claude was feeling desperate. "mother," he shouted, "if you don't take mahailey into the house, i'll go crazy!" that evening mrs. wheeler asked him how much the twelve hogs would have been worth in money. he looked a little startled. "oh, i don't know exactly; three hundred dollars, anyway." "would it really be as much as that? i don't see how we could have prevented it, do you?" her face looked troubled. claude went to bed immediately after supper, but he had no sooner stretched his aching body between the sheets than he began to feel wakeful. he was humiliated at losing the pigs, because they had been left in his charge; but for the loss in money, about which even his mother was grieved, he didn't seem to care. he wondered whether all that winter he hadn't been working himself up into a childish contempt for money-values. when ralph was home at christmas time, he wore on his little finger a heavy gold ring, with a diamond as big as a pea, surrounded by showy grooves in the metal. he admitted to claude that he had won it in a poker game. ralph's hands were never free from automobile grease--they were the red, stumpy kind that couldn't be kept clean. claude remembered him milking in the barn by lantern light, his jewel throwing off jabbing sparkles of colour, and his fingers looking very much like the teats of the cow. that picture rose before him now, as a symbol of what successful farming led to. the farmer raised and took to market things with an intrinsic value; wheat and corn as good as could be grown anywhere in the world, hogs and cattle that were the best of their kind. in return he got manufactured articles of poor quality; showy furniture that went to pieces, carpets and draperies that faded, clothes that made a handsome man look like a clown. most of his money was paid out for machinery,--and that, too, went to pieces. a steam thrasher didn't last long; a horse outlived three automobiles. claude felt sure that when he was a little boy and all the neighbours were poor, they and their houses and farms had more individuality. the farmers took time then to plant fine cottonwood groves on their places, and to set osage orange hedges along the borders of their fields. now these trees were all being cut down and grubbed up. just why, nobody knew; they impoverished the land... they made the snow drift... nobody had them any more. with prosperity came a kind of callousness; everybody wanted to destroy the old things they used to take pride in. the orchards, which had been nursed and tended so carefully twenty years ago, were now left to die of neglect. it was less trouble to run into town in an automobile and buy fruit than it was to raise it. the people themselves had changed. he could remember when all the farmers in this community were friendly toward each other; now they were continually having lawsuits. their sons were either stingy and grasping, or extravagant and lazy, and they were always stirring up trouble. evidently, it took more intelligence to spend money than to make it. when he pondered upon this conclusion, claude thought of the erlichs. julius could go abroad and study for his doctor's degree, and live on less than ralph wasted every year. ralph would never have a profession or a trade, would never do or make anything the world needed. nor did claude find his own outlook much better. he was twenty-one years old, and he had no skill, no training,--no ability that would ever take him among the kind of people he admired. he was a clumsy, awkward farmer boy, and even mrs. erlich seemed to think the farm the best place for him. probably it was; but all the same he didn't find this kind of life worth the trouble of getting up every morning. he could not see the use of working for money, when money brought nothing one wanted. mrs. erlich said it brought security. sometimes he thought this security was what was the matter with everybody; that only perfect safety was required to kill all the best qualities in people and develop the mean ones. ernest, too, said "it's the best life in the world, claude." but if you went to bed defeated every night, and dreaded to wake in the morning, then clearly it was too good a life for you. to be assured, at his age, of three meals a day and plenty of sleep, was like being assured of a decent burial. safety, security; if you followed that reasoning out, then the unborn, those who would never be born, were the safest of all; nothing could happen to them. claude knew, and everybody else knew, seemingly, that there was something wrong with him. he had been unable to conceal his discontent. mr. wheeler was afraid he was one of those visionary fellows who make unnecessary difficulties for themselves and other people. mrs. wheeler thought the trouble with her son was that he had not yet found his saviour. bayliss was convinced that his brother was a moral rebel, that behind his reticence and his guarded manner he concealed the most dangerous opinions. the neighbours liked claude, but they laughed at him, and said it was a good thing his father was well fixed. claude was aware that his energy, instead of accomplishing something, was spent in resisting unalterable conditions, and in unavailing efforts to subdue his own nature. when he thought he had at last got himself in hand, a moment would undo the work of days; in a flash he would be transformed from a wooden post into a living boy. he would spring to his feet, turn over quickly in bed, or stop short in his walk, because the old belief flashed up in him with an intense kind of hope, an intense kind of pain,--the conviction that there was something splendid about life, if he could but find it. ix the weather, after the big storm, behaved capriciously. there was a partial thaw which threatened to flood everything,--then a hard freeze. the whole country glittered with an icy crust, and people went about on a platform of frozen snow, quite above the level of ordinary life. claude got out mr. wheeler's old double sleigh from the mass of heterogeneous objects that had for years lain on top of it, and brought the rusty sleighbells up to the house for mahailey to scour with brick dust. now that they had automobiles, most of the farmers had let their old sleighs go to pieces. but the wheelers always kept everything. claude told his mother he meant to take enid royce for a sleigh-ride. enid was the daughter of jason royce, the grain merchant, one of the early settlers, who for many years had run the only grist mill in frankfort county. she and claude were old playmates; he made a formal call at the millhouse, as it was called, every summer during his vacation, and often dropped in to see mr. royce at his town office. immediately after supper, claude put the two wiry little blacks, pompey and satan, to the sleigh. the moon had been up since long before the sun went down, had been hanging pale in the sky most of the afternoon, and now it flooded the snow-terraced land with silver. it was one of those sparkling winter nights when a boy feels that though the world is very big, he himself is bigger; that under the whole crystalline blue sky there is no one quite so warm and sentient as himself, and that all this magnificence is for him. the sleighbells rang out with a kind of musical lightheartedness, as if they were glad to sing again, after the many winters they had hung rusty and dustchoked in the barn. the mill road, that led off the highway and down to the river, had pleasant associations for claude. when he was a youngster, every time his father went to mill, he begged to go along. he liked the mill and the miller and the miller's little girl. he had never liked the miller's house, however, and he was afraid of enid's mother. even now, as he tied his horses to the long hitch-bar down by the engine room, he resolved that he would not be persuaded to enter that formal parlour, full of new-looking, expensive furniture, where his energy always deserted him and he could never think of anything to talk about. if he moved, his shoes squeaked in the silence, and mrs. royce sat and blinked her sharp little eyes at him, and the longer he stayed, the harder it was to go. enid herself came to the door. "why, it's claude!" she exclaimed. "won't you come in?" "no, i want you to go riding. i've got the old sleigh out. come on, it's a fine night!" "i thought i heard bells. won't you come in and see mother while i get my things on?" claude said he must stay with his horses, and ran back to the hitch-bar. enid didn't keep him waiting long; she wasn't that kind. she came swiftly down the path and through the front gate in the maine seal motor-coat she wore when she drove her coupe in cold weather. "now, which way?" claude asked as the horses sprang forward and the bells began to jingle. "almost any way. what a beautiful night! and i love your bells, claude. i haven't heard sleighbells since you used to bring me and gladys home from school in stormy weather. why don't we stop for her tonight? she has furs now, you know!" here enid laughed. "all the old ladies are so terribly puzzled about them; they can't find out whether your brother really gave them to her for christmas or not. if they were sure she bought them for herself, i believe they'd hold a public meeting." claude cracked his whip over his eager little blacks. "doesn't it make you tired, the way they are always nagging at gladys?" "it would, if she minded. but she's just as serene! they must have something to fuss about, and of course poor mrs. farmer's back taxes are piling up. i certainly suspect bayliss of the furs." claude did not feel as eager to stop for gladys as he had been a few moments before. they were approaching the town now, and lighted windows shone softly across the blue whiteness of the snow. even in progressive frankfort, the street lights were turned off on a night so glorious as this. mrs. farmer and her daughter had a little white cottage down in the south part of the town, where only people of modest means lived. "we must stop to see gladys' mother, if only for a minute," enid said as they drew up before the fence. "she is so fond of company." claude tied his team to a tree, and they went up to the narrow, sloping porch, hung with vines that were full of frozen snow. mrs. farmer met them; a large, rosy woman of fifty, with a pleasant kentucky voice. she took enid's arm affectionately, and claude followed them into the long, low sitting-room, which had an uneven floor and a lamp at either end, and was scantily furnished in rickety mahogany. there, close beside the hard-coal burner, sat bayliss wheeler. he did not rise when they entered, but said, "hello, folks," in a rather sheepish voice. on a little table, beside mrs. farmer's workbasket, was the box of candy he had lately taken out of his overcoat pocket, still tied up with its gold cord. a tall lamp stood beside the piano, where gladys had evidently been practising. claude wondered whether bayliss actually pretended to an interest in music! at this moment gladys was in the kitchen, mrs. farmer explained, looking for her mother's glasses, mislaid when she was copying a recipe for a cheese soufflé. "are you still getting new recipes, mrs. farmer?" enid asked her. "i thought you could make every dish in the world already." "oh, not quite!" mrs. farmer laughed modestly and showed that she liked compliments. "do sit down, claude," she besought of the stiff image by the door. "daughter will be here directly." at that moment gladys farmer appeared. "why, i didn't know you had company, mother," she said, coming in to greet them. this meant, claude supposed, that bayliss was not company. he scarcely glanced at gladys as he took the hand she held out to him. one of gladys' grandfathers had come from antwerp, and she had the settled composure, the full red lips, brown eyes, and dimpled white hands which occur so often in flemish portraits of young women. some people thought her a trifle heavy, too mature and positive to be called pretty, even though they admired her rich, tulip-like complexion. gladys never seemed aware that her looks and her poverty and her extravagance were the subject of perpetual argument, but went to and from school every day with the air of one whose position is assured. her musicianship gave her a kind of authority in frankfort. enid explained the purpose of their call. "claude has got out his old sleigh, and we've come to take you for a ride. perhaps bayliss will go, too?" bayliss said he guessed he would, though claude knew there was nothing he hated so much as being out in the cold. gladys ran upstairs to put on a warm dress, and enid accompanied her, leaving mrs. farmer to make agreeable conversation between her two incompatible guests. "bayliss was just telling us how you lost your hogs in the storm, claude. what a pity!" she said sympathetically. yes, claude thought, bayliss wouldn't be at all reticent about that incident! "i suppose there was really no way to save them," mrs. farmer went on in her polite way; her voice was low and round, like her daughter's, different from the high, tight western voice. "so i hope you don't let yourself worry about it." "no, i don't worry about anything as dead as those hogs were. what's the use?" claude asked boldly. "that's right," murmured mrs. farmer, rocking a little in her chair. "such things will happen sometimes, and we ought not to take them too hard. it isn't as if a person had been hurt, is it?" claude shook himself and tried to respond to her cordiality, and to the shabby comfort of her long parlour, so evidently doing its best to be attractive to her friends. there weren't four steady legs on any of the stuffed chairs or little folding tables she had brought up from the south, and the heavy gold moulding was half broken away from the oil portrait of her father, the judge. but she carried her poverty lightly, as southern people did after the civil war, and she didn't fret half so much about her back taxes as her neighbours did. claude tried to talk agreeably to her, but he was distracted by the sound of stifled laughter upstairs. probably gladys and enid were joking about bayliss' being there. how shameless girls were, anyhow! people came to their front windows to look out as the sleigh dashed jingling up and down the village streets. when they left town, bayliss suggested that they drive out past the trevor place. the girls began to talk about the two young new englanders, trevor and brewster, who had lived there when frankfort was still a tough little frontier settlement. every one was talking about them now, for a few days ago word had come that one of the partners, amos brewster, had dropped dead in his law office in hartford. it was thirty years since he and his friend, bruce trevor, had tried to be great cattle men in frankfort county, and had built the house on the round hill east of the town, where they wasted a great deal of money very joyously. claude's father always declared that the amount they squandered in carousing was negligible compared to their losses in commendable industrial endeavour. the country, mr. wheeler said, had never been the same since those boys left it. he delighted to tell about the time when trevor and brewster went into sheep. they imported a breeding ram from scotland at a great expense, and when he arrived were so impatient to get the good of him that they turned him in with the ewes as soon as he was out of his crate. consequently all the lambs were born at the wrong season; came at the beginning of march, in a blinding blizzard, and the mothers died from exposure. the gallant trevor took horse and spurred all over the county, from one little settlement to another, buying up nursing bottles and nipples to feed the orphan lambs. the rich bottom land about the trevor place had been rented out to a truck gardener for years now; the comfortable house with its billiard-room annex--a wonder for that part of the country in its day--remained closed, its windows boarded up. it sat on the top of a round knoll, a fine cottonwood grove behind it. tonight, as claude drove toward it, the hill with its tall straight trees looked like a big fur cap put down on the snow. "why hasn't some one bought that house long ago and fixed it up?" enid remarked. "there is no building site around here to compare with it. it looks like the place where the leading citizen of the town ought to live." "i'm glad you like it, enid," said bayliss in a guarded voice. "i've always had a sneaking fancy for the place myself. those fellows back there never wanted to sell it. but now the estate's got to be settled up. i bought it yesterday. the deed is on its way to hartford for signature." enid turned round in her seat. "why bayliss, are you in earnest? think of just buying the trevor place off-hand, as if it were any ordinary piece of real estate! will you make over the house, and live there some day?" "i don't know about living there. it's too far to walk to my business, and the road across this bottom gets pretty muddy for a car in the spring." "but it's not far, less than a mile. if i once owned that spot, i'd surely never let anybody else live there. even carrie remembers it. she often asks in her letters whether any one has bought the trevor place yet." carrie royce, enid's older sister, was a missionary in china. "well," bayliss admitted, "i didn't buy it for an investment, exactly. i paid all it was worth." enid turned to gladys, who was apparently not listening. "you'd be the one who could plan a mansion for trevor hill, gladys. you always have such original ideas about houses." "yes, people who have no houses of their own often seem to have ideas about building," said gladys quietly. "but i like the trevor place as it is. i hate to think that one of them is dead. people say they did have such good times up there." bayliss grunted. "call it good times if you like. the kids were still grubbing whiskey bottles out of the cellar when i first came to town. of course, if i decide to live there, i'll pull down that old trap and put up something modern." he often took this gruff tone with gladys in public. enid tried to draw the driver into the conversation. "there seems to be a difference of opinion here, claude." "oh," said gladys carelessly, "it's bayliss' property, or soon will be. he will build what he likes. i've always known somebody would get that place away from me, so i'm prepared." "get it away from you?" muttered bayliss, amazed. "yes. as long as no one bought it and spoiled it, it was mine as much as it was anybody's." "claude," said enid banteringly, "now both your brothers have houses. where are you going to have yours?" "i don't know that i'll ever have one. i think i'll run about the world a little before i draw my plans," he replied sarcastically. "take me with you, claude!" said gladys in a tone of sudden weariness. from that spiritless murmur enid suspected that bayliss had captured gladys' hand under the buffalo robe. grimness had settled down over the sleighing party. even enid, who was not highly sensitive to unuttered feelings, saw that there was an uncomfortable constraint. a sharp wind had come up. bayliss twice suggested turning back, but his brother answered, "pretty soon," and drove on. he meant that bayliss should have enough of it. not until enid whispered reproachfully, "i really think you ought to turn; we're all getting cold," did he realize that he had made his sleighing party into a punishment! there was certainly nothing to punish enid for; she had done her best, and had tried to make his own bad manners less conspicuous. he muttered a blundering apology to her when he lifted her from the sleigh at the mill house. on his long drive home he had bitter thoughts for company. he was so angry with gladys that he hadn't been able to bid her good-night. everything she said on the ride had nettled him. if she meant to marry bayliss, then she ought to throw off this affectation of freedom and independence. if she did not mean to, why did she accept favours from him and let him get into the habit of walking into her house and putting his box of candy on the table, as all frankfort fellows did when they were courting? certainly she couldn't make herself believe that she liked his society! when they were classmates at the frankfort high school, gladys was claude's aesthetic proxy. it wasn't the proper thing for a boy to be too clean, or too careful about his dress and manners. but if he selected a girl who was irreproachable in these respects, got his latin and did his laboratory work with her, then all her personal attractions redounded to his credit. gladys had seemed to appreciate the honour claude did her, and it was not all on her own account that she wore such beautifully ironed muslin dresses when they went on botanical expeditions. driving home after that miserable sleigh-ride, claude told himself that in so far as gladys was concerned he could make up his mind to the fact that he had been "stung" all along. he had believed in her fine feelings; believed implicitly. now he knew she had none so fine that she couldn't pocket them when there was enough to be gained by it. even while he said these things over and over, his old conception of gladys, down at the bottom of his mind, remained persistently unchanged. but that only made his state of feeling the more painful. he was deeply hurt,--and for some reason, youth, when it is hurt, likes to feel itself betrayed. book two: enid i one afternoon that spring claude was sitting on the long flight of granite steps that leads up to the state house in denver. he had been looking at the collection of cliff dweller remains in the capitol, and when he came out into the sunlight the faint smell of fresh-cut grass struck his nostrils and persuaded him to linger. the gardeners were giving the grounds their first light mowing. all the lawns on the hill were bright with daffodils and hyacinths. a sweet, warm wind blew over the grass, drying the waterdrops. there had been showers in the afternoon, and the sky was still a tender, rainy blue, where it showed through the masses of swiftly moving clouds. claude had been away from home for nearly a month. his father had sent him out to see ralph and the new ranch, and from there he went on to colorado springs and trinidad. he had enjoyed travelling, but now that he was back in denver he had that feeling of loneliness which often overtakes country boys in a city; the feeling of being unrelated to anything, of not mattering to anybody. he had wandered about colorado springs wishing he knew some of the people who were going in and out of the houses; wishing that he could talk to some of those pretty girls he saw driving their own cars about the streets, if only to say a few words. one morning when he was walking out in the hills a girl passed him, then slowed her car to ask if she could give him a lift. claude would have said that she was just the sort who would never stop to pick him up, yet she did, and she talked to him pleasantly all the way back to town. it was only twenty minutes or so, but it was worth everything else that happened on his trip. when she asked him where she should put him down, he said at the antlers, and blushed so furiously that she must have known at once he wasn't staying there. he wondered this afternoon how many discouraged young men had sat here on the state house steps and watched the sun go down behind the mountains. every one was always saying it was a fine thing to be young; but it was a painful thing, too. he didn't believe older people were ever so wretched. over there, in the golden light, the mass of mountains was splitting up into four distinct ranges, and as the sun dropped lower the peaks emerged in perspective, one behind the other. it was a lonely splendour that only made the ache in his breast the stronger. what was the matter with him, he asked himself entreatingly. he must answer that question before he went home again. the statue of kit carson on horseback, down in the square, pointed westward; but there was no west, in that sense, any more. there was still south america; perhaps he could find something below the isthmus. here the sky was like a lid shut down over the world; his mother could see saints and martyrs behind it. well, in time he would get over all this, he supposed. even his father had been restless as a young man, and had run away into a new country. it was a storm that died down at last,--but what a pity not to do anything with it! a waste of power--for it was a kind of power; he sprang to his feet and stood frowning against the ruddy light, so deep in his struggling thoughts that he did not notice a man, mounting from the lower terraces, who stopped to look at him. the stranger scrutinized claude with interest. he saw a young man standing bareheaded on the long flight of steps, his fists clenched in an attitude of arrested action,--his sandy hair, his tanned face, his tense figure copper-coloured in the oblique rays. claude would have been astonished if he could have known how he seemed to this stranger. ii the next morning claude stepped off the train at frankfort and had his breakfast at the station before the town was awake. his family were not expecting him, so he thought he would walk home and stop at the mill to see enid royce. after all, old friends were best. he left town by the low road that wound along the creek. the willows were all out in new yellow leaves, and the sticky cotton-wood buds were on the point of bursting. birds were calling everywhere, and now and then, through the studded willow wands, flashed the dazzling wing of a cardinal. all over the dusty, tan-coloured wheatfields there was a tender mist of green,--millions of little fingers reaching up and waving lightly in the sun. to the north and south claude could see the corn-planters, moving in straight lines over the brown acres where the earth had been harrowed so fine that it blew off in clouds of dust to the roadside. when a gust of wind rose, gay little twisters came across the open fields, corkscrews of powdered earth that whirled through the air and suddenly fell again. it seemed as if there were a lark on every fence post, singing for everything that was dumb; for the great ploughed lands, and the heavy horses in the rows, and the men guiding the horses. along the roadsides, from under the dead weeds and wisps of dried bluestem, the dandelions thrust up their clean, bright faces. if claude happened to step on one, the acrid smell made him think of mahailey, who had probably been out this very morning, gouging the sod with her broken butcher knife and stuffing dandelion greens into her apron. she always went for greens with an air of secrecy, very early, and sneaked along the roadsides stooping close to the ground, as if she might be detected and driven away, or as if the dandelions were wild things and had to be caught sleeping. claude was thinking, as he walked, of how he used to like to come to mill with his father. the whole process of milling was mysterious to him then; and the mill house and the miller's wife were mysterious; even enid was, a little--until he got her down in the bright sun among the cat-tails. they used to play in the bins of clean wheat, watch the flour coming out of the hopper and get themselves covered with white dust. best of all he liked going in where the water-wheel hung dripping in its dark cave, and quivering streaks of sunlight came in through the cracks to play on the green slime and the spotted jewel-weed growing in the shale. the mill was a place of sharp contrasts; bright sun and deep shade, roaring sound and heavy, dripping silence. he remembered how astonished he was one day, when he found mr. royce in gloves and goggles, cleaning the millstones, and discovered what harmless looking things they were. the miller picked away at them with a sharp hammer until the sparks flew, and claude still had on his hand a blue spot where a chip of flint went under the skin when he got too near. jason royce must have kept his mill going out of sentiment, for there was not much money in it now. but milling had been his first business, and he had not found many things in life to be sentimental about. sometimes one still came upon him in dusty miller's clothes, giving his man a day off. he had long ago ceased to depend on the risings and fallings of lovely creek for his power, and had put in a gasoline engine. the old dam now lay "like a holler tooth," as one of his men said, grown up with weeds and willow-brush. mr. royce's family affairs had never gone as well as his business. he had not been blessed with a son, and out of five daughters he had succeeded in bringing up only two. people thought the mill house damp and unwholesome. until he built a tenant's cottage and got a married man to take charge of the mill, mr. royce was never able to keep his millers long. they complained of the gloom of the house, and said they could not get enough to eat. mrs. royce went every summer to a vegetarian sanatorium in michigan, where she learned to live on nuts and toasted cereals. she gave her family nourishment, to be sure, but there was never during the day a meal that a man could look forward to with pleasure, or sit down to with satisfaction. mr. royce usually dined at the hotel in town. nevertheless, his wife was distinguished for certain brilliant culinary accomplishments. her bread was faultless. when a church supper was toward, she was always called upon for her wonderful mayonnaise dressing, or her angel-food cake,--sure to be the lightest and spongiest in any assemblage of cakes. a deep preoccupation about her health made mrs. royce like a woman who has a hidden grief, or is preyed upon by a consuming regret. it wrapped her in a kind of insensibility. she lived differently from other people, and that fact made her distrustful and reserved. only when she was at the sanatorium, under the care of her idolized doctors, did she feel that she was understood and surrounded by sympathy. her distrust had communicated itself to her daughters and in countless little ways had coloured their feelings about life. they grew up under the shadow of being "different," and formed no close friendships. gladys farmer was the only frankfort girl who had ever gone much to the mill house. nobody was surprised when caroline royce, the older daughter, went out to china to be a missionary, or that her mother let her go without a protest. the royce women were strange, anyhow, people said; with carrie gone, they hoped enid would grow up to be more like other folk. she dressed well, came to town often in her car, and was always ready to work for the church or the public library. besides, in frankfort, enid was thought very pretty,--in itself a humanizing attribute. she was slender, with a small, well-shaped head, a smooth, pale skin, and large, dark, opaque eyes with heavy lashes. the long line from the lobe of her ear to the tip of her chin gave her face a certain rigidity, but to the old ladies, who are the best critics in such matters, this meant firmness and dignity. she moved quickly and gracefully, just brushing things rather than touching them, so that there was a suggestion of flight about her slim figure, of gliding away from her surroundings. when the sunday school gave tableaux vivants, enid was chosen for nydia, the blind girl of pompeii, and for the martyr in "christ or diana." the pallor of her skin, the submissive inclination of her forehead, and her dark, unchanging eyes, made one think of something "early christian." on this may morning when claude wheeler came striding up the mill road, enid was in the yard, standing by a trellis for vines built near the fence, out from under the heavy shade of the trees. she was raking the earth that had been spaded up the day before, and making furrows in which to drop seeds. from the turn of the road, by the knotty old willows, claude saw her pink starched dress and little white sun-bonnet. he hurried forward. "hello, are you farming?" he called as he came up to the fence. enid, who was bending over at that moment, rose quickly, but without a start. "why, claude! i thought you were out west somewhere. this is a surprise!" she brushed the earth from her hands and gave him her limp white fingers. her arms, bare below the elbow, were thin, and looked cold, as if she had put on a summer dress too early. "i just got back this morning. i'm walking out home. what are you planting?" "sweet peas." "you always have the finest ones in the country. when i see a bunch of yours at church or anywhere, i always know them." "yes, i'm quite successful with my sweet peas," she admitted. "the ground is rich down here, and they get plenty of sun." "it isn't only your sweet peas. nobody else has such lilacs or rambler roses, and i expect you have the only wistaria vine in frankfort county." "mother planted that a long while ago, when she first moved here. she is very partial to wistaria. i'm afraid we'll lose it, one of these hard winters." "oh, that would be a shame! take good care of it. you must put in a lot of time looking after these things, anyway." he spoke admiringly. enid leaned against the fence and pushed back her little bonnet. "perhaps i take more interest in flowers than i do in people. i often envy you, claude; you have so many interests." he coloured. "i? good gracious, i don't have many! i'm an awfully discontented sort of fellow. i didn't care about going to school until i had to stop, and then i was sore because i couldn't go back. i guess i've been sulking about it all winter." she looked at him with quiet astonishment. "i don't see why you should be discontented; you're so free." "well, aren't you free, too?" "not to do what i want to. the only thing i really want to do is to go out to china and help carrie in her work. mother thinks i'm not strong enough. but carrie was never very strong here. she is better in china, and i think i might be." claude felt concern. he had not seen enid since the sleigh-ride, when she had been gayer than usual. now she seemed sunk in lassitude. "you must get over such notions, enid. you don't want to go wandering off alone like that. it makes people queer. isn't there plenty of missionary work to be done right here?" she sighed. "that's what everybody says. but we all of us have a chance, if we'll take it. out there they haven't. it's terrible to think of all those millions that live and die in darkness." claude glanced up at the sombre mill house, hidden in cedars,--then off at the bright, dusty fields. he felt as if he were a little to blame for enid's melancholy. he hadn't been very neighbourly this last year. "people can live in darkness here, too, unless they fight it. look at me. i told you i've been moping all winter. we all feel friendly enough, but we go plodding on and never get together. you and i are old friends, and yet we hardly ever see each other. mother says you've been promising for two years to run up and have a visit with her. why don't you come? it would please her." "then i will. i've always been fond of your mother." she paused a moment, absently twisting the strings of her bonnet, then twitched it from her head with a quick movement and looked at him squarely in the bright light. "claude, you haven't really become a free-thinker, have you?" he laughed outright. "why, what made you think i had?" "everybody knows ernest havel is, and people say you and he read that kind of books together." "has that got anything to do with our being friends?" "yes, it has. i couldn't feel the same confidence in you. i've worried about it a good deal." "well, you just cut it out. for one thing, i'm not worth it," he said quickly. "oh, yes, you are! if worrying would do any good--" she shook her head at him reproachfully. claude took hold of the fence pickets between them with both hands. "it will do good! didn't i tell you there was missionary work to be done right here? is that why you've been so stand-offish with me the last few years, because you thought i was an atheist?" "i never, you know, liked ernest havel," she murmured. when claude left the mill and started homeward he felt that he had found something which would help him through the summer. how fortunate he had been to come upon enid alone and talk to her without interruption,--without once seeing mrs. royce's face, always masked in powder, peering at him from behind a drawn blind. mrs. royce had always looked old, even long ago when she used to come into church with her little girls,--a tiny woman in tiny high-heeled shoes and a big hat with nodding plumes, her black dress covered with bugles and jet that glittered and rattled and made her seem hard on the outside, like an insect. yes, he must see to it that enid went about and saw more of other people. she was too much with her mother, and with her own thoughts. flowers and foreign missions--her garden and the great kingdom of china; there was something unusual and touching about her preoccupations. something quite charming, too. women ought to be religious; faith was the natural fragrance of their minds. the more incredible the things they believed, the more lovely was the act of belief. to him the story of "paradise lost" was as mythical as the "odyssey"; yet when his mother read it aloud to him, it was not only beautiful but true. a woman who didn't have holy thoughts about mysterious things far away would be prosaic and commonplace, like a man. iii during the next few weeks claude often ran his car down to the mill house on a pleasant evening and coaxed enid to go into frankfort with him and sit through a moving picture show, or to drive to a neighbouring town. the advantage of this form of companionship was that it did not put too great a strain upon one's conversational powers. enid could be admirably silent, and she was never embarrassed by either silence or speech. she was cool and sure of herself under any circumstances, and that was one reason why she drove a car so well,--much better than claude, indeed. one sunday, when they met after church, she told claude that she wanted to go to hastings to do some shopping, and they arranged that he should take her on tuesday in his father's big car. the town was about seventy miles to the northeast and, from frankfort, it was an inconvenient trip by rail. on tuesday morning claude reached the mill house just as the sun was rising over the damp fields. enid was on the front porch waiting for him, wearing a blanket coat over her spring suit. she ran down to the gate and slipped into the seat beside him. "good morning, claude. nobody else is up. it's going to be a glorious day, isn't it?" "splendid. a little warm for this time of year. you won't need that coat long." for the first hour they found the roads empty. all the fields were grey with dew, and the early sunlight burned over everything with the transparent brightness of a fire that has just been kindled. as the machine noiselessly wound off the miles, the sky grew deeper and bluer, and the flowers along the roadside opened in the wet grass. there were men and horses abroad on every hill now. soon they began to pass children on the way to school, who stopped and waved their bright dinner pails at the two travellers. by ten o'clock they were in hastings. while enid was shopping, claude bought some white shoes and duck trousers. he felt more interest than usual in his summer clothes. they met at the hotel for lunch, both very hungry and both satisfied with their morning's work. seated in the dining room, with enid opposite him, claude thought they did not look at all like a country boy and girl come to town, but like experienced people touring in their car. "will you make a call with me after dinner?" she asked while they were waiting for their dessert. "is it any one i know?" "certainly. brother weldon is in town. his meetings are over, and i was afraid he might be gone, but he is staying on a few days with mrs. gleason. i brought some of carrie's letters along for him to read." claude made a wry face. "he won't be delighted to see me. we never got on well at school. he's a regular muff of a teacher, if you want to know," he added resolutely. enid studied him judicially. "i'm surprised to hear that; he's such a good speaker. you'd better come along. it's so foolish to have a coolness with your old teachers." an hour later the reverend arthur weldon received the two young people in mrs. gleason's half-darkened parlour, where he seemed quite as much at home as that lady herself. the hostess, after chatting cordially with the visitors for a few moments, excused herself to go to a p. e. o. meeting. every one rose at her departure, and mr. weldon approached enid, took her hand, and stood looking at her with his head inclined and his oblique smile. "this is an unexpected pleasure, to see you again, miss enid. and you, too, claude," turning a little toward the latter. "you've come up from frankfort together this beautiful day?" his tone seemed to say, "how lovely for you!" he directed most of his remarks to enid and, as always, avoided looking at claude except when he definitely addressed him. "you are farming this year, claude? i presume that is a great satisfaction to your father. and mrs. wheeler is quite well?" mr. weldon certainly bore no malice, but he always pronounced claude's name exactly like the word "clod," which annoyed him. to be sure, enid pronounced his name in the same way, but either claude did not notice this, or did not mind it from her. he sank into a deep, dark sofa, and sat with his driving cap on his knee while brother weldon drew a chair up to the one open window of the dusky room and began to read carrie royce's letters. without being asked to do so, he read them aloud, and stopped to comment from time to time. claude observed with disappointment that enid drank in all his platitudes just as mrs. wheeler did. he had never looked at weldon so long before. the light fell full on the young man's pear-shaped head and his thin, rippled hair. what in the world could sensible women like his mother and enid royce find to admire in this purring, white-necktied fellow? enid's dark eyes rested upon him with an expression of profound respect. she both looked at him and spoke to him with more feeling than she ever showed toward claude. "you see, brother weldon," she said earnestly, "i am not naturally much drawn to people. i find it hard to take the proper interest in the church work at home. it seems as if i had always been holding myself in reserve for the foreign field,--by not making personal ties, i mean. if gladys farmer went to china, everybody would miss her. she could never be replaced in the high school. she has the kind of magnetism that draws people to her. but i have always been keeping myself free to do what carrie is doing. there i know i could be of use." claude saw it was not easy for enid to talk like this. her face looked troubled, and her dark eyebrows came together in a sharp angle as she tried to tell the young preacher exactly what was going on in her mind. he listened with his habitual, smiling attention, smoothing the paper of the folded letter pages and murmuring, "yes, i understand. indeed, miss enid?" when she pressed him for advice, he said it was not always easy to know in what field one could be most useful; perhaps this very restraint was giving her some spiritual discipline that she particularly needed. he was careful not to commit himself, not to advise anything unconditionally, except prayer. "i believe that all things are made clear to us in prayer, miss enid." enid clasped her hands; her perplexity made her features look sharper. "but it is when i pray that i feel this call the strongest. it seems as if a finger were pointing me over there. sometimes when i ask for guidance in little things, i get none, and only get the feeling that my work lies far away, and that for it, strength would be given me. until i take that road, christ withholds himself." mr. weldon answered her in a tone of relief, as if something obscure had been made clear. "if that is the case, miss enid, i think we need have no anxiety. if the call recurs to you in prayer, and it is your saviour's will, then we can be sure that the way and the means will be revealed. a passage from one of the prophets occurs to me at this moment; 'and behold a way shall be opened up before thy feet; walk thou in it.' we might say that this promise was originally meant for enid royce! i believe god likes us to appropriate passages of his word personally." this last remark was made playfully, as if it were a kind of christian endeavour jest. he rose and handed enid back the letters. clearly, the interview was over. as enid drew on her gloves she told him that it had been a great help to talk to him, and that he always seemed to give her what she needed. claude wondered what it was. he hadn't seen weldon do anything but retreat before her eager questions. he, an "atheist," could have given her stronger reinforcement. claude's car stood under the maple trees in front of mrs. gleason's house. before they got into it, he called enid's attention to a mass of thunderheads in the west. "that looks to me like a storm. it might be a wise thing to stay at the hotel tonight." "oh, no! i don't want to do that. i haven't come prepared." he reminded her that it wouldn't be impossible to buy whatever she might need for the night. "i don't like to stay in a strange place without my own things," she said decidedly. "i'm afraid we'll be going straight into it. we may be in for something pretty rough,--but it's as you say." he still hesitated, with his hand on the door. "i think we'd better try it," she said with quiet determination. claude had not yet learned that enid always opposed the unexpected, and could not bear to have her plans changed by people or circumstances. for an hour he drove at his best speed, watching the clouds anxiously. the table-land, from horizon to horizon, was glowing in sunlight, and the sky itself seemed only the more brilliant for the mass of purple vapours rolling in the west, with bright edges, like new-cut lead. he had made fifty odd miles when the air suddenly grew cold, and in ten minutes the whole shining sky was blotted out. he sprang to the ground and began to jack up his wheels. as soon as a wheel left the earth, enid adjusted the chain. claude told her he had never got the chains on so quickly before. he covered the packages in the back seat with an oilcloth and drove forward to meet the storm. the rain swept over them in waves, seemed to rise from the sod as well as to fall from the clouds. they made another five miles, ploughing through puddles and sliding over liquefied roads. suddenly the heavy car, chains and all, bounded up a two-foot bank, shot over the sod a dozen yards before the brake caught it, then swung a half-circle and stood still. enid sat calm and motionless. claude drew a long breath. "if that had happened on a culvert, we'd be in the ditch with the car on top of us. i simply can't control the thing. the whole top soil is loose, and there's nothing to hold to. that's tommy rice's place over there. we'd better get him to take us in for the night." "but that would be worse than the hotel," enid objected. "they are not very clean people, and there are a lot of children." "better be crowded than dead," he murmured. "from here on, it would be a matter of luck. we might land anywhere." "we are only about ten miles from your place. i can stay with your mother tonight." "it's too dangerous, enid. i don't like the responsibility. your father would blame me for taking such a chance." "i know, it's on my account you're nervous." enid spoke reasonably enough. "do you mind letting me drive for awhile? there are only three bad hills left, and i think i can slide down them sideways; i've often tried it." claude got out and let her slip into his seat, but after she took the wheel he put his hand on her arm. "don't do anything so foolish," he pleaded. enid smiled and shook her head. she was amiable, but inflexible. he folded his arms. "go on." he was chafed by her stubbornness, but he had to admire her resourcefulness in handling the car. at the bottom of one of the worst hills was a new cement culvert, overlaid with liquid mud, where there was nothing for the chains to grip. the car slid to the edge of the culvert and stopped on the very brink. while they were ploughing up the other side of the hill, enid remarked; "it's a good thing your starter works well; a little jar would have thrown us over." they pulled up at the wheeler farm just before dark, and mrs. wheeler came running out to meet them with a rubber coat over her head. "you poor drowned children!" she cried, taking enid in her arms. "how did you ever get home? i so hoped you had stayed in hastings." "it was enid who got us home," claude told her. "she's a dreadfully foolhardy girl, and somebody ought to shake her, but she's a fine driver." enid laughed as she brushed a wet lock back from her forehead. "you were right, of course; the sensible thing would have been to turn in at the rice place; only i didn't want to." later in the evening claude was glad they hadn't. it was pleasant to be at home and to see enid at the supper table, sitting on his father's right and wearing one of his mother's new grey house-dresses. they would have had a dismal time at the rices', with no beds to sleep in except such as were already occupied by rice children. enid had never slept in his mother's guest room before, and it pleased him to think how comfortable she would be there. at an early hour mrs. wheeler took a candle to light her guest to bed; enid passed near claude's chair as she was leaving the room. "have you forgiven me?" she asked teasingly. "what made you so pig-headed? did you want to frighten me? or to show me how well you could drive?" "neither. i wanted to get home. good-night." claude settled back in his chair and shaded his eyes. she did feel that this was home, then. she had not been afraid of his father's jokes, or disconcerted by mahailey's knowing grin. her ease in the household gave him unaccountable pleasure. he picked up a book, but did not read. it was lying open on his knee when his mother came back half an hour later. "move quietly when you go upstairs, claude. she is so tired that she may be asleep already." he took off his shoes and made his ascent with the utmost caution. iv ernest havel was cultivating his bright, glistening young cornfield one summer morning, whistling to himself an old german song which was somehow connected with a picture that rose in his memory. it was a picture of the earliest ploughing he could remember. he saw a half-circle of green hills, with snow still lingering in the clefts of the higher ridges; behind the hills rose a wall of sharp mountains, covered with dark pine forests. in the meadows at the foot of that sweep of hills there was a winding creek, with polled willows in their first yellow-green, and brown fields. he himself was a little boy, playing by the creek and watching his father and mother plough with two great oxen, that had rope traces fastened to their heads and their long horns. his mother walked barefoot beside the oxen and led them; his father walked behind, guiding the plough. his father always looked down. his mother's face was almost as brown and furrowed as the fields, and her eyes were pale blue, like the skies of early spring. the two would go up and down thus all morning without speaking, except to the oxen. ernest was the last of a long family, and as he played by the creek he used to wonder why his parents looked so old. leonard dawson drove his car up to the fence and shouted, waking ernest from his revery. he told his team to stand, and ran out to the edge of the field. "hello, ernest," leonard called. "have you heard claude wheeler got hurt day before yesterday?" "you don't say so! it can't be anything bad, or they'd let me know." "oh, it's nothing very bad, i guess, but he got his face scratched up in the wire quite a little. it was the queerest thing i ever saw. he was out with the team of mules and a heavy plough, working the road in that deep cut between their place and mine. the gasoline motor-truck came along, making more noise than usual, maybe. but those mules know a motor truck, and what they did was pure cussedness. they begun to rear and plunge in that deep cut. i was working my corn over in the field and shouted to the gasoline man to stop, but he didn't hear me. claude jumped for the critters' heads and got 'em by the bits, but by that time he was all tangled up in the lines. those damned mules lifted him off his feet and started to run. down the draw and up the bank and across the fields they went, with that big plough-blade jumping three or four feet in the air every clip. i was sure it would cut one of the mules open, or go clean through claude. it would have got him, too, if he hadn't kept his hold on the bits. they carried him right along, swinging in the air, and finally ran him into the barb-wire fence and cut his face and neck up." "my goodness! did he get cut bad?" "no, not very, but yesterday morning he was out cultivating corn, all stuck up with court plaster. i knew that was a fool thing to do; a wire cut's nasty if you get overheated out in the dust. but you can't tell a wheeler anything. now they say his face has swelled and is hurting him terrible, and he's gone to town to see the doctor. you'd better go over there tonight, and see if you can make him take care of himself." leonard drove on, and ernest went back to his team. "it's queer about that boy," he was thinking. "he's big and strong, and he's got an education and all that fine land, but he don't seem to fit in right." sometimes ernest thought his friend was unlucky. when that idea occurred to him, he sighed and shook it off. for ernest believed there was no help for that; it was something rationalism did not explain. the next afternoon enid royce's coupe drove up to the wheeler farmyard. mrs. wheeler saw enid get out of her car and came down the hill to meet her, breathless and distressed. "oh, enid! you've heard of claude's accident? he wouldn't take care of himself, and now he's got erysipelas. he's in such pain, poor boy!" enid took her arm, and they started up the hill toward the house. "can i see claude, mrs. wheeler? i want to give him these flowers." mrs. wheeler hesitated. "i don't know if he will let you come in, dear. i had hard work persuading him to see ernest for a few moments last night. he seems so low-spirited, and he's sensitive about the way he's bandaged up. i'll go to his room and ask him." "no, just let me go up with you, please. if i walk in with you, he won't have time to fret about it. i won't stay if he doesn't wish it, but i want to see him." mrs. wheeler was alarmed at this suggestion, but enid ignored her uncertainty. they went up to the third floor together, and enid herself tapped at the door. "it's i, claude. may i come in for a moment?" a muffled, reluctant voice answered. "no. they say this is catching, enid. and anyhow, i'd rather you didn't see me like this." without waiting she pushed open the door. the dark blinds were down, and the room was full of a strong, bitter odor. claude lay flat in bed, his head and face so smothered in surgical cotton that only his eyes and the tip of his nose were visible. the brown paste with which his features were smeared oozed out at the edges of the gauze and made his dressings look untidy. enid took in these details at a glance. "does the light hurt your eyes? let me put up one of the blinds for a moment, because i want you to see these flowers. i've brought you my first sweet peas." claude blinked at the bunch of bright colours she held out before him. she put them up to his face and asked him if he could smell them through his medicines. in a moment he ceased to feel embarrassed. his mother brought a glass bowl, and enid arranged the flowers on the little table beside him. "now, do you want me to darken the room again?" "not yet. sit down for a minute and talk to me. i can't say much because my face is stiff." "i should think it would be! i met leonard dawson on the road yesterday, and he told me how you worked in the field after you were cut. i would like to scold you hard, claude." "do. it might make me feel better." he took her hand and kept her beside him a moment. "are those the sweet peas you were planting that day when i came back from the west?" "yes. haven't they done well to blossom so early?" "less than two months. that's strange," he sighed. "strange? what?" "oh, that a handful of seeds can make anything so pretty in a few weeks, and it takes a man so long to do anything and then it's not much account." "that's not the way to look at things," she said reprovingly. enid sat prim and straight on a chair at the foot of his bed. her flowered organdie dress was very much like the bouquet she had brought, and her floppy straw hat had a big lilac bow. she began to tell claude about her father's several attacks of erysipelas. he listened but absently. he would never have believed that enid, with her severe notions of decorum, would come into his room and sit with him like this. he noticed that his mother was quite as much astonished as he. she hovered about the visitor for a few moments, and then, seeing that enid was quite at her ease, went downstairs to her work. claude wished that enid would not talk at all, but would sit there and let him look at her. the sunshine she had let into the room, and her tranquil, fragrant presence, soothed him. presently he realized that she was asking him something. "what is it, enid? the medicine they give me makes me stupid. i don't catch things." "i was asking whether you play chess." "very badly." "father says i play passably well. when you are better you must let me bring up my ivory chessmen that carrie sent me from china. they are beautifully carved. and now it's time for me to go." she rose and patted his hand, telling him he must not be foolish about seeing people. "i didn't know you were so vain. bandages are as becoming to you as they are to anybody. shall i pull the dark blind again for you?" "yes, please. there won't be anything to look at now." "why, claude, you are getting to be quite a ladies' man!" something in the way enid said this made him wince a little. he felt his burning face grow a shade warmer. even after she went downstairs he kept wishing she had not said that. his mother came to give him his medicine. she stood beside him while he swallowed it. "enid royce is a real sensible girl--" she said as she took the glass. her upward inflection expressed not conviction but bewilderment. enid came every afternoon, and claude looked forward to her visits restlessly; they were the only pleasant things that happened to him, and made him forget the humiliation of his poisoned and disfigured face. he was disgusting to himself; when he touched the welts on his forehead and under his hair, he felt unclean and abject. at night, when his fever ran high, and the pain began to tighten in his head and neck, it wrought him to a distressing pitch of excitement. he fought with it as one bulldog fights with another. his mind prowled about among dark legends of torture,--everything he had ever read about the inquisition, the rack and the wheel. when enid entered his room, cool and fresh in her pretty summer clothes, his mind leaped to meet her. he could not talk much, but he lay looking at her and breathing in a sweet contentment. after awhile he was well enough to sit up half-dressed in a steamer chair and play chess with her. one afternoon they were by the west window in the sitting-room with the chess board between them, and claude had to admit that he was beaten again. "it must be dull for you, playing with me," he murmured, brushing the beads of sweat from his forehead. his face was clean now, so white that even his freckles had disappeared, and his hands were the soft, languid hands of a sick man. "you will play better when you are stronger and can fix your mind on it," enid assured him. she was puzzled because claude, who had a good head for some things, had none at all for chess, and it was clear that he would never play well. "yes," he sighed, dropping back into his chair, "my wits do wander. look at my wheatfield, over there on the skyline. isn't it lovely? and now i won't be able to harvest it. sometimes i wonder whether i'll ever finish anything i begin." enid put the chessmen back into their box. "now that you are better, you must stop feeling blue. father says that with your trouble people are always depressed." claude shook his head slowly, as it lay against the back of the chair. "no, it's not that. it's having so much time to think that makes me blue. you see, enid, i've never yet done anything that gave me any satisfaction. i must be good for something. when i lie still and think, i wonder whether my life has been happening to me or to somebody else. it doesn't seem to have much connection with me. i haven't made much of a start." "but you are not twenty-two yet. you have plenty of time to start. is that what you are thinking about all the time!" she shook her finger at him. "i think about two things all the time. that is one of them." mrs. wheeler came in with claude's four o'clock milk; it was his first day downstairs. when they were children, playing by the mill-dam, claude had seen the future as a luminous vagueness in which he and enid would always do things together. then there came a time when he wanted to do everything with ernest, when girls were disturbing and a bother, and he pushed all that into the distance, knowing that some day he must reckon with it again. now he told himself he had always known enid would come back; and she had come on that afternoon when she entered his drug-smelling room and let in the sunlight. she would have done that for nobody but him. she was not a girl who would depart lightly from conventions that she recognized as authoritative. he remembered her as she used to march up to the platform for children's day exercises with the other little girls of the infant class; in her stiff white dress, never a curl awry or a wrinkle in her stocking, keeping her little comrades in order by the acquiescent gravity of her face, which seemed to say, "how pleasant it is to do thus and to do right!" old mr. smith was the minister in those days,--a good man who had been much tossed about by a stormy and temperamental wife--and his eyes used to rest yearningly upon little enid royce, seeing in her the promise of "virtuous and comely christian womanhood," to use one of his own phrases. claude, in the boys' class across the aisle, used to tease her and try to distract her, but he respected her seriousness. when they played together she was fair-minded, didn't whine if she got hurt, and never claimed a girl's exemption from anything unpleasant. she was calm, even on the day when she fell into the mill-dam and he fished her out; as soon as she stopped choking and coughing up muddy water, she wiped her face with her little drenched petticoats, and sat shivering and saying over and over, "oh, claude, claude!" incidents like that one now seemed to him significant and fateful. when claude's strength began to return to him, it came overwhelmingly. his blood seemed to grow strong while his body was still weak, so that the in-rush of vitality shook him. the desire to live again sang in his veins while his frame was unsteady. waves of youth swept over him and left him exhausted. when enid was with him these feelings were never so strong; her actual presence restored his equilibrium--almost. this fact did not perplex him; he fondly attributed it to something beautiful in the girl's nature,--a quality so lovely and subtle that there is no name for it. during the first days of his recovery he did nothing but enjoy the creeping stir of life. respiration was a soft physical pleasure. in the nights, so long he could not sleep them through, it was delightful to lie upon a cloud that floated lazily down the sky. in the depths of this lassitude the thought of enid would start up like a sweet, burning pain, and he would drift out into the darkness upon sensations he could neither prevent nor control. so long as he could plough, pitch hay, or break his back in the wheatfield, he had been master; but now he was overtaken by himself. enid was meant for him and she had come for him; he would never let her go. she should never know how much he longed for her. she would be slow to feel even a little of what he was feeling; he knew that. it would take a long while. but he would be infinitely patient, infinitely tender of her. it should be he who suffered, not she. even in his dreams he never wakened her, but loved her while she was still and unconscious like a statue. he would shed love upon her until she warmed and changed without knowing why. sometimes when enid sat unsuspecting beside him, a quick blush swept across his face and he felt guilty toward her, meek and humble, as if he must beg her forgiveness for something. often he was glad when she went away and left him alone to think about her. her presence brought him sanity, and for that he ought to be grateful. when he was with her, he thought how she was to be the one who would put him right with the world and make him fit into the life about him. he had troubled his mother and disappointed his father, his marriage would be the first natural, dutiful, expected thing he had ever done. it would be the beginning of usefulness and content; as his mother's oft-repeated psalm said, it would restore his soul. enid's willingness to listen to him he could scarcely doubt. her devotion to him during his illness was probably regarded by her friends as equivalent to an engagement. v claude's first trip to frankfort was to get his hair cut. after leaving the barber-shop he presented himself, glistening with bayrum, at jason royce's office. mr. royce, in the act of closing his safe, turned and took the young man by the hand. "hello, claude, glad to see you around again! sickness can't do much to a husky young farmer like you. with old fellows, it's another story. i'm just starting off to have a look at my alfalfa, south of the river. get in and go along with me." they went out to the open car that stood by the sidewalk, and when they were spinning along between fields of ripening grain claude broke the silence. "i expect you know what i want to see you about, mr. royce?" the older man shook his head. he had been preoccupied and grim ever since they started. "well," claude went on modestly, "it oughtn't to surprise you to hear that i've set my heart on enid. i haven't said anything to her yet, but if you're not against me, i'm going to try to persuade her to marry me." "marriage is a final sort of thing, claude," said mr. royce. he sat slumping in his seat, watching the road ahead of him with intense abstraction, looking more gloomy and grizzled than usual. "enid is a vegetarian, you know," he remarked unexpectedly. claude smiled. "that could hardly make any difference to me, mr. royce." the other nodded slightly. "i know. at your age you think it doesn't. such things do make a difference, however." his lips closed over his half-dead cigar, and for some time he did not open them. "enid is a good girl," he said at last. "strictly speaking, she has more brains than a girl needs. if mrs. royce had another daughter at home, i'd take enid into my office. she has good judgment. i don't know but she'd run a business better than a house." having got this out, mr. royce relaxed his frown, took his cigar from his mouth, looked at it, and put it back between his teeth without relighting it. claude was watching him with surprise. "there's no question about enid, mr. royce. i didn't come to ask you about her," he exclaimed. "i came to ask if you'd be willing to have me for a son-in-law. i know, and you know, that enid could do a great deal better than to marry me. i surely haven't made much of a showing, so far." "here we are," announced mr. royce. "i'll leave the car under this elm, and we'll go up to the north end of the field and have a look." they crawled under the wire fence and started across the rough ground through a field of purple blossoms. clouds of yellow butterflies darted up before them. they walked jerkily, breaking through the sun-baked crust into the soft soil beneath. mr. royce lit a fresh cigar, and as he threw away the match let his hand drop on the young man's shoulder. "i always envied your father. you took my fancy when you were a little shaver, and i used to let you in to see the water-wheel. when i gave up water power and put in an engine, i said to myself: 'there's just one fellow in the country will be sorry to see the old wheel go, and that's claude wheeler.'" "i hope you don't think i'm too young to marry," claude said as they tramped on. "no, it's right and proper a young man should marry. i don't say anything against marriage," mr. royce protested doggedly. "you may find some opposition in enid's missionary motives. i don't know how she feels about that now. i don't enquire. i'd be pleased to see her get rid of such notions. they don't do a woman any good." "i want to help her get rid of them. if it's all right with you, i hope i can persuade enid to marry me this fall." jason royce turned his head quickly toward his companion, studied his artless, hopeful countenance for a moment, and then looked away with a frown. the alfalfa field sloped upward at one corner, lay like a bright green-and-purple handkerchief thrown down on the hillside. at the uppermost angle grew a slender young cottonwood, with leaves as light and agitated as the swarms of little butterflies that hovered above the clover. mr. royce made for this tree, took off his black coat, rolled it up, and sat down on it in the flickering shade. his shirt showed big blotches of moisture, and the sweat was rolling in clear drops along the creases in his brown neck. he sat with his hands clasped over his knees, his heels braced in the soft soil, and looked blankly off across the field. he found himself absolutely unable to touch upon the vast body of experience he wished to communicate to claude. it lay in his chest like a physical misery, and the desire to speak struggled there. but he had no words, no way to make himself understood. he had no argument to present. what he wanted to do was to hold up life as he had found it, like a picture, to his young friend; to warn him, without explanation, against certain heart-breaking disappointments. it could not be done, he saw. the dead might as well try to speak to the living as the old to the young. the only way that claude could ever come to share his secret, was to live. his strong yellow teeth closed tighter and tighter on the cigar, which had gone out like the first. he did not look at claude, but while he watched the wind plough soft, flowery roads in the field, the boy's face was clearly before him, with its expression of reticent pride melting into the desire to please, and the slight stiffness of his shoulders, set in a kind of stubborn loyalty. claude lay on the sod beside him, rather tired after his walk in the sun, a little melancholy, though he did not know why. after a long while mr. royce unclasped his broad, thick-fingered miller's hands, and for a moment took out the macerated cigar. "well, claude," he said with determined cheerfulness, "we'll always be better friends than is common between father and son-in-law. you'll find out that pretty nearly everything you believe about life--about marriage, especially--is lies. i don't know why people prefer to live in that sort of a world, but they do." vi after his interview with mr. royce, claude drove directly to the mill house. as he came up the shady road, he saw with disappointment the flash of two white dresses instead of one, moving about in the sunny flower garden. the visitor was gladys farmer. this was her vacation time. she had walked out to the mill in the cool of the morning to spend the day with enid. now they were starting off to gather water-cresses, and had stopped in the garden to smell the heliotrope. on this scorching afternoon the purple sprays gave out a fragrance that hung over the flower-bed and brushed their cheeks like a warm breath. the girls looked up at the same moment and recognized claude. they waved to him and hurried down to the gate to congratulate him on his recovery. he took their little tin pails and followed them around the old dam-head and up a sandy gorge, along a clear thread of water that trickled into lovely creek just above the mill. they came to the gravelly hill where the stream took its source from a spring hollowed out under the exposed roots of two elm trees. all about the spring, and in the sandy bed of the shallow creek, the cresses grew cool and green. gladys had strong feelings about places. she looked around her with satisfaction. "of all the places where we used to play, enid, this was my favourite," she declared. "you girls sit up there on the elm roots," claude suggested. "wherever you put your foot in this soft gravel, water gathers. you'll spoil your white shoes. i'll get the cress for you." "stuff my pail as full as you can, then," gladys called as they sat down. "i wonder why the spanish dagger grows so thick on this hill, enid? these plants were old and tough when we were little. i love it here." she leaned back upon the hot, glistening hill-side. the sun came down in red rays through the elm-tops, and all the pebbles and bits of quartz glittered dazzlingly. down in the stream bed the water, where it caught the light, twinkled like tarnished gold. claude's sandy head and stooping shoulders were mottled with sunshine as they moved about over the green patches, and his duck trousers looked much whiter than they were. gladys was too poor to travel, but she had the good fortune to be able to see a great deal within a few miles of frankfort, and a warm imagination helped her to find life interesting. she did, as she confided to enid, want to go to colorado; she was ashamed of never having seen a mountain. presently claude came up the bank with two shining, dripping pails. "now may i sit down with you for a few minutes?" moving to make room for him beside her, enid noticed that his thin face was heavily beaded with perspiration. his pocket handkerchief was wet and sandy, so she gave him her own, with a proprietary air. "why, claude, you look quite tired! have you been over-doing? where were you before you came here?" "i was out in the country with your father, looking at his alfalfa." "and he walked you all over the field in the hot sun, i suppose?" claude laughed. "he did." "well, i'll scold him tonight. you stay here and rest. i am going to drive gladys home." gladys protested, but at last consented that they should both drive her home in claude's car. they lingered awhile, however, listening to the soft, amiable bubbling of the spring; a wise, unobtrusive voice, murmuring night and day, continually telling the truth to people who could not understand it. when they went back to the house enid stopped long enough to cut a bunch of heliotrope for mrs. farmer,--though with the sinking of the sun its rich perfume had already vanished. they left gladys and her flowers and cresses at the gate of the white cottage, now half hidden by gaudy trumpet vines. claude turned his car and went back along the dim, twilight road with enid. "i usually like to see gladys, but when i found her with you this afternoon, i was terribly disappointed for a minute. i'd just been talking with your father, and i wanted to come straight to you. do you think you could marry me, enid?" "i don't believe it would be for the best, claude." she spoke sadly. he took her passive hand. "why not?" "my mind is full of other plans. marriage is for most girls, but not for all." enid had taken off her hat. in the low evening light claude studied her pale face under her brown hair. there was something graceful and charming about the way she held her head, something that suggested both submissiveness and great firmness. "i've had those far-away dreams, too, enid; but now my thoughts don't get any further than you. if you could care ever so little for me to start on, i'd be willing to risk the rest." she sighed. "you know i care for you. i've never made any secret of it. but we're happy as we are, aren't we?" "no, i'm not. i've got to have some life of my own, or i'll go to pieces. if you won't have me, i'll try south america,--and i won't come back until i am an old man and you are an old woman." enid looked at him, and they both smiled. the mill house was black except for a light in one upstairs window. claude sprang out of his car and lifted enid gently to the ground. she let him kiss her soft cool mouth, and her long lashes. in the pale, dusty dusk, lit only by a few white stars, and with the chill of the creek already in the air, she seemed to claude like a shivering little ghost come up from the rushes where the old mill-dam used to be. a terrible melancholy clutched at the boy's heart. he hadn't thought it would be like this. he drove home feeling weak and broken. was there nothing in the world outside to answer to his own feelings, and was every turn to be fresh disappointment? why was life so mysteriously hard? this country itself was sad, he thought, looking about him,-and you could no more change that than you could change the story in an unhappy human face. he wished to god he were sick again; the world was too rough a place to get about in. there was one person in the world who felt sorry for claude that night. gladys farmer sat at her bedroom window for a long while, watching the stars and thinking about what she had seen plainly enough that afternoon. she had liked enid ever since they were little girls,--and knew all there was to know about her. claude would become one of those dead people that moved about the streets of frankfort; everything that was claude would perish, and the shell of him would come and go and eat and sleep for fifty years. gladys had taught the children of many such dead men. she had worked out a misty philosophy for herself, full of strong convictions and confused figures. she believed that all things which might make the world beautiful--love and kindness, leisure and art--were shut up in prison, and that successful men like bayliss wheeler held the keys. the generous ones, who would let these things out to make people happy, were somehow weak, and could not break the bars. even her own little life was squeezed into an unnatural shape by the domination of people like bayliss. she had not dared, for instance, to go to omaha that spring for the three performances of the chicago opera company. such an extravagance would have aroused a corrective spirit in all her friends, and in the schoolboard as well; they would probably have decided not to give her the little increase in salary she counted upon having next year. there were people, even in frankfort, who had imagination and generous impulses, but they were all, she had to admit, inefficient--failures. there was miss livingstone, the fiery, emotional old maid who couldn't tell the truth; old mr. smith, a lawyer without clients, who read shakespeare and dryden all day long in his dusty office; bobbie jones, the effeminate drug clerk, who wrote free verse and "movie" scenarios, and tended the sodawater fountain. claude was her one hope. ever since they graduated from high school, all through the four years she had been teaching, she had waited to see him emerge and prove himself. she wanted him to be more successful than bayliss and still be claude. she would have made any sacrifice to help him on. if a strong boy like claude, so well endowed and so fearless, must fail, simply because he had that finer strain in his nature,--then life was not worth the chagrin it held for a passionate heart like hers. at last gladys threw herself upon the bed. if he married enid, that would be the end. he would go about strong and heavy, like mr. royce; a big machine with the springs broken inside. vii claude was well enough to go into the fields before the harvest was over. the middle of july came, and the farmers were still cutting grain. the yield of wheat and oats was so heavy that there were not machines enough to thrash it within the usual time. men had to await their turn, letting their grain stand in shock until a belching black engine lumbered into the field. rains would have been disastrous; but this was one of those "good years" which farmers tell about, when everything goes well. at the time they needed rain, there was plenty of it; and now the days were miracles of dry, glittering heat. every morning the sun came up a red ball, quickly drank the dew, and started a quivering excitement in all living things. in great harvest seasons like that one, the heat, the intense light, and the important work in hand draw people together and make them friendly. neighbours helped each other to cope with the burdensome abundance of man-nourishing grain; women and children and old men fell to and did what they could to save and house it. even the horses had a more varied and sociable existence than usual, going about from one farm to another to help neighbour horses drag wagons and binders and headers. they nosed the colts of old friends, ate out of strange mangers, and drank, or refused to drink, out of strange water-troughs. decrepit horses that lived on a pension, like the wheelers' stiff-legged molly and leonard dawson's billy with the heaves--his asthmatic cough could be heard for a quarter of a mile--were pressed into service now. it was wonderful, too, how well these invalided beasts managed to keep up with the strong young mares and geldings; they bent their willing heads and pulled as if the chafing of the collar on their necks was sweet to them. the sun was like a great visiting presence that stimulated and took its due from all animal energy. when it flung wide its cloak and stepped down over the edge of the fields at evening, it left behind it a spent and exhausted world. horses and men and women grew thin, seethed all day in their own sweat. after supper they dropped over and slept anywhere at all, until the red dawn broke clear in the east again, like the fanfare of trumpets, and nerves and muscles began to quiver with the solar heat. for several weeks claude did not have time to read the newspapers; they lay about the house in bundles, unopened, for nat wheeler was in the field now, working like a giant. almost every evening claude ran down to the mill to see enid for a few minutes; he did not get out of his car, and she sat on the old stile, left over from horse-back days, while she chatted with him. she said frankly that she didn't like men who had just come out of the harvest field, and claude did not blame her. he didn't like himself very well after his clothes began to dry on him. but the hour or two between supper and bed was the only time he had to see anybody. he slept like the heroes of old; sank upon his bed as the thing he desired most on earth, and for a blissful moment felt the sweetness of sleep before it overpowered him. in the morning, he seemed to hear the shriek of his alarm clock for hours before he could come up from the deep places into which he had plunged. all sorts of incongruous adventures happened to him between the first buzz of the alarm and the moment when he was enough awake to put out his hand and stop it. he dreamed, for instance, that it was evening, and he had gone to see enid as usual. while she was coming down the path from the house, he discovered that he had no clothes on at all! then, with wonderful agility, he jumped over the picket fence into a clump of castor beans, and stood in the dusk, trying to cover himself with the leaves, like adam in the garden, talking commonplaces to enid through chattering teeth, afraid lest at any moment she might discover his plight. mrs. wheeler and mahailey always lost weight in thrashing time, just as the horses did; this year nat wheeler had six hundred acres of winter wheat that would run close upon thirty bushels to the acre. such a harvest was as hard on the women as it was on the men. leonard dawson's wife, susie, came over to help mrs. wheeler, but she was expecting a baby in the fall, and the heat proved too much for her. then one of the yoeder daughters came; but the methodical german girl was so distracted by mahailey's queer ways that mrs. wheeler said it was easier to do the work herself than to keep explaining mahailey's psychology. day after day ten ravenous men sat down at the long dinner table in the kitchen. mrs. wheeler baked pies and cakes and bread loaves as fast as the oven would hold them, and from morning till night the range was stoked like the fire-box of a locomotive. mahailey wrung the necks of chickens until her wrist swelled up, as she said, "like a puff-adder." by the end of july the excitement quieted down. the extra leaves were taken out of the dining table, the wheeler horses had their barn to themselves again, and the reign of terror in the henhouse was over. one evening mr. wheeler came down to supper with a bundle of newspapers under his arm. "claude, i see this war scare in europe has hit the market. wheat's taken a jump. they're paying eighty-eight cents in chicago. we might as well get rid of a few hundred bushel before it drops again. we'd better begin hauling tomorrow. you and i can make two trips a day over to vicount, by changing teams,--there's no grade to speak of." mrs. wheeler, arrested in the act of pouring coffee, sat holding the coffee-pot in the air, forgetting she had it. "if this is only a newspaper scare, as we think, i don't see why it should affect the market," she murmured mildly. "surely those big bankers in new york and boston have some way of knowing rumour from fact." "give me some coffee, please," said her husband testily. "i don't have to explain the market, i've only got to take advantage of it." "but unless there's some reason, why are we dragging our wheat over to vicount? do you suppose it's some scheme the grain men are hiding under a war rumour? have the financiers and the press ever deceived the public like this before?" "i don't know a thing in the world about it, evangeline, and i don't suppose. i telephoned the elevator at vicount an hour ago, and they said they'd pay me seventy cents, subject to change in the morning quotations. claude," with a twinkle in his eye, "you'd better not go to mill tonight. turn in early. if we are on the road by six tomorrow, we'll be in town before the heat of the day." "all right, sir. i want to look at the papers after supper. i haven't read anything but the headlines since before thrashing. ernest was stirred up about the murder of that grand duke and said the austrians would make trouble. but i never thought there was anything in it." "there's seventy cents a bushel in it, anyway," said his father, reaching for a hot biscuit. "if there's that much, i'm somehow afraid there will be more," said mrs. wheeler thoughtfully. she had picked up the paper fly-brush and sat waving it irregularly, as if she were trying to brush away a swarm of confusing ideas. "you might call up ernest, and ask him what the bohemian papers say about it," mr. wheeler suggested. claude went to the telephone, but was unable to get any answer from the havels. they had probably gone to a barn dance down in the bohemian township. he went upstairs and sat down before an armchair full of newspapers; he could make nothing reasonable out of the smeary telegrams in big type on the front page of the omaha world herald. the german army was entering luxembourg; he didn't know where luxembourg was, whether it was a city or a country; he seemed to have some vague idea that it was a palace! his mother had gone up to "mahailey's library," the attic, to hunt for a map of europe,--a thing for which nebraska farmers had never had much need. but that night, on many prairie homesteads, the women, american and foreign-born, were hunting for a map. claude was so sleepy that he did not wait for his mother's return. he stumbled upstairs and undressed in the dark. the night was sultry, with thunder clouds in the sky and an unceasing play of sheet-lightning all along the western horizon. mosquitoes had got into his room during the day, and after he threw himself upon the bed they began sailing over him with their high, excruciating note. he turned from side to side and tried to muffle his ears with the pillow. the disquieting sound became merged, in his sleepy brain, with the big type on the front page of the paper; those black letters seemed to be flying about his head with a soft, high, sing-song whizz. viii late in the afternoon of the sixth of august, claude and his empty wagon were bumping along the level road over the flat country between vicount and the lovely creek valley. he had made two trips to town that day. though he had kept his heaviest team for the hot afternoon pull, his horses were too tired to be urged off a walk. their necks were marbled with sweat stains, and their flanks were plastered with the white dust that rose at every step. their heads hung down, and their breathing was deep and slow. the wood of the green-painted wagon seat was blistering hot to the touch. claude sat at one end of it, his head bared to catch the faint stir of air that sometimes dried his neck and chin and saved him the trouble of pulling out a handkerchief. on every side the wheat stubble stretched for miles and miles. lonely straw stacks stood up yellow in the sun and cast long shadows. claude peered anxiously along the distant locust hedges which told where the road ran. ernest havel had promised to meet him somewhere on the way home. he had not seen ernest for a week: since then time had brought prodigies to birth. at last he recognized the havels' team along way off, and he stopped and waited for ernest beside a thorny hedge, looking thoughtfully about him. the sun was already low. it hung above the stubble, all milky and rosy with the heat, like the image of a sun reflected in grey water. in the east the full moon had just risen, and its thin silver surface was flushed with pink until it looked exactly like the setting sun. except for the place each occupied in the heavens, claude could not have told which was which. they rested upon opposite rims of the world, two bright shields, and regarded each other, as if they, too, had met by appointment. claude and ernest sprang to the ground at the same instant and shook hands, feeling that they had not seen each other for a long while. "well, what do you make of it, ernest?" the young man shook his head cautiously, but replied no further. he patted his horses and eased the collars on their necks. "i waited in town for the hastings paper," claude went on impatiently. "england declared war last night." "the germans," said ernest, "are at liege. i know where that is. i sailed from antwerp when i came over here." "yes, i saw that. can the belgians do anything?" "nothing." ernest leaned against the wagon wheel and drawing his pipe from his pocket slowly filled it. "nobody can do anything. the german army will go where it pleases." "if it's as bad as that, why are the belgians putting up a fight?" "i don't know. it's fine, but it will come to nothing in the end. let me tell you something about the german army, claude." pacing up and down beside the locust hedge, ernest rehearsed the great argument; preparation, organization, concentration, inexhaustible resources, inexhaustible men. while he talked the sun disappeared, the moon contracted, solidified, and slowly climbed the pale sky. the fields were still glimmering with the bland reflection left over from daylight, and the distance grew shadowy,--not dark, but seemingly full of sleep. "if i were at home," ernest concluded, "i would be in the austrian army this minute. i guess all my cousins and nephews are fighting the russians or the belgians already. how would you like it yourself, to be marched into a peaceful country like this, in the middle of harvest, and begin to destroy it?" "i wouldn't do it, of course. i'd desert and be shot." "then your family would be persecuted. your brothers, maybe even your father, would be made orderlies to austrian officers and be kicked in the mouth." "i wouldn't bother about that. i'd let my male relatives decide for themselves how often they would be kicked." ernest shrugged his shoulders. "you americans brag like little boys; you would and you wouldn't! i tell you, nobody's will has anything to do with this. it is the harvest of all that has been planted. i never thought it would come in my life-time, but i knew it would come." the boys lingered a little while, looking up at the soft radiance of the sky. there was not a cloud anywhere, and the low glimmer in the fields had imperceptibly changed to full, pure moonlight. presently the two wagons began to creep along the white road, and on the backless seat of each the driver sat drooping forward, lost in thought. when they reached the corner where ernest turned south, they said goodnight without raising their voices. claude's horses went on as if they were walking in their sleep. they did not even sneeze at the low cloud of dust beaten up by their heavy foot-falls,--the only sounds in the vast quiet of the night. why was ernest so impatient with him, claude wondered. he could not pretend to feel as ernest did. he had nothing behind him to shape his opinions or colour his feelings about what was going on in europe; he could only sense it day by day. he had always been taught that the german people were pre-eminent in the virtues americans most admire; a month ago he would have said they had all the ideals a decent american boy would fight for. the invasion of belgium was contradictory to the german character as he knew it in his friends and neighbours. he still cherished the hope that there had been some great mistake; that this splendid people would apologize and right itself with the world. mr. wheeler came down the hill, bareheaded and coatless, as claude drove into the barnyard. "i expect you're tired. i'll put your team away. any news?" "england has declared war." mr. wheeler stood still a moment and scratched his head. "i guess you needn't get up early tomorrow. if this is to be a sure enough war, wheat will go higher. i've thought it was a bluff until now. you take the papers up to your mother." ix enid and mrs. royce had gone away to the michigan sanatorium where they spent part of every summer, and would not be back until october. claude and his mother gave all their attention to the war despatches. day after day, through the first two weeks of august, the bewildering news trickled from the little towns out into the farming country. about the middle of the month came the story of the fall of the forts at liege, battered at for nine days and finally reduced in a few hours by siege guns brought up from the rear,--guns which evidently could destroy any fortifications that ever had been, or ever could be constructed. even to these quiet wheat-growing people, the siege guns before liege were a menace; not to their safety or their goods, but to their comfortable, established way of thinking. they introduced the greater-than-man force which afterward repeatedly brought into this war the effect of unforeseeable natural disaster, like tidal waves, earthquakes, or the eruption of volcanoes. on the twenty-third came the news of the fall of the forts at namur; again giving warning that an unprecedented power of destruction had broken loose in the world. a few days later the story of the wiping out of the ancient and peaceful seat of learning at louvain made it clear that this force was being directed toward incredible ends. by this time, too, the papers were full of accounts of the destruction of civilian populations. something new, and certainly evil, was at work among mankind. nobody was ready with a name for it. none of the well-worn words descriptive of human behaviour seemed adequate. the epithets grouped about the name of "attila" were too personal, too dramatic, too full of old, familiar human passion. one afternoon in the first week of september mrs. wheeler was in the kitchen making cucumber pickles, when she heard claude's car coming back from frankfort. in a moment he entered, letting the screen door slam behind him, and threw a bundle of mail on the table. "what do you, think, mother? the french have moved the seat of government to bordeaux! evidently, they don't think they can hold paris." mrs. wheeler wiped her pale, perspiring face with the hem of her apron and sat down in the nearest chair. "you mean that paris is not the capital of france any more? can that be true?" "that's what it looks like. though the papers say it's only a precautionary measure." she rose. "let's go up to the map. i don't remember exactly where bordeaux is. mahailey, you won't let my vinegar burn, will you?" claude followed her to the sitting-room, where her new map hung on the wall above the carpet lounge. leaning against the back of a willow rocking-chair, she began to move her hand about over the brightly coloured, shiny surface, murmuring, "yes, there is bordeaux, so far to the south; and there is paris." claude, behind her, looked over her shoulder. "do you suppose they are going to hand their city over to the germans, like a christmas present? i should think they'd burn it first, the way the russians did moscow. they can do better than that now, they can dynamite it!" "don't say such things." mrs. wheeler dropped into the deep willow chair, realizing that she was very tired, now that she had left the stove and the heat of the kitchen. she began weakly to wave the palm leaf fan before her face. "it's said to be such a beautiful city. perhaps the germans will spare it, as they did brussels. they must be sick of destruction by now. get the encyclopaedia and see what it says. i've left my glasses downstairs." claude brought a volume from the bookcase and sat down on the lounge. he began: "paris, the capital city of france and the department of the seine,--shall i skip the history?" "no. read it all." he cleared his throat and began again: "at its first appearance in history, there was nothing to foreshadow the important part which paris was to play in europe and in the world," etc. mrs. wheeler rocked and fanned, forgetting the kitchen and the cucumbers as if they had never been. her tired body was resting, and her mind, which was never tired, was occupied with the account of early religious foundations under the merovingian kings. her eyes were always agreeably employed when they rested upon the sunburned neck and catapult shoulders of her red-headed son. claude read faster and faster until he stopped with a gasp. "mother, there are pages of kings! we'll read that some other time. i want to find out what it's like now, and whether it's going to have any more history." he ran his finger up and down the columns. "here, this looks like business. "defences: paris, in a recent german account of the greatest fortresses of the world, possesses three distinct rings of defences"--here he broke off. "now what do you think of that? a german account, and this is an english book! the world simply made a mistake about the germans all along. it's as if we invited a neighbour over here and showed him our cattle and barns, and all the time he was planning how he would come at night and club us in our beds." mrs. wheeler passed her hand over her brow. "yet we have had so many german neighbours, and never one that wasn't kind and helpful." "i know it. everything mrs. erlich ever told me about germany made me want to go there. and the people that sing all those beautiful songs about women and children went into belgian villages and--" "don't, claude!" his mother put out her hands as if to push his words back. "read about the defences of paris; that's what we must think about now. i can't but believe there is one fort the germans didn't put down in their book, and that it will stand. we know paris is a wicked city, but there must be many god-fearing people there, and god has preserved it all these years. you saw in the paper how the churches are full all day of women praying." she leaned forward and smiled at him indulgently. "and you believe those prayers will accomplish nothing, son?" claude squirmed, as he always did when his mother touched upon certain subjects. "well, you see, i can't forget that the germans are praying, too. and i guess they are just naturally more pious than the french." taking up the book he began once more: "in the low ground again, at the narrowest part of the great loop of the marne," etc. claude and his mother had grown familiar with the name of that river, and with the idea of its strategic importance, before it began to stand out in black headlines a few days later. the fall ploughing had begun as usual. mr. wheeler had decided to put in six hundred acres of wheat again. whatever happened on the other side of the world, they would need bread. he took a third team himself and went into the field every morning to help dan and claude. the neighbours said that nobody but the kaiser had ever been able to get nat wheeler down to regular work. since the men were all afield, mrs. wheeler now went every morning to the mailbox at the crossroads, a quarter of a mile away, to get yesterday's omaha and kansas city papers which the carrier left. in her eagerness she opened and began to read them as she turned homeward, and her feet, never too sure, took a wandering way among sunflowers and buffaloburrs. one morning, indeed, she sat down on a red grass bank beside the road and read all the war news through before she stirred, while the grasshoppers played leap-frog over her skirts, and the gophers came out of their holes and blinked at her. that noon, when she saw claude leading his team to the water tank, she hurried down to him without stopping to find her bonnet, and reached the windmill breathless. "the french have stopped falling back, claude. they are standing at the marne. there is a great battle going on. the papers say it may decide the war. it is so near paris that some of the army went out in taxi-cabs." claude drew himself up. "well, it will decide about paris, anyway, won't it? how many divisions?" "i can't make out. the accounts are so confusing. but only a few of the english are there, and the french are terribly outnumbered. your father got in before you, and he has the papers upstairs." "they are twenty-four hours old. i'll go to vicount tonight after i'm done work, and get the hastings paper." in the evening, when he came back from town, he found his father and mother waiting up for him. he stopped a moment in the sitting-room. "there is not much news, except that the battle is on, and practically the whole french army is engaged. the germans outnumber them five to three in men, and nobody knows how much in artillery. general joffre says the french will fall back no farther." he did not sit down, but went straight upstairs to his room. mrs. wheeler put out the lamp, undressed, and lay down, but not to sleep. long afterward, claude heard her gently closing a window, and he smiled to himself in the dark. his mother, he knew, had always thought of paris as the wickedest of cities, the capital of a frivolous, wine-drinking, catholic people, who were responsible for the massacre of st. bartholomew and for the grinning atheist, voltaire. for the last two weeks, ever since the french began to fall back in lorraine, he had noticed with amusement her growing solicitude for paris. it was curious, he reflected, lying wide awake in the dark: four days ago the seat of government had been moved to bordeaux,--with the effect that paris seemed suddenly to have become the capital, not of france, but of the world! he knew he was not the only farmer boy who wished himself tonight beside the marne. the fact that the river had a pronounceable name, with a hard western "r" standing like a keystone in the middle of it, somehow gave one's imagination a firmer hold on the situation. lying still and thinking fast, claude felt that even he could clear the bar of french "politeness"--so much more terrifying than german bullets--and slip unnoticed into that outnumbered army. one's manners wouldn't matter on the marne tonight, the night of the eighth of september, . there was nothing on earth he would so gladly be as an atom in that wall of flesh and blood that rose and melted and rose again before the city which had meant so much through all the centuries--but had never meant so much before. its name had come to have the purity of an abstract idea. in great sleepy continents, in land-locked harvest towns, in the little islands of the sea, for four days men watched that name as they might stand out at night to watch a comet, or to see a star fall. x it was sunday afternoon and claude had gone down to the mill house, as enid and her mother had returned from michigan the day before. mrs. wheeler, propped back in a rocking chair, was reading, and mr. wheeler, in his shirt sleeves, his sunday collar unbuttoned, was sitting at his walnut secretary, amusing himself with columns of figures. presently he rose and yawned, stretching his arms above his head. "claude thinks he wants to begin building right away, up on the quarter next the timber claim. i've been figuring on the lumber. building materials are cheap just now, so i suppose i'd better let him go ahead." mrs. wheeler looked up absently from the page. "why, i suppose so." her husband sat down astride a chair, and leaning his arms on the back of it, looked at her. "what do you think of this match, anyway? i don't know as i've heard you say." "enid is a good, christian girl..." mrs. wheeler began resolutely, but her sentence hung in the air like a question. he moved impatiently. "yes, i know. but what does a husky boy like claude want to pick out a girl like that for? why, evangeline, she'll be the old woman over again!" apparently these misgivings were not new to mrs. wheeler, for she put out her hand to stop him and whispered in solemn agitation, "don't say anything! don't breathe!" "oh, i won't interfere! i never do. i'd rather have her for a daughter-in-law than a wife, by a long shot. claude's more of a fool than i thought him." he picked up his hat and strolled down to the barn, but his wife did not recover her composure so easily. she left the chair where she had hopefully settled herself for comfort, took up a feather duster and began moving distractedly about the room, brushing the surface of the furniture. when the war news was bad, or when she felt troubled about claude, she set to cleaning house or overhauling the closets, thankful to be able to put some little thing to rights in such a disordered world. as soon as the fall planting was done, claude got the well borers out from town to drill his new well, and while they were at work he began digging his cellar. he was building his house on the level stretch beside his father's timber claim because, when he was a little boy, he had thought that grove of trees the most beautiful spot in the world. it was a square of about thirty acres, set out in ash and box-elder and cotton-woods, with a thick mulberry hedge on the south side. the trees had been neglected of late years, but if he lived up there he could manage to trim them and care for them at odd moments. every morning now he ran up in the ford and worked at his cellar. he had heard that the deeper a cellar was, the better it was; and he meant that this one should be deep enough. one day leonard dawson stopped to see what progress he was making. standing on the edge of the hole, he shouted to the lad who was sweating below. "my god, claude, what do you want of a cellar as deep as that? when your wife takes a notion to go to china, you can open a trap-door and drop her through!" claude flung down his pick and ran up the ladder. "enid's not going to have notions of that sort," he said wrathfully. "well, you needn't get mad. i'm glad to hear it. i was sorry when the other girl went. it always looked to me like enid had her face set for china, but i haven't seen her for a good while,--not since before she went off to michigan with the old lady." after leonard was gone, claude returned to his work, still out of humour. he was not altogether happy in his mind about enid. when he went down to the mill it was usually mr. royce, not enid, who sought to detain him, followed him down the path to the gate and seemed sorry to see him go. he could not blame enid with any lack of interest in what he was doing. she talked and thought of nothing but the new house, and most of her suggestions were good. he often wished she would ask for something unreasonable and extravagant. but she had no selfish whims, and even insisted that the comfortable upstairs sleeping room he had planned with such care should be reserved for a guest chamber. as the house began to take shape, enid came up often in her car, to watch its growth, to show claude samples of wallpapers and draperies, or a design for a window-seat she had cut from some magazine. there could be no question of her pride in every detail. the disappointing thing was that she seemed more interested in the house than in him. these months when they could be together as much as they pleased, she treated merely as a period of time in which they were building a house. everything would be all right when they were married, claude told himself. he believed in the transforming power of marriage, as his mother believed in the miraculous effects of conversion. marriage reduced all women to a common denominator; changed a cool, self-satisfied girl into a loving and generous one. it was quite right that enid should be unconscious now of everything that she was to be when she was his wife. he told himself he wouldn't want it otherwise. but he was lonely, all the same. he lavished upon the little house the solicitude and cherishing care that enid seemed not to need. he stood over the carpenters urging the greatest nicety in the finish of closets and cupboards, the convenient placing of shelves, the exact joining of sills and casings. often he stayed late in the evening, after the workmen with their noisy boots had gone home to supper. he sat down on a rafter or on the skeleton of the upper porch and quite lost himself in brooding, in anticipation of things that seemed as far away as ever. the dying light, the quiet stars coming out, were friendly and sympathetic. one night a bird flew in and fluttered wildly about among the partitions, shrieking with fright before it darted out into the dusk through one of the upper windows and found its way to freedom. when the carpenters were ready to put in the staircase, claude telephoned enid and asked her to come and show them just what height she wanted the steps made. his mother had always had to climb stairs that were too steep. enid stopped her car at the frankfort high school at four o'clock and persuaded gladys farmer to drive out with her. when they arrived they found claude working on the lattice enclosure of the back porch. "claude is like jonah," enid laughed. "he wants to plant gourd vines here, so they will run over the lattice and make shade. i can think of other vines that might be more ornamental." claude put down his hammer and said coaxingly: "have you ever seen a gourd vine when it had something to climb on, enid? you wouldn't believe how pretty they are; big green leaves, and gourds and yellow blossoms hanging all over them at the same time. an old german woman who keeps a lunch counter at one of those stations on the road to lincoln has them running up her back porch, and i've wanted to plant some ever since i first saw hers." enid smiled indulgently. "well, i suppose you'll let me have clematis for the front porch, anyway? the men are getting ready to leave, so we'd better see about the steps." after the workmen had gone, claude took the girls upstairs by the ladder. they emerged from a little entry into a large room which extended over both the front and back parlours. the carpenters called it "the pool hall". there were two long windows, like doors, opening upon the porch roof, and in the sloping ceiling were two dormer windows, one looking north to the timber claim and the other south toward lovely creek. gladys at once felt a singular pleasantness about this chamber, empty and unplastered as it was. "what a lovely room!" she exclaimed. claude took her up eagerly. "don't you think so? you see it's my idea to have the second floor for ourselves, instead of cutting it up into little boxes as people usually do. we can come up here and forget the farm and the kitchen and all our troubles. i've made a big closet for each of us, and got everything just right. and now enid wants to keep this room for preachers!" enid laughed. "not only for preachers, claude. for gladys, when she comes to visit us--you see she likes it--and for your mother when she comes to spend a week and rest. i don't think we ought to take the best room for ourselves." "why not?" claude argued hotly. "i'm building the whole house for ourselves. come out on the porch roof, gladys. isn't this fine for hot nights? i want to put a railing round and make this into a balcony, where we can have chairs and a hammock." gladys sat down on the low window-sill. "enid, you'd be foolish to keep this for a guest room. nobody would ever enjoy it as much as you would. you can see the whole country from here." enid smiled, but showed no sign of relenting. "let's wait and watch the sun go down. be careful, claude. it makes me nervous to see you lying there." he was stretched out on the edge of the roof, one leg hanging over, and his head pillowed on his arm. the flat fields turned red, the distant windmills flashed white, and little rosy clouds appeared in the sky above them. "if i make this into a balcony," claude murmured, "the peak of the roof will always throw a shadow over it in the afternoon, and at night the stars will be right overhead. it will be a fine place to sleep in harvest time." "oh, you could always come up here to sleep on a hot night," enid said quickly. "it wouldn't be the same." they sat watching the light die out of the sky, and enid and gladys drew close together as the coolness of the autumn evening came on. the three friends were thinking about the same thing; and yet, if by some sorcery each had begun to speak his thoughts aloud, amazement and bitterness would have fallen upon all. enid's reflections were the most blameless. the discussion about the guest room had reminded her of brother weldon. in september, on her way to michigan with mrs. royce, she had stopped for a day in lincoln to take counsel with arthur weldon as to whether she ought to marry one whom she described to him as "an unsaved man." young mr. weldon approached this subject with a cautious tread, but when he learned that the man in question was claude wheeler, he became more partisan than was his wont. he seemed to think that her marrying claude was the one way to reclaim him, and did not hesitate to say that the most important service devout girls could perform for the church was to bring promising young men to its support. enid had been almost certain that mr. weldon would approve her course before she consulted him, but his concurrence always gratified her pride. she told him that when she had a home of her own she would expect him to spend a part of his summer vacation there, and he blushingly expressed his willingness to do so. gladys, too, was lost in her own thoughts, sitting with that ease which made her seem rather indolent, her head resting against the empty window frame, facing the setting sun. the rosy light made her brown eyes gleam like old copper, and there was a moody look in them, as if in her mind she were defying something. when he happened to glance at her, it occurred to claude that it was a hard destiny to be the exceptional person in a community, to be more gifted or more intelligent than the rest. for a girl it must be doubly hard. he sat up suddenly and broke the long silence. "i forgot, enid, i have a secret to tell you. over in the timber claim the other day i started up a flock of quail. they must be the only ones left in all this neighbourhood, and i doubt if they ever come out of the timber. the bluegrass hasn't been mowed in there for years,--not since i first went away to school, and maybe they live on the grass seeds. in summer, of course, there are mulberries." enid wondered whether the birds could have learned enough about the world to stay hidden in the timber lot. claude was sure they had. "nobody ever goes near the place except father; he stops there sometimes. maybe he has seen them and never said a word. it would be just like him." he told them he had scattered shelled corn in the grass, so that the birds would not be tempted to fly over into leonard dawson's cornfield. "if leonard saw them, he'd likely take a shot at them." "why don't you ask him not to?" enid suggested. claude laughed. "that would be asking a good deal. when a bunch of quail rise out of a cornfield they're a mighty tempting sight, if a man likes hunting. we'll have a picnic for you when you come out next summer, gladys. there are some pretty places over there in the timber." gladys started up. "why, it's night already! it's lovely here, but you must get me home, enid." they found it dark inside. claude took enid down the ladder and out to her car, and then went back for gladys. she was sitting on the floor at the top of the ladder. giving her his hand he helped her to rise. "so you like my little house," he said gratefully. "yes. oh, yes!" her voice was full of feeling, but she did not exert herself to say more. claude descended in front of her to keep her from slipping. she hung back while he led her through confusing doorways and helped her over the piles of laths that littered the floors. at the edge of the gaping cellar entrance she stopped and leaned wearily on his arm for a moment. she did not speak, but he understood that his new house made her sad; that she, too, had come to the place where she must turn out of the old path. he longed to whisper to her and beg her not to marry his brother. he lingered and hesitated, fumbling in the dark. she had his own cursed kind of sensibility; she would expect too much from life and be disappointed. he was reluctant to lead her out into the chilly evening without some word of entreaty. he would willingly have prolonged their passage,-- through many rooms and corridors. perhaps, had that been possible, the strength in him would have found what it was seeking; even in this short interval it had stirred and made itself felt, had uttered a confused appeal. claude was greatly surprised at himself. xi enid decided that she would be married in the first week of june. early in may the plasterers and painters began to be busy in the new house. the walls began to shine, and claude went about all day, oiling and polishing the hard-pine floors and wainscoting. he hated to have anybody step on his floors. he planted gourd vines about the back porch, set out clematis and lilac bushes, and put in a kitchen garden. he and enid were going to denver and colorado springs for their wedding trip, but ralph would be at home then, and he had promised to come over and water the flowers and shrubs if the weather was dry. enid often brought her work and sat sewing on the front porch while claude was rubbing the woodwork inside the house, or digging and planting outside. this was the best part of his courtship. it seemed to him that he had never spent such happy days before. if enid did not come, he kept looking down the road and listening, went from one thing to another and made no progress. he felt full of energy, so long as she sat there on the porch, with lace and ribbons and muslin in her lap. when he passed by, going in or out, and stopped to be near her for a moment, she seemed glad to have him tarry. she liked him to admire her needlework, and did not hesitate to show him the featherstitching and embroidery she was putting on her new underclothes. he could see, from the glances they exchanged, that the painters thought this very bold behaviour in one so soon to be a bride. he thought it very charming behaviour himself, though he would never have expected it of enid. his heart beat hard when he realized how far she confided in him, how little she was afraid of him! she would let him linger there, standing over her and looking down at her quick fingers, or sitting on the ground at her feet, gazing at the muslin pinned to her knee, until his own sense of propriety told him to get about his work and spare the feelings of the painters. "when are you going over to the timber claim with me?" he asked, dropping on the ground beside her one warm, windy afternoon. enid was sitting on the porch floor, her back against a pillar, and her feet on one of those round mats of pursley that grow over hard-beaten earth. "i've found my flock of quail again. they live in the deep grass, over by a ditch that holds water most of the year. i'm going to plant a few rows of peas in there, so they'll have a feeding ground at home. i consider leonard's cornfield a great danger. i don't know whether to take him into my confidence or not." "you've told ernest havel, i suppose?" "oh, yes!" claude replied, trying not to be aware of the little note of acrimony in her voice. "he's perfectly safe. that place is a paradise for birds. the trees are full of nests. you can stand over there in the morning and hear the young robins squawking for their breakfast. come up early tomorrow morning and go over with me, won't you? but wear heavy shoes; it's wet in the long grass." while they were talking a sudden whirlwind swept round the corner of the house, caught up the little mound of folded lace corset-covers and strewed them over the dusty yard. claude ran after them with enid's flowered workbag and thrust them into it as he came upon one after another, fluttering in the weeds. when he returned, enid had folded her needle-case and was putting on her hat. "thank you," she said with a smile. "did you find everything?" "i think so." he hurried toward the car to hide his guilty face. one little lace thing he had not put into the bag, but had thrust into his pocket. the next morning enid came up early to hear the birds in the timber. xii on the night before his wedding claude went to bed early. he had been dashing about with ralph all day in the car, making final preparations, and was worn out. he fell asleep almost at once. the women of the household could not so easily forget the great event of tomorrow. after the supper dishes were washed, mahailey clambered up to the attic to get the quilt she had so long been saving for a wedding present for claude. she took it out of the chest, unfolded it, and counted the stars in the pattern--counting was an accomplishment she was proud of--before she wrapped it up. it was to go down to the mill house with the other presents tomorrow. mrs. wheeler went to bed many times that night. she kept thinking of things that ought to be looked after; getting up and going to make sure that claude's heavy underwear had been put into his trunk, against the chance of cold in the mountains; or creeping downstairs to see that the six roasted chickens which were to help out at the wedding supper were securely covered from the cats. as she went about these tasks, she prayed constantly. she had not prayed so long and fervently since the battle of the marne. early the next morning ralph loaded the big car with the presents and baskets of food and ran down to the royces'. two motors from town were already standing in the mill yard; they had brought a company of girls who came with all the june roses in frankfort to trim the house for the wedding. when ralph tooted his horn, half-a-dozen of them ran out to greet him, reproaching him because he had not brought his brother along. ralph was immediately pressed into service. he carried the step-ladder wherever he was told, drove nails, and wound thorny sprays of rambler roses around the pillars between the front and back parlours, making the arch under which the ceremony was to take place. gladys farmer had not been able to leave her classes at the high school to help in this friendly work, but at eleven o'clock a livery automobile drove up, laden with white and pink peonies from her front yard, and bringing a box of hothouse flowers she had ordered for enid from hastings. the girls admired them, but declared that gladys was extravagant, as usual; the flowers from her own yard would really have been enough. the car was driven by a lank, ragged boy who worked about the town garage, and who was called "silent irv," because nobody could ever get a word out of him. he had almost no voice at all,--a thin little squeak in the top of his throat, like the gasping whisper of a medium in her trance state. when he came to the front door, both arms full of peonies, he managed to wheeze out: "these are from miss farmer. there are some more down there." the girls went back to his car with him, and he took out a square box, tied up with white ribbons and little silver bells, containing the bridal bouquet. "how did you happen to get these?" ralph asked the thin boy. "i was to go to town for them." the messenger swallowed. "miss farmer told me if there were any other flowers at the station marked for here, i should bring them along." "that was nice of her." ralph thrust his hand into his trousers pocket. "how much? i'll settle with you before i forget." a pink flush swept over the boy's pale face,--a delicate face under ragged hair, contracted by a kind of shrinking unhappiness. his eyes were always half-closed, as if he did not want to see the world around him, or to be seen by it. he went about like somebody in a dream. "miss farmer," he whispered, "has paid me." "well, she thinks of everything!" exclaimed one of the girls. "you used to go to school to gladys, didn't you, irv?" "yes, mam." he got into his car without opening the door, slipping like an eel round the steering-rod, and drove off. the girls followed ralph up the gravel walk toward the house. one whispered to the others: "do you suppose gladys will come out tonight with bayliss wheeler? i always thought she had a pretty warm spot in her heart for claude, myself." some one changed the subject. "i can't get over hearing irv talk so much. gladys must have put a spell on him." "she was always kind to him in school," said the girl who had questioned the silent boy. "she said he was good in his studies, but he was so frightened he could never recite. she let him write out the answers at his desk." ralph stayed for lunch, playing about with the girls until his mother telephoned for him. "now i'll have to go home and look after my brother, or he'll turn up tonight in a striped shirt." "give him our love," the girls called after him, "and tell him not to be late." as he drove toward the farm, ralph met dan, taking claude's trunk into town. he slowed his car. "any message?" he called. dan grinned. "naw. i left him doin' as well as could be expected." mrs. wheeler met ralph on the stairs. "he's up in his room. he complains his new shoes are too tight. i think it's nervousness. perhaps he'll let you shave him; i'm sure he'll cut himself. and i wish the barber hadn't cut his hair so short, ralph. i hate this new fashion of shearing men behind the ears. the back of his neck is the ugliest part of a man." she spoke with such resentment that ralph broke into a laugh. "why, mother, i thought all men looked alike to you! anyhow, claude's no beauty." "when will you want your bath? i'll have to manage so that everybody won't be calling for hot water at once." she turned to mr. wheeler who sat writing a check at the secretary. "father, could you take your bath now, and be out of the way?" "bath?" mr. wheeler shouted, "i don't want any bath! i'm not going to be married tonight. i guess we don't have to boil the whole house for enid." ralph snickered and shot upstairs. he found claude sitting on the bed, with one shoe off and one shoe on. a pile of socks lay scattered on the rug. a suitcase stood open on one chair and a black travelling bag on another. "are you sure they're too small?" ralph asked. "about four sizes." "well, why didn't you get them big enough?" "i did. that shark in hastings worked off another pair on me when i wasn't looking. that's all right," snatching away the shoe his brother had picked up to examine. "i don't care, so long as i can stand in them. you'd better go telephone the depot and ask if the train's on time." "they won't know yet. it's seven hours till it's due." "then telephone later. but find out, somehow. i don't want to stand around that station, waiting for the train." ralph whistled. clearly, his young man was going to be hard to manage. he proposed a bath as a soothing measure. no, claude had had his bath. had he, then, packed his suitcase? "how the devil can i pack it when i don't know what i'm going to put on?" "you'll put on one shirt and one pair of socks. i'm going to get some of this stuff out of the way for you." ralph caught up a handful of socks and fell to sorting them. several had bright red spots on the toe. he began to laugh. "i know why your shoe hurts, you've cut your foot!" claude sprang up as if a hornet had stung him. "will you get out of here," he shouted, "and let me alone?" ralph vanished. he told his mother he would dress at once, as they might have to use force with claude at the last moment. the wedding ceremony was to be at eight, supper was to follow, and claude and enid were to leave frankfort at : , on the denver express. at six o'clock, when ralph knocked at his brother's door, he found him shaved and brushed, and dressed, except for his coat. his tucked shirt was not rumpled, and his tie was properly knotted. whatever pain they concealed, his patent leather shoes were smooth and glistening and resolutely pointed. "are you packed?" ralph asked in astonishment. "nearly. i wish you'd go over things and make them look a little neater, if you can. i'd hate to have a girl see the inside of that suitcase, the way it is. where shall i put my cigars? they'll make everything smell, wherever i put them. all my clothes seem to smell of cooking, or starch, or something. i don't know what mahailey does to them," he ended bitterly. ralph looked outraged. "well, of all ingratitude! mahailey's been ironing your damned old shirts for a week!" "yes, yes, i know. don't rattle me. i forgot to put any handkerchiefs in my trunk, so you'll have to get the whole bunch in somewhere." mr. wheeler appeared in the doorway, his sunday black trousers gallowsed up high over a white shirt, wafting a rich odor of bayrum from his tumbled hair. he held a thin folded paper delicately between his thick fingers. "where is your bill-book, son?" claude caught up his discarded trousers and extracted a square of leather from the pocket. his father took it and placed the bit of paper inside with the bank notes. "you may want to pick up some trifle your wife fancies," he said. "have you got your railroad tickets in here? here is your trunk check dan brought back. don't forget, i've put it in with your tickets and marked it c. w., so you'll know which is your check and which is enid's." "yes, sir. thank you, sir." claude had already drawn from the bank all the money he would need. this additional bank check was mr. wheeler's admission that he was sorry for some sarcastic remarks he had made a few days ago, when he discovered that claude had reserved a stateroom on the denver express. claude had answered curtly that when enid and her mother went to michigan they always had a stateroom, and he wasn't going to ask her to travel less comfortably with him. at seven o'clock the wheeler family set out in the two cars that stood waiting by the windmill. mr. wheeler drove the big cadillac, and ralph took mahailey and dan in the ford. when they reached the mill house the outer yard was already black with motors, and the porch and parlours were full of people talking and moving about. claude went directly upstairs. ralph began to seat the guests, arranging the folding chairs in such a way as to leave a passage from the foot of the stairs to the floral arch he had constructed that morning. the preacher had his bible in his hand and was standing under the light, hunting for his chapter. enid would have preferred to have mr. weldon come down from lincoln to marry her, but that would have wounded mr. snowberry deeply. after all, he was her minister, though he was not eloquent and persuasive like arthur weldon. he had fewer english words at his command than most human beings, and even those did not come to him readily. in his pulpit he sought for them and struggled with them until drops of perspiration rolled from his forehead and fell upon his coarse, matted brown beard. but he believed what he said, and language was so little an accomplishment with him that he was not tempted to say more than he believed. he had been a drummer boy in the civil war, on the losing side, and he was a simple, courageous man. ralph was to be both usher and best man. gladys farmer could not be one of the bridesmaids because she was to play the wedding march. at eight o'clock enid and claude came downstairs together, conducted by ralph and followed by four girls dressed in white, like the bride. they took their places under the arch before the preacher. he began with the chapter from genesis about the creation of man, and adam's rib, reading in a laboured manner, as if he did not quite know why he had selected that passage and was looking for something he did not find. his nose-glasses kept falling off and dropping upon the open book. throughout this prolonged fumbling enid stood calm, looking at him respectfully, very pretty in her short veil. claude was so pale that he looked unnatural,--nobody had ever seen him like that before. his face, between his very black clothes and his smooth, sandy hair, was white and severe, and he uttered his responses in a hollow voice. mahailey, at the back of the room, in a black hat with green gooseberries on it, was standing, in order to miss nothing. she watched mr. snowberry as if she hoped to catch some visible sign of the miracle he was performing. she always wondered just what it was the preacher did to make the wrongest thing in the world the rightest thing in the world. when it was over, enid went upstairs to put on her travelling dress, and ralph and gladys began seating the guests for supper. just twenty minutes later enid came down and took her place beside claude at the head of the long table. the company rose and drank the bride's health in grape-juice punch. mr. royce, however, while the guests were being seated, had taken mr. wheeler down to the fruit cellar, where the two old friends drank off a glass of well-seasoned kentucky whiskey, and shook hands. when they came back to the table, looking younger than when they withdrew, the preacher smelled the tang of spirits and felt slighted. he looked disconsolately into his ruddy goblet and thought about the marriage at cana. he tried to apply his bible literally to life and, though he didn't dare breathe it aloud in these days, he could never see why he was better than his lord. ralph, as master of ceremonies, kept his head and forgot nothing. when it was time to start, he tapped claude on the shoulder, cutting his father short in one of his best stories. contrary to custom, the bridal couple were to go to the station unaccompanied, and they vanished from the head of the table with only a nod and a smile to the guests. ralph hurried them into the light car, where he had already stowed enid's hand luggage. only wizened little mrs. royce slipped out from the kitchen to bid them good-bye. that evening some bad boys had come out from town and strewn the road near the mill with dozens of broken glass bottles, after which they hid in the wild plum bushes to wait for the fun. ralph's was the first car out, and though his lights glittered on this bed of jagged glass, there was no time to stop; the road was ditched on either side, so he had to drive straight ahead, and got into frankfort on flat tires. the express whistled just as he pulled up at the station. he and claude caught up the four pieces of hand luggage and put them in the stateroom. leaving enid there with the bags, the two boys went to the rear platform of the observation car to talk until the last moment. ralph checked off on his fingers the list of things he had promised claude to attend to. claude thanked him feelingly. he felt that without ralph he could never have got married at all. they had never been such good friends as during the last fortnight. the wheels began to turn. ralph gripped claude's hand, ran to the front of the car and stepped off. as claude passed him, he stood waving his handkerchief,--a rather funny figure under the station lights, in his black clothes and his stiff straw hat, his short legs well apart, wearing his incurably jaunty air. the train glided quietly out through the summer darkness, along the timbered river valley. claude was alone on the back platform, smoking a nervous cigar. as they passed the deep cut where lovely creek flowed into the river, he saw the lights of the mill house flash for a moment in the distance. the night air was still; heavy with the smell of sweet clover that grew high along the tracks, and of wild grapevines wet with dew. the conductor came to ask for the tickets, saying with a wise smile that he had been hunting for him, as he didn't like to trouble the lady. after he was gone, claude looked at his watch, threw away the end of his cigar, and went back through the pullman cars. the passengers had gone to bed; the overhead lights were always turned low when the train left frankfort. he made his way through the aisles of swaying green curtains, and tapped at the door of his state room. it opened a little way, and enid stood there in a white silk dressing-gown with many ruffles, her hair in two smooth braids over her shoulders. "claude," she said in a low voice, "would you mind getting a berth somewhere out in the car tonight? the porter says they are not all taken. i'm not feeling very well. i think the dressing on the chicken salad must have been too rich." he answered mechanically. "yes, certainly. can't i get you something?" "no, thank you. sleep will do me more good than anything else. good-night." she closed the door, and he heard the lock slip. he stood looking at the highly polished wood of the panel for a moment, then turned irresolutely and went back along the slightly swaying aisle of green curtains. in the observation car he stretched himself out upon two wicker chairs and lit another cigar. at twelve o'clock the porter came in. "this car is closed for the night, sah. is you the gen'leman from the stateroom in fourteen? do you want a lower?" "no, thank you. is there a smoking car?" "they is the day-coach smokah, but it ain't likely very clean at this time o' night." "that's all right. it's forward?" claude absently handed him a coin, and the porter conducted him to a very dirty car where the floor was littered with newspapers and cigar stumps, and the leather cushions were grey with dust. a few desperate looking men lay about with their shoes off and their suspenders hanging down their backs. the sight of them reminded claude that his left foot was very sore, and that his shoes must have been hurting him for some time. he pulled them off, and thrust his feet, in their silk socks, on the opposite seat. on that long, dirty, uncomfortable ride claude felt many things, but the paramount feeling was homesickness. his hurt was of a kind that made him turn with a sort of aching cowardice to the old, familiar things that were as sure as the sunrise. if only the sagebrush plain, over which the stars were shining, could suddenly break up and resolve itself into the windings of lovely creek, with his father's house on the hill, dark and silent in the summer night! when he closed his eyes he could see the light in his mother's window; and, lower down, the glow of mahailey's lamp, where she sat nodding and mending his old shirts. human love was a wonderful thing, he told himself, and it was most wonderful where it had least to gain. by morning the storm of anger, disappointment, and humiliation that was boiling in him when he first sat down in the observation car, had died out. one thing lingered; the peculiarly casual, indifferent, uninterested tone of his wife's voice when she sent him away. it was the flat tone in which people make commonplace remarks about common things. day broke with silvery brightness on the summer sage. the sky grew pink, the sand grew gold. the dawn-wind brought through the windows the acrid smell of the sagebrush: an odour that is peculiarly stimulating in the early morning, when it always seems to promise freedom... large spaces, new beginnings, better days. the train was due in denver at eight o'clock. exactly at seven thirty claude knocked at enid's door,--this time firmly. she was dressed, and greeted him with a fresh, smiling face, holding her hat in her hand. "are you feeling better?" he asked. "oh, yes! i am perfectly all right this morning. i've put out all your things for you, there on the seat." he glanced at them. "thank you. but i won't have time to change, i'm afraid." "oh, won't you? i'm so sorry i forgot to give you your bag last night. but you must put on another necktie, at least. you look too much like a groom." "do i?" he asked, with a scarcely perceptible curl of his lip. everything he needed was neatly arranged on the plush seat; shirt, collar, tie, brushes, even a handkerchief. those in his pockets were black from dusting off the cinders that blew in all night, and he threw them down and took up the clean one. there was a damp spot on it, and as he unfolded it he recognized the scent of a cologne enid often used. for some reason this attention unmanned him. he felt the smart of tears in his eyes, and to hide them bent over the metal basin and began to scrub his face. enid stood behind him, adjusting her hat in the mirror. "how terribly smoky you are, claude. i hope you don't smoke before breakfast?" "no. i was in the smoking car awhile. i suppose my clothes got full of it." "you are covered with dust and cinders, too!" she took the clothes broom from the rack and began to brush him. claude caught her hand. "don't, please!" he said sharply. "the porter can do that for me." enid watched him furtively as he closed and strapped his suitcase. she had often heard that men were cross before breakfast. "sure you've forgotten nothing?" he asked before he closed her bag. "yes. i never lose things on the train,--do you?" "sometimes," he replied guardedly, not looking up as he snapped the catch. book three; sunrise on the prairie i claude was to continue farming with his father, and after he returned from his wedding journey, he fell at once to work. the harvest was almost as abundant as that of the summer before, and he was busy in the fields six days a week. one afternoon in august he came home with his team, watered and fed the horses in a leisurely way, and then entered his house by the back door. enid, he knew, would not be there. she had gone to frankfort to a meeting of the anti-saloon league. the prohibition party was bestirring itself in nebraska that summer, confident of voting the state dry the following year, which purpose it triumphantly accomplished. enid's kitchen, full of the afternoon sun, glittered with new paint, spotless linoleum, and blue-and-white cooking vessels. in the dining-room the cloth was laid, and the table was neatly set for one. claude opened the icebox, where his supper was arranged for him; a dish of canned salmon with a white sauce; hardboiled eggs, peeled and lying in a nest of lettuce leaves; a bowl of ripe tomatoes, a bit of cold rice pudding; cream and butter. he placed these things on the table, cut some bread, and after carelessly washing his face and hands, sat down to eat in his working shirt. he propped the newspaper against a red glass water pitcher and read the war news while he had his supper. he was annoyed when he heard heavy footsteps coming around the house. leonard dawson stuck his head in at the kitchen door, and claude rose quickly and reached for his hat; but leonard came in, uninvited, and sat down. his brown shirt was wet where his suspenders gripped his shoulders, and his face, under a wide straw hat which he did not remove, was unshaven and streaked with dust. "go ahead and finish your supper," he cried. "having a wife with a car of her own is next thing to having no wife at all. how they do like to roll around! i've been mighty blamed careful to see that susie never learned to drive a car. see here, claude, how soon do you figure you'll be able to let me have the thrasher? my wheat will begin to sprout in the shock pretty soon. do you reckon your father would be willing to work on sunday, if i helped you, to let the machine off a day earlier?" "i'm afraid not. mother wouldn't like it. we never have done that, even when we were crowded." "well, i think i'll go over and have a talk with your mother. if she could look inside my wheat shocks, maybe i could convince her it's pretty near a case of your neighbour's ox falling into a pit on the sabbath day." "that's a good idea. she's always reasonable." leonard rose. "what's the news?" "the germans have torpedoed an english passenger ship, the arabic; coming this way, too." "that's all right," leonard declared. "maybe americans will stay at home now, and mind their own business. i don't care how they chew each other up over there, not a bit! i'd as soon one got wiped off the map as another." "your grandparents were english people, weren't they?" "that's a long while ago. yes, my grandmother wore a cap and little white curls, and i tell susie i wouldn't mind if the baby turned out to have my grandmother's skin. she had the finest complexion i ever saw." as they stepped out of the back door, a troop of white chickens with red combs ran squawking toward them. it was the hour at which the poultry was usually fed. leonard stopped to admire them. "you've got a fine lot of hens. i always did like white leghorns. where are all your roosters?" "we've only got one. he's shut up in the coop. the brood hens are setting. enid is going to try raising winter frys." "only one rooster? and may i ask what these hens do?" claude laughed. "they lay eggs, just the same,--better. it's the fertile eggs that spoil in warm weather." this information seemed to make leonard angry. "i never heard of such damned nonsense," he blustered. "i raise chickens on a natural basis, or i don't raise 'em at all." he jumped into his car for fear he would say more. when he got home his wife was lifting supper, and the baby sat near her in its buggy, playing with a rattle. dirty and sweaty as he was, leonard picked up the clean baby and began to kiss it and smell it, rubbing his stubbly chin in the soft creases of its neck. the little girl was beside herself with delight. "go and wash up for supper, len," susie called from the stove. he put down the baby and began splashing in the tin basin, talking with his eyes shut. "susie, i'm in an awful temper. i can't stand that damned wife of claude's!" she was spearing roasting ears out of a big iron pot and looked up through the steam. "why, have you seen her? i was listening on the telephone this morning and heard her tell bayliss she would be in town until late." "oh, yes! she went to town all right, and he's over there eating a cold supper by himself. that woman's a fanatic. she ain't content with practising prohibition on humankind; she's begun now on the hens." while he placed the chairs and wheeled the baby up to the table, he explained enid's method of raising poultry to his wife. she said she really didn't see any harm in it. "now be honest, susie; did you ever know hens would keep on laying without a rooster?" "no, i didn't, but i was brought up the old-fashioned way. enid has poultry books and garden books, and all such things. i don't doubt she gets good ideas from them. but anyhow, you be careful. she's our nearest neighbour, and i don't want to have trouble with her." "i'll have to keep out of her way, then. if she tries to do any missionary work among my chickens, i'll tell her a few home truths her husband's too bashful to tell her. it's my opinion she's got that boy cowed already." "now, len, you know she won't bother your chickens. you keep quiet. but claude does seem to sort of avoid people," susie admitted, filling her husband's plate again. "mrs. joe havel says ernest don't go to claude's any more. it seems enid went over there and wanted ernest to paste some prohibition posters about fifteen million drunkards on their barn, for an example to the bohemians. ernest wouldn't do it, and told her he was going to vote for saloons, and enid was quite spiteful, mrs. havel said. it's too bad, when those boys were such chums. i used to like to see them together." susie spoke so kindly that her husband shot her a quick glance of shy affection. "do you suppose claude relished having that preacher visiting them, when they hadn't been married two months? sitting on the front porch in a white necktie every day, while claude was out cutting wheat?" "well, anyhow, i guess claude had more to eat when brother weldon was staying there. preachers won't be fed on calories, or whatever it is enid calls 'em," said susie, who was given to looking on the bright side of things. "claude's wife keeps a wonderful kitchen; but so could i, if i never cooked any more than she does." leonard gave her a meaning look. "i don't believe you would live with the sort of man you could feed out of a tin can." "no, i don't believe i would." she pushed the buggy toward him. "take her up, daddy. she wants to play with you." leonard set the baby on his shoulder and carried her off to show her the pigs. susie kept laughing to herself as she cleared the table and washed the dishes; she was much amused by what her husband had told her. late that evening, when leonard was starting for the barn to see that all was well before he went to bed, he observed a discreet black object rolling along the highroad in the moonlight, a red spark winking in the rear. he called susie to the door. "see, there she goes; going home to report the success of the meeting to claude. wouldn't that be a nice way to have your wife coming in?" "now, leonard, if claude likes it--" "likes it?" big leonard drew himself up. "what can he do, poor kid? he's stung!" ii after leonard left him, claude cleared away the remains of his supper and watered the gourd vine before he went to milk. it was not really a gourd vine at all, but a summer-squash, of the crook-necked, warty, orange-coloured variety, and it was now full of ripe squashes, hanging by strong stems among the rough green leaves and prickly tendrils. claude had watched its rapid growth and the opening of its splotchy yellow blossoms, feeling grateful to a thing that did so lustily what it was put there to do. he had the same feeling for his little jersey cow, which came home every night with full udders and gave down her milk willingly, keeping her tail out of his face, as only a well disposed cow will do. his milking done, he sat down on the front porch and lit a cigar. while he smoked, he did not think about anything but the quiet and the slow cooling of the atmosphere, and how good it was to sit still. the moon swam up over the bare wheat fields, big and magical, like a great flower. presently he got some bath towels, went across the yard to the windmill, took off his clothes, and stepped into the tin horse tank. the water had been warmed by the sun all afternoon, and was not much cooler than his body. he stretched himself out in it, and resting his head on the metal rim, lay on his back, looking up at the moon. the sky was a midnight-blue, like warm, deep, blue water, and the moon seemed to lie on it like a water-lily, floating forward with an invisible current. one expected to see its great petals open. for some reason, claude began to think about the far-off times and countries it had shone upon. he never thought of the sun as coming from distant lands, or as having taken part in human life in other ages. to him, the sun rotated about the wheatfields. but the moon, somehow, came out of the historic past, and made him think of egypt and the pharaohs, babylon and the hanging gardens. she seemed particularly to have looked down upon the follies and disappointments of men; into the slaves' quarters of old times, into prison windows, and into fortresses where captives languished. inside of living people, too, captives languished. yes, inside of people who walked and worked in the broad sun, there were captives dwelling in darkness, never seen from birth to death. into those prisons the moon shone, and the prisoners crept to the windows and looked out with mournful eyes at the white globe which betrayed no secrets and comprehended all. perhaps even in people like mrs. royce and his brother bayliss there was something of this sort--but that was a shuddery thought. he dismissed it with a quick movement of his hand through the water, which, disturbed, caught the light and played black and gold, like something alive, over his chest. in his own mother the imprisoned spirit was almost more present to people than her corporeal self. he had so often felt it when he sat with her on summer nights like this. mahailey, too, had one, though the walls of her prison were so thick--and gladys farmer. oh, yes, how much gladys must have to tell this perfect confidant! the people whose hearts were set high needed such intercourse--whose wish was so beautiful that there were no experiences in this world to satisfy it. and these children of the moon, with their unappeased longings and futile dreams, were a finer race than the children of the sun. this conception flooded the boy's heart like a second moonrise, flowed through him indefinite and strong, while he lay deathly still for fear of losing it. at last the black cubical object which had caught leonard dawson's wrathful eye, came rolling along the highroad. claude snatched up his clothes and towels, and without waiting to make use of either, he ran, a white man across a bare white yard. gaining the shelter of the house, he found his bathrobe, and fled to the upper porch, where he lay down in the hammock. presently he heard his name called, pronounced as if it were spelled "clod." his wife came up the stairs and looked out at him. he lay motionless, with his eyes closed. she went away. when all was quiet again he looked off at the still country, and the moon in the dark indigo sky. his revelation still possessed him, making his whole body sensitive, like a tightly strung bow. in the morning he had forgotten, or was ashamed of what had seemed so true and so entirely his own the night before. he agreed, for the most part, that it was better not to think about such things, and when he could he avoided thinking. iii after the heavy work of harvest was over, mrs. wheeler often persuaded her husband, when he was starting off in his buckboard, to take her as far as claude's new house. she was glad enid didn't keep her parlour dark, as mrs. royce kept hers. the doors and windows were always open, the vines and the long petunias in the window-boxes waved in the breeze, and the rooms were full of sunlight and in perfect order. enid wore white dresses about her work, and white shoes and stockings. she managed a house easily and systematically. on monday morning claude turned the washing machine before he went to work, and by nine o'clock the clothes were on the line. enid liked to iron, and claude had never before in his life worn so many clean shirts, or worn them with such satisfaction. she told him he need not economize in working shirts; it was as easy to iron six as three. although within a few months enid's car travelled more than two thousand miles for the prohibition cause, it could not be said that she neglected her house for reform. whether she neglected her husband depended upon one's conception of what was his due. when mrs. wheeler saw how well their little establishment was conducted, how cheerful and attractive enid looked when one happened to drop in there, she wondered that claude was not happy. and claude himself wondered. if his marriage disappointed him in some respects, he ought to be a man, he told himself, and make the best of what was good in it. if his wife didn't love him, it was because love meant one thing to him and quite another thing to her. she was proud of him, was glad to see him when he came in from the fields, and was solicitous for his comfort. everything about a man's embrace was distasteful to enid; something inflicted upon women, like the pain of childbirth,-- for eve's transgression, perhaps. this repugnance was more than physical; she disliked ardour of any kind, even religious ardour. she had been fonder of claude before she married him than she was now; but she hoped for a readjustment. perhaps sometime she could like him again in exactly the same way. even brother weldon had hinted to her that for the sake of their future tranquillity she must be lenient with the boy. and she thought she had been lenient. she could not understand his moods of desperate silence, the bitter, biting remarks he sometimes dropped, his evident annoyance if she went over to join him in the timber claim when he lay there idle in the deep grass on a sunday afternoon. claude used to lie there and watch the clouds, saying to himself, "it's the end of everything for me." other men than he must have been disappointed, and he wondered how they bore it through a lifetime. claude had been a well behaved boy because he was an idealist; he had looked forward to being wonderfully happy in love, and to deserving his happiness. he had never dreamed that it might be otherwise. sometimes now, when he went out into the fields on a bright summer morning, it seemed to him that nature not only smiled, but broadly laughed at him. he suffered in his pride, but even more in his ideals, in his vague sense of what was beautiful. enid could make his life hideous to him without ever knowing it. at such times he hated himself for accepting at all her grudging hospitality. he was wronging something in himself. in her person enid was still attractive to him. he wondered why she had no shades of feeling to correspond to her natural grace and lightness of movement, to the gentle, almost wistful attitudes of body in which he sometimes surprised her. when he came in from work and found her sitting on the porch, leaning against a pillar, her hands clasped about her knees, her head drooping a little, he could scarcely believe in the rigidity which met him at every turn. was there something repellent in him? was it, after all, his fault? enid was rather more indulgent with his father than with any one else, he noticed. mr. wheeler stopped to see her almost every day, and even took her driving in his old buckboard. bayliss came out from town to spend the evening occasionally. enid's vegetarian suppers suited him, and as she worked with him in the prohibition campaign, they always had business to discuss. bayliss had a social as well as a hygienic prejudice against alcohol, and he hated it less for the harm it did than for the pleasure it gave. claude consistently refused to take any part in the activities of the anti-saloon league, or to distribute what bayliss and enid called "our literature." in the farming towns the term "literature" was applied only to a special kind of printed matter; there was prohibition literature, sex-hygiene literature, and, during a scourge of cattle disease, there was hoof-and-mouth literature. this special application of the word didn't bother claude, but his mother, being an old-fashioned school-teacher, complained about it. enid did not understand her husband's indifference to a burning question, and could only attribute it to the influence of ernest havel. she sometimes asked claude to go with her to one of her committee meetings. if it was a sunday, he said he was tired and wanted to read the paper. if it was a week-day, he had something to do at the barn, or meant to clear out the timber claim. he did, indeed, saw off a few dead limbs, and cut down a tree the lightning had blasted. further than that he wouldn't have let anybody clear the timber lot; he would have died defending it. the timber claim was his refuge. in the open, grassy spots, shut in by the bushy walls of yellowing ash trees, he felt unmarried and free; free to smoke as much as he liked, and to read and dream. some of his dreams would have frozen his young wife's blood with horror--and some would have melted his mother's heart with pity. to lie in the hot sun and look up at the stainless blue of the autumn sky, to hear the dry rustle of the leaves as they fell, and the sound of the bold squirrels leaping from branch to branch; to lie thus and let his imagination play with life--that was the best he could do. his thoughts, he told himself, were his own. he was no longer a boy. he went off into the timber claim to meet a young man more experienced and interesting than himself, who had not tied himself up with compromises. iv from her upstairs window mrs. wheeler could see claude moving back and forth in the west field, drilling wheat. she felt lonely for him. he didn't come home as often as he might. she had begun to wonder whether he was one of those people who are always discontented; but whatever his disappointments were, he kept them locked in his own breast. one had to learn the lessons of life. nevertheless, it made her a little sad to see him so settled and indifferent at twenty-three. after watching from the window for a few moments, she turned to the telephone and called up claude's house, asking enid whether she would mind if he came there for dinner. "mahailey and i get lonesome with mr. wheeler away so much," she added. "why, no, mother wheeler, of course not." enid spoke cheerfully, as she always did. "have you any one there you can send over to tell him?" "i thought i would walk over myself, enid. it's not far, if i take my time." mrs. wheeler left the house a little before noon and stopped at the creek to rest before she climbed the long hill. at the edge of the field she sat down against a grassy bank and waited until the horses came tramping up the long rows. claude saw her and pulled them in. "anything wrong, mother?" he called. "oh, no! i'm going to take you home for dinner with me, that's all. i telephoned enid." he unhooked his team, and he and his mother started down the hill together, walking behind the horses. though they had not been alone like this for a long while, she felt it best to talk about impersonal things. "don't let me forget to give you an article about the execution of that english nurse." "edith cavell? i've read about it," he answered listlessly. "it's nothing to be surprised at. if they could sink the lusitania, they could shoot an english nurse, certainly." "someway i feel as if this were different," his mother murmured. "it's like the hanging of john brown. i wonder they could find soldiers to execute the sentence." "oh, i guess they have plenty of such soldiers!" mrs. wheeler looked up at him. "i don't see how we can stay out of it much longer, do you? i suppose our army wouldn't be a drop in the bucket, even if we could get it over. they tell us we can be more useful in our agriculture and manufactories than we could by going into the war. i only hope it isn't campaign talk. i do distrust the democrats." claude laughed. "why, mother, i guess there's no party politics in this." she shook her head. "i've never yet found a public question in which there wasn't party politics. well, we can only do our duty as it comes to us, and have faith. this field finishes your fall work?" "yes. i'll have time to do some things about the place, now. i'm going to make a good ice-house and put up my own ice this winter." "were you thinking of going up to lincoln, for a little?" "i guess not." mrs. wheeler sighed. his tone meant that he had turned his back on old pleasures and old friends. "have you and enid taken tickets for the lecture course in frankfort?" "i think so, mother," he answered a little impatiently. "i told her she could attend to it when she was in town some day." "of course," his mother persevered, "some of the programs are not very good, but we ought to patronize them and make the best of what we have." he knew, and his mother knew, that he was not very good at that. his horses stopped at the water tank. "don't wait for me. i'll be along in a minute." seeing her crestfallen face, he smiled. "never mind, mother, i can always catch you when you try to give me a pill in a raisin. one of us has to be pretty smart to fool the other." she blinked up at him with that smile in which her eyes almost disappeared. "i thought i was smart that time!" it was a comfort, she reflected, as she hurried up the hill, to get hold of him again, to get his attention, even. while claude was washing for dinner, mahailey came to him with a page of newspaper cartoons, illustrating german brutality. to her they were all photographs,--she knew no other way of making a picture. "mr. claude," she asked, "how comes it all them germans is such ugly lookin' people? the yoeders and the german folks round here ain't ugly lookin'." claude put her off indulgently. "maybe it's the ugly ones that are doing the fighting, and the ones at home are nice, like our neighbours." "then why don't they make their soldiers stay home, an' not go breakin' other people's things, an' turnin' 'em out of their houses," she muttered indignantly. "they say little babies was born out in the snow last winter, an' no fires for their mudders nor nothin'. 'deed, mr. claude, it wasn't like that in our war; the soldiers didn't do nothin' to the women an' chillun. many a time our house was full of northern soldiers, an' they never so much as broke a piece of my mudder's chiney." "you'll have to tell me about it again sometime, mahailey. i must have my dinner and get back to work. if we don't get our wheat in, those people over there won't have anything to eat, you know." the picture papers meant a great deal to mahailey, because she could faintly remember the civil war. while she pored over photographs of camps and battlefields and devastated villages, things came back to her; the companies of dusty union infantry that used to stop to drink at her mother's cold mountain spring. she had seen them take off their boots and wash their bleeding feet in the run. her mother had given one louse-bitten boy a clean shirt, and she had never forgotten the sight of his back, "as raw as beef where he'd scratched it." five of her brothers were in the confederate army. when one was wounded in the second battle of bull run, her mother had borrowed a wagon and horses, gone a three days' journey to the field hospital, and brought the boy home to the mountain. mahailey could remember how her older sisters took turns pouring cold spring water on his gangrenous leg all day and all night. there were no doctors left in the neighbourhood, and as nobody could amputate the boy's leg, he died by inches. mahailey was the only person in the wheeler household who had ever seen war with her own eyes, and she felt that this fact gave her a definite superiority. v claude had been married a year and a half. one december morning he got a telephone message from his father-in-law, asking him to come in to frankfort at once. he found mr. royce sunk in his desk-chair, smoking as usual, with several foreign-looking letters on the table before him. as he took these out of their envelopes and sorted the pages, claude noticed how unsteady his hands had become. one letter, from the chief of the medical staff in the mission school where caroline royce taught, informed mr. royce that his daughter was seriously ill in the mission hospital. she would have to be sent to a more salubrious part of the country for rest and treatment, and would not be strong enough to return to her duties for a year or more. if some member of her family could come out to take care of her, it would relieve the school authorities of great anxiety. there was also a letter from a fellow teacher, and a rather incoherent one from caroline herself. after claude finished reading them, mr. royce pushed a box of cigars toward him and began to talk despondently about missionaries. "i could go to her," he complained, "but what good would that do? i'm not in sympathy with her ideas, and it would only fret her. you can see she's made her mind up not to come home. i don't believe in one people trying to force their ways or their religion on another. i'm not that kind of man." he sat looking at his cigar. after a long pause he broke out suddenly, "china has been drummed into my ears. it seems like a long way to go to hunt for trouble, don't it? a man hasn't got much control over his own life, claude. if it ain't poverty or disease that torments him, it's a name on the map. i could have made out pretty well, if it hadn't been for china, and some other things.... if carrie'd had to teach for her clothes and help pay off my notes, like old man harrison's daughters, like enough she'd have stayed at home. there's always something. i don't know what to say about showing these letters to enid." "oh, she will have to know about it, mr. royce. if she feels that she ought to go to carrie, it wouldn't be right for me to interfere." mr. royce shook his head. "i don't know. it don't seem fair that china should hang over you, too." when claude got home he remarked as he handed enid the letters, "your father has been a good deal upset by this. i never saw him look so old as he did today." enid studied their contents, sitting at her orderly little desk, while claude pretended to read the paper. "it seems clear that i am the one to go," she said when she had finished. "you think it's necessary for some one to go? i don't see it." "it would look very strange if none of us went," enid replied with spirit. "how, look strange?" "why, it would look to her associates as if her family had no feeling." "oh, if that's all!" claude smiled perversely and took up his paper again. "i wonder how it will look to people here if you go off and leave your husband?" "what a mean thing to say, claude!" she rose sharply, then hesitated, perplexed. "people here know me better than that. it isn't as if you couldn't be perfectly comfortable at your mother's." as he did not glance up from his paper, she went into the kitchen. claude sat still, listening to enid's quick movements as she opened up the range to get supper. the light in the room grew greyer. outside the fields melted into one another as evening came on. the young trees in the yard bent and whipped about under a bitter north wind. he had often thought with pride that winter died at his front doorstep; within, no draughty halls, no chilly corners. this was their second year here. when he was driving home, the thought that he might be free of this house for a long while had stirred a pleasant excitement in him; but now, he didn't want to leave it. something grew soft in him. he wondered whether they couldn't try again, and make things go better. enid was singing in the kitchen in a subdued, rather lonely voice. he rose and went out for his milking coat and pail. as he passed his wife by the window, he stopped and put his arm about her questioningly. she looked up. "that's right. you're feeling better about it, aren't you? i thought you would. gracious, what a smelly coat, claude! i must find another for you." claude knew that tone. enid never questioned the rightness of her own decisions. when she made up her mind, there was no turning her. he went down the path to the barn with his hands stuffed in his trousers pockets, his bright pail hanging on his arm. try again--what was there to try? platitudes, littleness, falseness.... his life was choking him, and he hadn't the courage to break with it. let her go! let her go when she would!... what a hideous world to be born into! or was it hideous only for him? everything he touched went wrong under his hand--always had. when they sat down at the supper table in the back parlour an hour later, enid looked worn, as if this time her decision had cost her something. "i should think you might have a restful winter at your mother's," she began cheerfully. "you won't have nearly so much to look after as you do here. we needn't disturb things in this house. i will take the silver down to mother, and we can leave everything else just as it is. would there be room for my car in your father's garage? you might find it a convenience." "oh, no! i won't need it. i'll put it up at the mill house," he answered with an effort at carelessness. all the familiar objects that stood about them in the lamplight seemed stiller and more solemn than usual, as if they were holding their breath. "i suppose you had better take the chickens over to your mother's," enid continued evenly. "but i shouldn't like them to get mixed with her plymouth rocks; there's not a dark feather among them now. do ask mother wheeler to use all the eggs, and not to let my hens set in the spring." "in the spring?" claude looked up from his plate. "of course, claude. i could hardly get back before next fall, if i'm to be of any help to poor carrie. i might try to be home for harvest, if that would make it more convenient for you." she rose to bring in the dessert. "oh, don't hurry on my account!" he muttered, staring after her disappearing figure. enid came back with the hot pudding and the after-dinner coffee things. "this has come on us so suddenly that we must make our plans at once," she explained. "i should think your mother would be glad to keep rose for us; she is such a good cow. and then you can have all the cream you want." he took the little gold-rimmed cup she held out to him. "if you are going to be gone until next fall, i shall sell rose," he announced gruffly. "but why? you might look a long time before you found another like her." "i shall sell her, anyhow. the horses, of course, are father's; he paid for them. if you clear out, he may want to rent this place. you may find a tenant in here when you get back from china." claude swallowed his coffee, put down the cup, and went into the front parlour, where he lit a cigar. he walked up and down, keeping his eyes fixed upon his wife, who still sat at the table in the circle of light from the hanging lamp. her head, bent forward a little, showed the neat part of her brown hair. when she was perplexed, her face always looked sharper, her chin longer. "if you've no feeling for the place," said claude from the other room, "you can hardly expect me to hang around and take care of it. all the time you were campaigning, i played housekeeper here." enid's eyes narrowed, but she did not flush. claude had never seen a wave of colour come over his wife's pale, smooth cheeks. "don't be childish. you know i care for this place; it's our home. but no feeling would be right that kept me from doing my duty. you are well, and you have your mother's house to go to. carrie is ill and among strangers." she began to gather up the dishes. claude stepped quickly out into the light and confronted her. "it's not only your going. you know what's the matter with me. it's because you want to go. you are glad of a chance to get away among all those preachers, with their smooth talk and make-believe." enid took up the tray. "if i am glad, it's because you are not willing to govern our lives by christian ideals. there is something in you that rebels all the time. so many important questions have come up since our marriage, and you have been indifferent or sarcastic about every one of them. you want to lead a purely selfish life." she walked resolutely out of the room and shut the door behind her. later, when she came back, claude was not there. his hat and coat were gone from the hat rack; he must have let himself out quietly by the front door. enid sat up until eleven and then went to bed. in the morning, on coming out from her bedroom, she found claude asleep on the lounge, dressed, with his overcoat on. she had a moment of terror and bent over him, but she could not detect any smell of spirits. she began preparations for breakfast, moving quietly. having once made up her mind to go out to her sister, enid lost no time. she engaged passage and cabled the mission school. she left frankfort the week before christmas. claude and ralph took her as far as denver and put her on a trans-continental express. when claude came home, he moved over to his mother's, and sold his cow and chickens to leonard dawson. except when he went to see mr. royce, he seldom left the farm now, and he avoided the neighbours. he felt that they were discussing his domestic affairs,--as, of course, they were. the royces and the wheelers, they said, couldn't behave like anybody else, and it was no use their trying. if claude built the best house in the neighbourhood, he just naturally wouldn't live in it. and if he had a wife at all, it was like him to have a wife in china! one snowy day, when nobody was about, claude took the big car and went over to his own place to close the house for the winter and bring away the canned fruit and vegetables left in the cellar. enid had packed her best linen in her cedar chest and had put the kitchen and china closets in scrupulous order before she went away. he began covering the upholstered chairs and the mattresses with sheets, rolled up the rugs, and fastened the windows securely. as he worked, his hands grew more and more numb and listless, and his heart was like a lump of ice. all these things that he had selected with care and in which he had taken such pride, were no more to him now than the lumber piled in the shop of any second-hand dealer. how inherently mournful and ugly such objects were, when the feeling that had made them precious no longer existed! the debris of human life was more worthless and ugly than the dead and decaying things in nature. rubbish... junk... his mind could not picture anything that so exposed and condemned all the dreary, weary, ever-repeated actions by which life is continued from day to day. actions without meaning.... as he looked out and saw the grey landscape through the gently falling snow, he could not help thinking how much better it would be if people could go to sleep like the fields; could be blanketed down under the snow, to wake with their hurts healed and their defeats forgotten. he wondered how he was to go on through the years ahead of him, unless he could get rid of this sick feeling in his soul. at last he locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went over to the timber claim to smoke a cigar and say goodbye to the place. there he soberly walked about for more than an hour, under the crooked trees with empty birds' nests in their forks. every time he came to a break in the hedge, he could see the little house, giving itself up so meekly to solitude. he did not believe that he would ever live there again. well, at any rate, the money his father had put into the place would not be lost; he could always get a better tenant for having a comfortable house there. several of the boys in the neighbourhood were planning to be married within the year. the future of the house was safe. and he? he stopped short in his walk; his feet had made an uncertain, purposeless trail all over the white ground. it vexed him to see his own footsteps. what was it--what was the matter with him? why, at least, could he not stop feeling things, and hoping? what was there to hope for now? he heard a sound of distress, and looking back, saw the barn cat, that had been left behind to pick up her living. she was standing inside the hedge, her jet black fur ruffled against the wet flakes, one paw lifted, mewing miserably. claude went over and picked her up. "what's the matter, blackie? mice getting scarce in the barn? mahailey will say you are bad luck. maybe you are, but you can't help it, can you?" he slipped her into his overcoat pocket. later, when he was getting into his car, he tried to dislodge her and put her in a basket, but she clung to her nest in his pocket and dug her claws into the lining. he laughed. "well, if you are bad luck, i guess you are going to stay right with me!" she looked up at him with startled yellow eyes and did not even mew. vi mrs. wheeler was afraid that claude might not find the old place comfortable, after having had a house of his own. she put her best rocking chair and a reading lamp in his bedroom. he often sat there all evening, shading his eyes with his hand, pretending to read. when he stayed downstairs after supper, his mother and mahailey were grateful. besides collecting war pictures, mahailey now hunted through the old magazines in the attic for pictures of china. she had marked on her big kitchen calendar the day when enid would arrive in hong-kong. "mr. claude," she would say as she stood at the sink washing the supper dishes, "it's broad daylight over where miss enid is, ain't it? cause the world's round, an' the old sun, he's a-shinin' over there for the yaller people." from time to time, when they were working together, mrs. wheeler told mahailey what she knew about the customs of the chinese. the old woman had never had two impersonal interests at the same time before, and she scarcely knew what to do with them. she would murmur on, half to claude and half to herself: "they ain't fightin' over there where miss enid is, is they? an' she won't have to wear their kind of clothes, cause she's a white woman. she won't let 'em kill their girl babies nor do such awful things like they always have, an' she won't let 'em pray to them stone iboles, cause they can't help 'em none. i 'spect miss enid'll do a heap of good, all the time." behind her diplomatic monologues, however, mahailey had her own ideas, and she was greatly scandalized at enid's departure. she was afraid people would say that claude's wife had "run off an' lef' him," and in the virginia mountains, where her social standards had been formed, a husband or wife thus deserted was the object of boisterous ridicule. she once stopped mrs. wheeler in a dark corner of the cellar to whisper, "mr. claude's wife ain't goin' to stay off there, like her sister, is she?" if one of the yoeder boys or susie dawson happened to be at the wheelers' for dinner, mahailey never failed to refer to enid in a loud voice. "mr. claude's wife, she cuts her potatoes up raw in the pan an' fries 'em. she don't boil 'em first like i do. i know she's an awful good cook, i know she is." she felt that easy references to the absent wife made things look better. ernest havel came to see claude now, but not often. they both felt it would be indelicate to renew their former intimacy. ernest still felt aggrieved about his beer, as if enid had snatched the tankard from his lips with her own corrective hand. like leonard, he believed that claude had made a bad bargain in matrimony; but instead of feeling sorry for him, ernest wanted to see him convinced and punished. when he married enid, claude had been false to liberal principles, and it was only right that he should pay for his apostasy. the very first time he came to spend an evening at the wheelers' after claude came home to live, ernest undertook to explain his objections to prohibition. claude shrugged his shoulders. "why not drop it? it's a matter that doesn't interest me, one way or the other." ernest was offended and did not come back for nearly a month--not, indeed, until the announcement that germany would resume unrestricted submarine warfare made every one look questioningly at his neighbour. he walked into the wheelers' kitchen the night after this news reached the farming country, and found claude and his mother sitting at the table, reading the papers aloud to each other in snatches. ernest had scarcely taken a seat when the telephone bell rang. claude answered the call. "it's the telegraph operator at frankfort," he said, as he hung up the receiver. "he repeated a message from father, sent from wray: 'will be home day after tomorrow. read the papers.' what does he mean? what does he suppose we are doing?" "it means he considers our situation very serious. it's not like him to telegraph except in case of illness." mrs. wheeler rose and walked distractedly to the telephone box, as if it might further disclose her husband's state of mind. "but what a queer message! it was addressed to you, too, mother, not to me." "he would know how i feel about it. some of your father's people were seagoing men, out of portsmouth. he knows what it means when our shipping is told where it can go on the ocean, and where it cannot. it isn't possible that washington can take such an affront for us. to think that at this time, of all times, we should have a democratic administration!" claude laughed. "sit down, mother. wait a day or two. give them time." "the war will be over before washington can do anything, mrs. wheeler," ernest declared gloomily, "england will be starved out, and france will be beaten to a standstill. the whole german army will be on the western front now. what could this country do? how long do you suppose it takes to make an army?" mrs. wheeler stopped short in her restless pacing and met his moody glance. "i don't know anything, ernest, but i believe the bible. i believe that in the twinkling of an eye we shall be changed!" ernest looked at the floor. he respected faith. as he said, you must respect it or despise it, for there was nothing else to do. claude sat leaning his elbows on the table. "it always comes back to the same thing, mother. even if a raw army could do anything, how would we get it over there? here's one naval authority who says the germans are turning out submarines at the rate of three a day. they probably didn't spring this on us until they had enough built to keep the ocean clear." "i don't pretend to say what we could accomplish, son. but we must stand somewhere, morally. they have told us all along that we could be more helpful to the allies out of the war than in it, because we could send munitions and supplies. if we agree to withdraw that aid, where are we? helping germany, all the time we are pretending to mind our own business! if our only alternative is to be at the bottom of the sea, we had better be there!" "mother, do sit down! we can't settle it tonight. i never saw you so worked up." "your father is worked up, too, or he would never have sent that telegram." mrs. wheeler reluctantly took up her workbasket, and the boys talked with their old, easy friendliness. when ernest left, claude walked as far as the yoeders' place with him, and came back across the snow-drifted fields, under the frosty brilliance of the winter stars. as he looked up at them, he felt more than ever that they must have something to do with the fate of nations, and with the incomprehensible things that were happening in the world. in the ordered universe there must be some mind that read the riddle of this one unhappy planet, that knew what was forming in the dark eclipse of this hour. a question hung in the air; over all this quiet land about him, over him, over his mother, even. he was afraid for his country, as he had been that night on the state house steps in denver, when this war was undreamed of, hidden in the womb of time. claude and his mother had not long to wait. three days later they knew that the german ambassador had been dismissed, and the american ambassador recalled from berlin. to older men these events were subjects to think and converse about; but to boys like claude they were life and death, predestination. vii one stormy morning claude was driving the big wagon to town to get a load of lumber. the roads were beginning to thaw out, and the country was black and dirty looking. here and there on the dark mud, grey snow crusts lingered, perforated like honeycomb, with wet weedstalks sticking up through them. as the wagon creaked over the high ground just above frankfort, claude noticed a brilliant new flag flying from the schoolhouse cupola. he had never seen the flag before when it meant anything but the fourth of july, or a political rally. today it was as if he saw it for the first time; no bands, no noise, no orators; a spot of restless colour against the sodden march sky. he turned out of his way in order to pass the high school, drew up his team, and waited a few minutes until the noon bell rang. the older boys and girls came out first, with a flurry of raincoats and umbrellas. presently he saw gladys farmer, in a yellow "slicker" and an oilskin hat, and waved to her. she came up to the wagon. "i like your decoration," he said, glancing toward the cupola. "it's a silk one the senior boys bought with their athletic money. i advised them not to run it up in this rain, but the class president told me they bought that flag for storms." "get in, and i'll take you home." she took his extended hand, put her foot on the hub of the wheel, and climbed to the seat beside him. he clucked to his team. "so your high school boys are feeling war-like these days?" "very. what do you think?" "i think they'll have a chance to express their feelings." "do you, claude? it seems awfully unreal." "nothing else seems very real, either. i'm going to haul out a load of lumber, but i never expect to drive a nail in it. these things don't matter now. there is only one thing we ought to do, and only one thing that matters; we all know it." "you feel it's coming nearer every day?" "every day." gladys made no reply. she only looked at him gravely with her calm, generous brown eyes. they stopped before the low house where the windows were full of flowers. she took his hand and swung herself to the ground, holding it for a moment while she said good-bye. claude drove back to the lumber yard. in a place like frankfort, a boy whose wife was in china could hardly go to see gladys without causing gossip. viii during the bleak month of march mr. wheeler went to town in his buckboard almost every day. for the first time in his life he had a secret anxiety. the one member of his family who had never given him the slightest trouble, his son bayliss, was just now under a cloud. bayliss was a pacifist, and kept telling people that if only the united states would stay out of this war, and gather up what europe was wasting, she would soon be in actual possession of the capital of the world. there was a kind of logic in bayliss' utterances that shook nat wheeler's imperturbable assumption that one point of view was as good as another. when bayliss fought the dram and the cigarette, wheeler only laughed. that a son of his should turn out a prohibitionist, was a joke he could appreciate. but bayliss' attitude in the present crisis disturbed him. day after day he sat about his son's place of business, interrupting his arguments with funny stories. bayliss did not go home at all that month. he said to his father, "no, mother's too violent. i'd better not." claude and his mother read the papers in the evening, but they talked so little about what they read that mahailey inquired anxiously whether they weren't still fighting over yonder. when she could get claude alone for a moment, she pulled out sunday supplement pictures of the devastated countries and asked him to tell her what was to become of this family, photographed among the ruins of their home; of this old woman, who sat by the roadside with her bundles. "where's she goin' to, anyways? see, mr. claude, she's got her iron cook-pot, pore old thing, carryin' it all the way!" pictures of soldiers in gas-masks puzzled her; gas was something she hadn't learned about in the civil war, so she worked it out for herself that these masks were worn by the army cooks, to protect their eyes when they were cutting up onions! "all them onions they have to cut up, it would put their eyes out if they didn't wear somethin'," she argued. on the morning of the eighth of april claude came downstairs early and began to clean his boots, which were caked with dry mud. mahailey was squatting down beside her stove, blowing and puffing into it. the fire was always slow to start in heavy weather. claude got an old knife and a brush, and putting his foot on a chair over by the west window, began to scrape his shoe. he had said good-morning to mahailey, nothing more. he hadn't slept well, and was pale. "mr. claude," mahailey grumbled, "this stove ain't never drawed good like my old one mr. ralph took away from me. i can't do nothin' with it. maybe you'll clean it out for me next sunday." "i'll clean it today, if you say so. i won't be here next sunday. i'm going away." something in his tone made mahailey get up, her eyes still blinking with the smoke, and look at him sharply. "you ain't goin' off there where miss enid is?" she asked anxiously. "no, mahailey." he had dropped the shoebrush and stood with one foot on the chair, his elbow on his knee, looking out of the window as if he had forgotten himself. "no, i'm not going to china. i'm going over to help fight the germans." he was still staring out at the wet fields. before he could stop her, before he knew what she was doing, she had caught and kissed his unworthy hand. "i knowed you would," she sobbed. "i always knowed you would, you nice boy, you! old mahail' knowed!" her upturned face was working all over; her mouth, her eyebrows, even the wrinkles on her low forehead were working and twitching. claude felt a tightening in his throat as he tenderly regarded that face; behind the pale eyes, under the low brow where there was not room for many thoughts, an idea was struggling and tormenting her. the same idea that had been tormenting him. "you're all right, mahailey," he muttered, patting her back and turning away. "now hurry breakfast." "you ain't told your mudder yit?" she whispered. "no, not yet. but she'll be all right, too." he caught up his cap and went down to the barn to look after the horses. when claude returned, the family were already at the breakfast table. he slipped into his seat and watched his mother while she drank her first cup of coffee. then he addressed his father. "father, i don't see any use of waiting for the draft. if you can spare me, i'd like to get into a training camp somewhere. i believe i'd stand a chance of getting a commission." "i shouldn't wonder." mr. wheeler poured maple syrup on his pancakes with a liberal hand. "how do you feel about it, evangeline?" mrs. wheeler had quietly put down her knife and fork. she looked at her husband in vague alarm, while her fingers moved restlessly about over the tablecloth. "i thought," claude went on hastily, "that maybe i would go up to omaha tomorrow and find out where the training camps are to be located, and have a talk with the men in charge of the enlistment station. of course," he added lightly, "they may not want me. i haven't an idea what the requirements are." "no, i don't understand much about it either." mr. wheeler rolled his top pancake and conveyed it to his mouth. after a moment of mastication he said, "you figure on going tomorrow?" "i'd like to. i won't bother with baggage--some shirts and underclothes in my suitcase. if the government wants me, it will clothe me." mr. wheeler pushed back his plate. "well, now i guess you'd better come out with me and look at the wheat. i don't know but i'd best plough up that south quarter and put it in corn. i don't believe it will make anything much." when claude and his father went out of the door, dan sprang up with more alacrity than usual and plunged after them. he did not want to be left alone with mrs. wheeler. she remained sitting at the foot of the deserted breakfast table. she was not crying. her eyes were utterly sightless. her back was so stooped that she seemed to be bending under a burden. mahailey cleared the dishes away quietly. out in the muddy fields claude finished his talk with his father. he explained that he wanted to slip away without saying good-bye to any one. "i have a way, you know," he said, flushing, "of beginning things and not getting very far with them. i don't want anything said about this until i'm sure. i may be rejected for one reason or another." mr. wheeler smiled. "i guess not. however, i'll tell dan to keep his mouth shut. will you just go over to leonard dawson's and get that wrench he borrowed? it's about noon, and he'll likely be at home." claude found big leonard watering his team at the windmill. when leonard asked him what he thought of the president's message, he blurted out at once that he was going to omaha to enlist. leonard reached up and pulled the lever that controlled the almost motionless wheel. "better wait a few weeks and i'll go with you. i'm going to try for the marines. they take my eye." claude, standing on the edge of the tank, almost fell backward. "why, what--what for?" leonard looked him over. "good lord, claude, you ain't the only fellow around here that wears pants! what for? well, i'll tell you what for," he held up three large red fingers threateningly; "belgium, the lusitania, edith cavell. that dirt's got under my skin. i'll get my corn planted, and then father'll look after susie till i come back." claude took a long breath. "well, leonard, you fooled me. i believed all this chaff you've been giving me about not caring who chewed up who." "and no more do i care," leonard protested, "not a damn! but there's a limit. i've been ready to go since the lusitania. i don't get any satisfaction out of my place any more. susie feels the same way." claude looked at his big neighbour. "well, i'm off tomorrow, leonard. don't mention it to my folks, but if i can't get into the army, i'm going to enlist in the navy. they'll always take an able-bodied man. i'm not coming back here." he held out his hand and leonard took it with a smack. "good luck, claude. maybe we'll meet in foreign parts. wouldn't that be a joke! give my love to enid when you write. i always did think she was a fine girl, though i disagreed with her on prohibition." claude crossed the fields mechanically, without looking where he went. his power of vision was turned inward upon scenes and events wholly imaginary as yet. ix one bright june day mr. wheeler parked his car in a line of motors before the new pressed-brick court house in frankfort. the court house stood in an open square, surrounded by a grove of cotton-woods. the lawn was freshly cut, and the flower beds were blooming. when mr. wheeler entered the courtroom upstairs, it was already half-full of farmers and townspeople, talking in low tones while the summer flies buzzed in and out of the open windows. the judge, a one-armed man, with white hair and side-whiskers, sat at his desk, writing with his left hand. he was an old settler in frankfort county, but from his frockcoat and courtly manners you might have thought he had come from kentucky yesterday instead of thirty years ago. he was to hear this morning a charge of disloyalty brought against two german farmers. one of the accused was august yoeder, the wheelers' nearest neighbour, and the other was troilus oberlies, a rich german from the northern part of the county. oberlies owned a beautiful farm and lived in a big white house set on a hill, with a fine orchard, rows of beehives, barns, granaries, and poultry yards. he raised turkeys and tumbler-pigeons, and many geese and ducks swam about on his cattleponds. he used to boast that he had six sons, "like our german emperor." his neighbours were proud of his place, and pointed it out to strangers. they told how oberlies had come to frankfort county a poor man, and had made his fortune by his industry and intelligence. he had twice crossed the ocean to re-visit his fatherland, and when he returned to his home on the prairies he brought presents for every one; his lawyer, his banker, and the merchants with whom he dealt in frankfort and vicount. each of his neighbours had in his parlour some piece of woodcarving or weaving, or some ingenious mechanical toy that oberlies had picked up in germany. he was an older man than yoeder, wore a short beard that was white and curly, like his hair, and though he was low in stature, his puffy red face and full blue eyes, and a certain swagger about his carriage, gave him a look of importance. he was boastful and quick-tempered, but until the war broke out in europe nobody had ever had any trouble with him. since then he had constantly found fault and complained,--everything was better in the old country. mr. wheeler had come to town prepared to lend yoeder a hand if he needed one. they had worked adjoining fields for thirty years now. he was surprised that his neighbour had got into trouble. he was not a blusterer, like oberlies, but a big, quiet man, with a serious, large-featured face, and a stern mouth that seldom opened. his countenance might have been cut out of red sandstone, it was so heavy and fixed. he and oberlies sat on two wooden chairs outside the railing of the judge's desk. presently the judge stopped writing and said he would hear the charges against troilus oberlies. several neighbours took the stand in succession; their complaints were confused and almost humorous. oberlies had said the united states would be licked, and that would be a good thing; america was a great country, but it was run by fools, and to be governed by germany was the best thing that could happen to it. the witness went on to say that since oberlies had made his money in this country-- here the judge interrupted him. "please confine yourself to statements which you consider disloyal, made in your presence by the defendant." while the witness proceeded, the judge took off his glasses and laid them on the desk and began to polish the lenses with a silk handkerchief, trying them, and rubbing them again, as if he desired to see clearly. a second witness had heard oberlies say he hoped the german submarines would sink a few troopships; that would frighten the americans and teach them to stay at home and mind their own business. a third complained that on sunday afternoons the old man sat on his front porch and played die wacht am rhein on a slide-trombone, to the great annoyance of his neighbours. here nat wheeler slapped his knee with a loud guffaw, and a titter ran through the courtroom. the defendant's puffy red cheeks seemed fashioned by his maker to give voice to that piercing instrument. when asked if he had anything to say to these charges, the old man rose, threw back his shoulders, and cast a defiant glance at the courtroom. "you may take my property and imprison me, but i explain nothing, and i take back nothing," he declared in a loud voice. the judge regarded his inkwell with a smile. "you mistake the nature of this occasion, mr. oberlies. you are not asked to recant. you are merely asked to desist from further disloyal utterances, as much for your own protection and comfort as from consideration for the feelings of your neighbours. i will now hear the charges against mr. yoeder." mr. yoeder, a witness declared, had said he hoped the united states would go to hell, now that it had been bought over by england. when the witness had remarked to him that if the kaiser were shot it would end the war, yoeder replied that charity begins at home, and he wished somebody would put a bullet in the president. when he was called upon, yoeder rose and stood like a rock before the judge. "i have nothing to say. the charges are true. i thought this was a country where a man could speak his mind." "yes, a man can speak his mind, but even here he must take the consequences. sit down, please." the judge leaned back in his chair, and looking at the two men in front of him, began with deliberation: "mr. oberlies, and mr. yoeder, you both know, and your friends and neighbours know, why you are here. you have not recognized the element of appropriateness, which must be regarded in nearly all the transactions of life; many of our civil laws are founded upon it. you have allowed a sentiment, noble in itself, to carry you away and lead you to make extravagant statements which i am confident neither of you mean. no man can demand that you cease from loving the country of your birth; but while you enjoy the benefits of this country, you should not defame its government to extol another. you both admit to utterances which i can only adjudge disloyal. i shall fine you each three hundred dollars; a very light fine under the circumstances. if i should have occasion to fix a penalty a second time, it will be much more severe." after the case was concluded, mr. wheeler joined his neighbour at the door and they went downstairs together. "well, what do you hear from claude?" mr. yoeder asked. "he's still at fort r--. he expects to get home on leave before he sails. gus, you'll have to lend me one of your boys to cultivate my corn. the weeds are getting away from me." "yes, you can have any of my boys,--till the draft gets 'em," said yoeder sourly. "i wouldn't worry about it. a little military training is good for a boy. you fellows know that." mr. wheeler winked, and yoeder's grim mouth twitched at one corner. that evening at supper mr. wheeler gave his wife a full account of the court hearing, so that she could write it to claude. mrs. wheeler, always more a school-teacher than a housekeeper, wrote a rapid, easy hand, and her long letters to claude reported all the neighbourhood doings. mr. wheeler furnished much of the material for them. like many long-married men he had fallen into the way of withholding neighbourhood news from his wife. but since claude went away he reported to her everything in which he thought the boy would be interested. as she laconically said in one of her letters: "your father talks a great deal more at home than formerly, and sometimes i think he is trying to take your place." x on the first day of july claude wheeler found himself in the fast train from omaha, going home for a week's leave. the uniform was still an unfamiliar sight in july, . the first draft was not yet called, and the boys who had rushed off and enlisted were in training camps far away. therefore a redheaded young man with long straight legs in puttees, and broad, energetic, responsible-looking shoulders in close-fitting khaki, made a conspicuous figure among the passengers. little boys and young girls peered at him over the tops of seats, men stopped in the aisle to talk to him, old ladies put on their glasses and studied his clothes, his bulky canvas hold-all, and even the book he kept opening and forgetting to read. the country that rushed by him on each side of the track was more interesting to his trained eye than the pages of any book. he was glad to be going through it at harvest,--the season when it is most itself. he noted that there was more corn than usual,--much of the winter wheat had been weather killed, and the fields were ploughed up in the spring and replanted in maize. the pastures were already burned brown, the alfalfa was coming green again after its first cutting. binders and harvesters were abroad in the wheat and oats, gathering the soft-breathing billows of grain into wide, subduing arms. when the train slowed down for a trestle in a wheat field, harvesters in blue shirts and overalls and wide straw hats stopped working to wave at the passengers. claude turned to the old man in the opposite seat. "when i see those fellows, i feel as if i'd wakened up in the wrong clothes." his neighbour looked pleased and smiled. "that the kind of uniform you're accustomed to?" "i surely never wore anything else in the month of july," claude admitted. "when i find myself riding along in a train, in the middle of harvest, trying to learn french verbs, then i know the world is turned upside down, for a fact!" the old man pressed a cigar upon him and began to question him. like the hero of the odyssey upon his homeward journey, claude had often to tell what his country was, and who were the parents that begot him. he was constantly interrupted in his perusal of a french phrase-book (made up of sentences chosen for their usefulness to soldiers,--such as; "non, jamais je ne regarde les femmes") by the questions of curious strangers. presently he gathered up his luggage, shook hands with his neighbour, and put on his hat--the same old stetson, with a gold cord and two hard tassels added to its conical severity. "i get off at this station and wait for the freight that goes down to frankfort; the cotton-tail, we call it." the old man wished him a pleasant visit home, and the best of luck in days to come. every one in the car smiled at him as he stepped down to the platform with his suitcase in one hand and his canvas bag in the other. his old friend, mrs. voigt, the german woman, stood out in front of her restaurant, ringing her bell to announce that dinner was ready for travellers. a crowd of young boys stood about her on the sidewalk, laughing and shouting in disagreeable, jeering tones. as claude approached, one of them snatched the bell from her hand, ran off across the tracks with it, and plunged into a cornfield. the other boys followed, and one of them shouted, "don't go in there to eat, soldier. she's a german spy, and she'll put ground glass in your dinner!" claude swept into the lunch room and threw his bags on the floor. "what's the matter, mrs. voigt? can i do anything for you?" she was sitting on one of her own stools, crying piteously, her false frizzes awry. looking up, she gave a little screech of recognition. "oh, i tank gott it was you, and no more trouble coming! you know i ain't no spy nor nodding, like what dem boys say. dem young fellers is dreadful rough mit me. i sell dem candy since dey was babies, an' now dey turn on me like dis. hindenburg, dey calls me, and kaiser bill!" she began to cry again, twisting her stumpy little fingers as if she would tear them off. "give me some dinner, ma'am, and then i'll go and settle with that gang. i've been away for a long time, and it seemed like getting home when i got off the train and saw your squaw vines running over the porch like they used to." "ya? you remember dat?" she wiped her eyes. "i got a pot-pie today, and green peas, chust a few, out of my own garden." "bring them along, please. we don't get anything but canned stuff in camp." some railroad men came in for lunch. mrs. voigt beckoned claude off to the end of the counter, where, after she had served her customers, she sat down and talked to him, in whispers. "my, you look good in dem clothes," she said patting his sleeve. "i can remember some wars, too; when we got back dem provinces what napoleon took away from us, alsace and lorraine. dem boys is passed de word to come and put tar on me some night, and i am skeered to go in my bet. i chust wrap in a quilt and sit in my old chair." "don't pay any attention to them. you don't have trouble with the business people here, do you?" "no-o, not troubles, exactly." she hesitated, then leaned impulsively across the counter and spoke in his ear. "but it ain't all so bad in de old country like what dey say. de poor people ain't slaves, and dey ain't ground down like what dey say here. always de forester let de poor folks come into de wood and carry off de limbs dat fall, and de dead trees. und if de rich farmer have maybe a liddle more manure dan he need, he let de poor man come and take some for his land. de poor folks don't git such wages like here, but dey lives chust as comfortable. und dem wooden shoes, what dey makes such fun of, is cleaner dan what leather is, to go round in de mud and manure. dey don't git so wet and dey don't stink so." claude could see that her heart was bursting with homesickness, full of tender memories of the far-away time and land of her youth. she had never talked to him of these things before, but now she poured out a flood of confidences about the big dairy farm on which she had worked as a girl; how she took care of nine cows, and how the cows, though small, were very strong,--drew a plough all day and yet gave as much milk at night as if they had been browsing in a pasture! the country people never had to spend money for doctors, but cured all diseases with roots and herbs, and when the old folks had the rheumatism they took "one of dem liddle jenny-pigs" to bed with them, and the guinea-pig drew out all the pain. claude would have liked to listen longer, but he wanted to find the old woman's tormentors before his train came in. leaving his bags with her, he crossed the railroad tracks, guided by an occasional teasing tinkle of the bell in the cornfield. presently he came upon the gang, a dozen or more, lying in a shallow draw that ran from the edge of the field out into an open pasture. he stood on the edge of the bank and looked down at them, while he slowly cut off the end of a cigar and lit it. the boys grinned at him, trying to appear indifferent and at ease. "looking for any one, soldier?" asked the one with the bell. "yes, i am. i'm looking for that bell. you'll have to take it back where it belongs. you every one of you know there's no harm in that old woman." "she's a german, and we're fighting the germans, ain't we?" "i don't think you'll ever fight any. you'd last about ten minutes in the american army. you're not our kind. there's only one army in the world that wants men who'll bully old women. you might get a job with them." the boys giggled. claude beckoned impatiently. "come along with that bell, kid." the boy rose slowly and climbed the bank out of the gully. as they tramped back through the cornfield, claude turned to him abruptly. "see here, aren't you ashamed of yourself?" "oh, i don't know about that!" the boy replied airily, tossing the bell up like a ball and catching it. "well, you ought to be. i didn't expect to see anything of this kind until i got to the front. i'll be back here in a week, and i'll make it hot for anybody that's been bothering her." claude's train was pulling in, and he ran for his baggage. once seated in the "cotton-tail," he began going down into his own country, where he knew every farm he passed,--knew the land even when he did not know the owner, what sort of crops it yielded, and about how much it was worth. he did not recognize these farms with the pleasure he had anticipated, because he was so angry about the indignities mrs. voigt had suffered. he was still burning with the first ardour of the enlisted man. he believed that he was going abroad with an expeditionary force that would make war without rage, with uncompromising generosity and chivalry. most of his friends at camp shared his quixotic ideas. they had come together from farms and shops and mills and mines, boys from college and boys from tough joints in big cities; sheepherders, street car drivers, plumbers' assistants, billiard markers. claude had seen hundreds of them when they first came in; "show men" in cheap, loud sport suits, ranch boys in knitted waistcoats, machinists with the grease still on their fingers, farm-hands like dan, in their one sunday coat. some of them carried paper suitcases tied up with rope, some brought all they had in a blue handkerchief. but they all came to give and not to ask, and what they offered was just themselves; their big red hands, their strong backs, the steady, honest, modest look in their eyes. sometimes, when he had helped the medical examiner, claude had noticed the anxious expression in the faces of the long lines of waiting men. they seemed to say, "if i'm good enough, take me. i'll stay by." he found them like that to work with; serviceable, good-natured, and eager to learn. if they talked about the war, or the enemy they were getting ready to fight, it was usually in a facetious tone; they were going to "can the kaiser," or to make the crown prince work for a living. claude, loved the men he trained with,--wouldn't choose to live in any better company. the freight train swung into the river valley that meant home,--the place the mind always came back to, after its farthest quest. rapidly the farms passed; the haystacks, the cornfields, the familiar red barns--then the long coal sheds and the water tank, and the train stopped. on the platform he saw ralph and mr. royce, waiting to welcome him. over there, in the automobile, were his father and mother, mr. wheeler in the driver's seat. a line of motors stood along the siding. he was the first soldier who had come home, and some of the townspeople had driven down to see him arrive in his uniform. from one car susie dawson waved to him, and from another gladys farmer. while he stopped and spoke to them, ralph took his bags. "come along, boys," mr. wheeler called, tooting his horn, and he hurried the soldier away, leaving only a cloud of dust behind. mr. royce went over to old man dawson's car and said rather childishly, "it can't be that claude's grown taller? i suppose it's the way they learn to carry themselves. he always was a manly looking boy." "i expect his mother's a proud woman," said susie, very much excited. "it's too bad enid can't be here to see him. she would never have gone away if she'd known all that was to happen." susie did not mean this as a thrust, but it took effect. mr. royce turned away and lit a cigar with some difficulty. his hands had grown very unsteady this last year, though he insisted that his general health was as good as ever. as he grew older, he was more depressed by the conviction that his women-folk had added little to the warmth and comfort of the world. women ought to do that, whatever else they did. he felt apologetic toward the wheelers and toward his old friends. it seemed as if his daughters had no heart. xi camp habits persisted. on his first morning at home claude came downstairs before even mahailey was stirring, and went out to have a look at the stock. the red sun came up just as he was going down the hill toward the cattle corral, and he had the pleasant feeling of being at home, on his father's land. why was it so gratifying to be able to say "our hill," and "our creek down yonder"? to feel the crunch of this particular dried mud under his boots? when he went into the barn to see the horses, the first creatures to meet his eye were the two big mules that had run away with him, standing in the stalls next the door. it flashed upon claude that these muscular quadrupeds were the actual authors of his fate. if they had not bolted with him and thrown him into the wire fence that morning, enid would not have felt sorry for him and come to see him every day, and his life might have turned out differently. perhaps if older people were a little more honest, and a boy were not taught to idealize in women the very qualities which can make him utterly unhappy--but there, he had got away from those regrets. but wasn't it just like him to be dragged into matrimony by a pair of mules! he laughed as he looked at them. "you old devils, you're strong enough to play such tricks on green fellows for years to come. you're chock full of meanness!" one of the animals wagged an ear and cleared his throat threateningly. mules are capable of strong affections, but they hate snobs, are the enemies of caste, and this pair had always seemed to detect in claude what his father used to call his "false pride." when he was a young lad they had been a source of humiliation to him, braying and balking in public places, trying to show off at the lumber yard or in front of the post office. at the end manger claude found old molly, the grey mare with the stiff leg, who had grown a second hoof on her off forefoot, an achievement not many horses could boast of. he was sure she recognized him; she nosed his hand and arm and turned back her upper lip, showing her worn, yellow teeth. "mustn't do that, molly," he said as he stroked her. "a dog can laugh, but it makes a horse look foolish. seems to me dan might curry you about once a week!" he took a comb from its niche behind a joist and gave her old coat a rubbing. her white hair was flecked all over with little rust-coloured dashes, like india ink put on with a fine brush, and her mane and tail had turned a greenish yellow. she must be eighteen years old, claude reckoned, as he polished off her round, heavy haunches. he and ralph used to ride her over to the yoeders' when they were barefoot youngsters, guiding her with a rope halter, and kicking at the leggy colt that was always running alongside. when he entered the kitchen and asked mahailey for warm water to wash his hands, she sniffed him disapprovingly. "why, mr. claude, you've been curryin' that old mare, and you've got white hairs all over your soldier-clothes. you're jist covered!" if his uniform stirred feeling in people of sober judgment, over mahailey it cast a spell. she was so dazzled by it that all the time claude was at home she never once managed to examine it in detail. before she got past his puttees, her powers of observation were befogged by excitement, and her wits began to jump about like monkeys in a cage. she had expected his uniform to be blue, like those she remembered, and when he walked into the kitchen last night she scarcely knew what to make of him. after mrs. wheeler explained to her that american soldiers didn't wear blue now, mahailey repeated to herself that these brown clothes didn't show the dust, and that claude would never look like the bedraggled men who used to stop to drink at her mother's spring. "them leather leggins is to keep the briars from scratchin' you, ain't they? i 'spect there's an awful lot of briars over there, like them long blackberry vines in the fields in virginia. your madder says the soldiers git lice now, like they done in our war. you jist carry a little bottle of coal-oil in your pocket an' rub it on your head at night. it keeps the nits from hatchin'." over the flour barrel in the corner mahailey had tacked a red cross poster; a charcoal drawing of an old woman poking with a stick in a pile of plaster and twisted timbers that had once been her home. claude went over to look at it while he dried his hands. "where did you get your picture?" "she's over there where you're goin', mr. claude. there she is, huntin' for somethin' to cook with; no stove nor no dishes nor nothin'--everything all broke up. i reckon she'll be mighty glad to see you comin'." heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and mahailey whispered hastily, "don't forgit about the coal-oil, and don't you be lousy if you can help it, honey." she considered lice in the same class with smutty jokes,--things to be whispered about. after breakfast mr. wheeler took claude out to the fields, where ralph was directing the harvesters. they watched the binder for a while, then went over to look at the haystacks and alfalfa, and walked along the edge of the cornfield, where they examined the young ears. mr. wheeler explained and exhibited the farm to claude as if he were a stranger; the boy had a curious feeling of being now formally introduced to these acres on which he had worked every summer since he was big enough to carry water to the harvesters. his father told him how much land they owned, and how much it was worth, and that it was unencumbered except for a trifling mortgage he had given on one quarter when he took over the colorado ranch. "when you come back," he said, "you and ralph won't have to hunt around to get into business. you'll both be well fixed. now you'd better go home by old man dawson's and drop in to see susie. everybody about here was astonished when leonard went." he walked with claude to the corner where the dawson land met his own. "by the way," he said as he turned back, "don't forget to go in to see the yoeders sometime. gus is pretty sore since they had him up in court. ask for the old grandmother. you remember she never learned any english. and now they've told her it's dangerous to talk german, she don't talk at all and hides away from everybody. if i go by early in the morning, when she's out weeding the garden, she runs and squats down in the gooseberry bushes till i'm out of sight." claude decided he would go to the yoeders' today, and to the dawsons' tomorrow. he didn't like to think there might be hard feeling toward him in a house where he had had so many good times, and where he had often found a refuge when things were dull at home. the yoeder boys had a music-box long before the days of victrolas, and a magic lantern, and the old grandmother made wonderful shadow-pictures on a sheet, and told stories about them. she used to turn the map of europe upside down on the kitchen table and showed the children how, in this position, it looked like a jungfrau; and recited a long german rhyme which told how spain was the maiden's head, the pyrenees her lace ruff, germany her heart and bosom, england and italy were two arms, and russia, though it looked so big, was only a hoopskirt. this rhyme would probably be condemned as dangerous propaganda now! as he walked on alone, claude was thinking how this country that had once seemed little and dull to him, now seemed large and rich in variety. during the months in camp he had been wholly absorbed in new work and new friendships, and now his own neighbourhood came to him with the freshness of things that have been forgotten for a long while,--came together before his eyes as a harmonious whole. he was going away, and he would carry the whole countryside in his mind, meaning more to him than it ever had before. there was lovely creek, gurgling on down there, where he and ernest used to sit and lament that the book of history was finished; that the world had come to avaricious old age and noble enterprise was dead for ever. but he was going away.... that afternoon claude spent with his mother. it was the first time she had had him to herself. ralph wanted terribly to stay and hear his brother talk, but understanding how his mother felt, he went back to the wheat field. there was no detail of claude's life in camp so trivial that mrs. wheeler did not want to hear about it. she asked about the mess, the cooks, the laundry, as well as about his own duties. she made him describe the bayonet drill and explain the operation of machine guns and automatic rifles. "i hardly see how we can bear the anxiety when our transports begin to sail," she said thoughtfully. "if they can once get you all over there, i am not afraid; i believe our boys are as good as any in the world. but with submarines reported off our own coast, i wonder how the government can get our men across safely. the thought of transports going down with thousands of young men on board is something so terrible--" she put her hands quickly over her eyes. claude, sitting opposite his mother, wondered what it was about her hands that made them so different from any others he had ever seen. he had always known they were different, but now he must look closely and see why. they were slender, and always white, even when the nails were stained at preserving time. her fingers arched back at the joints, as if they were shrinking from contacts. they were restless, and when she talked often brushed her hair or her dress lightly. when she was excited she sometimes put her hand to her throat, or felt about the neck of her gown, as if she were searching for a forgotten brooch. they were sensitive hands, and yet they seemed to have nothing to do with sense, to be almost like the groping fingers of a spirit. "how do you boys feel about it?" claude started. "about what, mother? oh, the transportation! we don't worry about that. it's the government's job to get us across. a soldier mustn't worry about anything except what he's directly responsible for. if the germans should sink a few troop ships, it would be unfortunate, certainly, but it wouldn't cut any figure in the long run. the british are perfecting an enormous dirigible, built to carry passengers. if our transports are sunk, it will only mean delay. in another year the yankees will be flying over. they can't stop us." mrs. wheeler bent forward. "that must be boys' talk, claude. surely you don't believe such a thing could be practicable?" "absolutely. the british are depending on their aircraft designers to do just that, if everything else fails. of course, nobody knows yet how effective the submarines will be in our case." mrs. wheeler again shaded her eyes with her hand. "when i was young, back in vermont, i used to wish that i had lived in the old times when the world went ahead by leaps and bounds. and now, i feel as if my sight couldn't bear the glory that beats upon it. it seems as if we would have to be born with new faculties, to comprehend what is going on in the air and under the sea." xii the afternoon sun was pouring in at the back windows of mrs. farmer's long, uneven parlour, making the dusky room look like a cavern with a fire at one end of it. the furniture was all in its cool, figured summer cretonnes. the glass flower vases that stood about on little tables caught the sunlight and twinkled like tiny lamps. claude had been sitting there for a long while, and he knew he ought to go. through the window at his elbow he could see rows of double hollyhocks, the flat leaves of the sprawling catalpa, and the spires of the tangled mint bed, all transparent in the gold-powdered light. they had talked about everything but the thing he had come to say. as he looked out into the garden he felt that he would never get it out. there was something in the way the mint bed burned and floated that made one a fatalist,--afraid to meddle. but after he was far away, he would regret; uncertainty would tease him like a splinter in his thumb. he rose suddenly and said without apology: "gladys, i wish i could feel sure you'd never marry my brother." she did not reply, but sat in her easy chair, looking up at him with a strange kind of calmness. "i know all the advantages," he went on hastily, "but they wouldn't make it up to you. that sort of a--compromise would make you awfully unhappy. i know." "i don't think i shall ever marry bayliss," gladys spoke in her usual low, round voice, but her quick breathing showed he had touched something that hurt. "i suppose i have used him. it gives a school-teacher a certain prestige if people think she can marry the rich bachelor of the town whenever she wants to. but i am afraid i won't marry him,--because you are the member of the family i have always admired." claude turned away to the window. "a fine lot i've been to admire," he muttered. "well, it's true, anyway. it was like that when we went to high school, and it's kept up. everything you do always seems exciting to me." claude felt a cold perspiration on his forehead. he wished now that he had never come. "but that's it, gladys. what have i ever done, except make one blunder after another?" she came over to the window and stood beside him. "i don't know; perhaps it's by their blunders that one gets to know people,--by what they can't do. if you'd been like all the rest, you could have got on in their way. that was the one thing i couldn't have stood." claude was frowning out into the flaming garden. he had not heard a word of her reply. "why didn't you keep me from making a fool of myself?" he asked in a low voice. "i think i tried--once. anyhow, it's all turning out better than i thought. you didn't get stuck here. you've found your place. you're sailing away. you've just begun." "and what about you?" she laughed softly. "oh, i shall teach in the high school!" claude took her hands and they stood looking searchingly at each other in the swimming golden light that made everything transparent. he never knew exactly how he found his hat and made his way out of the house. he was only sure that gladys did not accompany him to the door. he glanced back once, and saw her head against the bright window. she stood there, exactly where he left her, and watched the evening come on, not moving, scarcely breathing. she was thinking how often, when she came downstairs, she would see him standing here by the window, or moving about in the dusky room, looking at last as he ought to look,--like his convictions and the choice he had made. she would never let this house be sold for taxes now. she would save her salary and pay them off. she could never like any other room so well as this. it had always been a refuge from frankfort; and now there would be this vivid, confident figure, an image as distinct to her as the portrait of her grandfather upon the wall. xiii sunday was claude's last day at home, and he took a long walk with ernest and ralph. ernest would have preferred to lose ralph, but when the boy was out of the harvest field he stuck to his brother like a burr. there was something about claude's new clothes and new manner that fascinated him, and he went through one of those sudden changes of feeling that often occur in families. although they had been better friends ever since claude's wedding, until now ralph had always felt a little ashamed of him. why, he used to ask himself, wouldn't claude "spruce up and be somebody"? now, he was struck by the fact that he was somebody. on monday morning mrs. wheeler wakened early, with a faintness in her chest. this was the day on which she must acquit herself well. breakfast would be claude's last meal at home. at eleven o'clock his father and ralph would take him to frankfort to catch the train. she was longer than usual in dressing. when she got downstairs claude and mahailey were already talking. he was shaving in the washroom, and mahailey stood watching him, a side of bacon in her hand. "you tell 'em over there i'm awful sorry about them old women, with their dishes an' their stove all broke up." "all right. i will." claude scraped away at his chin. she lingered. "maybe you can help 'em mend their things, like you do mine fur me," she suggested hopefully. "maybe," he murmured absently. mrs. wheeler opened the stair door, and mahailey dodged back to the stove. after breakfast dan went out to the fields with the harvesters. ralph and claude and mr. wheeler were busy with the car all morning. mrs. wheeler kept throwing her apron over her head and going down the hill to see what they were doing. whether there was really something the matter with the engine, or whether the men merely made it a pretext for being together and keeping away from the house, she did not know. she felt that her presence was not much desired, and at last she went upstairs and resignedly watched them from the sitting-room window. presently she heard ralph run up to the third storey. when he came down with claude's bags in his hands, he stuck his head in at the door and shouted cheerfully to his mother: "no hurry. i'm just taking them down so they'll be ready." mrs. wheeler ran after him, calling faintly, "wait, ralph! are you sure he's got everything in? i didn't hear him packing." "everything ready. he says he won't have to go upstairs again. he'll be along pretty soon. there's lots of time." ralph shot down through the basement. mrs. wheeler sat down in her reading chair. they wanted to keep her away, and it was a little selfish of them. why couldn't they spend these last hours quietly in the house, instead of dashing in and out to frighten her? now she could hear the hot water running in the kitchen; probably mr. wheeler had come in to wash his hands. she felt really too weak to get up and go to the west window to see if he were still down at the garage. waiting was now a matter of seconds, and her breath came short enough as it was. she recognized a heavy, hob-nailed boot on the stairs, mounting quickly. when claude entered, carrying his hat in his hand, she saw by his walk, his shoulders, and the way he held his head, that the moment had come, and that he meant to make it short. she rose, reaching toward him as he came up to her and caught her in his arms. she was smiling her little, curious intimate smile, with half-closed eyes. "well, is it good-bye?" she murmured. she passed her hands over his shoulders, down his strong back and the close-fitting sides of his coat, as if she were taking the mould and measure of his mortal frame. her chin came just to his breast pocket, and she rubbed it against the heavy cloth. claude stood looking down at her without speaking a word. suddenly his arms tightened and he almost crushed her. "mother!" he whispered as he kissed her. he ran downstairs and out of the house without looking back. she struggled up from the chair where she had sunk and crept to the window; he was vaulting down the hill as fast as he could go. he jumped into the car beside his father. ralph was already at the wheel, and claude had scarcely touched the cushions when they were off. they ran down the creek and over the bridge, then up the long hill on the other side. as they neared the crest of the hill, claude stood up in the car and looked back at the house, waving his cone-shaped hat. she leaned out and strained her sight, but her tears blurred everything. the brown, upright figure seemed to float out of the car and across the fields, and before he was actually gone, she lost him. she fell back against the windowsill, clutching her temples with both hands, and broke into choking, passionate speech. "old eyes," she cried, "why do you betray me? why do you cheat me of my last sight of my splendid son!" book four: the voyage of the anchises i a long train of crowded cars, the passengers all of the same sex, almost of the same age, all dressed and hatted alike, was slowly steaming through the green sea-meadows late on a summer afternoon. in the cars, incessant stretching of cramped legs, shifting of shoulders, striking of matches, passing of cigarettes, groans of boredom; occasionally concerted laughter about nothing. suddenly the train stops short. clipped heads and tanned faces pop out at every window. the boys begin to moan and shout; what is the matter now? the conductor goes through the cars, saying something about a freight wreck on ahead; he has orders to wait here for half an hour. nobody pays any attention to him. a murmur of astonishment rises from one side of the train. the boys crowd over to the south windows. at last there is something to look at,--though what they see is so strangely quiet that their own exclamations are not very loud. their train is lying beside an arm of the sea that reaches far into the green shore. at the edge of the still water stand the hulls of four wooden ships, in the process of building. there is no town, there are no smoke-stacks--very few workmen. piles of lumber lie about on the grass. a gasoline engine under a temporary shelter is operating a long crane that reaches down among the piles of boards and beams, lifts a load, silently and deliberately swings it over to one of the skeleton vessels, and lowers it somewhere into the body of the motionless thing. along the sides of the clean hulls a few riveters are at work; they sit on suspended planks, lowering and raising themselves with pulleys, like house painters. only by listening very closely can one hear the tap of their hammers. no orders are shouted, no thud of heavy machinery or scream of iron drills tears the air. these strange boats seem to be building themselves. some of the men got out of the cars and ran along the tracks, asking each other how boats could be built off in the grass like this. lieutenant claude wheeler stretched his legs upon the opposite seat and sat still at his window, looking down on this strange scene. shipbuilding, he had supposed, meant noise and forges and engines and hosts of men. this was like a dream. nothing but green meadows, soft grey water, a floating haze of mist a little rosy from the sinking sun, spectre-like seagulls, flying slowly, with the red glow tinging their wings--and those four hulls lying in their braces, facing the sea, deliberating by the sea. claude knew nothing of ships or shipbuilding, but these craft did not seem to be nailed together,--they seemed all of a piece, like sculpture. they reminded him of the houses not made with hands; they were like simple and great thoughts, like purposes forming slowly here in the silence beside an unruffled arm of the atlantic. he knew nothing about ships, but he didn't have to; the shape of those hulls--their strong, inevitable lines--told their story, was their story; told the whole adventure of man with the sea. wooden ships! when great passions and great aspirations stirred a country, shapes like these formed along its shores to be the sheath of its valour. nothing claude had ever seen or heard or read or thought had made it all so clear as these untried wooden bottoms. they were the very impulse, they were the potential act, they were the "going over," the drawn arrow, the great unuttered cry, they were fate, they were tomorrow!... the locomotive screeched to her scattered passengers, like an old turkey-hen calling her brood. the soldier boys came running back along the embankment and leaped aboard the train. the conductor shouted they would be in hoboken in time for supper. ii it was midnight when the men had got their supper and began unrolling their blankets to sleep on the floor of the long dock waiting-rooms,--which in other days had been thronged by people who came to welcome home-coming friends, or to bid them god-speed to foreign shores. claude and some of his men had tried to look about them; but there was little to be seen. the bow of a boat, painted in distracting patterns of black and white, rose at one end of the shed, but the water itself was not visible. down in the cobble-paved street below they watched for awhile the long line of drays and motor trucks that bumped all night into a vast cavern lit by electricity, where crates and barrels and merchandise of all kinds were piled, marked american expeditionary forces; cases of electrical machinery from some factory in ohio, parts of automobiles, gun-carriages, bath-tubs, hospital supplies, bales of cotton, cases of canned food, grey metal tanks full of chemical fluids. claude went back to the waiting room, lay down and fell asleep with the glare of an arc-light shining full in his face. he was called at four in the morning and told where to report to headquarters. captain maxey, stationed at a desk on one of the landings, explained to his lieutenants that their company was to sail at eight o'clock on the anchises. it was an english boat, an old liner pulled off the australian trade, that could carry only twenty-five hundred men. the crew was english, but part of the stores,--the meat and fresh fruit and vegetables,--were furnished by the united states government. the captain had been over the boat during the night, and didn't like it very well. he had expected to be scheduled for one of the fine big hamburg-american liners, with dining-rooms finished in rosewood, and ventilation plants and cooling plants, and elevators running from top to bottom like a new york office building. "however," he said, "we'll have to make the best of it. they're using everything that's got a bottom now." the company formed for roll-call at one end of the shed, with their packs and rifles. breakfast was served to them while they waited. after an hour's standing on the concrete, they saw encouraging signs. two gangplanks were lowered from the vessel at the end of the slip, and up each of them began to stream a close brown line of men in smart service caps. they recognized a company of kansas infantry, and began to grumble because their own service caps hadn't yet been given to them; they would have to sail in their old stetsons. soon they were drawn into one of the brown lines that went continuously up the gangways, like belting running over machinery. on the deck one steward directed the men down to the hold, and another conducted the officers to their cabins. claude was shown to a four-berth state-room. one of his cabin mates, lieutenant fanning, of his own company, was already there, putting his slender luggage in order. the steward told them the officers were breakfasting in the dining saloon. by seven o'clock all the troops were aboard, and the men were allowed on deck. for the first time claude saw the profile of new york city, rising thin and gray against an opal-coloured morning sky. the day had come on hot and misty. the sun, though it was now high, was a red ball, streaked across with purple clouds. the tall buildings, of which he had heard so much, looked unsubstantial and illusionary,--mere shadows of grey and pink and blue that might dissolve with the mist and fade away in it. the boys were disappointed. they were western men, accustomed to the hard light of high altitudes, and they wanted to see the city clearly; they couldn't make anything of these uneven towers that rose dimly through the vapour. everybody was asking questions. which of those pale giants was the singer building? which the woolworth? what was the gold dome, dully glinting through the fog? nobody knew. they agreed it was a shame they could not have had a day in new york before they sailed away from it, and that they would feel foolish in paris when they had to admit they had never so much as walked up broadway. tugs and ferry boats and coal barges were moving up and down the oily river, all novel sights to the men. over in the canard and french docks they saw the first examples of the "camouflage" they had heard so much about; big vessels daubed over in crazy patterns that made the eyes ache, some in black and white, some in soft rainbow colours. a tug steamed up alongside and fastened. a few moments later a man appeared on the bridge and began to talk to the captain. young fanning, who had stuck to claude's side, told him this was the pilot, and that his arrival meant they were going to start. they could see the shiny instruments of a band assembling in the bow. "let's get on the other side, near the rail if we can," said fanning. "the fellows are bunching up over here because they want to look at the goddess of liberty as we go out. they don't even know this boat turns around the minute she gets into the river. they think she's going over stern first!" it was not easy to cross the deck; every inch was covered by a boot. the whole superstructure was coated with brown uniforms; they clung to the boat davits, the winches, the railings and ventilators, like bees in a swarm. just as the vessel was backing out, a breeze sprang up and cleared the air. blue sky broke overhead, and the pale silhouette of buildings on the long island grew sharp and hard. windows flashed flame-coloured in their grey sides, the gold and bronze tops of towers began to gleam where the sunlight struggled through. the transport was sliding down toward the point, and to the left the eye caught the silver cobweb of bridges, seen confusingly against each other. "there she is!" "hello, old girl!" "good-bye, sweetheart!" the swarm surged to starboard. they shouted and gesticulated to the image they were all looking for,--so much nearer than they had expected to see her, clad in green folds, with the mist streaming up like smoke behind. for nearly every one of those twenty-five hundred boys, as for claude, it was their first glimpse of the bartholdi statue. though she was such a definite image in their minds, they had not imagined her in her setting of sea and sky, with the shipping of the world coming and going at her feet, and the moving cloud masses behind her. post-card pictures had given them no idea of the energy of her large gesture, or how her heaviness becomes light among the vapourish elements. "france gave her to us," they kept saying, as they saluted her. before claude had got over his first thrill, the kansas band in the bow began playing "over there." two thousand voices took it up, booming out over the water the gay, indomitable resolution of that jaunty air. a staten island ferry-boat passed close under the bow of the transport. the passengers were office-going people, on their way to work, and when they looked up and saw these hundreds of faces, all young, all bronzed and grinning, they began to shout and wave their handkerchiefs. one of the passengers was an old clergyman, a famous speaker in his day, now retired, who went over to the city every morning to write editorials for a church paper. he closed the book he was reading, stood by the rail, and taking off his hat began solemnly to quote from a poet who in his time was still popular. "sail on," he quavered, "thou, too, sail on, o ship of state, humanity, with all its fears, with all its hopes of future years, is hanging breathless on thy fate." as the troop ship glided down the sea lane, the old man still watched it from the turtle-back. that howling swarm of brown arms and hats and faces looked like nothing, but a crowd of american boys going to a football game somewhere. but the scene was ageless; youths were sailing away to die for an idea, a sentiment, for the mere sound of a phrase... and on their departure they were making vows to a bronze image in the sea. iii all the first morning tod fanning showed claude over the boat,--not that fanning had ever been on anything bigger than a lake michigan steamer, but he knew a good deal about machinery, and did not hesitate to ask the deck stewards to explain anything he didn't know. the stewards, indeed all the crew, struck the boys as an unusually good-natured and obliging set of men. the fourth occupant of number , claude's cabin, had not turned up by noon, nor had any of his belongings, so the three who had settled their few effects there began to hope they would have the place to themselves. it would be crowded enough, at that. the third bunk was assigned to an officer from the kansas regiment, lieutenant bird, a virginian, who had been working in his uncle's bank in topeka when he enlisted. he and claude sat together at mess. when they were at lunch, the virginian said in his very gentle voice: "lieutenant, i wish you'd explain lieutenant fanning to me. he seems very immature. he's been telling me about a submarine destroyer he's invented, but it looks to me like foolishness." claude laughed. "don't try to understand fanning. just let him sink in, and you'll come to like him. i used to wonder how he ever got a commission. you never can tell what crazy thing he'll do." fanning had, for instance, brought on board a pair of white flannel pants, his first and only tailor-made trousers, because he had a premonition that the boat would make a port and that he would be asked to a garden party! he had a way of using big words in the wrong place, not because he tried to show off, but because all words sounded alike to him. in the first days of their acquaintance in camp he told claude that this was a failing he couldn't help, and that it was called "anaesthesia." sometimes this failing was confusing; when fanning sententiously declared that he would like to be on hand when the crown prince settled his little account with plato, claude was perplexed until subsequent witticisms revealed that the boy meant pluto. at three o'clock there was a band concert on deck. claude fell into talk with the bandmaster, and was delighted to find that he came from hillport, kansas, a town where claude had once been with his father to buy cattle, and that all his fourteen men came from hillport. they were the town band, had enlisted in a body, had gone into training together, and had never been separated. one was a printer who helped to get out the hillport argus every week, another clerked in a grocery store, another was the son of a german watch repairer, one was still in high school, one worked in an automobile livery. after supper claude found them all together, very much interested in their first evening at sea, and arguing as to whether the sunset on the water was as fine as those they saw every night in hillport. they hung together in a quiet, determined way, and if you began to talk to one, you soon found that all the others were there. when claude and fanning and lieutenant bird were undressing in their narrow quarters that night, the fourth berth was still unclaimed. they were in their bunks and almost asleep, when the missing man came in and unceremoniously turned on the light. they were astonished to see that he wore the uniform of the royal flying corps and carried a cane. he seemed very young, but the three who peeped out at him felt that he must be a person of consequence. he took off his coat with the spread wings on the collar, wound his watch, and brushed his teeth with an air of special personal importance. soon after he had turned out the light and climbed into the berth over lieutenant bird, a heavy smell of rum spread in the close air. fanning, who slept under claude, kicked the sagging mattress above him and stuck his head out. "hullo, wheeler! what have you got up there?" "nothing." "nothing smells pretty good to me. i'll have some with anybody that asks me." no response from any quarter. bird, the virginian, murmured, "don't make a row," and they went to sleep. in the morning, when the bath steward came, he edged his way into the narrow cabin and poked his head into the berth over bird's. "i'm sorry, sir, i've made careful search for your luggage, and it's not to be found, sir." "i tell you it must be found," fumed a petulant voice overhead. "i brought it over from the st. regis myself in a taxi. i saw it standing on the pier with the officers' luggage,--a black cabin trunk with v.m. lettered on both ends. get after it." the steward smiled discreetly. he probably knew that the aviator had come on board in a state which precluded any very accurate observation on his part. "very well, sir. is there anything i can get you for the present?" "you can take this shirt out and have it laundered and bring it back to me tonight. i've no linen in my bag." "yes, sir." claude and fanning got on deck as quickly as possible and found scores of their comrades already there, pointing to dark smudges of smoke along the clear horizon. they knew that these vessels had come from unknown ports, some of them far away, steaming thither under orders known only to their commanders. they would all arrive within a few hours of each other at a given spot on the surface of the ocean. there they would fall into place, flanked by their destroyers, and would proceed in orderly formation, without changing their relative positions. their escort would not leave them until they were joined by gunboats and destroyers off whatever coast they were bound for,--what that coast was, not even their own officers knew as yet. later in the morning this meeting was actually accomplished. there were ten troop ships, some of them very large boats, and six destroyers. the men stood about the whole morning, gazing spellbound at their sister transports, trying to find out their names, guessing at their capacity. tanned as they already were, their lips and noses began to blister under the fiery sunlight. after long months of intensive training, the sudden drop into an idle, soothing existence was grateful to them. though their pasts were neither long or varied, most of them, like claude wheeler, felt a sense of relief at being rid of all they had ever been before and facing something absolutely new. said tod fanning, as he lounged against the rail, "whoever likes it can run for a train every morning, and grind his days out in a westinghouse works; but not for me any more!" the virginian joined them. "that englishman ain't got out of bed yet. i reckon he's been liquouring up pretty steady. the place smells like a bar. the room steward was just coming out, and he winked at me. he was slipping something in his pocket, looked like a banknote." claude was curious, and went down to the cabin. as he entered, the air-man, lying half-dressed in his upper berth, raised himself on one elbow and looked down at him. his blue eyes were contracted and hard, his curly hair disordered, but his cheeks were as pink as a girl's, and the little yellow humming-bird moustache on his upper lip was twisted sharp. "you're missing fine weather," said claude affably. "oh, there'll be a great deal of weather before we get over, and damned little of anything else!" he drew a bottle from under his pillow. "have a nip?" "i don't mind if i do," claude put out his hand. the other laughed and sank back on his pillow, drawling lazily, "brave boy! go ahead; drink to the kaiser." "why to him in particular?" "it's not particular. drink to hindenburg, or the high command, or anything else that got you out of the cornfield. that's where they did get you, didn't they?" "well, it's a good guess, anyhow. where did they get you?" "crystal lake, iowa. i think that was the place." he yawned and folded his hands over his stomach. "why, we thought you were an englishman." "not quite. i've served in his majesty's army two years, though." "have you been flying in france?" "yes. i've been back and forth all the time, england and france. now i've wasted two months at fort worth. instructor. that's not my line. i may have been sent over as a reprimand. you can't tell about my colonel, though; may have been his way of getting me out of danger." claude glanced up at him, shocked at such an idea. the young man in the berth smiled with listless compassion. "oh, i don't mean bosch planes! there are dangers and dangers. you'll find you got bloody little information about this war, where they trained you. they don't communicate any details of importance. going?" claude hadn't intended to, but at this suggestion he pulled back the door. "one moment," called the aviator. "can't you keep that long-legged ass who bunks under you quiet?" "fanning? he's a good kid. what's the matter with him?" "his general ignorance and his insufferably familiar tone," snapped the other as he turned over. claude found fanning and the virginian playing checkers, and told them that the mysterious air-man was a fellow countryman. both seemed disappointed. "pshaw!" exclaimed lieutenant bird. "he can't put on airs with me, after that," fanning declared. "crystal lake! why it's no town at all!" all the same, claude wanted to find out how a youth from crystal lake ever became a member of the royal flying corps. already, from among the hundreds of strangers, half-a-dozen stood out as men he was determined to know better. taking them altogether the men were a fine sight as they lounged about the decks in the sunlight, the petty rivalries and jealousies of camp days forgotten. their youth seemed to flow together, like their brown uniforms. seen in the mass like this, claude thought, they were rather noble looking fellows. in so many of the faces there was a look of fine candour, an expression of cheerful expectancy and confident goodwill. there was on board a solitary marine, with the stripes of border service on his coat. he had been sick in the navy hospital in brooklyn when his regiment sailed, and was now going over to join it. he was a young fellow, rather pale from his recent illness, but he was exactly claude's idea of what a soldier ought to look like. his eye followed the marine about all day. the young man's name was albert usher, and he came from a little town up in the wind river mountains, in wyoming, where he had worked in a logging camp. he told claude these facts when they found themselves standing side by side that evening, watching the broad purple sun go down into a violet coloured sea. it was the hour when the farmers at home drive their teams in after the day's work. claude was thinking how his mother would be standing at the west window every evening now, watching the sun go down and following him in her mind. when the young marine came up and joined him, he confessed to a pang of homesickness. "that's a kind of sickness i don't have to wrastle with," said albert usher. "i was left an orphan on a lonesome ranch, when i was nine, and i've looked out for myself ever since." claude glanced sidewise at the boy's handsome head, that came up from his neck with clean, strong lines, and thought he had done a pretty good job for himself. he could not have said exactly what it was he liked about young usher's face, but it seemed to him a face that had gone through things,--that had been trained down like his body, and had developed a definite character. what claude thought due to a manly, adventurous life, was really due to well-shaped bones; usher's face was more "modelled" than most of the healthy countenances about him. when questioned, the marine went on to say that though he had no home of his own, he had always happened to fall on his feet, among kind people. he could go back to any house in pinedale or du bois and be welcomed like a son. "i suppose there are kind women everywhere," he said, "but in that respect wyoming's got the rest of the world beat. i never felt the lack of a home. now the u. s. marines are my family. wherever they are, i'm at home." "were you at vera cruz?" claude asked. "i guess! we thought that was quite a little party at the time, but i suppose it will seem small potatoes when we get over there. i'm figuring on seeing some first-rate scrapping. how long have you been in the army?" "year ago last april. i've had hard luck about getting over. they kept me jumping about to train men." "then yours is all to come. are you a college graduate?" "no. i went away to school, but i didn't finish." usher frowned at the gilded path on the water where the sun lay half submerged, like a big, watchful eye, closing. "i always wanted to go to college, but i never managed it. a man in laramie offered to stake me to a course in the university there, but i was too restless. i guess i was ashamed of my handwriting." he paused as if he had run against some old regret. a moment later he said suddenly, "can you parlez-vous?" "no. i know a few words, but i can't put them together." "same here. i expect to pick up some. i pinched quite a little spanish down on the border." by this time the sun had disappeared, and all over the west the yellow sky came down evenly, like a gold curtain, on the still sea that seemed to have solidified into a slab of dark blue stone,--not a twinkle on its immobile surface. across its dusky smoothness were two long smears of pale green, like a robin's egg. "do you like the water?" usher asked, in the tone of a polite host. "when i first shipped on a cruiser i was crazy about it. i still am. but, you know, i like them old bald mountains back in wyoming, too. there's waterfalls you can see twenty miles off from the plains; they look like white sheets or something, hanging up there on the cliffs. and down in the pine woods, in the cold streams, there's trout as long as my fore-arm." that evening claude was on deck, almost alone; there was a concert down in the ward room. to the west heavy clouds had come up, moving so low that they flapped over the water like a black washing hanging on the line. the music sounded well from below. four swedish boys from the scandinavian settlement at lindsborg, kansas, were singing "long, long ago." claude listened from a sheltered spot in the stern. what were they, and what was he, doing here on the atlantic? two years ago he had seemed a fellow for whom life was over; driven into the ground like a post, or like those chinese criminals who are planted upright in the earth, with only their heads left out for birds to peck at and insects to sting. all his comrades had been tucked away in prairie towns, with their little jobs and their little plans. yet here they were, attended by unknown ships called in from the four quarters of the earth. how had they come to be worth the watchfulness and devotion of so many men and machines, this extravagant consumption of fuel and energy? taken one by one, they were ordinary fellows like himself. yet here they were. and in this massing and movement of men there was nothing mean or common; he was sure of that. it was, from first to last, unforeseen, almost incredible. four years ago, when the french were holding the marne, the wisest men in the world had not conceived of this as possible; they had reckoned with every fortuity but this. "out of these stones can my father raise up seed unto abraham." downstairs the men began singing "annie laurie." where were those summer evenings when he used to sit dumb by the windmill, wondering what to do with his life? iv the morning of the third day; claude and the virginian and the marine were up very early, standing in the bow, watching the anchises mount the fresh blowing hills of water, her prow, as it rose and fell, always a dull triangle against the glitter. their escorts looked like dream ships, soft and iridescent as shell in the pearl-coloured tints of the morning. only the dark smudges of smoke told that they were mechanical realities with stokers and engines. while the three stood there, a sergeant brought claude word that two of his men would have to report at sick-call. corporal tannhauser had had such an attack of nose-bleed during the night that the sergeant thought he might die before they got it stopped. tannhauser was up now, and in the breakfast line, but the sergeant was sure he ought not to be. this fritz tannhauser was the tallest man in the company, a german-american boy who, when asked his name, usually said that his name was dennis and that he was of irish descent. even this morning he tried to joke, and pointing to his big red face told claude he thought he had measles. "only they ain't german measles, lieutenant," he insisted. medical inspection took a long while that morning. there seemed to be an outbreak of sickness on board. when claude brought his two men up to the doctor, he told them to go below and get into bed. as they left he turned to claude. "give them hot tea, and pile army blankets on them. make them sweat if you can." claude remarked that the hold wasn't a very cheerful place for sick men. "i know that, lieutenant, but there are a number of sick men this morning, and the only other physician on board is the sickest of the lot. there's the ship's doctor, of course, but he's only responsible for the crew, and so far he doesn't seem interested. i've got to overhaul the hospital and the medical stores this morning." "is there an epidemic of some sort?" "well, i hope not. but i'll have plenty to do today, so i count on you to look after those two." the doctor was a new englander who had joined them at hoboken. he was a brisk, trim man, with piercing eyes, clean-cut features, and grey hair just the colour of his pale face. claude felt at once that he knew his business, and he went below to carry out instructions as well as he could. when he came up from the hold, he saw the aviator--whose name, he had learned, was victor morse--smoking by the rail. this cabin-mate still piqued his curiosity. "first time you've been up, isn't it?" the aviator was looking at the distant smoke plumes over the quivering, bright water. "time enough. i wish i knew where we are heading for. it will be awfully awkward for me if we make a french port." "i thought you said you were to report in france." "i am. but i want to report in london first." he continued to gaze off at the painted ships. claude noticed that in standing he held his chin very high. his eyes, now that he was quite sober, were brilliantly young and daring; they seemed scornful of things about him. he held himself conspicuously apart, as if he were not among his own kind. claude had seen a captured crane, tied by its leg to a hencoop, behave exactly like that among mahailey's chickens; hold its wings to its sides, and move its head about quickly and glare. "i suppose you have friends in london?" he asked. "rather!" the aviator replied with feeling. "do you like it better than paris?" "i shouldn't imagine anything was much better than london. i've not been in paris; always went home when i was on leave. they work us pretty hard. in the infantry and artillery our men get only a fortnight off in twelve months. i understand the americans have leased the riviera,--recuperate at nice and monte carlo. the only cook's tour we had was gallipoli," he added grimly. victor had gone a good way toward acquiring an english accent, the boys thought. at least he said 'necess'ry' and 'dysent'ry' and called his suspenders 'braces'. he offered claude a cigarette, remarking that his cigars were in his lost trunk. "take one of mine. my brother sent me two boxes just before we sailed. i'll put a box in your bunk next time i go down. they're good ones." the young man turned and looked him over with surprise. "i say, that's very decent of you! yes, thank you, i will." claude had tried yesterday, when he lent victor some shirts, to make him talk about his aerial adventures, but upon that subject he was as close as a clam. he admitted that the long red scar on his upper arm had been drilled by a sharpshooter from a german fokker, but added hurriedly that it was of no consequence, as he had made a good landing. now, on the strength of the cigars, claude thought he would probe a little further. he asked whether there was anything in the lost trunk that couldn't be replaced, anything "valuable." "there's one thing that's positively invaluable; a zeiss lens, in perfect condition. i've got several good photographic outfits from time to time, but the lenses are always cracked by heat,--the things usually come down on fire. this one i got out of a plane i brought down up at bar-le-duc, and there's not a scratch on it; simply a miracle." "you get all the loot when you bring down a machine, do you?" claude asked encouragingly. "of course. i've a good collection; altimeters and compasses and glasses. this lens i always carry with me, because i'm afraid to leave it anywhere." "i suppose it makes a fellow feel pretty fine to bring down one of those german planes." "sometimes. i brought down one too many, though; it was very unpleasant." victor paused, frowning. but claude's open, credulous face was too much for his reserve. "i brought down a woman once. she was a plucky devil, flew a scouting machine and had bothered us a bit, going over our lines. naturally, we didn't know it was a woman until she came down. she was crushed underneath things. she lived a few hours and dictated a letter to her people. i went out and dropped it inside their lines. it was nasty business. i was quite knocked out. i got a fortnight's leave in london, though. wheeler," he broke out suddenly, "i wish i knew we were going there now!" "i'd like it well enough if we were." victor shrugged. "i should hope so!" he turned his chin in claude's direction. "see here, if you like, i'll show you london! it's a promise. americans never see it, you know. they sit in a y. hut and write to their pollyannas, or they go round hunting for the tower. i'll show you a city that's alive; that is, unless you've a preference for museums." his listener laughed. "no, i want to see life, as they say." "umph! i'd like to set you down in some places i can think of. very well, i invite you to dine with me at the savoy, the first night we're in london. the curtain will rise on this world for you. nobody admitted who isn't in evening dress. the jewels will dazzle you. actresses, duchesses, all the handsomest women in europe." "but i thought london was dark and gloomy since the war." victor smiled and teased his small straw-coloured moustache with his thumb and middle finger. "there are a few bright spots left, thank you!" he began to explain to a novice what life at the front was really like. nobody who had seen service talked about the war, or thought about it; it was merely a condition under which they lived. men talked about the particular regiment they were jealous of, or the favoured division that was put in for all the show fighting. everybody thought about his own game, his personal life that he managed to keep going in spite of discipline; his next leave, how to get champagne without paying for it, dodging the guard, getting into scrapes with women and getting out again. "are you quick with your french?" he asked. claude grinned. "not especially." "you'd better brush up on it if you want to do anything with french girls. i hear your m.p.'s are very strict. you must be able to toss the word the minute you see a skirt, and make your date before the guard gets onto you." "i suppose french girls haven't any scruples?" claude remarked carelessly. victor shrugged his narrow shoulders. "i haven't found that girls have many, anywhere. when we canadians were training in england, we all had our week-end wives. i believe the girls in crystal lake used to be more or less fussy,--but that's long ago and far away. you won't have any difficulty." when victor was in the middle of a tale of amorous adventure, a little different from any claude had ever heard, tod fanning joined them. the aviator did not acknowledge the presence of a new listener, but when he had finished his story, walked away with his special swagger, his eyes fixed upon the distance. fanning looked after him with disgust. "do you believe him? i don't think he's any such heart-smasher. i like his nerve, calling you `leftenant'! when he speaks to me he'll have to say lootenant, or i'll spoil his beauty." that day the men remembered long afterward, for it was the end of the fine weather, and of those first long, carefree days at sea. in the afternoon claude and the young marine, the virginian and fanning, sat together in the sun watching the water scoop itself out in hollows and pile itself up in blue, rolling hills. usher was telling his companions a long story about the landing of the marines at vera cruz. "it's a great old town," he concluded. "one thing there i'll never forget. some of the natives took a few of us out to the old prison that stands on a rock in the sea. we put in the whole day there, and it wasn't any tourist show, believe me! we went down into dungeons underneath the water where they used to keep state prisoners, kept them buried alive for years. we saw all the old instruments of torture; rusty iron cages where a man couldn't lie down or stand up, but had to sit bent over till he grew crooked. it made you feel queer when you came up, to think how people had been left to rot away down there, when there was so much sun and water outside. seems like something used to be the matter with the world." he said no more, but claude thought from his serious look that he believed he and his countrymen who were pouring overseas would help to change all that. v that night the virginian, who berthed under victor morse, had an alarming attack of nose-bleed, and by morning he was so weak that he had to be carried to the hospital. the doctor said they might as well face the facts; a scourge of influenza had broken out on board, of a peculiarly bloody and malignant type.* everybody was a little frightened. some of the officers shut themselves up in the smoking-room, and drank whiskey and soda and played poker all day, as if they could keep contagion out. * the actual outbreak of influenza on transports carrying united states troops is here anticipated by several months. lieutenant bird died late in the afternoon and was buried at sunrise the next day, sewed up in a tarpaulin, with an eighteen pound shell at his feet. the morning broke brilliantly clear and bitter cold. the sea was rolling blue walls of water, and the boat was raked by a wind as sharp as ice. excepting those who were sick, the boys turned out to a man. it was the first burial at sea they had ever witnessed, and they couldn't help finding it interesting. the chaplain read the burial service while they stood with uncovered heads. the kansas band played a solemn march, the swedish quartette sang a hymn. many a man turned his face away when that brown sack was lowered into the cold, leaping indigo ridges that seemed so destitute of anything friendly to human kind. in a moment it was done, and they steamed on without him. the glittering walls of water kept rolling in, indigo, purple, more brilliant than on the days of mild weather. the blinding sunlight did not temper the cold, which cut the face and made the lungs ache. landsmen began to have that miserable sense of being where they were never meant to be. the boys lay in heaps on the deck, trying to keep warm by hugging each other close. everybody was seasick. fanning went to bed with his clothes on, so sick he couldn't take off his boots. claude lay in the crowded stern, too cold, too faint to move. the sun poured over them like flame, without any comfort in it. the strong, curling, foam-crested waves threw off the light like millions of mirrors, and their colour was almost more than the eye could bear. the water seemed denser than before, heavy like melted glass, and the foam on the edges of each blue ridge looked sharp as crystals. if a man should fall into them, he would be cut to pieces. the whole ocean seemed suddenly to have come to life, the waves had a malignant, graceful, muscular energy, were animated by a kind of mocking cruelty. only a few hours ago a gentle boy had been thrown into that freezing water and forgotten. yes, already forgotten; every one had his own miseries to think about. late in the afternoon the wind fell, and there was a sinister sunset. across the red west a small, ragged black cloud hurried,--then another, and another. they came up out of the sea,--wild, witchlike shapes that travelled fast and met in the west as if summoned for an evil conclave. they hung there against the afterglow, distinct black shapes, drawing together, devising something. the few men who were left on deck felt that no good could come out of a sky like that. they wished they were at home, in france, anywhere but here. vi the next morning doctor trueman asked claude to help him at sick call. "i've got a bunch of sergeants taking temperatures, but it's too much for one man to oversee. i don't want to ask anything of those dude officers who sit in there playing poker all the time. either they've got no conscience, or they're not awake to the gravity of the situation." the doctor stood on deck in his raincoat, his foot on the rail to keep his equilibrium, writing on his knee as the long string of men came up to him. there were more than seventy in the line that morning, and some of them looked as if they ought to be in a drier place. rain beat down on the sea like lead bullets. the old anchises floundered from one grey ridge to another, quite alone. fog cut off the cheering sight of the sister ships. the doctor had to leave his post from time to time, when seasickness got the better of his will. claude, at his elbow, was noting down names and temperatures. in the middle of his work he told the sergeants to manage without him for a few minutes. down near the end of the line he had seen one of his own men misconducting himself, snivelling and crying like a baby,--a fine husky boy of eighteen who had never given any trouble. claude made a dash for him and clapped him on the shoulder. "if you can't stop that, bert fuller, get where you won't be seen. i don't want all these english stewards standing around to watch an american soldier cry. i never heard of such a thing!" "i can't help it, lieutenant," the boy blubbered. "i've kept it back just as long as i can. i can't hold in any longer!" "what's the matter with you? come over here and sit down on this box and tell me." private fuller willingly let himself be led, and dropped on the box. "i'm so sick, lieutenant!" "i'll see how sick you are." claude stuck a thermometer into his mouth, and while he waited, sent the deck steward to bring a cup of tea. "just as i thought, fuller. you've not half a degree of fever. you're scared, and that's all. now drink this tea. i expect you didn't eat any breakfast." "no, sir. i can't eat the awful stuff on this boat." "it is pretty bad. where are you from?" "i'm from p-p-pleasantville, up on the p-p-platte," the boy gulped, and his tears began to flow afresh. "well, now, what would they think of you, back there? i suppose they got the band out and made a fuss over you when you went away, and thought they were sending off a fine soldier. and i've always thought you'd be a first rate soldier. i guess we'll forget about this. you feel better already, don't you?" "yes, sir. this tastes awful good. i've been so sick to my stomach, and last night i got pains in my chest. all my crowd is sick, and you took big tannhauser, i mean corporal, away to the hospital. it looks like we're all going to die out here." "i know it's a little gloomy. but don't you shame me before these english stewards." "i won't do it again, sir," he promised. when the medical inspection was over, claude took the doctor down to see fanning, who had been coughing and wheezing all night and hadn't got out of his berth. the examination was short. the doctor knew what was the matter before he put the stethoscope on him. "it's pneumonia, both lungs," he said when they came out into the corridor. "i have one case in the hospital that will die before morning." "what can you do for him, doctor?" "you see how i'm fixed; close onto two hundred men sick, and one doctor. the medical supplies are wholly inadequate. there's not castor oil enough on this boat to keep the men clean inside. i'm using my own drugs, but they won't last through an epidemic like this. i can't do much for lieutenant fanning. you can, though, if you'll give him the time. you can take better care of him right here than he could get in the hospital. we haven't an empty bed there." claude found victor morse and told him he had better get a berth in one of the other staterooms. when victor left with his belongings, fanning stared after him. "is he going?" "yes. it's too crowded in here, if you've got to stay in bed." "glad of it. his stories are too raw for me. i'm no sissy, but that fellow's a regular don quixote." claude laughed. "you mustn't talk. it makes you cough." "where's the virginian?" "who, bird?" claude asked in astonishment,--fanning had stood beside him at bird's funeral. "oh, he's gone, too. you sleep if you can." after dinner doctor trueman came in and showed claude how to give his patient an alcohol bath. "it's simply a question of whether you can keep up his strength. don't try any of this greasy food they serve here. give him a raw egg beaten up in the juice of an orange every two hours, night and day. waken him out of his sleep when it's time, don't miss a single two-hour period. i'll write an order to your table steward, and you can beat the eggs up here in your cabin. now i must go to the hospital. it's wonderful what those band boys are doing there. i begin to take some pride in the place. that big german has been asking for you. he's in a very bad way." as there were no nurses on board, the kansas band had taken over the hospital. they had been trained for stretcher and first aid work, and when they realized what was happening on the anchises, the bandmaster came to the doctor and offered the services of his men. he chose nurses and orderlies, divided them into night and day shifts. when claude went to see his corporal, big tannhauser did not recognize him. he was quite out of his head and was conversing with his own family in the language of his early childhood. the kansas boys had singled him out for special attention. the mere fact that he kept talking in a tongue forbidden on the surface of the seas, made him seem more friendless and alone than the others. from the hospital claude went down into the hold where half-a-dozen of his company were lying ill. the hold was damp and musty as an old cellar, so steeped in the smells and leakage of innumerable dirty cargoes that it could not be made or kept clean. there was almost no ventilation, and the air was fetid with sickness and sweat and vomit. two of the band boys were working in the stench and dirt, helping the stewards. claude stayed to lend a hand until it was time to give fanning his nourishment. he began to see that the wrist watch, which he had hitherto despised as effeminate and had carried in his pocket, might be a very useful article. after he had made fanning swallow his egg, he piled all the available blankets on him and opened the port to give the cabin an airing. while the fresh wind blew in, he sat down on the edge of his berth and tried to collect his wits. what had become of those first days of golden weather, leisure and good-comradeship? the band concerts, the lindsborg quartette, the first excitement and novelty of being at sea: all that had gone by like a dream. that night when the doctor came in to see fanning, he threw his stethoscope on the bed and said wearily, "it's a wonder that instrument doesn't take root in my ears and grow there." he sat down and sucked his thermometer for a few minutes, then held it out for inspection. claude looked at it and told him he ought to go to bed. "then who's to be up and around? no bed for me, tonight. but i will have a hot bath by and by." claude asked why the ship's doctor didn't do anything and added that he must be as little as he looked. "chessup? no, he's not half bad when you get to know him. he's given me a lot of help about preparing medicines, and it's a great assistance to talk the cases over with him. he'll do anything for me except directly handle the patients. he doesn't want to exceed his authority. it seems the english marine is very particular about such things. he's a canadian, and he graduated first in his class at edinburgh. i gather he was frozen out in private practice. you see, his appearance is against him. it's an awful handicap to look like a kid and be as shy as he is." the doctor rose, shored up his shoulders and took his bag. "you're looking fine yourself, lieutenant," he remarked. "parents both living? were they quite young when you were born? well, then their parents were, probably. i'm a crank about that. yes, i'll get my bath pretty soon, and i will lie down for an hour or two. with those splendid band boys running the hospital, i get a little lee-way." claude wondered how the doctor kept going. he knew he hadn't had more than four hours sleep out of the last forty-eight, and he was not a man of rugged constitution. his bath steward was, as he said, his comfort. hawkins was an old fellow who had held better positions on better boats,--yes, in better times, too. he had first gone to sea as a bath steward, and now, through the fortunes of war, he had come back where he began,--not a good place for an old man. his back was bent meekly, and he shuffled along with broken arches. he looked after the comfort of all the officers, and attended the doctor like a valet; got out his clean linen, persuaded him to lie down and have a hot drink after his bath, stood on guard at his door to take messages for him in the short hours when he was resting. hawkins had lost two sons in the war and he seemed to find a solemn consolation in being of service to soldiers. "take it a bit easy now, sir. you'll 'ave it 'ard enough over there," he used to say to one and another. at eleven o'clock one of the kansas men came to tell claude that his corporal was going fast. big tannhauser's fever had left him, but so had everything else. he lay in a stupor. his congested eyeballs were rolled back in his head and only the yellowish whites were visible. his mouth was open and his tongue hung out at one side. from the end of the corridor claude had heard the frightful sounds that came from his throat, sounds like violent vomiting, or the choking rattle of a man in strangulation,--and, indeed, he was being strangled. one of the band boys brought claude a camp chair, and said kindly, "he doesn't suffer. it's mechanical now. he'd go easier if he hadn't so much vitality. the doctor says he may have a few moments of consciousness just at the last, if you want to stay." "i'll go down and give my private patient his egg, and then i'll come back." claude went away and returned, and sat dozing by the bed. after three o'clock the noise of struggle ceased; instantly the huge figure on the bed became again his good-natured corporal. the mouth closed, the glassy jellies were once more seeing, intelligent human eyes. the face lost its swollen, brutish look and was again the face of a friend. it was almost unbelievable that anything so far gone could come back. he looked up wistfully at his lieutenant as if to ask him something. his eyes filled with tears, and he turned his head away a little. "mein' arme mutter!" he whispered distinctly. a few moments later he died in perfect dignity, not struggling under torture, but consciously, it seemed to claude,--like a brave boy giving back what was not his to keep. claude returned to his cabin, roused fanning once more, and then threw himself upon his tipping bunk. the boat seemed to wallow and sprawl in the waves, as he had seen animals do on the farm when they gave birth to young. how helpless the old vessel was out here in the pounding seas, and how much misery she carried! he lay looking up at the rusty water pipes and unpainted joinings. this liner was in truth the "old anchises"; even the carpenters who made her over for the service had not thought her worth the trouble, and had done their worst by her. the new partitions were hung to the joists by a few nails. big tannhauser had been one of those who were most anxious to sail. he used to grin and say, "france is the only climate that's healthy for a man with a name like mine." he had waved his good-bye to the image in the new york harbour with the rest, believed in her like the rest. he only wanted to serve. it seemed hard. when tannhauser first came to camp he was confused all the time, and couldn't remember instructions. claude had once stepped him out in front of the line and reprimanded him for not knowing his right side from his left. when he looked into the case, he found that the fellow was not eating anything, that he was ill from homesickness. he was one of those farmer boys who are afraid of town. the giant baby of a long family, he had never slept away from home a night in his life before he enlisted. corporal tannhauser, along with four others, was buried at sunrise. no band this time; the chaplain was ill, so one of the young captains read the service. claude stood by watching until the sailors shot one sack, longer by half a foot than the other four, into a lead-coloured chasm in the sea. there was not even a splash. after breakfast one of the kansas orderlies called him into a little cabin where they had prepared the dead men for burial. the army regulations minutely defined what was to be done with a deceased soldier's effects. his uniform, shoes, blankets, arms, personal baggage, were all disposed of according to instructions. but in each case there was a residue; the dead man's toothbrushes, his razors, and the photographs he carried upon his person. there they were in five pathetic little heaps; what should be done with them? claude took up the photographs that had belonged to his corporal; one was a fat, foolish-looking girl in a white dress that was too tight for her, and a floppy hat, a little flag pinned on her plump bosom. the other was an old woman, seated, her hands crossed in her lap. her thin hair was drawn back tight from a hard, angular face--unmistakably an old-world face--and her eyes squinted at the camera. she looked honest and stubborn and unconvinced, he thought, as if she did not in the least understand. "i'll take these," he said. "and the others--just pitch them over, don't you think?" vii b company's first officer, captain maxey, was so seasick throughout the voyage that he was of no help to his men in the epidemic. it must have been a frightful blow to his pride, for nobody was ever more anxious to do an officer's whole duty. claude had known harris maxey slightly in lincoln; had met him at the erlichs' and afterward kept up a campus acquaintance with him. he hadn't liked maxey then, and he didn't like him now, but he thought him a good officer. maxey's family were poor folk from mississippi, who had settled in nemaha county, and he was very ambitious, not only to get on in the world, but, as he said, to "be somebody." his life at the university was a feverish pursuit of social advantages and useful acquaintances. his feeling for the "right people" amounted to veneration. after his graduation, maxey served on the mexican border. he was a tireless drill master, and threw himself into his duties with all the energy of which his frail physique was capable. he was slight and fair-skinned; a rigid jaw threw his lower teeth out beyond the upper ones and made his face look stiff. his whole manner, tense and nervous, was the expression of a passionate desire to excel. claude seemed to himself to be leading a double life these days. when he was working over fanning, or was down in the hold helping to take care of the sick soldiers, he had no time to think,--did mechanically the next thing that came to hand. but when he had an hour to himself on deck, the tingling sense of ever-widening freedom flashed up in him again. the weather was a continual adventure; he had never known any like it before. the fog, and rain, the grey sky and the lonely grey stretches of the ocean were like something he had imagined long ago--memories of old sea stories read in childhood, perhaps--and they kindled a warm spot in his heart. here on the anchises he seemed to begin where childhood had left off. the ugly hiatus between had closed up. years of his life were blotted out in the fog. this fog which had been at first depressing had become a shelter; a tent moving through space, hiding one from all that had been before, giving one a chance to correct one's ideas about life and to plan the future. the past was physically shut off; that was his illusion. he had already travelled a great many more miles than were told off by the ship's log. when bandmaster fred max asked him to play chess, he had to stop a moment and think why it was that game had such disagreeable associations for him. enid's pale, deceptive face seldom rose before him unless some such accident brought it up. if he happened to come upon a group of boys talking about their sweethearts and war-brides, he listened a moment and then moved away with the happy feeling that he was the least married man on the boat. there was plenty of deck room, now that so many men were ill either from seasickness or the epidemic, and sometimes he and albert usher had the stormy side of the boat almost to themselves. the marine was the best sort of companion for these gloomy days; steady, quiet, self-reliant. and he, too, was always looking forward. as for victor morse, claude was growing positively fond of him. victor had tea in a special corner of the officers' smoking-room every afternoon--he would have perished without it--and the steward always produced some special garnishes of toast and jam or sweet biscuit for him. claude usually managed to join him at that hour. on the day of tannhauser's funeral he went into the smoking-room at four. victor beckoned the steward and told him to bring a couple of hot whiskeys with the tea. "you're very wet, you know, wheeler, and you really should. there," he said as he put down his glass, "don't you feel better with a drink?" "very much. i think i'll have another. it's agreeable to be warm inside." "two more, steward, and bring me some fresh lemon." the occupants of the room were either reading or talking in low tones. one of the swedish boys was playing softly on the old piano. victor began to pour the tea. he had a neat way of doing it, and today he was especially solicitous. "this scotch mist gets into one's bones, doesn't it? i thought you were looking rather seedy when i passed you on deck." "i was up with tannhauser last night. didn't get more than an hour's sleep," claude murmured, yawning. "yes, i heard you lost your big corporal. i'm sorry. i've had bad news, too. it's out now that we're to make a french port. that dashes all my plans. however, c'est la guerre!" he pushed back his cup with a shrug. "take a turn outside?" claude had often wondered why victor liked him, since he was so little victor's kind. "if it isn't a secret," he said, "i'd like to know how you ever got into the british army, anyway." as they walked up and down in the rain, victor told his story briefly. when he had finished high school, he had gone into his father's bank at crystal lake as bookkeeper. after banking hours he skated, played tennis, or worked in the strawberry-bed, according to the season. he bought two pairs of white pants every summer and ordered his shirts from chicago and thought he was a swell, he said. he got himself engaged to the preacher's daughter. two years ago, the summer he was twenty, his father wanted him to see niagara falls; so he wrote a modest check, warned his son against saloons--victor had never been inside one--against expensive hotels and women who came up to ask the time without an introduction, and sent him off, telling him it wasn't necessary to fee porters or waiters. at niagara falls, victor fell in with some young canadian officers who opened his eyes to a great many things. he went over to toronto with them. enlistment was going strong, and he saw an avenue of escape from the bank and the strawberry bed. the air force seemed the most brilliant and attractive branch of the service. they accepted him, and here he was. "you'll never go home again," claude said with conviction. "i don't see you settling down in any little iowa town." "in the air service," said victor carelessly, "we don't concern ourselves about the future. it's not worth while." he took out a dull gold cigarette case which claude had noticed before. "let me see that a minute, will you? i've often admired it. a present from somebody you like, isn't it?" a twitch of feeling, something quite genuine, passed over the air-man's boyish face, and his rather small red mouth compressed sharply. "yes, a woman i want you to meet. here," twitching his chin over his high collar, "i'll write maisie's address on my card: `introducing lieutenant wheeler, a.e.f.' that's all you'll need. if you should get to london before i do, don't hesitate. call on her at once. present this card, and she'll receive you." claude thanked him and put the card in his pocketbook, while victor lit a cigarette. "i haven't forgotten that you're dining with us at the savoy, if we happen in london together. if i'm there, you can always find me. her address is mine. it will really be a great thing for you to meet a woman like maisie. she'll be nice to you, because you're my friend." he went on to say that she had done everything in the world for him; had left her husband and given up her friends on his account. she now had a studio flat in chelsea, where she simply waited his coming and dreaded his going. it was an awful life for her. she entertained other officers, of course, old acquaintances; but it was all camouflage. he was the man. victor went so far as to produce her picture, and claude gazed without knowing what to say at a large moon-shaped face with heavy-lidded, weary eyes,--the neck clasped by a pearl collar, the shoulders bare to the matronly swell of the bosom. there was not a line or wrinkle in that smooth expanse of flesh, but from the heavy mouth and chin, from the very shape of the face, it was easy to see that she was quite old enough to be victor's mother. across the photograph was written in a large splashy hand, 'a mon aigle!' had victor been delicate enough to leave him in any doubt, claude would have preferred to believe that his relations with this lady were wholly of a filial nature. "women like her simply don't exist in your part of the world," the aviator murmured, as he snapped the photograph case. "she's a linguist and musician and all that. with her, every-day living is a fine art. life, as she says, is what one makes it. in itself, it's nothing. where you came from it's nothing--a sleeping sickness." claude laughed. "i don't know that i agree with you, but i like to hear you talk." "well; in that part of france that's all shot to pieces, you'll find more life going on in the cellars than in your home town, wherever that is. i'd rather be a stevedore in the london docks than a banker-king in one of your prairie states. in london, if you're lucky enough to have a shilling, you can get something for it." "yes, things are pretty tame at home," the other admitted. "tame? my god, it's death in life! what's left of men if you take all the fire out of them? they're afraid of everything. i know them; sunday-school sneaks, prowling around those little towns after dark!" victor abruptly dismissed the subject. "by the way, you're pals with the doctor, aren't you? i'm needing some medicine that is somewhere in my lost trunk. would you mind asking him if he can put up this prescription? i don't want to go to him myself. all these medicos blab, and he might report me. i've been lucky dodging medical inspections. you see, i don't want to get held up anywhere. tell him it's not for you, of course." when claude presented the piece of blue paper to doctor trueman, he smiled contemptuously. "i see; this has been filled by a london chemist. no, we have nothing of this sort." he handed it back. "those things are only palliatives. if your friend wants that, he needs treatment,--and he knows where he can get it." claude returned the slip of paper to victor as they left the dining-room after supper, telling him he hadn't been able to get any. "sorry," said victor, flushing haughtily. "thank you so much!" viii tod fanning held out better than many of the stronger men; his vitality surprised the doctor. the death list was steadily growing; and the worst of it was that patients died who were not very sick. vigorous, clean-blooded young fellows of nineteen and twenty turned over and died because they had lost their courage, because other people were dying,--because death was in the air. the corridors of the vessel had the smell of death about them. doctor trueman said it was always so in an epidemic; patients died who, had they been isolated cases, would have recovered. "do you know, wheeler," the doctor remarked one day when they came up from the hospital together to get a breath of air, "i sometimes wonder whether all these inoculations they've been having, against typhoid and smallpox and whatnot, haven't lowered their vitality. i'll go off my head if i keep losing men! what would you give to be out of it all, and safe back on the farm?" hearing no reply, he turned his head, peered over his raincoat collar, and saw a startled, resisting look in the young man's blue eyes, followed by a quick flush. "you don't want to be back on the farm, do you! not a little bit! well, well; that's what it is to be young!" he shook his head with a smile which might have been commiseration, might have been envy, and went back to his duties. claude stayed where he was, drawing the wet grey air into his lungs and feeling vexed and reprimanded. it was quite true, he realized; the doctor had caught him. he was enjoying himself all the while and didn't want to be safe anywhere. he was sorry about tannhauser and the others, but he was not sorry for himself. the discomforts and misfortunes of this voyage had not spoiled it for him. he grumbled, of course, because others did. but life had never seemed so tempting as it did here and now. he could come up from heavy work in the hospital, or from poor fanning and his everlasting eggs, and forget all that in ten minutes. something inside him, as elastic as the grey ridges over which they were tipping, kept bounding up and saying: "i am all here. i've left everything behind me. i am going over." only on that one day, the cold day of the virginian's funeral, when he was seasick, had he been really miserable. he must be heartless, certainly, not to be overwhelmed by the sufferings of his own men, his own friends--but he wasn't. he had them on his mind and did all he could for them, but it seemed to him just now that he took a sort of satisfaction in that, too, and was somewhat vain of his usefulness to doctor trueman. a nice attitude! he awoke every morning with that sense of freedom and going forward, as if the world were growing bigger each day and he were growing with it. other fellows were sick and dying, and that was terrible,--but he and the boat went on, and always on. something was released that had been struggling for a long while, he told himself. he had been due in france since the first battle of the marne; he had followed false leads and lost precious time and seen misery enough, but he was on the right road at last, and nothing could stop him. if he hadn't been so green, so bashful, so afraid of showing what he felt, and so stupid at finding his way about, he would have enlisted in canada, like victor, or run away to france and joined the foreign legion. all that seemed perfectly possible now. why hadn't he? well, that was not "the wheelers' way." the wheelers were terribly afraid of poking themselves in where they weren't wanted, of pushing their way into a crowd where they didn't belong. and they were even more afraid of doing anything that might look affected or "romantic." they couldn't let themselves adopt a conspicuous, much less a picturesque course of action, unless it was all in the day's work. well, history had condescended to such as he; this whole brilliant adventure had become the day's work. he had got into it after all, along with victor and the marine and other fellows who had more imagination and self-confidence in the first place. three years ago he used to sit moping by the windmill because he didn't see how a nebraska farmer boy had any "call," or, indeed, any way, to throw himself into the struggle in france. he used enviously to read about alan seeger and those fortunate american boys who had a right to fight for a civilization they knew. but the miracle had happened; a miracle so wide in its amplitude that the wheelers,--all the wheelers and the roughnecks and the low-brows were caught up in it. yes, it was the rough-necks' own miracle, all this; it was their golden chance. he was in on it, and nothing could hinder or discourage him unless he were put over the side himself--which was only a way of joking, for that was a possibility he never seriously considered. the feeling of purpose, of fateful purpose, was strong in his breast. ix "look at this, doctor!" claude caught dr. trueman on his way from breakfast and handed him a written notice, signed d. t. micks, chief steward. it stated that no more eggs or oranges could be furnished to patients, as the supply was exhausted. the doctor squinted at the paper. "i'm afraid that's your patient's death warrant. you'll never be able to keep him going on anything else. why don't you go and talk it over with chessup? he's a resourceful fellow. i'll join you there in a few minutes." claude had often been to dr. chessup's cabin since the epidemic broke out,-rather liked to wait there when he went for medicines or advice. it was a comfortable, personal sort of place with cheerful chintz hangings. the walls were lined with books, held in place by sliding wooden slats, padlocked at the ends. there were a great many scientific works in german and english; the rest were french novels in paper covers. this morning he found chessup weighing out white powders at his desk. in the rack over his bunk was the book with which he had read himself to sleep last night; the title, "un crime d'amour," lettered in black on yellow, caught claude's eye. the doctor put on his coat and pointed his visitor to the jointed chair in which patients were sometimes examined. claude explained his predicament. the ship's doctor was a strange fellow to come from canada, the land of big men and rough. he looked like a schoolboy, with small hands and feet and a pink complexion. on his left cheekbone was a large brown mole, covered with silky hair, and for some reason that seemed to make his face effeminate. it was easy to see why he had not been successful in private practice. he was like somebody trying to protect a raw surface from heat and cold; so cursed with diffidence, and so sensitive about his boyish appearance that he chose to shut himself up in an oscillating wooden coop on the sea. the long run to australia had exactly suited him. a rough life and the pounding of bad weather had fewer terrors for him than an office in town, with constant exposure to human personalities. "have you tried him on malted milk?" he asked, when claude had told him how farming's nourishment was threatened. "dr. trueman hasn't a bottle left. how long do you figure we'll be at sea?" "four days; possibly five." "then lieutenant wheeler will lose his pal," said dr. trueman, who had just come in. chessup stood for a moment frowning and pulling nervously at the brass buttons on his coat. he slid the bolt on his door and turning to his colleague said resolutely: "i can give you some information, if you won't implicate me. you can do as you like, but keep my name out of it. for several hours last night cases of eggs and boxes of oranges were being carried into the chief steward's cabin by a flunky of his from the galley. whatever port we make, he can get a shilling each for the fresh eggs, and perhaps sixpence for the oranges. they are your property, of course, furnished by your government; but this is his customary perquisite. i've been on this boat six years, and it's always been so. about a week before we make port, the choicest of the remaining stores are taken to his cabin, and he disposes of them after we dock. i can't say just how he manages it, but he does. the skipper may know of this custom, and there may be some reason why he permits it. it's not my business to see anything. the chief steward is a powerful man on an english vessel. if he has anything against me, sooner or later he can lose my berth for me. there you have the facts." "have i your permission to go to the chief steward?" dr. trueman asked. "certainly not. but you can go without my knowledge. he's an ugly man to cross, and he can make it uncomfortable for you and your patients." "well, we'll say no more about it. i appreciate your telling me, and i will see that you don't get mixed up in this. will you go down with me to look at that new meningitis case?" claude waited impatiently in his stateroom for the doctor's return. he didn't see why the chief steward shouldn't be exposed and dealt with like any other grafter. he had hated the man ever since he heard him berating the old bath steward one morning. hawkins had made no attempt to defend himself, but stood like a dog that has been terribly beaten, trembling all over, saying "yes, sir. yes, sir," while his chief gave him a cold cursing in a low, snarling voice. claude had never heard a man or even an animal addressed with such contempt. the steward had a cruel face,--white as cheese, with limp, moist hair combed back from a high forehead,--the peculiarly oily hair that seems to grow only on the heads of stewards and waiters. his eyes were exactly the shape of almonds, but the lids were so swollen that the dull pupil was visible only through a narrow slit. a long, pale moustache hung like a fringe over his loose lips. when dr. trueman came back from the hospital, he declared he was now ready to call on mr. micks. "he's a nasty looking customer, but he can't do anything to me." they went to the chief steward's cabin and knocked. "what's wanted?" called a threatening voice. the doctor made a grimace to his companion and walked in. the steward was sitting at a big desk, covered with account books. he turned in his chair. "i beg your pardon," he said coldly, "i do not see any one here. i will be--" the doctor held up his hand quickly. "that's all right, steward. i'm sorry to intrude, but i've something i must say to you in private. i'll not detain you long." if he had hesitated for a moment, claude believed the steward would have thrown him out, but he went on rapidly. "this is lieutenant wheeler, mr. micks. his fellow officer lies very ill with pneumonia in stateroom . lieutenant wheeler has kept him alive by special nursing. he is not able to retain anything in his stomach but eggs and orange juice. if he has these, we may be able to keep up his strength till the fever breaks, and carry him to a hospital in france. if we can't get them for him, he will be dead within twenty-four hours. that's the situation." the steward rose and turned out the drop-light on his desk. "have you received notice that there are no more eggs and oranges on board? then i am afraid there is nothing i can do for you. i did not provision this ship." "no. i understand that. i believe the united states government provided the fruit and eggs and meat. and i positively know that the articles i need for my patient are not exhausted. without going into the matter further, i warn you that i'm not going to let a united states officer die when the means of saving him are procurable. i'll go to the skipper, i'll call a meeting of the army officers on board. i'll go any length to save this man." "that is your own affair, but you will not interfere with me in the discharge of my duties. will you leave my cabin?" "in a moment, steward. i know that last night a number of cases of eggs and oranges were carried into this room. they are here now, and they belong to the a.e.f. if you will agree to provision my man, what i know won't go any further. but if you refuse, i'll get this matter investigated. i won't stop till i do." the steward sat down, and took up a pen. his large, soft hand looked cheesy, like his face. "what is the number of the cabin?" he asked indifferently. "ninety-six." "exactly what do you require?" "one dozen eggs and one dozen oranges every twenty-four hours, to be delivered at any time convenient to you." "i will see what i can do." the steward did not look up from his writing pad, and his visitors left as abruptly as they had come. at about four o'clock every morning, before even the bath stewards were on duty, there was a scratching at claude's door, and a covered basket was left there by a messenger who was unwashed, half-naked, with a sacking apron tied round his middle and his hairy chest splashed with flour. he never spoke, had only one eye and an inflamed socket. claude learned that he was a half-witted brother of the chief steward, a potato peeler and dish-washer in the galley. four day after their interview with mr. micks, when they were at last nearing the end of the voyage, doctor trueman detained claude after medical inspection to tell him that the chief steward had come down with the epidemic. "he sent for me last night and asked me to take his case,--won't have anything to do with chessup. i had to get chessup's permission. he seemed very glad to hand the case over to me." "is he very bad?" "he hasn't a look-in, and he knows it. complications; chronic bright's disease. it seems he has nine children. i'll try to get him into a hospital when we make port, but he'll only live a few days at most. i wonder who'll get the shillings for all the eggs and oranges he hoarded away. claude, my boy," the doctor spoke with sudden energy, "if i ever set foot on land again, i'm going to forget this voyage like a bad dream. when i'm in normal health, i'm a presbyterian, but just now i feel that even the wicked get worse than they deserve." a day came at last when claude was wakened from sleep by a sense of stillness. he sprang up with a dazed fear that some one had died; but fanning lay in his berth, breathing quietly. something caught his eye through the porthole,--a great grey shoulder of land standing up in the pink light of dawn, powerful and strangely still after the distressing instability of the sea. pale trees and long, low fortifications... close grey buildings with red roofs... little sailboats bounding seaward... up on the cliff a gloomy fortress. he had always thought of his destination as a country shattered and desolated,--"bleeding france"; but he had never seen anything that looked so strong, so self-sufficient, so fixed from the first foundation, as the coast that rose before him. it was like a pillar of eternity. the ocean lay submissive at its feet, and over it was the great meekness of early morning. this grey wall, unshaken, mighty, was the end of the long preparation, as it was the end of the sea. it was the reason for everything that had happened in his life for the last fifteen months. it was the reason why tannhauser and the gentle virginian, and so many others who had set out with him, were never to have any life at all, or even a soldier's death. they were merely waste in a great enterprise, thrown overboard like rotten ropes. for them this kind release,--trees and a still shore and quiet water,--was never, never to be. how long would their bodies toss, he wondered, in that inhuman kingdom of darkness and unrest? he was startled by a weak voice from behind. "claude, are we over?" "yes, fanning. we're over." book five: "bidding the eagles of the west fly on" i at noon that day claude found himself in a street of little shops, hot and perspiring, utterly confused and turned about. truck drivers and boys on bell less bicycles shouted at him indignantly, furiously. he got under the shade of a young plane tree and stood close to the trunk, as if it might protect him. his greatest care, at any rate, was off his hands. with the help of victor morse he had hired a taxi for forty francs, taken fanning to the base hospital, and seen him into the arms of a big orderly from texas. he came away from the hospital with no idea where he was going--except that he wanted to get to the heart of the city. it seemed, however, to have no heart; only long, stony arteries, full of heat and noise. he was still standing there, under his plane tree, when a group of uncertain, lost-looking brown figures, headed by sergeant hicks, came weaving up the street; nine men in nine different attitudes of dejection, each with a long loaf of bread under his arm. they hailed claude with joy, straightened up, and looked as if now they had found their way! he saw that he must be a plane tree for somebody else. sergeant hicks explained that they had been trudging about the town, looking for cheese. after sixteen days of heavy, tasteless food, cheese was what they all wanted. there was a grocery store up the street, where there seemed to be everything else. he had tried to make the old woman understand by signs. "don't these french people eat cheese, anyhow? what's their word for it, lieutenant? i'm damned if i know, and i've lost my phrase book. suppose you could make her understand?" "well, i'll try. come along, boys." crowding close together, the ten men entered the shop. the proprietress ran forward with an exclamation of despair. evidently she had thought she was done with them, and was not pleased to see them coming back. when she paused to take breath, claude took off his hat respectfully, and performed the bravest act of his life; uttered the first phrase-book sentence he had ever spoken to a french person. his men were at his back; he had to say something or run, there was no other course. looking the old woman in the eye, he steadily articulated: "avez-vous du fromage, madame?" it was almost inspiration to add the last word, he thought; and when it worked, he was as much startled as if his revolver had gone off in his belt. "du fromage?" the shop woman screamed. calling something to her daughter, who was at the desk, she caught claude by the sleeve, pulled him out of the shop, and ran down the street with him. she dragged him into a doorway darkened by a long curtain, greeted the proprietress, and then pushed the men after their officer, as if they were stubborn burros. they stood blinking in the gloom, inhaling a sour, damp, buttery, smear-kase smell, until their eyes penetrated the shadows and they saw that there was nothing but cheese and butter in the place. the shopkeeper was a fat woman, with black eyebrows that met above her nose; her sleeves were rolled up, her cotton dress was open over her white throat and bosom. she began at once to tell them that there was a restriction on milk products; every one must have cards; she could not sell them so much. but soon there was nothing left to dispute about. the boys fell upon her stock like wolves. the little white cheeses that lay on green leaves disappeared into big mouths. before she could save it, hicks had split a big round cheese through the middle and was carving it up like a melon. she told them they were dirty pigs and worse than the boches, but she could not stop them. "what's the matter with mother, lieutenant? what's she fussing about? ain't she here to sell goods?" claude tried to look wiser than he was. "from what i can make out, there's some sort of restriction; you aren't allowed to buy all you want. we ought to have thought about that; this is a war country. i guess we've about cleaned her out." "oh, that's all right," said hicks wiping his clasp-knife. "we'll bring her some sugar tomorrow. one of the fellows who helped us unload at the docks told me you can always quiet 'em if you give 'em sugar." they surrounded her and held out their money for her to take her pay. "come on, ma'm, don't be bashful. what's the matter, ain't this good money?" she was distracted by the noise they made, by their bronzed faces with white teeth and pale eyes, crowding so close to her. ten large, well-shaped hands with straight fingers, the open palms full of crumpled notes.... holding the men off under the pretence of looking for a pencil, she made rapid calculations. the money that lay in their palms had no relation to these big, coaxing, boisterous fellows; it was a joke to them; they didn't know what it meant in the world. behind them were shiploads of money, and behind the ships.... the situation was unfair. whether she took much or little out of their hands, couldn't possibly matter to the americans, couldn't even dash their good humour. but there was a strain on the cheesewoman, and the standards of a lifetime were in jeopardy. her mind mechanically fixed upon two-and-a-half; she would charge them two-and-a-half times the market price of the cheese. with this moral plank to cling to, she made change with conscientious accuracy and did not keep a penny too much from anybody. telling them what big stupids they were, and that it was necessary to learn to count in this world, she urged them out of her shop. she liked them well enough, but she did not like to do business with them. if she didn't take their money, the next one would. all the same, fictitious values were distasteful to her, and made everything seem flimsy and unsafe. standing in her doorway, she watched the brown band go ambling down the street; as they passed in front of the old church of st. jacques, the two foremost stumbled on a sunken step that was scarcely above the level of the pavement. she laughed aloud. they looked back and waved to her. she replied with a smile that was both friendly and angry. she liked them, but not the legend of waste and prodigality that ran before them--and followed after. it was superfluous and disintegrating in a world of hard facts. an army in which the men had meat for breakfast, and ate more every day than the french soldiers at the front got in a week! their moving kitchens and supply trains were the wonder of france. down below arles, where her husband's sister had married, on the desolate plain of the crau, their tinned provisions were piled like mountain ranges, under sheds and canvas. nobody had ever seen so much food before; coffee, milk, sugar, bacon, hams; everything the world was famished for. they brought shiploads of useless things, too. and useless people. shiploads of women who were not nurses; some said they came to dance with the officers, so they would not be ennuyés. all this was not war,--any more than having money thrust at you by grown men who could not count, was business. it was an invasion, like the other. the first destroyed material possessions, and this threatened everybody's integrity. distaste of such methods, deep, recoiling distrust of them, clouded the cheesewoman's brow as she threw her money into the drawer and turned the key on it. as for the doughboys, having once stubbed their toes on the sunken step, they examined it with interest, and went in to explore the church. it was in their minds that they must not let a church escape, any more than they would let a boche escape. within they came upon a bunch of their shipmates, including the kansas band, to whom they boasted that their lieutenant could "speak french like a native." the lieutenant himself thought he was getting on pretty well, but a few hours later his pride was humbled. he was sitting alone in a little triangular park beside another church, admiring the cropped locust trees and watching some old women who were doing their mending in the shade. a little boy in a black apron, with a close-shaved, bare head, came along, skipping rope. he hopped lightly up to claude and said in a most persuasive and confiding voice, "voulez-vous me dire l'heure, s'il vous plaît, m'sieu' l' soldat?" claude looked down into his admiring eyes with a feeling of panic. he wouldn't mind being dumb to a man, or even to a pretty girl, but this was terrible. his tongue went dry, and his face grew scarlet. the child's expectant gaze changed to a look of doubt, and then of fear. he had spoken before to americans who didn't understand, but they had not turned red and looked angry like this one; this soldier must be ill, or wrong in his head. the boy turned and ran away. many a serious mishap had distressed claude less. he was disappointed, too. there was something friendly in the boy's face that he wanted... that he needed. as he rose he ground his heel into the gravel. "unless i can learn to talk to the children of this country," he muttered, "i'll go home!" ii claude set off to find the grand hotel, where he had promised to dine with victor morse. the porter there spoke english. he called a red-headed boy in a dirty uniform and told him to take the american to vingt-quatre. the boy also spoke english. "plenty money in new york, i guess! in france, no money." he made their way, through musty corridors and up slippery staircases, as long as possible, shrewdly eyeing the visitor and rubbing his thumb nervously against his fingers all the while. "vingt-quatre, twen'y-four," he announced, rapping at a door with one hand and suggestively opening the other. claude put something into it--anything to be rid of him. victor was standing before the fireplace. "hello, wheeler, come in. our dinner will be served up here. it's big enough, isn't it? i could get nothing between a coop, and this at fifteen dollars a day." the room was spacious enough for a banquet; with two huge beds, and great windows that swung in on hinges, like doors, and that had certainly not been washed since before the war. the heavy red cotton-brocade hangings and lace curtains were stiff with dust, the thick carpet was strewn with cigarette-ends and matches. razor blades and "khaki comfort" boxes lay about on the dresser, and former occupants had left their autographs in the dust on the table. officers slept there, and went away, and other officers arrived,--and the room remained the same, like a wood in which travellers camp for the night. the valet de chambre carried away only what he could use; discarded shirts and socks and old shoes. it seemed a rather dismal place to have a party. when the waiter came, he dusted off the table with his apron and put on a clean cloth, napkins, and glasses. victor and his guest sat down under an electric light bulb with a broken shade, around which a silent halo of flies moved unceasingly. they did not buzz, or dart aloft, or descend to try the soup, but hung there in the center of the room as if they were a part of the lighting system. the constant attendance of the waiter embarrassed claude; he felt as if he were being watched. "by the way," said victor while the soup plates were being removed, "what do you think of this wine? it cost me thirty francs the bottle." "it tastes very good to me," claude replied. "but then, it's the first champagne i've ever drunk." "really?" victor drank off another glass and sighed. "i envy you. i wish i had it all to do over. life's too short, you know." "i should say you had made a good beginning. we're a long way from crystal lake." "not far enough." his host reached across the table and filled claude's empty glass. "i sometimes waken up with the feeling i'm back there. or i have bad dreams, and find myself sitting on that damned stool in the glass cage and can't make my books balance; i hear the old man coughing in his private room, the way he coughs when he's going to refuse a loan to some poor devil who needs it. i've had a narrow escape, wheeler; 'as a brand from the burning'. that's all the scripture i remember." the bright red spots on victor's cheeks, his pale forehead and brilliant eyes and saucy little moustaches seemed to give his quotation a peculiar vividness. claude envied him. it must be great fun to take up a part and play it to a finish; to believe you were making yourself over, and to admire the kind of fellow you made. he, too, in a way, admired victor,--though he couldn't altogether believe in him. "you'll never go back," he said, "i wouldn't worry about that." "take it from me, there are thousands who will never go back! i'm not speaking of the casualties. some of you americans are likely to discover the world this trip... and it'll make the hell of a lot of difference! you boys never had a fair chance. there's a conspiracy of church and state to keep you down. i'm going off to play with some girls tonight, will you come along?" claude laughed. "i guess not." "why not? you won't be caught, i guarantee." "i guess not." claude spoke apologetically. "i'm going out to see fanning after dinner." victor shrugged. "that ass!" he beckoned the waiter to open another bottle and bring the coffee. "well, it's your last chance to go nutting with me." he looked intently at claude and lifted his glass. "to the future, and our next meeting!" when he put down his empty goblet he remarked, "i got a wire through today; i'm leaving tomorrow." "for london?" "for verdun." claude took a quick breath. verdun... the very sound of the name was grim, like the hollow roll of drums. victor was going there tomorrow. here one could take a train for verdun, or thereabouts, as at home one took a train for omaha. he felt more "over" than he had done before, and a little crackle of excitement went all through him. he tried to be careless: "then you won't get to london soon?" "god knows," victor answered gloomily. he looked up at the ceiling and began to whistle softly an engaging air. "do you know that? it's something maisie often plays; 'roses of picardy.' you won't know what a woman can be till you meet her, wheeler." "i hope i'll have that pleasure. i was wondering if you'd forgotten her for the moment. she doesn't object to these diversions?" victor lifted his eyebrows in the old haughty way. "women don't require that sort of fidelity of the air service. our engagements are too uncertain." half an hour later victor had gone in quest of amorous adventure, and claude was wandering alone in a brightly lighted street full of soldiers and sailors of all nations. there were black senegalese, and highlanders in kilts, and little lorry-drivers from siam,--all moving slowly along between rows of cabarets and cinema theatres. the wide-spreading branches of the plane trees met overhead, shutting out the sky and roofing in the orange glare. the sidewalks were crowded with chairs and little tables, at which marines and soldiers sat drinking schnapps and cognac and coffee. from every doorway music-machines poured out jazz tunes and strident sousa marches. the noise was stupefying. out in the middle of the street a band of bareheaded girls, hardy and tough looking; were following a string of awkward americans, running into them, elbowing them, asking for treats, crying, "you dance me fausse-trot, sammie?" claude stationed himself before a movie theatre, where the sign in electric lights read, "amour, quand tu nous tiens!" and stood watching the people. in the stream that passed him, his eye lit upon two walking arm-in-arm, their hands clasped, talking eagerly and unconscious of the crowd,--different, he saw at once, from all the other strolling, affectionate couples. the man wore the american uniform; his left arm had been amputated at the elbow, and he carried his head awry, as if he had a stiff neck. his dark, lean face wore an expression of intense anxiety, his eyebrows twitched as if he were in constant pain. the girl, too, looked troubled. as they passed him, under the red light of the amour sign, claude could see that her eyes were full of tears. they were wide, blue eyes, innocent looking, and she had the prettiest face he had seen since he landed. from her silk shawl, and little bonnet with blue strings and a white frill, he thought she must be a country girl. as she listened to the soldier, with her mouth half-open, he saw a space between her two front teeth, as with children whose second teeth have just come. while they pushed along in the crowd she looked up intently at the man beside her, or off into the blur of light, where she evidently saw nothing. her face, young and soft, seemed new to emotion, and her bewildered look made one feel that she did not know where to turn. without realizing what he did, claude followed them out of the crowd into a quiet street, and on into another, even more deserted, where the houses looked as if they had been asleep a long while. here there were no street lamps, not even a light in the windows, but natural darkness; with the moon high overhead throwing sharp shadows across the white cobble paving. the narrow street made a bend, and he came out upon the church he and his comrades had entered that afternoon. it looked larger by night, and but for the sunken step, he might not have been sure it was the same. the dark neighbouring houses seemed to lean toward it, the moonlight shone silver-grey upon its battered front. the two walking before him ascended the steps and withdrew into the deep doorway, where they clung together in an embrace so long and still that it was like death. at last they drew shuddering apart. the girl sat down on the stone bench beside the door. the soldier threw himself upon the pavement at her feet, and rested his head on her knee, his one arm lying across her lap. in the shadow of the houses opposite, claude kept watch like a sentinel, ready to take their part if any alarm should startle them. the girl bent over her soldier, stroking his head so softly that she might have been putting him to sleep; took his one hand and held it against her bosom as if to stop the pain there. just behind her, on the sculptured portal, some old bishop, with a pointed cap and a broken crozier, stood, holding up two fingers. iii the next morning when claude arrived at the hospital to see fanning, he found every one too busy to take account of him. the courtyard was full of ambulances, and a long line of camions waited outside the gate. a train-load of wounded americans had come in, sent back from evacuation hospitals to await transportation home. as the men were carried past him, he thought they looked as if they had been sick a long while--looked, indeed, as if they could never get well. the boys who died on board the anchises had never seemed as sick as these did. their skin was yellow or purple, their eyes were sunken, their lips sore. everything that belonged to health had left them, every attribute of youth was gone. one poor fellow, whose face and trunk were wrapped in cotton, never stopped moaning, and as he was carried up the corridor he smelled horribly. the texas orderly remarked to claude, "in the beginning that one only had a finger blown off; would you believe it?" these were the first wounded men claude had seen. to shed bright blood, to wear the red badge of courage,--that was one thing; but to be reduced to this was quite another. surely, the sooner these boys died, the better. the texan, passing with his next load, asked claude why he didn't go into the office and wait until the rush was over. looking in through the glass door, claude noticed a young man writing at a desk enclosed by a railing. something about his figure, about the way he held his head, was familiar. when he lifted his left arm to prop open the page of his ledger, it was a stump below the elbow. yes, there could be no doubt about it; the pale, sharp face, the beak nose, the frowning, uneasy brow. presently, as if he felt a curious eye upon him, the young man paused in his rapid writing, wriggled his shoulders, put an iron paperweight on the page of his book, took a case from his pocket and shook a cigarette out on the table. going up to the railing, claude offered him a cigar. "no, thank you. i don't use them any more. they seem too heavy for me." he struck a match, moved his shoulders again as if they were cramped, and sat down on the edge of his desk. "where do these wounded men come from?" claude asked. "i just got in on the anchises yesterday." "they come from various evacuation hospitals. i believe most of them are the belleau wood lot." "where did you lose your arm?" "cantigny. i was in the first division. i'd been over since last september, waiting for something to happen, and then got fixed in my first engagement." "can't you go home?" "yes, i could. but i don't want to. i've got used to things over here. i was attached to headquarters in paris for awhile." claude leaned across the rail. "we read about cantigny at home, of course. we were a good deal excited; i suppose you were?" "yes, we were nervous. we hadn't been under fire, and we'd been fed up on all that stuff about it's taking fifty years to build a fighting machine. the hun had a strong position; we looked up that long hill and wondered how we were going to behave." as he talked the boy's eyes seemed to be moving all the time, probably because he could not move his head at all. after blowing out deep clouds of smoke until his cigarette was gone, he sat down to his ledger and frowned at the page in a way which said he was too busy to talk. claude saw dr. trueman standing in the doorway, waiting for him. they made their morning call on fanning, and left the hospital together. the doctor turned to him as if he had something on his mind. "i saw you talking to that wry-necked boy. how did he seem, all right?" "not exactly. that is, he seems very nervous. do you know anything about him?" "oh, yes! he's a star patient here, a psychopathic case. i had just been talking to one of the doctors about him, when i came out and saw you with him. he was shot in the neck at cantigny, where he lost his arm. the wound healed, but his memory is affected; some nerve cut, i suppose, that connects with that part of his brain. this psychopath, phillips, takes a great interest in him and keeps him here to observe him. he's writing a book about him. he says the fellow has forgotten almost everything about his life before he came to france. the queer thing is, it's his recollection of women that is most affected. he can remember his father, but not his mother; doesn't know if he has sisters or not,--can remember seeing girls about the house, but thinks they may have been cousins. his photographs and belongings were lost when he was hurt, all except a bunch of letters he had in his pocket. they are from a girl he's engaged to, and he declares he can't remember her at all; doesn't know what she looks like or anything about her, and can't remember getting engaged. the doctor has the letters. they seem to be from a nice girl in his own town who is very ambitious for him to make the most of himself. he deserted soon after he was sent to this hospital, ran away. he was found on a farm out in the country here, where the sons had been killed and the people had sort of adopted him. he'd quit his uniform and was wearing the clothes of one of the dead sons. he'd probably have got away with it, if he hadn't had that wry neck. some one saw him in the fields and recognized him and reported him. i guess nobody cared much but this psychopathic doctor; he wanted to get his pet patient back. they call him 'the lost american' here." "he seems to be doing some sort of clerical work," claude observed discreetly. "yes, they say he's very well educated. he remembers the books he has read better than his own life. he can't recall what his home town looks like, or his home. and the women are clear wiped out, even the girl he was going to marry." claude smiled. "maybe he's fortunate in that." the doctor turned to him affectionately, "now claude, don't begin to talk like that the minute you land in this country." claude walked on past the church of st. jacques. last night already seemed like a dream, but it haunted him. he wished he could do something to help that boy; help him get away from the doctor who was writing a book about him, and the girl who wanted him to make the most of himself; get away and be lost altogether in what he had been lucky enough to find. all day, as claude came and went, he looked among the crowds for that young face, so compassionate and tender. iv deeper and deeper into flowery france! that was the sentence claude kept saying over to himself to the jolt of the wheels, as the long troop train went southward, on the second day after he and his company had left the port of debarkation. fields of wheat, fields of oats, fields of rye; all the low hills and rolling uplands clad with harvest. and everywhere, in the grass, in the yellowing grain, along the road-bed, the poppies spilling and streaming. on the second day the boys were still calling to each other about the poppies; nothing else had so entirely surpassed their expectations. they had supposed that poppies grew only on battle fields, or in the brains of war correspondents. nobody knew what the cornflowers were, except willy katz, an austrian boy from the omaha packing-houses, and he knew only an objectionable name for them, so he offered no information. for a long time they thought the red clover blossoms were wild flowers,--they were as big as wild roses. when they passed the first alfalfa field, the whole train rang with laughter; alfalfa was one thing, they believed, that had never been heard of outside their own prairie states. all the way down, company b had been finding the old things instead of the new,--or, to their way of thinking, the new things instead of the old. the thatched roofs they had so counted upon seeing were few and far between. but american binders, of well-known makes, stood where the fields were beginning to ripen,--and they were being oiled and put in order, not by "peasants," but by wise-looking old farmers who seemed to know their business. pear trees, trained like vines against the wall, did not astonish them half so much as the sight of the familiar cottonwood, growing everywhere. claude thought he had never before realized how beautiful this tree could be. in verdant little valleys, along the clear rivers, the cottonwoods waved and rustled; and on the little islands, of which there were so many in these rivers, they stood in pointed masses, seemed to grip deep into the soil and to rest easy, as if they had been there for ever and would be there for ever more. at home, all about frankfort, the farmers were cutting down their cottonwoods because they were "common," planting maples and ash trees to struggle along in their stead. never mind; the cottonwoods were good enough for france, and they were good enough for him! he felt they were a real bond between him and this people. when b company had first got their orders to go into a training camp in north central france, all the men were disappointed. troops much rawer than they were being rushed to the front, so why fool around any longer? but now they were reconciled to the delay. there seemed to be a good deal of france that wasn't the war, and they wouldn't mind travelling about a little in a country like this. was the harvest always a month later than at home, as it seemed to be this year? why did the farmers have rows of trees growing along the edges of every field--didn't they take the strength out of the soil? what did the farmers mean by raising patches of mustard right along beside other crops? didn't they know that mustard got into wheat fields and strangled the grain? the second night the boys were to spend in rouen, and they would have the following day to look about. everybody knew what had happened at rouen--if any one didn't, his neighbours were only too eager to inform him! it had happened in the market-place, and the market-place was what they were going to find. tomorrow, when it came, proved to be black and cold, a day of pouring rain. as they filed through the narrow, crowded streets, that harsh norman city presented no very cheering aspect. they were glad, at last, to find the waterside, to go out on the bridge and breathe the air in the great open space over the river, away from the clatter of cart-wheels and the hard voices and crafty faces of these townspeople, who seemed rough and unfriendly. from the bridge they looked up at the white chalk hills, the tops a blur of intense green under the low, lead-coloured sky. they watched the fleets of broad, deep-set river barges, coming and going under their feet, with tilted smokestacks. only a little way up that river was paris, the place where every doughboy meant to go; and as they leaned on the rail and looked down at the slow-flowing water, each one had in his mind a confused picture of what it would be like. the seine, they felt sure, must be very much wider there, and it was spanned by many bridges, all longer than the bridge over the missouri at omaha. there would be spires and golden domes past counting, all the buildings higher than anything in chicago, and brilliant--dazzlingly brilliant, nothing grey and shabby about it like this old rouen. they attributed to the city of their desire incalculable immensity, bewildering vastness, babylonian hugeness and heaviness--the only attributes they had been taught to admire. late in the morning claude found himself alone before the church of st. ouen. he was hunting for the cathedral, and this looked as if it might be the right place. he shook the water from his raincoat and entered, removing his hat at the door. the day, so dark without, was darker still within;... far away, a few scattered candles, still little points of light... just before him, in the grey twilight, slender white columns in long rows, like the stems of silver poplars. the entrance to the nave was closed by a cord, so he walked up the aisle on the right, treading softly, passing chapels where solitary women knelt in the light of a few tapers. except for them, the church was empty... empty. his own breathing was audible in this silence. he moved with caution lest he should wake an echo. when he reached the choir he turned, and saw, far behind him, the rose window, with its purple heart. as he stood staring, hat in hand, as still as the stone figures in the chapels, a great bell, up aloft, began to strike the hour in its deep, melodious throat; eleven beats, measured and far apart, as rich as the colours in the window, then silence... only in his memory the throbbing of an undreamed-of quality of sound. the revelations of the glass and the bell had come almost simultaneously, as if one produced the other; and both were superlatives toward which his mind had always been groping,--or so it seemed to him then. in front of the choir the nave was open, with no rope to shut it off. several straw chairs were huddled on a flag of the stone floor. after some hesitation he took one, turned it round, and sat down facing the window. if some one should come up to him and say anything, anything at all, he would rise and say, "pardon, monsieur; je ne sais pas c'est defendu." he repeated this to himself to be quite sure he had it ready. on the train, coming down, he had talked to the boys about the bad reputation americans had acquired for slouching all over the place and butting in on things, and had urged them to tread lightly, "but lieutenant," the kid from pleasantville had piped up, "isn't this whole expedition a butt-in? after all, it ain't our war." claude laughed, but he told him he meant to make an example of the fellow who went to rough-housing. he was well satisfied that he hadn't his restless companions on his mind now. he could sit here quietly until noon, and hear the bell strike again. in the meantime, he must try to think: this was, of course, gothic architecture; he had read more or less about that, and ought to be able to remember something. gothic... that was a mere word; to him it suggested something very peaked and pointed,--sharp arches, steep roofs. it had nothing to do with these slim white columns that rose so straight and far,--or with the window, burning up there in its vault of gloom.... while he was vainly trying to think about architecture, some recollection of old astronomy lessons brushed across his brain,--something about stars whose light travels through space for hundreds of years before it reaches the earth and the human eye. the purple and crimson and peacock-green of this window had been shining quite as long as that before it got to him.... he felt distinctly that it went through him and farther still... as if his mother were looking over his shoulder. he sat solemnly through the hour until twelve, his elbows on his knees, his conical hat swinging between them in his hand, looking up through the twilight with candid, thoughtful eyes. when claude joined his company at the station, they had the laugh on him. they had found the cathedral,--and a statue of richard the lion-hearted, over the spot where the lion-heart itself was buried; "the identical organ," fat sergeant hicks assured him. but they were all glad to leave rouen. v b company reached the training camp at s-- thirty-six men short: twenty-five they had buried on the voyage over, and eleven sick were left at the base hospital. the company was to be attached to a battalion which had already seen service, commanded by lieutenant colonel scott. arriving early in the morning, the officers reported at once to headquarters. captain maxey must have suffered a shock when the colonel rose from his desk to acknowledge his salute, then shook hands with them all around and asked them about their journey. the colonel was not a very martial figure; short, fat, with slouching shoulders, and a lumpy back like a sack of potatoes. though he wasn't much over forty, he was bald, and his collar would easily slip over his head without being unbuttoned. his little twinkling eyes and good-humoured face were without a particle of arrogance or official dignity. years ago, when general pershing, then a handsome young lieutenant with a slender waist and yellow moustaches, was stationed as commandant at the university of nebraska, walter scott was an officer in a company of cadets the lieutenant took about to military tournaments. the pershing rifles, they were called, and they won prizes wherever they went. after his graduation, scott settled down to running a hardware business in a thriving nebraska town, and sold gas ranges and garden hose for twenty years. about the time pershing was sent to the mexican border, scott began to think there might eventually be something in the wind, and that he would better get into training. he went down to texas with the national guard. he had come to france with the first division, and had won his promotions by solid, soldierly qualities. "i see you're an officer short, captain maxey," the colonel remarked at their conference. "i think i've got a man here to take his place. lieutenant gerhardt is a new york man, came over in the band and got transferred to infantry. he has lately been given a commission for good service. he's had some experience and is a capable fellow." the colonel sent his orderly out to bring in a young man whom he introduced to the officers as lieutenant david gerhardt. claude had been ashamed of tod fanning, who was always showing himself a sap-head, and who would never have got a commission if his uncle hadn't been a congressman. but the moment he met lieutenant gerhardt's eye, something like jealousy flamed up in him. he felt in a flash that he suffered by comparison with the new officer; that he must be on his guard and must not let himself be patronized. as they were leaving the colonel's office together, gerhardt asked him whether he had got his billet. claude replied that after the men were in their quarters, he would look out for something for himself. the young man smiled. "i'm afraid you may have difficulty. the people about here have been overworked, keeping soldiers, and they are not willing as they once were. i'm with a nice old couple over in the village. i'm almost sure i can get you in there. if you'll come along, we'll speak to them, before some one else is put off on them." claude didn't want to go, didn't want to accept favours,--nevertheless he went. they walked together along a dusty road that ran between half-ripe wheat fields, bordered with poplar trees. the wild morning-glories and queen anne's lace that grew by the road-side were still shining with dew. a fresh breeze stirred the bearded grain, parting it in furrows and fanning out streaks of crimson poppies. the new officer was not intrusive, certainly. he walked along, whistling softly to himself, seeming quite lost in the freshness of the morning, or in his own thoughts. there had been nothing patronizing in his manner so far, and claude began to wonder why he felt ill at ease with him. perhaps it was because he did not look like the rest of them. though he was young, he did not look boyish. he seemed experienced; a finished product, rather than something on the way. he was handsome, and his face, like his manner and his walk, had something distinguished about it. a broad white forehead under reddish brown hair, hazel eyes with no uncertainty in their look, an aquiline nose, finely cut,--a sensitive, scornful mouth, which somehow did not detract from the kindly, though slightly reserved, expression of his face. lieutenant gerhardt must have been in this neighbourhood for some time; he seemed to know the people. on the road they passed several villagers; a rough looking girl taking a cow out to graze, an old man with a basket on his arm, the postman on his bicycle; they all spoke to claude's companion as if they knew him well. "what are these blue flowers that grow about everywhere?" claude asked suddenly, pointing to a clump with his foot. "cornflowers," said the other. "the germans call them kaiser-blumen." they were approaching the village, which lay on the edge of a wood,--a wood so large one could not see the end of it; it met the horizon with a ridge of pines. the village was but a single street. on either side ran clay-coloured walls, with painted wooden doors here and there, and green shutters. claude's guide opened one of these gates, and they walked into a little sanded garden; the house was built round it on three sides. under a cherry tree sat a woman in a black dress, sewing, a work table beside her. she was fifty, perhaps, but though her hair was grey she had a look of youthfulness; thin cheeks, delicately flushed with pink, and quiet, smiling, intelligent eyes. claude thought she looked like a new england woman,--like the photographs of his mother's cousins and schoolmates. lieutenant gerhardt introduced him to madame joubert. he was quite disheartened by the colloquy that followed. clearly his new fellow officer spoke madame joubert's perplexing language as readily as she herself did, and he felt irritated and grudging as he listened. he had been hoping that, wherever he stayed, he could learn to talk to the people a little; but with this accomplished young man about, he would never have the courage to try. he could see that mme. joubert liked gerhardt, liked him very much; and all this, for some reason, discouraged him. gerhardt turned to claude, speaking in a way which included madame joubert in the conversation, though she could not understand it: "madame joubert will let you come, although she has done her part and really doesn't have to take any one else in. but you will be so well off here that i'm glad she consents. you will have to share my room, but there are two beds. she will show you." gerhardt went out of the gate and left him alone with his hostess. her mind seemed to read his thoughts. when he uttered a word, or any sound that resembled one, she quickly and smoothly made a sentence of it, as if she were quite accustomed to talking in this way and expected only monosyllables from strangers. she was kind, even a little playful with him; but he felt it was all good manners, and that underneath she was not thinking of him at all. when he was alone in the tile-floored sleeping room upstairs, unrolling his blankets and arranging his shaving things, he looked out of the window and watched her where she sat sewing under the cherry tree. she had a very sad face, he thought; it wasn't grief, nothing sharp and definite like sorrow. it was an old, quiet, impersonal sadness,--sweet in its expression, like the sadness of music. as he came out of the house to start back to the barracks, he bowed to her and tried to say, "au revoir, madame. jusq' au ce soir." he stopped near the kitchen door to look at a many-branched rose vine that ran all over the wall, full of cream-coloured, pink-tipped roses, just a shade stronger in colour than the clay wall behind them. madame joubert came over and stood beside him, looking at him and at the rosier, "oui, c'est joli, n'est-ce pas?" she took the scissors that hung by a ribbon from her belt, cut one of the flowers and stuck it in his buttonhole. "voilà." she made a little flourish with her thin hand. stepping into the street, he turned to shut the wooden door after him, and heard a soft stir in the dark tool-house at his elbow. from among the rakes and spades a child's frightened face was staring out at him. she was sitting on the ground with her lap full of baby kittens. he caught but a glimpse of her dull, pale face. vi the next morning claude awoke with such a sense of physical well-being as he had not had for a long time. the sun was shining brightly on the white plaster walls and on the red tiles of the floor. green jalousies, half-drawn, shaded the upper part of the two windows. through their slats, he could see the forking branches of an old locust tree that grew by the gate. a flock of pigeons flew over it, dipping and mounting with a sharp twinkle of silver wings. it was good to lie again in a house that was cared for by women. he must have felt that even in his sleep, for when he opened his eyes he was thinking about mahailey and breakfast and summer mornings on the farm. the early stillness was sweet, and the feeling of dry, clean linen against his body. there was a smell of lavender about his warm pillow. he lay still for fear of waking lieutenant gerhardt. this was the sort of peace one wanted to enjoy alone. when he rose cautiously on his elbow and looked at the other bed, it was empty. his companion must have dressed and slipped out when day first broke. somebody else who liked to enjoy things alone; that looked hopeful. but now that he had the place to himself, he decided to get up. while he was dressing he could see old m. joubert down in the garden, watering the plants and vines, raking the sand fresh and smooth, clipping off dead leaves and withered flowers and throwing them into a wheelbarrow. these people had lost both their sons in the war, he had been told, and now they were taking care of the property for their grandchildren,--two daughters of the elder son. claude saw gerhardt come into the garden, and sit down at the table under the trees, where they had their dinner last night. he hurried down to join him. gerhardt made room for him on the bench. "do you always sleep like that? it's an accomplishment. i made enough noise when i dressed,--kept dropping things, but it never reached you." madame joubert came out of the kitchen in a purple flowered morning gown, her hair in curl-papers under a lace cap. she brought the coffee herself, and they sat down at the unpainted table without a cloth, and drank it out of big crockery bowls. they had fresh milk with it,--the first claude had tasted in a long while, and sugar which gerhardt produced from his pocket. the old cook had her coffee sitting in the kitchen door, and on the step, at her feet, sat the strange, pale little girl. madame joubert amiably addressed herself to claude; she knew that americans were accustomed to a different sort of morning repast, and if he wished to bring bacon from the camp, she would gladly cook it for him. she had even made pancakes for officers who stayed there before. she seemed pleased, however, to learn that claude had had enough of these things for awhile. she called david by his first name, pronouncing it the french way, and when claude said he hoped she would do as much for him, she said, oh, yes, that his was a very good french name, "mais un peu, un peu... romanesque," at which he blushed, not quite knowing whether she were making fun of him or not. "it is rather so in english, isn't it?" david asked. "well, it's a sissy name, if you mean that." "yes, it is, a little," david admitted candidly. the day's work on the parade ground was hard, and captain maxey's men were soft, felt the heat,--didn't size up well with the kansas boys who had been hardened by service. the colonel wasn't pleased with b company and detailed them to build new barracks and extend the sanitation system. claude got out and worked with the men. gerhardt followed his example, but it was easy to see that he had never handled lumber or tin-roofing before. a kind of rivalry seemed to have sprung up between him and claude, neither of them knew why. claude could see that the sergeants and corporals were a little uncertain about gerhardt. his laconic speech, never embroidered by the picturesque slang they relished, his gravity, and his rare, incredulous smile, alike puzzled them. was the new officer a dude? sergeant hicks asked of his chum, dell able. no, he wasn't a dude. was he a swellhead? no, not at all; but he wasn't a good mixer. he was "an easterner"; what more he was would develop later. claude sensed something unusual about him. he suspected that gerhardt knew a good many things as well as he knew french, and that he tried to conceal it, as people sometimes do when they feel they are not among their equals; this idea nettled him. it was claude who seized the opportunity to be patronizing, when gerhardt betrayed that he was utterly unable to select lumber by given measurements. the next afternoon, work on the new barracks was called off because of rain. sergeant hicks set about getting up a boxing match, but when he went to invite the lieutenants, they had both disappeared. claude was tramping toward the village, determined to get into the big wood that had tempted him ever since his arrival. the highroad became the village street, and then, at the edge of the wood, became a country road again. a little farther on, where the shade grew denser, it split up into three wagon trails, two of them faint and little used. one of these claude followed. the rain had dwindled to a steady patter, but the tall brakes growing up in the path splashed him to the middle, and his feet sank in spongy, mossy earth. the light about him, the very air, was green. the trunks of the trees were overgrown with a soft green moss, like mould. he was wondering whether this forest was not always a damp, gloomy place, when suddenly the sun broke through and shattered the whole wood with gold. he had never seen anything like the quivering emerald of the moss, the silky green of the dripping beech tops. everything woke up; rabbits ran across the path, birds began to sing, and all at once the brakes were full of whirring insects. the winding path turned again, and came out abruptly on a hillside, above an open glade piled with grey boulders. on the opposite rise of ground stood a grove of pines, with bare, red stems. the light, around and under them, was red like a rosy sunset. nearly all the stems divided about half-way up into two great arms, which came together again at the top, like the pictures of old grecian lyres. down in the grassy glade, among the piles of flint boulders, little white birches shook out their shining leaves in the lightly moving air. all about the rocks were patches of purple heath; it ran up into the crevices between them like fire. on one of these bald rocks sat lieutenant gerhardt, hatless, in an attitude of fatigue or of deep dejection, his hands clasped about his knees, his bronze hair ruddy in the sun. after watching him for a few minutes, claude descended the slope, swishing the tall ferns. "will i be in the way?" he asked as he stopped at the foot of the rocks. "oh, no!" said the other, moving a little and unclasping his hand. claude sat down on a boulder. "is this heather?" he asked. "i thought i recognized it, from 'kidnapped.' this part of the world is not as new to you as it is to me." "no. i lived in paris for several years when i was a student." "what were you studying?" "the violin." "you are a musician?" claude looked at him wonderingly. "i was," replied the other with a disdainful smile, languidly stretching out his legs in the heather. "that seems too bad," claude remarked gravely. "what does?" "why, to take fellows with a special talent. there are enough of us who haven't any." gerhardt rolled over on his back and put his hands under his head. "oh, this affair is too big for exceptions; it's universal. if you happened to be born twenty-six years ago, you couldn't escape. if this war didn't kill you in one way, it would in another." he told claude he had trained at camp dix, and had come over eight months ago in a regimental band, but he hated the work he had to do and got transferred to the infantry. when they retraced their steps, the wood was full of green twilight. their relations had changed somewhat during the last half hour, and they strolled in confidential silence up the home-like street to the door of their own garden. since the rain was over, madame joubert had laid the cloth on the plank table under the cherry tree, as on the previous evenings. monsieur was bringing the chairs, and the little girl was carrying out a pile of heavy plates. she rested them against her stomach and leaned back as she walked, to balance them. she wore shoes, but no stockings, and her faded cotton dress switched about her brown legs. she was a little belgian refugee who had been sent there with her mother. the mother was dead now, and the child would not even go to visit her grave. she could not be coaxed from the court-yard into the quiet street. if the neighbour children came into the garden on an errand, she hid herself. she would have no playmates but the cat; and now she had the kittens in the tool house. dinner was very cheerful that evening. m. joubert was pleased that the storm had not lasted long enough to hurt the wheat. the garden was fresh and bright after the rain. the cherry tree shook down bright drops on the tablecloth when the breeze stirred. the mother cat dozed on the red cushion in madame joubert's sewing chair, and the pigeons fluttered down to snap up earthworms that wriggled in the wet sand. the shadow of the house fell over the dinner-table, but the tree-tops stood up in full sunlight, and the yellow sun poured on the earth wall and the cream-coloured roses. their petals, ruffled by the rain, gave out a wet, spicy smell. m. joubert must have been ten years older than his wife. there was a great contentment in his manner and a pleasant sparkle in his eye. he liked the young officers. gerhardt had been there more than two weeks, and somewhat relieved the stillness that had settled over the house since the second son died in hospital. the jouberts had dropped out of things. they had done all they could do, given all they had, and now they had nothing to look forward to,--except the event to which all france looked forward. the father was talking to gerhardt about the great sea-port the americans were making of bordeaux; he said he meant to go there after the war, to see it all for himself. madame joubert was pleased to hear that they had been walking in the wood. and was the heather in bloom? she wished they had brought her some. next time they went, perhaps. she used to walk there often. her eyes seemed to come nearer to them, claude thought, when she spoke of it, and she evidently cared a great deal more about what was blooming in the wood than about what the americans were doing on the garonne. he wished he could talk to her as gerhardt did. he admired the way she roused herself and tried to interest them, speaking her difficult language with such spirit and precision. it was a language that couldn't be mumbled; that had to be spoken with energy and fire, or not spoken at all. merely speaking that exacting tongue would help to rally a broken spirit, he thought. the little maid who served them moved about noiselessly. her dull eyes never seemed to look; yet she saw when it was time to bring the heavy soup tureen, and when it was time to take it away. madame joubert had found that claude liked his potatoes with his meat--when there was meat--and not in a course by themselves. she had each time to tell the little girl to go and fetch them. this the child did with manifest reluctance,--sullenly, as if she were being forced to do something wrong. she was a very strange little creature, altogether. as the two soldiers left the table and started for the camp, claude reached down into the tool house and took up one of the kittens, holding it out in the light to see it blink its eyes. the little girl, just coming out of the kitchen, uttered a shrill scream, a really terrible scream, and squatted down, covering her face with her hands. madame joubert came out to chide her. "what is the matter with that child?" claude asked as they hurried out of the gate. "do you suppose she was hurt, or abused in some way?" "terrorized. she often screams like that at night. haven't you heard her? they have to go and wake her, to stop it. she doesn't speak any french; only walloon. and she can't or won't learn, so they can't tell what goes on in her poor little head." in the two weeks of intensive training that followed, claude marvelled at gerhardt's spirit and endurance. the muscular strain of mimic trench operations was more of a tax on him than on any of the other officers. he was as tall as claude, but he weighed only a hundred and forty-six pounds, and he had not been roughly bred like most of the others. when his fellow officers learned that he was a violinist by profession, that he could have had a soft job as interpreter or as an organizer of camp entertainments, they no longer resented his reserve or his occasional superciliousness. they respected a man who could have wriggled out and didn't. vii on the march at last; through a brilliant august day colonel scott's battalion was streaming along one of the dusty, well-worn roads east of the somme, their railway base well behind them. the way led through rolling country; fields, hills, woods, little villages shattered but still habitable, where the people came out to watch the soldiers go by. the americans went through every village in march step, colours flying, the band playing, "to show that the morale was high," as the officers said. claude trudged on the outside of the column,--now at the front of his company, now at the rear,--wearing a stoical countenance, afraid of betraying his satisfaction in the men, the weather, the country. they were bound for the big show, and on every hand were reassuring signs: long lines of gaunt, dead trees, charred and torn; big holes gashed out in fields and hillsides, already half concealed by new undergrowth; winding depressions in the earth, bodies of wrecked motor-trucks and automobiles lying along the road, and everywhere endless straggling lines of rusty barbed-wire, that seemed to have been put there by chance,--with no purpose at all. "begins to look like we're getting in, lieutenant," said sergeant hicks, smiling behind his salute. claude nodded and passed forward. "well, we can't arrive any too soon for us, boys?" the sergeant looked over his shoulder, and they grinned, their teeth flashing white in their red, perspiring faces. claude didn't wonder that everybody along the route, even the babies, came out to see them; he thought they were the finest sight in the world. this was the first day they had worn their tin hats; gerhardt had shown them how to stuff grass and leaves inside to keep their heads cool. when they fell into fours, and the band struck up as they approached a town, bert fuller, the boy from pleasantville on the platte, who had blubbered on the voyage over, was guide right, and whenever claude passed him his face seemed to say, "you won't get anything on me in a hurry, lieutenant!" they made camp early in the afternoon, on a hill covered with half-burned pines. claude took bert and dell able and oscar the swede, and set off to make a survey and report the terrain. behind the hill, under the burned edge of the wood, they found an abandoned farmhouse and what seemed to be a clean well. it had a solid stone curb about it, and a wooden bucket hanging by a rusty wire. when the boys splashed the bucket about, the water sent up a pure, cool breath. but they were wise boys, and knew where dead prussians most loved to hide. even the straw in the stable they regarded with suspicion, and thought it would be just as well not to bed anybody there. swinging on to the right to make their circuit, they got into mud; a low field where the drain ditches had been neglected and had overflowed. there they came upon a pitiful group of humanity, bemired. a woman, ill and wretched looking, sat on a fallen log at the end of the marsh, a baby in her lap and three children hanging about her. she was far gone in consumption; one had only to listen to her breathing and to look at her white, perspiring face to feel how weak she was. draggled, mud to the knees, she was trying to nurse her baby, half hidden under an old black shawl. she didn't look like a tramp woman, but like one who had once been able to take proper care of herself, and she was still young. the children were tired and discouraged. one little boy wore a clumsy blue jacket, made from a french army coat. the other wore a battered american stetson that came down over his ears. he carried, in his two arms, a pink celluloid clock. they all looked up and waited for the soldiers to do something. claude approached the woman, and touching the rim of his helmet, began: "bonjour, madame. qu'est que c'est?" she tried to speak, but went off into a spasm of coughing, only able to gasp, "'toinette, 'toinette!" 'toinette stepped quickly forward. she was about eleven, and seemed to be the captain of the party. a bold, hard little face with a long chin, straight black hair tied with rags, uneasy, crafty eyes; she looked much less gentle and more experienced than her mother. she began to explain, and she was very clever at making herself understood. she was used to talking to foreign soldiers,--spoke slowly, with emphasis and ingenious gestures. she, too, had been reconnoitering. she had discovered the empty farmhouse and was trying to get her party there for the night. how did they come here? oh, they were refugees. they had been staying with people thirty kilometers from here. they were trying to get back to their own village. her mother was very sick, presque morte and she wanted to go home to die. they had heard people were still living there; an old aunt was living in their own cellar,--and so could they if they once got there. the point was, and she made it over and over, that her mother wished to die chez elle, comprenez-vous? they had no papers, and the french soldiers would never let them pass, but now that the americans were here they hoped to get through; the americans were said to be toujours gentils. while she talked in her shrill, clicking voice, the baby began to howl, dissatisfied with its nourishment. the little girl shrugged. "il est toujours en colère," she muttered. the woman turned it around with difficulty--it seemed a big, heavy baby, but white and sickly--and gave it the other breast. it began sucking her noisily, rooting and sputtering as if it were famished. it was too painful, it was almost indecent, to see this exhausted woman trying to feed her baby. claude beckoned his men away to one side, and taking the little girl by the hand drew her after them. "il faut que votre mère--se reposer," he told her, with the grave caesural pause which he always made in the middle of a french sentence. she understood him. no distortion of her native tongue surprised or perplexed her. she was accustomed to being addressed in all persons, numbers, genders, tenses; by germans, english, americans. she only listened to hear whether the voice was kind, and with men in this uniform it usually was kind. had they anything to eat? "vous avez quelque chose à manger?" "rien. rien du tout." wasn't her mother "trop malade à marcher?" she shrugged; monsieur could see for himself. and her father? he was dead; "mort à la marne, en quatorze." "at the marne?" claude repeated, glancing in perplexity at the nursing baby. her sharp eyes followed his, and she instantly divined his doubt. "the baby?" she said quickly. "oh, the baby is not my brother, he is a boche." for a moment claude did not understand. she repeated her explanation impatiently, something disdainful and sinister in her metallic little voice. a slow blush mounted to his forehead. he pushed her toward her mother, "attendez là." "i guess we'll have to get them over to that farmhouse," he told the men. he repeated what he had got of the child's story. when he came to her laconic statement about the baby, they looked at each other. bert fuller was afraid he might cry again, so he kept muttering, "by god, if we'd a-got here sooner, by god if we had!" as they ran back along the ditch. dell and oscar made a chair of their crossed hands and carried the woman, she was no great weight. bert picked up the little boy with the pink clock; "come along, little frog, your legs ain't long enough." claude walked behind, holding the screaming baby stiffly in his arms. how was it possible for a baby to have such definite personality, he asked himself, and how was it possible to dislike a baby so much? he hated it for its square, tow-thatched head and bloodless ears, and carried it with loathing... no wonder it cried! when it got nothing by screaming and stiffening, however, it suddenly grew quiet; regarded him with pale blue eyes, and tried to make itself comfortable against his khaki coat. it put out a grimy little fist and took hold of one of his buttons. "kamerad, eh?" he muttered, glaring at the infant. "cut it out!" before they had their own supper that night, the boys carried hot food and blankets down to their family. viii four o'clock... a summer dawn... his first morning in the trenches. claude had just been along the line to see that the gun teams were in position. this hour, when the light was changing, was a favourite time for attack. he had come in late last night, and had everything to learn. mounting the firestep, he peeped over the parapet between the sandbags, into the low, twisting mist. just then he could see nothing but the wire entanglement, with birds hopping along the top wire, singing and chirping as they did on the wire fences at home. clear and flute-like they sounded in the heavy air,--and they were the only sounds. a little breeze came up, slowly clearing the mist away. streaks of green showed through the moving banks of vapour. the birds became more agitated. that dull stretch of grey and green was no man's land. those low, zigzag mounds, like giant molehills protected by wire hurdles, were the hun trenches; five or six lines of them. he could easily follow the communication trenches without a glass. at one point their front line could not be more than eighty yards away, at another it must be all of three hundred. here and there thin columns of smoke began to rise; the hun was getting breakfast; everything was comfortable and natural. behind the enemy's position the country rose gradually for several miles, with ravines and little woods, where, according to his map, they had masked artillery. back on the hills were ruined farmhouses and broken trees, but nowhere a living creature in sight. it was a dead, nerveless countryside, sunk in quiet and dejection. yet everywhere the ground was full of men. their own trenches, from the other side, must look quite as dead. life was a secret, these days. it was amazing how simply things could be done. his battalion had marched in quietly at midnight, and the line they came to relieve had set out as silently for the rear. it all took place in utter darkness. just as b company slid down an incline into the shallow rear trenches, the country was lit for a moment by two star shells, there was a rattling of machine guns, german maxims,--a sporadic crackle that was not followed up. filing along the communication trenches, they listened anxiously; artillery fire would have made it bad for the other men who were marching to the rear. but nothing happened. they had a quiet night, and this morning, here they were! the sky flamed up saffron and silver. claude looked at his watch, but he could not bear to go just yet. how long it took a wheeler to get round to anything! four years on the way; now that he was here, he would enjoy the scenery a bit, he guessed. he wished his mother could know how he felt this morning. but perhaps she did know. at any rate, she would not have him anywhere else. five years ago, when he was sitting on the steps of the denver state house and knew that nothing unexpected could ever happen to him... suppose he could have seen, in a flash, where he would be today? he cast a long look at the reddening, lengthening landscape, and dropped down on the duckboard. claude made his way back to the dugout into which he and gerhardt had thrown their effects last night. the former occupants had left it clean. there were two bunks nailed against the side walls,--wooden frames with wire netting over them, covered with dry sandbags. between the two bunks was a soap-box table, with a candle stuck in a green bottle, an alcohol stove, a bainmarie, and two tin cups. on the wall were coloured pictures from jugend, taken out of some hun trench. he found gerhardt still asleep on his bed, and shook him until he sat up. "how long have you been out, claude? didn't you sleep?" "a little. i wasn't very tired. i suppose we could heat shaving water on this stove; they've left us half a bottle of alcohol. it's quite a comfortable little hole, isn't it?" "it will doubtless serve its purpose," david remarked dryly. "so sensitive to any criticism of this war! why, it's not your affair; you've only just arrived." "i know," claude replied meekly, as he began to fold his blankets. "but it's likely the only one i'll ever be in, so i may as well take an interest." the next afternoon four young men, all more or less naked, were busy about a shell-hole full of opaque brown water. sergeant hicks and his chum, dell able, had hunted through half the blazing hot morning to find a hole not too scummy, conveniently, and even picturesquely situated, and had reported it to the lieutenants. captain maxey, hicks said, could send his own orderly to find his own shell-hole, and could take his bath in private. "he'd never wash himself with anybody else," the sergeant added. "afraid of exposing his dignity!" bruger and hammond, the two second lieutenants, were already out of their bath, and reclined on what might almost be termed a grassy slope, examining various portions of their body with interest. they hadn't had all their clothes off for some time, and four days of marching in hot weather made a man anxious to look at himself. "you wait till winter," gerhardt told them. he was still splashing in the hole, up to his armpits in muddy water. "you won't get a wash once in three months then. some of the tommies told me that when they got their first bath after vimy, their skins peeled off like a snake's. what are you doing with my trousers, bruger?" "hunting for your knife. i dropped mine yesterday, when that shell exploded in the cut-off. i darned near dropped my old nut!" "shucks, that wasn't anything. don't keep blowing about it--shows you're a greenhorn." claude stripped off his shirt and slid into the pool beside gerhardt. "gee, i hit something sharp down there! why didn't you fellows pull out the splinters?" he shut his eyes, disappeared for a moment, and came up sputtering, throwing on the ground a round metal object, coated with rust and full of slime. "german helmet, isn't it? phew!" he wiped his face and looked about suspiciously. "phew is right!" bruger turned the object over with a stick. "why in hell didn't you bring up the rest of him? you've spoiled my bath. i hope you enjoy it." gerhardt scrambled up the side. "get out, wheeler! look at that," he pointed to big sleepy bubbles, bursting up through the thick water. "you've stirred up trouble, all right! something's going very bad down there." claude got out after him, looking back at the activity in the water. "i don't see how pulling out one helmet could stir the bottom up so. i should think the water would keep the smell down." "ever study chemistry?" bruger asked scornfully. "you just opened up a graveyard, and now we get the exhaust. if you swallowed any of that german cologne--oh, you should worry!" lieutenant hammond, still barelegged, with his shirt tied over his shoulders, was scratching in his notebook. before they left he put up a placard on a split stick. no public bathing!! private beach c. wheeler, co. b. -th inf'ty. . . . . . . . . . . the first letters from home! the supply wagons brought them up, and every man in the company got something except ed drier, a farm-hand from the nebraska sand hills, and willy katz, the tow-headed austrian boy from the south omaha packing-houses. their comrades were sorry for them. ed didn't have any "folks" of his own, but he had expected letters all the same. willy was sure his mother must have written. when the last ragged envelope was given out and he turned away empty-handed, he murmured, "she's bohunk, and she don't write so good. i guess the address wasn't plain, and some fellow in another comp'ny has got my letter." no second class matter was sent up,--the boys had hoped for newspapers from home to give them a little war news, since they never got any here. dell able's sister, however, had enclosed a clipping from the kansas city star; a long account by one of the british war correspondents in mesopotamia, describing the hardships the soldiers suffered there; dysentery, flies, mosquitoes, unimaginable heat. he read this article aloud to a group of his friends as they sat about a shell-hole pool where they had been washing their socks. he had just finished the story of how the tommies had found a few mud huts at the place where the original garden of eden was said to have been,--a desolate spot full of stinging insects--when oscar petersen, a very religious swedish boy who was often silent for days together, opened his mouth and said scornfully, "that's a lie!" dell looked up at him, annoyed by the interruption. "how do you know it is?" "because; the lord put four cherubims with swords to guard the garden, and there ain't no man going to find it. it ain't intended they should. the bible says so." hicks began to laugh. "why, that was about six thousand years ago, you cheese! do you suppose your cherubims are still there?" "'course they are. what's a thousand years to a cherubim? nothin'!" the swede rose and sullenly gathered up his socks. dell able looked at his chum. "ain't he the complete bonehead? solid ivory!" oscar wouldn't listen further to a "pack of lies" and walked off with his washing. . . . . . . . . . . battalion headquarters was nearly half a mile behind the front line, part dugout, part shed, with a plank roof sodded over. the colonel's office was partitioned off at one end; the rest of the place he gave over to the officers for a kind of club room. one night claude went back to make a report on the new placing of the gun teams. the young officers were sitting about on soap boxes, smoking and eating sweet crackers out of tin cases. gerhardt was working at a plank table with paper and crayons, making a clean copy of a rough map they had drawn up together that morning, showing the limits of fire. noise didn't fluster him; he could sit among a lot of men and write as calmly as if he were alone. there was one officer who could talk all the others down, wherever he was; captain barclay owens, attached from the engineers. he was a little stumpy thumb of a man, only five feet four, and very broad,--a dynamo of energy. before the war he was building a dam in spain, "the largest dam in the world," and in his excavations he had discovered the ruins of one of julius caesar's fortified camps. this had been too much for his easily-inflamed imagination. he photographed and measured and brooded upon these ancient remains. he was an engineer by day and an archaeologist by night. he had crates of books sent down from paris,--everything that had been written on caesar, in french and german; he engaged a young priest to translate them aloud to him in the evening. the priest believed the american was mad. when owens was in college he had never shown the least interest in classical studies, but now it was as if he were giving birth to caesar. the war came along, and stopped the work on his dam. it also drove other ideas into his exclusively engineering brains. he rushed home to kansas to explain the war to his countrymen.. he travelled about the west, demonstrating exactly what had happened at the first battle of the marne, until he had a chance to enlist. in the battalion, owens was called "julius caesar," and the men never knew whether he was explaining the roman general's operations in spain, or joffre's at the marne, he jumped so from one to the other. everything was in the foreground with him; centuries made no difference. nothing existed until barclay owens found out about it. the men liked to hear him talk. tonight he was walking up and down, his yellow eyes rolling, a big black cigar in his hand, lecturing the young officers upon french characteristics, coaching and preparing them. it was his legs that made him so funny; his trunk was that of a big man, set on two short stumps. "now you fellows don't want to forget that the night-life of paris is not a typical thing at all; that's a show got up for foreigners.... the french peasant, he's a thrifty fellow.... this red wine's all right if you don't abuse it; take it two-thirds water and it keeps off dysentery.... you don't have to be rough with them, simply firm. whenever one of them accosts me, i follow a regular plan; first, i give her twenty-five francs; then i look her in the eye and say, 'my girl, i've got three children, three boys.' she gets the point at once; never fails. she goes away ashamed of herself." "but that's so expensive! it must keep you poor, captain owens," said young lieutenant hammond innocently. the others roared. claude knew that david particularly detested captain owens of the engineers, and wondered that he could go on working with such concentration, when snatches of the captain's lecture kept breaking through the confusion of casual talk and the noise of the phonograph. owens, as he walked up and down, cast furtive glances at gerhardt. he had got wind of the fact that there was something out of the ordinary about him. the men kept the phonograph going; as soon as one record buzzed out, somebody put in another. once, when a new tune began, claude saw david look up from his paper with a curious expression. he listened for a moment with a half-contemptuous smile, then frowned and began sketching in his map again. something about his momentary glance of recognition made claude wonder whether he had particular associations with the air,--melancholy, but beautiful, claude thought. he got up and went over to change the record himself this time. he took out the disk, and holding it up to the light, read the inscription: "meditation from thais--violin solo--david gerhardt." when they were going back along the communication trench in the rain, wading single file, claude broke the silence abruptly. "that was one of your records they played tonight, that violin solo, wasn't it?" "sounded like it. now we go to the right. i always get lost here." "are there many of your records?" "quite a number. why do you ask?" "i'd like to write my mother. she's fond of good music. she'll get your records, and it will sort of bring the whole thing closer to her, don't you see?" "all right, claude," said david good-naturedly. "she will find them in the catalogue, with my picture in uniform alongside. i had a lot made before i went out to camp dix. my own mother gets a little income from them. here we are, at home." as he struck a match two black shadows jumped from the table and disappeared behind the blankets. "plenty of them around, these wet nights. get one? don't squash him in there. here's the sack." gerhardt held open the mouth of a gunny sack, and claude thrust the squirming corner of his blanket into it and vigorously trampled whatever fell to the bottom. "where do you suppose the other is?" "he'll join us later. i don't mind the rats half so much as i do barclay owens. what a sight he would be with his clothes off! turn in; i'll go the rounds." gerhardt splashed out along the submerged duckboard. claude took off his shoes and cooled his feet in the muddy water. he wished he could ever get david to talk about his profession, and wondered what he looked like on a concert platform, playing his violin. ix the following night, claude was sent back to division head-quarters at q-- with information the colonel did not care to commit to paper. he set off at ten o'clock, with sergeant hicks for escort. there had been two days of rain, and the communication trenches were almost knee-deep in water. about half a mile back of the front line, the two men crawled out of the ditch and went on above ground. there was very little shelling along the front that night. when a flare went up, they dropped and lay on their faces, trying, at the same time, to get a squint at what was ahead of them. the ground was rough, and the darkness thick; it was past midnight when they reached the east-and-west road--usually full of traffic, and not entirely deserted even on a night like this. trains of horses were splashing through the mud, with shells on their backs, empty supply wagons were coming back from the front. claude and hicks paused by the ditch, hoping to get a ride. the rain began to fall with such violence that they looked about for shelter. stumbling this way and that, they ran into a big artillery piece, the wheels sunk over the hubs in a mud-hole. "who's there?" called a quick voice, unmistakably british. "american infantrymen, two of us. can we get onto one of your trucks till this lets up?" "oh, certainly! we can make room for you in here, if you're not too big. speak quietly, or you'll waken the major." giggles and smothered laughter; a flashlight winked for a moment and showed a line of five trucks, the front and rear ones covered with tarpaulin tents. the voices came from the shelter next the gun. the men inside drew up their legs and made room for the strangers; said they were sorry they hadn't anything dry to offer them except a little rum. the intruders accepted this gratefully. the britishers were a giggly lot, and claude thought, from their voices, they must all be very young. they joked about their major as if he were their schoolmaster. there wasn't room enough on the truck for anybody to lie down, so they sat with their knees under their chins and exchanged gossip. the gun team belonged to an independent battery that was sent about over the country, "wherever needed." the rest of the battery had got through, gone on to the east, but this big gun was always getting into trouble; now something had gone wrong with her tractor and they couldn't pull her out. they called her "jenny," and said she was taken with fainting fits now and then, and had to be humoured. it was like going about with your grandmother, one of the invisible tommies said, "she is such a pompous old thing!" the major was asleep on the rear truck; he was going to get the v.c. for sleeping. more giggles. no, they hadn't any idea where they were going; of course, the officers knew, but artillery officers never told anything. what was this country like, anyhow? they were new to this part, had just come down from verdure. claude said he had a friend in the air service up there; did they happen to know anything about victor morse? morse, the american ace? hadn't he heard? why, that got into the london papers. morse was shot down inside the hun line three weeks ago. it was a brilliant affair. he was chased by eight boche planes, brought down three of them, put the rest to flight, and was making for base, when they turned and got him. his machine came down in flames and he jumped, fell a thousand feet or more. "then i suppose he never got his leave?" claude asked. they didn't know. he got a fine citation. the men settled down to wait for the weather to improve or the night to pass. some of them fell into a doze, but claude felt wide awake. he was wondering about the flat in chelsea; whether the heavy-eyed beauty had been very sorry, or whether she was playing "roses of picardy" for other young officers. he thought mournfully that he would never go to london now. he had quite counted on meeting victor there some day, after the kaiser had been properly disposed of. he had really liked victor. there was something about that fellow... a sort of debauched baby, he was, who went seeking his enemy in the clouds. what other age could have produced such a figure? that was one of the things about this war; it took a little fellow from a little town, gave him an air and a swagger, a life like a movie-film,--and then a death like the rebel angels. a man like gerhardt, for instance, had always lived in a more or less rose-colored world; he belonged over here, really. how could he know what hard moulds and crusts the big guns had broken open on the other side of the sea? who could ever make him understand how far it was from the strawberry bed and the glass cage in the bank, to the sky-roads over verdure? by three o'clock the rain had stopped. claude and hicks set off again, accompanied by one of the gun team who was going back to get help for their tractor. as it began to grow light, the two americans wondered more and more at the extremely youthful appearance of their companion. when they stopped at a shell-hole and washed the mud from their faces, the english boy, with his helmet off and the weather stains removed, showed a countenance of adolescent freshness, almost girlish; cheeks like pink apples, yellow curls above his forehead, long, soft lashes. "you haven't been over very long, have you?" claude asked in a fatherly tone, as they took the road again. "i came out in 'sixteen. i was formerly in the infantry." the americans liked to hear him talk; he spoke very quickly, in a high, piping voice. "how did you come to change?" "oh, i belonged to one of the pal battalions, and we got cut to pieces. when i came out of hospital, i thought i'd try another branch of the service, seeing my pals were gone." "now, just what is a pal battalion?" drawled hicks. he hated all english words he didn't understand, though he didn't mind french ones in the least. "fellows who signed up together from school," the lad piped. hicks glanced at claude. they both thought this boy ought to be in school for some time yet, and wondered what he looked like when he first came over. "and you got cut up, you say?" he asked sympathetically. "yes, on the somme. we had rotten luck. we were sent over to take a trench and couldn't. we didn't even get to the wire. the hun was so well prepared that time, we couldn't manage it. we went over a thousand, and we came back seventeen." "a hundred and seventeen?" "no, seventeen." hicks whistled and again exchanged looks with claude. they could neither of them doubt him. there was something very unpleasant about the idea of a thousand fresh-faced schoolboys being sent out against the guns. "it must have been a fool order," he commented. "suppose there was some mistake at headquarters?" "oh, no, headquarters knew what it was about! we'd have taken it, if we'd had any sort of luck. but the hun happened to be full of fight. his machine guns did for us." "you were hit yourself?" claude asked him. "in the leg. he was popping away at me all the while, but i wriggled back on my tummy. when i came out of the hospital my leg wasn't strong, and there's less marching in the artillery. "i should think you'd have had about enough." "oh, a fellow can't stay out after all his chums have been killed! he'd think about it all the time, you know," the boy replied in his clear treble. claude and hicks got into headquarters just as the cooks were turning out to build their fires. one of the corporals took them to the officers' bath,--a shed with big tin tubs, and carried away their uniforms to dry them in the kitchen. it would be an hour before the officers would be about, he said, and in the meantime he would manage to get clean shirts and socks for them. "say, lieutenant," hicks brought out as he was rubbing himself down with a real bath towel, "i don't want to hear any more about those pal battalions, do you? it gets my goat. so long as we were going to get into this, we might have been a little more previous. i hate to feel small." "guess we'll have to take our medicine," claude said dryly, "there wasn't anywhere to duck, was there? i felt like it. nice little kid. i don't believe american boys ever seem as young as that." "why, if you met him anywhere else, you'd be afraid of using bad words before him, he's so pretty! what's the use of sending an orphan asylum out to be slaughtered? i can't see it," grumbled the fat sergeant. "well, it's their business. i'm not going to let it spoil my breakfast. suppose we'll draw ham and eggs, lieutenant?" x after breakfast claude reported to headquarters and talked with one of the staff majors. he was told he would have to wait until tomorrow to see colonel james, who had been called to paris for a general conference. he had left in his car at four that morning, in response to a telephone message. "there's not much to do here, by way of amusement," said the major. "a movie show tonight, and you can get anything you want at the estaminet,--the one on the square, opposite the english tank, is the best. there are a couple of nice frenchwomen in the red cross barrack, up on the hill, in the old convent garden. they try to look out for the civilian population, and we're on good terms with them. we get their supplies through with our own, and the quartermaster has orders to help them when they run short. you might go up and call on them. they speak english perfectly." claude asked whether he could walk in on them without any kind of introduction. "oh, yes, they're used to us! i'll give you a card to mlle. olive, though. she's a particular friend of mine. there you are: 'mlle. olive de courcy, introducing, etc.' and, you understand," here he glanced up and looked claude over from head to foot, "she's a perfect lady." even with an introduction, claude felt some hesitancy about presenting himself to these ladies. perhaps they didn't like americans; he was always afraid of meeting french people who didn't. it was the same way with most of the fellows in his battalion, he had found; they were terribly afraid of being disliked. and the moment they felt they were disliked, they hastened to behave as badly as possible, in order to deserve it; then they didn't feel that they had been taken in--the worst feeling a doughboy could possibly have! claude thought he would stroll about to look at the town a little. it had been taken by the germans in the autumn of , after their retreat from the marne, and they had held it until about a year ago, when it was retaken by the english and the chasseurs d'alpins. they had been able to reduce it and to drive the germans out, only by battering it down with artillery; not one building remained standing. ruin was ugly, and it was nothing more, claude was thinking, as he followed the paths that ran over piles of brick and plaster. there was nothing picturesque about this, as there was in the war pictures one saw at home. a cyclone or a fire might have done just as good a job. the place was simply a great dump-heap; an exaggeration of those which disgrace the outskirts of american towns. it was the same thing over and over; mounds of burned brick and broken stone, heaps of rusty, twisted iron, splintered beams and rafters, stagnant pools, cellar holes full of muddy water. an american soldier had stepped into one of those holes a few nights before, and been drowned. this had been a rich town of eighteen thousand inhabitants; now the civilian population was about four hundred. there were people there who had hung on all through the years of german occupation; others who, as soon as they heard that the enemy was driven out, came back from wherever they had found shelter. they were living in cellars, or in little wooden barracks made from old timbers and american goods boxes. as he walked along, claude read familiar names and addresses, painted on boards built into the sides of these frail shelters: "from emery bird, thayer co. kansas city, mo." "daniels and fisher, denver, colo." these inscriptions cheered him so much that he began to feel like going up and calling on the french ladies. the sun had come out hot after three days of rain. the stagnant pools and the weeds that grew in the ditches gave out a rank, heavy smell. wild flowers grew triumphantly over the piles of rotting wood and rusty iron; cornflowers and queen anne's lace and poppies; blue and white and red, as if the french colours came up spontaneously out of the french soil, no matter what the germans did to it. claude paused before a little shanty built against a half-demolished brick wall. a gilt cage hung in the doorway, with a canary, singing beautifully. an old woman was working in the garden patch, picking out bits of brick and plaster the rain had washed up, digging with her fingers around the pale carrot-tops and neat lettuce heads. claude approached her, touched his helmet, and asked her how one could find the way to the red cross. she wiped her hands on her apron and took him by the elbow. "vous savez le tank anglais? non? marie, marie!" (he learned afterward that every one was directed to go this way or that from a disabled british tank that had been left on the site of the old town hall.) a little girl ran out of the barrack, and her grandmother told her to go at once and take the american to the red cross. marie put her hand in claude's and led him off along one of the paths that wound among the rubbish. she took him out of the way to show him a church,--evidently one of the ruins of which they were proudest,--where the blue sky was shining through the white arches. the virgin stood with empty arms over the central door; a little foot sticking to her robe showed where the infant jesus had been shot away. "le bébé est cassé, mais il a protégé sa mère," marie explained with satisfaction. as they went on, she told claude that she had a soldier among the americans who was her friend. "il est bon, il est gai, mon soldat," but he sometimes drank too much alcohol, and that was a bad habit. perhaps now, since his comrade had stepped into a cellar hole monday night while he was drunk, and had been drowned, her "sharlie" would be warned and would do better. marie was evidently a well brought up child. her father, she said, had been a schoolmaster. at the foot of the convent hill, she turned to go home. claude called her back and awkwardly tried to give her some money, but she thrust her hands behind her and said resolutely, "non, merci. je n'ai besoin de rien," and then ran away down the path. as he climbed toward the top of the hill he noticed that the ground had been cleaned up a bit. the path was clear, the bricks and hewn stones had been piled in neat heaps, the broken hedges had been trimmed and the dead parts cut away. emerging at last into the garden, he stood still for wonder; even though it was in ruins, it seemed so beautiful after the disorder of the world below. the gravel walks were clean and shining. a wall of very old boxwoods stood green against a row of dead lombardy poplars. along the shattered side of the main building, a pear tree, trained on wires like a vine, still flourished,--full of little red pears. around the stone well was a shaven grass plot, and everywhere there were little trees and shrubs, which had been too low for the shells to hit,--or for the fire, which had seared the poplars, to catch. the hill must have been wrapped in flames at one time, and all the tall trees had been burned. the barrack was built against the walls of the cloister,--three arches of which remained, like a stone wing to the shed of planks. on a ladder stood a one-armed young man, driving nails very skillfully with his single hand. he seemed to be making a frame projection from the sloping roof, to support an awning. he carried his nails in his mouth. when he wanted one, he hung his hammer to the belt of his trousers, took a nail from between his teeth, stuck it into the wood, and then deftly rapped it on the head. claude watched him for a moment, then went to the foot of the ladder and held out his two hands. "laissez-moi," he exclaimed. the one aloft spat his nails out into his palm, looked down, and laughed. he was about claude's age, with very yellow hair and moustache and blue eyes. a charming looking fellow. "willingly," he said. "this is no great affair, but i do it to amuse myself, and it will be pleasant for the ladies." he descended and gave his hammer to the visitor. claude set to work on the frame, while the other went under the stone arches and brought back a roll of canvas,--part of an old tent, by the look of it. "un héritage des boches," he explained unrolling it upon the grass. "i found it among their filth in the cellar, and had the idea to make a pavilion for the ladies, as our trees are destroyed." he stood up suddenly. "perhaps you have come to see the ladies?" "plus tard." very well, the boy said, they would get the pavilion done for a surprise for mlle. olive when she returned. she was down in the town now, visiting the sick people. he bent over his canvas again, measuring and cutting with a pair of garden shears, moving round the green plot on his knees, and all the time singing. claude wished he could understand the words of his song. while they were working together, tying the cloth up to the frame, claude, from his elevation, saw a tall girl coming slowly up the path by which he had ascended. she paused at the top, by the boxwood hedge, as if she were very tired, and stood looking at them. presently she approached the ladder and said in slow, careful english, "good morning. louis has found help, i see." claude came down from his perch. "are you mlle. de courcy? i am claude wheeler. i have a note of introduction to you, if i can find it." she took the card, but did not look at it. "that is not necessary. your uniform is enough. why have you come?" he looked at her in some confusion. "well, really, i don't know! i am just in from the front to see colonel james, and he is in paris, so i must wait over a day. one of the staff suggested my coming up here--i suppose because it is so nice!" he finished ingenuously. "then you are a guest from the front, and you will have lunch with louis and me. madame barre is also gone for the day. will you see our house?" she led him through the low door into a living room, unpainted, uncarpeted, light and airy. there were coloured war posters on the clean board walls, brass shell cases full of wild flowers and garden flowers, canvas camp-chairs, a shelf of books, a table covered by a white silk shawl embroidered with big butterflies. the sunlight on the floor, the bunches of fresh flowers, the white window curtains stirring in the breeze, reminded claude of something, but he could not remember what. "we have no guest room," said mlle. de courcy. "but you will come to mine, and louis will bring you hot water to wash." in a wooden chamber at the end of the passage, claude took off his coat, and set to work to make himself as tidy as possible. hot water and scented soap were in themselves pleasant things. the dresser was an old goods box, stood on end and covered with white lawn. on it there was a row of ivory toilet things, with combs and brushes, powder and cologne, and a pile of white handkerchiefs fresh from the iron. he felt that he ought not to look about him much, but the odor of cleanness, and the indefinable air of personality, tempted him. in one corner, a curtain on a rod made a clothes-closet; in another was a low iron bed, like a soldier's, with a pale blue coverlid and white pillows. he moved carefully and splashed discreetly. there was nothing he could have damaged or broken, not even a rug on the plank floor, and the pitcher and hand-basin were of iron; yet he felt as if he were imperiling something fragile. when he came out, the table in the living room was set for three. the stout old dame who was placing the plates paid no attention to him,--seemed, from her expression, to scorn him and all his kind. he withdrew as far as possible out of her path and picked up a book from the table, a volume of heine's reisebilder in german. before lunch mlle. de courcy showed him the store room in the rear, where the shelves were stocked with rows of coffee tins, condensed milk, canned vegetables and meat, all with american trade names he knew so well; names which seemed doubly familiar and "reliable" here, so far from home. she told him the people in the town could not have got through the winter without these things. she had to deal them out sparingly, where the need was greatest, but they made the difference between life and death. now that it was summer, the people lived by their gardens; but old women still came to beg for a few ounces of coffee, and mothers to get a can of milk for the babies. claude's face glowed with pleasure. yes, his country had a long arm. people forgot that; but here, he felt, was some one who did not forget. when they sat down to lunch he learned that mlle. de courcy and madame barre had been here almost a year now; they came soon after the town was retaken, when the old inhabitants began to drift back. the people brought with them only what they could carry in their arms. "they must love their country so much, don't you think, when they endure such poverty to come back to it?" she said. "even the old ones do not often complain about their dear things--their linen, and their china, and their beds. if they have the ground, and hope, all that they can make again. this war has taught us all how little the made things matter. only the feeling matters." exactly so; hadn't he been trying to say this ever since he was born? hadn't he always known it, and hadn't it made life both bitter and sweet for him? what a beautiful voice she had, this mlle. olive, and how nobly it dealt with the english tongue. he would like to say something, but out of so much... what? he remained silent, therefore, sat nervously breaking up the black war bread that lay beside his plate. he saw her looking at his hand, felt in a flash that she regarded it with favour, and instantly put it on his knee, under the table. "it is our trees that are worst," she went on sadly. "you have seen our poor trees? it makes one ashamed for this beautiful part of france. our people are more sorry for them than to lose their cattle and horses." mlle. de courcy looked over-taxed by care and responsibility, claude thought, as he watched her. she seemed far from strong. slender, grey-eyed, dark-haired, with white transparent skin and a too ardent colour in her lips and cheeks,--like the flame of a feverish activity within. her shoulders drooped, as if she were always tired. she must be young, too, though there were threads of grey in her hair,--brushed flat and knotted carelessly at the back of her head. after the coffee, mlle. de courcy went to work at her desk, and louis took claude to show him the garden. the clearing and trimming and planting were his own work, and he had done it all with one arm. this autumn he would accomplish much more, for he was stronger now, and he had the habitude of working single-handed. he must manage to get the dead trees down; they distressed mademoiselle olive. in front of the barrack stood four old locusts; the tops were naked forks, burned coal-black, but the lower branches had put out thick tufts of yellow-green foliage, so vigorous that the life in the trunks must still be sound. this fall, louis said, he meant to get some strong american boys to help him, and they would saw off the dead limbs and trim the tops flat over the thick boles. how much it must mean to a man to love his country like this, claude thought; to love its trees and flowers; to nurse it when it was sick, and tend its hurts with one arm. among the flowers, which had come back self-sown or from old roots, claude found a group of tall, straggly plants with reddish stems and tiny white blossoms,--one of the evening primrose family, the gaura, that grew along the clay banks of lovely creek, at home. he had never thought it very pretty, but he was pleased to find it here. he had supposed it was one of those nameless prairie flowers that grew on the prairie and nowhere else. when they went back to the barrack, mlle. olive was sitting in one of the canvas chairs louis had placed under the new pavilion. "what a fine fellow he is!" claude exclaimed, looking after him. "louis? yes. he was my brother's orderly. when emile came home on leave he always brought louis with him, and louis became like one of the family. the shell that killed my brother tore off his arm. my mother and i went to visit him in the hospital, and he seemed ashamed to be alive, poor boy, when my brother was dead. he put his hand over his face and began to cry, and said, 'oh, madame, il était toujours plus chic que moi!'" although mlle. olive spoke english well, claude saw that she did so only by keeping her mind intently upon it. the stiff sentences she uttered were foreign to her nature; her face and eyes ran ahead of her tongue and made one wait eagerly for what was coming. he sat down in a sagging canvas chair, absently twisting a sprig of gaura he had pulled. "you have found a flower?" she looked up. "yes. it grows at home, on my father's farm." she dropped the faded shirt she was darning. "oh, tell me about your country! i have talked to so many, but it is difficult to understand. yes, tell me about that!" nebraska--what was it? how many days from the sea, what did it look like? as he tried to describe it, she listened with half-closed eyes. "flat-covered with grain-muddy rivers. i think it must be like russia. but your father's farm; describe that to me, minutely, and perhaps i can see the rest." claude took a stick and drew a square in the sand: there, to begin with, was the house and farmyard; there was the big pasture, with lovely creek flowing through it; there were the wheatfields and cornfields, the timber claim; more wheat and corn, more pastures. there it all was, diagrammed on the yellow sand, with shadows gliding over it from the half-charred locust trees. he would not have believed that he could tell a stranger about it in such detail. it was partly due to his listener, no doubt; she gave him unusual sympathy, and the glow of an unusual mind. while she bent over his map, questioning him, a light dew of perspiration gathered on her upper lip, and she breathed faster from her effort to see and understand everything. he told her about his mother and his father and mahailey; what life was like there in summer and winter and autumn--what it had been like in that fateful summer when the hun was moving always toward paris, and on those three days when the french were standing at the marne; how his mother and father waited for him to bring the news at night, and how the very cornfields seemed to hold their breath. mlle. olive sank back wearily in her chair. claude looked up and saw tears sparkling in her brilliant eyes. "and i myself," she murmured, "did not know of the marne until days afterward, though my father and brother were both there! i was far off in brittany, and the trains did not run. that is what is wonderful, that you are here, telling me this! we, we were taught from childhood that some day the germans would come; we grew up under that threat. but you were so safe, with all your wheat and corn. nothing could touch you, nothing!" claude dropped his eyes. "yes," he muttered, blushing, "shame could. it pretty nearly did. we are pretty late." he rose from his chair as if he were going to fetch something.... but where was he to get it from? he shook his head. "i am afraid," he said mournfully, "there is nothing i can say to make you understand how far away it all seemed, how almost visionary. it didn't only seem miles away, it seemed centuries away." "but you do come,--so many, and from so far! it is the last miracle of this war. i was in paris on the fourth day of july, when your marines, just from belleau wood, marched for your national fete, and i said to myself as they came on, 'that is a new man!' such heads they had, so fine there, behind the ears. such discipline and purpose. our people laughed and called to them and threw them flowers, but they never turned to look... eyes straight before. they passed like men of destiny." she threw out her hands with a swift movement and dropped them in her lap. the emotion of that day came back in her face. as claude looked at her burning cheeks, her burning eyes, he understood that the strain of this war had given her a perception that was almost like a gift of prophecy. a woman came up the hill carrying a baby. mlle. de courcy went to meet her and took her into the house. claude sat down again, almost lost to himself in the feeling of being completely understood, of being no longer a stranger. in the far distance the big guns were booming at intervals. down in the garden louis was singing. again he wished he knew the words of louis' songs. the airs were rather melancholy, but they were sung very cheerfully. there was something open and warm about the boy's voice, as there was about his face-something blond, too. it was distinctly a bland voice, like summer wheatfields, ripe and waving. claude sat alone for half an hour or more, tasting a new kind of happiness, a new kind of sadness. ruin and new birth; the shudder of ugly things in the past, the trembling image of beautiful ones on the horizon; finding and losing; that was life, he saw. when his hostess came back, he moved her chair for her out of the creeping sunlight. "i didn't know there were any french girls like you," he said simply, as she sat down. she smiled. "i do not think there are any french girls left. there are children and women. i was twenty-one when the war came, and i had never been anywhere without my mother or my brother or sister. within a year i went all over france alone; with soldiers, with senegalese, with anybody. everything is different with us." she lived at versailles, she told him, where her father had been an instructor in the military school. he had died since the beginning of the war. her grandfather was killed in the war of . hers was a family of soldiers, but not one of the men would be left to see the day of victory. she looked so tired that claude knew he had no right to stay. long shadows were falling in the garden. it was hard to leave; but an hour more or less wouldn't matter. two people could hardly give each other more if they were together for years, he thought. "will you tell me where i can come and see you, if we both get through this war?" he asked as he rose. he wrote it down in his notebook. "i shall look for you," she said, giving him her hand. there was nothing to do but to take his helmet and go. at the edge of the hill, just before he plunged down the path, he stopped and glanced back at the garden lying flattened in the sun; the three stone arches, the dahlias and marigolds, the glistening boxwood wall. he had left something on the hilltop which he would never find again. the next afternoon claude and his sergeant set off for the front. they had been told at headquarters that they could shorten their route by following the big road to the military cemetery, and then turning to the left. it was not advisable to go the latter half of the way before nightfall, so they took their time through the belt of straggling crops and hayfields. when they struck the road they came upon a big highlander sitting in the end of an empty supply wagon, smoking a pipe and rubbing the dried mud out of his kilts. the horses were munching in their nose-bags, and the driver had disappeared. the americans hadn't happened to meet with any highlanders before, and were curious. this one must be a good fighter, they thought; a brawny giant with a bulldog jaw, and a face as red and knobby as his knees. more because he admired the looks of the man than because he needed information, hicks went up and asked him if he had noticed a military cemetery on the road back. the kilt nodded. "about how far back would you say it was?" "i wouldn't say at all. i take no account of their kilometers," he replied dryly, rubbing away at his skirt as if he had it in a washtub. "well, about how long will it take us to walk it?" "that i couldn't say. a scotsman would do it in an hour." "i guess a yankee can do it as quick as a scotchman, can't be?" hicks asked jovially. "that i couldn't say. you've been four years gettin' this far, i know verra well." hicks blinked as if he had been hit. "oh, if that's the way you talk--" "that's the way i do," said the other sourly. claude put out a warning hand. "come on, hicks. you'll get nothing by it." they went up the road very much disconcerted. hicks kept thinking of things he might have said. when he was angry, the sergeant's forehead puffed up and became dark red, like a young baby's. "what did you call me off for?" he sputtered. "i don't see where you'd have come out in an argument, and you certainly couldn't have licked him." they turned aside at the cemetery to wait until the sun went down. it was unfenced, unsodded, and a wagon trail ran through the middle, bisecting the square. on one side were the french graves, with white crosses; on the other side the german graves, with black crosses. poppies and cornflower ran over them. the americans strolled about, reading the names. here and there the soldier's photograph was nailed upon his cross, left by some comrade to perpetuate his memory a little longer. the birds, that always came to life at dusk and dawn, began to sing, flying home from somewhere. claude and hicks sat down between the mounds and began to smoke while the sun dropped. lines of dead trees marked the red west. this was a dreary stretch of country, even to boys brought up on the flat prairie. they smoked in silence, meditating and waiting for night. on a cross at their feet the inscription read merely: soldat inconnu, mort pour la france. a very good epitaph, claude was thinking. most of the boys who fell in this war were unknown, even to themselves. they were too young. they died and took their secret with them,--what they were and what they might have been. the name that stood was la france. how much that name had come to mean to him, since he first saw a shoulder of land bulk up in the dawn from the deck of the anchises. it was a pleasant name to say over in one's mind, where one could make it as passionately nasal as one pleased and never blush. hicks, too, had been lost in his reflections. now he broke the silence. "somehow, lieutenant, 'mort' seems deader than 'dead.' it has a coffinish sound. and over there they're all 'tod,' and it's all the same damned silly thing. look at them set out here, black and white, like a checkerboard. the next question is, who put 'em here, and what's the good of it?" "search me," the other murmured absently. hicks rolled another cigarette and sat smoking it, his plump face wrinkled with the gravity and labour of his cerebration. "well," he brought out at last, "we'd better hike. this afterglow will hang on for an hour,--always does, over here." "i suppose we had." they rose to go. the white crosses were now violet, and the black ones had altogether melted in the shadow. behind the dead trees in the west, a long smear of red still burned. to the north, the guns were tuning up with a deep thunder. "somebody's getting peppered up there. do owls always hoot in graveyards?" "just what i was wondering, lieutenant. it's a peaceful spot, otherwise. good-night, boys," said hicks kindly, as they left the graves behind them. they were soon finding their way among shell holes, and jumping trench-tops in the dark,-beginning to feel cheerful at getting back to their chums and their own little group. hicks broke out and told claude how he and dell able meant to go into business together when they got home; were going to open a garage and automobile-repair shop. under their talk, in the minds of both, that lonely spot lingered, and the legend: soldat inconnu, mort pour la france. xi after four days' rest in the rear, the battalion went to the front again in new country, about ten kilometers east of the trench they had relieved before. one morning colonel scott sent for claude and gerhardt and spread his maps out on the table. "we are going to clean them out there in f tonight, and straighten our line. the thing that bothers us is that little village stuck up on the hill, where the enemy machine guns have a strong position. i want to get them out of there before the battalion goes over. we can't spare too many men, and i don't like to send out more officers than i can help; it won't do to reduce the battalion for the major operation. do you think you two boys could manage it with a hundred men? the point is, you will have to be out and back before our artillery begins at three o'clock." under the hill where the village stood, ran a deep ravine, and from this ravine a twisting water course wound up the hillside. by climbing this gully, the raiders should be able to fall on the machine gunners from the rear and surprise them. but first they must get across the open stretch, nearly one and a half kilometers wide, between the american line and the ravine, without attracting attention. it was raining now, and they could safely count on a dark night. the night came on black enough. the company crossed the open stretch without provoking fire, and slipped into the ravine to wait for the hour of attack, a young doctor, a pennsylvanian, lately attached to the staff, had volunteered to come with them, and he arranged a dressing station at the bottom of the ravine, where the stretchers were left. they were to pick up their wounded on the way back. anything left in that area would be exposed to the artillery fire later on. at ten o'clock the men began to ascend the water-course, creeping through pools and little waterfalls, making a continuous spludgy sound, like pigs rubbing against the sty. claude, with the head of the column, was just pulling out of the gully on the hillside above the village, when a flare went up, and a volley of fire broke from the brush on the up-hill side of the water-course; machine guns, opening on the exposed line crawling below. the hun had been warned that the americans were crossing the plain and had anticipated their way of approach. the men in the gully were trapped; they could not retaliate with effect, and the bullets from the maxims bounded on the rocks about them like hail. gerhardt ran along the edge of the line, urging the men not to fall back and double on themselves, but to break out of the gully on the downhill side and scatter. claude, with his group, started back. "go into the brush and get 'em! our fellows have got no chance down there. grenades while they last, then bayonets. pull your plugs and don't hold on too long." they were already on the run, charging the brush. the hun gunners knew the hill like a book, and when the bombs began bursting among them, they took to trails and burrows. "don't follow them off into the rocks," claude kept calling. "straight ahead! clear everything to the ravine." as the german gunners made for cover, the firing into the gully stopped, and the arrested column poured up the steep defile after gerhardt. claude and his party found themselves back at the foot of the hill, at the edge of the ravine from which they had started. heavy firing on the hill above told them the rest of the men had got through. the quickest way back to the scene of action was by the same water-course they had climbed before. they dropped into it and started up. claude, at the rear, felt the ground rise under him, and he was swept with a mountain of earth and rock down into the ravine. he never knew whether he lost consciousness or not. it seemed to him that he went on having continuous sensations. the first, was that of being blown to pieces; of swelling to an enormous size under intolerable pressure, and then bursting. next he felt himself shrink and tingle, like a frost-bitten body thawing out. then he swelled again, and burst. this was repeated, he didn't know how often. he soon realized that he was lying under a great weight of earth; his body, not his head. he felt rain falling on his face. his left hand was free, and still attached to his arm. he moved it cautiously to his face. he seemed to be bleeding from the nose and ears. now he began to wonder where he was hurt; he felt as if he were full of shell splinters. everything was buried but his head and left shoulder. a voice was calling from somewhere below. "are any of you fellows alive?" claude closed his eyes against the rain beating in his face. the same voice came again, with a note of patient despair. "if there's anybody left alive in this hole, won't he speak up? i'm badly hurt myself." that must be the new doctor; wasn't his dressing station somewhere down here? hurt, he said. claude tried to move his legs a little. perhaps, if he could get out from under the dirt, he might hold together long enough to reach the doctor. he began to wriggle and pull. the wet earth sucked at him; it was painful business. he braced himself with his elbows, but kept slipping back. "i'm the only one left, then?" said the mournful voice below. at last claude worked himself out of his burrow, but he was unable to stand. every time he tried to stand, he got faint and seemed to burst again. something was the matter with his right ankle, too--he couldn't bear his weight on it. perhaps he had been too near the shell to be hit; he had heard the boys tell of such cases. it had exploded under his feet and swept him down into the ravine, but hadn't left any metal in his body. if it had put anything into him, it would have put so much that he wouldn't be sitting here speculating. he began to crawl down the slope on all fours. "is that the doctor? where are you?" "here, on a stretcher. they shelled us. who are you? our fellows got up, didn't they?" "i guess most of them did. what happened back here?" "i'm afraid it's my fault," the voice said sadly. "i used my flash light, and that must have given them the range. they put three or four shells right on top of us. the fellows that got hurt in the gully kept stringing back here, and i couldn't do anything in the dark. i had to have a light to do anything. i just finished putting on a johnson splint when the first shell came. i guess they're all done for now." "how many were there?" "fourteen, i think. some of them weren't much hurt. they'd all be alive, if i hadn't come out with you." "who were they? but you don't know our names yet, do you? you didn't see lieutenant gerhardt among them?" "don't think so." "nor sergeant hicks, the fat fellow?" "don't think so." "where are you hurt?" "abdominal. i can't tell anything without a light. i lost my flash light. it never occurred to me that it could make trouble; it's one i use at home, when the babies are sick," the doctor murmured. claude tried to strike a match, with no success. "wait a minute, where's your helmet?" he took off his metal hat, held it over the doctor, and managed to strike a light underneath it. the wounded man had already loosened his trousers, and now he pulled up his bloody shirt. his groin and abdomen were torn on the left side. the wound, and the stretcher on which he lay, supported a mass of dark, coagulated blood that looked like a great cow's liver. "i guess i've got mine," the doctor murmured as the match went out. claude struck another. "oh, that can't be! our fellows will be back pretty soon, and we can do something for you." "no use, lieutenant. do you suppose you could strip a coat off one of those poor fellows? i feel the cold terribly in my intestines. i had a bottle of french brandy, but i suppose it's buried." claude stripped off his own coat, which was warm on the inside, and began feeling about in the mud for the brandy. he wondered why the poor man wasn't screaming with pain. the firing on the hill had ceased, except for the occasional click of a maxim, off in the rocks somewhere. his watch said : ; could anything have miscarried up there? suddenly, voices above, a clatter of boots on the shale. he began shouting to them. "coming, coming!" he knew the voice. gerhardt and his rifles ran down into the ravine with a bunch of prisoners. claude called to them to be careful. "don't strike a light! they've been shelling down here." "all right are you, wheeler? where are the wounded?" "there aren't any but the doctor and me. get us out of here quick. i'm all right, but i can't walk." they put claude on a stretcher and sent him ahead. four big germans carried him, and they were prodded to a lope by hicks and dell able. four of their own men took up the doctor, and gerhardt walked beside him. in spite of their care, the motion started the blood again and tore away the clots that had formed over his wounds. he began to vomit blood and to strangle. the men put the stretcher down. gerhardt lifted the doctor's head. "it's over," he said presently. "better make the best time you can." they picked up their load again. "them that are carrying him now won't jolt him," said oscar, the pious swede. b company lost nineteen men in the raid. two days later the company went off on a ten-day leave. claude's sprained ankle was twice its natural size, but to avoid being sent to the hospital he had to march to the railhead. sergeant hicks got him a giant shoe he found stuck on the barbed wire entanglement. claude and gerhardt were going off on their leave together. xii a rainy autumn night; papa joubert sat reading his paper. he heard a heavy pounding on his garden gate. kicking off his slippers, he put on the wooden sabots he kept for mud, shuffled across the dripping garden, and opened the door into the dark street. two tall figures with rifles and kits confronted him. in a moment he began embracing them, calling to his wife: "nom de diable, maman, c'est david, david et claude, tous les deux!" sorry-looking soldiers they appeared when they stood in the candlelight, plastered with clay, their metal hats shining like copper bowls, their clothes dripping pools of water upon the flags of the kitchen floor. mme. joubert kissed their wet cheeks, and monsieur, now that he could see them, embraced them again. whence had they come, and how had it fared with them, up there? very well, as anybody could see. what did they want first,--supper, perhaps? their room was always ready for them; and the clothes they had left were in the big chest. david explained that their shirts had not once been dry for four days; and what they most desired was to be dry and to be clean. old martha, already in bed, was routed out to heat water. m. joubert carried the big washtub upstairs. tomorrow for conversation, he said; tonight for repose. the boys followed him and began to peel off their wet uniforms, leaving them in two sodden piles on the floor. there was one bath for both, and they threw up a coin to decide which should get into the warm water first. m. joubert, seeing claude's fat ankle strapped up in adhesive bandages, began to chuckle. "oh, i see the boche made you dance up there!" when they were clad in clean pyjamas out of the chest, papa joubert carried their shirts and socks down for martha to wash. he returned with the big meat platter, on which was an omelette made of twelve eggs and stuffed with bacon and fried potatoes. mme. joubert brought the three-story earthen coffee-pot to the door and called, "bon appetit!" the host poured the coffee and cut up the loaf with his clasp knife. he sat down to watch them eat. how had they found things up there, anyway? the boches polite and agreeable as usual? finally, when there was not a crumb of anything left, he poured for each a little glass of brandy, "pour cider la digestion," and wished them good-night. he took the candle with him. perfect bliss, claude reflected, as the chill of the sheets grew warm around his body, and he sniffed in the pillow the old smell of lavender. to be so warm, so dry, so clean, so beloved! the journey down, reviewed from here, seemed beautiful. as soon as they had got out of the region of martyred trees, they found the land of france turning gold. all along the river valleys the poplars and cottonwoods had changed from green to yellow,--evenly coloured, looking like candle flames in the mist and rain. across the fields, along the horizon they ran, like torches passed from hand to hand, and all the willows by the little streams had become silver. the vineyards were green still, thickly spotted with curly, blood-red branches. it all flashed back beside his pillow in the dark: this beautiful land, this beautiful people, this beautiful omelette; gold poplars, blue-green vineyards, wet, scarlet vine leaves, rain dripping into the court, fragrant darkness... sleep, stronger than all. xiii the woodland path was deep in leaves. claude and david were lying on the dry, springy heather among the flint boulders. gerhardt, with his stetson over his eyes, was presumably asleep. they were having fine weather for their holiday. the forest rose about this open glade like an amphitheatre, in golden terraces of horse chestnut and beech. the big nuts dropped velvety and brown, as if they had been soaked in oil, and disappeared in the dry leaves below. little black yew trees, that had not been visible in the green of summer, stood out among the curly yellow brakes. through the grey netting of the beech twigs, stiff holly bushes glittered. it was the wheeler way to dread false happiness, to feel cowardly about being fooled. since he had come back, claude had more than once wondered whether he took too much for granted and felt more at home here than he had any right to feel. the americans were prone, he had observed, to make themselves very much at home, to mistake good manners for good-will. he had no right to doubt the affection of the jouberts, however; that was genuine and personal,--not a smooth surface under which almost any shade of scorn might lie and laugh... was not, in short, the treacherous "french politeness" by which one must not let oneself be taken in. merely having seen the season change in a country gave one the sense of having been there for a long time. and, anyway, he wasn't a tourist. he was here on legitimate business. claude's sprained ankle was still badly swollen. madame joubert was sure he ought not to move about on it at all, begged him to sit in the garden all day and nurse it. but the surgeon at the front had told him that if he once stopped walking, he would have to go to the hospital. so, with the help of his host's best holly-wood cane, he limped out into the forest every day. this afternoon he was tempted to go still farther. madame joubert had told him about some caves at the other end of the wood, underground chambers where the country people had gone to live in times of great misery, long ago, in the english wars. the english wars; he could not remember just how far back they were,--but long enough to make one feel comfortable. as for him, perhaps he would never go home at all. perhaps, when this great affair was over, he would buy a little farm and stay here for the rest of his life. that was a project he liked to play with. there was no chance for the kind of life he wanted at home, where people were always buying and selling, building and pulling down. he had begun to believe that the americans were a people of shallow emotions. that was the way gerhardt had put it once; and if it was true, there was no cure for it. life was so short that it meant nothing at all unless it were continually reinforced by something that endured; unless the shadows of individual existence came and went against a background that held together. while he was absorbed in his day dream of farming in france, his companion stirred and rolled over on his elbow. "you know we are to join the battalion at a--. they'll be living like kings there. hicks will get so fat he'll drop over on the march. headquarters must have something particularly nasty in mind; the infantry is always fed up before a slaughter. but i've been thinking; i have some old friends at a--. suppose we go on there a day early, and get them to take us in? it's a fine old place, and i ought to go to see them. the son was a fellow student of mine at the conservatoire. he was killed the second winter of the war. i used to go up there for the holidays with him; i would like to see his mother and sister again. you've no objection?" claude did not answer at once. he lay squinting off at the beech trees, without moving. "you always avoid that subject with me, don't you?" he said presently. "what subject?" "oh, anything to do with the conservatoire, or your profession." "i haven't any profession at present. i'll never go back to the violin." "you mean you couldn't make up for the time you'll lose?" gerhardt settled his back against a rock and got out his pipe. "that would be difficult; but other things would be harder. i've lost much more than time." "couldn't you have got exemption, one way or another?" "i might have. my friends wanted to take it up and make a test case of me. but i couldn't stand for it. i didn't feel i was a good enough violinist to admit that i wasn't a man. i often wish i had been in paris that summer when the war broke out; then i would have gone into the french army on the first impulse, with the other students, and it would have been better." david paused and sat puffing at his pipe. just then a soft movement stirred the brakes on the hillside. a little barefoot girl stood there, looking about. she had heard voices, but at first did not see the uniforms that blended with the yellow and brown of the wood. then she saw the sun shining on two heads; one square, and amber in colour,--the other reddish bronze, long and narrow. she took their friendliness for granted and came down the hill, stopping now and again to pick up shiny horse chestnuts and pop them into a sack she was dragging. david called to her and asked her whether the nuts were good to eat. "oh, non!" she exclaimed, her face expressing the liveliest terror, "pour les cochons!" these inexperienced americans might eat almost anything. the boys laughed and gave her some pennies, "pour les cochons aussi." she stole about the edge of the wood, stirring among the leaves for nuts, and watching the two soldiers. gerhardt knocked out his pipe and began to fill it again. "i went home to see my mother in may, of . i wasn't here when the war broke out. the conservatoire closed at once, so i arranged a concert tour in the states that winter, and did very well. that was before all the little russians went over, and the field wasn't so crowded. i had a second season, and that went well. but i was getting more nervous all the time; i was only half there." he smoked thoughtfully, sitting with folded arms, as if he were going over a succession of events or states of feeling. "when my number was drawn, i reported to see what i could do about getting out; i took a look at the other fellows who were trying to squirm, and chucked it. i've never been sorry. not long afterward, my violin was smashed, and my career seemed to go along with it." claude asked him what he meant. "while i was at camp dix, i had to play at one of the entertainments. my violin, a stradivarius, was in a vault in new york. i didn't need it for that concert, any more than i need it at this minute; yet i went to town and brought it out. i was taking it up from the station in a military car, and a drunken taxi driver ran into us. i wasn't hurt, but the violin, lying across my knees, was smashed into a thousand pieces. i didn't know what it meant then; but since, i've seen so many beautiful old things smashed... i've become a fatalist." claude watched his brooding head against the grey flint rock. "you ought to have kept out of the whole thing. any army man would say so." david's head went back against the boulder, and he threw one of the, chestnuts lightly into the air. "oh, one violinist more or less doesn't matter! but who is ever going back to anything? that's what i want to know!" claude felt guilty; as if david must have guessed what apostasy had been going on in his own mind this afternoon. "you don't believe we are going to get out of this war what we went in for, do you?" he asked suddenly. "absolutely not," the other replied with cool indifference. "then i certainly don't see what you're here for!" "because in i was twenty-four years old, and able to bear arms. the war was put up to our generation. i don't know what for; the sins of our fathers, probably. certainly not to make the world safe for democracy, or any rhetoric of that sort. when i was doing stretcher work, i had to tell myself over and over that nothing would come of it, but that it had to be. sometimes, though, i think something must.... nothing we expect, but something unforeseen." he paused and shut his eyes. "you remember in the old mythology tales how, when the sons of the gods were born, the mothers always died in agony? maybe it's only semele i'm thinking of. at any rate, i've sometimes wondered whether the young men of our time had to die to bring a new idea into the world... something olympian. i'd like to know. i think i shall know. since i've been over here this time, i've come to believe in immortality. do you?" claude was confused by this quiet question. "i hardly know. i've never been able to make up my mind." "oh, don't bother about it! if it comes to you, it comes. you don't have to go after it. i arrived at it in quite the same way i used to get things in art,--knowing them and living on them before i understood them. such ideas used to seem childish to me." gerhardt sprang up. "now, have i told you what you want to know about my case?" he looked down at claude with a curious glimmer of amusement and affection. "i'm going to stretch my legs. it's four o'clock." he disappeared among the red pine stems, where the sunlight made a rose-colored lake, as it used to do in the summer... as it would do in all the years to come, when they were not there to see it, claude was thinking. he pulled his hat over his eyes and went to sleep. the little girl on the edge of the beech wood left her sack and stole quietly down the hill. sitting in the heather and drawing her feet up under her, she stayed still for a long time, and regarded with curiosity the relaxed, deep breathing body of the american soldier. the next day was claude's twenty-fifth birthday, and in honour of that event papa joubert produced a bottle of old burgundy from his cellar, one of a few dozens he had laid in for great occasions when he was a young man. during that week of idleness at madame joubert's, claude often thought that the period of happy "youth," about which his old friend mrs. erlich used to talk, and which he had never experienced, was being made up to him now. he was having his youth in france. he knew that nothing like this would ever come again; the fields and woods would never again be laced over with this hazy enchantment. as he came up the village street in the purple evening, the smell of wood-smoke from the chimneys went to his head like a narcotic, opened the pores of his skin, and sometimes made the tears come to his eyes. life had after all turned out well for him, and everything had a noble significance. the nervous tension in which he had lived for years now seemed incredible to him... absurd and childish, when he thought of it at all. he did not torture himself with recollections. he was beginning over again. one night he dreamed that he was at home; out in the ploughed fields, where he could see nothing but the furrowed brown earth, stretching from horizon to horizon. up and down it moved a boy, with a plough and two horses. at first he thought it was his brother ralph; but on coming nearer, he saw it was himself,--and he was full of fear for this boy. poor claude, he would never, never get away; he was going to miss everything! while he was struggling to speak to claude, and warn him, he awoke. in the years when he went to school in lincoln, he was always hunting for some one whom he could admire without reservations; some one he could envy, emulate, wish to be. now he believed that even then he must have had some faint image of a man like gerhardt in his mind. it was only in war times that their paths would have been likely to cross; or that they would have had anything to do together... any of the common interests that make men friends. xiv gerhardt and claude wheeler alighted from a taxi before the open gates of a square-roofed, solid-looking house, where all the shutters on the front were closed, and the tops of many trees showed above the garden wall. they crossed a paved court and rang at the door. an old valet admitted the young men, and took them through a wide hall to the salon, which opened on the garden. madame and mademoiselle would be down very soon. david went to one of the long windows and looked out. "they have kept it up, in spite of everything. it was always lovely here." the garden was spacious,--like a little park. on one side was a tennis court, on the other a fountain, with a pool and water-lilies. the north wall was hidden by ancient yews; on the south two rows of plane trees, cut square, made a long arbour. at the back of the garden there were fine old lindens. the gravel walks wound about beds of gorgeous autumn flowers; in the rose garden, small white roses were still blooming, though the leaves were already red. two ladies entered the drawing-room. the mother was short, plump, and rosy, with strong, rather masculine features and yellowish white hair. the tears flashed into her eyes as david bent to kiss her hand, and she embraced him and touched both his cheeks with her lips. "et vous, vous aussi!" she murmured, touching the coat of his uniform with her fingers. there was but a moment of softness. she gathered herself up like an old general, claude thought, as he stood watching the group from the window, drew her daughter forward, and asked david whether he recognized the little girl with whom he used to play. mademoiselle claire was not at all like her mother; slender, dark, dressed in a white costume de tennis and an apple green hat with black ribbons, she looked very modern and casual and unconcerned. she was already telling david she was glad he had arrived early, as now they would be able to have a game of tennis before tea. maman would bring her knitting to the garden and watch them. this last suggestion relieved claude's apprehension that he might be left alone with his hostess. when david called him and presented him to the ladies, mlle. claire gave him a quick handshake, and said she would be very glad to try him out on the court as soon as she had beaten david. they would find tennis shoes in their room,--a collection of shoes, for the feet of all nations; her brother's, some that his russian friend had forgotten when he hurried off to be mobilized, and a pair lately left by an english officer who was quartered on them. she and her mother would wait in the garden. she rang for the old valet. the americans found themselves in a large room upstairs, where two modern iron beds stood out conspicuous among heavy mahogany bureaus and desks and dressing-tables, stuffed chairs and velvet carpets and dull red brocade window hangings. david went at once into the little dressing-room and began to array himself for the tennis court. two suits of flannels and a row of soft shirts hung there on the wall. "aren't you going to change?" he asked, noticing that claude stood stiff and unbending by the window, looking down into the garden. "why should i?" said claude scornfully. "i don't play tennis. i never had a racket in my hand." "too bad. she used to play very well, though she was only a youngster then." gerhardt was regarding his legs in trousers two inches too short for him. "how everything has changed, and yet how everything is still the same! it's like coming back to places in dreams." "they don't give you much time to dream, i should say!" claude remarked. "fortunately!" "explain to the girl that i don't play, will you? i'll be down later." "as you like." claude stood in the window, watching gerhardt's bare head and mlle. claire's green hat and long brown arm go bounding about over the court. when gerhardt came to change before tea, he found his fellow officer standing before his bag, which was open, but not unpacked. "what's the matter? feeling shellshock again?" "not exactly." claude bit his lip. "the fact is, dave, i don't feel just comfortable here. oh, the people are all right. but i'm out of place. i'm going to pull out and get a billet somewhere else, and let you visit your friends in peace. why should i be here? these people don't keep a hotel." "they very nearly do, from what they've been telling me. they've had a string of scotch and english quartered on them. they like it, too,-or have the good manners to pretend they do. of course, you'll do as you like, but you'll hurt their feelings and put me in an awkward position. to be frank, i don't see how you can go away without being distinctly rude." claude stood looking down at the contents of his bag in an irresolute attitude. catching a glimpse of his face in one of the big mirrors, gerhardt saw that he looked perplexed and miserable. his flash of temper died, and he put his hand lightly on his friend's shoulder. "come on, claude! this is too absurd. you don't even have to dress, thanks to your uniform,--and you don't have to talk, since you're not supposed to know the language. i thought you'd like coming here. these people have had an awfully rough time; can't you admire their pluck?" "oh, yes, i do! it's awkward for me, though." claude pulled off his coat and began to brush his hair vigorously. "i guess i've always been more afraid of the french than of the germans. it takes courage to stay, you understand. i want to run." "but why? what makes you want to?" "oh, i don't know! something in the house, in the atmosphere." "something disagreeable?" "no. something agreeable." david laughed. "oh, you'll get over that!" they had tea in the garden, english fashion--english tea, too, mlle. claire informed them, left by the english officers. at dinner a third member of the family was introduced, a little boy with a cropped head and big black eyes. he sat on claude's left, quiet and shy in his velvet jacket, though he followed the conversation eagerly, especially when it touched upon his brother rene, killed at verdun in the second winter of the war. the mother and sister talked about him as if he were living, about his letters and his plans, and his friends at the conservatoire and in the army. mlle. claire told gerhardt news of all the girl students he had known in paris: how this one was singing for the soldiers; another, when she was nursing in a hospital which was bombed in an air raid, had carried twenty wounded men out of the burning building, one after another, on her back, like sacks of flour. alice, the dancer, had gone into the english red cross and learned english. odette had married a new zealander, an officer who was said to be a cannibal; it was well known that his tribe had eaten two auvergnat missionaries. there was a great deal more that claude could not understand, but he got enough to see that for these women the war was france, the war was life, and everything that went into it. to be alive, to be conscious and have one's faculties, was to be in the war. after dinner, when they went into the salon, madame fleury asked david whether he would like to see rene's violin again, and nodded to the little boy. he slipped away and returned carrying the case, which he placed on the table. he opened it carefully and took off the velvet cloth, as if this was his peculiar office, then handed the instrument to gerhardt. david turned it over under the candles, telling madame fleury that he would have known it anywhere, rene's wonderful amati, almost too exquisite in tone for the concert hall, like a woman who is too beautiful for the stage. the family stood round and listened to his praise with evident satisfaction. madame fleury told him that lucien was très sérieux with his music, that his master was well pleased with him, and when his hand was a little larger he would be allowed to play upon rene's violin. claude watched the little boy as he stood looking at the instrument in david's hands; in each of his big black eyes a candle flame was reflected, as if some steady fire were actually burning there. "what is it, lucien?" his mother asked. "if monsieur david would be so good as to play before i must go to bed--" he murmured entreatingly. "but, lucien, i am a soldier now. i have not worked at all for two years. the amati would think it had fallen into the hands of a boche." lucien smiled. "oh, no! it is too intelligent for that. a little, please," and he sat down on a footstool before the sofa in confident anticipation. mlle. claire went to the piano. david frowned and began to tune the violin. madame fleury called the old servant and told him to light the sticks that lay in the fireplace. she took the arm-chair at the right of the hearth and motioned claude to a seat on the left. the little boy kept his stool at the other end of the room. mlle. claire began the orchestral introduction to the saint-saens concerto. "oh, not that!" david lifted his chin and looked at her in perplexity. she made no reply, but played on, her shoulders bent forward. lucien drew his knees up under his chin and shivered. when the time came, the violin made its entrance. david had put it back under his chin mechanically, and the instrument broke into that suppressed, bitter melody. they played for a long while. at last david stopped and wiped his forehead. "i'm afraid i can't do anything with the third movement, really." "nor can i. but that was the last thing rene played on it, the night before he went away, after his last leave." she began again, and david followed. madame fleury sat with half-closed eyes, looking into the fire. claude, his lips compressed, his hands on his knees, was watching his friend's back. the music was a part of his own confused emotions. he was torn between generous admiration, and bitter, bitter envy. what would it mean to be able to do anything as well as that, to have a hand capable of delicacy and precision and power? if he had been taught to do anything at all, he would not be sitting here tonight a wooden thing amongst living people. he felt that a man might have been made of him, but nobody had taken the trouble to do it; tongue-tied, foot-tied, hand-tied. if one were born into this world like a bear cub or a bull calf, one could only paw and upset things, break and destroy, all one's life. gerhardt wrapped the violin up in its cloth. the little boy thanked him and carried it away. madame fleury and her daughter wished their guests goodnight. david said he was warm, and suggested going into the garden to smoke before they went to bed. he opened one of the long windows and they stepped out on the terrace. dry leaves were rustling down on the walks; the yew trees made a solid wall, blacker than the darkness. the fountain must have caught the starlight; it was the only shining thing,--a little clear column of twinkling silver. the boys strolled in silence to the end of the walk. "i guess you'll go back to your profession, all right," claude remarked, in the unnatural tone in which people sometimes speak of things they know nothing about. "not i. of course, i had to play for them. music has always been like a religion in this house. listen," he put up his hand; far away the regular pulsation of the big guns sounded through the still night. "that's all that matters now. it has killed everything else." "i don't believe it." claude stopped for a moment by the edge of the fountain, trying to collect his thoughts. "i don't believe it has killed anything. it has only scattered things." he glanced about hurriedly at the sleeping house, the sleeping garden, the clear, starry sky not very far overhead. "it's men like you that get the worst of it," he broke out. "but as for me, i never knew there was anything worth living for, till this war came on. before that, the world seemed like a business proposition." "you'll admit it's a costly way of providing adventure for the young," said david drily. "maybe so; all the same..." claude pursued the argument to himself long after they were in their luxurious beds and david was asleep. no battlefield or shattered country he had seen was as ugly as this world would be if men like his brother bayliss controlled it altogether. until the war broke out, he had supposed they did control it; his boyhood had been clouded and enervated by that belief. the prussians had believed it, too, apparently. but the event had shown that there were a great many people left who cared about something else. the intervals of the distant artillery fire grew shorter, as if the big guns were tuning up, choking to get something out. claude sat up in his bed and listened. the sound of the guns had from the first been pleasant to him, had given him a feeling of confidence and safety; tonight he knew why. what they said was, that men could still die for an idea; and would burn all they had made to keep their dreams. he knew the future of the world was safe; the careful planners would never be able to put it into a strait-jacket,--cunning and prudence would never have it to themselves. why, that little boy downstairs, with the candlelight in his eyes, when it came to the last cry, as they said, could "carry on" for ever! ideals were not archaic things, beautiful and impotent; they were the real sources of power among men. as long as that was true, and now he knew it was true--he had come all this way to find out--he had no quarrel with destiny. nor did he envy david. he would give his own adventure for no man's. on the edge of sleep it seemed to glimmer, like the clear column of the fountain, like the new moon,--alluring, half-averted, the bright face of danger. xv when claude and david rejoined their battalion on the th of september, the end of the war looked as far away as ever. the collapse of bulgaria was unknown to the american army, and their acquaintance with european affairs was so slight that this would have meant very little to them had they heard of it. the german army still held the north and east of france, and no one could say how much vitality was left in that sprawling body. the battalion entrained at arras. lieutenant colonel scott had orders to proceed to the railhead, and then advance on foot into the argonne. the cars were crowded, and the railway journey was long and fatiguing. they detrained at night, in the rain, at what the men said seemed to be the jumping off place. there was no town, and the railway station had been bombed the day before, by an air fleet out to explode artillery ammunition. a mound of brick, and holes full of water told where it had been. the colonel sent claude out with a patrol to find some place for the men to sleep. the patrol came upon a field of straw stacks, and at the end of it found a black farmhouse. claude went up and hammered on the door. silence. he kept hammering and calling, "the americans are here!" a shutter opened. the farmer stuck his head out and demanded gruffly what was wanted; "what now?" claude explained in his best french that an american battalion had just come in; might they sleep in his field if they did not destroy his stacks? "sure," replied the farmer, and shut the window. that one word, coming out of the dark in such an unpromising place, had a cheering effect upon the patrol, and upon the men, when it was repeated to them. "sure, eh?" they kept laughing over it as they beat about the field and dug into the straw. those who couldn't burrow into a stack lay down in the muddy stubble. they were asleep before they could feel sorry for themselves. the farmer came out to offer his stable to the officers, and to beg them not on any account to make a light. they had never been bothered here by air raids until yesterday, and it must be because the americans were coming and were sending in ammunition. gerhardt, who was called to talk to him, told the farmer the colonel must study his map, and for that the man took them down into the cellar, where the children were asleep. before he lay down on the straw bed his orderly had made for him, the colonel kept telling names and kilometers off on his fingers. for officers like colonel scott the names of places constituted one of the real hardships of the war. his mind worked slowly, but it was always on his job, and he could go without sleep for more hours together than any of his officers. tonight he had scarcely lain down, when a sentinel brought in a runner with a message. the colonel had to go into the cellar again to read it. he was to meet colonel harvey at prince joachim farm, as early as possible tomorrow morning. the runner would act as guide. the colonel sat with his eye on his watch, and interrogated the messenger about the road and the time it would take to get over the ground. "what's fritz's temper up here, generally speaking?" "that's as it happens, sir. sometimes we nab a night patrol of a dozen or fifteen and send them to the rear under a one-man guard. then, again, a little bunch of heinies will fight like the devil. they say it depends on what part of germany they come from; the bavarians and saxons are the bravest." colonel scott waited for an hour, and then went about, shaking his sleeping officers. "yes, sir." captain maxey sprang to his feet as if he had been caught in a disgraceful act. he called his sergeants, and they began to beat the men up out of the strawstacks and puddles. in half an hour they were on the road. this was the battalion's first march over really bad roads, where walking was a question of pulling and balancing. they were soon warm, at any rate; it kept them sweating. the weight of their equipment was continually thrown in the wrong place. their wet clothing dragged them back, their packs got twisted and cut into their shoulders. claude and hicks began wondering to each other what it must have been like in the real mud, up about ypres and passchendaele, two years ago. hicks had been training at arras last week, where a lot of tommies were "resting" in the same way, and he had tales to tell. the battalion got to joachim farm at nine o'clock. colonel harvey had not yet come up, but old julius caesar was there with his engineers, and he had a hot breakfast ready for them. at six o'clock in the evening they took the road again, marching until daybreak, with short rests. during the night they captured two hun patrols, a bunch of thirty men. at the halt for breakfast, the prisoners wanted to make themselves useful, but the cook said they were so filthy the smell of them would make a stew go bad. they were herded off by themselves, a good distance from the grub line. it was gerhardt, of course, who had to go over and question them. claude felt sorry for the prisoners; they were so willing to tell all they knew, and so anxious to make themselves agreeable; began talking about their relatives in america, and said brightly that they themselves were going over at once, after the war--seemed to have no doubt that everybody would be glad to see them! they begged gerhardt to be allowed to do something. couldn't they carry the officers' equipment on the march? no, they were too buggy; they might relieve the sanitary squad. oh, that they would gladly do, herr offizier! the plan was to get to rupprecht trench and take it before nightfall. it was easy taking--empty of everything but vermin and human discards; a dozen crippled and sick, left for the enemy to dispose of, and several half-witted youths who ought to have been locked up in some institution. fritz had known what it meant when his patrols did not come back. he had evacuated, leaving behind his hopelessly diseased, and as much filth as possible. the dugouts were fairly dry, but so crawling with vermin that the americans preferred to sleep in the mud, in the open. after supper the men fell on their packs and began to lighten them, throwing away all that was not necessary, and much that was. many of them abandoned the new overcoats that had been served out at the railhead; others cut off the skirts and made the coats into ragged jackets. captain maxey was horrified at these depredations, but the colonel advised him to shut his eyes. "they've got hard going before them; let them travel light. if they'd rather stand the cold, they've got a right to choose." xvi the battalion had twenty-four hours' rest at rupprecht trench, and then pushed on for four days and nights, stealing trenches, capturing patrols, with only a few hours' sleep,--snatched by the roadside while their food was being prepared. they pushed hard after a retiring foe, and almost outran themselves. they did outrun their provisions; on the fourth night, when they fell upon a farm that had been a german headquarters, the supplies that were to meet them there had not come up, and they went to bed supperless. this farmhouse, for some reason called by the prisoners frau hulda farm, was a nest of telephone wires; hundreds of them ran out through the walls, in all directions. the colonel cut those he could find, and then put a guard over the old peasant who had been left in charge of the house, suspecting that he was in the pay of the enemy. at last colonel scott got into the headquarters bed, large and lumpy,--the first one he had seen since he left arras. he had not been asleep more than two hours, when a runner arrived with orders from the regimental colonel. claude was in a bed in the loft, between gerhardt and bruger. he felt somebody shaking him, but resolved that he wouldn't be disturbed and went on placidly sleeping. then somebody pulled his hair,--so hard that he sat up. captain maxey was standing over the bed. "come along, boys. orders from regimental headquarters. the battalion is to split here. our company is to go on four kilometers tonight, and take the town of beaufort." claude rose. "the men are pretty well beat out, captain maxey, and they had no supper." "that can't be helped. tell them we are to be in beaufort for breakfast." claude and gerhardt went out to the barn and roused hicks and his pal, dell able. the men were asleep in dry straw, for the first time in ten days. they were completely worn out, lost to time and place. many of them were already four thousand miles away, scattered among little towns and farms on the prairie. they were a miserable looking lot as they got together, stumbling about in the dark. after the colonel had gone over the map with captain maxey, he came out and saw the company assembled. he wasn't going with them, he told them, but he expected them to give a good account of themselves. once in beaufort, they would have a week's rest; sleep under cover, and live among people for awhile. the men took the road, some with their eyes shut, trying to make believe they were still asleep, trying to have their agreeable dreams over again, as they marched. they did not really waken up until the advance challenged a hun patrol, and sent it back to the colonel under a one-man guard. when they had advanced two kilometers, they found the bridge blown up. claude and hicks went in one direction to look for a ford, bruger and dell able in the other, and the men lay down by the roadside and slept heavily. just at dawn they reached the outskirts of the village, silent and still. captain maxey had no information as to how many germans might be left in the town. they had occupied it ever since the beginning of the war, and had used it as a rest camp. there had never been any fighting there. at the first house on the road, the captain stopped and pounded. no answer. "we are americans, and must see the people of the house. if you don't open, we must break the door." a woman's voice called; "there is nobody here. go away, please, and take your men away. i am sick." the captain called gerhardt, who began to explain and reassure through the door. it opened a little way, and an old woman in a nightcap peeped out. an old man hovered behind her. she gazed in astonishment at the officers, not understanding. these were the first soldiers of the allies she had ever seen. she had heard the germans talk about americans, but thought it was one of their lies, she said. once convinced, she let the officers come in and replied to their questions. no, there were no boches left in her house. they had got orders to leave day before yesterday, and had blown up the bridge. they were concentrating somewhere to the east. she didn't know how many were still in the village, nor where they were, but she could tell the captain where they had been. triumphantly she brought out a map of the town--lost, she said with a meaning smile, by a german officer--on which the billets were marked. with this to guide them, captain maxey and his men went on up the street. they took eight prisoners in one cellar, seventeen in another. when the villagers saw the prisoners bunched together in the square, they came out of their houses and gave information. this cleaning up, bert fuller remarked, was like taking fish from the platte river when the water was low, simply pailing them out! there was no sport in it. at nine o'clock the officers were standing together in the square before the church, checking off on the map the houses that had been searched. the men were drinking coffee, and eating fresh bread from a baker's shop. the square was full of people who had come out to see for themselves. some believed that deliverance had come, and others shook their heads and held back, suspecting another trick. a crowd of children were running about, making friends with the soldiers. one little girl with yellow curls and a clean white dress had attached herself to hicks, and was eating chocolate out of his pocket. gerhardt was bargaining with the baker for another baking of bread. the sun was shining, for a change,--everything was looking cheerful. this village seemed to be swarming with girls; some of them were pretty, and all were friendly. the men who had looked so haggard and forlorn when dawn overtook them at the edge of the town, began squaring their shoulders and throwing out their chests. they were dirty and mud-plastered, but as claude remarked to the captain, they actually looked like fresh men. suddenly a shot rang out above the chatter, and an old woman in a white cap screamed and tumbled over on the pavement,--rolled about, kicking indecorously with both hands and feet. a second crack,--the little girl who stood beside hicks, eating chocolate, threw out her hands, ran a few steps, and fell, blood and brains oozing out in her yellow hair. the people began screaming and running. the americans looked this way and that; ready to dash, but not knowing where to go. another shot, and captain maxey fell on one knee, blushed furiously and sprang up, only to fall again,--ashy white, with the leg of his trousers going red. "there it is, to the left!" hicks shouted, pointing. they saw now. from a closed house, some distance down a street off the square, smoke was coming. it hung before one of the upstairs windows. the captain's orderly dragged him into a wineshop. claude and david, followed by the men, ran down the street and broke in the door. the two officers went through the rooms on the first floor, while hicks and his lot made straight for an enclosed stairway at the back of the house. as they reached the foot of the stairs, they were met by a volley of rifle shots, and two of the men tumbled over. four germans were stationed at the head of the steps. the americans scarcely knew whether their bullets or their bayonets got to the huns first; they were not conscious of going up, till they were there. when claude and david reached the landing, the squad were wiping their bayonets, and four grey bodies were piled in the corner. bert fuller and dell able ran down the narrow hallway and threw open the door into the room on the street. two shots, and dell came back with his jaw shattered and the blood spouting from the left side of his neck. gerhardt caught him, and tried to close the artery with his fingers. "how many are in there, bert?" claude called. "i couldn't see. look out, sir! you can't get through that door more than two at a time!" the door still stood open, at the end of the corridor. claude went down the steps until he could sight along the floor of the passage, into the front room. the shutters were closed in there, and the sunlight came through the slats. in the middle of the floor, between the door and the windows, stood a tall chest of drawers, with a mirror attached to the top. in the narrow space between the bottom of this piece of furniture and the floor, he could see a pair of boots. it was possible there was but one man in the room, shooting from behind his movable fort,--though there might be others hidden in the corners. "there's only one fellow in there, i guess. he's shooting from behind a big dresser in the middle of the room. come on, one of you, we'll have to go in and get him." willy katz, the austrian boy from the omaha packing house, stepped up and stood beside him. "now, willy, we'll both go in at once; you jump to the right, and i to the left,--and one of us will jab him. he can't shoot both ways at once. are you ready? all right--now!" claude thought he was taking the more dangerous position himself, but the german probably reasoned that the important man would be on the right. as the two americans dashed through the door, he fired. claude caught him in the back with his bayonet, under the shoulder blade, but willy katz had got the bullet in his brain, through one of his blue eyes. he fell, and never stirred. the german officer fired his revolver again as he went down, shouting in english, english with no foreign accent, "you swine, go back to chicago!" then he began choking with blood. sergeant hicks ran in and shot the dying man through the temples. nobody stopped him. the officer was a tall man, covered with medals and orders; must have been very handsome. his linen and his hands were as white as if he were going to a ball. on the dresser were the files and paste and buffers with which he had kept his nails so pink and smooth. a ring with a ruby, beautifully cut, was on his little finger. bert fuller screwed it off and offered it to claude. he shook his head. that english sentence had unnerved him. bert held the ring out to hicks, but the sergeant threw down his revolver and broke out: "think i'd touch anything of his? that beautiful little girl, and my buddy--he's worse than dead, dell is, worse!" he turned his back on his comrades so that they wouldn't see him cry. "can i keep it myself, sir?" bert asked. claude nodded. david had come in, and was opening the shutters. this officer, claude was thinking, was a very different sort of being from the poor prisoners they had been scooping up like tadpoles from the cellars. one of the men picked up a gorgeous silk dressing gown from the bed, another pointed to a dressing-case full of hammered silver. gerhardt said it was russian silver; this man must have come from the eastern front. bert fuller and nifty jones were going through the officer's pockets. claude watched them, and thought they did about right. they didn't touch his medals; but his gold cigarette case, and the platinum watch still ticking on his wrist,--he wouldn't have further need for them. around his neck, hung by a delicate chain, was a miniature case, and in it was a painting,--not, as bert romantically hoped when he opened it, of a beautiful woman, but of a young man, pale as snow, with blurred forget-me-not eyes. claude studied it, wondering. "it looks like a poet, or something. probably a kid brother, killed at the beginning of the war." gerhardt took it and glanced at it with a disdainful expression. "probably. there, let him keep it, bert." he touched claude on the shoulder to call his attention to the inlay work on the handle of the officer's revolver. claude noticed that david looked at him as if he were very much pleased with him,--looked, indeed, as if something pleasant had happened in this room; where, god knew, nothing had; where, when they turned round, a swarm of black flies was quivering with greed and delight over the smears willy katz' body had left on the floor. claude had often observed that when david had an interesting idea, or a strong twinge of recollection, it made him, for the moment, rather heartless. just now he felt that gerhardt's flash of high spirits was in some way connected with him. was it because he had gone in with willy? had david doubted his nerve? xvii when the survivors of company b are old men, and are telling over their good days, they will say to each other, "oh, that week we spent at beaufort!" they will close their eyes and see a little village on a low ridge, lost in the forest, overgrown with oak and chestnut and black walnut... buried in autumn colour, the streets drifted deep in autumn leaves, great branches interlacing over the roofs of the houses, wells of cool water that tastes of moss and tree roots. up and down those streets they will see figures passing; themselves, young and brown and clean-limbed; and comrades, long dead, but still alive in that far-away village. how they will wish they could tramp again, nights on days in the mud and rain, to drag sore feet into their old billets at beaufort! to sink into those wide feather beds and sleep the round of the clock while the old women washed and dried their clothes for them; to eat rabbit stew and pommes frites in the garden,--rabbit stew made with red wine and chestnuts. oh, the days that are no more! as soon as captain maxey and the wounded men had been started on their long journey to the rear, carried by the prisoners, the whole company turned in and slept for twelve hours--all but sergeant hicks, who sat in the house off the square, beside the body of his chum. the next day the americans came to life as if they were new men, just created in a new world. and the people of the town came to life... excitement, change, something to look forward to at last! a new flag, le drapeau étoilé, floated along with the tricolour in the square. at sunset the soldiers stood in formation behind it and sang "the star spangled banner" with uncovered heads. the old people watched them from the doorways. the americans were the first to bring "madelon" to beaufort. the fact that the village had never heard this song, that the children stood round begging for it, "chantez-vous la madelon!" made the soldiers realize how far and how long out of the world these villagers had been. the german occupation was like a deafness which nothing pierced but their own arrogant martial airs. before claude was out of bed after his first long sleep, a runner arrived from colonel scott, notifying him that he was in charge of the company until further orders. the german prisoners had buried their own dead and dug graves for the americans before they were sent off to the rear. claude and david were billeted at the edge of the town, with the woman who had given captain maxey his first information, when they marched in yesterday morning. their hostess told them, at their mid-day breakfast, that the old dame who was shot in the square, and the little girl, were to be buried this afternoon. claude decided that the americans might as well have their funeral at the same time. he thought he would ask the priest to say a prayer at the graves, and he and david set off through the brilliant, rustling autumn sunshine to find the cure's house. it was next the church, with a high-walled garden behind it. over the bell-pull in the outer wall was a card on which was written, "tirez fort." the priest himself came out to them, an old man who seemed weak like his doorbell. he stood in his black cap, holding his hands against his breast to keep them from shaking, and looked very old indeed,--broken, hopeless, as if he were sick of this world and done with it. nowhere in france had claude seen a face so sad as his. yes, he would say a prayer. it was better to have christian burial, and they were far from home, poor fellows! david asked him whether the german rule had been very oppressive, but the old man did not answer clearly, and his hands began to shake so uncontrollably over his cassock that they went away to spare him embarrassment. "he seems a little gone in the head, don't you think?" claude remarked. "i suppose the war has used him up. how can he celebrate mass when his hands quiver so?" as they crossed the church steps, david touched claude's arm and pointed into the square. "look, every doughboy has a girl already! some of them have trotted out fatigue caps! i supposed they'd thrown them all away!" those who had no caps stood with their helmets under their arms, in attitudes of exaggerated gallantry, talking to the women,--who seemed all to have errands abroad. some of them let the boys carry their baskets. one soldier was giving a delighted little girl a ride on his back. after the funeral every man in the company found some sympathetic woman to talk to about his fallen comrades. all the garden flowers and bead wreaths in beaufort had been carried out and put on the american graves. when the squad fired over them and the bugle sounded, the girls and their mothers wept. poor willy katz, for instance, could never have had such a funeral in south omaha. the next night the soldiers began teaching the girls to dance the "pas seul" and the "fausse trot." they had found an old violin in the town; and oscar, the swede, scraped away on it. they danced every evening. claude saw that a good deal was going on, and he lectured his men at parade. but he realized that he might as well scold at the sparrows. here was a village with several hundred women, and only the grandmothers had husbands. all the men were in the army; hadn't even been home on leave since the germans first took the place. the girls had been shut up for four years with young men who incessantly coveted them, and whom they must constantly outwit. the situation had been intolerable--and prolonged. the americans found themselves in the position of adam in the garden. "did you know, sir," said bert fuller breathlessly as he overtook claude in the street after parade, "that these lovely girls had to go out in the fields and work, raising things for those dirty pigs to eat? yes, sir, had to work in the fields, under german sentinels; marched out in the morning and back at night like convicts! it's sure up to us to give them a good time now." one couldn't walk out of an evening without meeting loitering couples in the dusky streets and lanes. the boys had lost all their bashfulness about trying to speak french. they declared they could get along in france with three verbs, and all, happily, in the first conjugation: manger, aimer, payer,--quite enough! they called beaufort "our town," and they were called "our americans." they were going to come back after the war, and marry the girls, and put in waterworks! "chez-moi, sir!" bill gates called to claude, saluting with a bloody hand, as he stood skinning rabbits before the door of his billet. "bunny casualties are heavy in town this week!" "you know, wheeler," david remarked one morning as they were shaving, "i think maxey would come back here on one leg if he knew about these excursions into the forest after mushrooms." "maybe." "aren't you going to put a stop to them?" "not i!" claude jerked, setting the corners of his mouth grimly. "if the girls, or their people, make complaint to me, i'll interfere. not otherwise. i've thought the matter over." "oh, the girls--" david laughed softly. "well, it's something to acquire a taste for mushrooms. they don't get them at home, do they?" when, after eight days, the americans had orders to march, there was mourning in every house. on their last night in town, the officers received pressing invitations to the dance in the square. claude went for a few moments, and looked on. david was dancing every dance, but hicks was nowhere to be seen. the poor fellow had been out of everything. claude went over to the church to see whether he might be moping in the graveyard. there, as he walked about, claude stopped to look at a grave that stood off by itself, under a privet hedge, with withered leaves and a little french flag on it. the old woman with whom they stayed had told them the story of this grave. the cure's niece was buried there. she was the prettiest girl in beaufort, it seemed, and she had a love affair with a german officer and disgraced the town. he was a young bavarian, quartered with this same old woman who told them the story, and she said he was a nice boy, handsome and gentle, and used to sit up half the night in the garden with his head in his hands--homesick, lovesick. he was always after this marie louise; never pressed her, but was always there, grew up out of the ground under her feet, the old woman said. the girl hated germans, like all the rest, and flouted him. he was sent to the front. then he came back, sick and almost deaf, after one of the slaughters at verdun, and stayed a long while. that spring a story got about that some woman met him at night in the german graveyard. the germans had taken the land behind the church for their cemetery, and it joined the wall of the cure's garden. when the women went out into the fields to plant the crops, marie louise used to slip away from the others and meet her bavarian in the forest. the girls were sure of it now; and they treated her with disdain. but nobody was brave enough to say anything to the cure. one day, when she was with her bavarian in the wood, she snatched up his revolver from the ground and shot herself. she was a frenchwoman at heart, their hostess said. "and the bavarian?" claude asked david later. the story had become so complicated he could not follow it. "he justified her, and promptly. he took the same pistol and shot himself through the temples. his orderly, stationed at the edge of the thicket to keep watch, heard the first shot and ran toward them. he saw the officer take up the smoking pistol and turn it on himself. but the kommandant couldn't believe that one of his officers had so much feeling. he held an enquête, dragged the girl's mother and uncle into court, and tried to establish that they were in conspiracy with her to seduce and murder a german officer. the orderly was made to tell the whole story; how and where they began to meet. though he wasn't very delicate about the details he divulged, he stuck to his statement that he saw lieutenant muller shoot himself with his own hand, and the kommandant failed to prove his case. the old cure had known nothing of all this until he heard it aired in the military court. marie louise had lived in his house since she was a child, and was like his daughter. he had a stroke or something, and has been like this ever since. the girl's friends forgave her, and when she was buried off alone by the hedge, they began to take flowers to her grave. the kommandant put up an affiche on the hedge, forbidding any one to decorate the grave. apparently, nothing during the german occupation stirred up more feeling than poor marie louise." it would stir anybody, claude reflected. there was her lonely little grave, the shadow of the privet hedge falling across it. there, at the foot of the cure's garden, was the german cemetery, with heavy cement crosses,--some of them with long inscriptions; lines from their poets, and couplets from old hymns. lieutenant muller was there somewhere, probably. strange, how their story stood out in a world of suffering. that was a kind of misery he hadn't happened to think of before; but the same thing must have occurred again and again in the occupied territory. he would never forget the cure's hands, his dim, suffering eyes. claude recognized david crossing the pavement in front of the church, and went back to meet him. "hello! i mistook you for hicks at first. i thought he might be out here." david sat down on the steps and lit a cigarette. "so did i. i came out to look for him." "oh, i expect he's found some shoulder to cry on. do you realize, claude, you and i are the only men in the company who haven't got engaged? some of the married men have got engaged twice. it's a good thing we're pulling out, or we'd have banns and a bunch of christenings to look after." "all the same," murmured claude, "i like the women of this country, as far as i've seen them." while they sat smoking in silence, his mind went back to the quiet scene he had watched on the steps of that other church, on his first night in france; the country girl in the moonlight, bending over her sick soldier. when they walked back across the square, over the crackling leaves, the dance was breaking up. oscar was playing "home, sweet home," for the last waltz. "le dernier baiser," said david. "well, tomorrow we'll be gone, and the chances are we won't come back this way." xviii "with us it's always a feast or a famine," the men groaned, when they sat down by the road to munch dry biscuit at noon. they had covered eighteen miles that morning, and had still seven more to go. they were ordered to do the twenty-five miles in eight hours. nobody had fallen out yet, but some of the boys looked pretty well wilted. nifty jones said he was done for. sergeant hicks was expostulating with the faint-hearted. he knew that if one man fell out, a dozen would. "if i can do it, you can. it's worse on a fat man like me. this is no march to make a fuss about. why, at arras i talked with a little tommy from one of those pal battalions that got slaughtered on the somme. his battalion marched twenty-five miles in six hours, in the heat of july, into certain death. they were all kids out of school, not a man of them over five-foot-three, called them the 'bantams.' you've got to hand it to them, fellows." "i'll hand anything to anybody, but i can't go no farther on these," jones muttered, nursing his sore feet. "oh, you! we're going to heave you onto the only horse in the company. the officers, they can walk!" when they got into battalion lines there was food ready for them, but very few wanted it. they drank and lay down in the bushes. claude went at once to headquarters and found barclay owens, of the engineers, with the colonel, who was smoking and studying his maps as usual. "glad to see you, wheeler. your men ought to be in good shape, after a week's rest. let them sleep now. we've got to move out of here before midnight, to relieve two texas battalions at moltke trench. they've taken the trench with heavy casualties and are beat out; couldn't hold it in case of counter-attack. as it's an important point, the enemy will try to recover it. i want to get into position before daylight, so he won't know fresh troops are coming in. as ranking officer, you are in charge of the company." "very well, sir. i'll do my best." "i'm sure you will. two machine gun teams are going up with us, and some time tomorrow a missouri battalion comes up to support. i'd have had you over here before, but i only got my orders to relieve yesterday. we may have to advance under shell fire. the enemy has been putting a lot of big stuff over; he wants to cut off that trench." claude and david got into a fresh shell hole, under the half-burned scrub, and fell asleep. they were awakened at dusk by heavy artillery fire from the north. at ten o'clock the battalion, after a hot meal, began to advance through almost impassable country. the guns must have been pounding away at the same range for a long while; the ground was worked and kneaded until it was soft as dough, though no rain had fallen for a week. barclay owens and his engineers were throwing down a plank road to get food and the ammunition wagons across. big shells were coming over at intervals of twelve minutes. the intervals were so regular that it was quite possible to get forward without damage. while b company was pulling through the shell area, colonel scott overtook them, on foot, his orderly leading his horse. "know anything about that light over there, wheeler?" he asked. "well, it oughtn't to be there. come along and see." the light was a mere match-head down in the ground, claude hadn't noticed it before. he followed the colonel, and when they reached the spark they found three officers of a company crouching in a shell crater, covered with a piece of sheet-iron. "put out that light," called the colonel sharply. "what's the matter, captain brace?" a young man rose quickly. "i'm waiting for the water, sir. it's coming up on mules, in petrol cases, and i don't want to get separated from it. the ground's so bad here the drivers are likely to get lost." "don't wait more than twenty minutes. you must get up and take your position on time, that's the important thing, water or no water." as the colonel and claude hurried back to overtake the company, five big shells screamed over them in rapid succession. "run, sir," the orderly called. "they're getting on to us; they've shortened the range." "that light back there was just enough to give them an idea," the colonel muttered. the bad ground continued for about a mile, and then the advance reached headquarters, behind the eighth trench of the great system of trenches. it was an old farmhouse which the germans had made over with reinforced concrete, lining it within and without, until the walls were six feet thick and almost shell-proof, like a pill-box. the colonel sent his orderly to enquire about a company. a young lieutenant came to the door of the farmhouse. "a company is ready to go into position, sir. i brought them up." "where is captain brace, lieutenant?" "he and both our first lieutenants were killed, colonel. back in that hole. a shell fell on them not five minutes after you were talking to them." "that's bad. any other damage?" "yes, sir. there was a cook wagon struck at the same time; the first one coming along julius caesar's new road. the driver was killed, and we had to shoot the horses. captain owens, he near got scalded with the stew." the colonel called in the officers one after another and discussed their positions with them. "wheeler," he said when claude's turn came, "you know your map? you've noticed that sharp loop in the front trench, in h ; the boar's head, i believe they call it. it's a sort of spear point that reaches out toward the enemy, and it will be a hot place to hold. if i put your company in there, do you think you can do the battalion credit in case of a counter attack?" claude said he thought so. "it's the nastiest bit of the line to hold, and you can tell your men i pay them a compliment when i put them there." "all right, sir. they'll appreciate it." the colonel bit off the end of a fresh cigar. "they'd better, by thunder! if they give way and let the hun bombers in, it will let down the whole line. i'll give you two teams of georgia machine guns to put in that point they call the boar's snout. when the missourians come up tomorrow, they'll go in to support you, but until then you'll have to take care of the loop yourselves. i've got an awful lot of trench to hold, and i can't spare you any more men." the texas men whom the battalion came up to relieve had been living for sixty hours on their iron rations, and on what they could pick off the dead huns. their supplies had been shelled on the way, and nothing had got through to them. when the colonel took claude and gerhardt forward to inspect the loop that b company was to hold, they found a wallow, more like a dump heap than a trench. the men who had taken the position were almost too weak to stand. all their officers had been killed, and a sergeant was in command. he apologized for the condition of the loop. "sorry to leave such a mess for you to clean up, sir, but we got it bad in here. he's been shelling us every night since we drove him out. i couldn't ask the men to do anything but hold on." "that's all right. you beat it, with your boys, quick! my men will hand you out some grub as you go back." the battered defenders of the boar's head stumbled past them through the darkness into the communication. when the last man had filed out, the colonel sent for barclay owens. claude and david tried to feel their way about and get some idea of the condition the place was in. the stench was the worst they had yet encountered, but it was less disgusting than the flies; when they inadvertently touched a dead body, clouds of wet, buzzing flies flew up into their faces, into their eyes and nostrils. under their feet the earth worked and moved as if boa constrictors were wriggling down there soft bodies, lightly covered. when they had found their way up to the snout they came upon a pile of corpses, a dozen or more, thrown one on top of another like sacks of flour, faintly discernible in the darkness. while the two officers stood there, rumbling, squirting sounds began to come from this heap, first from one body, then from another--gases, swelling in the liquefying entrails of the dead men. they seemed to be complaining to one another; glup, glup, glup. the boys went back to the colonel, who was standing at the mouth of the communication, and told him there was nothing much to report, except that the burying squad was needed badly. "i expect!" the colonel shook his head. when barclay owens arrived, he asked him what could be done here before daybreak. the doughty engineer felt his way about as claude and gerhardt had done; they heard him coughing, and beating off the flies. but when he came back he seemed rather cheered than discouraged. "give me a gang to get the casualties out, and with plenty of quick-lime and concrete i can make this loop all right in four hours, sir," he declared. "i've brought plenty of lime, but where'll you get your concrete?" "the hun left about fifty sacks of it in the cellar, under your headquarters. i can do better, of course, if i have a few hours more for my concrete to dry." "go ahead, captain." the colonel told claude and david to bring their men up to the communication before light, and hold them ready. "give owens' cement a chance, but don't let the enemy put over any surprise on you." the shelling began again at daybreak; it was hardest on the rear trenches and the three-mile area behind. evidently the enemy felt sure of what he had in moltke trench; he wanted to cut off supplies and possible reinforcements. the missouri battalion did not come up that day, but before noon a runner arrived from their colonel, with information that they were hiding in the wood. five boche planes had been circling over the wood since dawn, signalling to the enemy headquarters back on dauphin ridge; the missourians were sure they had avoided detection by lying close in the under-brush. they would come up in the night. their linemen were following the runner, and colonel scott would be in telephone communication with them in half an hour. when b company moved into the boar's head at one o'clock in the afternoon, they could truthfully say that the prevailing smell was now that of quick-lime. the parapet was evenly built up, the firing step had been partly restored, and in the snout there were good emplacements for the machine guns. certain unpleasant reminders were still to be found if one looked for them. in the snout a large fat boot stuck stiffly from the side of the trench. captain ovens explained that the ground sounded hollow in there, and the boot probably led back into a dugout where a lot of hun bodies were entombed together. as he was pressed for time, he had thought best not to look for trouble. in one of the curves of the loop, just at the top of the earth wall, under the sand bags, a dark hand reached out; the five fingers, well apart, looked like the swollen roots of some noxious weed. hicks declared that this object was disgusting, and during the afternoon he made nifty jones and oscar scrape down some earth and make a hump over the paw. but there was shelling in the night, and the earth fell away. "look," said jones when he wakened his sergeant. "the first thing i seen when daylight come was his old fingers, wigglin' in the breeze. he wants air, heinie does; he won't stay covered." hicks got up and re-buried the hand himself, but when he came around with claude on inspection, before breakfast, there were the same five fingers sticking out again. the sergeant's forehead puffed up and got red, and he swore that if he found the man who played dirty jokes, he'd make him eat this one. the colonel sent for claude and gerhardt to come to breakfast with him. he had been talking by telephone with the missouri officers and had agreed that they should stay back in the bush for the present. the continual circling of planes over the wood seemed to indicate that the enemy was concerned about the actual strength of moltke trench. it was possible their air scouts had seen the texas men going back,--otherwise, why were they holding off? while the colonel and the officers were at breakfast, a corporal brought in two pigeons he had shot at dawn. one of them carried a message under its wing. the colonel unrolled a strip of paper and handed it to gerhardt. "yes, sir, it's in german, but it's code stuff. it's a german nursery rhyme. those reconnoitering planes must have dropped scouts on our rear, and they are sending in reports. of course, they can get more on us than the air men can. here, do you want these birds, dick?" the boy grinned. "you bet i do, sir! i may get a chance to fry 'em, later on." after breakfast the colonel went to inspect b company in the boar's head. he was especially pleased with the advantageous placing of the machine guns in the snout. "i expect you'll have a quiet day," he said to the men, "but i wouldn't like to promise you a quiet night. you'll have to be very steady in here; if fritz takes this loop, he's got us, you understand." they had, indeed, a quiet day. some of the men played cards, and oscar read his bible. the night, too, began well. but at four fifteen everybody was roused by the gas alarm. gas shells came over for exactly half an hour. then the shrapnel broke loose; not the long, whizzing scream of solitary shells, but drum-fire, continuous and deafening. a hundred electrical storms seemed raging at once, in the air and on the ground. balls of fire were rolling all over the place. the range was a little long for the boar's head, they were not getting the worst of it; but thirty yards back everything was torn to pieces. claude didn't see how anybody could be left alive back there. a single twister had killed six of his men at the rear of the loop, where they were shovelling to keep the communication clear. captain owns' neat earthworks were being badly pounded. claude and gerhardt were consulting together when the smoke and darkness began to take on the livid colour that announced the coming of daybreak. a messenger ran in from the colonel; the missourians had not yet come up, and his telephone communication with them was cut off. he was afraid they had got lost in the bombardment. "the colonel says you are to send two men back to bring them up; two men who can take charge if they're stampeded." when the messenger shouted this order, gerhardt and hicks looked at each other quickly, and volunteered to go. claude hesitated. hicks and david waited for no further consent; they ran down the communication and disappeared. claude stood in the smoke that was slowly growing greyer, and looked after them with the deepest stab of despair he had ever known. only a man who was bewildered and unfit to be in command of other men would have let his best friend and his best officer take such a risk. he was standing there under shelter, and his two friends were going back through that curtain of flying steel, toward the square from which the lost battalion had last reported. if he knew them, they would not lose time following the maze of trenches; they were probably even now out on the open, running straight through the enemy barrage, vaulting trench tops. claude turned and went back into the loop. well, whatever happened, he had worked with brave men. it was worth having lived in this world to have known such men. soldiers, when they were in a tight place, often made secret propositions to god; and now he found himself offering terms: if they would see to it that david came back, they could take the price out of him. he would pay. did they understand? an hour dragged by. hard on the nerves, waiting. up the communication came a train with ammunition and coffee for the loop. the men thought headquarters did pretty well to get hot food to them through that barrage. a message came up in the colonel's hand: "be ready when the barrage stops." claude took this up and showed it to the machine gunners in the snout. turning back, he ran into hicks, stripped to his shirt and trousers, as wet as if he had come out of the river, and splashed with blood. his hand was wrapped up in a rag. he put his mouth to claude's ear and shouted: "we found them. they were lost. they're coming. send word to the colonel." "where's gerhardt?" "he's coming; bringing them up. god, it's stopped!" the bombardment ceased with a suddenness that was stupefying. the men in the loop gasped and crouched as if they were falling from a height. the air, rolling black with smoke and stifling with the smell of gases and burning powder, was still as death. the silence was like a heavy anaesthetic. claude ran back to the snout to see that the gun teams were ready. "wake up, boys! you know why we're here!" bert fuller, who was up in the look-out, dropped back into the trench beside him. "they're coming, sir." claude gave the signal to the machine guns. fire opened all along the loop. in a moment a breeze sprang up, and the heavy smoke clouds drifted to the rear. mounting to the firestep, he peered over. the enemy was coming on eight deep, on the left of the boar's head, in long, waving lines that reached out toward the main trench. suddenly the advance was checked. the files of running men dropped behind a wrinkle in the earth fifty yards forward and did not instantly re-appear. it struck claude that they were waiting for something; he ought to be clever enough to know for what, but he was not. the colonel's line man came up to him. "headquarters has a runner from the missourians. they'll be up in twenty minutes. the colonel will put them in here at once. till then you must manage to hold." "we'll hold. fritz is behaving queerly. i don't understand his tactics..." while he was speaking, everything was explained. the boar's snout spread apart with an explosion that split the earth, and went up in a volcano of smoke and flame. claude and the colonel's messenger were thrown on their faces. when they got to their feet, the snout was a smoking crater full of dead and dying men. the georgia gun teams were gone. it was for this that the hun advance had been waiting behind the ridge. the mine under the snout had been made long ago, probably, on a venture, when the hun held moltke trench for months without molestation. during the last twenty-four hours they had been getting their explosives in, reasoning that the strongest garrison would be placed there. here they were, coming on the run. it was up to the rifles. the men who had been knocked down by the shock were all on their feet again. they looked at their officer questioningly, as if the whole situation had changed. claude felt they were going soft under his eyes. in a moment the hun bombers would be in on them, and they would break. he ran along the trench, pointing over the sand bags and shouting, "it's up to you, it's up to you!" the rifles recovered themselves and began firing, but claude felt they were spongy and uncertain, that their minds were already on the way to the rear. if they did anything, it must be quick, and their gun-work must be accurate. nothing but a withering fire could check.... he sprang to the firestep and then out on the parapet. something instantaneous happened; he had his men in hand. "steady, steady!" he called the range to the rifle teams behind him, and he could see the fire take effect. all along the hun lines men were stumbling and falling. they swerved a little to the left; he called the rifles to follow, directing them with his voice and with his hands. it was not only that from here he could correct the range and direct the fire; the men behind him had become like rock. that line of faces below; hicks, jones, fuller, anderson, oscar.... their eyes never left him. with these men he could do anything. the right of the hun line swerved out, not more than twenty yards from the battered snout, trying to run to shelter under that pile of debris and human bodies. a quick concentration of rifle fire depressed it, and the swell came out again toward the left. claude's appearance on the parapet had attracted no attention from the enemy at first, but now the bullets began popping about him; two rattled on his tin hat, one caught him in the shoulder. the blood dripped down his coat, but he felt no weakness. he felt only one thing; that he commanded wonderful men. when david came up with the supports he might find them dead, but he would find them all there. they were there to stay until they were carried out to be buried. they were mortal, but they were unconquerable. the colonel's twenty minutes must be almost up, he thought. he couldn't take his eyes from the front line long enough to look at his wrist watch.... the men behind him saw claude sway as if he had lost his balance and were trying to recover it. then he plunged, face down, outside the parapet. hicks caught his foot and pulled him back. at the same moment the missourians ran yelling up the communication. they threw their machine guns up on the sand bags and went into action without an unnecessary motion. hicks and bert fuller and oscar carried claude forward toward the snout, out of the way of the supports that were pouring in. he was not bleeding very much. he smiled at them as if he were going to speak, but there was a weak blankness in his eyes. bert tore his shirt open; three clean bullet holes. by the time they looked at him again, the smile had gone... the look that was claude had faded. hicks wiped the sweat and smoke from his officer's face. "thank god i never told him," he said. "thank god for that!" bert and oscar knew what hicks meant. gerhardt had been blown to pieces at his side when they dashed back through the enemy barrage to find the missourians. they were running together across the open, not able to see much for smoke. they bumped into a section of wire entanglement, left above an old trench. david cut round to the right, waving hicks to follow him. the two were not ten yards apart when the shell struck. then sergeant hicks ran on alone. xix the sun is sinking low, a transport is steaming slowly up the narrows with the tide. the decks are covered with brown men. they cluster over the superstructure like bees in swarming time. their attitudes are relaxed and lounging. some look thoughtful, some well contented, some are melancholy, and many are indifferent, as they watch the shore approaching. they are not the same men who went away. sergeant hicks was standing in the stern, smoking, reflecting, watching the twinkle of the red sunset upon the cloudy water. it is more than a year since he sailed for france. the world has changed in that time, and so has he. bert fuller elbowed his way up to the sergeant. "the doctor says colonel maxey is dying, he won't live to get off the boat, much less to ride in the parade in new york tomorrow." hicks shrugged, as if maxey's pneumonia were no affair of his. "well, we should worry! we've left better officers than him over there." "i'm not saying we haven't. but it seems too bad, when he's so strong for fuss and feathers. he's been sending cables about that parade for weeks." "huh!" hicks elevated his eyebrows and glanced sidewise in disdain. presently he sputtered, squinting down at the glittering water, "colonel maxey, anyhow! colonel for what claude and gerhardt did, i guess!" hicks and bert fuller have been helping to keep the noble fortress of ehrenbreitstein. they have always hung together and are usually quarrelling and grumbling at each other when they are off duty. still, they hang together. they are the last of their group. nifty jones and oscar, god only knows why, have gone on to the black sea. during the year they were in the rhine valley, bert and hicks were separated only once, and that was when hicks got a two weeks' leave and, by dint of persevering and fatiguing travel, went to venice. he had no proper passport, and the consuls and officials to whom he had appealed in his difficulties begged him to content himself with something nearer. but he said he was going to venice because he had always heard about it. bert fuller was glad to welcome him back to coblentz, and gave a "wine party" to celebrate his return. they expect to keep an eye on each other. though bert lives on the platte and hicks on the big blue, the automobile roads between those two rivers are excellent. bert is the same sweet-tempered boy he was when he left his mother's kitchen; his gravest troubles have been frequent betrothals. but hicks' round, chubby face has taken on a slightly cynical expression,--a look quite out of place there. the chances of war have hurt his feelings... not that he ever wanted anything for himself. the way in which glittering honours bump down upon the wrong heads in the army, and palms and crosses blossom on the wrong breasts, has, as he says, thrown his compass off a few points. what hicks had wanted most in this world was to run a garage and repair shop with his old chum, dell able. beaufort ended all that. he means to conduct a sort of memorial shop, anyhow, with "hicks and able" over the door. he wants to roll up his sleeves and look at the logical and beautiful inwards of automobiles for the rest of his life. as the transport enters the north river, sirens and steam whistles all along the water front begin to blow their shrill salute to the returning soldiers. the men square their shoulders and smile knowingly at one another; some of them look a little bored. hicks slowly lights a cigarette and regards the end of it with an expression which will puzzle his friends when he gets home. by the banks of lovely creek, where it began, claude wheeler's story still goes on. to the two old women who work together in the farmhouse, the thought of him is always there, beyond everything else, at the farthest edge of consciousness, like the evening sun on the horizon. mrs. wheeler got the word of his death one afternoon in the sitting-room, the room in which he had bade her good-bye. she was reading when the telephone rang. "is this the wheeler farm? this is the telegraph office at frankfort. we have a message from the war department,--" the voice hesitated. "isn't mr. wheeler there?" "no, but you can read the message to me." mrs. wheeler said, "thank you," and hung up the receiver. she felt her way softly to her chair. she had an hour alone, when there was nothing but him in the room,--but him and the map there, which was the end of his road. somewhere among those perplexing names, he had found his place. claude's letters kept coming for weeks afterward; then came the letters from his comrades and his colonel to tell her all. in the dark months that followed, when human nature looked to her uglier than it had ever done before, those letters were mrs. wheeler's comfort. as she read the newspapers, she used to think about the passage of the red sea, in the bible; it seemed as if the flood of meanness and greed had been held back just long enough for the boys to go over, and then swept down and engulfed everything that was left at home. when she can see nothing that has come of it all but evil, she reads claude's letters over again and reassures herself; for him the call was clear, the cause was glorious. never a doubt stained his bright faith. she divines so much that he did not write. she knows what to read into those short flashes of enthusiasm; how fully he must have found his life before he could let himself go so far--he, who was so afraid of being fooled! he died believing his own country better than it is, and france better than any country can ever be. and those were beautiful beliefs to die with. perhaps it was as well to see that vision, and then to see no more. she would have dreaded the awakening,--she sometimes even doubts whether he could have borne at all that last, desolating disappointment. one by one the heroes of that war, the men of dazzling soldiership, leave prematurely the world they have come back to. airmen whose deeds were tales of wonder, officers whose names made the blood of youth beat faster, survivors of incredible dangers,--one by one they quietly die by their own hand. some do it in obscure lodging houses, some in their office, where they seemed to be carrying on their business like other men. some slip over a vessel's side and disappear into the sea. when claude's mother hears of these things, she shudders and presses her hands tight over her breast, as if she had him there. she feels as if god had saved him from some horrible suffering, some horrible end. for as she reads, she thinks those slayers of themselves were all so like him; they were the ones who had hoped extravagantly,--who in order to do what they did had to hope extravagantly, and to believe passionately. and they found they had hoped and believed too much. but one she knew, who could ill bear disillusion... safe, safe. mahailey, when they are alone, sometimes addresses mrs. wheeler as "mudder"; "now, mudder, you go upstairs an' lay down an' rest yourself." mrs. wheeler knows that then she is thinking of claude, is speaking for claude. as they are working at the table or bending over the oven, something reminds them of him, and they think of him together, like one person: mahailey will pat her back and say, "never you mind, mudder; you'll see your boy up yonder." mrs. wheeler always feels that god is near,--but mahailey is not troubled by any knowledge of interstellar spaces, and for her he is nearer still,--directly overhead, not so very far above the kitchen stove. the mystery of the locks by e. w. howe author of "the story of a country town" boston james r. osgood and company _copyright, _, by james r. osgood and company. _all rights reserved._ c. j. peters and son, electrotypers. contents. i. the town of dark nights ii. the locks iii. the face at the window iv. davy's bend v. a troubled fancy vi. pictures in the fire vii. the locks' ghost viii. a remarkable girl ix. the "apron and password" x. tug whittle's booty xi. the whispers in the air xii. ruined by kindness xiii. the rebellion of the baritone xiv. the ancient maiden xv. a shot at the shadow xvi. the step on the stair xvii. the pursuing shadow xviii. the rise in the river xix. mr. whittle makes a confession xx. the search in the woods xxi. little ben xxii. tug's return xxiii. the going down of the sun the mystery of the locks. chapter i. the town of dark nights. davy's bend--a river town, a failing town, and an old town, on a dark night, with a misty rain falling, and the stars hiding from the dangerous streets and walks of the failing town down by the sluggish river which seems to be hurrying away from it, too, like its institutions and its people, and as the light of the wretched day that has just closed hurried away from it a few hours since. the darkness is so intense that the people who look out of their windows are oppressed from staring at nothing, for the shadows are obliterated, and for all they know there may be great caverns in the streets, filled with water from the rising river, and vagabond debris on their front steps. it occurs to one of them who opens the blind to his window a moment, and looks out (and who notices incidentally that the rays from his lamp seem afraid to venture far from the casement) that a hard crust will form somewhere above the town, up where there is light for the living, and turn the people of davy's bend into rocks as solid as those thousands of feet below, which thought affects him so much that he closes his blinds and shutters tighter than before, determined that his rooms shall become caves. the rain comes down steadily, plashing into little pools in the road with untiring energy, where it joins other vagrant water, and creeps off at last into the gutter, into the rivulet, and into the river, where it joins the restless tide which is always hurrying away from davy's bend, and bubbles and foams with joy. the citizen who observed the intense blackness of the night comes to his window again, and notes the steady falling of the rain, and in his reverie pretends to regret that it is not possible for the water to come up until his house will float away like an ark, that he may get rid of living in a place where the nights are so dark and wet that he cannot sleep for thinking of them. when he returns to his chair, and attempts to read, the pattering rain is so persistent on the roof and at the windows that the possibility of a flood occurs to his mind, and he thinks with satisfaction that, should it come to pass, davy's bend would at last be as well off as ben's city; and this possibility is so pleasant that he puts out his light, the only one showing in the town, and goes to bed. at the foot of a long street, so close to the river that its single light casts a ghastly glare into the water, stands the railroad station, where the agent awaits the arrival of the single train that visits the place daily,--for only a few people want to go to davy's bend, and not many are left to move away,--so the agent mutters at the rain and the darkness, and growls at the hard fate that keeps him up so late; for, of all the inhabitants of the place, he is the only one who has business to call him out at night. there are no people in davy's bend who are overworked, or whose business cares are so great as to make them nervous or fretful; so they sleep and yawn a great deal, and have plenty of time in which to tell how dull their own place is, and how distressingly active is ben's city, located in the country below them, and which is admired even by the river, for it is always going in that direction. fortunately, on this misty night the agent has not long to wait; for just as he curls himself up in his chair to rest comfortably, certain that the train will be late, there is a hoarse blast from a steam whistle up the road, which echoes through the woods and over the hills with a dismal roar, and by the time he has seized his lantern, and reached the outside, the engine bell is ringing softly in the yard; the headlight appears like a great eye spying out the dark places around the building, and before he has had time to look about him, or express his surprise that the wheels are on time, a few packages have been unloaded, and the train creeps out into the darkness, hurrying away from davy's bend, like the river and the people. there is but one passenger to-night: a man above the medium height and weight, dressed like a city tradesman, who seems to own the packages put off, for he is standing among them, and apparently wondering what disposition he is to make of them; for the agent is about to retire into the station with his books under his arm. evidently the stranger is not good natured, for he hails the official impatiently, and inquires, in a voice that is a mixture of indignation and impudence, if the hotels have no representatives about, and if he is expected to remain out in the rain all night to guard his property. the agent does not know as to that, but he does know that the stranger is welcome to leave his packages in the building until morning, which arrangement seems to be the best offering, for it is accepted, after both men have denounced the town until they are satisfied; for no one pretends to defend davy's bend, so the agent readily assents to whatever the stranger desires to say that is discreditable to his native place, while he is helping him to carry the trunks and bundles into the light. when the rays of the single lamp in the station fall upon the stranger, the agent at first concludes that he is middle-aged, for a new growth of whiskers covers his face completely; but he thinks better of this during the course of his inspection, and remarks to himself that the owner of the packages is not as old as he seemed at first glance, but he is a man not satisfied with himself, or with anything around him,--the agent is sure of that; and as he helps with the baggage, of which there is a great deal, he keeps thinking to himself that it will stand him in hand to be more polite than usual, for the stranger looks sullen enough to fight with very little provocation. his quick, restless eyes were always busy,--the agent feels certain that he has been measured and disposed of in a glance,--but the longer he looks at the stranger the more certain he becomes that the packages he is helping to handle contains goods of importance, for their owner is evidently a man of importance. "there must be gold in that," the agent says, as he puts his end of one of the trunks down, and pauses to rest. "i have been agent here a good many years; but if that is not an excess, i never had hold of one. now for the rest of them." the work is soon finished, and after extinguishing the light the agent steps upon the outside, locks the door, and puts the key into his pocket. "i am sorry," he says, as he stands with the stranger outside the door, on a covered platform, where they are protected from the rain, "but i go in this direction, while the hotel lies in that," pointing the way. "it's a rough road, and you may have trouble in getting them up, but i guess you will get there if you go far enough, for the hotel stands directly at the head of the street. it's a pity that the town does not afford an omnibus, or a public carriage, but it doesn't, and that ends it. i intend to go away myself as soon as i can, for the company does not treat me any too well, though it is generally said that another man could not be found to do the work as i do it for the money." by this time the agent has his umbrella up, which appears to be as dilapidated as the town, for it comes up with difficulty, so he says good night cheerily, and disappears; and the traveller, after shivering awhile on the platform, starts out to follow the direction given him, floundering in the mud at every step. there is a row of houses on either side, with great gaps between them, and he is barely able to make out the strip of lighter shade which he judges is the street he is to follow, the night is so dark; but as the hotel is said to lie directly across his path, he argues that he is sure to run into it sooner or later, so he blunders on, shivering when he realizes that he is becoming wet to the skin. after travelling in this manner much longer than was desirable, finding the sidewalks so bad that he takes to the middle of the street, and finally goes back to the walk again in desperation; stumbling over barrels and carts, and so much rubbish that is oozy and soft as to cause him to imagine that everything is turning into a liquid state in order that it may leave the place by way of the gutters, the rivulets, and the river, he becomes aware that a lantern, carried by one of two men, whose legs are to be seen in long shadows, is approaching, and that they are very merry, for they are making a good deal of noise, and stop frequently to accuse each other of being jolly old boys, or thorough scoundrels, or dreadful villains, or to lean up against the buildings to discuss ribald questions which seem to amuse them. apparently they have no destination, for after one of their bursts of merriment they are as apt to walk up the street as down it; and believing them to be the town riff-raff out for a lark, the stranger tries to pass them without attracting attention when he comes up to their vicinity; but the one who carries the lantern sees him, and, locking arms with his companion, adroitly heads the traveller off, and puts the lantern so close to his face that he dodges back to avoid it. "tug," the man says, in an amused way, "a stranger. there will be a sensation in davy's bend to-morrow; it hasn't happened before in a year." believing the men to be good-natured prowlers who can give him the information he is seeking, the stranger patiently waits while they enjoy their joke; which they do in a very odd fashion, for the man who carries the lantern, and who, the stranger noticed when the lantern was raised, was rather small, and old, and thin-faced, leans against his companion, and laughs in an immoderate but meek fashion. the fellow who had been addressed as tug had said nothing at all, though he snorted once, in a queer way, which threw his companion into greater convulsions of merriment than ever, and changing their position so that they support themselves against a building, one of them continues to laugh gayly, and the other to chuckle and snort, until they are quite exhausted, as though a stranger in davy's bend is very funny indeed. "there will be a train going the other way in three hours,--for both the trains creep through the town at night, as if they were ashamed to be seen here in daylight," the little man says to the traveller, recovering himself, and with a show of seriousness. "you had better take it, and go back; really you had. davy's bend will never suit you. it don't suit anybody. the last man that came here stood it a week, when off he went, and we never expected to see another one. look at these deserted houses in every direction," he continues, stepping out farther into the middle of the street, as if to point around him, but remembering that the night is so dark that nothing can be seen, he goes back to his companion, and pokes him in the ribs, which causes that worthy to snort once more in the odd way that the stranger noticed on coming up. this reminds them of their joke again; so they return to the building, leaning against it with their arms, their heads, and their backs, laughing as they did before. meanwhile the stranger stands out in the rain, watching the two odd men with an air of interest; but at last, recollecting his condition, he says,-- "it happens that i am looking for a place that suits nobody, and one that is generally avoided. if you will point out the way to the hotel, i will decide that question for myself to-morrow." the little man picks up the lantern immediately when the hotel is mentioned. "i never thought of the hotel," he exclaims, on the alert at once, and starting up the street, followed by his snorting companion, who ambled along like the front part of a wagon pushed from behind. "it is my business to be at the station when the train arrives, to look for passengers," the man continues as he hurries on with the light; "but it seemed like a waste of time to go down there, for nobody ever comes; so i thought i'd spend the time with tug." the man says this in a tone of apology, as though accustomed to making explanations for lack of attention to business; and as he leads the way he is not at all like the jolly fellow who laughed so immoderately, while leaning against the building, at his own weak joke; but perhaps he is one thing when on duty, and another when he is out airing himself. however this may be, the stranger follows, taking long strides to keep up, and occasionally stumbling over the person who has been referred to as tug, and who appears to be unjointed in his legs; for when room is made for him on the left-hand side of the walk, he is sure suddenly to turn up on the right. thus they hurry along without speaking, until at length a dim light appears directly ahead of them, and coming up to this presently, the stranger finds that it comes from a building lying across the course in which they are travelling; for the street leading up from the river and the station ends abruptly in that direction with the hotel, as it ended in the other with the station. another street crosses here at right angles, and the hotel turns travellers either to the right or to the left. when the three men enter the place, and the light is turned up, the traveller sees that it had formerly been a business place; that it has been patched and pieced, and does not seem to answer the purpose for which it is being used without a protest, for the guests fall down two steps when they attempt to enter the dining-room, and everyone is compelled to go outside the office to get to the stairway leading to the rooms above. in its better days the room used as an office had probably been a provision store; for the whitewash on the walls does not entirely cover price-lists referring to chickens and hams and oats and flour. "i am the clerk here," the man who had carried the lantern says, as he brings out a chair for the stranger, but condemns it after examination because both the back legs are gone, and it can only be used when leaning against the wall. "i am sorry i was not at the station to meet you; but it is so seldom that anyone comes that i hope you will not mention it to him," pointing his thumb upward, evidently referring to the proprietor sleeping above. the arrival was thinking that queer little men like the one before him were to be found at every country hotel he had ever visited, acting as clerk during the hours when there was no business, and as hostler and waiter during the day, but he rather liked the appearance of this fellow, for he seemed more intelligent than the most of them, so he turned to listen to what he was saying, at the same time recollecting that he himself had suddenly become very grave. "this is not much of a hotel," the clerk continues, at last fishing out a chair that seems to be strong, and placing it in front of the guest; "but it is the best davy affords. the hotel, though, is better than the town; you will find that out soon enough." a small man, of uncertain age, the clerk turns out to be, now that the light is upon him. he may be thirty, or forty, or fifty; for, judged in some ways, he looks old, while judged in other ways he looks young; but it is certain that he is not jolly around the hotel as he was on the street, for he is very meek, and occasionally strokes his pale face, which is beardless, with the exception of a meek little tuft on either side, as though he thinks that since he has been caught laughing it will go hard with him. after looking at his companion, with an amused smile, for a moment, the stranger says that he will not mention anything, good or bad, "to him," whoever he may be, and, while thinking to himself that "davy" is a familiar way of referring to davy's bend, he notices that the man who has already been called tug, and who has found a chair and is sitting bolt upright in it, is eyeing him closely. he also remarks that tug is hideously ugly, and that he is dressed in a suit of seedy black, which has once been respectable, but is now so sleek, from long use, that it glistens in the lamplight. he has a shock of hair, and a shock of beard, both of which seem to have been trimmed recently by a very awkward person; and the stranger also notices, in the course of his idle examination, that one of tug's eyes, the left one, is very wide open, while the other is so nearly shut that generally the man seems to be aiming at something. when tug winks with the eye that is wide open, the one that is nearly shut remains perfectly motionless, but follows the example presently, and winks independently and of its own accord, so that the stranger thinks of him as walking with his eyes, taking a tremendous leap with his left, and then a limp with his right. tug continues his observations, in spite of the cold stare of the stranger, and makes several discoveries, one of which is, that the stranger has a rather good-looking face and a large and restless eye. tug imagines that he can read the man's character in his eye as easily as in an open book, for it has varying moods, and seems to be resolute at one moment, and gloomy and discontented at another. although he is looking straight at him, tug is certain that the stranger's thoughts are not always in davy's bend; and, while thinking that the stranger has important matters to think of somewhere, the clerk returns from the kitchen, carrying in his arms a great piece of cold beef, a loaf of bread, a half a pie in a tin plate, and a coffee-pot and a tumbler. covering with a newspaper a round table that stands in the room, he places the articles upon it, and asks the guest to sit up and help himself. the stranger declined, but he noticed that tug, from his position against the wall, was walking toward the table with his eyes, with first a long step and then a short one, and that at a sign from his friend he walked over hurriedly with his legs, and went to work with a ravenous appetite, putting pieces of meat and bread into his mouth large enough to strangle him. this convinced the stranger that the lunch was really prepared for tug, and that there would have been disappointment had he accepted the clerk's invitation. "i don't suppose you care to know it," the clerk said, seating himself, and apparently enjoying the manner in which tug was disposing of the cold meat, "but my name is silas davy. i am what is known as a good fellow, and my father was a good fellow before me. he discovered this town, or located it, or settled here first, or something of that kind, and once had a great deal of property; but, being a good fellow, he couldn't keep it. if you will give me your name, i will introduce you to my friend, mr. tug whittle." "i don't care to know him," the guest replied, somewhat ill-humoredly, his restless eyes indicating that his thoughts had just returned from a journey out in the world somewhere, as they finally settled on tug. "i don't like his looks." tug looked up at this remark, sighted awhile at the guest with his right eye, and, after swallowing his last mouthful, with an effort, pointed a finger at him, to intimate that he was about to speak. "did you see any ragged or sore-eyed people get off the train to-night?" he inquired, in a deep bass voice, still pointing with his bony finger, and aiming along it with his little eye. the guest acted as though he had a mind not to reply, but at last said he was the only passenger for davy's bend. "i was expecting more of my wife's kin," tug said, with an angry snort, taking down his finger to turn over the meat-bone, and using his eye to look for a place not yet attacked. "come to think about it, though, they are not likely to arrive by rail; they will probably reach town on foot, in the morning. they are too poor to ride. i wish they were too sick to walk, damn them. do you happen to know what the word ornery means?" the guest acted as though he had a mind not to reply again, but finally shook his head, after some hesitation. "well," the ugly fellow said, "if you stay here,--which i don't believe you will, for you look too much like a good one to remain here long,--i'll introduce you not only to the word but to the kin. after you have seen my wife's relations, you'll fight when anybody calls you ornery." finding a likely spot on the meat-bone at the conclusion of this speech, mr. whittle went on with his eating, and was silent. "there are a great many people who do not like tug's looks," the clerk went on to say, without noticing the interruption, and looking admiringly at that individual, as though he could not understand why he was not more generally admired; "so it is not surprising that you are suspicious of him. i do not say it with reference to you, for you do not know him; but my opinion is that the people dislike him because of his mind. he knows too much to suit them, and they hate him." by this time tug had wiped up everything before him, and after transferring the grease and pie crumbs from his lips and beard to his sleeve, the three men were silent, listening to the rain on the outside, and taking turns in looking out of the windows into the darkness. "i suppose the shutters are rattling dismally up at the locks to-night," silas davy said. "and the windows! lord, how the windows must rattle! i've been told that when there isn't a breath of air the shutters and windows at the locks go on at a great rate, and they must be at it to-night, for i have never known it to be so oppressive and still before." "and the light," tug suggested, removing his aim from the stranger a moment, and directing it toward davy. "yes, the light, of course," davy assented. "they say--i don't know who says it in particular, but everybody says it in general--that on a night like this a light appears in the lower rooms, where it disappears and is seen in the front hall; then in the upper hall, and then in an upper room, where it goes out finally, as if someone had been sitting down-stairs, in the dark, and had struck a light to show him up to bed. there is no key to the room where the light disappears, and those who visit the house are not permitted to enter it. i have never seen the light myself, but i have been to the house on windy, noisy days, and it was as silent on the inside as a tomb. the windows and shutters being noisy on quiet nights, i suppose they feel the need of a rest when the wind is blowing." the guest was paying a good deal of attention, and davy went on talking. "the place has not been occupied in a great many years. the man who built it, and occupied it, and who owns it now, made money in davy's bend, and went away to the city to live, where he has grown so rich that he has never sent for the plunder locked up in the rooms; i suppose it is not good enough for him now, for i am told that he is very proud. he has been trying to sell the place ever since, but davy began going down hill about that time, and the people have been kicking it so sturdily ever since that nobody will take it. and i don't blame them, for it is nothing more than a nest for ghosts, even if it is big, and respectable-looking, and well furnished." the guest's mind is evidently in davy's bend now, for he has been paying close attention to the clerk as he talks in a modest easy fashion, even neglecting his first ambition to stare mr. whittle out of countenance. it may be that he is in need of an establishment, and is looking out for one; but certainly he takes considerable interest in the place silas davy referred to as the locks. "who has the renting of the house?" he interrupted the clerk to inquire. the clerk got up from his chair, and, walking over to that portion of the room where the counter was located, took from a nail a brass ring containing a number of keys of about the same size. "here are the keys," davy said, returning to his chair, and holding them up for inspection. "number one admits you to the grounds through the iron gate; number two opens the front door; number three, any of the rooms leading off from the hall down stairs; number four, any of the rooms opening off from the hall up stairs; and number five and number six, any of the other rooms. _we_ are the agents, i believe, though am not certain; but anyway we keep the keys. the place came to be known as the locks because of the number of keys that were given to those who applied to see it, and the locks it has been ever since." the stranger rose to his feet, and paced up and down the room awhile, thinking all the time so intently that it occurred to tug that he was puzzled to decide whether his family would consent to live in a place which had the reputation of being visited by a ghost carrying a light. "i would like to see this house," he said, stopping in his walk finally, and addressing davy. "i may become a purchaser. will you show me the way to it, now?" up to this time, since polishing the meat-bone, tug had occupied himself by aiming at the stranger, but as if the suggestion of a walk up to the locks was pleasing to him, he jumped to his feet, and walked towards the door. silas davy made no other reply than to put the ring containing the keys on his arm, and, putting out the light, the three men stepped out into the rain together. the locks appear to be located towards the river; not down where the railway train stops to take people on who desire to get away from davy's bend, but higher up the street running at right angles in front of the hotel, for the men walk in that direction, davy and tug ahead carrying the lantern, with their arms locked together, and the stranger behind, who thinks the two men are a queer pair, for they seem to enjoy being out in the rain, and one of them, the smaller one, laughs frequently but timidly, while the other snorts in a manner which the stranger recognizes as signifying pleasure. occasionally they stop to light the stranger's steps on reaching a particularly bad place, and when he has passed it they go on again; up hill and down, toward the river, and when they stop at last, it is so dark that the stranger does not know that they have reached a stone wall with an iron gate opening into an enclosure, until he comes entirely up to them. the lock turns heavily, and tug condescends to hold the lantern while silas applies both hands to the key. upon the inside a long stone walk, leading toward the house, then a flight of stone steps, and a porch is reached, where they are out of the rain. silas selects a key from the collection he carries on his arm, and, once more calling upon tug to hold the light, opens the door, and they all enter the wide hall. considering that the house has not been occupied for eight years, it is in good condition. as they walk through the different rooms, davy opening the doors from the bunch of keys on his arm, the stranger notices that they are decently furnished, everything being plain and substantial; and he hears for the first time, while standing in front of the door that is not to be opened, that an old lady and her grand-daughter live on the grounds in a detached building, who, when she sees fit, airs and dusts the rooms, and that she has lived there for eight years, in the pay of the owner. this explains the good condition of everything, and they continue their investigation by the dim light of the lantern. there are ten rooms in all, counting the two in the attic, all of them furnished, from the kitchen to the parlor; and the stranger is so well pleased that he inquires the rent asked, and the purchase price. silas davy is not certain as to either, but promises that his proprietor will give full particulars in the morning. "i will take the house," the stranger finally says, after a lamp has been found and lighted, and seating himself in a chair as an intimation that he is ready for the two men to depart. "if i do not buy it i will rent it, and i will stay here to-night." tug is willing to depart at once, but silas lags behind, and seems to be ill at ease. "have you any objection to giving me your name, that i may record it at the house?" he respectfully asks. "oh, my name," the stranger returns. "sure enough; i had forgotten that." it seems to have escaped him, for while silas stands waiting, he studies for a long time, contracting his brow until he looks so fierce and savage that tug, who has been aiming at him from the door, steps out into the hall to get out of the way. "you may register me as allan dorris," he said at last, getting up from his chair, and looking confused, "from nowhere-in-particular. it is not important where i am from, so long as i am responsible; and i will convince your proprietor of that in the morning. you will oblige me if you will step over to the quarters of the old lady you spoke of, and inform her that there is a new master at the locks, and that he has taken possession. when you return i will show you out." "i neglected to mention," silas says, after making a note of what the stranger has said on an envelope, "that you can open and close the gate from this room, and lock and unlock it. there is also a speaking-tube leading from this room, whereby you can converse with persons on the outside. i will call you up when i go out. it is located here, behind the door." the two men step over to examine it, and tug creeps in to look too, and after sighting at it awhile returns to the hall. the apparatus consists of an iron lever, with a show of chains running over pulleys and disappearing through the floor, and a speaking-tube. silas explains that when the lever is up the gate is open, and when it is down the gate is shut and locked. both men try it, and conclude that, with a little oil; it will work very well, leaving it open so that the men may pass out. there being no further excuse for remaining, silas and his ugly friend start down the stairs, the stranger holding the light at the top; and after they have passed out of the door and slammed it to work the spring lock, and tried it to see that it is locked, allan dorris returns to the room they have just left. the grate in the room is filled with wood, and there is kindling at the bottom, probably put there years before, judging by the dust; and the stranger lights this, intending to dry his wet clothing. while about it there is a whistle from the speaking-tube, and going over to it and replying, a sepulchral voice comes to him from somewhere to the effect that mrs. wedge, the housekeeper, is delighted to hear that the house is to be occupied at last; that she will call upon the new master in the morning to pay her respects, as well as to make her arrangements for the future; and, good night. the stranger says good night in return, pulls the lever down, which closes and locks the gate, and returns to the fire, which is burning brightly by this time. "allan dorris, from nowhere-in-particular," he mutters after he is seated, and while watching his steaming garments. there is an amused look on his face at first, as he repeats the name, but a frown soon takes its place, that grows blacker as he crouches down into his chair, and looks at the fire. at length he seems to tire of his thoughts, for he gets up and walks the floor, pausing occasionally to look curiously at the pictures on the walls, or at the carpet, or at the furniture. if he returns to his chair, the frown appears on his face again, and once more he walks to get rid of his thoughts. this is continued so long that the darkness finally gets tired of looking in at the windows, and hurries away at the approach of day. from time to time, as the light increases, he steps to the window and looks out; and when walking away, after a long look at davy's bend through the morning mist, he mutters:-- "allan dorris, if you are from nowhere-in-particular, you are at home again." chapter ii. the locks. from the southern windows of the locks, allan dorris looked with curious interest the day after his arrival, and the week and the month following, for he remained there for that length of time without going out, except to walk along the country roads for exercise, where he occasionally met wagons containing men who cursed the town they were leaving for its dullness. the dwellings of davy's bend were built upon hills sloping toward the little valley where the business houses were, and which poured a flood of water and mud into the long streets in rainy weather through gaping gullies of yellow clay. the rains seemed to be so fierce and frequent there that in the course of time they had cut down the streets, leaving the houses perching on hills above them, which were reached by flights of steps; and this impression was strengthened by the circumstance that it was a wet time, for it rained almost incessantly. the houses were a good way apart, so far as he could see from his southern windows; and this circumstance caused him to imagine that the people were suspicious of each other, and he noticed that while many of them had once been of a pretending character, they were now generally neglected; and that there was a quiet air everywhere that reminded him of the country visited in his walks. the houses themselves appeared to look at him with a cynical air, as the people did, as if to intimate that he need not hope to surprise them with his importance, or with anything he might do, for their quiet streets had once resounded to the tread of busy feet, and they had seen strangers before, and knew the ways of men. some of the dwellings perching on the hills, deserted now except as to bats and owls, resembled unfortunate city men in a village; for there was a conspicuous air of decayed propriety about them, and an attempt at respectability that would have been successful but for lack of means. these in particular, he thought, made faces at him, and sneered as he passed through their part of the town in his walks to and from the country roads. several times he heard parties of men passing his house at night, talking loudly to make themselves heard above the jolting of their wagons; and these usually had something to say about the new owner of the locks, from which he imagined that there was much speculation in the town concerning him. the house in which he lived was such a gloomy place, and he was shut up in it alone for such a length of time, that he came to listen to the sound of human voices with pleasure, and often went to the windows to watch for the approach of wagons, that he might hear the voices of their occupants; for there were no solitary travellers that way, and while the men may have been dissatisfied with themselves and their surroundings, they at least had company. he longed to join these parties, and go with them to their homes, for he thought the companionship of rough men and their families would be preferable to the stillness of his house; but the wagons drove on, and allan dorris returned to his walk across the room, and back again. from the window most patronized by him in his lonely hours he could see a long stretch of the river, and at a point opposite the town a steam ferry was moored. usually smoke was to be seen flying from its pipes during the middle hours of the day, as it made a few lazy trips from one shore to the other; but occasionally it was not disturbed at all, and sat quietly upon the water like a great bird from morning until night. from making excursions about his own premises, as a relief from doing nothing, he found that the house in which he lived was situated in a wooded tract of several acres in extent, entirely surrounded by a high stone wall, with two entrances; one in front, by means of a heavy iron gate, which looked like a prison door, and a smaller one down by the stable. the stable, which was built of brick, had been occupied by pigeons without objection for so many years that they were now very numerous, and protested in reels and whirls and dives and dips in the air against the new owner coming among them at all; perhaps they imagined that in time they would be permitted to occupy the house itself, and rear their young in more respectable quarters. there were a few fruit and ornamental trees scattered among the others, but they had been so long neglected as to become almost as wild as the native oaks and hickories. occasionally a tall poplar shot its head above the others, and in his idleness allan dorris imagined that they were trying to get away from the dampness below, for in the corners, and along the stone wall, there was such a rank growth of vines and weeds that he was almost afraid to enter the dank labyrinth himself. there was a quaking asp, too, which was always shivering at thought of the danger that might be concealed in the undergrowth at its feet, and even the stout hickories climbed a good way into the air to insure their safety. close to the south wall, so close that he could almost touch it, stood a stone church, with so many gables that there seemed to be one for every pigeon from the stable, and on certain days of the week someone came there to practise on the organ. at times the music was exquisite, and in his rambles about the place he always went down by the south wall to listen for the organ, and if he heard it he remained there until the music ceased. the music pleased him so much, and was such a comfort in his loneliness, that he did not care to see the player, having in his mind a spectacled and disagreeable person whose appearance would rob the spell of its charm; therefore he kept out of his way, though, on the days when the music could be expected, dorris was always in his place, impatiently waiting for it to commence. there was something in the playing with which he seemed to have been acquainted all his life; it may have been only the expression of weariness and sad melancholy that belongs to all these instruments, but, however it was, he regarded the organ as an old acquaintance, and took much pleasure in its company even when it was silent, for it occupied a great stone house like himself, and had nothing to do. between the stable and the house was the residence of mrs. wedge, the housekeeper--a building that had originally been a detached kitchen, but the cunning of woman had transformed the two rooms into a pleasant and cozy place. this looked home-like and attractive, as there were vines over it and flowers about the door; and here allan dorris found himself lingering from day to day, for he seemed to crave companionship, though he was ashamed to own it and go out and seek it. instead of dining in the stone house, he usually sat down at mrs. wedge's table, which he supplied with a lavish hand, and lingered about until he thought it necessary to go away, when he tried to amuse himself in the yard by various exercises, which were probably recollections of his younger days; but he failed at it, and soon came back to ask the motherly old housekeeper odd questions, and laugh good-naturedly at her odd answers. a highly respectable old lady was mrs. wedge, in her black cloth dress and snowy white cap, and no one was more generally respected in davy's bend. during his life mr. wedge had been a strolling agent, never stopping in a town more than a week; and thus she lived and travelled about, always hoping for a quiet home, until her good-natured but shiftless husband took to his bed one day, and never got up again, leaving as her inheritance his blessing and a wild son of thirteen, who knew all about the ways of the world, but nothing of industry. hearing of davy's bend soon after as a growing place,--which was a long time ago, for davy's bend was not a growing place now,--she apprenticed her son to a farmer, and entered the service of the owner of the locks, under whose roof she had since lived. the wild son did not take kindly to farming, and ran away; and his mother did not hear of him again until four years after she was living alone in the locks, when a little girl five years old arrived, accompanied by a letter, stating that the son had lived a wanderer like his father, and that the child's mother being dead, he hoped mrs. wedge would take care of his daughter betty until the father made his fortune. but the father never made his fortune; anyway, he never called for the child, and mrs. wedge had found in her grand-daughter a companion and a comfort, passing her days in peace and quiet. therefore when the new owner offered her a home there, and wages besides, in return for her agreement to undertake his small services, she accepted--having become attached to the place--and lived on as before. the house itself, which was built of stone, and almost square, contained ten rooms; four of about the same size below, and four exactly like them above, and two in the attic or half story in the roof. there were wide halls up stairs and down, and out of the room that allan dorris had selected for his own use, and which was on the corner looking one way toward the gate in front, and the other toward the town, began a covered stairway leading to the attic. in this room he sat day after day, and slept night after night, until he almost became afraid of the quiet that he believed he coveted when he came to davy's bend; and at times he looked longingly toward the speaking-tube behind the door, hoping it would whistle an announcement that a visitor had arrived; for his habit of sitting quietly looking at nothing, until his thoughts became so disagreeable that he took long walks about the place to rid himself of them, was growing upon him. but no visitors came to vary the monotony, except the agent on the morning after his arrival, who received a quarter's rent in advance, and afterwards named a price so low that allan dorris bought the place outright, receiving credit for the rent already paid. had the dark nights that looked in at allan dorris's windows, and for which davy's bend seemed to be famous, been able to remark it, there would have been much mysterious gossip through the town concerning his strange actions. whenever he sat down, his eyes were at once fixed on nothing, and he lost himself in thought; he was oblivious to everything, and the longer he thought, the fiercer his looks became, until finally he sprang from his chair and walked violently about, as if his body was trying to escape from his head, which contained the objectionable thoughts. at times he would laugh hoarsely, and declare that he was better off at the locks than he had ever been before, and that davy's bend was the best place in which he had ever lived; but these declarations did not afford him peace, for he was soon as gloomy and thoughtful as ever. that he was ill at ease, the dark nights could have easily seen had they been blessed with eyes; for the dread of loneliness grew upon him, and frequently he sent for mrs. wedge, confessing to her that he was lonely, and that she would oblige him by talking, no matter what it was about. mrs. wedge would politely comply, and in a dignified way relate how, on her visits to the stores to purchase supplies, great curiosity was everywhere expressed with reference to the new master of the locks,--what business he would engage in; where he came from; and, most of all, there was a universal opinion that he had bought the locks for almost nothing. "a great many say they would have taken the place at the price themselves," mrs. wedge would continue, smoothing down the folds of her apron, a habit of which she never tired, "but this is not necessarily true. the people here never want to buy anything until it is out of the market; which gives them excuse for grumbling, of which they have great need, for they have little else to do. i believe the price at which you took the house was lower than it was ever offered before,--but that is neither here nor there." then mrs. wedge would tell of the queer old town, in a quaint way, and of the people, which amused her employer; and noticing that, in his easy chair, he seemed to enjoy her company, she would smooth out her apron once more, and continue:-- "they all agree,"--there would be an amused smile on mrs. wedge's face as she said it,--"they all agree that you do not amount to much, else you would have gone to ben's city, instead of coming here. this is always said of every stranger, for davy's bend is so dull that its people have forgotten their patriotism. i have not heard a good word for the town in ten years, but it is always being denounced, and cursed, and ridiculed. i think we despise each other because we do not move to ben's city, and we live very much as i imagine the prisoners in a jail do,--in cursing our home, in lounging, in idle talk, and in expecting that each one of us will finally be fortunate, while the condition of the others will grow worse. we are a strange community." dorris expressed surprise at the size of the church near the locks, and wondered at the deserted houses which he had seen in his walks, whereupon mrs. wedge explained that davy's bend was once a prosperous city, containing five thousand busy people, but it had had bad luck since; very bad luck, for less than a fifth of that number now remained, and even they are trying to get away. what is the cause of this decrease in population? the growth of ben's city, thirty miles down the river. the belief which existed at one time that a great town would be built at davy's bend turned out to be a mistake. ben's city seemed to be the place; so the people had been going there for a number of years, leaving davy's bend to get along as best it could. this, and much more, from mrs. wedge, until at a late hour she notices that dorris is asleep in his chair, probably having got rid of his thoughts; so she takes up the lamp to retire with it. holding it up so that the shade throws the light full upon his face, she remarks to herself that she is certain he is a good, an honorable, and a safe man, whoever he is, for she prides herself on knowing something about men, and arranging the room for the night, although it does not need it, she goes quietly down the stairs, out at a door in a lower room, and into her own apartment. chapter iii. the face at the window. allan dorris sleeps on, unconscious of the darkness peering in at him from the outside, which is also running riot in the town, and particularly down by the river, where the crazy houses with their boarded windows seem to collect shadows during the day for use at night, robbing the sunlight for the purpose; for there is little brightness and warmth at davy's bend, but much of dampness and hazy atmosphere. there is light and life down this way; a light in the window of the wretched house occupied by mr. tug whittle, and all the neighboring buildings are alive with rats and vermin. tug occupies his house for the same reason that the rats occupy theirs, for in this quarter of the town the tenants pay no rent. some of the buildings were once busy warehouses and stores, but they have been turned over to the rats these ten years, and tug occupies a little frame one from choice, as he argues that if it falls down from old age, there will not be so many ruins in which to bury the tenants. besides, the big buildings shelter him from the cold north winds in winter, and do not interfere with the southern breezes from the river in summer; therefore the faded sign of "t. whittle, law office," swings in front of the little frame building back from the street, instead of from the more imposing ones by its side. everybody knows tug whittle, and admits that he is perfectly harmless and hopelessly lazy--always excepting silas davy, who believes that his friend is very energetic and dangerous; therefore when silas is unable to hold a position because he is a good fellow, or because he spends so much time at night with tug that he is unfit for work during the day, he is also an inhabitant of the little law office, along with the lawyer and the rats, although it is not much of a law office, for it contains nothing but a stove, half cooking and half heating, a bed that looks as though it came from the fourth story of a cheap hotel, a few broken chairs, a box that is the lawyer's table, and a few other articles common to a kitchen, all of them second-hand, and very poor. there is nothing about the place to suggest a law office save the sign in front, and a single leather-covered book on the inside; a ponderous volume to which mr. whittle applies for everything, including kindling. silas has seen him look through it to decide questions in science, theology, law, and history, and tear leaves out of it with which to start his fire; and while a cunning man would have guessed that mr. whittle made up his authority, instead of finding it in the book, silas davy, who is not cunning, believes that it is a repository of secrets of every kind, although it is really a treatise on a law which has been repealed many years. when silas so far forgets himself as to mildly question something his companion has said, mr. whittle refers to the book, and triumphantly proves his position, no difference what it may be; whereupon the little man feels much humiliated. mr. whittle has even been known to refer to the book to convict his enemies in davy's bend of various offences; and silas has so much respect for the volume that he has no trouble in imagining that the den in which tug lives is not only a law office, but a repository of profane, political, and sacred history, to say nothing of the sciences and the town scandal. like the rats again, tug lies by during the day, and goes abroad at night, for he is seldom seen on the streets until the sun goes down, and he is not entirely himself until after midnight. occasionally, on dark, bad days he is to be seen walking about, but not often, and it is known that he sleeps most of the day on the rough bed in his rough office. if he is disturbed by idle boys, which is sometimes the case, he gets up long enough to drive them away, and returns to his bed until it is dark, when he yawns and stretches himself, and waits patiently for silas davy, who is due about that hour with his supper. but for silas davy, like the rats again, tug would be compelled to steal for a living; for he never works, but silas believes in him, and admires him, and whenever he is employed, he saves half of what he gets for his friend, who eats it, and is not grateful. indeed, he often looks at silas as much as to say that he is not providing for him as well as he should, whereupon silas looks downcast and miserable; but, all in all, they get along very well together. up to the present rainy and wet year of our lord eighteen hundred and no difference what, tug has never admired anyone, so far as is known; but he admires allan dorris, the new owner of the locks, and frequently says to silas that "_there_ is a man," at the same time aiming his big eye in the direction dorris is supposed to be. there is every reason why tug should admire silas davy, who is very good to him, but he does not, except in a way, and which is a very poor way; and there is no reason why he should admire allan dorris, who is suspicious of him, but he does, and on this night, silas having arrived early with his supper, he is killing two birds with one stone, by discussing both at the same time. "by the horns of a tough bull," tug says, which is his way of swearing, "but there _is_ a man. muscle, brain, clothes, independence, money; everything. what, no butter to-night?" he says this impatiently after running through the package his companion has brought, and not finding what he was looking for; and silas humbly apologizes, saying he could not possibly get it at the hotel. "well, no matter," tug continued in an injured way, using a pickle and two slices of bread as a sandwich. "it will come around all right some day. when i come into my rights, i'll have butter to spare. but this impudent dorris; i like him. he has the form of an apollo and the muscle of a giant. if he should hit you, you would fall so fast that your rings would fly off your fingers. he's the kind of a man i'd be if i had my rights." while tug is munching away at his supper, davy remembers how unjust the people are with reference to these same rights; how they say he has none, and never will have, except the right to die as soon as possible. the people say that tug's wife, the milliner, drove him from her house because he would not work, and because he was ugly in disposition, as well as in face and person; that it was soon found out that he was not so dangerous, after all, when men were talking to him, so they have regarded him as a harmless but eccentric loafer ever since. some of the people believe that tug does not appear on the streets during the day for fear of meeting his wife, while others contend that he goes out only at night because he is up to mischief; but neither class care to question him about the matter, for he has a mean tongue in his head, and knows how to defend himself, even though he is compelled to invent facts for the purpose. but davy knows that tug can tell a very different story, and tell it well, and he is sure that there will be a genuine sensation when he finally tells it, and comes into his own. "what a voice he has, and what a eye," mr. whittle goes on to say, throwing a leg over a chair to be comfortable. "i usually despise a decent man because i am not one myself, but this fellow--damn him, i like him." silas davy was the sort of a man who is never surprised at anything. had he been told on a dark night that it was raining blood on the outside, he would not have disputed it, or investigated it, believing that such storms were common, though they had escaped his observation; therefore he was not surprised that tug admired allan dorris, although he knew he had no reason to. "i have known people to come here and denounce us for a lack of culture who knew nothing about propriety except to eat pie with a fork," mr. whittle said again; "but this dorris,--i'll bet he practises the proprieties instead of preaching them. he don't remind me of the people who come here and call us ignorant cattle because we do not buy their daub paintings at extravagant prices, or take lessons from them; _he_ don't look like the cheap fellows who declare that we lack cultivation because we refuse to patronize their fiddle and pianow concerts, therefore look out for dorris. he's a man, sure enough; i'll stake every dollar i'm worth and my reputation on it." although he had neglected to bring butter, the supper silas had brought was good enough to put mr. whittle in a cheerful humor, and he continued,-- "the people around here put me in mind of the freaks in a dime museum; but dorris's clothes fit him, and he looks well. there are plenty of men so common that they look shabby in broadcloth, and who are so miserably shaped that no tailor can fit their bones; but this fellow--he would look well with a blanket thrown over his shoulders, and running wild. hereafter, when i refer to my rights, understand that i would be a dorris sort of a fellow were justice done me. did you bring me a drink?" silas produced a flask from his pocket, and while tug was mixing the contents with sugar, by means of stirring them together with a spoon in a tumbler, making a cheerful, tinkling sound the while, he delivered a stirring temperance lecture to his companion. he did this so often that silas regarded himself as a great drunkard, although that was not one of his failings; but he felt grateful to tug, who drank a great deal, for his good advice. he was so mortified to think of his bad habits and tug's worthiness, that he turned his face away, unable to reply. "dorris reminds me of a young widow two years after the funeral," mr. whittle said, after drinking the dram he had prepared. "handsome, clean, well-dressed, and attractive. i have an ambition to be a young widow myself, but owing to the circumstance that i have been defrauded of my rights, at present i look like a married woman with six children who does not get along with her husband. in short, i am slouchy, and ill-tempered, and generally unattractive, with an old wrapper on, and my hair down. ben, come here." the light in the room was so dim that it had not yet revealed to the eyes of silas the form of a boy seated on a low box at the side of the room farthest from him, who now came over into the rays of the lamp, and looked timidly at tug. silas knew the boy very well; little ben whittle, the son of his friend, who worked on a farm three miles in the country, and who came to town occasionally after dark to see silas, who treated him well, but always returning in time to be called in the morning; for his employer was a rough man, and very savage to his horses and cattle and boys. ben was dressed in a coat no longer than a jacket, buttoned tightly around his body, and his pants were so short that they did not nearly touch the tops of his rough shoes. he wore on his head a crazy old hat, through the torn top of which his uncombed hair protruded, and altogether he was such a distressing sight that davy was always pitying him, although he was never able to do him much good, except to treat him kindly when he came to the hotel at long intervals, and give him something to eat. "are you hungry?" tug inquired, looking sharply at the boy, as he stood cringing before him. "yes, sir, if you please." "then help yourself," his father roughly returned, crabbed because ben had told the truth, and pointing to the table; whereupon the boy went to nibbling away at the crumbs and bones remaining of the lunch brought by silas. little ben was so surprisingly small for a boy of eleven that he was compelled to stand to reach the crumbs and bones, but his father regarded him as a brawny youth as tough as dogwood. "when i was a boy of his age," tug said to davy, "they dressed me up in good clothes, and admired me, and thought i was about the cutest thing on earth, but i wasn't." davy looked up as if to inquire what he really was at ben's age, and received an answer. "i was an impudent imp, and detested by all the neighbors; that's the truth. my father used to go around town, and tell the people the cute things i said, instead of making me go to work, and teaching me industry; but the people didn't share his enthusiasm, and referred to me as that 'worthless whittle boy.' ben, what can you do?" "i can cut corn, sir, and drive the team, and plough a little," the boy replied, startled by his father's loud voice. "anything else?" "i can't remember everything, sir. i do as much as i can." little ben did not look as though he could be of much use on a farm, for he was very thin, and very weak-looking; but apparently this did not occur to his father, who continued to stare at him as though he wondered at his strength. "think of that, will you," tug continued, addressing silas again. "he can cut corn, and plough, and all that, and only eleven years old. why, when he gets to be thirteen or fourteen he will whip old quade, and take possession of the farm! what could i do when i was eleven years old? nothing but whine, and i was always at it, although i was brought up in a house with three-ply carpets on the floor, and always treated well. i was treated _too_ well, and i intend to make a man out of ben by seeing that he is treated as mean as possible. look here, you," he added turning toward the boy, "when old quade fails to lick you twice a day, get your hat and run for me; and i'll try and make you so miserable that you'll amount to something as a man." it was the opinion of davy that ben was meanly enough treated already, not only by his father, but by the farmer with whom he worked; for no one seemed to be kind to the boy except himself, and he made his long journeys to town for no other reason than to hear davy's gentle voice. but davy was afraid to say this to tug, and in his weakness could do nothing to help him. in the present instance he looked out of the window. "you are a fortunate boy in one respect, at least," the admiring father said to his son again. "your mother hates you, and you have a prospect of becoming a man. many a boy at your age has a good bed to sleep on, and plenty to eat, and will grow up into a loafer; but here you are on the high road to greatness. had my father been a wise man, as your father is, i might have been a storekeeper now instead of what i am; therefore don't let me hear you complain--i'll give you something to complain about if i do. the ways of providence may be a little mysterious to you now, you robust rascal; but when the hon. benjamin whittle goes to congress he will tell the reporter who writes him up that his father was a kind, thoughtful man who did a great deal for him." there was something more than the darkness peering in at the window when silas davy looked that way; a good deal more--a strange man's face, which was flattened against the lower pane. at the moment that silas saw him, the man seemed to be using his eyes in investigating the other corner of the room, for he did not know for a moment that he was detected. when his gaze met silas davy's, he quickly drew away from the window, and disappeared; but not until silas remarked that it was a swarthy, malicious face, and that cunning and determination were expressed in its features. silas was not at all astonished at the appearance, as was his custom; but when he looked at tug again, to pay respectful attention to his next observation, he saw that he, too, had seen the face, for he was preparing to go out. "another stranger," tug said, as he looked for his hat. "we are becoming a great town." silas asked no questions, but when his companion stepped into the dirty street, leaving little ben alone, he followed, and walked a few paces behind him, as he hurried along in the direction of the inhabited portion of the town. as they neared the dismal lamps, and while they were yet in the darkness, they saw the figure of a tall man, enveloped in what seemed to be a waterproof cloak, turn into the main street, which ran parallel with the river, and walk toward the hotel where davy was employed. but the man wearing the cloak did not stop there, except to examine a scrap of paper under the light; after which he turned again, and walked in the direction of the locks. silas and his companion followed, as rapidly as they could, for there were no lights now, and they stumbled over the hills, and into the gullies, until the locks gate was reached, which they found ajar. this strange circumstance did not deter them from entering at once, though quietly and with caution, and together they crept up the pavement, and up the front steps, through the front door, which was wide open, and up the stairway, until they stopped in front of the door leading into the room occupied by allan dorris. everything was still; and as they stood there in the dark, listening, tug was surprised to find that davy was in front of him, whereas he had believed that he was in his rear. likewise silas davy was surprised, for while he was sure that tug had passed him, and gone lightly down the stairs, a moment afterward he put his hand on him, and knew that he was bending over, and listening at the keyhole. but nothing could be heard except the regular breathing of allan dorris as he slept in his chair, although they now realized that the mysterious stranger had passed them on the stairs, and was on the outside; so they crept down the stairs, and into the street, closing the door and gate after them. over the hills and into the hollows again; so they travelled back to their retreat down by the river, where they greatly surprised little ben and the rats by opening the door suddenly and walking in upon them. silas dropped down on the bed, and tug into a chair, where they remained a long time without speaking. "what do you make of it?" tug inquired at last. "nothing," silas returned. there was another long silence, which was finally broken by tug remarking,-- "i make nothing of it, myself. we are agreed for once." chapter iv. davy's bend. it was generally agreed among the people of davy's bend--a thousand in number, the census said; six hundred they said themselves, for they changed the rule, and exaggerated their own situation unfavorably--that the town possessed more natural advantages than any other in the world. they demonstrated this with great cleverness, by means of maps drawn on brown wrapping-paper inside of the stores, and, after looking at their maps, they triumphantly exclaimed, with a whack of their fists on the counter, "there are the figures; and figures won't lie." but in spite of their maps showing valleys occupied with railroads (which capital neglected to build), ben's city, below them, continued to prosper, whereas davy's bend continued to go steadily down the hill. the people did little else than wonder at this, and curse capital because it did not locate in a town where nature was lavish in the matter of location, instead of going to a place where it would always find the necessity of contending against odds confronting it. such a town was ben's city, in the estimation of those living at davy's bend; but they must have been mistaken, for great houses and institutions grew up where little had been planted, and men with money trampled upon each other in their mad haste to take advantage of the prosperity that seemed to be in the air. those who drew the maps declared that a crash was soon to come, when the capitalists who did not know their own interests would trample upon each other in their haste to get away; but those who bought ben's city property, no difference at what price, soon sold out again at an advance; and the prosperity of the place was quite phenomenal. never was capital so thoroughly hated as in davy's bend. it was cursed a thousand times a day, and shown to be fickle and foolish and ungrateful; for evidences of these weaknesses on the part of capital abounded on every hand. there were railroads to be built out of davy's bend that would pay immensely, as had been demonstrated times without number by the local paper; but capital stubbornly refused to build them, preferring to earn a beggarly per cent elsewhere. there were manufactories to be built in davy's bend that would make their owners rich, as every child knew; but capital, after a full investigation, was so dull that it could not see the opportunity. the town was alive with opportunities for profitable investments, but capital, with a mean and dogged indifference, refused to come to davy's bend; therefore capital was hated, and bullied, and cursed, and denounced; and it was generally agreed that it deserved no better fate than to go to ruin in the general crash that would finally overtake ben's city. the people of davy's bend were a good deal like a grumbling and idle man, who spends the time which should be devoted to improving his condition to grumbling about his own ill luck and the good luck of his industrious rival, who is steadily prospering; and as men frequently believe that the fates are against them when they are themselves their only opposition, so it was generally believed in this wretched little town that some sort of a powerful and alert goddess was in league with ben's city. while they readily admitted their own points of advantage, even to the extent of giving themselves more credit than they deserved, they refused to be equally fair with their competitor, as men do, and contended, with an ignorant persistency, that ben's city was prosperous because of "luck," whereas they should have known that there is no such thing, either good or bad. but, in course of time, when they found that they would always be in the rear, no difference whether they liked it or not, the people of the bend, in order to more thoroughly denounce their own town for its lack of ability to attract capital, began to exaggerate the importance of ben's city. a four-story building there became seven stories high, and those who visited the place vied with each other in giving vivid and untruthful accounts of its growth and prosperity on their return; all of which their acquaintances repeated over and over, though they knew it to be untrue, even adding to the exaggerated statements, in order to bully their own meek town. probably they were not proud of the greatness of their rival; for they talked of it as a cowardly man might exaggerate the strength of the fellow who had whipped him, using it as an excuse for defeat. indeed, they were proud of nothing, except their own accounts of the greatness of davy's bend a long while before, when the huge warehouses were occupied, and before capital had combined against it; of this they talked in a boastful way, magnifying everything so much that many of the listeners who had not heard the beginning of the conversation imagined that they were talking of ben's city; but of bettering their present condition they had no thought,--by common consent it was so very bad that attempts to become prosperous again were useless, so the bend was a little worse off every year, like an old and unsuccessful man. most of the business men of davy's bend had been clerks in the days of the town's prosperity, making their own terms when their energetic employers wanted to get away, and in spite of the general dullness and lack of success, they entertained very good opinions of themselves; for no difference what a citizen's misfortunes were, he loaded them all on the town, and thus apologized for his own lack of ability. but for the circumstance that he was tied to davy's bend, he would have been great and distinguished; they all said the same thing, and in order to get his own story believed, every man found it necessary to accept the explanations of the others, or pretend to; so it happened that the people did not hold themselves responsible for anything,--the town in which they lived was to blame for everything that was disagreeable, and was denounced accordingly. the esteem with which the people regarded themselves was largely due to the manner in which they were referred to in the local paper, a ribald folio appearing once a week. none of the business men were advertisers, but they all gave the publisher free pardon if he referred to them in complimentary terms in his reading columns, and sent in his bill. thus, the merchant who did not own the few goods he displayed was often referred to as a merchant prince, with an exceedingly shrewd business head on his shoulders. sometimes notices of this character were left standing from week to week by the shiftless editor; a great number of them would occasionally get together on the same page, referring to different men as the shrewdest, the wisest, the most energetic, etc.; and it was very ridiculous, except to the persons concerned, who believed that the people read the notices with great pleasure. so great was the passion for puffery among them that designing men who heard of it came along quite frequently, and wrote the people up in special publications devoted to that kind of literature. there would be a pretence that the special edition was to be devoted to the town, but it really consisted of a few lines at the beginning, stating that davy's bend had more natural advantages than any other town in the world, and four pages of puffs of the people, at so much per line; whereupon the men made fun of all the notices except their own, believing that its statements were true, and generally accepted as a part of the town's history. a few of those who were able had engravings inserted, and the puff writers, in order to make the notices and bills as large as possible, told how long and how often the subjects had been married; how many children they had, together with their names, where they came from, and much other mild information of this character. it was known that many of the complimentary sketches were written by the persons to whom they referred; but while harrisonfield, the grocer, gave wide circulation to the fact that porterfield, of the dry-goods store, had referred to himself as an intellectual giant, and a business man of such sterling ability that he had received flattering offers to remove to ben's city, he did not know that porterfield was proving the same indiscretion with reference to himself. every new man who wrote up the town in this manner was more profuse with compliments of the people than his predecessor had been; and finally the common language was inadequate to describe their greatness, and they longed for somebody to come along who could "write," and who could fully explain how much each one was doing for the town; but although they all professed to be doing a great deal constantly for davy's bend, there was no reason to believe that any of them were accomplishing anything in this direction, for it could not have been duller than it was in the year of our lord just referred to. but there was an exception to this rule, as there is said to be to all others,--thompson benton, the merchant; the dealer in everything, as the advertisements on his wrapping-paper stated, for he advertised nowhere else. but he was reliable and sensible, as well as stout and surly; so it was generally conceded that he was the foremost citizen of the bend. not that he made a pretence to this distinction; old thompson was modest as well as capable, and whatever good was said of him came from the people themselves. had there been new people coming to davy's bend occasionally, it is possible that old thompson would not have been the leading citizen, for it was said that he "improved on acquaintance," and that people hated the ground he walked on until they had known him a dozen years or more, and found out his sterling virtues; but they had all known him a great many years, and therefore admired him in spite of themselves. thompson benton had been a resident of the town in the days of its prosperity, and ranked with the best of those who had moved away; but he preferred to remain, since he had become attached to his home, and feared that he could not find one which would suit him equally well elsewhere. besides, he owned precious property in the davy's bend cemetery, and lavished upon it the greatest care. hard though he was in his transactions with men, the memory of his wife was sacred to him; and many believed that, had she lived, he would have been less plain-spoken and matter-of-fact. this devotion was well known; and when the people found it necessary to forgive him for a new eccentricity,--for it was necessary to either forgive him or fight him,--they said he had never recovered his spirits since the day a coffin was driven up to his house. his store was always open at seven in the morning, and the proprietor always opened it himself, with a great iron key that looked as venerable and substantial as the hale old gentleman whose companion it had been so many years; for it was not a key of the new sort, that might lock up a trifling man's affairs, but a key that seemed to say as plainly as could be that it had money and notes and valuable goods of many kinds in its charge. at six in the evening his store was closed, and the proprietor turned the key, and put it into his pocket. at noon he ate his frugal dinner while seated on a high stool at his desk, and he had been heard to say that he had not eaten at home at midday in fifteen years; for on sundays he dined in state at five o'clock. there were no busy days in davy's bend, therefore he got along without a clerk, and managed his affairs so well that, in spite of the dulness of which there was such general complaint, he knew that he was a little richer at the close of every day, and that he was probably doing better than many of his old associates who were carrying on business with a great deal of noise and display in ben's city. certainly he was reputed to be rich, and those who were less industrious said that he should have retired years before, and given others a chance. thompson benton was known as a plain-spoken man, and if he thought one of his customers had acted dishonestly with him, he said so at the first opportunity, and gruffly hoped it wouldn't happen again; by which he was understood to mean that if it _did_ happen again, there would be a difficulty in which the right would triumph. indeed, he had been known to throw men out of the front door in a very rough manner, two and three at a time; but the people always said he was right, and so it usually turned out, for he was never offended without cause. if an impostor came to the town, the people were fully revenged if he called at benton's store, for the proprietor told him what he thought of him, and in language so plain that it was always understood. thompson benton's principal peculiarity was his refusal to be a fool. the men who threatened to leave the town because they were not appreciated received no petting from him; indeed, he told them to go, and try and find a place where they would not grumble so much. the successors of the business men who had moved away were always trying to invent new methods as an evidence of their ability, and some of them did not pay their debts because that was an old, though respectable, custom; they rejected everything old, no matter how acceptable it had proved itself, and got along in an indifferent manner with methods invented by themselves, though the methods of their inventing were usually lame and unsatisfactory. for such foolishness as this old thompson had no charity, as he believed in using the experience of others to his own profit; so he raised his voice against the customs of the town, and though he was usually abused for it, it was finally acknowledged that he was right. but notwithstanding his austere manner, the people had confidence in old thompson, and many of the town disputes were left to him. if the people had spare money, they asked the privilege of leaving it in his iron safe (which had belonged to the last bank that moved away), and took his receipt for it. when they wanted it again, it was always ready; and if the ben's city cracksmen ever came that way to look at the safe, they concluded that the proprietor would prove an ugly customer, for it was never disturbed. his family consisted of a maiden sister almost as old and odd as himself, and his daughter annie, who had been motherless since she was five years old. the people said that old thompson never smiled during the day except when his pretty daughter came in, and that his only recreation was in her society during two hours in the evening, when she read to him, or played, or sang. they were all certain that he was "wrapped up" in her, and it was also agreed that this devotion was not without cause; for a better girl or a prettier girl than annie benton was not to be found in all the country round. the house in which he lived was as stout as brick and mortar could make it; for the people said that he inspected every brick and stick as it was used; and when it was completed, his prudish sister, whom he referred to as the "ancient maiden," was equally careful in the furnishing, so that it was a very good house, and kept with scrupulous neatness. the ancient maiden's drafts were always honored, for nothing was too good for thompson benton's home; and those who went there never forgot the air of elegant comfort which pervaded everything. though thompson benton went down town in the morning with the men who worked by the day, and carried a lunch basket, he dined in the evening in state, surrounded by silver and china both rich and rare; though he worked ten hours a day, and ate a lunch at noon, he slept at night in a bed and in a room which would have rested a king; and his house was as good as any man's need be. very early in life annie benton learned, somehow, that it had been one of her father's pleasures, when he came home at night, to listen to her mother's piano-playing, when that excellent lady was alive; and, resolving to supply the vacant place, she studied so industriously with the poor teachers the town afforded that at fifteen she was complimented by frequent invitations to play for the glum and plain-spoken merchant. if she selected something frivolous, and played it in bad taste or time, and was not invited to play again for a long while, she understood that her music did not please him, and studied to remedy her fault. in course of time she found out what he wanted, though he never gave her advice or suggestion in reference to it; and he had amply repaid her for all the pains she had been to by saying once, after she had played for him half an hour in a dark room, while he rested on a sofa near her, that she was growing more like her mother every day. "there were few ladies like your mother, annie," old thompson would say, when the girl thanked him for his appreciation. "it pleases me that you remind me of her, and if you become as good a woman as she was, it will be very remarkable, for you have had no mother, poor child, to direct you in her way." annie would try harder than ever, after this, to imitate the virtues of the dead woman, and bothered the ancient maiden a great deal to find out what she was like. she was not a drone, that much was certain; therefore the daughter was not, and tried to be as useful in the hive as she imagined her mother had been, in every way in which a worthy woman distinguishes herself. in like manner the girl learned to read to please her father, and every day he brought home with him something he had come into possession of during the day, and which he wanted read; a book, a pamphlet, or a marked paragraph in a newspaper,--he seemed to read nothing himself except business letters; but none of these, or any mention of his affairs, ever came into his home. annie benton's mother had been organist in the big stone church near the locks, which the first residents had built in the days of their prosperity, and the girl learned from family friends that her father regularly attended both services on sunday, to hear the music; perhaps there were certain effects possible on the great organ which were not possible on a more frivolous instrument; but it was certain that he never attended after her death until two or three years after his daughter became the organist, and after she was complimented on every hand for her voluntaries before and after the services, and for her good taste in rendering the hymns; for old thompson was not a religious man, though he practised the principles of religion much better than many of those who made professions. but one summer morning the girl saw her father come in, and occupy the seat he had occupied before her mother's death, and regularly after that he came early and went away late. except to say to her once, as they walked home together, that she was growing more like her mother every day, he made no reference to the subject, though he pretended to wonder what the matter was when she threw her arms about his neck after they reached the house, and burst into tears. one sunday afternoon he had said to her that if she was going down to the church to practise, he would accompany her, and after that, every sunday afternoon he was invited to go with her, although she never had practised on sunday afternoons before. arriving there, an old negro janitor pumped the organ, and the girl played until she thought her father was tired, when they returned home again, where he spent the remainder of the day alone; thinking, no doubt, of his property in the cemetery, and of the sad day when it became necessary to make the purchase. chapter v. a troubled fancy. it was annie benton's playing which allan dorris occasionally heard as he wandered about the yard of the locks, for she came to the church twice a week in order that she might pretend to practise on sunday afternoons, and please her father's critical ear with finished playing; and dorris was so much impressed with the excellence of the music that he concluded one afternoon to look at the performer. in a stained-glass window looking toward the locks there was a broken square, little larger than his eye, and he climbed up on the wall and looked through this opening. a pretty girl of twenty, a picture of splendid health, with dark hair, and features as regularly cut as those of a marble statue, instead of the spectacled professor he expected to see. allan dorris jumped down on the outer side of the wall, and, going around to the front of the church, entered the door. the player was so intent with her work that she did not notice his approach up the carpeted aisle, until she had finished, and he stood almost beside her. she gave a little start on seeing him, but collected herself, and looked at him soberly, as if to inquire why he was there. "t hope you will pardon me," he said in an easy, self-possessed way, "but i live in the place next door called the locks, and having often heard you play of late, i made bold to come in." "all are welcome here," the girl replied, turning the leaves of the book before her, and apparently paying little attention to dorris. "you have as much right here as i, and if i can please anyone with my dull exercises, i am glad of the opportunity." allan dorris seated himself in a chair that stood on the platform devoted to the choir, and observed that the girl had splendid eyes and splendid teeth, as well as handsome features. "do you mind my saying that i think you are very pretty?" he inquired, after looking at her intently as she turned over the music. allan dorris thought from the manner in which she looked at him that she had never been told this before, for she blushed deeply, though she did not appear confused. "i don't say it as a compliment," he continued, without giving her an opportunity to reply; "but i enjoyed the playing so much that i was afraid to look at the performer, fearing he would be so hideously ugly as to spoil the effect; but you are so much handsomer than i expected that i cannot help mentioning it." "you are a surprise to me, too," the girl replied, avoiding the compliment he had paid her, and with good nature. "i imagined that the new occupant of the locks was older than you are." there was a polite carelessness in his manner which indicated that he was accustomed to mingling with all sorts of people; for he was as much at his ease in the presence of annie benton as he had been with mrs. wedge, or with silas and tug. "i am so old in experience that i often feel that i look old in years," he replied, looking at the girl again, as though about to repeat his remark concerning her beauty. "i am glad i do not appear old to you. you have returned my compliment." the girl made no other reply than to smile lightly, and then look intently at her music, as an apology for smiling at all. "how old are you?" he asked abruptly. annie benton looked a little startled at the question, but replied,---- "twenty." "have you a lover?" this seemed to require an indignant answer, and she looked at him sharply for that purpose, when she discovered that there was not a particle of impudence in his manner, but rather a friendly interest. he made the inquiry as an uncle might, who had long heard of a pretty niece whom he had never met; so she compromised the matter by shaking her head. "that's strange," he returned. "it must be because the young men are afraid of you, for you are about the prettiest thing of any kind i have ever seen. it is fortunate that you live in davy's bend; a more intelligent people would spoil you with flattery. will you be kind enough to play for me?" the girl was rather pleased than offended at what he said, for there was nothing of rudeness in his manner; and when she had signified her willingness to grant his request, he went back to the pews, and sat down to listen to the music. when the tones of the organ broke the silence, dorris was satisfied that the girl was not playing exercises, for the music was very beautiful, and rendered with excellent judgment. her taste seemed to run in the direction of extravagant chords and odd combinations; the listener happened to like the same sort of thing, too, and the performance had such an effect upon him that he could not remain in his seat, but walked softly up and down the aisle. the frown upon his face was very much like that which occupied it when he walked alone in his own room, after permitting himself to think; for there were wild cries in the music, and mournful melodies. when it ceased, he walked up to the player, and asked what she had been playing. "i don't know myself," she answered, looking at him curiously, but timidly, as if anxious to know more of him. "it was a combination of many of the chords i have learned from time to time that pleased me. my father, who is a very intelligent man, likes them, and i thought you might. it was made up from hymns, vespers, anthems, ballads, and everything else i have ever heard." "the performance was very creditable, and i thank you for the pleasure you have afforded me," he said. "would you care if i should seat myself here in this chair while you play, and look at you?" the girl laughed quietly at the odd request, and there was a look of mingled confusion and pleasure in her face as she replied,-- "i wouldn't care, but i could not play so well." "then i will go back to the pews; i don't wish to interfere with the music. if you don't mind it, i will say that i think you are very frank and honest, as well as pretty and accomplished. many a worse player than you are would have claimed that the rare combination of chords i have just heard was improvising." "it is my greatest fault," the girl answered, "to let my fancy and fingers run riot over the keys, without regard to the instructions in the book, and of which i am so much in need. the exercises are so dull that it is a great task for me to practise them; but i never tire of recalling what i have learned heretofore, and using the chords that correspond with my humor. i have played a great deal, lately, with the locks in my mind, for i have heard much of you, and have known of the strange house all my life. perhaps i was thinking of you when you were listening." "if you will close up the book, and think about me while you are playing, i will go back to the door, and listen. the subject is not very romantic, but it is lonely enough, heaven knows. i should think the old organ might have sympathy with me, and do the subject justice, for it is shut up from day to day in a great stone house, as i am." allan dorris went back by the door, and the organ was still for such a length of time that he thought it very correctly represented the silence that hung over his house like a pall; but finally there was the thunder of the double-bass, and the music began. the instrument was an unusually good one, with a wide range of effects in the hands of such a player as annie benton proved to be; and allan dorris thought she must have learned his history somehow, and was now telling it to whoever cared to listen. dirges! the air was full of them, with processions of mourning men and women. the girl seemed to have a fondness for odd airs, played in imitation of the lower and middle registers of the voice, with treble accompaniment, and the listener almost imagined that a strong baritone, the voice of an actor in a play, was telling in plain english why allan dorris, the occupant of the locks, came to davy's bend, and why he was discontented and ill at ease. the actor with the baritone voice, after telling everything he knew, gave way for a march-movement, and a company of actors, representing all the people he had ever known, appeared before him under the magic of the music. some of them looked in wonder, others in dread and fear, as they passed him in procession; but the march kept them going, and their places were soon taken by others, from the store in his memory, who looked in wonder, and in dread and fear, at the strange man in the back pew, though he was no stranger to them. not by any means; they knew him very well. what an army! they are still coming, flinging their arms to the time of the march; but the moment they arrive they look toward the back pew, and continue looking that way, until they disappear; as though they have been looking for him, and are surprised at his presence in that quiet place. after a pause, to arrange the stops, the music sounded as if all those who had appeared were trying to make their stories heard at once. their hatred, their dread, their fear,--all were represented in the chords which he was now hearing, but in the din there was nothing cheerful or joyous. if any of the actors in the play he had been witnessing knew anything to the credit of allan dorris, their voices were so mild as to be drowned by the fiercer ones with stories of hate and fear and dread. the music at last died away with the double-bass, as it began, and the player sat perfectly still after she had finished; nor did dorris move from his position for several minutes. the music seemed to have set them both to thinking, for nothing could be heard for a long time except the working of the bellows; for the old janitor was so deaf that he did not know that the music had ceased. "what have you heard about the locks?" he asked, after he stood beside the girl, feeling as though there was nothing concerning him which she did not know; for she had expressed it all in the music. "everything about the locks, and a great deal about you," she answered. "i didn't suppose that you had ever heard of me. who talks about me?" "the people." "what do they say?" "i wouldn't care to tell you all they say," she answered; "for in a dull town, like this, a great deal is said when a mysterious man arrives, and takes up his residence in a house that has been regarded with superstitious fear for twenty years." she was preparing to go out now, and he respectfully followed her down the aisle. "whatever they say," he said, when they were standing upon the outside, "there was a great deal more than art in the piece you dedicated to me. you know, somehow, that i am lonely, and thoroughly discontented. do the people say that?" "no." "then how did you know it?" "i saw it in your manner. anyone could see that." "a perfectly contented man would become gloomy were he to live long in that house," he replied, pointing to the locks. "when the stillness of night settles upon it there never was a scene in hell which cannot be imagined by those so unfortunate as to be alone in it. i believe the wind blows through the walls, for my light often goes out when the windows and doors are closed; and there is one room where all the people i have ever known seem collected, to moan through the night. did you ever hear about the room in the locks into which no one is permitted to look?" "no." "even the new owner was asked to give a promise not to disturb that room,--it adjoins the one i occupy,--or look into it, or inquire with reference to it; and if i look ill at ease, it must be because of the house i occupy. i am sincerely obliged to you for the music. may i listen to you when you practise again?" "certainly," she answered. "i could not possibly have an objection." she bowed to him, and walked away, followed by the limping negro janitor, who turned occasionally to look at dorris with distrust. chapter vi. pictures in the fire. allan dorris was seeing pleasant pictures in the cheerful fire which burned in his room, for he watched it intently from early evening until dusk, and until after the night came on. the look of discontent that had distinguished his face was absent for the first time since he had occupied the strange old house. perhaps a cheerful man may see pleasant pictures in a fire which produces only tragedies for one who is sad; for it is certain that allan dorris had watched the same fire before, and cursed its pictures, and walked up and down the room in excitement afterward with clenched fists and a wicked countenance. but there was peace in his heart now, and it could not be disturbed by the malicious darkness that looked in at his windows; for the nights were so dark in davy's bend that they seemed not an invitation to rest, but an invitation to prowl, and lurk, and do wicked things. when mrs. wedge brought in the lamp, and put it down on the mantel, he did not look up to say a cheerful word, as was his custom, but continued gazing into the fire; and she noticed that he was in better humor than he had ever been before during their acquaintance. usually his thinking made him frown, but to-night he seemed to be enjoying it. the worthy woman took pleasure in finding excuses to go to his room as often as possible, for he seemed to bless her for the intrusion upon his loneliness; but for once he did not seem to realize her presence, and he was thinking more intensely than usual. mrs. wedge had come to greatly admire the new occupant of the locks. that he was a man of intelligence and refinement there was no doubt; she believed this for so many reasons that she never pretended to enumerate them. besides being scrupulously neat in his habits, which was a great deal in the orderly woman's eyes, he was uniformly polite and pleasant, except when he was alone, when he seemed to storm at himself. there was a certain manly way about him--a disposition to be just to everyone, even to his housekeeper--that won her heart; and she had lain awake a great many nights since he had come to the locks, wondering about him; for he had never dropped the slightest hint as to where he came from, or why he had selected davy's bend as a place of residence. she often said to herself that a bad man could not laugh as cheerfully as allan dorris did when he dropped in at her little house to spend a half-hour, on which occasions he talked good-humoredly of matters which must have seemed trifling to one of his fine intelligence; and she was certain that no one in hiding for the commission of a grave offence could have captured the affections of betty as completely as he had done, for the child always cried when he returned to his own room, or went out at the iron gate to ramble over the hills, and thought of little else except the time when she could see him again. mrs. wedge had heard that children shrink from the touch of hands that have engaged in violence or dishonor, and watched the growing friendship between the two with a great deal of interest. mrs. wedge believed that he had had trouble of some kind in the place he came from, and that he was trying to hide from a few enemies, and a great many friends, in davy's bend; for mrs. wedge could not believe that anyone would select davy's bend as a place of residence except under peculiar circumstances; but she always came to the same conclusion,--that allan dorris was in the right, whatever his difficulty had been. she watched him narrowly from day to day, but he never gave her reason to change her mind--he was in the right, and in the goodness of her heart she defended him, as she went about her work. "were it betty's father come back to me, instead of a stranger of whom i know nothing," the good woman would say aloud, as she swept, or dusted, or scoured in her little house, "i could not find less fault with him than i do, or be more fond of him. i know something about men, and allan dorris is a gentleman; more than that, he is honest, and i don't believe a word you say." "grandmother," the child would inquire in wonder, "who are you talking to?" "oh, these people's tongues," mrs. wedge would reply, with great earnestness, looking at betty as though she were a guilty tongue which had just been caught in the act of slandering worthy people. "i have no patience with them. even mr. dorris is not free from their slander, and i am tired of it." "but who says anything against mr. dorris, grandmother?" sure enough! who had accused him? no one, save his friend mrs. wedge, unless his coming to davy's bend was an accusation; but she continued to defend him, and declared before she went to sleep every night; "i'll think no more about it; he is a worthy man, of course." but whatever occupied his thoughts on the evening in question, allan dorris was not displeased to hear an announcement, from the speaking-tube behind the door, of visitors, for they were uncommon enough; and going to it, a voice came to him from the depths announcing that silas and tug were at the gate, and would come up if he had no objection. pulling the lever down, which opened the gate, he went down to admit them at the door, and they came back with him. during his residence in the place he had met the two men frequently, for they took credit to themselves that he was there at all, since his coming seemed to please the people (for it gave them something to talk about, even if they did not admire him); and when he returned to his house in the evening, he often met the strange pair loitering about the gate. he had come to think well of them, and frequently invited them to walk in; but though they apparently wanted to accept his invitation, they acted as though they were afraid to: perhaps they feared he would lose the little respect he already entertained for them on acquaintance. but they had evidently concluded to make him a formal call now, induced by friendliness and curiosity, for they were smartened up a little; and it had evidently been arranged that silas should do the honors, for tug kept crowding him to the front as they walked up the stairs. apparently tug did not expect a very warm reception at the locks, for he lagged behind, and sighted at allan dorris with his peculiar eyes, as though he had half a mind to try a shot at him; and when he reached the landing from the level of which the doors opened into the rooms of the second story, he looked eagerly and curiously around, as if recalling the night when he traced the shadow there, but which had escaped him. allan dorris invited both men into the apartment he usually occupied, and there was a freedom in his manner that surprised them both. the pair had decided to visit him from a curiosity that had grown out of their experience with the shadow; and although they expected to find him stern and silent, and angered at their presence, he was really in good humor, and seemed glad to see them; perhaps he was so lonely that he would have welcomed a visit from a ghost. they both noticed that the ragged beard which he had worn on his face when he first arrived was now absent; for he was clean shaven, and this made him appear ten years younger. he looked a good deal more like a man in every way than he did on the night of his arrival, when he sat moping in the hotel office; and silas and tug both wondered at the change, but they were of one mind as to his clean face; it was a disguise. tug's suit of black glistened more than ever, from having been recently brushed; and as soon as he had seated himself, he set about watching allan dorris with great persistency, staring him in the face precisely as he would look at a picture or an ornament. silas seated himself some distance from the fire, and seemed greatly distressed at his friend's rudeness. "i like you," mr. whittle said finally, without moving his aim from dorris's face. dorris seemed amused, and, laughing quietly, was about to reply, when tug interrupted him. "i know you don't like me, and i admire you for it, for every decent man despises me. i am not only the meanest man in the world, but the most worthless, and the ugliest. my teeth are snags, and my eyes are bad, and my breath is sour, and i am lazy; but i like you, and i tell you of it to your teeth." tug said this with so much seriousness that his companions both laughed; but if he understood the cause of their merriment, he pretended not to, for he said,-- "what are you laughing at?" glaring fiercely from one to the other. "i am not trying to be funny. i hate a funny man, or a joky man. i have nothing for a funny man but poison, and i have it with me." dorris paid no more attention to his fierce companion than he would to a growling dog, and continued laughing; but silas shut up like a knife, as tug took from his vest pocket a package carefully wrapped in newspaper, and after looking at it a moment with close scrutiny, continued,-- "whenever you find me telling jokes, expect me to giggle at my own wit, and then pour the contents of this package on my tongue, and swallow it; and it will be no more than i deserve. i have but one virtue; i am not funny. you have no idea how i hate the low persons who advertise themselves as comedians, or comediennes, or serio-comic singers, or you would not accuse me of it." silas had often seen this package before, for tug had carried it ever since they had been acquainted, frequently finding it necessary to renew the paper in which it was wrapped. from certain mysterious references to it tug had dropped, silas believed the powder was intended for a relative more objectionable than any of the others, though he occasionally threatened to use it in a different manner, as in the present instance. indeed, he seemed to carry it instead of a knife or a pistol; and silas had noticed on the night when they were following the shadow that his companion carried the package in his hand, ready for instant use. "you are the kind of a man i intended to be," tug continued, putting away his dangerous package with the air of a desperado who had been flourishing a pistol and took credit to himself for not using it. "i might have been worthy of your friendship but for my wife's relations, but i admire you whether you like it or not. do your worst; i am your friend." tug had not taken his huge eye from dorris's face since entering, except to look at the poison; but he removed it as mrs. wedge came in to prepare the table for the evening meal. dorris was a good deal like tug in the particular that he did not sleep much at night, but he slept soundly when the morning light came up over the woods to chase away the shadows which were always looking into his window; therefore he frequently ate his breakfast at noon, and his supper at midnight. there was a roast of beef, a tea urn, a pat of butter, and a loaf of bread, on the platter carried by the housekeeper, while betty followed with the cups and saucers, and the potatoes, the napkins, and the sugar. "i am obliged to you for your good opinion," dorris said, while the cloth was being laid, "and if you will remain to supper with me, we will become better acquainted." it occurred to silas that dorris looked at tug, in spite of his politeness, as he might look at an amusing dog that had been taught to catch a bacon rind from off his nose at the word of command, and wondered that tug felt so much at home as he seemed to; for he was watching the arrangements for supper with great eagerness. silas was sure the invitation to supper would be accepted, too, for tug had never refused an invitation of any kind in his life, except invitations to be a man and go to work, which the people were always giving him. at a look from dorris, mrs. wedge went out, and soon returned with additional plates, besides other eatables that seemed to be held in reserve; and during her absence the master had been placing the chairs, so that by the time the table was arranged, the three men were ready to sit down, which they did without further ceremony. among other things mrs. wedge brought in a number of bottles and glasses, which were put down by the side of dorris, and these now attracted the aim of tug. "if you offer us drink," he said, "i give you fair warning that we will accept, and get drunk, and disgrace you. we haven't a particle of decency, have we, you scoundrel?" this, accompanied by a prodigious poke in the ribs, was addressed to silas davy, who had been sitting meekly by, watching the proceedings. tug had a habit of addressing silas as "his dear old scoundrel," and "his precious cut-throat," although a milder man never lived; and he intently watched dorris as he opened one of the bottles and filled three of the glasses. two of them were placed before tug and silas, and though silas only sipped at his, tug drank off the liquor apportioned to him greedily. this followed in rapid succession, until two of the bottles had been emptied, dorris watching the proceedings with a queer satisfaction. he also helped them liberally to the roast beef and the gravy, and the potatoes, and the bread and butter, to say nothing of the pickles and olives; but tug seemed to prefer the liquor to the tea, for he partook of that very sparingly, though he was anxious to accept everything else offered; for he occasionally got up from the table to tramp heavily around the room, as if to settle that already eaten to make room for more. allan dorris enjoyed the presence of the two men, and encouraged the oddities of each by plying them with spirits. although the drink had little effect on silas, who was very temperate, tug paid tribute to its strength by opening his wide eye to its greatest extent, as if in wonder at his hospitable reception, and closing the other tighter, like a man who had concluded to give one side of his body a rest. as the evening wore away, and the liquor circulated more freely through his blood, tug recited, between frequent snorts, what a man he had been until he had been broken up and disgraced by his wife's relations, silas earnestly vouching for it all, besides declaring that it was a shame, to which their host replied with enthusiasm that it was an outrage that such a bright man and such a good-looking man as tug had been treated so unjustly, at the same time filling up the glasses, and proposing that they drink to the confusion and disgrace of the relations. neither of them seemed to realize that dorris was making game of them; for tug listened to all he said--and he said a great deal--with an injured air that was extremely ludicrous; and when davy related that when mr. whittle was in practice, the judges begged the favor of his opinion before rendering their decisions on difficult legal questions, dorris regretted that he had not known the judges, for he felt sure that they were wise and agreeable gentlemen. but at the same time dorris felt certain that if he should be invited to attend the man's funeral, he would laugh to himself upon thinking how absurdly dignified he must look in his coffin. silas had never known tug when he was great, of course, for he had flourished in the time of silas's father; but he nevertheless believed it, and seemed to have personal knowledge of the former magnificence of the rusty old lawyer. indeed, but few of the present inhabitants of davy's bend had known tug when he was clean and respectable, for he always claimed that his triumphs were triumphs of the old days, when davy's bend was important and prosperous, and among the energetic citizens who had moved away and made decay possible. "i don't amount to anything except when i am drunk--now," tug said, getting on his feet, and taking aim at his host, "but fill me with aristocratic liquor, and i am as cute as the best of them. have you ever heard the story of the beggar on horseback? well, here he is, at your service. will the rich and aristocratic owner of this house oblige the beggar by pouring out his dram? ha! the beggar is at full gallop." dorris good-naturedly obeyed the request, and while tug was on his feet, his aim happened to strike silas. "silas, you greatest of scoundrels," he said, "you thoroughly debased villain, loafer, and liar, i love you." reaching across the table, tug cordially shook hands with his friend, who had been doing nothing up to that time save enjoying tug's humor, and indorsing whatever he said. whether silas enjoyed being called a scoundrel, a villain, a loafer, and a liar, is not known, but he certainly heard these expressions very frequently; for tug seemed to tolerate him only because of his total and thorough depravity, though the other acquaintances of silas regarded him as a mild-mannered little man without either vices or virtues. "i have but two friends," tug said again, seating himself, and gazing stiffly at his host, "rum and davy; rum cheers me when i'm sad, and davy feeds me when i'm hungry, though the splendid thief does not feed me as well as he might were he more industrious. rum has a bad reputation, but i announce here that it is one of my friends. i am either ravenously hungry, or uncomfortable from having eaten too much, all the time, so that i do not get much comfort from victuals; but rum hits me just right, and i love it. you say it will make me drunk. very well; i _want_ to get drunk. if you argue that it will make me reckless, i will hotly reply that i _want_ to be reckless, and that a few bottles will make me as famous as a lifetime of work and success will make a sober man. therefore i hail rum as my best friend, next to the unscrupulous rascal known for hailing purposes, when there are boots to be polished, or errands to run, as hup-avy." the eminent legal mind hurriedly put his hand to his mouth, as though thoroughly humiliated that he had hiccoughed, and, looking at dorris with the air of a man who commits an unpardonable indiscretion and hopes that it has not been noticed, continued with more care, with a great many periods to enable him to guard against future weakness. "although i have but two friends, i have a host of enemies. among them tigley. my wife's cousin. when i was a reputable lawyer, tigley appeared in davy's bend. tigley was a fiddler. and spent his time in playing in the beer halls for the drinks. the late mrs. whittle believed him to be a great man. she called him a mastero, though he played entirely by ear; and excused his dissipation on the ground that it was an eccentricity common to genius. if tigley ever comes in my way again there will be something to pay more disagreeable than gold. he taught me to like rum." silas, who acted as a kind of chorus, intimated to dorris that his friend referred to a word of four letters beginning with an "h," and ending with an "l." "that's _one_ reason why i am a drunkard," the victim of too many relatives added, after a moment's thought. "the other is that i could never talk up to the old women except when i was drunk, and it was necessary to talk up to her so often that i finally craved spirits." tug crooked his elbow and produced the package from his vest pocket, which he waved aloft as an intimation that tigley's nose should be held, when next they met, until he swallowed its contents. "by-the-way," tug said, as if something new had occurred to him, "i warn you not to believe anything i say; i lie because i enjoy it. drinking whiskey, and lying, and loving davy, are my only recreations. then there was veazy vaughn, the vagrant--my wife's uncle--he is responsible for my idleness. when he came here, twenty odd years ago, i tried to reclaim him, and went around with him; but he enjoyed vagrancy so much, and defended his position so well, that i took a taste of it myself. i liked it. i have followed it ever since." there was not the slightest animation about tug, and he sat bolt upright like a post while he talked with slow and measured accent, to avoid another hiccough, and his great eye was usually as motionless as his body. "the late mrs. whittle treated her relatives so well that other worthless people who were no kin to her began to appear finally, and claim to be her cousins and nieces and nephews," tug said. "and she used my substance to get up good dinners for them. they came by railroad. by wagon. on foot. and on horseback. i was worse than a mormon, for i married a thousand, at least, on my wedding-day. some of them called me 'uncle w,' while others spoke of me as their 'dear cousin t;' but when the last dollar of my money was invested in dried beef, and the relatives had eaten it, i protested, and then they turned me out. the relations have my money, and i have their bad habits. i have nothing left but the poison, and they are welcome to that." he once more produced the package, and as he laid it on the table, dorris half expected to see a troop of ill-favored people come dashing in, grab up the paper, and run away with it. but none of them came, and tug went on: "i was a polite man until my wife's relations made me selfish. we always had gravy when they were around, and good gravy at that; but by the time i had helped them all, there was none left for me. i now help myself first. will the prince pass the pauper the fresh bottle of rum?" the bottle was handed over, and the rare old scoundrel helped himself to a full glass of its contents, drinking as deliberately as he had talked, apparently taking nine big swallows without breathing, at the same time thinking of the one he loved the best, as a means of curing the hiccoughs. "i like mrs. wedge," tug said, looking at that excellent woman with a tipsy grin, as she came into the room with some new delicacy for her employer's guests. "she looks so common, somehow, and i don't believe she knows any more about manners than i do. whenever you see her eating her dinner, you'll find that she puts her arms on the table, as i do, though it's not polite. polite things are not natural, in my opinion; mind i don't assert it as positive. i hate cold water, but it's polite to bathe; and your respectable shirt-collars rub all the hide off my neck. and anything that's good for me, i don't like. there's oatmeal, and graham grits, and such like--they are healthy, therefore i don't like their taste; but give me milk gravy, or salt risin' bread, or fried beef, or anything else that's not good for me, and you'll find me at home, as the man who had the party said on his cards." during this discourse mr. whittle's great eye was following mrs. wedge about the room, but when she disappeared it lit on dorris. "i'm with the crowd, though, when it comes to my wife's kin," he said, eyeing his host in an impudent way. "a good many don't say so; but it makes them all hot to fill their houses with their relations. whenever you go to see your relations, depend upon it that they are glad when you are gone. they may pretend to like you, but they don't, except when you are away from them. but in all other respects i'm common. common! i'm so common that i like boiled cabbage; and the olives you blow about--i'd as soon eat green pignuts soaked in brine. _common!_" he yelled out the words as though he were calling some one of that name in the cellar. "if men were judged by their commonness, i would be a chief with plumes in my hat." allan dorris and silas davy were seated with their backs to the windows overlooking the town, while tug sat opposite them, and in transferring his gaze from one to the other, in dignified preparation for resuming his conversation, which both his companions were enjoying, he saw the mysterious face he had seen once before peering into the room, and which was hastily withdrawn. tug jumped up from his chair at sight of it, and hurried to the window with such haste that the table was almost upset; but the face, as well as the figure to which it belonged, had disappeared. throwing up the sash, tug found that he could step out on to a porch, and from this he dropped into the yard with a great crash through the vines and lattice-work. silas davy quickly followed, by way of the stairs, suspecting the cause of tug's disappearance; and dorris was left alone. all this had occupied but a few moments, and he probably thought of the circumstance as one of the many eccentricities of the two odd men; for after pulling down the lever to close the gate (it is a wonder that he was not surprised to find it open) he sat down before the fire and engaged in the pleasant thoughts that were interrupted early in the evening. * * * * * silas did not come up with tug until he reached the vicinity of the hotel, where a single street lamp burned all night, and while they were hurrying along without speaking, the figure they were pursuing passed quickly on the opposite side of the street from the hotel. the rays of the lamp were so feeble that the figure was only a shadow; but they easily recognized it as the one seen before--that of a man above the medium height, enveloped in a long cloak, not unlike those worn by women in wet weather, with a slouch hat pulled down over his face. the two men hurried after it, but in the darkness they were frequently compelled to stop and listen for the footsteps of the pursued, in order to detect his course. each time the echoes were more indistinct, for the fellow was making good use of his legs; and in this manner they traced his course to the river bank, near the ferry landing, where the ferry-boat itself was tied up for the night. they concluded that the fugitive had a skiff tied there somewhere, which he intended to use in leaving the place, and, hurrying on board the ferry-boat, they rapped loudly at the door of the little room on the upper deck where the crew usually slept, with a view of procuring means of following. the fellow who had charge of the ferry, a native of the low lands lying along the river, was known as "young bill young," although he greatly desired that the people call him "old captain young;" therefore both men pounded vigorously on the door, and loudly called "captain young," as a tribute to his vanity. "captain young" soon appeared, for he always slept in a bunk with his clothes on, which he said reminded him of his sea days, although he had never really seen any other water than that on which he operated his ferry. as the two hurriedly explained to him that they wanted a boat, young bill young went to the lower deck, and unlocked one that floated at the stern, and soon tug and his friend were pulling down the river with long strokes, for there were two pairs of oars. occasionally they stopped rowing to listen, but nothing could be heard save the gentle ripple of the current; whereupon they worked with greater vigor than before. they had rowed in this manner for an hour or more, when, stopping to listen again, the plash of oars was indistinctly heard on the water ahead of them. lying down in the prow of the boat, tug could see the boat and its occupants low down on the water, between him and the first rays of light of the coming morning. there was a heavy fog on the river, which was lying close to the water, but this had lifted sufficiently to permit an inspection through the rising mist. there were two figures in the boat; one rowing, who was evidently the man they had twice seen looking in at them, and the other a much smaller person, who was seated in the stern, and steering. this fact tug regarded as so remarkable that he told davy to lie down, and take a look, and when davy returned to his oars, after a long inspection, he said:-- "i make out two." "a big one and a little one," tug replied, bending to the oars, and causing the boat to hurry through the water. "earn your supper up at the locks, and i'll introduce you to them." on the left hand a smaller stream put into the main river, and at its mouth there was an immense growth of willows, besides a chute, an island, and a bend. into this labyrinth the boat they were pursuing effectually disappeared; for though tug and silas rowed about until broad daylight they could find no trace of it or its occupants. a short distance up the smaller stream was a lonely station on a railroad that did not run into davy's bend, and while rowing around in the river, the roar of an approaching train was heard, and the fact that this stopped at the station, with a blast from the engine-whistle indicating that it had been signalled, may have been important; but it did not occur to either silas or tug, who pulled their boat back to town in silence. chapter vii. the locks' ghost. there was general curiosity in davy's bend with reference to the new occupant of the locks, and when the people had exhausted themselves in denouncing their own town more than _it_ deserved, and in praising ben's city more than it deserved, they began on allan dorris, and made him the subject of their gossip. whoever was bold enough to invent new theories with reference to him, and express them, was sure of a welcome at any of the houses where the speculation concerning his previous history went on from day to day; and, this becoming generally known, there was no lack of fresh material for idle tongues. whenever he walked into the town, he knew that the stores turned out their crowds to look at him, and that in passing the residences which were occupied, the windows were filled with curious eyes. but although there were a hundred theories with reference to him, it was only positively known that he one day appeared at his gate, two months after his arrival, and tacked up a little sign on which was inscribed in gold letters: dr. dorris. this curiosity of the people brought dr. dorris a great deal of business, for many of them were willing to pay for the privilege of seeing him, and he applied himself to practice with such energy that he was soon in general demand. as the people knew more of him, their curiosity became admiration; and many of them defended him from imaginary charges as warmly as did mrs. wedge, for there was every reason that the people should admire him, except that he had located at davy's bend. that he was skilful and experienced as a physician became apparent at once, and it was therefore generally believed that he was only there temporarily; for certainly no one who was really capable would consent to remain long in davy's bend. his heart was not in his work; this was a part of the gossip concerning him, though it is difficult to imagine how the idea originated; for he appeared to be pleased when he was called out at night, as though the companionship of even those in distress suited him better than the solitude of his own house; but though he was always trying to be cheerful, he could not disguise the fact that his mind was busy with matters outside of his work. perhaps this was the excuse of the people for saying that his heart was not in his work, and the charge may have been true. while busy, he gave whatever was in hand careful and intelligent attention, but as soon as he was idle again, he forgot his surroundings, and permitted his mind to wander--nobody knew where. when addressed, he good-naturedly remembered that he was in davy's bend, and at the service of its people, and did whatever was expected of him with so much gentleness and ability that he won all hearts. this was his brief history during the summer following his arrival, except as shall be related hereafter. the sun, which had been struggling for mastery over the mist and the fog, had triumphed after a fashion, and the pleasanter weather, and his business, served to make him more cheerful than he had been; and had he cared to think about such matters, the conviction would no doubt have forced itself upon his mind that he was doing well, and that he had every reason to feel contented, though he was not. still there were times when he was lonely in spite of his rather busy life, and nights when he sent for mrs. wedge and betty to keep him company; for there were strange sounds through his house, when the summer air was still and oppressive, and the doors and windows rattled in the most unaccountable manner. thus it came about that they were with him one night long after their usual time to retire, dorris being particularly nervous and restless, and having asked them to come up to his room rather late in the evening. mrs. wedge had told him of annie benton a dozen times already, but she made it a baker's dozen, and told him again of her simple history; of her popularity in the town, though the people all seemed to be shy of her, and of her gruff father, who, in mrs. wedge's opinion, would resent the appearance of a lover in the most alarming manner. mrs. wedge thought she observed that dorris was fond of this subject, and kept on talking about it; for he was paying close attention as he lounged in his easy chair. dorris laughed in such a way at the accounts of thompson benton's jealousy of his daughter that mrs. wedge believed that he regarded him as he might regard a growling mastiff, which growled and snapped at whoever approached, knowing it was in bad taste and not expected of him. mrs. wedge was sure her employer was not afraid of old thompson,--or of any one else, for that matter,--so she added this declaration to the great number she was constantly making in his defence, and repeated it to herself whenever he was in her mind. she was pleased with the circumstance that he admired annie benton, and though she said a great deal in her praise, it was no more than the truth, for she was a girl worthy of admiration and respect. but the subject was exhausted at last, and when she got up to go out, dorris roused himself from one of his reveries, and asked her to tell him the history of the locks, as a last resort to induce her to keep him company. the worthy woman seated herself again, smoothed down the folds of her apron, and began by saying,-- "betty, open the door leading into the hall." the child did as she was directed, and, coming back, brought up a low chair, and rested her head on her grandmother's knee. "listen," mrs. wedge said again. they were all perfectly quiet, and a timid step could be distinctly heard on the stair; it came up to the landing, and, after hesitating a moment, seemed to pass into the room into which no one was to look. the little girl shivered, and was lifted into her grandmother's lap, where she hid away in the folds of her dress. dorris was familiar with this step on the stair, for he had heard it frequently, and at night the thought had often occurred to him that some one was in the house, going quietly from one room to another. a great many times he had taken the light, and looked into every place from the cellar to the attic, but he found nothing, and discovered nothing, except that when in the attic he heard the strange, muffled, and ghostly noises in the rooms he had just left. "it is not a ghost to frighten you," mrs. wedge said, looking at her employer, "but the spirit of an unhappy woman come back from the grave. whenever the house is quiet, the step can always be heard on the stair, but i have never regarded it with horror, though i have been familiar with it for a great many years. i rather regard it as a visit from an old friend; and before you came i often sat alone in this room after dark, listening to the footsteps. "jerome dudley, who built the locks, was a young man of great intelligence, energy, and capacity; but his wife was lacking in these qualities. perhaps i had better say that he thought so, for i never express an opinion of my own on the subject, since they were both my friends. i may say with propriety, however, that they were unsuited to each other, and that both knew and admitted it, and accepted their marriage as the blight of their lives. differently situated, she would have been a useful woman; but she was worse than of no use to jerome dudley, as he was contemptible in many ways towards her in spite of his capacity for being a splendid man under different circumstances. "the world is full of such marriages, i have been told; so i had sympathy for them both, and was as useful to them as i could be. when i came here as housekeeper, i knew at once that they were living a life of misery, for they occupied different rooms, and were never together except at six o'clock dinner. "mr. dudley always went to his business in the morning before his wife was stirring, and did not return again until evening; and, after despatching his dinner, he either went back to his work, or into his own room, from which he did not emerge until morning. he was not a gloomy man, but he was dissatisfied with his wife, and felt that she was a drawback rather than a help to him. "the management of the house was turned over to me completely, and when i presided at the table in the morning, he was always good-natured and respectful, (though he was always out of humor when his wife was in the same room with him) and frequently told me of his successes, and he had a great many, for he was a money-making man; but i am sure he never spoke of them to his wife. his household affairs he discussed only with me, and the fact that i remained in his service until i entered yours should be taken as evidence that i gave satisfaction." dorris bowed respectfully to mrs. wedge in assent, and she proceeded,-- "mrs. dudley spent her time in her own room in an indolent way that was common to her, doing nothing except to look after her little girl, who was never strong. the child was four years old when i came, and the father lavished all his affection upon it. he had the reputation of being a hard, exacting man in his business, and gave but few his confidence, which i think was largely due to his unsatisfactory home; and i have heard him say that but two creatures in all the world seemed to understand him--the child, and myself. it was a part of my duty to carry the child to its father's room every night before putting it to bed; and though i usually found him at a desk surrounded with business papers, he always had time to kiss its pretty lips if asleep, or romp with it if awake. "while the mother cheerfully turned over the household affairs to me entirely, she was jealous of the child, and constantly worried and fretted with reference to it. the father believed that his daughter was not well cared for, in spite of the mother's great affection, for she humored it to its disadvantage; and i have sometimes thought that the child was sick a great deal more than was necessary. from being shut up in a close room too much, it was tender and delicate, and when the door was open, it always went romping into the hall until brought back again, which resulted in a cold and a spell of sickness. this annoyed mr. dudley, and from remarks he occasionally made to me i knew he believed that if the little girl should die, the mother would be to blame. "'it would be better if she had no mother,' he was in the habit of saying. when children are properly managed, they become a comfort; but if a foolish sentiment is indulged in, the affections of the parents are needlessly lacerated, and they become a burden. i say this with charity, and i have become convinced of it during my long life. little dudley was managed by the mother with so much mistaken affection that she was always a care and a burden. instead of going to bed at night, and sleeping peacefully until morning, as children should, she was always wakeful, fretful, and ill, and mr. dudley's rest was disturbed so much that i thought he had some excuse for his bad humor; for nothing is so certain as that all this was unnecessary. the child was under no restraint, and was constantly doing that which was not good for her, and though her mother protested, she did nothing else. "because the father complained of being disturbed at all hours of the night, the mother accused him of heartlessness and of a lack of affection, but he explained this to me by saying that he only protested because his child was not cared for as it should be; because that which was intended as a blessing became an irksome responsibility, and because he was in constant dread for its life. "whether the mother was to blame or not will perhaps never be known; but it is certain that the child died after a lingering illness, and the father was in a pitiful state from rage and grief. he did not speak to his wife during the illness, or after the death, which she must have accepted as an accusation that she was somehow responsible; for she soon took to her bed, and never left it alive except to wearily climb the stairs at twelve o'clock every night, to visit the child's deserted room,--the room next to this, and into which no one is permitted to look. her bed was on the lower floor, in the room back of the parlor, and every night at twelve o'clock, which was the hour the child died, she wrapped the coverings about her, and went slowly up the stairs, clinging to the railing with pitiful weakness with one hand, and carrying the lamp with the other. "i frequently tried to prevent her doing this; but she always begged so piteously that i could not resist the appeal. she imagined, poor soul, that she heard the child calling her, and she always asked me not to accompany her. "one night she was gone such a long time that at last i followed, and found her dead, kneeling beside her child's empty crib, and the light out. mr. dudley was very much frightened and distressed; and i think the circumstance hastened his departure from davy's bend, which occurred a few weeks later. he has never been in the house since. "it is said that once a year--on the third of may--at exactly twelve o'clock at night, a light appears in the lower room, which soon goes out, and appears in the hall. a great many people have told me that they have seen the light, and that it grows dimmer in the lower hall, and brighter in the upper, until it disappears in the room where the empty crib still stands, precisely as if it were carried by some one climbing the stair. it soon disappears from the upper room, and is seen no more until another year rolls round. i have never seen the light, but i have often heard the step. sometimes it is silent for months together, but usually i hear it whenever i am in the main house at night. just before there is a death in the town, or the occurrence of any serious accident, it goes up and down with unvarying persistency; but there is a long rest after the death or the accident foretold has occurred." when mrs. wedge had ceased talking, there was perfect silence in the room again, and the footsteps were heard descending the stair. occasionally there was a painful pause, but they soon went on again, and were heard no more. "poor helen," mrs. wedge said, wiping her eyes, "how reluctantly she leaves the little crib." mrs. wedge soon followed the ghost of poor helen down the stair, carrying betty in her arms; and as dorris stood on the landing lighting them down, he thought, as they passed into the shadow in the lower hall, that poor helen had found her child, and was leaving the house forever, content to remain in her grave at last. chapter viii. a remarkable girl. annie benton had said that she usually practised once a week in the church; and during the lonely days after his first meeting with her, allan dorris began to wonder when he should see her again. the sight of her, and the sound of her voice, and her magic music, had afforded him a strange pleasure, and he thought about her so much that his mind experienced relief from the thoughts that had made him restless and ill at ease. but he heard nothing of her, except from mrs. wedge, who was as loud in her praise as ever; though he looked for her as he rode about on his business affairs, and a few times he had walked by her father's house, after dark, and looked at its substantial exterior. there was something about the girl which fascinated him. it may have been only the music, but certainly he longed for her appearance, and listened attentively for notice of her presence whenever he walked in his yard, which was his custom so much of late that he had worn paths under the trees; for had he secured all the business in davy's bend he would still have had a great deal of time on his hands. during these weeks he sometimes accused himself of being in love with a girl he had seen but once, and laughed at the idea as absurd and preposterous; but this did not drive thoughts of annie benton out of his mind, for he stopped to listen at every turn for sounds of her presence. after listening during the hours of the day when he was not occupied, he usually walked in the path for a while at night, hoping it might be possible that she had changed her hours, and would come to practise after the cares and duties of the day were over. he could see from his own window that the church was dark; but he had little to do, so he took a turn in the path down by the wall to convince himself that she was not playing softly, without a light, to give her fancy free rein. but he was always disappointed; and, after finding that his watching was hopeless, he went out at the iron gate in front, and walked along the roads until he recovered from his disappointment sufficiently to enter his own home. this was his daily experience for several weeks after his first meeting with the girl, for even the sunday services were neglected for that length of time on account of the pastor, who was away recruiting his health; when one afternoon he heard the tones of his old friend the organ again. climbing up on the wall, and looking at the girl through the broken window, he imagined that she was not playing with the old earnestness, and certainly she frequently looked toward the door, as if expecting someone. jumping down from the wall, he went around to the front door, which he found open, and entered the church. the girl heard his step on the threshold, and was looking toward him when he came in at the door leading from the vestibule. "i seem to have known you a long time," he said, as he sat down near her, after exchanging the small civilities that were necessary under the circumstances, "and i have been waiting for you as anxiously as though you were my best friend. i have been very busy all my life, and i don't enjoy idleness, though i imagined when i was working hard that i would relish a season of rest. i have little to do here except to wait for you and listen to the music. had you delayed your coming many days longer i should have called on you at your home. you are the only acquaintance i have in the town whose society i covet." there was no mistaking that the girl had been expecting him, and that she was pleased that he came in so promptly. her manner indicated it, and she was perfectly willing to neglect her practice for his company, which had not been the case before. she was better dressed, too; and surely she would have been disappointed had not dorris made his appearance. annie benton, like her father, improved on acquaintance. she was neither too tall nor too short, and, although he was not an expert in such matters, dorris imagined that her figure would have been a study for a sculptor. a woman so well formed as to attract no particular comment on first acquaintance, he thought; but he remarked now, as he looked steadily at her, that there was a remarkable regularity in her features. there are women who do not bear close inspection, but annie benton could not be appreciated without it. her smile surprised every one, because of its beauty; but the observer soon forgot that in admiring her pretty teeth, and both these were forgotten when she spoke, as she did now to dorris, tiring of being looked at; for her voice was musical, and thoroughly under control: "i have dreaded to even pass the locks at night ever since i can remember," she said with some hesitation, not knowing exactly how to treat the frankness with which he acknowledged the pleasure her presence afforded him, "and i don't wonder that anyone living in it alone is lonely. they say there is a ghost there, and a mysterious light, and a footstep on the stair; and i am almost afraid to talk about it." allan dorris had a habit of losing himself in thought when in the midst of a conversation, and though he said he had been waiting patiently to hear the music, it did not arouse him, for the girl had tired of waiting for his reply, and gone to playing. now that he was in her presence he did not seem to realize the pleasure he expected when he walked under the trees and waited for her. perhaps he was thinking of the footstep on the stair, which he had become so accustomed to that he thought no more of it than the chirping of a cricket; but more likely he was thinking that what he had in his mind to say to the girl, when alone, was not at all appropriate now that he was with her. "an overture to 'poor helen,'" dorris thought, when he looked up, and heard the music, after coming out of his reverie; for it was full of whispered sadness, and the girl certainly had that unfortunate lady in her mind when she began playing, for she had spoken of her tireless step on the stair; and when he walked back to the other end of the church, he thought of the pretty girl in white, at the instrument, as a spirit come back to warn him with music to be very careful of his future. where had the girl learned so much art? he had never heard better music, and though there was little order in it, a mournful harmony ran through it all that occasionally caused his flesh to creep. she was not playing from notes, either, but seemed to be amusing herself by making odd combinations with the stops; and so well did she understand the secret of the minors that her playing reminded him of a great orchestra he had once heard, and which had greatly impressed him. where had this simple country-girl learned so much of doubt, of despair, and of anguish? allan dorris thought that had _his_ fingers possessed the necessary skill, _his_ heart might have suggested such strains as he was hearing; but that a woman of twenty, who had never been out of her poor native town, could set such tales of horror and unrest and discontent to music, puzzled him. the world was full of hearts containing sorrowful symphonies such as he was now listening to, but they were usually in older breasts, and he thought there could be but one explanation--the organist was an unusual woman; the only flower in a community of rough weeds, scrub-oaks, and thistles, wind-sown by god in his mercy; a flower which did not realize its rarity, and was therefore modest in its innocence and purity. but her weird music; she must have thought a great deal because of her motherless and lonely childhood, for such strains as her deft fingers produced could not have been found in a light heart. "there are few players equal to you," he said, standing by her side when she finally concluded, and looked around. "a great many players i have known had the habit of drowning the expert performance of the right hand with the clumsy drumming of the left; but you seem to understand that the left hand should modestly follow and assist, not lead, as is the habit of busy people. there are many people who have devoted a lifetime to study, surrounded with every advantage, who cannot equal you. i am an admirer of the grand organ, and have taken every occasion to hear it; but there is a natural genius about your playing that is very striking." "no one has ever told me that before," she replied, turning her face from him. "i have never been complimented except by the respectful attention of the people; and father once said i could play almost as well as my mother. your good opinion encourages me, for you have lived outside of davy's bend." well, yes, he _had_ lived outside of davy's bend, and this may have been the reason he now looked away from the girl and became lost to her presence. he did not do this rudely, but there was a pathetic thoughtfulness in his face which caused the girl to remain silent while he visited other scenes. perhaps allan dorris is not the only man--let us imagine so, in charity--who has lived in other towns, and become thoughtful when the circumstance was mentioned. "if there is genius in my playing, i did not know it, for it is not the result of training; it comes to me like my thoughts," the girl finally continued, when dorris looked around. "when you were here before, you were kind enough to commend me, and say that a certain passage gave evidence of great study and practice. i am obliged to you for your good opinion, but the strains really came to me in a moment, and while they pleased me, i never studied them." the girl said this with so much simple earnestness that allan dorris felt sure that his good opinion of her playing would not cause her to practise less in the future, but rather with an increased determination for improvement. "i think that your playing would attract the attention of the best musicians," he said. "the critics could point out defects, certainly, for a great many persons listen to music not to enjoy it, but to detect what they regard as faults or inaccuracies; but the masters would cheerfully forgive the faults, remembering their own hard experience, and enjoy the genius which seems to inspire you. i only wonder where you learned it." "not from competent teachers," she replied, as though she regretted to make the confession. "the best music i ever heard was that of the bands which visit the place at long intervals. i have seldom attended their entertainments, but my father has listened with me when they played on the outside, and we both enjoyed it. all that i know of style and expression i learned from them. i once heard a minstrel band play in front of the hall, on a wet evening, when there was no prospect of an audience, and there was such an air of mournfulness in it that i remember it yet. it is dreadful to imitate minstrel music in a church, but you have spoken so kindly of my playing that i will try it, if you care to listen." they were both amused at the idea, and laughed over it; and after dorris had signified his eagerness to hear it, and reached his favorite place to listen, the back pew, he reclined easily in it, and waited until the stops were arranged. the music began with a crash, or burst, or something of that kind, and then ran off into an air for the baritone. this was the girl's favorite style of playing, and there was really a very marked resemblance to a band. there was an occasional exercise for the supposed cornets, but the music soon ran back into the old strain, as though the players could not get rid of the prospect of an empty house, and were permitting the baritone to express their joint regrets. the accompaniment in the treble was in such odd time, and expressed in such an odd way, that dorris could not help laughing to himself, although he enjoyed it; but finally all the instruments joined in a race to get to the end, and the music ceased. he started up the aisle to congratulate the player, and when half way she said to him: "at another time i heard a band coming up from the river. the players seemed to be in better spirits that day"-- a distant march, and a lively one, came from the organ, and surely there were banners in front of the players. the music gradually became louder, and finally the girl said,-- "now it turns the corner of the street." then came a crash of melody, and dorris was almost tempted to look out of the window for the procession that he felt sure was passing. it was just such an air as a band-master might select to impress the people favorably on his first appearance in a town; and every member did his best until the grand finale, which exhausted the powers of the organ. when the girl turned round, dorris was laughing, and she joined him in it. "it is a dreadful thing for a girl to do," she said, though her face indicated that she did not think it was so dreadful, after all, and that she enjoyed it; "but when father comes to hear me practise, he insists on hearing the band pieces; and he sometimes calls for jigs, and quadrilles, and waltzes, and imitations of the hand-organ. the hand-organs, with their crippled players, have been of great use to me, for their music is all well arranged, and father says that if i can equal them he will be very proud of me. please don't laugh at the idea, for father never says anything that is silly, and he knows good music when he hears it. i know it is the fashion to make light of the barrel-organ; and the people talk a great deal about bribing the players to leave town; but father says a great many customs are not founded in good sense, and perhaps this is one of them. we so rarely find innocent pleasure that we should be free to enjoy it, no matter what it is, or where found, whether custom happens to look on approvingly or not." "i am glad you said that," dorris returned, "for i enjoy coming here to listen to your practising, and whether the world approves or not, i intend to come whenever there is opportunity, and you do not object. it is my opinion that you have never been appreciated here, and i will repay you for the music by fully and thoroughly appreciating it. do you know that you are a remarkable girl?" dorris was a bold fellow, the girl thought, but there was nothing offensive in his frankness. he seemed to say whatever occurred to him, without stopping to think of its effects. "it never occurred to me," she said. "really and truly?" "really and truly," she replied. "if there is merit in my playing, i might have lived all my life without finding it out, but for you." "then let me be the first to tell you of it. you are very pretty, and you have talent above those around you. i hear that your father is a very sensible man; he no doubt appreciates what i have said, but dreads to tell you of it, fearing you will become discontented, and lose much of the charm that is so precious to him. the friends of cynthia miller force themselves into the belief that you are no handsomer than she, and that your playing is no better than her drumming. all the other davy's bend maids have equally dull and enthusiastic friends; but i, who have lived in intelligent communities, and am without prejudice, tell you that i have never seen a prettier girl in my life. you have intelligence and capacity, too. mrs. wedge has told me the pretty story of how you became an organist, and i admire you for it. some people i have known were content to be _willing_ to do creditable things, and came to believe in time that they had accomplished all they intended, without really accomplishing anything; but i admire you because you do not know yourself how much of a woman you are; at least you make no sign of it. i am glad to be the first to do justice to a really remarkable woman." the remarkable woman was evidently surprised to hear this; for she was very much flustered, and hung her head. "if a girl as pretty and intelligent as you are," he continued, "should fall in love with me, i believe i should die with joy; for a girl like you could find in her heart a love worth having. i don't know what i should do under such circumstances, for i have had no experience; but i imagine i should be very enthusiastic, and express my enthusiasm in some absurd way. no one ever loved me, that i can remember; for as a child i do not believe i was welcome to the food i ate, though i was not more troublesome than other children who receive so much attention that they care nothing for it. i have been indignant at men for beating their dogs, and then envied the love the brutes displayed while the smart was yet on their bodies. it has so chanced that the dogs i have owned were well treated and ungrateful, and finally followed off some of the vagrants who were hard masters. i have thought that they despised me because they were fat and idle, believing these conditions to be uncomfortable, having never experienced poverty and hard treatment; but certainly they regarded me with indifference and suspicion. but i didn't try to force them to admire me; i rather kept out of their way; for an animal cannot be driven to love his master, and you cannot force or persuade a man to admire any one he dislikes." "it is possible that you only imagine it," the girl said. "such doubts as you express have often come to me, but i have comforted myself with the poor reflection that there is so little love in the world that when it is divided among the people, it does not amount to as much as they wish. i know nothing of your situation, past or present, but is it not possible that everyone has the same complaint that you have?" "there is force in your suggestion," he replied thoughtfully, "but i do not believe that i overdraw my condition; i know too much of real wretchedness to permit myself to worry over fancied wrongs. i hope i am too sensible to weave an impossible something out of my mind, and then grieve because of a lack of it. i might long for something which does not exist, but so long as i am as well off as others, i will be as content as others; but when i have seen that which i covet, and know that i am as deserving as others who possess my prize, its lack causes me regret which i can shake off, but which, nevertheless, is always in my mind. this regret has no other effect than to make me gloomy, which no man should be; i can get it out of my actions when i try, but i cannot get it out of my mind. happiness is not common, i believe; for i have never known a man or woman who did not in some way excite my pity on closer acquaintance, but owing to a strange peculiarity in my disposition, i have always felt the lack of honest friendship. this is my malady, and perhaps my acquaintances pity me because of it, as i pity them because of their misfortunes. it must be that i have a disagreeable way about me, and repel friendship, though i am always trying to be agreeable, and always trying to make friends. i have little ambition above this; therefore i suppose it may be said that i am no more unfortunate than others who have greater ambitions, and fail in them. i have been told that men who have great success find friends a bother and a hindrance; so it comes about that we are all disappointed, and i am no worse off than others. how old are you?" "i shall be twenty on my next birthday; you asked me that before." "a little too old to become my pupil," he continued, "but let me say that if you are as contented as you look, make no experiments in the future; pursue the course you have already pursued as long as you live, and never depart from it. if you are given to dreaming, pray for sound slumber; if you occasionally build castles, and occupy them, extol your plain home, and put aside everything save simplicity, honesty, and duty. there is nothing out in the great world, from which i came, which will afford the happiness you know here. i know everything about the world except the simplicity and peace of your life, and these are the jewels which i seek in davy's bend. the road leading from this town is the road to wretchedness, and i have heard that those who have achieved greatness would scatter their reputation to the quarters from whence it came for the quiet contentment you know. many lives have been wrecked by day dreaming, by hope, by fancy. pay attention only to the common realities. if you feel that there is a lack in your life, attack it as an evil, and convince yourself that it is a serious fault; an unworthy notion, and a dangerous delusion." "must all my pretty castles come tumbling down, then?" she said, in a tone of regret. "can this be the sum of life, this round of dull days? this dreaming which you say is so dangerous--i have always believed it to be ambition--has been the only solace of my life. i have longed so intensely to mingle with more intelligent people than we have here, that i cannot believe it was wrong; i almost believe you are dangerous, and i will leave you." she walked half way down the aisle, as if intending to go out, but as dorris did not move, and continued looking at the floor, she came back again. "that is what you ought to do--go away and never come into my presence again," he said, raising his eyes and looking into her face. "that was a good resolve; you should carry it out." annie benton looked puzzled as she asked why. "because every honest sentiment i ever expressed seemed wrong, and against the established order. the friendship of the people does not suit me--neither does their love; and, miserable beggar though i am to feel dissatisfied with that which the king offers, i am not content with it. i wander aimlessly about, seeking--i know not what. a more insignificant man than i it would be difficult to find; but in a world of opulence, this mendicant, this prince myself, finds nothing that satisfies him. a beggar asking to be chooser, i reject those things that men prize, and set my heart upon that which is cheap but impossible. sent into the world to long for an impossibility, i have fulfilled my mission so faithfully that i sometimes wonder that i am not rewarded for it. _you_ must not follow a path that ends in such a place." he pointed out of the window, and the girl thought he referred to the locks; certainly it was not a cheerful prospect. "for you, who are satisfied with everything around you, and who greet every new day for its fresh pleasures, i am a dangerous companion, for my discontent is infectious. and though i warn you to go away, you are a suspicion of that which i have sought so long. your music has lulled me into the only peace i have ever known; but principle--which has always guided me into that which was distasteful--demands that i advise you to keep out of my company, though i cannot help hoping that you will not heed the advice." "i regret that what you say--that i am contented with everything around me--is not true," the girl replied, "but though i am not, and wish i were, i do not repine as you do. you are the gloomiest man i ever knew." "not at all gloomy," he answered. "listen to my laugh. i will laugh at myself." surely such a good-natured laugh was never heard before; and it was contagious, too, for the girl joined him in it, finally, though neither of them knew what they were laughing about. "i seldom afflict my friends with melancholy," he said, "for i am usually gay. gay! i am the gayest man in the world; but the organ caused me to forget. it's all over now; let's laugh some more." and he did laugh again, as gayly as before; a genteel, hearty laugh it was, and the girl joined him, as before, though she could not have told what she was laughing about had her life depended upon it, except that it was very funny that her companion was laughing at nothing. the different objects in the church, including the organ, seemed to look at the pair in good humor because of their gayety; perhaps the organ was feeling gay itself, from recollections of the minstrel band. "it makes me feel dreadfully gay to think you are going home presently, and that i am to return to my cheerful room in the locks, the gayest house in the world. bless you, there is no ghost's walk about that place, and the sunshine seems to be brighter there than anywhere else in the town. i leave it with regret, and return to it with joy; and the wind--i can't tell you what pleasing music the wind makes with the windows and shutters. but if you will let me, i will walk home with you, although i am dying with impatience to return to my usual gayety. i wish it would rain, and keep you here a while longer. i am becoming so funny of late i must break my spirit some way." it was now dusk, and the girl having signified her willingness to accompany him, they walked out of the church, leaving the old janitor to lock the door, which he probably did with unusual cheerfulness, for dorris had given him an amount of money that was greater than a month's wages. "they say here that if thompson benton should see a gentleman with his daughter," dorris said, as they walked along, "that he would give it to him straight. i suppose they mean, by that, that he would tell him to clear out; but i will risk it." "they say a great many things about father that are unjust," the girl answered, "because he does not trifle. father is the best man in the world." "the lion is a dear old creature to the cub," he replied, "but i am anxious to meet this gentleman of whom i have heard so much, so you had better not invite me in, for i will accept. a lion's den would be a happy relief to the gayety of the locks, where we go on--the spectres and i--in the merriest fashion imaginable." dorris seemed determined to be gay, and as they walked along he several times suggested another laugh, saying, "now, all together," or, "all ready; here we go," as a signal for them to commence, in such a queer way that the girl could not help joining. "i am like the organ," he said, "gay or sad, at your pleasure. just at present i am a circus tune, but if you prefer a symphony, you have only to say the word. i am sorry, though, that you cannot shut a lid down over me, and cause me to be oblivious to everything until you appear again. something tells me that the stout gentleman approaching is the lion." they were now in the vicinity of the home of the bentons', and the girl laughingly replied that the stout gentleman was her father. by the time they reached the gate, he was waiting for them, and glaring at dorris from under his shaggy eyebrows. annie presented the stranger to her father, who explained who he was, and said that, having been attracted by the music in the church, he had taken the liberty of walking home with the player. "i have the habit myself," old thompson grunted, evidently relieved to know that dorris was not a lover, and looking at him keenly. he held the gate open for the girl, who walked in, and then closed it, leaving dorris on the outside. he raised his hat, wished them good night, and walked away, and he imagined when he looked back that the girl was standing at the door looking after him. chapter ix. the "apron and password." the guests at the hotel, with their dull wit and small gossip, had disappeared, and the proprietor was seated at the long table in the dining-room, eating his supper, with no companion save silas davy, the patient man-of-all-work. a queer case, the proprietor. instead of being useful to the hotel, as would naturally be expected, he was a detriment to it, for he did not even come to his meals when they were ready, making a special table necessary three times a day, greatly to the disgust of mrs. armsby, who did about everything around the place, from tending the office to superintending the kitchen; and she succeeded so well in all these particulars that occasional strangers had been known to familiarly pat her husband on the back, and congratulate him on keeping a house which was known far and near for its fine attention to guests. armsby did not drink, or gamble, or anything of that kind, but he owned a gun and a hunting dog, and knew exactly when the ducks appeared in the lakes, and when the shrill piping of quail might be expected in the thickets; and he was usually there, in his grotesque hunting costume, to welcome them. in addition to this he was fond of fishing, and belonged to all the lodges; so that he had little time to attend to business, even had he been inclined that way. mrs. armsby regarded the men who sold powder and fishing-tackle, and encouraged the lodges, about as many another sad-hearted woman regards the liquor-sellers; and, as she went wearily about her work, had been heard to wonder whether hunting and fishing and lodge-going were not greater evils than drinking; for she had no use for her husband whatever, although he was a great deal of trouble. he never got out of bed without being called a dozen times, but when he did get up, and was finally dressed (which occupied him at least an hour) he was such a cheerful fellow, and told of his triumph at the lodge election the night before, or of his fancy shots the day before, with such good nature that he was usually forgiven. indeed, the people found no other fault with his idleness than to good-naturedly refer to his hotel as the "apron and password," probably a tribute to the english way of naming houses of public entertainment; for they argued that if mrs. armsby could forgive her husband's faults, it was no affair of theirs; and by this name the place was known. but he had one good habit; he was fond of his wife--not because she made the living, and allowed him to exist in idleness, but really and truly fond of her; though everyone was fond of capable mrs. armsby: for though she was nearly always at work, she found time to learn enough of passing events to be a fair conversationalist, and sometimes entertained the guests in the parlor by singing, accompanying herself on the piano. it was said that as a girl mrs. armsby had been the favorite of a circle of rich relatives and friends, and that she spent the earlier portion of her life in a pleasant and aristocratic home; but when she found it necessary to make her own living, and support a husband besides, she went about it with apparent good nature, and was generally regarded as a very remarkable woman. she had been annie benton's first teacher, in addition to her regular duties, and a pupil still came to the house occasionally, only to find her making bread in the kitchen, or beds in the upper rooms. armsby had been out hunting, as usual, and his wife had prepared his supper with her own hands, which he was now discussing. "there are a great many unhappy women in the world, davy," armsby said, looking admiringly at the contents of the plates around him, "for the reason that most husbands are mean to their wives. i wouldn't be a woman for all the money in thompson benton's safe; i am thankful that i am a man, if for nothing else. it is very pretty to say that any woman is so good that she can have her pick of a husband, but it is not true, for most of them marry men who are cross to them, and unfair, and thoughtless; but mrs. armsby has her own way here. she has a maid and a man, and i fancy she is rather a fortunate woman. instead of being bossed around by her husband, he keeps out of the way and gives her full charge. pull up to the table and eat something, won't you? help yourself to the sardines." davy accepted the invitation, and was helping himself when mr. armsby said: "you will find them mighty good; and they ought to be good, for they cost sixty cents a box--the three you have on your plate cost a dime. but they are as free as the air you breathe. help yourself; have some more, and make it fifteen cents." davy concluded not to take any sardines after this, and after browsing around among the mixed pickles and goat-cheese awhile, and being told that they ought to be good, for they cost enough, he concluded that armsby's hospitality was intended as a means of calling attention to his rich fare; for he was very particular, and in order to please him his wife always provided something for his table which was produced at no other time. there was a bottle of olives on the table, and when davy took one of them, armsby explained that he had imported them himself at enormous expense, although they had been really bought at one of the stores as a job lot, the proprietor having had them on hand a number of years. "any guests to-night?" armsby inquired, trying to look very much vexed that the clerk had not accepted the invitation to refresh himself. "no," davy answered, a little sulky because of his rebuff. "i am sorry for that," armsby continued. "mrs. armsby enjoys a lively parlor, and she has a great deal of time in which to make herself agreeable. what a wonderful woman she is to fix up! always neat, and always pleasant; but she has little else to do. you don't take very kindly to the ladies yourself, davy?" the boarders frequently accused davy of being fond of various old widows and maids in the town, whom he had really never spoken to, and gravely hinted that the streets were full of rumors of his approaching nuptials; but he paid no attention to these banters, nor did he now, except to give a little grunt of contempt for any one so foolish as to marry. "why, bless me, davy," armsby said, laying down his knife and fork in astonishment; "how bald you are becoming! let me see the back of your head." silas turned his back to his employer's husband, and looked up at the ceiling. "it's coming; you will be as bald as a plate in a year. but we must all expect it; fortune has no favorites in this respect. i know a man who does not mistreat his wife, but i never knew one who wasn't bald. you might as well quit washing your head in salt water, davy; for it will do no good." the facts were that davy gave no sign of approaching baldness; but armsby, being very bald himself, was always trying to discover that other people's hair was falling out. "better remain single, though," he continued, referring to matrimony again, "than to marry a woman and mistreat her. all the men are unjust to their wives, barring the honorable exception just named; therefore it has always been my policy to make mrs. armsby a notable exception. is there another woman in the bend who handles all the money, and does exactly as she pleases? you are around a good bit; do you know of another?" davy thought to himself that she was entitled to the privilege of handling the money, since she earned it all, besides supporting a vagrant husband; but he said nothing, for silas was not a talkative man. "whatever she does is entirely satisfactory to me," continued the model husband. "i never complain; indeed, i find much to admire. there is not another woman like her in the world, and it contains an awful lot of people." mrs. armsby appeared from the kitchen at this moment, and, greeting her husband pleasantly, really seemed charmed with his presence. while she was looking after his wants, he told her of his hunting that day; how he had made more double shots than any of his companions; how his dog had proved, for the hundredth time, that he was the very best in the country, as he had always contended; how tired and hungry he was, and how fortunate it was that there was no lodge that night, as in that event he would have to be present. his wife finally disappeared into the kitchen again, to arrange for the first meal of the next day, and armsby said to davy,-- "poor woman, she has so little to occupy her mind that she has gone into the kitchen to watch jennie peel the potatoes. if business was not so dull--you say it is dull; i know nothing about it myself--i would hire a companion for her; someone to read to her, and walk about with her during the day. it's too bad." unfortunately for the patrons of the apron-and-password, armsby had been to new york; and though he had remained but two days, since his return he had pretended to a knowledge of the metropolis which was marvellous. when a new york man was mentioned, armsby pretended to know him intimately, telling cheerful anecdotes of how their acquaintance began and ended. whenever a new york institution was referred to, he was familiar with it, almost to intimacy; and a few of the davy's bend people amused themselves by inventing fictitious names and places in new york, and inducing armsby to profess a knowledge of them, which he did with cheerful promptness. he never neglected an opportunity to talk about his trip, therefore when he put his chair back from the table, and engaged in quiet meditation, silas felt sure he was about to introduce the subject in a new way; for armsby was a very ingenious as well as a very lazy man. "you ought to wear the apron, silas," mr. armsby said, looking at silas with the greatest condescension and pity; "but it would be dreadful if your application should be greeted with the blacks. i don't recommend that you try it, mind, for that is not allowed, and the records will show that we lodge men have so much regard for principle that it has never been done; but it is something that everyone should think about, sooner or later. only the very best men wear this emblem of greatness. but if you have faults, i should advise you not to run the risk of being humiliated, for the members are very particular. a lazy man, or a shiftless man, or a bad man of any kind, cannot get in; and when a man belongs to a lodge, it can be depended upon that he is as near right as they make them. this is the reason we must be particular in admitting new members. reputation is at stake; for, once you are in, the others stand by you with their lives and their sacred honor. there's nothing like it." the landlord occupied himself a moment in pleasant thought of the lodges, in connection with their cheapness and general utility, and then continued, after smiling in a gratified way over his own importance in the lodge connection,-- "when i first went to new york i became acquainted with the very best people immediately; for every man who wears the apron has confidence in every other man who wears it; each knows that the other has been selected from the masses with care, and they trust each other to the fullest extent. one day i went over into--" armsby could not remember names, and he snapped his fingers now in vexation. "it is strange i am unable to name the town," he said; "i am as familiar with it as i am with my own stable. well, no matter; anyway it is a big suburb, and you reach it by crossing the--" again he stopped, and tried to recall the name of the bridge he had crossed, and the city he had visited, but to no avail; though he rapped his head soundly with his knuckles, for its bad behavior, and got up to walk up and down the room. "if i should forget your name, or mrs. armsby's, it would not be more remarkable," he continued, at last, giving up in despair. "i was brought up in sight of them; but what i started out to say was, that i walked into a bank one day, and the fine-looking man who was at the counter looked at me, at first, with the greatest suspicion, thinking i was a robber, no doubt, until i gave him a certain sign. you should have seen the change in his manner! he came through a little door at the side, and shaking hands with me in a certain way, known only to those on the inside, took me into a private office in the rear, where a number of other fine-looking gentlemen were seated around a table. "'president judd,' he said to them, 'this gentleman wears the apron.' "all the elegant gentlemen were delighted to see me. it was not feigned, either, for it was genuine delight; and a controversy sprang up as to which of them should give his time to my entertainment while in the city, though i protested that i was so well acquainted that i could get along very well alone. but they insisted upon it, and when they began to quarrel rather fiercely about it, i gave them a sign (which reminded them of their pledge to be brothers), whereupon they were all good-natured at once, and one of them said,-- "'thank you for reminding us of our duty, brother; the best of us will occasionally forget. will you do us the favor to pick out one of our number to show you about, and make your stay in the city pleasant?'" davy noticed that mrs. armsby was listening at the kitchen door, though armsby did not know it, for his back was turned toward her; but he did not mention the circumstance. "i liked the looks of mr. judd," armsby continued, "so i said that if the other brothers would not take offence, i would like his company. the others said, 'oh, not at all,' all of them making the sign to be brothers at the same time, and president judd at once began arranging his business so he could go out with me, not neglecting to put a big roll of money in his pocket; and, though it was very big, the others said it wasn't half enough." davy believed everything the people saw fit to tell him, and vouched for the truth of it when he repeated it himself, and was very much interested in what armsby was saying. "well, sir, when we went out, the sign was everything. you cannot imagine how potent it was. we made it when we wanted a carriage, and the driver regarded it as a favor to carry us for nothing; we made it when we were hungry, and it assured us the greatest attention at the hotels, which were nothing like this, but larger--very much larger." davy gave evidence of genuine astonishment on learning that there were hotels larger than the "apron and password;" but as the proprietor himself had made the statement, he presumed it must be true, though it was certainly very astonishing. "i can't think of the name of it now, but they have a railroad in the second story of the street there, and instead of collecting fare, when the proprietors came around they put money in our outside pockets, thinking we might meet someone who was not a brother. judd remained with me five days, taking me to his own residence at night, which was twice as big as the locks, and when we finally parted, he loaded me down with presents, and shed tears. next to the sign, the apron is the greatest thing in the world; i am sorry you do not wear it." armsby wandered leisurely out into the office soon after, probably to smoke the cigars his wife kept there in a case for sale, when mrs. armsby came into the dining-room, and sat down, looking mortified and distressed. "silas," she said, "don't believe a word armsby has said to you, or ever will say, on this subject. before he became a slave to this dreadful lodge habit, he was a truthful man, but you can't believe a word he says now. do you know what they do at the lodges?" davy shook his head, for of course no one except a member _could_ know. "let me tell you, then. they tie cooks' aprons around their waists, put fools' caps on their heads, and quarrel as to whether the hailing sign, or the aid sign, or whatever it is, is made by holding up one finger when the right thumb is touching the right ear, or whether it is two or three or four fingers. it is all about as ridiculous as this, and my advice to you is, never join. armsby has been talking to you a good deal about the matter lately, and i suspect he wants the fun of initiating you, which is accompanied with all sorts of tricks, which gives them opportunity to make fun of you from behind their paper masks." since it was impossible to believe both stories, silas made up his mind to ask tug's opinion,--tug would know,--but he said nothing. "some of them wear swords," mrs. armsby went on to say; "but, bless you, they can't draw them, and even if they should succeed in getting them out, they couldn't put them back in their scabbards again. armsby came home one night wearing his sword, and in this very room he took it out to make a show of himself, and was so awkward with it that he broke half the dishes on the dresser, besides upsetting the lamp and wounding me on the hand. to complete his disgrace, he was compelled to ask me to put it in its case again; but i fear the lesson did the misguided man little good, for he has been as bad as ever since. but while these men might be pardoned for their foolishness if they remained in their halls, they are utterly unpardonable for disgracing their wives and friends by appearing on the street, which they occasionally do, dressed in more fantastic fashion than ever. if you should join, you would be expected to do this, and after one appearance you could never look a sensible person in the face again, unless you are lost to all sense of self-respect. besides, it is expensive; my husband keeps me poor in attending grand lodges, and most of the failures are caused by neglecting business to talk lodge. my only fear is that my misguided husband will finally consider it his duty to kill somebody for telling about the signs and grips, and then we will all be disgraced. it is your misfortune as well as mine, silas, that armsby is not a drunkard. drunkards are occasionally reformed, and are of some use in their sober intervals; but a lodge man never reforms. if a lodge man engages in business, he fails, for he does not attend to it; but a drinking man admits that he is doing wrong, and sometimes succeeds in his efforts to do better; whereas a lodge man argues all the time that his foolishness is good sense, and therefore don't try to get out of the way. compared to me, mrs. whittle is a very fortunate woman." mrs. armsby got up at this and went out; and as silas was preparing to follow, he heard a whistle which he recognized at once as tug's. whenever tug had use for silas early in the evening, he had a habit of whistling him out, since he never came into the hotel until his friend had possession. silas at once put on his hat and went down to the wagon yard, where he found tug impatiently waiting, who started off at a rapid swinging gait toward the lower end of the town and the river as soon as silas caught sight of him. when the pair travelled, davy always lagged behind, as he did in this instance; for in the presence of genius like tug's, he felt that his place was in the rear. others might doubt the ability or even the honesty of his friend, but silas had no doubt that tug would some day be a wonderful man, and prove that everything said to his discredit was untrue. it was a favorite saying of his that when he "came into his own," he would move about, with the magnificence of a circus procession, on the back of an elephant, with a brass band in front and a company of trumpeters behind; and silas was content to wait. tug occasionally illustrated this idea now as he walked along, by swinging and flinging his body about as those who ride on elephants do, and it occurred to silas that "his own" must have arrived by boat, and that he was going after it; for he walked rapidly toward the river without looking around. tug had not spoken a word since setting out, and after reaching the street which led down to the crazy collection of houses where he lived, he travelled down that way a while, and at last turned off toward the right, following the course of the river through alleys and back yards, and over fences and gaping sloughs, until at last he stopped near an old warehouse, which had been used a great many years before in storing freight arriving by the boats when the bend was an important town. it was entirely deserted now, and as the two men stopped in its shadow, tug gave his companion to understand that he must be very quiet and secret. after they had blown awhile, tug began crawling around the building on his hands and knees, followed by his companion, occasionally raising his hand as a warning when they both stopped to listen. when tug had reached the other end of the warehouse, he motioned davy to come up to him; and when he did so this is what he saw:-- a light skiff tied to the bank, with the oars laid across it, and a woman seated in the stern--the woman they had seen when they followed the shadow down the river, after its appearance at allan dorris's window. they were certain it was the same woman, because she wore a waterproof cloak, as she did on the night when they followed the shadow down the river, and she was very small. her back was turned toward them, and she was motionless as a statue; and realizing that as her ears were covered with the waterproof she could not hear well, the two men arose to their feet after a careful inspection, and walked back to the other end of the building. "i intend to steal her," tug whispered into his companion's ear, at the same time reaching down into davy's pocket and taking out a handkerchief, which he arranged in his hand like a sling ready for use. chapter x. tug whittle's booty. after resting a while, and looking carefully around to make sure that they were not watched, tug and silas crawled cautiously back to the bank which overlooked the boat and its singular occupant, and after warning his companion to remain where he was by shaking his hand at him like a club, tug began to climb down the bank, feeling every step as he went with the cunning stealth of a tiger. gradually he worked his way to the water's edge; so careful was he, that even silas, watching him with breathless interest above, could not hear his step, and at last he stood on the brink of the water. the boat was in an eddy, floating easily about, and when it came within tug's reach, he clapped the handkerchief over the woman's mouth, tied it in a knot at the back of her head, and came clambering up the bank with her on his shoulders. without saying a word, he started to retrace his steps, only stopping once or twice to see that his booty was not smothering, when, finding the little woman all right, he went on over the fences and sloughs, and through the alleys and yards, until he entered his own door. "now then, sister," he said, putting the woman on her feet, and breathing heavily from his exercise, "tell us who you are. davy, make a light." silas came lagging in about this time, and did as he was told, though he was a long time about it, for the matches were damp, and the flame slow in coming up. everything seemed to be damp in davy's bend, and it was no wonder that the matches were slow and sleepy, like the other inhabitants of the town; therefore they came to life with a sputtering protest against being disturbed. while silas was rubbing them into good humor, tug was closely watching the little woman with his great eye, and getting his breath; and when the light was fairly burning, he went over to her side, and removed the handkerchief from her mouth. "gentlemen!" she cried out, in a weak voice, as soon as she could. "gentlemen! in the name of god! i appeal to you as gentlemen!" "don't gentleman me," tug said, bringing the light over to look at the woman's face. "i'm not a gentleman; i'm a thief, and i've stolen a woman. nor is _he_ a gentleman," pointing to davy, and holding his head to one side to get a bead on him. "he's the greatest scoundrel that ever lived. look at the audacious villain now! look at him! did you ever see a person who looked so much like the devil? and he _is_ the devil, when he gets started. he's keen to get at you now, and i'll have trouble with him if you are at all unreasonable." davy looked like anything but a villain as he meekly watched the pair from the other side of the room; indeed, he was thinking that tug was carrying the matter entirely too far, and was becoming alarmed. but tug did not share this feeling of apprehension, for he seemed desperately in earnest as he held the lamp close to the woman's face, who tried to shield it from his sight with her thin, trembling hands, and cried out in the same weak voice: "gentlemen! in the name of god! i appeal to you as gentlemen!" a very small woman, with shrivelled face and sharp features, was tug's booty, and she trembled violently as she piteously held out her hands to the two men. tug thought of her as the key to the problem he had been attempting to solve, so he stood between her and the door to prevent escape. but silas felt sure that the woman had but lately risen from a sick bed; for she was weak and trembling, and from sitting long in the damp river air, there was a distressed and painful flush in her face. "come now, sister," tug said, seating himself in front of her, and frowning like a pirate. "tell us what you know, and be carried back to your boat. if you refuse to do it, we will take you on a journey to the hedgepath graveyard, in the woods over the river, where we will erect a stone sacred to the memory of an obstinate woman. which will you have? use your tongue; which will you have?" but the woman made no other reply than to appeal to them as gentlemen, in the name of god, and cry, and wring her hands. "in case you ever see that foxy companion of yourn again, which is extremely doubtful, for i have a companion who murders for the love of it--(here, now, take your hand off that knife, will you," tug said, by way of parenthesis to silas, looking at him sharply. then going over to him, he pretended to take a knife out of davy's inside coat pocket, and hide it in the cupboard). "if you ever see your friend sneak again, say to him that i intend to get his head. he is bothering a friend of mine, and i intend to create a commotion inside of him for it." tug walked over to the table where the lamp stood, and, taking the package of poison from his pocket, carefully divided it into two doses; a large one for a man, and the other for a smaller person, probably a woman. he also took occasion, being near to davy, to whisper to him that the woman reminded him of his wife's sister sis. "you are evidently a married woman, sister," the bold rascal said, seating himself in front of his captive, and looking at her in the dignified manner which distinguished him. "i suppose you were very handsome as a girl, and the men fell desperately in love with you, and were very miserable in consequence. but i will let you into a secret; you are bravely over your beauty now. i suppose your mother braided your hair, and did all the work, that your hands might be as pretty as your face; and certainly she believed that while the boys might possibly fail in life, _you_ would be all right, and marry a prince, and repay her for her kindness. your poor mother rented a pianow for you, too, i reckon, and hired you a teacher; and when you could drum a little, she thought you could play a great deal, and felt repaid for all her trouble, believing that you would turn out well, and make your brothers feel ashamed of themselves for being so worthless. and while i don't know it, i believe that she paid five dollars to somebody to make you a artist, and that you painted roses and holly-hocks on saucers and plates, which your poor mother, in the kindness of her heart, recognized, and greatly admired. i shall believe this as long as i live, for you _look_ like a painter and a pianowist out of practice." this train of thought amused mr. whittle so much that he paused as if to laugh; but he apparently thought better of it, though his scalp crawled over on his forehead,--an oddity which distinguished him when he was amused. "did your poor mother get to sleep peacefully at night, after working all day for you?" inquired mr. whittle fiercely. "you don't answer; but you know she didn't. you know she spent the night in wrangling with your father to induce him to give her money that she might buy you more ribbons and millinery and dry goods; and kid gloves, probably, although your brother bill was out at his toes, and hadn't so much as a cotton handkercher; and how your mother went on when your husband came courting you! he wasn't good enough for you _then_, whoever he was; though i'll bet he thinks he's too good for you _now_, whoever he is; and what a time you must have had borrowing silverware and chairs for the wedding! i've been married, and i know. your tired mother hoped that when her children grew up they would relieve her, and love her, and be good to her; but i'll bet you find fault because she didn't 'do' more for you; and that your brother bill, who ran away because you had all the pie in the house, is taking care of her, providin' she aint dead from bother and too much work, which is likely. and after all this trouble in your behalf, look at you now!" the little woman seemed to be paying some attention to what he was saying, for she looked at him timidly out of the corners of her black eyes a few times, and occasionally forgot to wring her hands and cry. "look at you now, i say! your health has gone off after your beauty, for you seem to have neither with you, and i find you wandering around at night with a thief. a great fall you've had, sister, providin' you ever were young and pretty, for i was never acquainted with a worse-looking woman than you are; and if you knew my wife you would be very indignant, for she has the reputation of being a terror for looks. when i was younger i fell in love with every girl i met, and had no relief until they married; _then_ i soon got over it, for you ought to know how they fade under such circumstances; but you are worse than the rest of them; you are so ugly that i feel sorry for you. honestly, i wonder that you do not blush in my presence; and i am not handsome, god knows. i really feel sorry for you, but in connection with your friend prowler you are annoying an amiable and a worthy gentleman, who happens to be a friend of mr. blood's, the party sitting opposite you; and i fear he does _not_ feel sorry for you. a little less of that word 'gentlemen,' sister, if you please." the woman was appealing to them again as before: "gentlemen! in the name of god! i appeal to you." "promise to take your friend prowler, and leave this country," mr. whittle continued, "and never return, and you shall go free; but if you refuse--blood!" tug sprang up and glared savagely at his meek little partner, at the same time advancing toward him. "you sha'n't satisfy that devilish disposition of yourn by shooting a woman in the back when _i'm_ around, you cut-throat," he said. "haven't i always been ready to join you in putting men out of the way, and haven't i enjoyed the pleasure of it with you? then why do you want to take the credit of this job to yourself, and enjoy it alone? you must wait, blood, until she speaks. we _may_ forgive her, providin' she speaks up cheerful and don't attempt to deceive us." again tug pretended to take a dangerous weapon from his companion, standing between davy and the prisoner while about it; after which he regarded him for a few moments in contemptuous silence. "it's your tongue, sister, and not your tears, as will do you good in this difficulty," tug said, in answer to a fresh burst of grief from the woman. "i'll give you five minutes to decide between tongue and tears. at the end of that time, if it's tears, the cravings of that bad man in the corner shall be satisfied. blood, where is the watch you took from the store? hain't got it? my guess is that you've lost it gambling, as usual. well, i'll count three hundred seconds, sister, since we have no watch. one, two, three; here we go." tug looked reverently up at the ceiling; and appeared to be engaged in counting for two or three minutes, occasionally looking at the woman and then at silas, who thought tug had been counting at least half an hour already. "two hundred and twenty-one, two hundred and twenty-two, two hundred and twenty-three," he counted aloud. "fifth call, sister, the time is going; two hundred and twenty-four, two hundred and--" at this moment there was a strange interruption to the proceedings. a tall man wearing a rubber coat, which reached below his knees, opened the door, and, leaving it open, stood just upon the inside, carrying a pistol in his right hand, which hung by his side. "the shadow!" both men thought at once; and very determined and ugly looked the shadow, with his long, sallow face, and dark moustache. "alice," he said to the woman, "come out." the woman quickly jumped up, and hurried outside. the shadow followed, backing out like a lion-tamer leaving a cage, and closing the door after him. but while he stood inside the door, although he was there only a moment, both men noticed a strange peculiarity. the upper part of his left ear was gone,--cut off clean, as if with a knife; and this peculiarity was so unusual that they remarked it more than his face. the circumstance gave them both an impression that the shadow was a desperate man, and that he was accustomed to fierce brawls. tug and silas looked at each other in blank dismay a long time after the mysterious pair had disappeared, not venturing to look out, fearing it might be dangerous; but finally tug said,-- "silas, i must have a gun. do you happen to have one?" silas shook his head. "then i must steal one, for i need a gun. the shadow looks so much like an uncle of my wife's that i am more determined than ever to kill him." whereupon he went over to the table, emptied the two packages of poison on to the floor, and went to bed. chapter xi. the whispers in the air. there is a wide and populous world outside of davy's bend, from which allan dorris recently came; let the whispers in the air, which frighten every man with their secrets, answer why he had resolved never again to see annie benton. during his residence in davy's bend he had met the girl frequently, usually at the stone church near his house, where she came to practise; and after every meeting he became more than ever convinced, after thinking about it,--and he thought about it a great deal,--that if their acquaintance continued, there would come a time when he would find it difficult to quit her society. the pleasure he enjoyed in the company of the pretty organist was partly due to the circumstance that she was always pleased at his approach, although she tried to disguise it; but beyond this,--a long way beyond this,--there was reason why he should avoid her; for the girl's sake, not his own. he repeated this often to himself, as though he were a desperate man ready to engage in any desperate measure; but his manner visibly softened when he thought of the pretty girl whose ways were so engaging, innocent, and frank. he knew himself so well,--the number of times he had gone over the story of his life, in his own mind, since coming to the locks even, would have run up into the hundreds; therefore he knew himself very well indeed,--that he felt in honor bound to give up his acquaintance with her, although it cost him a keen pang of regret, this determination to hear the music no more, and never again see the player. avoiding even a look at the church, which was a reminder of how much pleasure he had found in davy's bend, and how much misery he would probably find there in the future, he passed out of the iron gate of the locks, and set his face toward the quiet country, where he hoped to walk until his body would call for rest at night, and permit him to sleep; a blessing that had been denied him of late more than before he knew annie benton, and when he thought that davy's bend contained people only fit to be avoided. but he was glad that he had resolved never to see the girl again,--for her sake, not his own. he had made this resolve after a struggle with himself, thinking of the strange fatality that had made duty painful throughout his entire life; and he walked toward the country because he believed the girl was in the direction of the town; probably seated in the church at that moment, watching the door for his approach. she was a comfort to him, therefore he must avoid her; but this had always been the case--he was accustomed to being warned that he was an intruder whenever he entered a pleasant place. there was something in store for her besides a life of hiding and fear, and an unknown grave at last, with a fictitious name on the headboard; and he would not cross a path which led toward happiness for one he so much admired. thus he argued to himself as he walked along; but when he remembered how dull his life would be should her smile never come into it again, he could not help shuddering. "but i have been so considerate of others," he said aloud, as he pursued his way, "that even the worms in my path impudently expected me to go round them, and seemed to honestly believe me unworthy of living at all if i did not. let me not show a lack of consideration now that my heart is concerned." above his house, and so near the river that the water rippled at its base, was a rugged bluff, separated from the town by a deep and almost impassable ravine, and for this reason it was seldom visited; allan dorris had found it during his first month in the town, and he resolved to visit it now, and get the full benefit of the sunshine and delightful air of the perfect summer day. it occurred to him as he sat down to rest, after making the difficult ascent, that he would like to build a house there, and live in it, where he would never be disturbed. but did he want solitude? there seemed to be some question of this, judging from the look of doubt on his downcast face. when he first came to davy's bend, he believed that the rewards of life were so unsatisfactory that all within his reach that he desired was his own company; but an experience of a month had satisfied him that solitude would not do, and he confessed that he did not know what he wanted. if he knew what it was his heart craved, he believed that it was beyond him, and unobtainable; and so his old habit of thinking was resumed, though he could never tell what it was all about. everything he desired was impossible; that within his reach was distasteful--he could make no more of the jumble in his brain, and finally sat with a vacant stare on his face, thoroughly ashamed of the vagrant thoughts which gave him a headache but no conclusions. even the pure air and the bright sunshine, that he thought he wanted while coming along the road, were not satisfactory now; and as he started to walk furiously up the hill, to tire himself, he met annie benton in the path he was following. she had been gathering wild flowers, and, as he came upon her, she was so intent on arranging them after some sort of a plan, that she was startled when he stood beside her. "i was thinking of you," she said hurriedly, instead of returning his greeting. "i intended sending you these." dorris could not help being amused that he had encountered the girl in a place where he had gone to avoid her, but there was evidence in his light laugh that he was glad of it; so he seated himself on a boulder beside the path, and asked what she had been thinking of him. "that you were a very odd man," she answered frankly. "that has always been a complaint against me," he said, with a tone of impatience. "i think i have never known any one who has not said, during the course of our acquaintance, that i was 'odd;' whatever is natural in me has been called 'odd' before. if i wanted bread, and was not satisfied with a stone, they called me 'odd.' the wishes of the horse that has a prejudice for being bridled on the left side are respected, but there is no consideration for a man who cannot be contented simply because it is his duty. i remember that we had a horse of this description in our family when i was a boy, and if he injured any one who failed to respect his wishes, the man was blamed, not the horse. but the people do not have equal charity for a man who is not content when circumstances seem to demand it of him, no difference what the circumstances are, or how repugnant they may be to his taste. so you were finding fault with me? i am not surprised at it, though; most people do." the girl had seated herself near him, and was busily engaged in arranging the flowers until he inquired again,-- "so you were finding fault with me?" "no," she answered, "unless it was finding fault to think of you as being different from any other person i have ever known. it was not a very serious charge to think of you as being different from the people in davy's bend." there was something in that, for they were not the finest people in the world, by any means; nor could the town be justly held responsible for all their faults, as they pretended. "no, it is not serious," he replied; "but i am sorry you are looking so well, for i am running away from you. it would be easier, were you less becoming. i am sorry you are not ugly." there was a look of wonder in the girl's face that made her prettier than ever. "running away from _me_?" "yes, from you," he answered. she began arranging the flowers again, and kept her eyes on them while he watched her face. dorris thought of himself as a snake watching a bird, and finally looked down the river at the ferry, which happened to be moving. "why?" she asked at last. "because i am dangerous," he replied, with a flushed face. "you should run away when you see me approach, for i am not a fit companion for you. i have nothing to offer that you ought to accept; even my attentions are dangerous." the bouquet was arranged by this time, and there was no further excuse for toying with it, so she laid it down, and looked at him. "i suppose i should be very much frightened," she said, "but i am not. i am not at all afraid of you." he laughed lightly to himself, and seemed amused at the answer she had made. "i know nothing whatever about women," he said, "and i am sorry for it, for you are a puzzle to me. i know men as well as i know myself, and know what to expect of them under given circumstances; but all those of your sex i have ever known were as a sealed book. the men are always the same, but i never know what a woman will do. no two of them are alike; there is no rule by which you can judge them, except that they are always better than the men. i have never known this to fail, but beyond that i know nothing of your sex. i say to you that i am dangerous; you reply that you are not afraid of me. but you ought to be; i am sure of that." "if you desire it," she said, "i am sorry, but i feel perfectly safe in your company." "it's a pity," he returned, looking down the river again. "if you were afraid of me, i would not be dangerous. i am not liable to pelt you with stones, or rob you; but the danger lies in the likelihood of our becoming friends." "is friendship so dangerous, then?" "it _would_ be between you and me, because i am odd. look at me." she did as requested, with quiet confidence and dignity. "you say you are not afraid of me; neither am i of you, and i intend to tell you what you can hardly suspect. i am in love with you to such an extent that i can think of nothing else; but i cannot offer you an honorable man's love, because i am not an honorable man, as that expression is used and accepted. i have been looking all my life for such a woman as you are, but now that i have found you, i respect you so much that i dare not attempt to win your favor; indeed, instead of that, i warn you against myself. until i was thirty i looked into every face i met, expecting to find the one i sought; but i never found it, and finally gave up the search, forced to believe that such a one as i looked for did not exist. i have found out my mistake, but it is too late." he jumped up from the stone on which he was seated, as if he intended to run away, and did walk a distance, but came back again, as if he had something else to say. "i speak of this matter as i might tell a capable artist that i was infatuated with his picture, and could not resist the temptation to frequently admire it. i have no more reason to believe that there is a responsive feeling in your heart than i would have reason to believe that the picture i admired appreciated the compliment, but there is nothing wrong in what i have said to you, and it is a pleasure for me to say it; there can be no harm in telling a pretty, modest woman that you admire her--she deserves the compliment." annie benton did not appear to be at all surprised at this avowal, and listened to it with the air of one who was being told of something commonplace. "you do not make love like the lovers i have read about," she said, with an attempt at a smile, though she could not disguise the oddity of her position. "i do not know how to answer you." "then don't answer me at all," he replied. "i am not making love to you, for i have denied myself that privilege. i am not at liberty to make love to you, though i want to; therefore i ask the privilege of explaining why i shall avoid you in the future, and why i regret to do it. the first feeling i was ever conscious of was one of unrest; i was never satisfied with my home, or with those around me. if i thought i had a friend, i soon found him out, and was more dissatisfied than ever. of course this was very unreasonable and foolish; anyone would say that, and say it with truth, but while it is an easy explanation, i could not help it; i was born that way, nor can i help saying that i am satisfied with you. you suit me exactly, and i was never contented in my life until i sat in the old church and looked at you." though the girl continued to look at him without apparent surprise, her face was very pale, and she was breathing rapidly. "you may regard what i have said as impudent," dorris continued, "and think that while you are satisfactory to me, i would not be to you. i am not now, but i would give a great deal to convince you that i am the man you dreamed of when you last put wedding-cake under your pillow, providing you ever did such a ridiculous thing. it is not conceit for me to say that i believe i could compel you to respect me, therefore i regret that we have ever met at all, for i am not at liberty to woo you honorably; if you want to know why, i will tell you, for i would place my life in your hands without the slightest hesitation, and feel secure; but it is enough for the present to say that nothing could happen which would surprise me. i am in trouble; though i would rather tell you of it than have you surmise what it is, for i am not ashamed of it. i can convince you--or any one with equally good sense--that i am not nearly so bad as many who live in peace. would you like to hear my history?" "no," she replied; "for you would soon regret telling it to me, and i fear that you will discover some time that i am not worthy of the many kind things you have said about me. i am only a woman, and when you know me better you will find that i am not the one you have been looking for so long and so patiently." "excuse me if i contradict you in that," he said with as much grave earnestness as though he had been talking politics, and found it necessary to take issue with her. "you _are_ the one. once there came to me in a dream a face which i have loved ever since. this was early in life, and during all the years which have brought me nothing but discontent and wretchedness, it has been my constant companion; the one little pleasure of my life. from the darkness that surrounded me, the face has always been looking at me; and whatever i have accomplished--i have accomplished nothing in davy's bend, but my life has been busy elsewhere--has been prompted by a desire to please this strange friend. i have never been able to dismiss my trouble--i have had no more than my share, perhaps, as you have said, but there is enough trouble in the world to render us all unhappy--except to welcome the recollection of the dream; and although i have often admitted to myself that this communion with the unreal was absurd, and unworthy of a sensible man, it has afforded me a contentment that i failed to find in anything else; therefore the fancy made a strong impression on my mind, and it grew stronger as i grew older, causing me many a heartache because there was nothing in life like it. most men have dreams of greatness, but my only wish was to find the face that always came out of the shadows at my bidding." he paused for a moment, looking into the empty air, where his dream seemed to realize before him, for he looked intently at it, and went on to describe it. "it was not an angel's face, but a woman's, and there was no expression in it that was not human; expressions of love, and pity, and forgiveness--you have them in your face now, and i believe they are not uncommon. i have never expected unreal or impossible things, and as i grew older, and better understood the unsatisfactory nature of life, i became more than ever convinced that i would feel entirely satisfied could my dream come true. at last i came to believe that it was impossible; that i was as unreasonable as the man who pined because his tears were not diamonds; but i could not give up the recollection of the face, to which i was always so true and devoted, and comforted myself with brooding over it, and regretting my misfortune. instead of greatness or grandeur, i longed for the face, and it was the only one i ever loved." again he was gazing intently at nothing; at his fancy, but this time he seemed to be dismissing it forever, after a careful inspection to convince himself that the counterpart he had found on earth was exactly like it. "until i met you," he said, looking at annie benton again, "this sweetheart of my fancy lived in heaven, maid of air. when you turned upon me that afternoon in the church, i almost exclaimed aloud: 'the face! my vision has come true!' not a feature was missing, and your actions and your smile were precisely what i had seen so often in my fancy. therefore you are not a stranger to me; i have loved you all my life, and instead of worshipping a vision in the future i shall worship you. why don't you speak to me?" "i don't dare to," she answered, looking him full in the face, and without the slightest hesitation. "i am afraid i would say something i ought not to." he looked at her curiously for a moment, trying to divine her meaning, and concluded that if she should speak more freely, he would hear something surprising; either she would denounce him for his boldness, or profess a love for him which would compel him to give up his resolution of never seeing her again. "that was an unfortunate expression," he said. "i am sorry you said that, for it has pleased my odd fancy; indeed, it is precisely what i was hoping you would say, but there is all the more reason now for my repeating to you that i am dangerous. i know how desperate my affairs are; how desperate i am, and how unfortunate it would be if you should become involved. therefore i say to you, as a condemned prisoner might shut out the single ray of light which brightened his existence, so that he might meet his inevitable fate bravely, that you must avoid me, and walk another way when you see me approaching." a hoarse whistle came to them from the ferry in the river, and dorris thought of it as an angry warning from a monster, in whose keeping he was, to come away from a presence which afforded him pleasure. "may i speak a word?" the girl inquired, turning abruptly toward him. "yes; a dozen, or a thousand, though i would advise you not to." "is what you have said to me exactly true?" "upon my honor; exactly true," he answered. "is there no morbid selfishness in it; no foolish fancy?" "upon my honor, none!" "do you believe i am your dream come true with the same matter-of-fact belief which convinces you that there is a ferry in the river?" she pointed out the boat as it moved lazily through the water, and as he looked at it he seemed to resolve the matter carefully in his mind. "yes," he answered, "i am as certain that you are the woman i have loved devotedly all my life, as i am certain that there is a river at the foot of the hill. what i have said to you is generally regarded as sentimental nonsense except when it is protected by the charity of a sweetheart or a wife; but it is in every man's heart, though it is sometimes never expressed, and my idle life here has made me bold enough to state that it is true. i have been seeking contentment with so much eagerness, and know so well that it is hard to find, that i have come to believe that there is but one more chance, and that i would find what i lack in the love of a woman like you. even if i should discover by experience that i am mistaken in this belief, i would feel better off than i ever did before; for i would then conclude that my fancies were wrong, and that i was as well off as any man; but this feeling will always be denied me, for i am denied the privilege of happiness now that it is within my reach. my lonely life here has wrung a confession from me which i should have kept to myself, but it is every word true; you can depend on that." annie benton seemed satisfied with the answers he had made, and there was another long silence between them. "and your music--you play like one possessed," he said finally, talking to the wind, probably, for he was not looking at the girl. "every sentiment my heart has ever known you have expressed in chords. had i not known differently, i should have thought you were familiar with my history and permitted the organ to tell it whenever we met. what a voice the old box has, and what versatility; for its power in representing angels is only equalled by its power to represent devils. there is a song with which i have become familiar from hearing you play the air; it is a sermon which appealed to me as nothing ever did before. before i knew the words, i felt sure that they were promises of mercy and forgiveness; and when i found them, i thought i must have been familiar with them all my life; they were exactly what i had imagined. to look at your cold, passionless face now, no one would suspect your wonderful genius. you look innocent enough, but i do not wonder that you are regarded as a greater attraction than the minister. i have been told that you can kill the sermon, when you want to, by freezing the audience before it commences, and i believe it. i have no doubt that you take pride in controlling with your deft fingers the poor folks who worship under the steeple which mounts up below us. i only wonder that you do not cause them to cheer, and swing their hats, for they say that you can move them to tears at will." "i never feel like cheering myself," she answered, "and i suppose that is why the organ never does. but i very often feel sad, because i am so commonplace, and because there is so little in the future for me. if i play so coldly at times that even the minister is affected, it is because i am indifferent, and forget, and not because i intend it." "if you are commonplace," allan dorris replied, "you have abundant company; for the world is full of common people. we are all creatures of such common mould that i wonder we do not tire of our ugly forms. out of every hundred thousand there is a genius, who neglects all the virtues of the common folks, and is hateful save as a genius. for his one good quality he has a hundred bad ones; but he is not held to strict account, like the rest of us, for genius is so rare that we encourage it, no matter what the cost. but i have heard that these great people are monstrosities, and thoroughly wretched. i would rather be a king in one honest heart, than a sight for thousands. but this is not running away from you, as i promised, and if i remain here longer i shall lose the power. my path is down the hill; yours is up." he lifted his hat to her, and walked away; but she called to him,-- "i am going down the hill, too, and i will accompany you." he waited until she came up, and they walked away together. the girl had said that she was going down the hill, too, and would accompany him; but dorris knew that she meant the hill on which they were standing, not the one he referred to. he referred to a hill as famous as wickedness, and known in every house because of its open doors to welcome back some straggler from the noisy crowd travelling down the famous hill; but he thought that should a woman like annie benton consent to undertake the journey with him, he would change his course, and travel the other way, in spite of everything. "did i do wrong in asking you to wait for me?" she inquired, after they had walked awhile in silence. "yes," he answered, "because it pleased me. be very careful to do nothing which pleases me, for i am not accustomed to it, and the novelty may cause me to forget the vow i have made. a man long accustomed to darkness is very fond of the light. what do you think of me, anyway?" "what a strange question!" the girl said, turning to look at him. "be as frank with me as i was with you. what do you think of me?" the girl thought the matter over for a while, and replied,-- "if i should answer you frankly, i should please you; and you have warned me against that." dorris was amused at the reply, and laughed awhile to himself. "i didn't think of that," he said, though he probably had thought of it, and hoped that her reply would be what it was. "i am glad to hear that i am not repugnant to you, though. it will be a comfort to me to know, now that my dream has come true, that the subject of it does not regard me with distrust or aversion. i am glad, too, that after dreaming of the sunshine so long, it is not a disappointment. in my loneliness hereafter that circumstance will be a satisfaction, and it will be a pleasure to believe that the sunshine was brighter because of my brief stay in it. i can forget some of the darkness around me in future, in thinking of these two circumstances." they had reached thompson benton's gate by this time, and, the invitation having been extended, dorris walked into the house. the master was not due for an hour, so dorris remained until he came, excusing himself by the reflection that he would never see the girl again, and that he was entitled to this pleasure because of the sacrifice he had resolved to make. it was the same old story over again; allan dorris was desperately in love with annie benton, but she must not be in love with him, for he was dangerous, and whether this was true or not, his companion did not believe it. he told in a hundred ways, though in language which might have meant any one of a hundred things, that she was his dream come true, and of the necessity which existed for him to avoid her. occasionally he would forget to be grave, and make sport of himself, and laugh at what he had been saying; and at these times annie benton was convinced more than ever that he was not a dangerous man, as he said, for there was an honest gentility in his manner, and a gentle respect for her womanhood in everything he did; therefore she listened attentively to what he said, saying but little herself, as he requested. although he made love to her in many ingenious ways, and moved annie benton as she had never been moved before, he did not so intend it. could his motives have been impartially judged, that must have been the verdict; but while he knew that his love was out of place in the keeping of the girl, he could not resist the temptation of giving it to her, and then asking her to refuse it. several times annie benton attempted to speak, but he held up his hand as a warning. "don't say anything that you will regret," he said. "let me do that; i am famous for it. i never talked ten minutes in my life that i didn't say something that caused me regret for a year. but i will never regret anything i have said to you, for i have only made a confession which has been at my tongue's end for years. i have known you all my life; you know nothing of me, and care less, therefore let it be as i suggest." "but just a word," the girl insisted. "you do not understand what i would say--" "i don't know what you would say, but i can imagine what a lady like you _should_ say under such circumstances, and i beg the favor of your silence. let me imagine what i please, since that can be of little consequence to you." there was a noise at the front door, and old thompson came in. dorris bowed himself out, followed by a scowl, and as he walked along toward his own house he thought that his resolution to see annie benton no more would at least save him from a quarrel with her father. chapter xii. ruined by kindness. john bill, editor of the davy's bend _triumph_, was ruined by a railroad pass. when he taught school over in the bottoms, on the other side of the river, and was compelled to pay his fare when he travelled, he seldom travelled, and therefore put his money carefully away, but when he invested his savings in the _triumph_, and the railroad company sent him an annual pass, he made up for lost time, and travelled up and down the road almost constantly, all his earnings being required to pay his expenses. a day seldom passed that john bill did not get off or on a train at the davy's bend station, carrying an important looking satchel in his right hand, and an umbrella in his left, and though he imagined that this coming and going gave the people an idea of his importance, he was mistaken, for they knew he had no business out of the town, and very little in it: therefore they made fun of him, as they did of everything else, for the davy's bend people could appreciate the ridiculous in spite of their many misfortunes. they knew enough, else they could not have been such shrewd fault-finders, and they had rather extensive knowledge of everything worldly except a knowledge of the ways of capital, which was always avoiding them; but this was not astonishing, since capital had never lived among them and been subject to their keen scrutiny. when an event was advertised to take place on the line of road over which his pass was accepted, john bill was sure to be present, for he argued that, in order to report the news correctly, he must be on the ground in person; but usually he remained away so long, and gave the subject in hand such thorough attention, that he concluded on his return that the people had heard of the proceedings, and did not write them up, though he frequently asserted with much earnestness that no editor in that country gave the news as much personal attention as he did. still, john bill claimed to be worth a good deal of money. there was no question at all, he frequently argued, that his business and goodwill were worth fifteen thousand dollars--any man would be willing to pay that for the _triumph_ and its goodwill, providing he had the money; therefore, deducting his debts, which amounted to a trifle of eleven hundred dollars on his material, in the shape of an encumbrance, and a floating indebtedness of half as much more, he was still worth a little more than thirteen thousand dollars. the people said that everything in his office was not worth half the amount of the encumbrance, and that his goodwill could not be very valuable, since his business did not pay its expenses; but john bill could prove that the people had never treated him justly, therefore they were likely to misrepresent the facts in his case. there was a mortgage, as any one who cared to examine the records might convince himself, but it was a very respectable mortgage, and had been extended from time to time, as the office changed hands, for fifteen years past. it had been owned by all the best men in the neighborhood; but while a great many transfers were noted thereon, no credits appeared, so john bill was no worse than the rest of them. the former parties of the first part had intended paying off the trifling amount in a few weeks, and thereby become free to act as they pleased; john bill had the same intention concerning the document, therefore it was no great matter after all. besides, there were the accounts. he had a book full of them, and was always showing it to those who bothered him for money. the accounts were all against good men; a little slow, perhaps, but good, nevertheless, and the accounts should be figured in an estimate of john bill's affairs, which would add a few thousands more to the total. it was a little curious, though, that most of the men whose names appeared on john bill's ledger had accounts against john bill, and while he frequently turned to their page and showed their balances, they also turned to john bill's page in _their_ ledgers, and remarked that there was no getting anything out of him. thompson benton had been heard to say that each of these men were afraid to present their bills first, fearing that the others would create a larger one; so the accounts ran on from year to year. but whoever was in the right, it is certain that the accounts were a great comfort to john bill, for he frequently looked them over as a miser might count his money. john bill was certain the people of davy's bend were ungrateful. he had helped them and their town in a thousand ways, and spent his time (or that part of it not devoted to using his pass) in befriending them; but did they appreciate him? they did not; this may be set down as certain, for if the editor had put them in the way of making money, they were thoroughly ungrateful. indeed, the people went so far as to declare that john bill was the ungrateful one, nor were they backward in saying so. they had taken his paper, and helped him in every way possible, but he did not appreciate it; so they accused each other, and a very uncomfortable time they had of it. but though john bill claimed to be always helping the people, and though the people claimed that they had done a great deal for john bill, the facts were that neither john bill nor the people gave substantial evidence of any very great exertions in each other's behalf, so there must have been a dreadful mistake out somewhere. likewise, they quarrelled as to which had tried to bring the greater number of institutions to the town; but as to the institutions actually secured, there were none to quarrel over, so there was peace in this direction. john bill frequently came to the conclusion that his wrongs must be righted; that he must call names, and dot his i's and cross his t's, even to pointing out to the world wherein he had been wronged. he could stand systematic persecution no longer, he said, so he would fill his ink-bottle, and secure a fresh supply of paper, with a view of holding up to public scorn those who had trampled him in the dust of the street. but it was a bold undertaking; a stouter heart than john bill's would have shrunk from attacking a people with a defence as sound as the davy's bend folks could have made, so he usually compromised by writing paid locals about the men he had intended to accuse of ingratitude, referring to them as generous, warm-hearted men, who were creditable to humanity, all of which he added to the accounts at the rate of eight cents per line of seven words. john bill was so situated that he did little else than write paid locals, though he usually found time once a week to write imaginary descriptions of the rapid increase in circulation his paper was experiencing. he had discovered somehow that men who would pay for nothing else would pay for being referred to as citizens of rare accomplishments, and as gentlemen whose business ability was such that their competitors were constantly howling in rage; and it became necessary to use this knowledge to obtain the bare necessities of life. the very men who declared that john bill could have no more goods at their stores until old scores were squared would soften under the influence of the puff, and honor his "orders" when in the hands of either of the two young men who did his work. perhaps this was one reason the _triumph_ was on all sides of every question. whoever saw fit to write for it had his communication printed as original editorial; for the editor was seldom at home, and when he was, he found his time taken up in earning his bread by writing palatable falsehoods; therefore all the contributions went in, and as correspondents seldom agree, the _triumph_ was a remarkable publication. whenever a citizen had a grievance, he aired it in the _triumph_, his contribution appearing as the opinion of the editor. the person attacked replied in like manner; hence john bill was usually in the attitude of fiercely declaring _no_ one week, and _yes_ with equal determination the next. it was so on all subjects; politics, religion, local matters--everything. the republican who aired his views one week in john bill's remarkable editorial columns was sure to find himself confronted by a democrat who was handy with a pen in the next issue; the man who wrote that this, or that, or the other, was a disgrace, would soon find out that this, or that, or the other, were very creditable; for john bill's printers must have copy, and john bill was too busy travelling and lying to furnish it himself. having returned home on the night train, john bill climbed the stairway at the head of which his office was situated, and was engaged in preparing for his next issue. although he felt sure that a large amount of important mail matter had arrived during his absence, it could not be found; and therefore the editor was in rather bad humor, as he produced a list of paid notices to be written, and made lazy preparation for writing them. the editor was always expecting important mail matter, and because it never came he almost concluded that the postmaster was in the intrigue against him. while thinking that he would include that official in the exposé he felt it his duty to write at some time in the future, a knock came at the door. he had heard no step ascending the stair, therefore he concluded it must be one of his young men; probably the pale one, who was wasting his life in chewing plug tobacco, and squirting it around in puddles, in order that he might realize on a joke which he had perpetrated by printing a sign in huge letters, requesting visitors not to spit on the floor. in response to his invitation a tall gentleman came in,--a stranger, dressed in a suit of black material that gave him the appearance of being much on the road, for it was untidy and unkempt. he looked a good deal like a genteel man who had been lately engaged in rough work, and john bill noticed that he kept his left side turned from him. the stranger's hair, as well as his moustache and goatee, were bushy, and sprinkled with gray; and he had a rather peculiar pair of eyes, which he used to such an advantage that he seemed to remark everything in the room at a single glance. an odd man, john bill thought; a man who might turn out to be anything surprising; so he looked at him curiously quite a long time. "you are mr. bill?" the stranger asked, after the two men had looked each other over to their joint satisfaction. the editor acknowledged his name by an inclination of the head, at the same time offering a chair. "i came in on the night train," the tall man said, seating himself with the left side of his face toward the door at which he had entered; "therefore i call upon you at this unseasonable hour to make a few inquiries with reference to your place. it is not probable that i shall become an advertiser, or a patron of any kind; but i think you may depend on it that i will shortly furnish you with an item of news. i have read your editorial paragraphs with a good deal of interest, and concluded that you could give me the information desired." john bill expressed a wish to himself that the stranger would never find out that he did not write the editorials he professed to admire; but there was a possibility that his visitor was not sincere. he had said that he came to the town on the night train. john bill knew this to be untrue, for he had been a passenger on that train himself, and no one else got off when he did. he was glad, however, that the determined-looking visitor did not bring a folded copy of the _triumph_ with him for convenience in referring to an objectionable paragraph; for john bill felt sure that such a man as the stranger looked to be would not go away without satisfaction of some kind. he was bothered a good deal in this way, by reason of his rather peculiar way of conducting the _triumph_; but questions with reference to davy's bend,--he could answer them easy enough. but he did not contradict the statement of his visitor concerning the time he arrived in town, for he did not look like a man who would take kindly to a thing of that sort; so the editor meekly said he would be pleased to give him any information in his power. "i will inquire first about the man calling himself--allan dorris," the stranger continued, consulting a book which he took from his pocket, and pausing a little before pronouncing the name, "and i ask that this conversation be in confidence. how long has this fellow been here?" the tall stranger put up his book, and looked at the responsible head of the _triumph_, as though he would intimate that his displeasure would be serious should his instructions be neglected. "this is october," mr. bill replied, counting on his fingers. "he came in the spring, some time; probably six months ago. i do not know him personally. he is a doctor, and lives in a place called 'the locks,' on the edge of the town, in this direction," pointing his finger toward the stone church, and the house in which allan dorris lived. "that's about all i know of him." the peculiar pair of eyes owned by the odd man followed the direction pointed out for a moment, and then settled on john bill again. "i have heard that he has a love affair with a young woman named--annie benton," the visitor said with business precision, once more consulting his book, and pausing before pronouncing the name, as he had done before. "what do you know about that?" "i have heard something of it," the editor replied, "but nothing in particular; only that he is with her a great deal, and that he meets her usually in a church near his house. the people talk about it, but i am too busy to pay much attention to such matters." john bill was trying to create the impression that he was kept busy in writing the sparkling editorials which the stranger had pretended to admire, but thinking at the last moment that his travelling was his credit, he added, with a modest cough: "besides, i travel a good deal." but this was not the first time john bill had tried to create a wrong impression. he foolishly imagined that, being an editor, he was expected to know more than other people; but as he did not, he frequently filled his mind with old dates, and names, and events, by reading of them, and then talked of the subject to others, pretending that it had just occurred to him, and usually adding a word or two concerning the popular ignorance. if he encountered a word which he did not know the meaning of, he looked it up, and used it a great deal after that, usually in connection with arguments to prove that the average man did not understand the commonest words in his language. nor was this all; john bill was a deceiver in another particular. he frequently intimated in the _triumph_ that if he were a rich man he would spend his money liberally in "helping the town;" that is, in mending the streets and sidewalks, and in building manufactories which would give employment to "labor." john bill was certainly a deceiver in this, for there never was a poor man who did not find fault with the well-to-do for taking care of their means. the men who have no money of their own claim to know exactly how money should be invested, but somehow the men who have money entertain entirely different ideas on the subject. upon invitation the editor told of old thompson benton and his disposition; of the beauty of his daughter, and of her talent as a musician; of allan dorris's disposition, which seemed to be sour one day, and sweet the next, and so on; all of which the stranger noted in his book, occasionally making an inquiry as the narrative of the town's gossip progressed. when this was concluded, the book in which the notes were made was carefully put away, and the stranger backed toward the door, still keeping his left side in the shadow, first leaving a ten-dollar note on the editorial table. "i shall need your services soon," he said, "and i make a small payment in advance to bind the bargain. when the time comes you will know it. your business then will be to forget this interview. you are also to say nothing about it until you receive the warning to forget. i bid you good-night." so saying the stranger was gone, retreating down the stairway so lightly that his footsteps could not be heard. a rather remarkable circumstance, the editor thought; a visit at such an hour from a mysterious man who inquired minutely about a citizen who was almost as much of a mystery as the visitor himself; and when he heard a step on the stair again, he concluded that the stranger had forgotten something, and was coming back, so he opened the door, only to meet mrs. whittle, the milliner, who carried a sealed envelope in her hand. john bill did not like mrs. whittle, the milliner, very well; for she had a habit of saying that "her work" was all the advertising she needed, referring to the circumstance that she had become the town busybody in her attempts to reform the people; but he received her politely, and thought to himself that when his sensation finally appeared it would refer to this party as fluffy, fat, and beardy. mrs. whittle had a good deal to say concerning the careless, good-natured wickedness of the people, and the people had a good deal to say about mrs. whittle. one thing they said was, that while she was always coaxing those who were doing very well to become better, she was shamefully neglecting her own blood in the person of little ben whittle, her only child, who was being worked to death by the farmer named quade, in whose employ he was. this unfortunate child had not seen his mother for years, and was really sick, distressed, ragged, and dirty; but while mrs. whittle imagined that he was doing very well, and felt quite easy concerning him, she could not sleep at night from worrying over the fear that other children, blessed with indulgent parents and good homes, were growing up in wickedness. her husband was a drunkard and a loafer, but mrs. whittle had no time to bother about him; there were men in the town so thoroughly debased as to remain at home, and rest on sunday, instead of going to church, and to this unfortunate class she devoted her life. she frequently took credit to herself that the best citizens of davy's bend were not in jail, and believed that they would finally acknowledge their debt to her; but of her unfortunate son and her vagrant husband she never thought at all; so john bill could not very well be blamed for disliking her. "i heard you would return to-night," the good woman said, panting from her exertion in climbing the stairs, "and i wanted to deliver this with my own hands, which is my excuse for coming at this late hour, though i don't suppose that any one would doubt that i came on a good errand, even if they had seen me coming up. bless me, what a hard stair you have!" john bill took the envelope, and, after tearing it open, hung the note it contained on an empty hook within reach of his hand, without looking at it. meanwhile mrs. whittle continued to pant, and look good. "it refers to allan dorris's affair with annie benton," she said, recovering her breath at last. "something should be done, and i don't know who else is to do it. the people all mean well enough, and they are good enough people as a rule; but when there is good to be accomplished, i usually find it is _not_ accomplished unless i take an interest in it. no one knows better than john bill that i do not suspect people, and am always inclined to believe good of them, but there is something wrong about this allan dorris. mr. ponsonboy and mr. wilton say so, and you know they are very careful of what they say." john bill had heard that statement questioned, and he mentally added their names to his black list. two greater talking old women never wore pants, john bill had heard said, than messrs. ponsonboy and wilton, and when he got at it he would skin them with the others. "better men than mr. ponsonboy and mr. wilton never lived," mrs. whittle said, "and i have concluded to write a hint which annie benton as well as allan dorris will understand. if nothing comes of it, i will try something else. i am not easily discouraged, mr. bill; i would have given up long ago if i were." mrs. whittle found it necessary to pause for another rest, and the editor took opportunity to make mental note of the fact (for use in the coming exposure) that she was dressed in the most execrable taste; that her clothes seemed to have been thrown at her from a miscellaneous assortment, without regard to color, material, or shape, and that she had not taken the trouble to arrange them. john bill felt certain that when the people were buying copies of his paper to burn, they would read that mrs. whittle was in need of the refining influences of a dress-maker. "you are a good man at heart, mr. bill," mrs. whittle said again, which was an expression the editor had heard before, for he was always being told that he was a better man than he appeared to be, though he knew a great many people who were not better than they appeared to be. "i know you are, and that you do not mean all the bad things you say sometimes. i know you will help me in doing good, for it is so important that good _should_ be done. when i think of the wickedness around me, and the work that is to be done, i almost faint at the prospect, but i only hope that my strength may enable me to hold out to the end. i pray that i may be spared until this is a better world." mr. bill promised to find a place in his crowded columns for the good woman's contribution, and she went away, with a sigh for the general wickedness. "the world will be better off for that sigh," john bill said, as he settled down in his chair, and heard mrs. whittle step off the stair into the street. "what we need is more sighing and less work. there is no lack of workers; in fact, the country is too full of them for comfort, but there is a painful lack of good people to sigh. the first one who called to-night on allan dorris business looked like a worker; a worker-off, i may say. this dorris is becoming important of late. i must make his acquaintance. hello! another!" the owner of the legs that were climbing the stairway this time turned out to be silas davy, who came in and handed john bill a piece of paper. it proved to be a brief note, which read,-- "to john bill,--if the party who has just left your office left a communication concerning allan dorris, i speak for the privilege of answering it. "tug whittle." john bill read the note several times over after silas had disappeared, and finally getting up from his chair, said,-- "i'll write no more to-night; there may be interesting developments in the morning." chapter xiii. the rebellion of the baritone. during the summer and winter following the arrival of allan dorris in davy's bend, he met annie benton at intervals after their strange meeting out on the hills, in spite of his resolution to keep out of her way, and though he was convinced more than ever after each meeting that their acquaintance was dangerous, he candidly admitted to himself that he was powerless to resist the temptation to see her when opportunity offered, for the girl waited as anxiously for his appearance as he did for hers; she was as deeply concerned as he was, and while this circumstance afforded him a kind of pleasure, it was also painful, for he felt certain that no good could come of it. usually he attended the services in the church once a week, and watched the organist so closely that she always divined his presence, and looked timidly toward where he sat when opportunity offered. dorris believed that he could cause the girl to think of him by looking at her, and though he changed his position at every service, he had the satisfaction of finally seeing her pick him out, and she never made a mistake, always looking directly at him when she turned her head. after the people were dismissed, he occasionally met her at the door, and walked home with her behind her glowering father, who received the attentions of dorris with little favor. a few times he remained in the church with her a few minutes after the congregation had passed out, but after each meeting he felt more dissatisfied than ever, and chafed under the restraint which held him back. a few times, also, he went into the house, after accompanying her home, which pleased annie benton as much as it displeased old thompson, but somehow he did not enjoy her company there as he did when she was alone in the church, for the ancient maiden, as well as the ancient gentleman, seemed to regard him with suspicion and distrust; therefore in spite of his vows to let her alone, which he had made with honesty and sincerity, he called on her at the church nearly every week. he believed that he was entitled to some credit because he only saw the girl occasionally, for he longed to be with her continually; and there were times, when he heard the organ, that he overcame the temptation and did not enter the church. on these occasions he turned his face doggedly toward the locks, and paced up and down in his own room until he knew the temptation was removed; when he would go out into the yard again, hoping that some good fortune had detained the player longer than usual, and that he would meet her unexpectedly. this same spirit caused him to haunt the road which she frequented on her visits to and from the town, and quite often he had occasion to appear surprised at her approach when he was not, when he would walk with her one way or the other until it seemed necessary for them to separate. it was not a deep _ruse_--nor did it deceive himself, for he often laughed at its absurdity--but it afforded occupation to a man who was idle more than half his time, and allan dorris was like other men in the particular that he wanted to do right, but found it very difficult when inclination led in the other direction. when they met in this manner, each usually had time to say only enough to excite the curiosity of the other, and to cause them to long for another meeting, and thus the winter was passed, and the early spring came on; the season of quarreling between frost and sunshine. on a certain wild march evening, after a day of idleness and longing to see the girl, dorris put on his heavy coat and walked in the yard, up and down the old path under the trees, which gave evidences of his restless footsteps even in the snows of winter. as soon as he came out he heard the music, and between his strong desire to see the player, and his conviction that he should never enter her presence, he resolved to leave davy's bend and never return. he could better restrain his love for her in some distant town than in davy's bend, therefore he would go away, and try to forget. this gave him an excuse to enter the church, though he only intended to bid her good-by; and so impatient was he that he scaled the wall, and jumped down on the outside, instead of passing out at the gate. annie benton was watching for him when he stepped into her presence from the vestibule, and as he walked up the aisle he saw so much pleasure in her face that he regretted to make the announcement of his departure; but he knew it was the best thing to do, and did not hesitate. he even thought of the prospect that she might regret his determination, and say so, which would greatly please him. "i have concluded to leave davy's bend," he said, as he took the hand she offered him, "and have called to say good-by. as soon as i can dispose of my effects i will leave this forbidden ground, and travel so far that i will forget the way back. the more i see of you, the more i love you; and if i continue to live in sight of your house, i will finally forget everything except that i love you, and do you a great harm. it will not take me long to settle up my affairs, and within a few days, at the farthest, i shall be gone." the smile on annie benton's pretty face vanished at once, as she turned her head and looked from him, at the same time trying to run her fingers over the keys; but they had lost their cunning, and her hands soon lay idly on the keyboards. when dorris finally caught her head gently, and turned it toward him, he saw that tears were in her eyes. she did not attempt to hide this, and quietly submitted when he brushed them away. "it pains me to know that you regret this announcement," dorris said, after looking at her a moment, "though it would pain me more to believe that you did not. it seems to be always so; there is sorrow in everything for me. i have cursed myself a thousand times for this quality, and thought ill of a nature which had no peace or content in it. i have hated myself for years because of the belief that nothing would satisfy me; that i would tire of everything i coveted, and that i was born a misanthrope and an embodied unrest. when i have envied others their content, i have always concluded afterwards that there was something in my nature opposed to peace, and that i was doomed to a restless life, always seeking that which could not be found. i have always believed that my acquaintances have had this opinion of me, and that for this reason they did not grant me the charity i felt the need of. but now that i am going away, and will never see you again, i hope you will pardon my saying that your absence has been the cause of the unrest which has always beset me. long before i knew you existed i was looking for you; and i know now that all my discontent would have vanished had i been free to make honorable love to you when we first met. in our weakness we are permitted to know a few things; i know this to be true." "since you have always wished me to take no interest in this acquaintance of ours," annie benton replied, in a tone which might have been only sullen, but it sounded very much like the voice of an earnest woman expressing vexation and regret, "let me at least express in words what i have often expressed in my actions--that i would have long ago shown you that your affection was returned; that you are not more concerned than i am. i have always been in doubt as to what my course should be; but let me say this, in justice to my intelligence, though it be a discredit to my womanhood, you can never love me more than i do you. nor do you more sincerely regret the necessity which you say exists for your going away." "i hope i do not take undue credit to myself," he replied, "when i say that i have known this ever since our acquaintance began, and i only asked you to remain silent because i could not have controlled myself with declarations of love from your lips ringing in my ears. you trusted my judgment fully, and refused to hear the reasons why i said our acquaintance was dangerous; and i will deserve that confidence by going away, for i know that is the best thing to do. sometimes there is a little pleasure in a great sorrow. i have known mothers to find pleasure in talking of their dead children, and i find a fascination in talking to you about a love which can never be realized. heretofore i have been a man shut up in a dungeon, craving sunlight, hating myself because i came to believe that there was no sunlight; now i realize that sunlight was a natural necessity for my well-being, for i have found it, and it is all i hoped. but i must go back into the dungeon, and the necessity is more disagreeable than i can tell you. i am an average man in every respect save that i feel that i have never had an average man's chance in this matter of love, and fret because of it. that which i crave may be a mistake of the fancy, but i am not convinced of it; therefore i am not as philanthropic as those who have outgrown in experience an infatuation such as i feel for you. i have tried everything else, and have learned to be indifferent, with all my idols broken and dishonored at my feet; but there is a possibility in love which i can never know anything about." while the girl was listening, there were times when dorris thought she would interrupt him, and make the declaration which he had forbidden; but she controlled herself, and looked steadily away from him. "it may occur to you as strange--it _is_ strange--that while i declare my love for you, i run away from it. in explanation i could only repeat what i have said before; that it is for your good that i have adopted this course. had you listened to my brief story, you would now understand why my going away seems to be necessary; since you preferred not to, i can only say in general terms that nothing could happen, except good fortune, which would surprise me. i am surrounded by danger, and while my life has been one long regret, the greatest regret of all is that which i experience in leaving you. were i to consult my own bent, i would deny all that i have intimated to my discredit, and make such love to you that you could not resist it; but i love you, and this course would not prove it. we are doing now what millions of people have done before us; making a sacrifice for the right against strong inclinations, and we should meet it bravely. there is no hesitation in my manner, i hope." annie benton turned and looked at him, and saw that he was trembling and very much agitated. "then why are you trembling?" she asked. "because of the chill in the air, i presume," he answered, "for i am very determined to carry out my resolution. i might tremble with excitement in resolving to rescue a friend from danger, though it would not indicate a lack of courage. you are willing for me to go?" "since you say it is for the best," she replied, "yes." believing that he had said all that was necessary, allan dorris hesitated between going away and remaining. walking over to the window, and looking out, he saw that the light he had been talking about was fading away from the earth, as it was fading away from him, and that the old night was coming back. a hill-top he saw in the distance he likened to himself; resisting until the last moment, but without avail, for the darkness was gradually climbing up its sides, and would soon cover it. "you will no doubt think that i should have kept away from you when i saw that my presence was not objectionable, and that our acquaintance would finally result in this," he said, coming back to the girl, and standing by her side, "but i could not; let me acknowledge my fault, and say that i am sorry for it. i could not resist the temptation to enter the only presence which has ever afforded me pleasure, try hard as i could, so i kept it up until i am now forced to run away from it. do i make my meaning clear?" "perfectly," she replied, without looking around. "life is so unsatisfactory that it affords nothing of permanent value except the love and respect of a worthy, intelligent, and agreeable woman. it is the favor i have sought, and found too late. it is fortunate that you are not as reckless as i am; otherwise no restraint would keep us apart. but for the respect i have for your good name, i would steal you, and teach you to love me in some far-away place." "you have taught me already," the girl timidly replied, still looking away. "don't say that," dorris said in alarm. "that pleases me, for it is depravity, and everything depraved seems to suit me. you must say nothing which pleases me, else i will fail in my resolve. say everything you can to hurt my feelings, but nothing to please me." "i cannot help saying it," she replied, rising from her seat at the organ, and facing him. "if it is depravity to love you, i like depravity, too." "annie," dorris said, touching her arm, "be careful of what you say." "i must say it," she returned, with a flushed face; "i am only a woman, and you don't know how much weakness that implies. i am flesh and blood, like yourself; but you have made love to me as though i were an unconscious picture. i fear that you do not understand womankind, and that you have made an idol of me; an idol which will fall, and break at your feet. my love for you has come to me as naturally as my years, and i want you to know when you go away that my heart will be in your keeping. why may not i avow my love as well as you? why may not i, too, express regret that you are going away?" the girl asked the question with a candor which surprised him; there was the innocence of a child in her manner, and the enthusiasm of a woman thoroughly in earnest. "for the reason that when i am gone it will be in the nature of things for you to forget me," he replied. "you are young, and do not know your heart as well as i know mine. in course of time you will probably form an honorable alliance; _then_ you will regret having said this to me." "it will always be a pleasure for me to remember how ardently i have loved you," she replied, trembling and faltering, as though not quite certain that the course she was pursuing was right. "i will never feel ashamed of it, no matter if i should live forever. it may not be womanly for me to say so; but i can never forget you. your attentions to me have been so delicate, and so well calculated to win a woman's affection, that i want you to know that, but for this hindrance you speak of, your dream might be realized. if i am the maid of air, the maid of air returns your affection. surely my regard for you may excuse my saying this, now that you are going away, for you may think of it with pleasure in your future loneliness. i appreciate your love so much that i must tell you that it is returned." they were standing close together on the little platform in front of the organ, and the girl leaned against him in such a manner that he put his left arm around her shoulders to support her. her head rested on his arm, and she was looking full into his face. the excitement under which she seemed to labor lent such a charm to her face that allan dorris thought that surely it must be the handsomest in the world. "kiss me," she said suddenly. the suggestion frightened the great brawny fellow, who might have picked up his companion and ran away with her without the slightest inconvenience; for he looked around the room in alarm. "i don't know whether i will or not," he replied, looking steadily at her. "were you ever kissed before?" "by my father; by no one else." "then i think i will refuse," he said, "though i would give twenty years of my life to grant your request. what a request it is! it appeals to me with such force that i feel a weakness in my eyes because of the warmth in my heart, and the hot blood never ran races through my veins before as it is doing now. you have complete possession of my heart, and i am a better man than i was before, for you are pure and good; if i have a soul, it has forgotten its immortality in loving this earthy being in my arms. but it is the proudest boast of a loyal wife that no lips save those of her husband ever touched hers, and my regard for you is such that i do not wish to detract from the peace of your future. if i have made an idol of you, let me go away without discovering my mistake; grant me the privilege of remembering you as the realization of all my dreaming. in a year from now you will only remember me to thank me for this refusal of your request." "in a year from now i will feel just as i do now. i will never change. i will have only this to remember you by, and my acquaintance with you has been the only event in my life worth remembering. _please_ kiss me." he hurriedly pressed her lips to his own, and looked around as though he half expected to be struck dead for the sacrilege, but nothing serious resulted, and the girl continued to talk without changing her position. "i have never regretted the restraint which is expected of women until i knew you, for why should i not express my preferences as well as you? in my lonely, dreamy childhood, i had few acquaintances and fewer friends, and you have supplied a want which i hardly knew existed before. ever since i can remember, i have longed so much to know the people in the great world from which you came that i accepted you as a messenger from them, and you interested and pleased me even more than i expected. my life has always been lonely, though not unhappy, and the people i read of in books i accepted as the people who lived outside of davy's bend, in the cities by the lakes and seas, where there is culture as well as plenty. i have been familiar with their songs, and played them on the organ when i should have been practising; everything i have read of them i have put to music, and played it over and over. once i read of a great man who died, and who was buried from a church filled with distinguished mourners. the paper said that when the people were all in their seats, the voice of a great singer broke the stillness, in a song of hope, and i have imitated the voice on the organ, and imagined that i was playing a requiem over distinguished dust; but in future i shall think only of you when i play the funeral march. since i have known you, i have thought of little else, and i shall mourn your departure as though you had always been a part of me. if i dared, i would ask you on my knees to remain." "i have heard you play the songs to which you refer," dorris replied musingly, "and i have thought that you played them with so much expression that, could their authors have listened to the performance, they would have discovered new beauties in them. i never knew a player before who could render the words of a song as well as the music. you do it, and with so much genius that i wonder that you have nothing but the cold, passionless notes to guide you. one dark afternoon you played 'i dreamt i dwelt in marble halls,' and a savage could have told what the words were. the entire strength of the organ seemed to be united in the mournful air, and the timid accompaniment was peopled with the other characters in the play from which the song is taken. that represented you; but you have had me before the organ, telling all i knew, a hundred times. although you have refused to hear my story, you seem to know it; for you have told it on the organ as many times as i have thought of it." "if i have told your story on the organ," the girl said, "there must have been declarations in it that you were a brave, an honorable, and an unfortunate man, for i have always thought that of you. in spite of all you have said to me against yourself, i have never doubted this for a moment, and i would trust you to any extent." "if i expect to carry out my resolution," allan dorris replied, as though in anger, though it was really an unspoken protest against doing a disagreeable thing, "i must hear no more of this; a very little more of what you have said, and retreat will be impossible. but before i leave you, let me say this: you once said i was an odd man; i will tell you why. i seem to be an odd man because you have heard every sentiment there is in my heart; i have kept nothing back. the men you have known were close-mouthed and suspicious, knowing that whatever they said was likely to be repeated, and this made them cautious. place other men in my situation as to loneliness and misfortune, and i would not seem so unusual. there are plenty of staid business men who are as 'odd' as i am, but they have never been moved to tell their secrets, as i have done to you. even were your honorable father to express the love he feels for your dead mother, it would sound sentimental and foolish, and surprise his acquaintances; but rest assured that every man will turn out a strange creature when you get his confidence. i say this in justice to myself, but it is the truth. when you know any man thoroughly, you either think more or less of him." "i don't dare to tell you what is in my mind," annie benton said, as she stood beside him, his arm still around her. "it would startle you, and perhaps cause you to change the good opinion you have expressed of me; but there can be no harm in my saying this--every day of our acquaintance has brought me more respect and love for you. let me pay you the poor compliment of saying that the more i know of you, the more i respect and honor you." "i believe i deserve that," he replied. "i have more than my share of faults, but it has always been a comfort for me to know that my best friends are those who know most of me. but though i have faults, i am not the less sensitive. i believe that should i kill a man, i would as keenly feel the slights of my fellows as would one whose hands were clean. should i become so offensive to mankind as to merit banishment, my wickedness would not cause me to forget my loneliness. my mistakes have been as trifling in their nature, and as innocent, as neglect to lock a door in a community of thieves; but i have been punished as severely as though i had murdered a town. the thieves have pursued and beaten me because i carelessly permitted them to steal my substance; and the privilege of touching a pure woman's lips with my own, and folding her in my arms, becomes a serious wrong, though it has only brought me a joy which other men have known, and no harm came of it." "i do not wish to do anything that is wrong," the girl said, with some alarm, stepping away from him, as if frightened at her situation; "but on the score of friendship, i may say that i shall be very lonely when you are gone. davy's bend was never an agreeable place, but i was content with it until you came and filled me with ambition. i wanted to become worthy of the many kind things you said of me; i hoped that i might distinguish myself in some way, and cause you to rejoice that you had predicted well of me, but now that you are going away, you will never know of it even if i succeed. i may regret your departure on this account, if nothing else. i _do_ regret it for another reason, but you reprimand me for saying it." the dogged look which distinguished him when thinking came into his face again, and though he seemed to be paying no attention, he was listening with keen interest. "regret seems to be the common inheritance," he said, after a protracted silence between them. "your regret makes me stronger; it convinces me that i am not its only victim. duty is a master we must all obey, though i wonder that so many heed its demands, since it seldom leads us in the direction we would travel. the busy world is full of people who are making sacrifices for duty as great as yours and mine; let us not fail in doing ours. in the name of the only woman i ever loved, i ask you to bid me good-by with indifference. for the good of the best woman in the world, play a joyful march while i leave your presence, never to return." without another word, the girl sprang to her seat at the organ, and allan dorris having awakened the sleeping janitor, the music commenced; a march of joy, to the time of which he left the church without once looking back. but on reaching the outside he could not resist the temptation to look once more at annie benton; so he climbed up to his old position on the wall, and looked at her through the broken pane. he saw her look around, as if to convince herself that he was gone, when the music changed from joy to regret while her face was yet turned toward the door at which he had departed. she was thinking, and expressing her thoughts with the pipes, and allan dorris knew what she was thinking as well as if she were speaking the words. there were occasional passages in the music so fierce and wild that he knew the girl was struggling with desperate thoughts; nor could she easily get rid of them, for the reckless tones seemed to be fighting for mastery over the gentler ones. the old baritone air again; but strong and courageous now, instead of mournful, and it seemed to be muttering that it had ceased to be forbearing, and had no respect for customs, or usages, or matters of conscience; indeed, there was a certain reckless abandon in it which caused the listener to compare it to the roaring song of a man reeling home to squalor and poverty--a sort of declaration that he liked squalor and poverty better than anything else. the mild notes of the accompaniment with the right hand--how like entreating human voices they sounded--a chord of self-respect, of love of home, of duty, in all their persuasive changes, urging the enraged baritone air to be reasonable, and return to the pacific state which it had honored so long; but the baritone air continued to threaten to break over all restraint, and become as wild and fierce as it sounded. occasionally the chord of self respect, of love of home, and of duty, seemed to gain the mastery, but the wicked baritone broke away again, though it was growing more mild and tractable, and allan dorris thought that it must finally succumb to the eloquent appeal in the treble. "i have been mild and gentle all my life"--it seemed to be grumbling the words, as an apology for giving in, instead of declaring them as an excuse for breaking over all restraint--"and what good has it done me? am i happier than those who have mingled joys with their regrets? my mild sacrifices have resulted in nothing, and i am tempted to try what a little spirit will do." but the unruly spirit was pacified at last, and the music resolved itself into a lullaby of the kind which mothers sing to their children; it may have been a recollection of the player's own childhood, for it soon caused her to bow her head on the keyboard, and burst into tears. chapter xiv. the ancient maiden. jane benton, old thompson's maiden sister, was as good as anybody, though no one urged the point as steadily as she did herself. had the president walked into jane benton's presence, she would have believed that he had heard of her (although there was no reason that she should entertain that opinion) and had called to pay his respects; and instead of being timid in so great a presence, she would have expected him to be timid in hers. there were people who cared to distinguish themselves: very well, let them do it; but jane benton did not have that ambition, though she had the ability, and could have easily made a name for herself which would have gone thundering down the ages. let other people distinguish themselves and pay the price; jane benton was distinguished naturally--effort was not necessary in her case. if the people did not acknowledge it, it was their loss, not hers. the ancient maiden was a book-worm, and devoured everything she heard of; but only with a determination to tear it to pieces, for of course no one could hope to amuse or instruct a lady of forty-five, who not only knew everything worth knowing already, but who had taught school in her younger days on the strength of a certificate ranging from ninety-eight to ninety-nine. this certificate had been issued by three learned men, each one of whom knew absolutely everything; and it was agreed by them that jane benton should have had an even hundred but for the circumstance that her "hand write" was a little crooked. this fault had since been remedied, and the ancient maiden still retained the certificate, and the recollection of the conclusion by the three learned men, as an evidence that, so far as education was concerned, she lacked nothing whatever. when she consented to favor a book by looking through it, there was unutterable disgust on her features as she possessed herself of the contents, since she felt nothing but contempt for the upstarts who attempted to amuse or instruct so great a woman as jane benton. and her patience was usually rewarded. thompson! annie! ring the bells, and run here! the ignorant pretender has been found out! a turned letter in the book! a that for a which! a will for a shall! a would for a should! hurrah! announce it to the people! another pretender found out! lock the book up! it is worthless! jane benton's greatness, so long in doubt, is vindicated! but while there is not a perfect book in existence now, there is likely to be one, providing jane benton lives three or four hundred years longer, for the thought has often occurred to her that she ought to do something for the race, although it does not deserve such a kindness, as a pattern for all future writers. she has done nothing in forty-five years; but she has been busy during that time, no doubt, in preparing for a book which will not only astonish the living, but cause the dead to crawl out of their graves, and feel ashamed of themselves. let the people go on in their mad ignorance; jane benton is preparing to point out their errors, and in the course of the present century--certainly not later than toward the close of the next one--a new prophet will appear in such robes of splendid perfection that even the earth will acknowledge its imperfections, and creep off into oblivion. but notwithstanding her rather remarkable conceit, jane benton was a useful woman. for fifteen years she had "pottered around," as old thompson said, and made her brother's home a pleasant one. since she could not set the world on fire, she said she did not want to, and at least knew her own home perfectly, and had it under thorough control. when old thompson needed anything, and ransacked the house until he concluded that it had been burned up, his sister jane could put her hand on the article immediately; and perhaps jane benton's genius, in which she had so much confidence, was a genius for attempting only what she could do well; for whatever her intentions were, she had certainly accomplished nothing, except to distinguish her brother's house as the neatest and cleanest in davy's bend. notwithstanding her lofty ambitions, and her marvellous capacity in higher walks, she was jealous of what she had really accomplished; and the servant girl who promised to be industrious and generally satisfactory around old thompson's house was soon presented with her walking papers, for jane benton believed that she was the only woman alive who knew the secret of handling dishes without breaking them, or of sweeping a carpet without ruining it; therefore a servant who threatened to become a rival was soon sent away, and a less thrifty one procured, who afforded the mistress opportunity of regretting that the girls of recent years knew nothing, and stubbornly refused to learn. old thompson had been heard to say once, after his sister had ordered the cook to leave in an hour, that he would finally be called upon to send his daughter annie away, for no other reason than that she was useful, and careful, and industrious, and sensible; but the ancient maiden had good sense, in spite of her eccentricities, and dearly loved her pretty niece; and it is probable that old thompson only made the remark in fun. thompson benton was too sensible a man to go hungry in anticipation of improbable feasts in the future; therefore his sister jane and his daughter annie were well provided for; and were seated in a rather elegant room in a rather elegant house, on a certain wet afternoon in the spring of the year, busy with their work. the girl had been quiet and thoughtful all day, but finally she startled her aunt by inquiring,-- "aunt jane, were you ever in love?" the ancient maiden dropped her work, and looked at the girl in indignation and astonishment. "annie," she sharply said, "what do you mean by asking me such a question as that?" the ancient maiden was particularly severe on the men who attempted to write books, but the sex in general was her abomination. every man who paid court to a young woman, in jane benton's opinion, was a married man, with a large family of children; and though it sometimes turned out that those she accused of this offence were only twenty years old, or such a matter, she said that made no difference; they had married young, probably, and investigation would reveal that they had ten or twelve ragged children and a pale wife somewhere in poverty. therefore the presumption of the girl in asking such a question caused her to repeat again, and with more indignation than before:-- "what do you mean by asking me such a question as that?" annie benton was like her father in another particular; she was not afraid of jane, for they both loved her; therefore she was not frightened at her indignation, but laughingly insisted on the question. "but _were_ you ever in love?" "annie," her aunt replied, this time with an air of insulted dignity, "i shall speak to your father about this when he comes home to-night. the idea of a chit of a girl like you asking me if i have ever been in love! you have known me all your life; have i ever _acted_ as though i were in love?" "the question is easy to answer," the girl persisted. "yes or no." seeing that the girl was not to be put off, jane benton pulled a needle out of her knitting--for thompson benton wore knit socks to keep peace in the family, since his sister believed that should he go down town wearing a pair of the flimsy kind he kept for sale, he would return in the evening only to fall dead in her arms--and picked her teeth with it while she reflected. and while about it, her manner softened so much that, when she went out of the room soon after, annie believed there was a suspicion of tears in her eyes. she remained away such a length of time that the girl feared she had really offended the worthy woman, and was preparing to go out and look for her, when she came back wiping her eyes with her apron, and carrying a great packet of letters, which she threw down on the table in front of annie. "there!" she said pettishly. "since you are so curious, read them." the girl was very much amused at the turn affairs had taken, and, after breaking the string which held the letters together, looked over several of them. they were dated in the year annie was born, and one seemed to have been written on her birthday. they all referred to her aunt in the most loving and extravagant terms possible; and while thinking how funny it was that her wrinkled aunt should be referred to as dear little angel, the ancient maiden said,-- "in love! i was crazy! and i can't laugh about it yet, though it seems to be so amusing to you." "it only amuses me because i know now that you are like other women," the girl replied quietly. "i think more of you than ever, now that i know you have been in love." "well, you ought to think a good deal of me, then," the ancient maiden said, "for i was so crazy after the writer of those letters that i couldn't sleep. love him! i thought he was different from any other man who ever lived, and i worshipped him; i made a god of him, and would have followed him to the end of the earth." there was more animation in aunt jane's voice than annie had ever noticed before, and she waved the knitting needle at her niece as though she were to blame for getting her into a love mess. "he knew every string leading to my heart," the excited maid continued, "and he had more control over me than i ever had over myself. it was a fortunate thing that he was an honorable man. now you know it all, and i feel ashamed of myself." miss jane applied herself to knitting again, though she missed a great many stitches because of her excitement. "but why didn't he marry you, since he loved you?" annie inquired. "well, since you _must_ know, he found a girl who suited him better," the ancient maiden replied. "but before that girl came in the way, he _thought_ he loved me, and i was so well satisfied with his mistaken notion that i worshipped him. and if his old fat wife should die now, i'd marry him were he to ask me to. after you have lived as long as i have, you'll find out that fickleness is not such a great fault, after all. why, sometimes it bothers me to have your father around, and a man can as easily tire of his wife or sweetheart as that!" she snapped her fingers in such a manner that it sounded like the report of a toy pistol, and the girl looked at her in surprise. "we're all fickle; you and i as well as the rest of them," she continued. "had the wives of this country pleasant homes to go back to; were their fathers all rich men, for example, who would be glad to receive them, half of them--more than that, two thirds of them--would leave their husbands, as they ought to do; but a wife usually has no other home than that her husband has made for her, and she gets along the best she can. the men are no worse than the women; we are all fickle, fickle, fickle. as sure as we are all selfish, we are all fickle. if i were married to a rich man who treated me well, i would be more apt to love him than one who was poor, and who treated me badly; sometimes we forget our own fickleness in our selfishness. look at the widowers; how gay they are! look at the widows; how gay _they_ are! i have known men and women so long that i feel like saying fiddlesticks when i think of it." "but father is a widower, aunt jane," the girl said, "and he is not gay." "well, he had to run away with his wife, to get her," the ancient maiden replied, after some hesitation. "there seems to be a good deal in love, after all, in cases where people make a sacrifice for it. these runaway matches, if the parties to it are sensible, somehow turn out well." "did father ever think any less of my mother because she ran away with him?" the girl asked. "no," her aunt replied. "he thought more of her for it, i suppose. anyway, i never knew another man to be as fond of his wife as he was." annie benton and the ancient maiden pursued their work in silence for a while, when the girl said,-- "i want to make a confession to you, too, aunt jane. i am in love with allan dorris." "don't hope to surprise me by telling me that," her aunt returned quickly, and looking at the girl as if in vexation. "i have known it for six months. but it won't do you any good, for he is going away on the early train to-morrow morning. your father told me so this morning, and he seemed glad of it. you haven't kept your secret from him, either." to avoid showing her chagrin at this reply, the girl walked over to the window, and looked out. allan dorris was passing in the road, and she felt sure that he was walking that way hoping to catch a glimpse of her; perhaps he was only taking a farewell look at the house in which she lived. but she did not show herself, although he watched the house closely until he passed out of sight. "i supposed everyone knew it," the girl said, returning to her chair again. "i have always thought that any girl who is desperately in love cannot hide it; but i wanted to talk to you about it, and i am glad you told me what you did, for i can talk more freely after having heard it. i have no one else to make a confidant of, and i am very much concerned about it. the matter is so serious with me that i am scared." "don't be scared, for pity's sake," the ancient maiden replied, with a show of her old spirit. "they all feel that way, but they soon get over it. when i was in love i wondered that the sun came up in the morning, but everything went on just as usual. i thought the people were watching me in alarm, fearing i would do something desperate, but those who knew about it paid little attention, and i _had_ to get over it, whether i wanted to or not. you will feel differently after he has been gone a week." "the certainty that i will not is the reason i have spoken to you," annie continued gravely. "allan dorris loves me as the writer of the letters you have shown me loved you before the other girl came in his way; and i love him as you have loved the writer of the letters all these years. you have never forgotten your lover; then why should you say that i will forget mine within a week? what would you advise me to do?" "ask me anything but that," the aunt replied, folding up her work with an unsteady hand. "no matter how i should advise you, i should finally come to believe that i had advised you wrong, love is so uncertain. it is usually a matter of impulse, and some of the most unpromising lovers turn out the best. i cannot advise you, annie; i do not know." jane benton imagined that dorris was going away because annie would not marry him; but the reverse was really the case,--he was going away for fear she would become his wife. "my greatest fear is," the girl continued again, "that i do not feel as a woman should with reference to it. i would not dare to tell you how much concerned i am; i am almost afraid to admit it to myself. i am thoroughly convinced that his going away will blight my life, and that i shall always feel toward him as i do now; yet there are grave reasons why i should not become his wife. do you think the women are better than the men?" the ancient maiden leaned back in her chair to think about it, and picked her teeth with the knitting-needle again. "what is your honest opinion?" the girl insisted. "sometimes i think they are, and sometimes i think they are not," the aunt replied, bending over her work again. "when i hear a man's opinion of a woman, i laugh to myself, for they know nothing of them. the women all seem to be better than they really are, and the men all seem to be worse than they really are; i have often thought that. women have so many _little_ mean ways, in their conduct toward one another, and are so innocent about it; but when a man is mean, he is mean all over, and perfectly indifferent to what is thought about him. a lot of women get together, and gabble away for hours about nothing, but the men are either up to pronounced mischief or they are at work." "if you were in love with a man, would you have as much confidence in his honesty as you had in your own?" the girl asked. "certainly," her aunt replied promptly. "then won't you advise me? please do; for i have as much confidence in allan dorris as i have in myself." "if you will see that all the doors are fastened," jane benton replied excitedly, "i will. quick! before i change my mind." the girl did as she was directed, and hurried back to her aunt's side. "since there is no possibility of anyone hearing," jane benton continued, "i will tell you the best thing to do in my judgment; but whatever comes of it, do not hold me responsible. think over the matter carefully, and then do whatever you yourself think best. no one can advise you like yourself. you are a sensible girl, and a good girl, and i would trust your judgment fully, and so would your father, though he would hardly say so. there; that's enough on _that_ subject. but you can depend on one thing: there is a grand difference between a lover and a husband; and very few men are as fond of their wives as they were of their sweethearts. all the men do not improve on acquaintance like your father, and i have known girls who were pretty and engaging one year who were old women the next; matrimony has that effect on most of them, and you should know it. the women do the best they can, i suppose, but you can't very well blame a man sometimes. in he falls in love with a fresh and pretty girl, and marries her; in she has lost her beauty and her freshness, and although he feels very meanly over it, somehow his feelings have changed toward her. of course he loves her a little, but he is not the man he was before they were married--not a bit of it. a good many husbands and wives spend the first years of their marriage in thinking of the divorce courts, but after they find out that they should have known better than to expect complete happiness from matrimony, and that they are not different from other people, they get on better. since you have locked the door to hear the truth, i hope you are satisfied with it." "but is it _necessary_ for girls to become old so soon?" annie inquired. "well, i don't suppose that it is," her aunt replied, "but the men had better expect it; and the women had better expect that since there never was yet an angel in pants, there never will be one. the trouble is, not the men and women, but the false notions each entertain toward the other. now run and open the doors, or i'll faint." annie benton, after opening the doors and watching her aunt revive, did not seem at all impressed by what she had heard; indeed, she acted as though she did not believe it, so the ancient maiden gave her another dose. "i imagine i have been rather satisfactory to your father," she said, "but had i been his wife i doubt if we would have got along so well. a man who is rather a good fellow is often very mean to his wife; and it seems to be natural, too, for he does not admit it to himself, and thinks he has justification for his course. i don't know what the trouble is, but i know that the most bitter hatreds in the world are those between married people who do not get along. since you are so curious about matrimony, i'll try and give you enough of it. even a man who loves his wife will do unjust things toward her which he would not do to a sister he was fond of; and there is something about marriage which affects men and women as nothing else will. there are thousands of good husbands, but if you could see way down to the bottom of men's wicked hearts not one in ten would say he was glad he had married. that's a mean enough thing to say about the women, i hope, and if you do not understand what my real preferences in your case are, you must be blind." thompson benton came in soon after, and they spent a very quiet evening together. annie retired to her own room early, and when she came to bid her father good-night, tears started in her eyes. "what is the matter with the girl?" he asked his sister after annie had disappeared. jane benton did not reply for a long time, keeping her eyes on the pages of a book she held in her hand, but at last she said,-- "i don't know." thompson benton must have noticed that his sister was nervous, and had he followed her up the stairs when she retired for the night, he must have marvelled that she went into annie's room, and kissed her over and over, and then went hurriedly away. chapter xv. a shot at the shadow. the regular patronage of the "apron and password," like the attendance at a theatre when reported by a friendly critic, was small, but exceedingly respectable. a gentleman of uncertain age who answered to the name of ponsonboy, and who professed to be a lawyer, usually occupied the head of the one long table which staggered on its feet in the dingy dining-room, and when his place was taken by a stranger, which happened innocently enough occasionally, ponsonboy frowned so desperately that his companions were oppressed with the fear that they would be called upon to testify against him in court for violence. the minister, who occupied the seat next to ponsonboy, and who was of uncertain age himself, could demonstrate to a certainty that the legal boarder was at least forty-five, but the legal boarder nevertheless had a great deal to say about the necessity which seemed to exist for the young men to take hold, and rescue davy's bend from the reign of "the fossils," a term which was applied to most of the citizens of the town after the other epithets had been exhausted, and as but few of them knew what a fossil was, they hoped it was very bad, and used it a great deal. ponsonboy was such a particular man that he could only be pleased in two ways--by accusing him of an intention to marry any stylish girl of twenty, or of an intention to remove to ben's city, which he was always threatening to do. "it would be useless for me to deny that i have had flattering offers," it was his custom to reply, when asked if there was anything new with reference to his contemplated change of residence. "but i am deuced timid. i came here a poor boy, with a law-book in one hand and an extra shirt in the other, and i don't want to make a change until i fully consider it." it was a matter of such grave importance that ponsonboy had already considered it fifteen years, and regularly once a year during that time he had arranged to go, making a formal announcement to that effect to the small but select circle around the table, the members of which either expressed their regrets, or agreed to be with him in a few months. but always at the last moment ponsonboy discovered that the gentleman who had been making the flattering offers wanted to put too much responsibility on him, or something of that kind, whereupon the good lady on his left, and the good gentleman on his right, were happy again. it was true that the legal boarder came to davy's bend a poor boy, if a stout man of thirty without money or friends may be so referred to; it was also true that he was poor still, though he was no longer a boy; but ponsonboy rid himself of this disagreeable truth, so far as his friends were concerned, by laying his misfortunes at the door of the town, as they all did. he was property poor, he said, and values had decreased so much of late years, that he was barely able to pay his taxes, although he really possessed nothing in the way of property except a tumble-down rookery on which there was a mortgage. but ponsonboy, whose first name was albert, appeared to be quite content with his genteel poverty, so long as he succeeded in creating an impression that he would be rich and distinguished but for the wrong done him by that miserable impostor, davy's bend. the good man on his right, the rev. walter wilton, and pastor of the old stone church where annie benton was organist, was a bachelor, like ponsonboy; but, like ponsonboy again, he did not regard himself as a bachelor, but as a young man who had not yet had time to pick out a lady worthy of his affections. close observers remarked that age was breaking out on good mr. wilton in spots, like the measles in its earlier stages; short gray hairs peeped out at the observer from his face, and seemed to be waving their arms to attract attention, but he kept them subdued by various arts so long that it was certain that some time he would become old in a night. he walked well enough, _now_, and looked well enough; but when he forgets his pretence of youth, then he will walk slowly down to breakfast some fine morning with a crook in his back and a palsy in his hand. when it was said of rev. walter wilton that he was pious, the subject was exhausted; there was nothing more to say, unless you chose to elaborate on piety in general. he knew something of books, and read in them a great deal, but old thompson benton was in the habit of saying that if he ever had an original idea in his head, it was before he came to the bend as a mild menace to those whose affairs did not permit of so much indolent deference to the proprieties. the reverend wilton did not gossip himself, but he induced others to, by being quietly shocked at what they said, and regularly three times a day ponsonboy and his assistant on the left laid a morsel before him, which he inquired into minutely--but with the air of a man who intended to speak to the erring parties; not as a gossip. reverend wilton never spoke a bad word against anyone, nor was he ever known to speak a good one, but he always gave those around him to understand by his critical indifference to whatever was in hand that, were he at liberty to desert his post, and allow the people to fall headlong into the abyss out of which he kept them with the greatest difficulty, he would certainly show them how the affairs of men should be properly conducted. too good for this world, but not good enough for the next, reverend wilton only existed, giving every sort of evidence that, were it not unclerical, he would swear at his salary (which was less than that of a good bricklayer), denounce his congregation for good and sufficient reasons, cheat his boarding-place, and hate his companions; but his trade being of an amiable nature, he was a polite nothing, with a great deal of time on his hands in which to criticise busy people, which he did without saying a word against them. mrs. whittle, the milliner, sat on ponsonboy's left; a tall and solidly built lady of forty-five, who was so very good as to be disagreeable. the people dreaded to see her come near them, for her mission was certain to be one of charity, and mrs. whittle's heart was always bleeding for somebody. summer and winter alike, she annoyed the people by telling them of "duties" which were not duties at all; and finally she was generally accepted as the town nuisance, although mrs. whittle herself believed that she was quite popular because of the good she intended to accomplish, but which seemed to be impossible because of the selfishness of the people. thompson benton had given it out flat that if she ever came bothering around him, he would give her the real facts in the case, instead of putting his name on her subscription paper, but for some reason she kept away from him, and never heard the real facts, whatever they were. she regarded old thompson, however, as a mean man, and moaned about him a great deal, which he either never heard of or cared nothing about. old thompson was seldom seen at church on sunday evening, therefore mrs. whittle felt quite sure that he was prowling around with a view of safe-blowing, or something of that kind, and she never referred to him except to intimate that he was up to mischief of the most pronounced sort. a man who was not at church on sunday evening, in the opinion of mrs. whittle, must be drunk in a saloon, or robbing somebody, for where else could he be? mrs. whittle only recognized two classes of men; those who were in the churches, and those who were in the saloons; and in her head, which was entirely too small for the size of her body, there was no suspicion of a middle ground. those who craved the attention of mrs. whittle found it necessary to be conspicuous either as a saint or a sinner. theoretically mrs. whittle was a splendid woman, and certainly a bad woman in no particular except that she carried her virtues to such an extent that the people disliked her, and felt ashamed of themselves for it, not feeling quite certain that they had a right to find fault with one who neglected not only her affairs, but her person, to teach others neatness, and thrift, and the virtues generally. if she accomplished no good, as old thompson benton stoutly asserted, it was certain she did some harm, for the people finally came to neglect affairs in which they would otherwise have taken a moderate interest because of their dislike of mrs. whittle. a great many others who were inclined to attend to their own affairs (which are always sufficient to occupy one's time, heaven knows) were badgered to such an extent by mrs. whittle that they joined her in various enterprises that resulted in nothing but to make their good intentions ridiculous, and finally there was a general and a sincere hope that blunt thompson benton would find opportunity to come to the rescue of the people. three times a day this trio met, and three times each day it was satisfied with itself, and dissatisfied with davy's bend, as well as everything in it, including allan dorris. the new occupant of the locks was generally popular with the people, but the hotel trio made the absurd mistake of supposing that they were the people, therefore they talked of dorris as though he were generally hated and despised. they were indignant, to begin with, because he did not covet the acquaintance of the only circle in the town worth cultivating, and as time wore on, and he still made no effort to know them, they could come to only one conclusion; that he was deserving of their severest denunciation. could thompson benton have known of the pious conclusions to which they came concerning his child, and which she no more deserved than hundreds of other worthy women deserve the gossip to which they are always subjected, he would have walked in upon them, and given the two men broken heads, and the woman the real facts in her case which he had been promising; but there is a destiny which protects us from an evil which is as common as sunshine, and thompson benton was not an exception to the rule. it was the custom of the hotel trio to come late to supper and remain late, greatly to the disgust of the cook and the man-of-all-work, and, surrounding the table in easy positions, they gossipped to their heart's content, at last wandering away to their respective homes, very well satisfied with one another, if with nothing else. it was after nine o'clock when they got away on the evening with which we have to do, and by the time davy had eaten his own supper and put the room in order for the morning, it was ten. hurriedly putting up a package of whatever was at hand for tug, he was about starting out at the kitchen door when he met mr. whittle on the steps. he had somehow come into possession of a long and wicked-looking musket, which he brought in with him, and put down near the door connecting the kitchen with the dining-room. seeing davy's look of surprise, he seated himself in ponsonboy's place, and explained. "poison has its advantages, for it does not bark when it bites, but it lacks range, and henceforth i carry a gun. how was uncle albert to-night?" silas placed a plate of cold meat before his friend, and replied that mr. ponsonboy would be in a fine rage if he should hear himself referred to as uncle albert. "oh, would he?" tug inquired, sighting at his companion precisely as he might have sighted along the barrel of his musket. "that man is fifty years old if he is a day, and don't let him attempt any of his giddy tricks with me. i wouldn't stand it; i know too much about him. i have known uncle albert ever since he was old enough to marry, and i know enough to hang him, the old kicker. i've known him to abuse the postmaster for not giving him a letter with money in it, although he didn't expect one, and accuse him of stealing it, and whenever he spells a word wrong, and gets caught at it, he goes around telling that he has found a typographical error in the dictionary. what did he say about me to-night?" "he said--i hope you won't believe that i think so,"--davy apologized in advance--"that you robbed the only client you ever had of a thousand dollars." "_did_ he, though?" tug impudently inquired. "well, i'll give him half if he'll prove it, for i need the money. uncle albert hears what is said about me, and i hear what is said about him. if he'll make a date with me, i'll exchange stories with him; and he won't have any of the best of it, either. the people sometimes talk about as good a man as i am, and even were i without faults, there are plenty of liars to invent stories, so you can imagine that they give it to uncle albert tolerable lively." tug did not mingle with the people a great deal, but he knew about what they were saying, and when talking to silas he did not hesitate to quote them to substantiate any position he saw fit to take. he had a habit of putting on his hat on these occasions, and inviting silas to accompany him out in the town to see the principal people, in order that they might own to what tug had credited them with saying. but silas always refused to go, not doubting that his friend's inventions were true, so it happened that tug made out rather strong cases against his enemies. "i can stand up with the most of them," he said, with an ill humor to which hunger lent a zest; "and them that beat me, i can disgrace with their poor relations. show me the man that can't be beat if you go at him right, and you may hang me with a thread. them that are well-behaved have shiftless relations, and i'll get them drunk, and cause them to hurrah for 'uncle bill,' or 'aunt samantha,' or whoever it may be, in front of their fine houses. i pride myself on my meanness, and i'll not be tromped on. let him that is without sin cast the first stone, and i'll not be stoned. you can bet on that, if you want to." tug proceeded with his meal in silence until silas said to him that reverend wilton was a good man. silas had a habit of inducing tug to abuse his enemies by praising them, and the ruse never failed. "well, don't he get paid for being good?" tug replied, waving a kitchen fork in the air like a dagger. "ain't that his business? it's no more to his credit to say that he is good, than to say that silas davy is a hotel handy andy. if you say that he knows a good deal about books, i will say, so does hearty hampton know a good deal about mending shoes, for it's his trade. shut hearty up in a room, and pay him to post himself regarding certain old characters he cares nothing about, and pay him well, and in the course of years he will be able to speak of people, events, and words which you, having been busy all the time, will know nothing about. he ought to be good; it's his business. i always know what a preacher is going to say when he opens his mouth, for don't i know what he's hired to say? i don't like good men, any way, but a man who is paid to be good, and expects me to admire him for it, will find--well, i'll not do it, that's all. how's the old lady?" there was a faint evidence that tug was about to laugh at the thought of his divorced wife, and his cheeks puffed out as a preliminary, but he changed his mind at the last moment, and carefully sighted at silas, as if intending to wing his reply, like a bird from a trap. "she is uncommonly well, for her," silas said, looking meekly at his companion. "she is almost gay." "oh, the young thing; _is_ she," tug retorted. "do you know what she reminds me of? an old man in a dress trying to imitate a girl." there was unutterable meanness in mr. whittle's last remark, and when he looked around the room with fierce dignity, he seemed to be wondering why any one should continue to live in the face of his displeasure. "i heard her say to-night, when i brought in a third lot of cakes, that you were the bane of her life," silas said, timidly, and dodging his head to one side, as if expecting tug whittle to jump at him for repeating the scandalous story. "although she says she is heart-broken, i notice she eats mighty well; for her." "and i suppose reverend good and uncle alfred encouraged her," tug replied. "what good husbands bachelors imagine they would be, and what miserable old growlers they turn out. before a man is married he takes a great deal of comfort to himself in thinking what a kind, indulgent husband and father he would be, and how different from other men, but they soon fall with a dull sickening thud to the level of the rest of us. it's easy enough to be a good husband in theory, and it's easy enough to be brave in theory, but when the theorists come down to actual business, they are like the rest of us. it's like an actor in a show. he wants to find a villain, and punish him, and the villain appears about that time, and makes no resistance, and is beaten to great applause, finally shrinking away while the other fellow looks ferociously at him, but it is not that way in real life. the villain fights in real life, and usually whips. if i knew that the men i dislike would stand it peaceable, like the villains in a show, i'd beat 'm all to death; but as it is, i am a coward, like ponsonboy, and you, and armsby, and all the rest of them; except allan dorris--there's a man who'd fight. when i read in books about brave men, it makes me feel ashamed, until i remember that the men in actual life are not like those in the books. what did her ladyship say about hector?" mrs. whittle's first husband had been a certain hector harlam, with whose history silas was very familiar from his association with tug, so he answered,-- "she wiped away a tear, and regretted his death. she seemed greatly affected,--for her." "she can't possibly regret his death more than i do," tug said. "he appreciated her; i never did, and i am sorry she does not join hector in glory, or wherever he is, for she is no earthly good in davy's bend. she told me once that he always called her his baby." there was no keeping it in now; the thought of his wife being called a "baby" was so absurd to tug that he was about to laugh. his cheeks swelled out as though the laugh came up from below somewhere, and he found it necessary to swallow it, after which there was a faint smile on his face, and a gurgle in his throat. when mr. whittle smiled, it was such an unusual proceeding that his scalp had a habit of crawling over towards his face, to take a look, which it did in this instance, and then went back to its old position at the top of his head. it was a dreadful laugh, but silas was used to it, and was not alarmed. "that woman wants to be a man the worst way," the old scoundrel went on to say. "i hope it accounts for the circumstance that she never looks like a woman should. a white dress on a woman--a _real_ woman, understand; not an imitation one--looks handsome; and i never see a girl dressed in white that i do not fall in love with her, but when the old lady puts it on, with a frill at her neck, or any such trifling thing, i want to find a woodpile and an axe to cut off my feet. i don't know why anyone should want to be a man; i know what a man is, and i wonder at this strange ambition of the old lady. i never see a man that i don't want to spit on him. ugh!" he shrugged his shoulders in unutterable disgust, but soon modified his manner, as davy began talking of another matter. "barney russell, of ben's city, was here to-day," the little man said. "he used to live in davy's bend; i suppose you remember him." "there's another feller i don't like," mr. whittle replied, with a snort. "he comes up here regularly once a month to crow over us, and tell around that he has two overcoats; one for winter, and another for spring. some say he has seven canes, a different one for every day in the week; but he ain't half the man dorris is, although he carries silk handkerchiefs with a red 'r' in the corner. if i should leave davy's bend, i'd never come back, as he does; for i have done so many contemptible things here that i wouldn't want to be reminded of them by seeing the place again. i don't blame barney, though, for having two overcoats," tug continued thoughtfully. "next to two pairs of shoes, it's the greatest luxury a rich man can afford--i'd own two overcoats myself if i had the money. a man who has two overcoats and two pairs of shoes, and uses a knife to cut his tobacco, instead of biting it off like a pig, is ready to die; there will be little left in the world for him to regret after he's gone,--but to return to the serious business of life: it is usually on a wednesday when the shadow appears. this is his night, and i'm looking for him." he turned his big eye toward the corner where he had left the musket, and, seeing it was safe, resumed,-- "i have never been of any use to a single human being in all my life, but i intend to make myself useful to allan dorris by shooting the shadow. give me that gun." silas went over to where the gun was standing, and returned with it in his hand. placing his finger about half way up the barrel, and following it with his great eye, tug said,-- "it is loaded to there. thompson benton trusted me for the ammunition, though he said he knew he would never get the money. i have a notion to pay him now, for contrariness. have you fifty cents about you?" silas carefully went through his pockets, as if he were not quite sure about it, but after a long examination replied that he hadn't a cent. "well, it's no great matter, though you ought to keep money about you; i am liable to need it. but, if let alone by the shadow, allan dorris will marry annie benton, and become a happy man, which he has never been before. i don't know what he has been up to before he came here, and i don't care, for i like him, and i am going out now to get a shot at his enemy." without further words he walked out, followed by silas, who carefully locked the kitchen door and put the key in his pocket. viewed at a distance, the pair looked like a man and a boy out hunting; the boy lagging behind to carry the game. it was a bad night, for which the bend was famous, and though it was not raining, there was so much moisture in the air from a recent rain, that it occurred to silas, as he went limping along towards the locks, for they walked in that direction, that if tug should find the shadow, and fire his gun at it, the discharge would precipitate another shower; for the prop under the water in the sky seemed to be very unsubstantial and shaky that night. it had been raining at intervals all day, and the two men floundered along in the mud until they reached the church which stood near allan dorris's house, where tug stopped awhile to consider. coming to a conclusion after some deliberation, he pulled two long boards up from the church steps, and, giving the gun to silas to hold, he carried them to the middle gable of the building, on the side looking towards the locks. climbing up on the window-sill, he placed one end of each board on the wall which surrounded the locks, and which was only a few feet from the church, and the other on the window-sash, pulling the upper one down to aid the lower one in holding his weight, and allowing one end of each board to protrude into the church. then climbing up, and straddling one of the boards, he took his gun, and motioned his companion to follow. when davy seated himself by the side of his friend, he found that the low gable would protect them from the rain, should it come on, and that from where they sat they commanded a view of dorris's window; the one above the porch where they had once seen the shadow appear, and in which a light now appeared. silas felt certain that it was tug's intention to wait there all night for a shot, and he made himself as comfortable as possible. occasionally he fell into a light doze, but on coming out of it, by losing his balance, he saw that tug was still intently watching the window, with the musket in his hands ready for use. two hours passed in this manner, when the patience of silas was rewarded by seeing tug crane his neck, and look intently through the trees. silas looked himself, and saw a man's head slowly rising to the porch roof from below. it came up in full view, and then a part of the body was seen as the shadow climbed over the low railing. as near as silas could make out, the man wormed himself around, and finally stood upon the porch railing to look in at the top of the window; so that only a part of his head and none of his body could be seen from where the men were. although he heard tug cock the gun when the head first appeared, he seemed to be waiting for a larger mark to shoot at; for there was nothing to be seen except a part of a hat. occasionally this would be withdrawn, but it would soon appear again, and remain motionless a long time, as though the wearer was intently gazing at something transpiring in the room which greatly interested him. tug did not seem at all excited, as silas was, but sat watching the shadow, as motionless as a stone. after a longer disappearance than usual, during which time tug became very nervous, the hat came in view again, and silas said softly,-- "suppose it should disappear, and never come back?" apparently tug had not thought of this possibility, for he hurriedly threw the gun to his shoulder, aimed a moment, and fired. the report was tremendous, and seemed to frighten tug himself; for he hurriedly jumped down, and softly raised the sash into position, replaced the boards on the steps, and set out toward the town. reaching the vicinity of the hotel, he waited until silas came up, and said,-- "sleep in your own bed to-night; we must not be found together." so saying he disappeared, and silas crept to his lonely room to wonder what allan dorris would find when he went out to investigate the shooting. chapter xvi. the step on the stair. there had been two days of rain already, and allan dorris sat in his lonely room at ten o'clock at night, listening to its ceaseless patter at the windows, and on the roof, and its dripping from the eaves, thinking that when the sun came out again he would go away and leave it, and remove to a place which would always be in the shadow. davy's bend was noted for its murky weather, and the nights were surely darker there than elsewhere; but he felt that after his departure he would think of the sun as always shining brightly around the locks, and through the dirty town, even lighting up the dark woods across the river, which seemed to collect a little more darkness every night than the succeeding day could drive out; for annie benton would remain, and surely the sun could not resist the temptation to smile upon her pretty face. davy's bend, with all its faults, would always remain a pleasant memory with allan dorris, and he envied those who were to remain, for they might hope to see annie benton occasionally pass on her way to church, and be better for it. he loved annie benton to such an extent that he would rather be thousands of miles away from her than within sight of the house in which she lived, since he had sworn not to ask her to share his life; and the next morning before daylight he intended to go to some far-away place,--he did not know where,--and get rid of the dark nights, and the rain, and the step on the stair, and the organ, and the player who had exerted such an influence over him. he had not been able to sell the locks at the price he paid, although the people had been grumbling because they were not offered the bargain originally; so he intended to turn it over to mrs. wedge, and poor helen, and the noises and spectres which were always protesting against his living there at all, and become a wanderer over the face of the earth. perhaps his lonely life of a year in the locks would cause another ghost to take up its residence in the place, and join poor helen in moaning and walking through the rooms. mrs. wedge had disappeared an hour before, her eyes red from weeping, but she was coming back at three o'clock in the morning, at which time dorris intended to leave for the railroad station; so dorris settled himself in his chair to wait until the hour for his departure arrived. how distinct the step on the stair to-night! a hundred times it had passed up and down since allan dorris sat down a few hours before; and the dripping rain at the windows made him think of sitting up with a body packed in ice. drip; drip; drip; and the ghostly step so distinct that he thought the body he was watching must have tired of lying in one position so long, and was walking about for exercise. the light burned low under its shade, and the other side of the room was in deep shadow. he thought of it as a map of his life; for it was entirely dark and blank, except the one ray in the corner, which represented davy's bend and annie benton. yet he had determined to go back into the shadow again, and leave the light forever; to exist once more in toil and discontent, hoping to tire himself by excitement and exertion into forgetfulness, and sleep, and death. death! is it so dreadful, after all? dorris argued the question with himself, and came to the conclusion that if it meant rest and forgetfulness he would welcome it. there had been a great deal of hope in his life, but he was convinced now that he was foolish for entertaining it at all, since nothing ever came of it. perhaps his experience had been that of other men; he gave up one hope only to entertain another, but experience had taught him that hope was nothing more than a solace for a wretched race. the old hope that they will be better to-morrow, when they will get on with less difficulty and weary labor; but to-morrow they die, and their children hope after them, and are disappointed, and hope again. should death open the door, and walk in to claim him, dorris believed he would be ready, since there was nothing in the future for him more pleasant than the past had offered. he did not believe he was a morbid man, or one given to exaggerating the distress of his own condition, but he would give up life as he might give up anything else which was not satisfactory, and which gave no promise of improvement. how distinctly the step is climbing the stair! he had never heard it so plainly before, but the faltering and hesitation were painfully natural; he had heard it almost every night since coming to the house, but there was a distinctness now which he had never remarked before. a long pause on the landing; poor helen dreading to go into the baby's room, he thought, whither she was drawn so often from her grave. but it advanced to the door of the room in which dorris sat, and stopped again; he drew his breath in gasps--perhaps it was coming in! a timid knock at the door! the face of the listener turned as pale as death, and he trembled violently when he stood upon his feet. should he open the door or lock it! going up to the fire, he stirred the smouldering coals until there was a flood of light in the room, and turned up the lamp to increase the illumination. still he hesitated. suppose he should open the door, and find poor helen standing there in her grave-clothes! suppose she should drop on her knees, and ask for her child, holding out her fleshless fingers to him in supplication, and stare at him with her sightless sockets? after hesitating a long time, he went to the door and threw it wide open, at the same time springing back from it in quick alarm. annie benton! he had firmly expected to see the ghost of poor helen; instead he saw a fresh and beautiful girl, but so excited that she could scarcely speak. there was a look of reckless determination in her face which made allan dorris fear for the moment that she had gone mad, and, strolling about the town, had concluded, in her wild fancy, to murder him for some imagined wrong. "how you frightened me!" he said, coming close to her. "just before you rapped, the ghost of poor helen had been running up and down the stair, as if celebrating my resolution to leave the locks, and give it over to her for night walking. you have been out in the storm, and are wet and cold. come in to the fire." the girl crossed the threshold, and entered the room, but did not go near the fire. she seemed to be trying to induce her hot brain to explain her presence there, for she turned her back to him, as if in embarrassment. "i can no longer control myself," annie benton said, facing dorris with quivering lips, "and i have come to give myself to you, body and soul. i am lost to restraint and reason, and i place myself in the hands of him who has brought this about, for i am no longer capable of taking care of myself. do what you please with me; i love you so much that i will be satisfied, though disgrace comes of it. i will never leave you again, and if you go away, i will go with you. i have loved you against my reason ever since i knew you, for you always told me i must not, and i restrained myself as best i could. but i cannot permit you to go away unless you take me with you. o, allan, promise me that you will not go away," she said, falling on her knees before him. "do this, and i will return home, to regret this rashness forever. if you do not, i will remain, let the consequences be what they may." dorris looked at the girl in wonder and pity, for there was touching evidence in her last words that she was greatly distressed; but he could only say, "annie! what are you doing!" "you have taught me such lessons in love that i have gone mad in studying them," she continued, standing beside him again, "and there is nothing in this world, or the world to come, that i would not give to possess you. i relinquish my father, and my home, and my hope of heaven, that i may be with you, if these sacrifices are necessary to pacify my rebellion. if you have been playing upon my feelings during our acquaintance, and were not sincere, you have captured me so completely that i am your slave. but if you were in earnest, i shall always be glad that i took this step, and never feel regret, no matter what comes of it. did you think i was made of stone, not to be moved by your appeals to me? i am a woman, and every sentiment you have given utterance to during our acquaintance has found response in my heart. it may be that you did not know differently, for there is too much sentiment in the world about women, and not enough knowledge. but i did not deserve all the good you said about me; it made me blush to realize that much that you have said in my praise was not true, though i loved you for what you said. but i show my weakness now. i could not resist the temptation to come here, and, as you have often told me, when anyone starts to travel the wrong road, the doors and gates are all open. _yours_ were all open to-night, and i came here without resistance." dorris was too much frustrated to attempt to explain how his front gate and door came open, which was, perhaps, the result of carelessness; but he seemed as much alarmed as though a ghost, instead of his sweetheart, had come in at them. without knowing exactly what he did, he attempted to take her wet wrap, but she stepped back from him excitedly. "don't touch me!" she said excitedly. "speak to me!" "sit down, and take off your wet wrap," he answered, "and i will." she unfastened a hook at her throat, and the garment fell to the floor. her dress had been soiled by the walk through the rain, and her hair was dishevelled; but she never looked so handsome before as she did when she stood in front of dorris, radiant with excitement. but instead of speaking to her, as he had promised, dorris sat motionless for a long time, looking at the floor. the girl watched him narrowly, and thought he trembled; indeed he was agitated so much that he walked over to the window, and stood looking out for a long time. "you say you could not resist the temptation to love me, though you _said_ it was wrong," the excited girl continued. "nor could i help loving you when you asked me to, though you said i should not. you never spoke to me in your life that you did not ask me to love you. everything you said seemed so sincere and honest, that i forgot my own existence in my desire to be with you in your loneliness, whatever the penalty of the step i am taking may be. i have so much confidence in you, and so much love for you, that i cannot help thinking that i am doing right, and that i never will regret it. speak to me, and say that, no difference what the world may say, you are pleased; i care only for that." a picture, unrolled from the heavens, has appeared on the outside, and allan dorris is looking at it through the window. a long road, through a rough country, and disappearing in misty distance; travellers coming into it from by-ways, some of whom disappear, while others trudge wearily along. there are difficulties in the way which seem insurmountable, and these difficulties are more numerous as the travellers fade into the distance; and likewise the number of travellers decreases as the journey is lengthened. at length only one traveller is to be seen, a mere speck along the high place where the difficult road winds. he tries to climb a hill, beyond which he will be lost to view; but he fails until another traveller comes up, when they help each other, and go over the hill together, waving encouragement to those who are below; into the mist, beyond which no human eye can look. "during our entire acquaintance," dorris said finally, coming over to her, "you have said or done nothing which did not meet my approbation, and cause me to love you more and more. you did not force yourself to do these things; they were natural, and that was the reason i told you to keep away from me, for i saw that our acquaintance was becoming dangerous; why, i have offered to tell you before. but what you have done this night pleases me most of all. i have been praying that you would do it for months, though i did not believe you would, and, much as i loved you, i intended going away in the morning for your good. i was afraid to ask you to share my life, fearing you would accept, for i am a coward when you are in danger; but now that you have offered to do it, and relieved me of the fear i had of enticing you into it, i am happier than i can express." annie benton's face brightened, and she put her hands in his. "please say that my face is not cold and passionless," she said. "once you told me that when we were out on the hills, and it has pained me ever since. say that there is hot blood and passion in my veins now." "when i said that," he answered, "i was provoked because you had so much control. i had none at all, and declared my passion within a few weeks after i knew you, but when i did it, you only looked at me in meek surprise. but i understand it all now, and i want to say that although you may regard what you have done to-night as an impropriety, it is the surest road to my heart. if it is depravity, i will make you proud of depravity, for i will be so good to you in the future that you will bless the day you lost your womanly control. the fact that you have trusted me completely caused me to resolve to make you a happy woman, and i believe i can do it. i love you because you have blood in your veins instead of water, and i will make you a queen. i am more of a man than you give me credit for; i am not the gloomy misanthrope you take me to be, for you have rescued me from that, and i will make the people of davy's bend say that annie benton was wiser than the best of them!" he struck the table a resounding blow with his fist, and had the enemies of the man been able to look at his face then, they would have been afraid of him. "may i sit on your knee, and put my arms around your neck while you talk?" she asked. "yes," he answered, picking her up with the ease of a giant, and kissing her on the cheek. "you may ride on my back all your life if you will only remain with me. i have never felt like a man until this moment, and those who have fault to find with my course had better keep out of the way. there is a reason why you and i should not be married--as we will be before the sun shows itself again, for i intend to send for the minister to come to the church when i am through telling you how much i love you, and you shall play our wedding march while i pump the organ--but i am in the right. i have endured misery long enough to accommodate others; let them expect it no longer! and now that you know what i intend to do, listen while i tell you who i am, where i came from, and why i forced you to your present novel position." "i prefer not to hear it," the girl said, without looking up. "i did not know you before you came to davy's bend: i am not concerned in your history beyond that time, and as a mark of confidence in you i shall reserve the telling of it until our married life has been tested: until i am so useful to you (as i am certain you will be to me) that, no difference what your secret is, we will consider it a blessing for bringing us together. but for the disagreeable part of your life we would never have met; we should think of that." "another time, then, or never, as you prefer," he replied. "i would have told you long ago, had you encouraged me to. anyway, it is a story of devotion to others, and of principle practised with the hatred and contempt and cowardly timidity which should only characterize villains, and villainous actions; of principle carried to such an extent as to become a wrong; but from this hour i shall act from a right motive, in which my heart sympathizes; which affords me a return for effort, and which will aid in making me a better man. i shall live to accommodate myself henceforth, instead of as a favor to others. but what will the people say of our strange marriage?" "i fear it is a sad depravity," the girl answered, "but i don't care." "nor do i; how lucky! if it satisfies you and me, let every tongue in the world wag, if it will afford them enjoyment. i have neither time nor inclination to hunt down the idle rumors that may find their way into circulation concerning my affairs, for what does it matter whether old miss maid or old mr. bach thinks good or ill of me? i never cared about such trifles; i care less now that i have you." had dorris looked at the upper sash of the window over the porch, instead of at the girl, he would have seen a malicious face looking in at him, but he was too much occupied for that, and the face was soon withdrawn. "i have never expected anything that was unreasonable," dorris said, probably recollecting that his actions had been such as to give rise to a suspicion that he was a fickle man, and could not be satisfied with anything. "i know all that it is possible for a woman to be, and i have hoped for nothing beyond that. i ask no more than a companion of whom i will never tire, and who will never tire of me--some one who will keep me agreeable company during my life, and regret me when i am dead. there are people, and many of them, who fret because they long for that which is impossible. i have passed that time of life, and will be content with what life affords,--with you. i am not a boy, but a man of experience, and i know i will never tire of you. i have thought of the ways in which you can be disagreeable, but your good qualities outweigh them all. i know you are not an angel; you have faults, but it gives me pleasure to forgive them in advance. if you will be equally charitable with me, we will be very happy." "i have no occasion to be charitable with you," she answered. "then you never will have," was his reply. "marriage is the greatest inheritance of man, but it is either a feast or a famine. the contrast between a man who is happily married, and one who is not, is as great as the contrast between light and darkness, but there are many more of the first class than of the latter. it may be a false social system, but very often those who ought not to marry hurry into it in the greatest haste. i have thought that the qualities which attract young people to each other are the very ones which result in misery: and that love should commence in sincere and frank friendship; not charity or sentimentality. i do not believe in affinities, but i do believe that there is only one person in the world exactly suited to be my wife, and i intend to kiss her now." he did kiss her, but with the tenderness a rough man might display in kissing a tiny baby. "although you say you love me, and i _know_ you do," the girl said thoughtfully, "you have always acted as though you were afraid of me. you never kissed me but once before in your life, and then i asked you to." "afraid of you!" there was a merry good humor in allan dorris's voice which would have made anyone his friend. "afraid of you! am i afraid of the sunshine, or of a fresh breath of air! i am afraid of nothing. i had the same fear of you that i have of heaven--a fear that you were beyond my reach, therefore i did not care to contaminate you with my touch. but if ever i get to heaven, i will not be afraid of it. i intend to make love to you all my life, though i shall be careful not to make myself tiresome. we will reverse the rule, and become lovers after we are married. you once said that i was queer; i cannot forget that charge, somehow. i _am_ queer; in this respect: i was born a bull with a hatred for red flags, which have been waved in my face ever since i can remember. i may have been mistaken, but i have always believed that i never had a friend in my life, although i craved one more than anything else. but you have changed all this; i am contented now, and ready to give peace for peace. of the millions of people in the world, am i not entitled to you?" he held her up in his arms, as if he would exhibit her, and ask if that small bundle was an unreasonable request, since he asked no more, and promised to be entirely satisfied. the loud report of a gun on the outside, followed by a crash in the glass in the upper pane of the window as a bullet came in to imbed itself in the wall above their heads, startled them. the girl sprang up in alarm, while dorris hurriedly ran down stairs and into the yard. "a careless hunter has allowed his gun to explode in the road," he said, when he returned after a long absence. but this explanation did not seem to satisfy even himself, for he soon went down to the lower end of the hall, and aroused mrs. wedge, by throwing the window-prop on the roof of her house. on the appearance of that worthy woman, who came in with her eyes almost closed from the sleepiness which still clung to her, but who opened them very wide at sight of annie benton, he said,-- "will you two please talk about the weather, and nothing else, until i return? i will return in a few minutes, and make the necessary explanations. if there is anything wrong here, i will make it right." he left the house hurriedly, and they heard the big iron gate in front bang after him, but when his footsteps could no longer be heard, and they no longer had excuse for listening to them, the two women sat in perfect silence. occasionally mrs. wedge looked cautiously around at annie benton, but, meeting her eyes, they both looked away again, and tried to appear at their ease, which they found impossible. fortunately dorris was not gone long, and when he came back he put the girl's cloak on, as if they were going out. "we will return in a little while," he explained to mrs. wedge, who looked up curiously as he walked out with annie benton on his arm. "if you care to wait, we will tell you a secret when we come back, as a reward for not speaking while i was out of the room." down the stairs they went, out at the front gate, and toward the town, until they reached the church door, which they entered. on the inside they found reverend wilton waiting for them at the chancel rail, and although he tried to appear very much put out because he was disturbed at that unseasonable hour, and yawned indifferently, he was really interested. perhaps he was thinking of the rare story he would have to tell at breakfast. dorris had evidently given instructions as to what was expected of him, for as soon as they stood before him he read the marriage service, and pronounced them man and wife; after which he congratulated them and left the church, which was probably in accordance with his instructions, too. a single light burned in the building, which barely extended to the vaulted ceiling, and which did not prevent the pews and the pulpit from looking like live objects surprised at being disturbed at such an hour; and leading his wife up to the organ, dorris said: "we will have the wedding march, if you please," whereupon he disappeared behind the instrument to work the bellows. and such a wedding march was never heard before. the girl put all the joy of her heart into melody, and made chords which caused allan dorris to regret that he could not leave the bellows and go round in front to wave his hat and cheer. he was seated on a box in the dusty little corner, working away industriously; and when he heard how eloquently the girl was telling the story of her love for him, tears of thankfulness came into his eyes and surprised them, for they had never been there before. your cheek and mine have been wet with tears wrung from the heart by sorrow, but all of us have not been as happy as allan dorris was on his wedding night. but there was more than joy in the music; it changed so suddenly into the plaintive strain of the minstrel baritone as to cause allan dorris to start. it may have been because the player was executing with the left hand, and without a light; but certainly it was difficult, like a life. but when the chords were formed, they were very sweet and tender, as we might say with a sigh that flowers on a weary man's grave were appropriate. at last the music ceased, dying away like the memory of sobs and cheers and whispers, and taking his wife's arm through his own, allan dorris walked back to the locks. mrs. wedge was informed of the marriage, and could do nothing but cry from happiness; and after she left them allan dorris and his wife had so much to say to each other that daylight came to congratulate them while they were still seated in their chairs. * * * * * but what is this which comes into the mind of annie dorris and causes her to start up in alarm? it is the recollection of thompson benton, her plain-spoken father. "o allan!" she said. "what will father say?" "i will go over and hear what he says," dorris replied promptly, putting on his hat. "you can go along if you like." what a bold fellow he was! and how tenderly he adjusted the wraps around his wife, after she had signified her desire to accompany him, when they stepped out into the frosty morning air! it was about thompson benton's time to start down town, and as they paused before his front door, not without misgivings, he opened it wide and stood before them. evidently the girl had not been missed from the house, for there was genuine astonishment in the father's face as he looked from one to the other. "what does this mean?" he said, looking at dorris sharply from under his shaggy eyebrows. "that we were married this morning," dorris replied, not in the least frustrated, though his wife trembled like a leaf. he gave no evidence of the surprise which this announcement must have caused him, but looked sullenly at dorris for several moments, as though he had a mind to try his strength with him; but when his eyes fell on his child, his manner changed for the better. motioning them to follow him, they closed the door, and all sat down in the pleasant family room where the girl's recollection began, and where her father spent his little leisure in the evening. here old thompson looked hard at the floor until he had thought the matter over, when he said,-- "i have never found fault with the girl in my life; i have never had occasion to, and if she can justify what she has done i am content. are you sure you are right, annie?" he looked up at her with such a softened manner, and there was so much tenderness in his words, that the girl forgot the fear which his hard look had inspired when they met him at the door, and going over to him she put her arm around his neck, and softly stroked his gray hair as she replied,-- "that which i have done has made me very happy. if that is justification, i am entirely justified." "i require no other explanation," old thompson answered. "from a little child you have been dutiful, sensible, and capable, and though my selfishness rebels because i am to lose you, a father's love is stronger than selfishness, and i am glad you have found a husband you regard as worthy of your affection. you have drawn a prize, sir." he looked at dorris as a defeated man might look at his rival when he thought it necessary to hide his mortification, and offer congratulations which he did not feel. "there is no doubt of it," dorris promptly answered. "she is very much like her mother," old thompson continued, "and her mother was the best woman in ten thousand. if i gave her a task to perform, she did it in a manner which pleased me, and she was always a pleasant surprise. _this_ is a surprise, but i find no fault; i cannot regret that annie knows the happiness of a young wife. i am a rough man, but i made her mother a very happy woman, and in remembrance of that i am glad the daughter has found a husband she can honor. i have so much confidence in the girl's good sense that i do not question her judgment, and i wish you joy with all my heart." he took both their hands in his for a moment, and hurried away, dorris and his wife watching him until he disappeared in a bend of the street, when they went into the house to make their peace with the ancient maiden. as thompson benton hurried along toward his store, swinging the respectable-looking iron key in his hand, who can know the regret he felt to lose his child? his practical mind would not help him now, and he must have felt that the only creature in all the world he cared for had deserted him, for the old forget the enthusiasm of the young. it was a fortunate circumstance that the day was bad and customers few, for they would not have been treated well had they appeared. chapter xvii. the pursuing shadow. allan dorris and his wife had been up in the hills watching the sunset, and at dusk were returning leisurely home. they were very fond of the unfrequented locality where he had first declared his passion, and when the weather was fine they frequently visited it to imagine themselves lovers again, which was easy enough, for as man and wife they got along amazingly well. and now, when they were returning at nightfall, a shadow crept after them; from bush to rock, and from tree to shrub, crawling and stealing along like a beast watching its prey. pretty annie dorris, prettier than ever before, was expressing a fear in her winning way that their happiness was too great to last, and that something dreadful would happen to them. but she had no suspicion of the lurking, creeping shadow which had hurried forward, and now stood almost within arm's length, as her husband replied,-- "i have been so discontented all my life, and am so contented now, that i believe the fates will guard me from it in pity. it is not much that i ask; a country girl to be my wife, and love me--nothing more. and it will always be my endeavor to be so useful to the country girl that she will be happy, too, so that the simple boon of peace is not too much to ask when it will make two people entirely happy. i cheerfully give up my place in the strife for greatness and riches in which men seem to be always engaged, and will be content with the good health and plenty which my simple life here will bring me. as for a living, i can make that easy enough; i am making more even now than we can possibly spend. i hope your fears are not substantial." the country girl had her arm through her husband's, and she looked up into his face with such a troubled expression that he stopped in the road. "it may be that i am fearful only because i love you so much," she said. "it almost kills me when i think that any harm might happen to you." "i am glad to hear you say that," he replied, "but you are always saying something which pleases me. you look handsome to-night; you look prettier now than before you were married, and i think more of you. you don't fade out, and i love you for that; you are as fresh and as girlish as you ever were before we were married. i think it an evidence of good blood." "now you are pleasing me," his wife said laughingly. "i have feared very often that you would not like me so well when you knew me better, and that you would finally tire of me." "but i don't," dorris replied. "the more i know of you the better i like you. it's not usual, but i am more in love after marriage than i was before." "i have mingled so little with women," the wife said seriously, "that i sometimes fear that i am not like others of my sex in manners and dress and inclination. did you ever notice it?" "i think i have," he said. she turned upon him with mock fierceness, and pretended to be very indignant. "because you are not like other women, who act by rule, and are nearly all alike, is the reason i have no greater ambition than to be tied to your apron-strings," he said. "i think your freshness and originality are your greatest charms." "long before i ever thought of becoming a wife myself," she said, seriously again, "i noticed that most men seemed to lack a knowledge of women; that they regarded them as angels while they were girls, and were disappointed because they turned out to be women as wives. i am not unjust, but i have thought the women were partly responsible for this, since many of them exhibit themselves like dolls, and pretend to be more than they are. this is the reason why i am pleased that you are not disappointed in me." "as to your being an angel," he laughingly replied, "i know you are not one, and i am glad of it. i have an idea that an angel would soon tire of me, and fly away in disgust, to warn its companions that men were not worth saving. there are some women so amiable that no matter to what extent their affairs go wrong, they cannot muster up enough energetic regret to cause them to supply a remedy. i am not so fond of amiability as to desire it at that price. whenever you find capacity you will find temper, and i imagine that it would be dangerous to stir you up, for you are as capable a woman as ever i knew. _haven't_ you temper?" "plenty of it; too much," she answered. they both laughed at this frank confession, and dorris took occasion to say that there was not a spark of it in his nature, though there was temper written in every line of his countenance, and that he would have been an ugly man when once fully aroused was certain. they walked on again, and the shadow followed, as if anxious to hear what they were saying. "i can't account for it myself," dorris continued, "but i enjoy your company as much now as i did before we were married. it does me as much good to talk love to you; i suppose it must be because you deserve it. the fact that you are as careful to look well as you ever did may have something to do with it, but it is certainly the case. i have heard men abused a great deal for neglecting their wives after marriage, but it never occurs to me to neglect you. i don't want to neglect you; i think too much of you. if i should fail to be as considerate of you as you are of me, i know that i would no longer receive the full measure of your confidence and love, which is such a comfort to me, therefore it is my first ambition to be just and honest with you in everything. the ambition affords me a great deal of pleasure, too, for i am never so well satisfied as when in your company. with you by my side, there is nothing else that i crave in this world or the next." "o allan! nothing in the next?" they had seated themselves on a rough seat in a sort of park on the hillside, and dorris considered the matter. "well, if you go to heaven, i want to go. of course you will go, for you are good enough, therefore i intend to do the best i can, so that, when we come to be judged, the master will realize how much we love each other, and conclude not to separate us. but i depend on you; he will let me in to please you--not because i deserve it." "i know you do not think as i do about it," she answered, "but it is possible that you have not investigated as i have. i am not a foolish girl, but a serious woman, and have studied and thought a great deal, and i am certain there is something more than this life. i have never mentioned the subject to you before, because i know that a great many come to dislike religion because they hear so much of it from persons no better than themselves, but everything teaches us that we shall live again, and it worries me a great deal because you think lightly about a matter which seems so dreadfully serious. my mother's faith convinces me of it, though i cannot tell you why. i am not prepared, as she was, by a long life of purity to receive the evidence; but promise me that you will think about it, and not combat your own judgment." "i have never thought about it much, and investigated but little," he answered. "it has always been natural for me to think of the grave as the end of everything, so far as i am concerned. but i have confidence in your intelligence and judgment; if you have investigated, and believe, that is enough for me; _i_ believe. please do not worry about it any more; i will try very hard to remain with you." he said it lightly, yet there was enough seriousness in his manner to convince her that his love for her was honest, even if his religion was not. "religion is not natural with me: i feel no necessity for it or lack of it," he said again. "but i have no objection to it; on the contrary, i have always liked the idea, but i lack the necessary faith. it would be pleasant for me to believe that, in the next country, a day's journey removed, good gifts might be found; but if i could not believe it, i could not be reasonably blamed for my refusal to attempt the journey. i might even regret that the accounts were not true; but i would not insist that they _were_ true against my honest convictions, because i _hoped_ they were. i am religious enough in sentiment, but my brain is an inexorable skeptic. nothing is more pleasing to me than the promise of your faith. what a blessed hope it is, that after death you will live in a land of perpetual summer; and exist forever with your friends where there is only peace and content! i am sure i can never see as much of you as i want to in this life, and i cannot tell you how much i hope we will be reunited beyond the grave, and live forever to love each other, even as we do now. i am willing to make any sacrifice necessary to ensure this future; it would be a pleasure for me to make greater sacrifices than are required, according to common rumor, for they are not at all exacting, except in the particular of faith; but that i lack, to a most alarming extent, though i cannot help it. you cannot have faith because it is your duty any more than you can love because it is your duty. i only regret that i cannot be religious as naturally as i love you, but i cannot, though i try because you want me to. i want to believe that men do not grow old and become a burden to themselves and those around them; but i know differently, and while i hope that there will be a resurrection, i know that those who have gone away on the journey which begins with death send back no messenger, and that nothing is known of heaven except the declaration of pious people that they believe in it. i love to hear the laughter of children, but it does not convince me that all the world is in a laughing mood, and that there are no tears. no one can find fault with your religion except that they cannot believe in it. everything in nature teaches us that we will return to dust, and that we will be resurrected only as dust by the idle winds. you don't mind that i speak freely?" "no." "i have tried all my life to convince myself that i possessed the spark of immortality, but my stubborn brain resists the attempt. all my reasoning convinces me that i live for the same reason that my horse exists. i am superior to the faithful animal only in intelligence, for in physical organization i am only an animal. when an animal dies, i see its body dwindle away until there is nothing left; it becomes dust again. i _hope_ that i may share a different fate, but i _believe_ that i shall pass away in precisely the same manner. understand me; i want to be religious, but i cannot be. there are some people--i suppose there are a great many, though i never knew but one personally--who ought to live forever; they are too rare to die. you are one of them, but i fear you will be lost to the world in the course of nature. you ought to be preserved for the good you can accomplish by playing the organ. i never believe in heaven so much as when i am in the back pews listening to your music. there is more religion in the old organ when you are at the keyboard than in all the people who listen to it put together; and i sometimes think that those who write the music and the songs are inspired, though when you know them, their personal characters do not encourage that impression." she put her hand to his mouth as if to stop him, but he pushed it away with a laugh, and continued,-- "let me finish, that you may know what i really am, and then i will never mention the subject again. but don't think me worse than other men for my unbelief; they nearly all think as i do, though only the bad ones say so. all good men rejoice that there is a pleasing hope in religion, and encourage it all they can, but only a few of them have your faith." "all be well yet, allan," the wife answered. "you have promised to try and get rid of your unbelief, and i know that you will be honest in it. the master whom i serve next to you--i fear i am becoming very wicked myself, for you are more to me than everything else--" "there it is again," dorris said, looking at her, half laughing. "that expression wasn't studied, i know, but it pleases me greatly. you are always at it, though you have a right to now." "he is more considerate than any of us imagine, and if he knows you did not believe, he will also know that you could not, and did not intend any disrespect." "there is something in that," he answered. "i loved you before i knew you, though i did not believe you existed." "but you _did_ find me. is it not possible that you will find him, though you do not believe he exists?" "that is worth thinking about. the next time i take a long ride into the country i will think it over, if i can get you out of my mind long enough. one thing, however, is certain; i want to follow you, wherever that leads me. let me add, too, that in what i have said i intend no disrespect. it would be impudent in me, a single pebble in the sands surrounding the shores of eternity, to speak ill of a faith which is held by so many thousands of intelligent and worthy people. i speak freely to you, as my wife, my confidant, that you may know what i am." "but you are leading, allan, and i am following," she said. "you are kind enough to believe that my future is assured, but it is not unless you are saved. you can save both of us by saving yourself. if we were at the judgment now, and you should be cast out, i would follow you. i might be of some use to you even there." "that's horrible to think about," he replied, rising to his feet; "but it pleases me. anyway, little woman, we get along delightfully here; i hope we will always be as well off as we are now. if the next world affords me as much pleasure as this one has during the past three months, i shall be more than satisfied. it is said that a man is very happy when he is in love, and i am growing more in love with my wife every day. i suppose it is because i never was in love before. i have had extensive experience in everything else; i know a little of everything else. this may be the reason why my honeymoon lasts so long." "when i met you that afternoon, out in the hills," she answered, "you were such an expert at love-making that i was at first afraid of you. if ever man made a desperate, cunning love to a woman, you made it to me; but i soon got over my timidity, and knew you were only desperately in earnest, which made me love you until i went mad. i had nothing to give you but myself, and that i gave so readily that i sometimes fear--when you are away from me; i never think of it at any other time--that you accuse me for it." "it so happened," he answered, "that you did exactly what i wanted you to do, though i am not surprised at it now, since discovering how naturally you do a hundred things a day to please me. accuse you?" he laughed good-naturedly at the thought. "instead of that, it is the boast of my life that my sweetheart, my vision which came true, had so much confidence in me that she placed herself in my keeping without conditions or promises. you are the hope i have had all my life; you are the heaven i have coveted; and don't suppose that i find fault because the realization is better than the dream. when you go to heaven, and find that it is a better place than you imagined, you will not accuse the master of a lack of propriety because he is more forgiving of your faults than you expected; nor do i. dismiss that thought forever, to oblige me, and believe, instead, that your single fault turned out to be my greatest blessing. if i made desperate love to you up in the hills, it was natural, for i had no previous experience. i cannot remember that i ever was a young man; i was first a child, and then a man with grave responsibilities. but the fancy i told you about--the maid of air--i always loved it until i found you." putting her arm through his, they walked toward the town, and the shadow emerged from a clump of bushes within a few feet of where they had been sitting. the married lovers walked on, unconscious of the presence; and occasionally the laugh of mrs. dorris came to the shadow on the wind, which caused it to listen anxiously, and creep on after them again. in turning out of the path that led up into the hills, and coming into the road, dorris and his wife met tug and silas, who were loitering about, as usual; tug in front, carrying the gun, and silas lagging behind. "what now?" dorris said good-naturedly, on coming up with them. "what are you up to to-night?" "on a wednesday night," tug replied, putting the stock of the gun on the ground, and turning his head to one side to get a square sight at the woman, "the woods are full of rabbits. we are out looking for them." "why on wednesday night?" tug removed his gaze from mrs. dorris to silas. "when do we find our game?" he inquired. "on wednesday; at night," the little man answered meekly. "i don't know how it is, myself," tug continued, this time taking a shot at dorris; "but wednesday it is. you are both looking mighty well." they thanked him for his politeness, and added that they were feeling well. "they didn't think much of you when you came," he said, pointing a finger at dorris, which looked like a pistol, "but they have changed their minds. even reverend wilton says you will do; it's the first kind word he ever said of anybody. it came out--silas, how did it come out?" "like a tooth," silas answered, who had been standing by with his hands in his pockets. "like a _back_ tooth, you told me. come now, didn't you say a back tooth?" silas muttered something which was accepted as an acknowledgment, and tug went on,-- "why didn't you say so, then? why do you want to put it on me in the presence of the lady? but reverend wilton never said anything bad about you, or anybody else; he's too lazy for that. i only wonder that he didn't drop over from exhaustion when he said you'd do. well, i should say you _would_ do; eh, pretty girl?" annie dorris made no other answer than to cling closer to her husband, and tug regarded them with apparent pleasure. "and there's uncle ponsonboy. silas, what does uncle ponsonboy say?" "he says that mr. dorris is a man of promise," davy answered. "oh, _does_ he? well, he's not the kind of a man of promise, uncle ponsonboy is, who has been promising to distinguish himself for forty years. old albert reminds me of a nephew of my wife's. i supported him four years in idleness, but he was always boasting that he was able to take care of himself, and that _he_ asked favors of nobody. he used to fill up on my bread and meat, and lounge in front of my fire, and declare that he never knew solid content until he began to make his own living, although he did nothing except to write to his folks, and say that they needn't worry about him,--_he_ was able to take care of himself. but the old lady holds out against you." tug swallowed a laugh with a great effort, apparently locking it up with a spring lock, for there was a click in his throat as he took aim at dorris again and continued, but not before his scalp had returned to its place after crawling over on his forehead to look at the smile,-- "i am glad of that, though. the old lady and i never agree on anything. i like the devil because she hates him. i shall be quite content in purg if she fails to like it." allan dorris looked puzzled for a moment. "oh, purgatory," he said, finishing the abbreviation, and turning to his wife, who laughed at the idea, "we were talking about that just before you came up." "neither of you need worry about _that_," tug said. "_you_ are all right. i am the devil's partner, and i know. but if you _should_ happen down there by any mischance, i will give you the best accommodations the place affords. if there is an ice-box there, you shall have a room in it; but no ice-water for the old lady. i insist on that condition." they were very much amused at his odd talk, and promised that his instructions should be obeyed in case they became his guests. "but why are you the devil's partner?" dorris asked. "he must have assistants, of course," tug replied, "and i shall make application to enter his service as soon as i arrive. i want to get even with uncle ponsonboy." tug locked up a laugh again with a sharp click of the lock, and his scalp hurried back to its place on learning that it was a false alarm. "i want to get a note from him to this effect: 'dear tug: for the sake of old acquaintance, send me a drop of water.' whereupon i will take my iron pen in hand, and reply: 'uncle ponsonboy: drink your tears.' then i will instruct one of my devilish assistants to lock him up, and never let him see the cheerful light of the fires again. as the door closes, i will say to him, as i now say to you,--good-night." tug and silas walked toward the hills, and dorris and his wife toward the town, but the shadow no longer followed them; it had disappeared. in case the shadow came back that night to prowl around the locks, and peer in at the windows, it found a determined-looking man on guard, carrying a wicked-looking gun. had the eyes of the shadow followed the feet of the man, it would have noted that they walked around the stone wall at regular intervals, and that they stopped occasionally, as if listening; it would have seen them strolling leisurely away at the first approach of dawn, carrying the gun and tug's burly body with them. chapter xviii. the rise in the river. the rain had been falling at intervals for weeks, and the sluggish river, which usually crawled at the foot of the town in quiet submission, had become a dangerous torrent. long since out of its banks, its waters poured through the bottoms with an angry roar, and at night those who gathered on the brink in the town to mark its steady rising could hear cries of distress from the heavy timber, the firing of guns, and other alarms. for two days parties had been out with boats of every description, rescuing those who believed that the waters would soon go down, and remained until escape was impossible, imprisoned in the upper rooms of their houses; and each returning party brought the most distressing news yet heard of the havoc wrought by the flood. reaching from hill to hill, the angry waters ploughed up fair fields like heavy shot fired in battle, and crept into pretty homes to destroy in a night the work of years, wresting treasures from their fastenings with remorseless fury, and hurrying away with them like living thieves. the citizens of davy's bend feared that the sun had been drowned by the flood in the heavens, as the people were being drowned by the flood in the bottoms, for its kindly face had not appeared in two weeks. the roads and lanes in the country, highways no longer, were abandoned to the rain and the mist, for no travellers ventured upon them, and if the town had been dull before, it was now doubly so, giving the people abundance of time in which to recount their miseries. men who ventured out in wagons told wonderful tales, on their return, of the reign of the waters, for insignificant streams which had long been regarded with familiar contempt had become dangerous rivers, roaring and crashing through fruitful fields in mad haste to join the floods. great lakes occupied the low places for so many days that the people feared the land itself had floated away, leaving caverns in the place of their fields, and there was distress in the country as well as in the town. rude boats to ply upon the newly arrived waters were hastily constructed by men who did not know how to use them, never having lived near a navigable stream, but there seemed a chance for them to learn, for the waters increased steadily every hour. as they lay in their beds at night, if they wakened and found that the rain had ceased, the people of the town hoped that the end had come at last, and that the waters would soon subside, but before they had framed their congratulations, the gentle patter of the rain was heard on their roofs once more, which continued through the long night, ceasing only occasionally, that the cries of distress and the alarms from the bottom might be heard, whereupon the rain commenced again with joyful vigor, sure that its fury was not without result. the rocky hills above and below the town were oozy and wet; and those who roamed about heard great splashes in the water, and knew that portions of the bluff were tumbling into the river, as if tired of being steady and reliable while everything else was failing, and anxious to join the tide and aid in the general destruction, as well as to get away from a place which seemed so unfortunate. the mild river, patient and uncomplaining so long, was master now, and it roared like a monster proud of its conquest, and declaring its intention to be wicked and fierce forever. the observers could not understand, so great was the awful flood, how the waters could ever subside, for surely all the lower country must have been flooded days before, and even those who lived in the hills were filled with grave apprehensions. every morning the simple registers, which the people put up along the creeks and sloughs, showed an alarming rise, and they feared that if the rain continued the earth itself would become liquid at last, and resolve itself into a vast sea without shores. no one knew how the news came, but there seemed to be whispers in the air that in the upper country the flood was even worse than at davy's bend, which added to the general apprehension, and many believed that the rainbow was about to prove faithless at last. houses of a pattern barely familiar to the people occasionally floated past the town in the current, and in one of them rode a man who refused to leave his property when the relief boats put off to him; for he said that he came from hundreds of miles above, and that since the world seemed to be turning into water, he preferred his strange craft to the crumbling hills. as he floated away, stark mad from excitement, fear, and hunger, he called back to the men to follow if they valued their lives; for a wave twenty feet high was coming down the river, carrying the towns along the bluffs with it. bridges which had been built across gullies in the highlands were seen hurrying by every hour, and it seemed that the hill on which davy's bend was built would shortly tremble, and start slowly down the river, at last gratifying the ambition of the people to get away. among those distressed by the unfortunate condition of those living in the bottoms were allan dorris and his wife, safe in their home above the town. the people seemed so fearful that the rain would never cease that they neglected to get sick, and dr. dorris would have greatly enjoyed the uninterrupted days he was permitted to spend with his pretty wife but for the distress around him. the dripping from the eaves of the locks at night--he thought of it again--reminded him of the dripping from the coffin of a body packed in ice, which he was commissioned to watch, and long before day he left his bed and walked the floor. his wife soon joined him, and they looked out of the window at the blank darkness. "how it reminds me of the first night i came here," he said. "but what a different man i am! then i cursed my existence, and was so disturbed in mind that night was a season of terror. i dreaded its approach as heartily then as i now hail it as a season of repose, and every day i have new reason to rejoice that i am alive. what a fortunate fellow i am! i can sleep nine hours out of every night, and arise every morning entirely refreshed, not a day older. i am content now to lie down at night, and let the world wag, or quarrel, or do whatever it likes, for the only part of it i care for is beside me. sometimes i waken, and forget you for a moment, when i wonder how i ever induced such sound sleep to come to my eyes; but when i remember it all, i feel like cheering, and go off into dreamland again with the comfort of a healthy child. it is a wonderful change, and you are responsible for it all; you have made one man entirely happy, if you have accomplished nothing else." as they stood by the window, he had his arms around her, and when she looked up at him he kissed her tenderly on the forehead. "our marriage has brought no more happiness to you than it has to me," she answered. "since you became my husband, i have known only content and gladness, except when i become childish and fear you are surrounded by some grave danger. if i could charge you with a wish i could think of nothing to ask." "who would harm me? who would dare?" he asked. his wife thought to herself, as she looked at him, that it would be a dangerous undertaking to attempt to do him an injury. there were few men his equal in physical strength, and he could hold her out at arm's length. "danger is a game that two can play at," he said, and there was a frown on his face so fierce as to indicate that some one who was his enemy had come into his mind. "i have seen the day when i would have allowed almost any one the privilege of taking my life, if it would have afforded them pleasure, but let them keep out of my way now! the tiger fighting for her whelps would not be fiercer than i, if attacked. i have more to live for than any other man in the world, and i would fight, not only with desperation, but with skill and wickedness. if any one wants my life, let him see that he does not lose his own in attempting to take it." allan dorris had been oppressed with a vague fear ever since his marriage that his long period of rest meant a calamity at last, though he had always tried to argue the notion out of his wife's mind. he had often felt that he was watched, though he had seen nothing, heard nothing, to warrant this belief. he could not explain it to himself; but frequently while walking about the town he turned his head in quick alarm, and looked about as if expecting an attack. once he felt so ill at ease at night, so thoroughly convinced that something was wrong, that he left his wife quietly sleeping, and crawled under the trees in the locks' yard for an hour, with a loaded pistol in his hand. but he had seen nothing, heard nothing, and his own actions were so much like the presence he half expected to find, that he was ashamed of them, and laughed at his fears. but the dark night and the cheerless rain brought the old dread into his mind, and he said to his wife,-- "we are all surrounded by danger, though i am as exempt from it as other men, but if i should meet with an accident some time--i take many long rides at night, and i have often been in places when a single misstep of my horse would have resulted in death--i want you to know that your husband was an honorable man. i have my faults, and i have regrets; but as the world goes i am an honest man. your love for me, which is as pure and good as it can be, has had as much warrant as other wives have for their love. it was never intended that a perfect man or woman should exist on this earth, as a reproach to all the other inhabitants, and i have my faults; but i have as clear a conscience as it was intended that the average man should have." "i am sure of that," his wife answered. "you always impress me as being a fair man, and this was one reason why i forget myself in loving you. i did not believe you would be unjust to anyone; surely not to one you loved." "i believe i am entitled to the compliment you pay me," he replied. "i know myself so well that a compliment which i do not deserve does not please me; but i deserve the good opinion you have just expressed. i have known people whose inclinations were usually right; but mine were usually wrong--either that, or i have been so situated that, by reason of hasty conclusions, duty has always been a task; but notwithstanding this i have always tried to be honest and fair in everything. it sometimes happens that a man is so situated that if he would be just to himself he must be unjust to others. i may have been in that situation, and there may be those who believe that i have wronged them; but i am sure that an honest judge would acquit me of blame. i have often wanted to tell you my brief and unimportant history; but you have preferred not to hear it. while i admire you for this exhibition of trust in me, i have often wondered that your woman's curiosity did not covet the secret." "it is not a secret since you offer to tell it to me," she replied. "but i prefer not to know it now. you once said to me that every life has its sorrow; mine is the belief that i know what your history is; but i prefer to hope that i am wrong rather than know my conjecture is right." he looked at her with incredulity, and was about to inquire what she knew, when she continued: "you never speak to me that i do not get a scrap of your past history; i read you as easily as i read a book. but i knew it when i became your wife, and i think less of it now than ever; you are so kind to me that i think i shall forget it altogether in time. it is scarcely a sorrow; rather a regret, as i regret during my present happy life that i am growing old. sometimes i think i love you all the more because of your misfortune, though i never think of it when i am with you; it is only when i am alone that it occupies my mind." "you are sure that you have not made it worse than it is?" "quite sure." "who was in the right?" "you were." "that much is true, anyway," he answered, looking out at the torrent in the river, which the approaching daylight now made visible. "i formerly had a habit of talking in my sleep; you may have learned something in that way." "a great deal," she replied. "i learned your name." for the first time since she had known him he seemed confused, and there was a flush of mortification in his face. he picked up a scrap of paper and pencil which were lying on a table near them, and handing them to her, said,-- "write it." without the slightest hesitation, she wrote quickly on the paper, and handed it back to him. he looked at it with a queer smile, tore up the scrap, and said,-- "that would have come out in the story you refused to hear. i have never deceived you in anything." "except in this," she answered, putting her arms around him. "you are a much better man than i believed you were when we were first acquainted; you have deceived me in that. my married life could not be happier than it is." "i do not take much credit to myself that we are content as husband and wife," he replied. "i think the fact that we are mated has a great deal to do with it. there are a great many worthy people--for the world is full of good women, if not of good men--who live in the greatest wretchedness; who are as unhappy in their married relations as we are happy. i have known excellent men married to excellent wives, who are wretched, as i have known two excellent men to fail as partners in business. you and i were fortunate in our alliance. it often occurs to me that mrs. armsby should have had a better husband, poor woman. how many brave, capable men there are in the world who would rejoice in the possession of such a wife; worthy, honest men who made a mistake only in marrying the wrong woman, and who will die believing there is nothing in the world worth living for, as i believed before i met you. everyone who is out in the world a great deal knows such men, and pities them, as i do; for when i contrast my past with my present, i regret that others, more deserving than i, cannot enjoy the contentment which love brings. you and i are not phenomenal people in any respect, but we are man and wife in the fullest sense of the term; and others might enjoy the peace we enjoy were they equally fortunate in their love affairs. it is a grand old world for you and i, and those like us, but it is a hell for those who have been coaxed into unsuitable marriages by the devil." "there is as much bitterness in your voice now as there was when you said to me in the church that you were going away never to come back," his wife said, looking at him with keen apprehension. "i am a different man now to what i was then," he replied, with his old good-nature. "have you never remarked it?" "often; every time i hear you speak." "i find that there are splendid people even in davy's bend, and i imagine that when the mind is not tortured they may be found anywhere. in my visits to the homes of davy's bend, i hear it said in every quarter that surely the neighbors are the best people in the world, and their kindness in sickness and death cause me to believe that as a rule the people are very good, unless you chain two antagonistic spirits together, and demand that they be content. i know so much of the weakness of my race--because it happens to be my business--that i wonder they are as industrious and honorable as i find them. this never occurred to me before, and i think it is evidence that i am a changed man; that i am more charitable than i ever was before, and better." they both looked out the window in silence again. a misty morning, threatening rain, and the river before them like a sea. "i must do something to help those who are imprisoned in their homes by the flood," allan dorris said, as if a sight of the river had suggested it to him. "i will go down where boats are to be had presently, and row over into the timber. do you see that line of trees?" below the town, in the river bend, a long line of trees made out into the channel, which were on dry land in ordinary times, but the point was covered now, for the flood occupied the bottom from bluff to bluff. he pointed this out, and when his wife saw the place he referred to, she nodded her head. "my boat will be carried down the stream by the strong current, and i will probably enter the timber there. i will wave my good-by to you from that point." he went out soon after to prepare for the trip, and during his absence his wife hurriedly prepared his breakfast; and when he came back he wore coat and boots of rubber. "what a wonderful housekeeper you are," he said, as he sat down to the table. "no difference what i crave, you supply it before i have time to worry because of the lack of it. but it is so in everything; i never want to do a thing but that i find you are of the same mind. it is very easy to spoil a boy, but i think the girls are naturally so good that they turn out well without much attention. you had no mother to teach you, but you took charge of my house with as much good grace and ease as though you had been driven to it all your life. i think a great deal more of your sex because of my acquaintance with you. if my wife is not the most wonderful woman in the world, i shall never know it." "i am almost ashamed to say it after your kind remark," his wife replied, "but i am afraid i do not want you to go over into the bottoms. the thought of it fills me with dread, though i know you ought to go." "and why not?" he said cheerfully. "i may be able to rescue some unfortunate over there, and there is nothing dangerous in the journey. i shall return before the night comes on,--no fear of that; but before i go i want to tell you again how much my marriage with you has done for me. i want you to keep it in your mind while i am away, that you may understand why i am glad to return. until i came here and met you, i was as discontented as a man could possibly be, and i am very grateful to you. a life of toil and misery was my lot until you came to my rescue, and i thank you for your kindness to me. it occurred to me while i was out of the room just now, that the shadow under the trees is very much like the shadow i intended to penetrate when you came to me that dark night and blessed me. once you came into the room where i was lying down, after returning from the country, though i was not asleep as you supposed. the gentle manner in which you touched my forehead with your lips; that was love--i have thought about it a thousand times since, and been thankful. the human body i despise, because of my familiarity with it; but such a love as yours is divine. i only regret that it is not more general. love is the only thing in life worth having; if a man who lacks it is not discontented, he is like an idiot who is always laughing, not realizing his condition. some people i have known suggested depravity by their general appearance; you think of your own faults from looking at them, and feel ashamed; but it makes me ambitious to look at you, and every day since i have known you i have been a better man than i was the day before." he had finished his repast by this time, and they walked out to the front door together, arm in arm, like lovers. "i have heard it said," he continued, as he tied up his rubber boots and made final preparations for starting, "that if a wife is too good to her husband, he will finally come to dislike her. _you_ are too good to me, i suppose, but it never occurs to me to dislike you for it; on the contrary, it causes me to resolve to be worthy of your thoughtfulness. it will do me good to go into the shadow for a day; i will appreciate the sunshine all the more when i return. but if i should not return--if an accident should happen to me, which is always possible anywhere--my last thought would be thankfulness for the happiness of the past three months." "but you do not anticipate danger?" she said, grasping his arm, as if to lead him back into the house. "there is no danger," he replied. "even if my boat should fail me, i could swim back to you from the farthest point, for i love you so much. you have never seen my reserve strength in action; if a possibility of being separated from you should present itself, i imagine i should greatly surprise my enemies. never fear; i shall come back in good time. i believe that should i get killed, my body would float against the current and hug the bank at the point nearest the locks." he kissed her quickly and hurried away, and his form was soon lost in the bend of the street. how dark it was under the trees! the increasing dull daylight brightened everything save the darkness under the trees; nothing could relieve that. what if he should go into it never to return, as he had intended the night they were married! no, no, no; she wrung her hands at that thought, and ran towards the door, as if intending to pursue him and bring him back before he could enter it. but allan was strong and trusty, and he would come back to laugh at her childish fears as she took his dripping garments at the close of the day, and listened to an account of his adventures,--no fear of that. a half hour later she saw a boat with a single rower put out from the town, and make slow headway against the strong current to the other shore. was he going alone? it was not dangerous; she persuaded herself of that, but she thought it must be very lonesome rowing about in such a flood; and he should not go out again, for he would do anything she wished, and she would ask it as a favor. why had she neglected to think of this, and ask him to go with others? but it was too late now, for the rower soon reached the line of trees he had pointed out to her from the window, waved his white handkerchief, which looked like a signal of danger, and disappeared into the shadow. chapter xix. mr. whittle makes a confession. the first rays of the bad morning, as it looked in at mr. whittle's window, found that worthy busily engaged in cleaning and scouring his gun. it was not yet his bedtime, for of late he spent all of every night, instead of part of it, in prowling about--bent on mischief, _he_ said, but silas davy knew that tug had a fierce desire to protect allan dorris, for whom he had taken such a strange fancy, from harm; and that night after night, whether the weather was good or bad, his friend kept watch around the locks, carrying his gun in readiness for instant use. silas usually kept him company until he became sleepy, and knew that he must return in order to keep awake and attend to his work the next day; but tug, who slept during the day, seldom deserted his post. he may have left his beat occasionally for an hour or two, but only to creep carefully up into the hills back of the house, where he crouched and listened beside the paths, and then crept back again. a good many times he walked down to the hotel, always choosing an hour when he knew silas would be alone in the kitchen, on which occasions he never failed to take a shot with his eyes up the alleys, and into all the dark places; but he did not remain long, so that almost every night, when silas went to bed, he had the satisfaction of knowing that if the shadow should attempt to harm allan dorris, there would be an explosion loud enough to alarm the town. silas, who had been out on the bottoms the day before, came in late in the evening, and, throwing himself on the bed, he slept so soundly that when tug appeared, late in the morning, from one of his vagrant tramps, he was not aroused. and there he lay now, in his clothes, sound asleep, his face as innocent as a child's, as his mind was. as tug scoured away on the gun, rubbing off the rust and dirt, he occasionally looked at silas, and the thought no doubt occurred to him, that if there ever was a thoroughly unselfish, incapable, kind-hearted fellow, there he was, on the bed, asleep, and resting well. "he'll soon be awake, though," tug said aloud, looking up at the window, and noting the increasing light. "he can't sleep when it's light enough for him to work. he has been driven to it by his hard masters until he knows nothing else, and he has a habit of getting up at daylight which he can never overcome. silas was ruined by too much work; i was ruined by too little of it, i suppose. anyway, i'm ruined; nobody disputes that. i am so ornery that i am becoming ashamed of myself." mr. whittle meditated a moment, and then putting down his gun he walked over to a piece of looking-glass, which was tacked against the wall, and took a long look at himself. the inspection was apparently unsatisfactory, for he shook his fist at the reflection, made a face at it, and muttered ill-humoredly as he walked back to his chair. "if davy didn't forget so easy," mr. whittle said aloud again, rubbing away on the gun-barrel, "what a fine man he would be! if he could make money as easily as he is good-natured, he would be a fine fellow; but they say he works to no purpose, and must have somebody to watch him, though he means well,--everybody says that. if davy should be told to turn a crank, he would do it better than anybody, and keep at it longer; but the men who make money not only work hard, but use judgment, and davy lacks judgment, poor fellow; they all say that. if the hotel should ketch afire he wouldn't put it out unless somebody told him to; he wouldn't think of it. but he means as well as any man in america; i can cheerfully say that for him. an ordinary man never opens his mouth without saying something mean; but if ever i heard davy say a mean thing, or knew him to do a mean thing, may i become a preacher. well, the talents must be divided, i suppose; for no person seems to combine any two of them. _i_ know enough, but somebody else has the honesty, the industry, the decency, etc., which i lack. unfortunately, it does not follow that a sensible man is a square man or a good man. i'd rather trust a fool for honesty than a man with a big head, any day. the worst crimes i have ever heard of were the work of men cursed with more brains than conscience. i thought he couldn't sleep long after the sun was up." looking over at his sleeping partner, he saw that he was becoming uneasy, and soon he sat up on the edge of the bed, and looked around in bewilderment as he rubbed his eyes. "well, rogue, how do you feel?" tug inquired, stopping his scouring. "what time is it?" davy inquired, with a show of excitement, and getting on his feet without answering the question. "i should say it was five o'clock, wednesday morning," tug replied, looking out at the window, and then back at his companion, as if wondering at his nervousness. "why?" "i meant to remain awake to tell you of it last night," silas replied hurriedly; "but i was so tired, from rowing all day, that i dropped off to sleep soon after i came in. i have seen the shadow!" tug sprang up from the low chair in which he had been sitting, and began to nervously fumble through his pockets, as if looking for ammunition. "i was out in the bottoms with armsby, yesterday," davy continued, "and twice we passed a man rowing about alone. we were not very close to him, but i am sure it was the shadow, and that he meant mischief. each time when we encountered him he rowed away rapidly, and when armsby hailed him he paid no attention." tug was much concerned over this news, for, after finding his ammunition, he went to loading his gun with great vigor. "could you see his short ear?" he stopped to inquire, after ramming down a great quantity of powder. "no, his left side was from me, but i am sure it was the same man. and i am sure that the boat in which he rowed was the same one you took the little woman out of. i hurried here as fast as i could to tell you, but when i lay down on the bed to wait for you, i fell asleep. armsby made me row all day while he kept a look-out for ducks. i am sorry i fell asleep." silas rubbed his sore arms, and looked very meek, but tug was too busy making arrangements to go out to notice him. "the impudence of the scoundrel," he said, as he poured in the shot. "i never thought to look for him in daylight. which way did he go?" tug peered into the tube of the gun with his big eye, before capping it, as if expecting to find his enemy crouching down in the powder, but finding that the powder primed, he put on a cap, and stood ready to go out. "into the woods," silas answered. "when we first met him, he was rowing toward town, but on seeing us he turned the other way. that was about noon, and just before night we saw him again, coming toward town as before, but he pulled off to the right when he met us, and disappeared under the trees. i expected you in every moment when i fell asleep, or i would have gone up to the locks, and told allan dorris. we ought to tell him about this man, tug. his appearance here so regularly means trouble. within a year we have seen him a dozen times, and each time he has been lurking around allan dorris. we really ought to do something." in the emergency silas did what he had done a hundred times in other emergencies--he said that something should be done, and folded his hands. "ain't i _trying_ to do something?" his companion answered testily. "haven't i tried my best to shoot him? what more can i do? but he has only been here seven times. here is the record." he handed the gun over to silas, who saw for the first time that there were seven notches cut in the stock, the particularly long one representing the time that tug had shot at the shadow, and missed. the men had talked of warning dorris a great many times before, but tug had always argued that it was unnecessary; that it would only render him nervous and suspicious, whereas he was now contented, and very useful to the townspeople and his young wife. silas had always been in favor of putting his friend on his guard against an enemy who seemed to come and go with the night, but tug had stubbornly held out against it, and perhaps this was the reason he guarded the locks so faithfully. sometimes he would only hear a noise in the underbrush; at other times he saw a crouching figure, but before deciding to fire at it, it would disappear, but there was always something to convince him that his old enemy was still occasionally lurking about the town. a few times he had seen him openly, as has been narrated, but there was always something in the way of the accomplishment of the purpose nearest his heart; the only purpose of his life. he did not know himself why he had taken such an interest in dorris, nor had he ever attempted to explain it to silas, but he admired the man, and the only ambition he had ever acknowledged was connected with the safety of the person he admired, according to his own confession, next to rum and devilishness, for not even davy out-ranked the owner of the locks in tug's callous heart. and dorris himself was not more pleased when his wife was praised than was the rusty old lawyer, and at her suggestion he had worked whenever he could get it to do during the winter which had just passed; at copying, drawing legal papers, and at keeping books, for he was competent at any of these occupations. it is probable that had she asked him to go to work as a day laborer he would have consented, for she was kind to him in a great many ways, and often invited him to visit the locks, when he appeared looking very much like a scarecrow, the result of his attempts at fixing up, and using his great eye, after arriving, to look around for refreshments, for he was always hungry. being a noted character, when it became known that he had "reformed," and that he was patronized by the dorrises, a great many others took pains to patronize him, and give him work of the kind he was willing to do, for he was still very particular in this respect. when at the locks, if he threatened to drink too much, mrs. dorris took his glass and kept it, although her husband was usually in favor of "turning him on," as tug expressed it, for he was very amusing when a little tipsy, and kept them in continued laughter by his dignified oddity. "i will tell him to-day," tug said, taking the gun into his own hands again. "he must not go into the bottoms unless accompanied by a party, and as he hasn't been over yet, he may take it into his head to go to-day. i will tell him in an hour; he won't be up before that time." "do you know, tug," silas said, "what i think of you?" "well, out with it. let's have it." "i think you are a better man than you pretend." "it's a lie!" his companion replied fiercely, hitting the table a hard blow with his clenched fist. "it's a lie!" "i have often thought it was very much to your credit that you took such an interest in a hunted man," davy said, "who is shadowed by a cowardly enemy, but perhaps i am mistaken--i usually am; it's not important." tug hung his head in mortification at this suggestion, and for once in his life neglected to be indifferent and dignified at the same time, which was possible with him, if with no one else. "whoever accuses me of being a good man," he said finally, "wrongs me. when i made the discovery a good many years ago that i could never hope to become anything, i made up my mind to distinguish myself for shiftlessness. i despise a common man, therefore i am an uncommonly proficient loafer. i am better known in this town than some of your respectable men, and i don't have to work so hard. there are men here, and plenty of them, who have worked all their lives, and who have no more than i have, which is nothing. they expect that there is a great deal in the future for them, but i have sense enough to know there is nothing very great in the future for any of us, therefore i live as my fancy dictates. i am a natural-born vagrant; most of us are, but most of us do not say so. i despise five-cent respectability, therefore i am a dollar vagrant, and will pass for that anywhere. i had enough of good people when i was married to one of them; my wife was a _good woman_." "i hope i haven't offended you," the meek little man said, looking at his fierce companion in alarm. "i didn't mean any disrespect." "oh, you needn't take it back," tug retorted. "you've gone too far. it's all right; but let me tell you the truth for once in my life--i believe i never did before. i expect it will set me to coughing, but i will try it. my wife hasn't a relative in the world that i know of; certainly i never met any of them. the only objection i have to her is that she is _good_. she is so _good_ that she is a bore; goodness is a fault, and a grave one with her. she couldn't possibly be more disagreeable than she is, and her fault is, she is _good_. when there is a dry spell, she wants to get up a rain, and whether it rains or not, you are expected to give her credit for philanthropy. when it is too cold, she moans about the poor people who are suffering, and those who are around her must accept this as noble, or be called wicked, or heartless, or something else. she even has a _good_ way of gossiping about people, and i despise her for no other reason than that she is _good_. i can't tolerate her; she makes my feet cold." tug had uttered the word _good_ in each instance like an oath, and davy cowered under his cold stare as though fearing _he_ might be _good_, and was about to be accused of it. "everything she does is right; everything you do is wrong,--there you have the old women in a mouthful," the outraged husband continued. "she is always jumping on you for not being _good_, and for your refusal to see goodness in her; and no one around her sees a moment's peace, for she badgers them to death for their neglect to rid the earth of sin, or some other trifling matter like that. she neglects herself in the most shameful manner to moan about rampant rum, or the vitality of vice, for i never saw her ears clean, and if ever you find her with clean finger-nails, look out for the pigs, for they will fly. if she is a _good woman_, then hurrah for the devil. the fat, the lean, the long, the short, the ugly; _they_ go into the _good_ business, for i never knew anyone who could attract attention in the ordinary way to engage in it, and when a woman becomes too fat for society, or too plain to be admired, she goes to yelling that she is better than anybody else, and wants everybody to behave, although they may be behaving all right already. the good-looking and amiable ones remain at home, where they belong, and i admire them for it. had i been a rich man, the old women would have remained with me, and called _that_ good, but since i was a friendless devil, and a worthless vagabond, she left me, and called _that_ good; i hope she is the only woman of that kind in the world. look how she treats little ben! does she act like a mother toward him? don't i have to take all the care of him, and look after him, and attend to his bringing up? is it common for mothers to neglect their own ragged children, and weep over fat and contented people? that's what she does; therefore, if you are a friend of mine, don't call me _good_." silas was not taking as much interest in the recital as he would have done under other circumstances, for he was thinking of allan dorris; but tug was determined to talk about the "old womern." "when we were first married," he continued, "i told her some sort of a lie about myself; a simple sort of a yarn about nothing, and only intended to earn cheap glory for myself. in some way she found me out, for she is always poking her nose around smelling for sin; and, until i could stand it no longer and finally left her, she was continually asking me for additional particulars of the fictitious incident i had related. i say she found me out; i don't know it, but i always believed she did, and that she only asked these questions to hear me lie, and gloat over her own virtue. the story i told her was about saving a man's life, and as he afterwards came to davy's bend, and knew the old womern, i felt sure that she had found me out. after that she asked me a thousand questions about it, and every time i invented a new lie to go with the first one. did she do this because she was _good_? you bet she didn't; she did it to convince herself that she was _good_, and that i was _bad_; but i tell you that, average me up, i am as good as she is, and i am perfectly worthless." picking up a rickety chair which stood neat him, mr. whittle smashed it to pieces on the floor, after a tremendous pounding and racket, which was one of his ways of expressing anger. silas was very much impressed by this ferocious proceeding, and looked on in meek astonishment until his companion was seated again. "isn't it time for you to go to the locks?" he asked. "sure enough," tug said. "i am going up there this morning. i'll go now." without further words, he picked up his gun, and started out, going over the hills to avoid the frequented streets. he had made up his mind to make a full breast of the story, so he walked along leisurely, thinking that he had a genuine surprise in store for his friend. arriving at the locks' gate, he blew the whistle, which was always looking out into dorris' room like an eye, and waited for an answer. it came soon after; the cheerful voice of annie dorris, inquiring what was wanted. "it's me,--tug," he answered, "i want to see dr. dorris." "he left an hour ago, to go over into the bottoms," was the reply. "anything urgent?" "oh, no," the man replied, as he swallowed a great lump which came up into his throat. "nothing urgent; i only wanted him to pull a tooth." with long strides at first, tug started for the river, but after he was out of sight from the locks, he ran like a man pursued, and arriving at the place where the ferry was tied up, making steam for the day's work, he seized the first boat within his reach, and pushed off into the stream. the owner of it called to him to come back, as he wanted the boat himself; but tug paid no attention, except to row the harder, and soon disappeared under the trees. chapter xx. the search in the woods. from noon until twilight annie dorris watched the point on the other shore of the river, where her husband had promised to wave the signal of his return long before nightfall, but nothing did she see save the floating debris of the flood, which looked like tired travellers hurrying forward to find a night's shelter. great trees came floating down, with their arms outstretched as if for help, and occasionally these disappeared in the angry water, as human floaters might disappear after giving up in despair, believing it to be impossible to reach the shore. boats carrying parties of men came back, one by one, to the town, as the afternoon wore away, and the ferry came in later in the evening, panting like a thing of life after its hard day's work; but no boat with a single, strong rower appeared to cheer the gaze of the faithful watcher. everything seemed to be hurrying away from her, and from davy's bend, and from the gathering darkness under the trees, save the returning boats, and she thought their occupants appeared to be anxious to reach their own homes, and tell of some horror in the woods. perhaps some of the rowers had a message to be delivered at the locks; and when they did not come, the fear found its way to her throbbing heart that the news was dreadful, and that they delayed until they could muster up more courage. while it was yet light on the water, an ugly night-shade collected under the trees where her husband's boat had disappeared, reaching out with long arms to capture those in the boats, who were hurrying away from it,--a black monster it seemed, fat with prey, watching the town with stealthy care until its people were sleeping after the day's work, and unsuspicious of attack. as annie dorris watched this black shadow grow larger and larger, and become so bold as to approach still nearer to the town, it seemed to her that no one within it could ever escape; and though an occasional boat did come out, it hurried toward the town rapidly, as if in fright, and this encouraged her to hope that her husband had been delayed in some way, and would safely return with wonderful adventures to relate. so she kept up the vigil, and saw the shadow grow blacker as the afternoon became night. when it was too dark to see even the river, annie dorris stood looking out into the night, hoping that her husband had returned another way, and that his footstep would soon be heard on the stair; for she could think of no danger that could befall him, since rowing in the flood was safe, in spite of the strong current. once she heard a light step on the stair, and she was sure that it was her husband coming up to surprise her, and there was a pause of long duration on the landing; but when she threw open the door in joyful expectation, the quiet darkness looked at her in pity. more than once the footstep on the stair was heard by the anxious and terrified wife, and more than once she hurried to the door to look into the hall; but hope seemed to be leaving the house, and she imagined she heard it in the lower hall, hurrying away. returning to the window, she saw such fearful phantoms in the darkness that she ran, bareheaded, into the street, and up the hill to her father's house. "annie!" thompson benton said, as she ran into his room with starting eyes and dishevelled hair. "annie, what has happened?" "oh, father," she replied, bursting into tears, "my husband has not returned from the bottoms!" thompson benton had been expecting a calamity to befall allan dorris; for, while he had grown to honestly admire him, there was always something in his manner which indicated that he was in danger. perhaps this suspicious dread grew out of the keen relish with which allan dorris enjoyed his home; as if every day were to be his last. it may have been the result of the general belief that he remained in the town to hide away from malicious enemies, or knowledge of the pathetic sadness which always distinguished his manner; but, whatever it was, thompson benton put on his coat and boots, which he had just taken off, precisely as a man might do who had been summoned on a long-expected errand. he had no explanations of the absence to offer to the weeping wife, but became grave at once, and made his preparations to go out in nervous haste. so, without speaking an encouraging word to his daughter, who had sunk down on her knees beside her father's chair, he left the house and hurried down to the town. with long strides he reached the river's brink, where a number of boats were tied, and spoke to a few trusty men who were there, some of whom at once put oars into two of the boats, while others hurried back into the town after lanterns and torches. while they were gone thompson benton walked up and down the bank, pausing frequently to look toward the woods, but he said nothing, and paid no attention to those who looked at him curiously for an explanation; for the absence of this grim old man from his home at night was important; it was particularly important now, since it was known that he was only waiting for the return of the men with the torches, to go over into the bottoms. the news spread rapidly that something unusual was in the air, and when the two boats, rowed by four men each, pushed out into the stream, half of the town was left on the bank to talk of their mission in low whispers, and hope that allan dorris would be found safe and well. among those who watched the lights in the boats as they were rowed away and finally disappeared under the trees, was silas davy, who felt that his neglect to warn allan dorris of the shadow which followed him so persistently had resulted in a tragedy at last. the departure of the men at that hour to look for him, and the preparations they had made for the search, were dreadfully significant,--there could be no mistake of that; and silas wandered along the shore for an hour, hoping to see the boats return, and hear the men talking cheerfully on the water, indicating that his friend had been found. but the longer he watched the woods, the darker they became, and the less prospect there seemed to be that the lights the men had carried would ever reappear, so he resolved to walk up to the locks, hoping to find dorris there, and be the first to give the news to the town. but at the gate he met mrs. wedge, who anxiously asked him for information of the missing man; there was nothing cheerful in her pale, anxious face, nor in the stillness which hung about the place like a pall. silas was compelled to acknowledge that there was so little hope in the town that he had come there for encouragement. he then told her in a whisper of the departure of the men in the boats, and of their carrying lanterns and torches, but mrs. wedge did not give him the encouragement he expected, for she put her hands to her face, and silas was certain that she was crying. when she had recovered her composure, she motioned the little man to follow her, and they walked together up the broad walk, and up the stone steps until they entered the door. there were no lights in the house, and the great mass of stone seemed to be a part of the darkness from the woods. when they were on the inside, mrs. wedge carefully closed the door, and said to him softly,-- "listen!" a timid step on the stair, going up and coming down in unceasing monotony. occasionally it stopped on going up, as if it were of no use to look again; on coming down, as if fearing some corner had been overlooked in the search, but it soon went on again, up and down the stair, into the room which was sacred to the empty cradle, and out of it again,--the step on the stair which always gave warning of trouble. once it came so near them that silas half expected, as he stood trembling in the darkness, that the ghost of poor helen would lay hands on him, and inquire in pitiful tones for the little girl who seemed to be lost in the house. but it passed by, and wearily ascended the stairs, only to come wearily down again after a short absence in the room where the light and the life had gone out. mrs. wedge led silas back to the gate, and, after crying softly to herself awhile, said to him in a voice so agitated that he could scarcely understand her,-- "it has not been heard before since they were married. i had hoped that poor helen had found rest at last, but her footstep on the stair this night means--i won't say the word! it might be carried by some evil spirit to his wife. the poor girl is at her father's, and i am afraid to look at her. o annie, annie!" * * * * * meanwhile the boats pursued their journey into the woods; a man in the bow of each with a torch to direct the rowers. the underbrush was submerged, and they made fair progress toward the line of hills opposite the town, though they drifted about a good deal, for sometimes they were in doubt as to their bearings, as there was nothing to guide them. occasionally they stopped to listen, hoping that dorris had disabled his boat, and was safe in some of the trees, but, hearing nothing, they hallooed themselves, each one taking his turn until they were all hoarse. but the rippling water laughed with joy because their voices sounded dead in the forest lake, and seemed afraid to venture out into the damp, noisome darkness. finding a place where the current was not so strong, they pulled to a point which they believed to be above the town, calling "halloo! halloo!" at every boat's length; but the devilish gurgle in the water continued, and their voices came back to them, like hounds ordered to enter a dangerous lair. occasionally a waterfowl resting for the night was disturbed, and went crashing through the branches of the trees, but no other sound came to them, and as the hours wore away they looked at each other in grave apprehension. a few times, in the middle of clearings, they came upon deserted houses, with vagrant water pouring in at the windows, only to creep out at other windows after making a search in the rooms for lives to destroy. but most of the people had escaped to the hills with their farm animals, leaving their household effects to be covered with the reptiles which had been frightened out of the thickets and tall grass, and which clung to whatever offered them safety. under the trees they frequently found drifts composed of household furniture, bridges, fences, out-houses, logs, stumps, and what not, and the desolation which reigned supreme in that dark, damp place was relieved but little by the glare of the torches, which made the men look like pale-faced spirits rowing about in an eternal effort to escape. if the men wearied in the search, a look at the earnest, gray-haired old man in the largest boat, who was always straining his eyes in attempting to penetrate the darkness, revived them, and they floated on, pulling to the right or to the left, as thompson benton directed, and crying, "halloo! halloo!" in tones which sounded plaintive, and sad, and hopeless. always an earnest man, thompson benton had never before been as earnest as he was this night, and he had called "halloo! halloo!" so frequently that when he spoke it was either in a hoarse voice, or in a soft whisper. at the lower point of the bend in the hills which gave the town its name, a sluggish lake was found, the main current striking diagonally across the river to shorten the distance in its hurry to do mischief below, and the boats found their way into this. while floating around not far from the base of the hills, those who were in the smaller boat suddenly came upon a gravestone, the top of which was only a foot out of water. "we are floating over hedgepath graveyard," the man who was in front carrying the torch said to the others. the stone which had attracted his attention seemed to be taller than the others, for it was the only one appearing above the surface; the water covered everything except this rounded piece of stone, which alone remained to mark the resting-place of the dead, providing the dead had not been seized with the universal desire for floating off, and gone away to visit graveyards in the lower country. he caught hold of the stone to steady the boat, and, throwing his light upon the other side of it, read:-- "sacred to the memory of--" the name in whose honor the slab had been raised was below the water, and the man put his hand down into it to read, as a blind man reads raised letters. "the first letter is a," he said, rubbing the face of the stone with his fingers, "like the alphabet; and the next is l." the fellow continued rubbing the face of the stone with the tips of his fingers, while his lips moved as he tried letter after letter, and gave them up. "hello! another l!" he said in surprise, at last, drawing up his hand hurriedly on making the discovery, and shaking it violently to throw off the water, but there remained on his wrist a sickening scum, which he hurriedly transferred to the side of the boat. "i'll read no further," he said, with a frightened look. "i'm afraid it will turn out to be allan, with a space and a big 'd' following it." the torch-bearer still held on to the stone while the rowers rested, but the other boat, in which thompson benton sat, was busy a short distance beyond them; from one clump of debris to another, as if he only hoped now to find the lifeless body of the one he sought. "strange people are buried here," the torch-bearer said, speaking softly to his panting companions, while they rested from their hard work. "suicides, and those who have died violent deaths; hedgepath is devoted to them. i've heard it said that this is a rough neighborhood, but the best of their dead are put away further up the hill. if the flood has not drowned out the ghosts, we will see one to-night." the suggestion of ghosts was not a pleasant one to the rowers, particularly to those who were farthest from the torch, for they looked timidly about as though they were likely to be approached from behind by spirits riding on headstones. "there is a road running along the edge of hedgepath, leading from the ferry into the hills," the torch-bearer said, who was the bravest of the lot, because he was directly under the light, "and those who have travelled it at night say that the inhabitants of this place sit on stumps beside the road and want to argue with the passers-by. one fellow who was hanged,--_he_ has a great deal to say about the perjured witnesses; and another who was accused of poisoning himself,--he says he found it in his coffee, though he does not tell who put it there; and so many others have horrible stories to tell that travellers usually hurry by this place as fast as they can." it was not a cheerful subject, but his companions listened with close attention, occasionally casting glances behind them. "the unknown people who are found floating in the river; _they_ are buried here, and those who travel the hedgepath road at night say these offer them letters, and ask that they be posted. i have forgotten who it was, but somebody told me that he received one of these letters in his own hand, and mailed it, and that soon after one of the bodies was taken up by friends from a distance, and carried away." the grim joker was interrupted by a hail from the other boat, and the men dipped their oars into the water, and pulled toward it. thompson benton and those who were with him were looking with eager eyes at a boat which was floating a short distance beyond them, within the rays of their torch, and which was rising and falling with the ripples, with both oars hanging helplessly out in the water. the men were waiting in fear for their companions to come up to keep them company before approaching it, and when the two boats were side by side, they were held together, and the outside oars of each were used to row toward the deserted craft, as a party of men who discover a suspicious object in a strange locality might move toward it together. as they drew nearer, the form of a prostrate man was seen seen-- dismiss thy husband into the shadows from whence he came, o pretty wife, for he is murdered. in the bottom of the boat, lying easily on his back, the rowers found allan dorris, dead; his eyes closed as if in disturbed sleep, and his face upturned to the heavens. his right hand was gripped on the side of the boat, as if his last wish had been to pull himself into a sitting posture, and look toward the town where his faithful wife was watching for his return. the flash of the torches made the face look ghastly and white, and there was a stain of blood on his lips. those who looked upon the face saw in it an expression of regret to die, which remained with them as long as they lived; they spoke of it tenderly to their children, who grew up and gave their own children descriptions of allan dorris's pitiful face as he lay dead in his boat on the night when the waters of the great flood began to recede. it is said that the face of a sorrowing man looks peaceful in death; it may be equally true that death stamps unmistakable regret on the face of its victim who is not ready. o, pitiless death, you might have spared this man, who was just beginning, and taken one of the mourning thousands who watch for you through the night, and are sad because of your long delay. this man desired so much to live that his white face seems to say now: "i cannot die; i dread it--oh, how terrible it would be to die now!" and his eyes are wet with tears; a touching monument of his dread of thee! the rough men reverently uncovered their heads as thompson benton looked at the dead man in stupefaction, but when he had recovered, he lifted the body gently up, and made a hasty examination. laying it down again, he looked at the men, and said in a tone which indicated that he had long expected it,-- "shot in the back." lashing their boats together, the rowers gulled back to town without speaking a word; that containing the body of allan dorris towing behind, the pathetic face looking up to heaven, as if asking forgiveness. the stars came out as the rowers pursued their journey back to the town, and the storm was over. peace to the pathetic dust! in the town on the hill, where the twinkling lights mingle with the stars, waits a weeping woman who knew allan dorris well; let her opinion of the dead prevail, and not that of the gossiping winds which have been whispering into the ears of the people. chapter xxi. little ben. in answer to a note requesting his presence at the locks, silas davy hurried towards that part of the town as soon as he found relief from his duties at the hotel, regretting as he went along that mr. whittle was not ahead of him with his gun, for late events had not been of a cheerful nature, and he felt the need of better company than little ben, who dragged his weary frame into the hotel kitchen a few minutes before silas started. not that silas did not love the boy; nor had he any objection to his company on this errand, but with cries of murder in the air, and the reports of guns, he thought he would have preferred a stouter companion in his walk; but as they hurried along, little ben keeping up with difficulty, silas thought that perhaps the boy's mild goodness would keep away evil, and protect them both. it occurred to him for the first time that in a storm of thunder and lighting he should like to keep close to little ben, for though mankind might be unjust to him, the monsters of strength would pity his weakness, and strike elsewhere, therefore silas came to feel quite content in his company. of the shot in the bottoms which had created so much excitement in davy's bend, and of the drifting boat which had been found in the flood by thompson benton and his men, silas knew nothing except as he heard these matters discussed about the hotel. although the people went to the locks in crowds the day after the body was found, and remained there from early in the morning until late at night, every new arrival being taken into one of the darkened lower rooms to look at the dead man, silas was not of the number. he was afraid to look at his friend's face, fearing he could see in it an accusation of his neglect to give warning of the shadow, so he remained away, and went about his duties in a dreamy way, starting at every sound, as though he feared that the people had at last found out his guilt, and had come to accuse him for not notifying them of the danger of which he had been aware. the receipt of the note had frightened him, too, and he felt sure that when he entered the presence of annie dorris, she would break down, and inquire why he had robbed her of a husband in his usual thoughtless way. perhaps the sight of little ben, in his weakness and goodness, would plead for him, so he picked the child up, and carried him on the way as far as his own weak arms would permit. mrs. wedge soon appeared in answer to his ring at the locks gate, and admitted him into the hall where he had heard the step on the stair on the night when there was alarm because of dorris's absence in the bottoms. it was dark in the hall now, as it was then, and while silas waited for mrs. wedge to fasten the door at which they had entered, he listened eagerly for the footsteps, and when he did not hear them, he trembled at the sound of his own as he finally went up the stairs behind mrs. wedge, followed by little ben. going up to the door leading into the room which had been occupied by his friend, silas was ushered into the presence of annie dorris, who was seated near the window where the shadow had twice appeared. there was a great change in her manner, he noticed at once; the pretty face, which had formerly always carried the suspicion of a laugh, was now distinguished by a settled grief, and it was pale and haggard. her pale face was in sharp contrast to the dress of mournful black, and the good fellow who was always trying to do right, but who was always in doubt as to which was right and which was wrong, would have given his life cheerfully to have been a month younger. while silas stood near the doorway, changing his hat from one hand to the other in confusion, he noticed that tears started to her eyes. "please don't cry," silas said, walking towards her. "i want to tell you the guilty part i have taken in this dreadful affair, but i cannot muster up the courage when there are tears in your eyes. please don't cry." annie dorris bravely wiped her tears away at this request, and looked at silas with a face indicating that if his presence had opened her wounds afresh, she would try and conceal it. "i am oppressed with the fear that i am to blame for this," he continued, in desperate haste, "and i must tell you, and get it off my mind, even though you send for the sheriff and have me arrested; i cannot contain the secret any longer, now that i am in your presence." little ben had crawled into a chair on entering the room, and was already fast asleep, with his head hanging on his breast, dreaming, let us hope, of kind treatment, and of a pleasant home. "within a month after allan dorris came to davy's bend," silas said, seating himself near mrs. dorris, "tug and i discovered that he was shadowed by some one, who came and went at night. for more than a year,--until the day before it happened--we saw the strange man at intervals, but tug said it would unnecessarily alarm you both to know it, so we kept it to ourselves. i am sorry we did it, but we thought then it was for the best. i always wanted to tell you, but tug, who worshipped you both, would never consent to it until the morning your husband went into the bottoms alone. when he came here, and found that he had gone, he followed him, and has not been seen since. the day before, while rowing in the bottoms, i met the shadow, and when tug heard this, he came at once to warn your husband not to venture out alone." annie dorris made no reply. perhaps this was no more than she expected from silas, whom she had sent for to question. "the shot which once came in at that window was fired by tug," davy continued, pointing to the pane which had been broken on the night of allan dorris's marriage to annie benton, "and he fired at the shadow as it was looking in at your husband. for more than a year tug has carried a gun, and has tried to protect you; but he made a mistake in not giving warning of this stealthy enemy. of late months he has spent his nights in walking around this place, trying to get a shot at the shadow; and though some people accuse him of a horrible crime, because of his absence from town, he is really on the track of the guilty man, and will return to prove it. i cannot tell you how sorry i am to see you in mourning, but i hope you believe i did what i thought was for the best." when silas had concluded, they were both silent and thoughtful, and the heavy breathing of little ben was all the sound that could be heard. this attracted the attention of silas, and he said, respectfully,-- "would you mind kissing the boy, ma'am? the poor little fellow is so friendless, and has such a hard time of it, that he makes my heart ache. if you will be good enough, i will tell him of it, and he will always remember it gratefully. poor chap! i don't suppose he was ever kissed in his life." annie dorris went over to the sleeping boy, and, after kissing him, as had been requested, picked him up, and laid him down on a lounge which stood in the room. "there was always something fierce and mysterious about my husband," mrs. dorris said, after a time; "but both attracted me to him. i could not help it. a hundred times he has offered to tell me his story, but i did not care to hear it; so that now i know nothing about him except that he was the most worthy gentleman i ever knew, and combined all those qualities which my heart craved. i knew when we were first married that some such result as this was probable, but i could not resist him; and i do not regret it now. three months of such happiness as i have known will repay me for future years of loneliness, and his kindness and consideration are sweet memories, which console me even now while my grief is so fresh. he was manly and honorable with me in every way; and the fault, if there has been a fault, was my own. i am sure that he was a better man because of his misfortune. i believe now that trouble purifies men, and makes them better; and the more i studied him the more i was convinced that there were few like him; that a trifling thing had ruined his life, and that there were hundreds of men, less honorable, who were more fortunate. even now i do not care to know more of him than i already know. i fear that this is a fault; but i knew him better than anyone else in the world, and his manner was so pathetic at times, and his love for me always so pronounced, that, though i am now a young woman, i expect to spend my life in doing honor to a noble memory." there was something so womanly in her manner that silas was convinced that she would live only to honor the memory of his friend. there was inexpressible sadness in her face, but there was also strength, and capacity, and love, and honor. "i am the one person whose good opinion he cared for," she said again; "and i forget everything except his love for me, and his manliness in everything. it is nothing to me what he was away from here. a single atom in the human sea, he may have committed a wrong while attempting to do right, and came here a penitent, trying to right it; but as i knew him he was worthy of any woman's profoundest admiration, and he shall receive it from me as long as i live. the stream of life leads upwards to heaven against a strong current, and, knowing myself, i do not wonder that occasionally the people forget, and float down with the tide. he has told me that he had but one apology to make to any one,--to me, for not finding me sooner. this was a pretty and an undeserved compliment; but it was evident that in his own mind he did not feel that he had wronged anyone, and i feel so. i have no idle regrets, and do not blame you and tug. on the contrary, i thank you both for your thoughtful care. when tug returns, as i am sure he will, bring him here. who has not wounded their best friends in trying to befriend them? though you two have grievously wounded me, i recognize the goodness of your motives, and feel grateful." she got up at this, and started toward the door, motioning silas to follow. from the dark hall she stepped through the door which dorris had never entered alive; but he had been carried there dead. a dim light burned near the door, and there was something in the air--a taint not to be described, but to be remembered with dread--which made silas think of a sepulchre. on a raised platform, in the room to which the steps of poor helen were always leading, stood a metallic burial case, with a movable lid showing the face under glass. the face was so natural that silas thought it must have been preserved in some manner, for his friend seemed to be quietly sleeping, and he could not realize that he had been dead a week. even before silas had taken his hasty glance, annie dorris had knelt beside the inanimate clay of her husband, and he thought he had better go away--he could think of nothing else to do--and leave her. and this he did, only stopping at the door to see a picture which he never forgot,--the coffin, the sobbing woman, the dim light, and the gloomy hangings of the room. on being awakened, little ben shielded his face with his hands, as if expecting a blow, which was his usual greeting on opening his eyes, but, recognizing his friend, he contentedly followed him down the stairs, and out at the iron gate into the street. davy was not a large man or a strong man, but little ben found it difficult to follow him, and was compelled to ask his friend to stop and rest before they reached the hotel. when they finally reached the kitchen, they found it deserted, and silas hastily placed meat and bread before the boy. this he devoured like a hungry wolf, and davy wondered that such a little boy had so much room under his jacket. "they don't feed you overly well at the farm, do they, ben?" silas inquired. the boy had turned from the table, and was sitting with his hands clasped around his knees, and his bare feet on the upper round of the chair. after looking at his companion a moment, he thoughtfully shook his head. "you work hard enough, heaven knows," silas said again, in a tone which sounded like a strong man pitying some one less unfortunate, but there was little difference between the two, except age, for there was every reason to believe that should little ben's cough get better, he would become such a man as silas was. "i do all i can," little ben answered, "but i am so weak that i cannot do enough to satisfy them. i haven't had enough sleep in years: i think that is the trouble with me." that cough, little ben, is not the result of loss of sleep: you must have contracted that in going out to work in the early morning, illy clad, while other children were asleep. "i'm going to tell you something, poor fellow," silas said, "which will please you. while you were asleep up at the locks to-night, the lady kissed you." little ben put his hand apologetically to his mouth, and coughed with a hoarse bark that startled silas, for he noticed that the cough seemed worse every time the boy came to town. but he seemed to be only coughing to avoid crying, for there were tears in his eyes. "you are not going to cry, ben?" silas said, in a voice that indicated that he was of that mind himself. "i think not, sir," the boy replied. "when i first went to the farm, i cried so much that i think that the tears have all left me. i was only thinking it was very kind of the lady, for nobody will have me about except you, mr. davy. my father and mother, they won't have me around, and i am in mr. quade's way; and his wife and children have so much trouble of their own that they cannot pay attention to me. they live very poorly, and work very hard, sir, and i do not blame them; but i often regret that i am always sick and tired, and that no one seems to care for me." little ben seemed to be running the matter over in his mind, for he was silent a long while. in rummaging among his recollections he found nothing pleasant, apparently, for when he turned his face to silas it showed the quivering and pathetic distortion which precedes an open burst of grief. "if you don't care," he said, "i believe i _will_ cry; i can't help it, since you told me about the lady." the little fellow sobbed aloud at the recollection of his hard life, all the time trying to control himself, and wiping his eyes with his rough sleeve. he was such a picture of helpless grief that silas davy turned his back, and appeared to be rubbing something out of his eyes; first one and then the other. "i am sorry i am not able to help you, ben," the good fellow said, turning toward the boy again, after he had recovered himself; "but i am of so little consequence that i am unable to help anyone; i cannot help myself much. i have rather a hard time getting along, too, and i am a good deal like you, ben, for, though i work all the time, i do not give much satisfaction." little ben looked at his companion curiously. "i thought you were very happy here, sir," he said, "with plenty to eat every day. you are free to go to the cupboard whenever you are hungry, but often i am unable to sleep because i am so hungry. you never go to bed feeling that way, do you, mr. davy?" "no," he replied, almost smiling at the boy's idea that anyone who had plenty to eat must be entirely content; "but i am a shiftless sort of a man, and i don't get on very well. i always want to do what is right and fair, but somehow i don't always do it; i sometimes think, though, that i am more unjust to myself than to anyone else. it causes me a good deal of regret that i am not able to help such as you, ben. if i were able, i would like to buy you a suit of clothes." "summer is coming on, sir, and these will do very well," the boy replied. "yes; but you were very thinly clad last winter, ben, and oftentimes i could not sleep from thinking of how cold you were when out in the fields with the stock. if ever there was a good boy, you are one, ben; but you are not treated half so well as the bad boys i know. this is what worries me, as hunger worries you." "i am sorry to hear you are poor, sir," little ben said. "not that i want you to do more for me than you have done, but you have always been so kind to me that i thought you must be rich to afford it. you always have something for me when i come to town, and i am very thankful to you." what a friendless child, davy thought, to consider what he had done for him the favor of a rich man! a little to eat, and small presents on holidays; he had been able to do no more than that; but, since no one else was kind to the boy, these were magnificent favors in his eyes. "on which cheek did the lady kiss me, mr. davy?" the boy inquired later in the night. "on this one," davy replied, touching his left cheek with his finger tips. "i was thinking it was that one," little ben continued. "there has been a glow in it ever since you told me. i should think that the boys who have mothers who do not hate them are very happy. do you know whether they are, mr. davy?" "i know they ought to be," he said; "but some of them are very indifferent to their mothers. i have never had any experience myself; my own mother died before i could remember." "it seems to me," little ben continued, "that if i were as well off as some of the boys i see, i should be entirely satisfied. i must start home soon, or i will not get there in time to be called for to-morrow's work, and when i creep into the hay, where i sleep after coming to see you, i intend to think that the kiss the lady gave me was the kiss of my mother, and that she does not hate me any more." for such as you, little ben, there must be a heaven. the men who are strong in doubt, as well as in the world's battles, come to that conclusion when they remember that there can be no other reward for such as you and silas davy, for your weakness is so unfit for this life that it must be a burden which can only be reckoned in your favor in the master's house where there are many mansions. "if there were not so many happy children," little ben said again, "perhaps i should not mind it so much, but i see them wherever i go, and i cannot understand why my lot is so much harder than theirs. my bones ache so, and i want to sleep and rest so much, that i cannot help feeling regret; except for this i hope i would be happy as you are." silas davy is anything but a happy man, little ben, but, being a good man, he does not complain, and does the best he can, so when the boy soon after started for the farm, and silas walked with him to the edge of the town, he pretended to be very well satisfied with himself, and with everything around him. indeed, he was almost gay, but it was only mockery to encourage his unfortunate companion. "next christmas, ben," silas said, as they walked along, "you shall have"--he paused a moment to consider his financial possibilities--"a sled from the store." "_that_ is too much," ben replied, with hope and gladness in his voice. "a sled will cost a great deal, for the painting and striping must come high. i would like to have a sled more than anything else, but i am afraid you would rob yourself in buying it. i am afraid that is too much, mr. davy." "it will not cost as much as you expect, and i can easily save the money between this and christmas," the good fellow replied. "i have always wanted to do it, and i will, and it will be a pleasure. remember, ben, when you feel bad off in future, what you are to get when you come to see me christmas morning." "i will not forget, sir." "when you own the sled, and i have had the pleasure of giving it to you, we will feel like very fortunate fellows, won't we, ben?" silas said again, cheerfully, as they walked along. "we shall feel as though we are getting along in the world, i should think, mr. davy," the boy replied. they had reached the edge of the town by this time, and davy stopped to turn back. he took the boy's hand for a moment, and said,-- "remember the sled, ben. good night." "good night, sir. i will not forget." silas had scarcely said good night to him before he was lost to his sight,--he was such a very little fellow. chapter xxii. tug's return. a month had passed since allan dorris was found floating over the mounds in hedgepath graveyard, and the waters having gone down in the bottoms, the people were busy in rescuing their homes from the ooze and black mud beneath which they were buried. there had been so much destruction in the bottoms, and so much loss of trade in the town, that the people were all mourners like annie dorris and silas davy, and it did not seem probable that any of them would ever be cheerful again. silas davy was the only person in the town, save annie dorris, who knew the secret of the murder, and he kept it to himself, believing that tug was on the trail of the culprit, and that nothing could be gained by making the people aware of the mysterious man and his mysterious visits. he was sure that tug would return finally, when, if he saw fit, he might tell the people what he knew; otherwise they might continue their conjectures, which generally implicated tug. from the day of the murder he had not been seen in the town, and while it was not openly charged that he had fired the fatal shot, a great many talked mysteriously of his disappearance, and believed that he had something to do with it, for about this time it became known that he had frequently been seen around the locks in the middle of the night, carrying a gun. silas had gone down to the old house by the river, to see if the bed gave any signs of having been occupied, as there was a possibility that tug had returned, and was ashamed to make his presence known, not having accomplished his purpose. but there was no sign. the dust upon everything was proof enough that the owner was still away, and silas was preparing to blow out the light, and return to the hotel, when his friend came walking in at the door; ragged, dirty, and footsore, and a picture of poverty and woe, but there could be no doubt that it was tug, for he carried in his right hand the old musket that had so long been his constant companion. his clothes hung in shreds about him, and bare skin appeared at his elbows and knees; his tall hat was so crumpled that it looked like a short hat, and his hair and whiskers were long and unkempt. there were bits of hay and twigs clinging to his clothing, and silas was sure that he had been sleeping out at night, and creeping through the brush during the day. "tug, my old friend!" silas said, in a voice trembling with excitement and pleasure. "god bless me; how glad i am to see you!" tug sat down wearily in a chair, and laid the gun down at his feet. he was certainly very tired, and very hungry, and very weak, and silas thought how fortunate it was he had brought a lunch with him, although he had only hoped that tug would eat it. this he placed before his friend, who pulled his chair up to the table at sight of the sandwiches, and said in a hoarse voice,-- "i've caught an awful cold somewhere. do you starve a cold, or stuff it? i've been starving it for several days, and i think i'll try stuffing. you don't mean to tell me you have brandy in that bottle, do you?" it was brandy fortunately, which silas had been saving for his friend since his departure, but he seemed so tired now that he could not enjoy it with his old relish, for he did not look at it with his usual eagerness, and there was a melancholy air about him which was very distressing to the little man by his side. as silas watched him, he thought that he discovered that he had grown a dozen years older within a month, and that he would never again be the contented, easy-going man he was before. he was a serious man now, too, a thing he had always despised, and it did not seem possible that he could ever recover from it. when he had finished his meal, he walked slowly and painfully over to the bed, and, stretching out upon it, remained silent so long that silas feared he had washed his voice down his throat with the brandy. "how is missus pretty?" he inquired at last, turning to silas, who sat beside him. "very poorly, i am sorry to say," silas replied, in a husky voice. this did not encourage tug to talk, for he became silent again, and although silas was keen to hear where his friend had been, he was silent, too. "have you told her that we were to blame?" tug asked, after a long pause. "yes, i told her everything, but she does not blame us, and asked me to bring you up immediately after your return." there was the click in the ragged man's throat that usually distinguished him when he was about to laugh, but surely tug had no intention of laughing now, though he wiped his big eye hurriedly, and in a manner indicating that he was vexed. "i might have known that it was wrong not to tell allan dorris of this enemy," tug said. "i am usually wrong in everything, but i hoped i was doing them a favor in this matter; for who wouldn't worry to know that they were constantly watched by a man who seemed to have come a long distance for the purpose? they were so happy that i enjoyed it myself, and i wanted to protect them from the wolf, and though the wolf was smarter than i expected, i meant well; you know that." "i am sure of it," davy replied. "a man who has been bad all his life cannot become good in an hour, and while i meant well, i did not know how to protect them from this danger. we should have taken them into our confidence when the wolf first appeared; i can see that now, after it is too late. it was my fault, though; you always wanted to. i'll have more confidence in you in future." both men seemed to be busy thinking it all over for several minutes, for not a word was exchanged between them until silas inquired,-- "do you suppose there is any danger of the shadow molesting mrs. dorris?" tug was lying on his back, and putting his hand under him he took from his pistol-pocket a package wrapped in newspapers, which looked like a sandwich. handing this to davy, he said,-- "look at it." going over to the table and the light, davy began the work of unwrapping. there was a package inside of a package, which continued until a pile of newspapers lay on the table. at last he came to something wrapped in a piece of cloth, and opening this he found a human ear, cut off close to the head! he recognized it in a moment,--the ear of the shadow, with the top gone! he hurriedly wrapped the horrible thing up as he had found it, and while he was about this he felt sure that tug's journey had not been in vain; that somewhere he had encountered the shadow and killed him, bringing back the ear as a silent and eloquent witness. when the package had been returned to tug's pocket, he turned on his side, rested his head on his hand, and told his story. "out into the river like a shot; that's the way i rowed that misty morning when i found that allan dorris had gone into the bottoms alone. i had no idea where to go to find him, so i pulled over toward the hills on the east shore, where there was a slow current, and concluded to float down the stream. it may have been an hour later, while in the vicinity of the big bend, that i heard a shot below me. rowing toward it with all my might, i soon came upon allan dorris lying dead in the bottom of his boat. only stopping to convince myself that he was stone dead, i pulled out after his murderer. i knew who it was as well as if i had seen the shot fired, and i knew that he would be making down the river to escape, so i made down the river myself to prevent it. he had the start of me, and seemed to know the bottom better than i did, for when i came into the main current i could see him hurrying away, a good half mile ahead of me. but i was the best rower, and within an hour i was coming within shooting distance, when he suddenly turned under the trees, near the island where we saw him the first time. i lost track of him here for several hours, but at last i came upon his boat, a long distance up the creek, and just when i heard a whistle down at the station. had i thought of this before, i might have found him there, and brought him back alive, for i have since found out that he signalled the train and went away on it; but it was too late then, so i could do nothing but go over to the station and wait for the next train." the narrator's hoarseness became so pronounced that silas brought him the remaining brandy, which he tossed off at one swallow. "a lonely enough place it was," tug continued, "and nobody around except the agent, who told me there would not be another train until a few hours after midnight, so i occupied myself in studying maps of the road. i had no money, of course, but i felt sure i could make my way to a certain big town several hundred miles away, which i had once heard dorris mention, and it had been in my mind ever since that he came from there. of course his enemy lived in the same place, and the certainty that the wolf came to the bend on that road once, and went away by the same route, and the probability that he always came to the bend from that station by rowing up the river, made me feel certain that the course i had mapped out was right. "i need not tell you that i had trouble in travelling without money, for there are many people who cannot travel comfortably even when supplied with means in abundance; but in course of time i arrived in the city i once heard dorris mention, very tired, dirty, and hungry, as you will imagine, but not the least discouraged; for the more i heard about the place,--and i inquired about it of every one who would listen to me,--the surer i was that i would find the wolf there. the people with whom i talked all had the greatest respect for the city, as they had here for dorris; this was one thing which made me feel sure he came from there, but there were a great many other evidences which do not occur to me now. i arrived in the morning, and there was so much noise in the streets that it gave me the headache; and so many people that i could not count them, therefore i cannot tell you the population of the place. "it was so big and gay, though, that i am certain that the ben's city people would have been impressed as much as i was, though they put on airs over us. a ben's city man would have felt as much awe there as a davy's bend man feels in ben's city, and it did me a great deal of good to find out that ben's city is nothing but a dirty little hole after all. "for two weeks i wandered about the streets, looking for that ear. there were crowds of people walking and riding around who were like allan dorris in manners and dress, and i was sure that they all knew him, and respected him, and regretted his departure, for i knew by this time that he came from that place to davy's bend. there was an independence and a rush about the town so unlike davy's bend, and so like allan dorris, that i was certain of it. several times i thought of approaching some of the well-dressed people, and telling them that i was looking for the man who had murdered allan dorris, feeling sure that they would at once offer to assist me in the search; but i at last gave it up, fearing they would think he had taken a wonderful fall in the world to be friends with a man like me. "one day, about three weeks after my arrival, i met the wolf on a crowded street. i tapped him on the shoulder, and when he turned to look at me, he trembled like a thief. "'that matter of killing up at davy's bend,' i said, 'i am here to attend to it.' "he recovered his composure with an effort, and replied,-- "'what's that to me, vagrant? keep out of my way, or i'll have you jailed. i do not know you.' "'you are a liar,' i replied, 'and your manner shows it. i am dressed this way as a disguise. i have as good clothes as anybody when i choose to wear them. i am a private detective.' "i had heard that a great many vagrants claim to be private detectives, so i tried it on him, and it worked well; for he at once handed me a card with an address printed on it, and said,-- "'call at that number to-night; i want to see you.' "he had probably heard of private-detectives, too, for i knew he wanted to buy me off; so i consented to the arrangement, knowing that he would not run away. "when it was dark, i went to the street and number printed on the card, and the wolf met me at the door of a house almost as big as the locks, but land seemed to be valuable there, for others were built up close to it on both sides. there was a row of houses just alike, as far as i could see, but different numbers were printed on all of them to guide strangers. the wolf led the way up stairs, after carefully locking the door, and when we were seated in a room that looked like an office, and which was situated in the back part of the house, he said,-- "what do you want?' "'i want to kill you,' i replied. "he was a tall, nervy man, but i was not afraid of him; for i am thick and stout. he laughed contemptuously, and replied,-- "'do you know this man's offence?' "'no,' i answered, 'but i know yours.' "he sat near a desk, and i felt sure that under the lid was concealed a pistol; therefore i found opportunity to turn the key quickly, and put it in my pocket. "'now you are in my power,' i said to him. 'you killed allan dorris, and i can prove it, and i intend to kill you.' "a very cool man was the wolf; and he watched me from under his heavy eyebrows like a hawk, taking sharp note of everything i did, but he did not appear to be afraid. i couldn't help admiring the fellow's nerve, for he was the coolest man i ever saw, and there was an air of importance about him in his own house which did not appear when he was crawling around davy's bend. there was something about him that convinced me he was a doctor, like dorris, though i heard nothing and saw nothing to confirm the belief. "'i have had enough trouble over this affair already,' he said, 'and i am willing to pay for your silence. you don't know what you are about, but i do, and i know there is more justice in my cause than there is in yours. i have been actuated by principle, while you are merely a vagrant pursuing a hobby. you are interfering in the private affairs of respectable people, sir, and i offer you money with the contempt that i would throw a bone to a surly dog, to avoid kicking him out of my way.' "'i am not a respectable man myself,' i answered, 'but i know that it is not respectable to shoot from behind. i give you final notice now that i don't want your money; i want your life, and i intend to have it. back in the poor town i came from there is a little woman whose face i could never look upon again were i to take your money, and i intend to be her friend and protector as long as i live. i believe the money you offer me belongs to dorris; for you look like a thief who believes that every man is as dishonest as yourself, and has his price. even my rags cry out against such a proposition.' "he was as cool as ever, and looked at me impudently until i had finished, when he said,-- "'i want to step into the hall a moment.' "he knew i was watching the door to prevent his escape, and acknowledged that i was master of the situation by asking my permission. "'to call help, probably,' i said. "'no, to call a weak, broken woman; i want you to see her. whatever i have done, her condition has prompted me to.' "i opened the door for him, and he stepped into the dark hall, where he called 'alice!' twice. i was so near him that he could not get away, and we stood there until alice appeared at the other end of the hall. it was the little woman we had here one night! but though she was dressed better than when we saw her, she was paler; and when she came down the dark hall, carrying a candle above her head to light the way, i thought i had never before seen such a sickly person out of a grave. "when she came up to us i saw that she was panting from her slight exertion, and we stepped into the room together. she did not know me, and looked at me with quiet dignity, as if she would conceal from me that she was weak and sick. "'does he bring news of him?' she asked, looking from me to the wolf. "the woman was crazy; there was no doubt of it. had she not been she would have fallen on her knees, and said to me, as she did the night she was in this room, 'gentlemen, in the name of god!' for i was determined to make way with a person who was probably her only protector. "'does the gentleman come from him?' the pale woman asked again. "she is the only person who ever called me a gentleman, and what little compassion i had before vanished. "the wolf paid no attention to her talk, and i thought he was accustomed to it; perhaps she was always asking questions to which no reply could be given. she was not a young woman, and there was something about her--probably the result of her sickness--which was so repugnant that i almost felt faint. if she had walked toward me, i would have run out of the house, but fortunately she only looked at me. "'if you came here at his request,' the little woman said, as she stood in the middle of the room, 'take this to him for me. i have been writing it for two years; it will explain everything.' "i thought the man was pleased because she had commenced the conversation so readily; for he appeared to be in good humor, as though she were saying exactly what he had desired she should to impress me. "'when they told me he was contented in his new home,' she continued, 'i was satisfied, and i want him to know it. he had life, and vigor, and energy, and no one ever blamed him but tom and me. this letter says so; i want you to take it to him. when i discovered that he disliked me, and would always neglect me, it was a cruel blow, though he was not to blame for it, for other men have honestly repented of their fancies. i could not think of him as a bad man for no other reason than that he was dissatisfied with me; for all the people were his friends, and he must have deserved their friendship. i suppose a man may form a dislike for his wife as naturally as he forms a dislike for anything else--i have reason to _know_ that they can--and not commit a graver offence than one who happens to dislike any other trifle which displeases him. i would have told him this myself had he not kept out of my way so long; it is all written in this letter, and my name is signed to it. i commission you to give it to him.' "she took from her bosom and handed me a crumpled piece of paper, on which nothing was written, but i carefully put it in my pocket, to humor her strange whim. "'i am satisfied now, since i have heard that he is contented, and if tom is willing we will never refer to the matter again. he is a good man; even tom says that between his curses, and why not let him alone? tell him that alice gave you the letter with her own hands, and that she will not live long to annoy him. tell him that alice rejoices to know that he is contented; for tom has told me all about it, and since my sickness it has been a pleasure for me to think that a worthy man--and he is a worthy man; for no one can say aught against him except that he could not admire me, which does not seem to be a very grave offence, for no one else admires me--has found what his ability and industry entitles him to,--peace. peace! how he must enjoy it! how long he has sought it! i can understand the relish with which he enjoys it.' "the wolf was not pleased with this sort of talk; it was not crazy enough to suit him, and he looked at her with anger and indignation in his ugly face. "'i never said it before, tom,' she continued, evidently frightened at his wicked look, 'but i must say it now, for i cannot remember the hate you tried to teach me; i can only remember that a man capable of loving and being loved buried himself with a woman he could not tolerate, all from a sense of duty, and looked out at the merry world only to covet it. i have forgotten the selfishness which occupies every human heart; it was driven out of my nature with hope and ambition, and i am only just when i say that he deserved pity as well as i. he was capable of something better than such a life; and was worthy of it. i might have been worthy; but i was not capable, and was it right to sacrifice him because i crept while he ran? do we not praise men for remedying their mistakes? you know we do, and i only praise him for it; nothing more. the truth should always be written on a tomb; this house is like a tomb, it is so cold and damp, and i must tell the truth here. i am cold; why don't you build a fire?' "she put her hand into the flame of the candle she carried, to warm it, but it did not burn, very much to my surprise; and she looked at me with quiet assurance while she warmed her hands in this odd manner. as i watched her i noticed that the wild look which marked her face when she first appeared was returning; her craze came back to her, and she put it on with a shiver. "'your feet are resting on a grave,' she said to me again, after staring around the room awhile, and as coolly as she might have called my attention to muddy boots. 'please take them off. it may be _his_ grave. i have brought flowers to decorate it; an armful. stand aside, sir.' "i did as she told me, and, advancing toward where i sat, she pretended to throw something on nothing out of her empty hands. "'i came across a grave in the lower hall this morning, tom,' she said to the wolf, pausing; and she said it with so much indifference that i thought she must have meant a moth. 'of course they would not be together: i have never expected that. the grave in the hall was shorter than this one, and it was neglected. but this one,--this shows care. and look, tom! the flowers i threw upon it are gone already!' "there was surprise and pain in the little woman's voice, and she pretended to throw other flowers from her withered hands on the mound her disordered fancy had created. "'they disappear before they touch it!' she said. 'i almost expect it to speak, and protest against any attention from me. and it is sinking; trying to get away from me! how much his grave is like him; it shrinks away from me. i'll gather them up; i'll not leave them here!' "out of the air she seemed to be collecting wreaths, and crosses and flowers of every kind, and putting them back into her arms. "'i will put them on the neglected mound in the lower hall, for no one else will do it. how odd the fair flowers will look on a background of weeds; but there shall be roses and violets on my grave, though i am compelled to put them there. open the door, tom; my strength is failing. i must hurry.' "the door was opened, and she passed out of it, and down the dark hall, staggering as she went. when she reached the door through which she came at the wolf's call, at the lower end of the passage, she turned around, held the candle above her head again, and said,-- "'be merciful, tom; i request that of you as a favor. you were never wronged by him, except through me, and i have never been resentful except to please you. let the gentleman return and deliver the letter i gave him.' "opening the door near which she stood, she disappeared. "so tom was the cause of all the trouble? i resolved as we stepped back into the room that he should regret it, and i think there is no doubt that he does." tug turned on his back again, and seemed to be considering what course he had better pursue with reference to the remainder of his story. at last he got up from the bed slowly and painfully, and walked over to the cupboard where his law-book was kept, which he took down and opened on the table. after turning over its pages for a while, pausing occasionally to read the decisions presented, he shut up the book, returned it to the shelf, and went back to the bed. "i am too much of a lawyer," he said, "to criminate myself, pardner, and you'll have to excuse me from going into further details. but i can give you a few conjectures. in my opinion the pale, ugly little woman without a mind, but who looked respectable enough, was once allan dorris's wife, but i don't know it; i heard nothing to confirm this suspicion except what i have told you. the wolf was her brother (a man with an uglier disposition i never laid eyes on), and i shall always believe that dorris married her when a very young man; that he finally gave her most of his property and struck out, resolved to hide from a woman who had always been a burden and a humiliation to him. it is possible that he was divorced from her a great many years before he came here, and that she lost her mind in consequence; it is possible that he had nothing to do with her; but i give you my guess, with the understanding that it is to go no farther. i am not in the habit of telling the truth; but _this_ is the truth: i know no more about his past history than you do; but while in the city i came to the conclusion i have just given you." there was another short silence, and silas became aware of the fact that tug was breathing heavily, and that, for the first time since he had known him, he was asleep in his own house at night. chapter xxiii. the going down of the sun. two years have passed since the great flood in the river, which is still told about with wonder by those who witnessed it, and tug whittle is now living in the detached building at the locks, which was occupied so long by mrs. wedge, that worthy lady having long since taken a room in the main house. little ben, released from his hard work at quade's, is growing steadily worse, in spite of the kindness shown him by mrs. dorris and mrs. wedge. a victim of too much work is little ben; but he is as mild and gentle as ever, and spends his days, when he is able, in wandering about the yard, and keeping out of the way, for he cannot forget the time when every hand was against him. mr. whittle has become an industrious man during the two years, and is as devoted to mrs. dorris and her little child as it is possible for a man to be. the day after tug's return to the bend from his tramp to the lower country, he called on mrs. dorris, and related his story as he related it to silas davy, and going into the little detached house after its conclusion, he did not come out again for two days and nights; and it was supposed that he was making up for lost sleep. after his appearance he was fed by mrs. wedge, and at once began to make himself useful around the place. in a little while they learned to trust him, and he soon took charge of everything, conducting himself so well that there was never any reason for regretting the trust reposed. allan dorris had died possessed of several farms in the adjoining neighborhood, and these mr. whittle worked to so much advantage, with the aid of tenants on each, that in a financial way mrs. dorris got on very well; for mr. whittle wanted nothing for himself except the privilege of serving her as he did. very often he was absent from the locks for weeks at a time, looking after the farm affairs, and he seldom visited his mistress except to give accounts of his stewardship, which were always satisfactory. he had been heard to say that it was his fault that she was a widow; therefore he did not care to see her except when it seemed to be necessary, for her modest grief gave him such pangs of remorse that he wanted to take the musket, which he still retained in times of peace, and make away with himself. therefore he spent much of his time in managing her affairs, which called him out of town; and he became known as a tremendous worker,--to rival his record as a loafer, mr. whittle himself said; but silas davy knew, and even the people admitted it, that he was greatly devoted to his young mistress, and that he had no other aim in life than to make her as comfortable as possible in her widowed condition. occasionally he came to town, on an errand, after nightfall, and returned to the country before day, as little ben had done, and usually they only knew he had been around the house at all by something he had left for their surprise in the morning. if he found anything in the country he thought would please mrs. dorris or little ben, he went to town with it after his day's work on the farm, and left his bed in the detached house before day to return. besides the harm he had done mrs. dorris, the wrong he had done his son was on his mind a great deal, and he avoided the boy whenever it was possible. he was ashamed to look into his face, though he was always doing something to please him. his rough experience on the farm had forever ruined the boy's health, and his father was continually expecting to be summoned from the field to attend his funeral. tug was still rugged and rough, and unsociable with those with whom he came in contact in the field or on the road, but he loved those in the locks, from mrs. dorris down to the baby, with a devotion which made him a more famous character than he had ever been as a vagrant. he had become scrupulously honest and truthful, as well as industrious; and those who marvelled at the change were told by the wiser heads that tug had something on his mind which he was trying to relieve by good works. silas davy no longer had reason to regret that he was unable to buy little ben a suit of clothes, for little ben was well clothed now, and comfortably situated, except as to his cough; but in other respects the clerk had not changed for the better. he was still employed at the hotel, and still heard the boarders threaten to move to ben's city; for davy's bend continued to go slowly down the hill. he still heard armsby boast of his fancy shots, and of his triumphs in the lodge; and, worst of all, he still heard patient mrs. armsby complain of overwork, and knew that it was true. he occasionally went to the locks to see mr. whittle,--usually on sunday evening, when that worthy was most likely to be at home,--and as we come upon them now, to take a last look at them, it is sunday evening, and tug and silas are seated on a rude bench, in front of the detached house, with little ben between them. "i have come to the conclusion, mr. davy,"--tug is wonderfully polite recently, and no longer refers to his companion by his first name,--"i have come to the conclusion that there is only one way to get along; it is expressed in a word of four letters--work. busy men do not commit great crimes, and they know more peace than those who are idle; therefore the best way to live is to behave yourself. i don't know whether i can behave myself enough from now on to do any good, or not; but i intend to try." "i think you can, tug," davy replied. "you have been very useful during the past two years." "but i have been very useless during the past forty and odd," mr. whittle continued, looking at little ben as though he were evidence of it. "i have changed my mind about everything, with one exception, within a few years,--except that i do not believe a certain person is good, i have no opinion now that i had a year ago,--but on this i will never change. my acquaintance with dorris and his wife has taught me a good many things which i did not know before. his bravery taught me that bravery comes of a clear conscience, and his wife's goodness and devotion teach me to believe that a dead man is not so bad off, after all. did you know that she expects to meet her husband again?" tug waved his hand above his head, intended as an intimation that mrs. dorris expected to meet her husband in heaven, and looked at silas very gravely, who only nodded his head. "she seems to _know_ it," tug continued, "and why should i dispute her? how much more do i know than annie dorris? by what right do i say that she is wrong, and that i am right? she is good enough to receive messages, but i am not; and it has occurred to me that i had better be guided by her. i have never been converted, or anything of that kind, but i have felt regret for my faults. i have done more than that. i have said aloud, as i worked in the fields, 'i'm sorry.' i have frequently said that,--may be only to myself, but may be to the winds, which are always hurrying no one knows where. who knows where they may carry the sound when a wicked man says, sincerely, 'i'm sorry?'" sure enough, who knows? may it not be to heaven? "i have heard her play hymns on the organ which i felt must be songs of hope, the words of which promised mercy, for they sounded like it, and she does not play them for amusement; i believe it is her offering for the peace of allan dorris, and a prayer could not go farther into heaven than her music. i have known her to go to the church with the little baby, and i should think that when the lord hears the music, and looks down and sees annie dorris and the child, he would forget a great deal when dorris comes before him." silas had heard the music, too, and he agreed that if it could have been set to words, they would have been "mercy! mercy!" "i am too old a crow to be sentimental," tug said again, "but i have felt so much better since i have been working and behaving myself that i intend to keep it up, and try and wipe out a part of my former record. if i should go to sleep some night, and not waken in the morning as usual to go away to work, very good; but if i should waken in a strange place, i should like to meet allan dorris, and hear him say, 'tug, i have reason to know that erring men who have ever tried to do right receive a great deal of consideration here; you have done much toward redeeming yourself.'" silas was very much surprised to hear his companion talk in this manner, and said something to that effect. "i am surprised myself," tug answered, "but the devotion of annie dorris to the memory of her husband has set me to thinking. the people believe that allan dorris was buried in the locks' yard, by thompson benton, but i know that his iron coffin still stands in the room where you saw it. i think his clay feels grateful for the favor, for it has never been offensive like ordinary flesh. the lid has been shut down never to be opened again, but when i last looked under it, i saw little except what you might find in the road,--dust." the chill of the evening air reminds them that it is time for little ben to go in, but the two men remain outside to look at the sunset. "the people of this town," mr. whittle continued, after the boy had disappeared, "are greatly amused over the statement that when an ostrich is pursued, it buries its head in the sand and imagines that it is hid. i tell you that we are a community of ostriches; i occasionally put a head into the sand myself, and so do you and all the rest of them. when little ben is near me, i try to cause him to forget the years i neglected him, by being kind, but he never looks at me with his mild eyes that i do not fear he is thinking: you only have your head in the sand, and there is so much of you in sight that i remember quade. therefore i keep out of his way whenever i can. do you think his cough is any better?" "i am afraid not, tug," silas replied. "i was thinking to-day that it is growing steadily worse." tug looked toward the setting sun and the church, and the solemn tones of the organ came to them; annie dorris was playing the hymn the words of which seemed to be "mercy! mercy!" "word will be sent to you some day," tug said, as if the music had suggested it, "that little ben is--" he paused, and shivered, dreading to pronounce the word word--"worse. i wish you would get word to me some way, without letting any one know it; i want to go away somewhere. then you can come out for me, and tell them on your return that i could not be found. it is bad enough for me to look at him now; i could never forget my sin toward him were i to see him dead. of course you will go with him to the cemetery, with mrs. dorris and mrs. wedge and betty; and i would like to have the baby at poor ben's funeral, for he thinks so much of it, but it will be better for me to stay away, though i want them to think it accidental. when i return, you can show me the place, and on my way to and from the town i will stop there and think of the hymn which mrs. dorris plays so much." the sun is going down, and it seems to pause on the hill to take a last look at the town. perhaps it is tired of seeing it from day to day, and will in future travel a new route, where objects of more interest may be seen. anyway, it lingers on the hill, and looks at the ragged streets and houses of the unfortunate town down by the river, which is always hurrying away, as if to warn the people below to avoid davy's bend, where there is little business, and no joy. when its face is half obscured by the hill, the sun seems to remember the locks, with whose history it has been familiar, and looks that way. so much shadow has gathered around it already from the woods across the river that objects are no longer to be distinguished: nothing but the huge outlines. at last the sun disappears behind the hill, but a friendly ray comes back, and looks toward the locks until even the church steeple disappears; and davy's bend, and the locks, with its sorrow and its step on the stair, are lost in the darkness. _by the same author._ _the story of a country town._ howells pronounces it "this remarkable novel ... uncommonly interesting." mark twain finds the style "simple, sincere, direct, and at the same time so clear and so strong." the _springfield republican_ finds in it "a distinct flavor of its own ... the freshness and strangeness of the prairie life." the _chicago inter-ocean_ finds it "the most dramatic of our american novels ... a drama of direct appeal." "there runs through the story a vein of pathos that is absolutely pitiful, and makes one think of 'the mill on the floss'.... it is a strong, stern, matter-of-fact book. some of its pages stand out from their sad background of reality like one of salvato rosa's pictures.... many of the situations are as dramatical as any of bret harte's."--_st. joseph gazette._ "incomparably the best novel of the year, judged from any standard.... there is a grace, a sympathetic and tender feeling, a delicious sense of humor, that make the book remarkable.--_brooklyn union._ [illustration: mrs. laura b. pound second and sixth state regent, nebraska society, daughters of the american revolution. - , - ] collection of nebraska pioneer reminiscences issued by the nebraska society of the daughters of the american revolution [illustration] nineteen sixteen the torch press cedar rapids iowa forethought this book of nebraska pioneer reminiscences is issued by the daughters of the american revolution of nebraska, and dedicated to the daring, courageous, and intrepid men and women--the advance guard of our progress--who, carrying the torch of civilization, had a vision of the possibilities which now have become realities. to those who answered the call of the unknown we owe the duty of preserving the record of their adventures upon the vast prairies of "nebraska the mother of states." "in her horizons, limitless and vast her plains that storm the senses like the sea." reminiscence, recollection, personal experience--simple, true stories--this is the foundation of history. rapidly the pioneer story-tellers are passing beyond recall, and the real story of the beginning of our great commonwealth must be told now. the memories of those pioneers, of their deeds of self-sacrifice and devotion, of their ideals which are our inheritance, will inculcate patriotism in the children of the future; for they should realize the courage that subdued the wilderness. and "lest we forget," the heritage of this past is a sacred trust to the daughters of the american revolution of nebraska. the invaluable assistance of the nebraska state historical society, and the members of this book committee, mrs. c. s. paine and mrs. d. s. dalby, is most gratefully acknowledged. lula correll perry (mrs. warren perry) contents some first things in the history of adams county by george f. work early experiences in adams county by general albert v. cole frontier towns by francis m. broome historical sketch of box butte county by ira e. tash a broken axle by samuel c. bassett a pioneer nebraska teacher by mrs. isabel roscoe experiences of a pioneer woman by mrs. elise g. everett recollections of weeping water by i. n. hunter incidents at plattsmouth by ella pollock minor first things in clay county by mrs. charles m. brown reminiscences of custer county by mrs. j. j. douglas an experience by mrs. harmon bross legend of crow butte by dr. anna robinson cross life on the frontier by james ayres plum creek (lexington) by william m. bancroft, m. d. early recollections by c. chabot recollections of the first settler of dawson county by mrs. daniel freeman early days in dawson county by lucy e. hewitt pioneer justice by b. f. krier a good indian by mrs. clifford whitaker from missouri to dawson county by a. j. porter the erickson family by mrs. w. m. stebbins the beginnings of fremont by sadie irene moore a grasshopper story by margaret f. kelly early days in fremont by mrs. theron nye pioneer women of omaha by mrs. charles h. fisette a pioneer family by edith erma purviance the badger family the first white settler in fillmore county pioneering in fillmore county by john r. mccashland fillmore county in the seventies by william spade early days in nebraska by j. a. carpenter reminiscences of gage county by albert l. green ranching in gage and jefferson counties by peter jansen early recollections of gage county by mrs. e. johnson biography of ford lewis by mrs. (d. s.) h. virginia lewis dalbey a buffalo hunt by w. h. avery a grasshopper raid by edna m. boyle allen early days in pawnee county by daniel b. cropsey early events in jefferson county by george cross early days of fairbury and jefferson county by george w. hansen the earliest romance of jefferson county by george w. hansen experiences on the frontier by frank helvey looking backward by george e. jenkins the easter storm of by charles b. letton beginnings of fairbury by joseph b. mcdowell early experiences in nebraska by elizabeth porter seymour personal recollections by mrs. c. f. steele how the sons of george winslow found their father's grave _statement by mrs. c. f. steele_ _statement by george w. hansen_ early days in jefferson county by mrs. m. h. weeks location of the capital at lincoln by john h. ames an incident in the history of lincoln by ortha c. bell lincoln in the early seventies by ortha c. bell a pioneer baby show by mrs. frank i. ringer marking the site of the lewis and clark council at fort calhoun by mrs. laura b. pound early history of lincoln county by major lester walker grey eagle, pawnee chief by millard s. binney lovers' leap (poem) by mrs. a. p. jarvis early indian history by mrs. sarah clapp the blizzard of by minnie freeman penny an acrostic by mrs. ellis early days in nance county by mrs. ellen saunders walton the pawnee chief's farewell (poem) by chauncey livingston wiltse my trip west in by sarah schooley randall stirring events along the little blue by clarendon e. adams my last buffalo hunt by j. sterling morton how the founder of arbor day created the most famous western estate by paul morton early reminiscences of nebraska city--social aspects by ellen kinney ware some personal incidents by w. a. mcallister a buffalo hunt by minnie freeman penny pioneer life by mrs. james g. reeder early days in polk county by calmar mccune personal reminiscences by mrs. thyrza reavis roy two seward county celebrations by mrs. s. c. langworthy seward county reminiscences compiled by margaret holmes chapter d. a. r. pioneering by grant lee shumway early days in stanton county by andrew j. bottorff and sven johanson fred e. roper, pioneer by ernest e. correll the lure of the prairies by lucy l. correll suffrage in nebraska _statement by mrs. gertrude m. mcdowell_ _statement by lucy l. correll_ an indian raid by ernest e. correll reminiscences by mrs. e. a. russell reminiscences of fort calhoun by w. h. allen reminiscences of washington county by mrs. emily bottorff allen reminiscences of pioneer life at fort calhoun by mrs. n. j. frazier brooks reminiscences of de soto by oliver bouvier reminiscences by thomas m. carter fort calhoun in the late fifties by mrs. e. h. clark some items from washington county by mrs. may allen lazure county-seat of washington county by frank mcneely the story of the town of fontenelle by mrs. eda mead thomas wilkinson and family nikumi by mrs. harriett s. macmurphy the heroine of the jules slade tragedy by mrs. harriett s. macmurphy the last romantic buffalo hunt on the plains of nebraska by john lee webster outline history of the nebraska society, d. a. r. by mrs. charles h. aull illustrations mrs. laura b. pound _frontispiece_ oregon trail monument near leroy, nebraska oregon trail monument on the nebraska-wyoming state line mrs. angie f. newman dedication of monument commemorating the oregon trail at kearney, nebraska mrs. andrew k. gault monument marking the old trails, fremont, nebraska mrs. charlotte f. palmer mrs. frances avery haggard oregon trail monument near fairbury, nebraska mrs. elizabeth c. langworthy mrs. charles b. letton boulder at fort calhoun, commemorating the council of lewis and clark with the otoe and missouri indians mrs. oreal s. ward oregon trail monument on kansas-nebraska state line mrs. charles oliver norton oregon trail monument near hebron, nebraska mrs. warren perry memorial fountain, antelope park, lincoln mrs. charles h. aull monument marking the initial point of the california trail, riverside park, omaha california trail monument, bemis park, omaha some first things in the history of adams county by george f. work adams county is named for the first time, in an act of the territorial legislature approved february , , when the south bank of the platte river was made its northern boundary. there were no settlers here at that time although several persons who are mentioned later herein had established trapping camps within what are now its boundaries. in it was declared a county by executive proclamation and its present limits defined as, in short, consisting of government ranges, , , , and west of the sixth principal meridian, and townships , , , and , north of the base line, which corresponds with the south line of the state. mortimer n. kress, familiarly known to the early settlers as "wild bill," marion jerome fouts, also known as "california joe," and james bainter had made hunting and trapping camps all the way along the little blue river, prior to this time. this stream flows through the south part of the county and has its source just west of its western boundary in kearney county. james bainter filed on a tract just across its eastern line in clay county as his homestead, and so disappears in the history of adams county. mortimer n. kress is still living and now has his home in hastings, a hale, hearty man of seventy-five years and respected by all. marion j. fouts, about seventy years of age, still lives on the homestead he selected in that early day and is a respected, prominent man in that locality. gordon h. edgerton, now a resident and prominent business man of hastings, when a young man, in , was engaged in freighting across the plains, over the oregon trail that entered the county where the little blue crosses its eastern boundary and continued in a northwesterly direction, leaving its western line a few miles west and a little north of where kenesaw now stands, and so is familiar with its early history. there has already been some who have questioned the authenticity of the story of an indian massacre having taken place where this trail crosses thirty-two mile creek, so named because it was at this point about thirty-two miles east of fort kearny. this massacre took place about the year , and mr. edgerton says that it was universally believed at the time he was passing back and forth along this trail. he distinctly remembers an old threshing machine that stood at that place for a long time and that was left there by some of the members of the party that were killed. the writer of this sketch who came to the county in , was shown a mound at this place, near the bank of the creek, which he was told was the heaped up mound of the grave where the victims were buried, and the story was not questioned so far as he ever heard until recent years. certainly those who lived near the locality at that early day did not question it. this massacre took place very near the locality where captain fremont encamped, the night of june , , as related in the history of his expedition and was about five or six miles south and a little west of hastings. i well remember the appearance of this trail. it consisted of a number of deeply cut wagon tracks, nearly parallel with each other, but which would converge to one track where the surface was difficult or where there was a crossing to be made over a rough place or stream. the constant tramping of the teams would pulverize the soil and the high winds would blow out the dust, or if on sloping ground, the water from heavy rains would wash it out until the track became so deep that a new one would be followed because the axles of the wagons would drag on the ground. it was on this trail a few miles west of what is now the site of kenesaw, that a lone grave was discovered by the first settlers in the country, and a story is told of how it came to be there. about midway from where the trail leaves the little blue to the military post at fort kearny on the platte river a man with a vision of many dollars to be made from the people going west to the gold-fields over this trail, dug a well about one hundred feet deep for the purpose of selling water to the travelers and freighters. some time later he was killed by the indians and the well was poisoned by them. a man by the name of haile camped here a few days later and he and his wife used the water for cooking and drinking. both were taken sick and the wife died, but he recovered. he took the boards of his wagon box and made her a coffin and buried her near the trail. some time afterwards he returned and erected a headstone over her grave which was a few years since still standing and perhaps is to this day, the monument of a true man to his love for his wife and to her memory. the first homestead was taken in the county by francis m. luey, march , , though there were others taken the same day. the facts as i get them direct from mr. kress are that he took his team and wagon, and he and three other men went to beatrice, where the government land office was located, to make their entries. when they arrived at the office, with his characteristic generosity he said: "boys, step up and take your choice; any of it is good enough for me." luey was the first to make his entry, and he was followed by the other three. francis m. luey took the southwest quarter of section twelve; mortimer n. kress selected the northeast quarter of section thirteen; marion jerome fouts, the southeast quarter of eleven; and the fourth person, john smith, filed on the southwest quarter of eleven, all in township five north and range eleven west of the sixth principal meridian. smith relinquished his claim later and never made final proof, so his name does not appear on the records of the county as having made this entry. the others settled and made improvements on their lands. mortimer n. kress built a sod house that spring, and later in the summer, a hewed log house, and these were the first buildings in the county. so kress and fouts, two old comrades and trappers, settled down together, and are still citizens of the county. other settlers rapidly began to make entry in the neighborhood, and soon there were enough to be called together in the first religious service. the first sermon was preached in mr. kress' hewed log house by rev. j. w. warwick in the fall of . the first marriage in the county was solemnized in between roderick lomas or loomis and "lila" or eliza warwick, the ceremony being performed by the bride's father, rev. j. w. warwick. prior to this, however, on october , , eben wright and susan gates, a young couple who had settled in the county, were taken by mr. kress in his two-horse farm wagon to grand island, where they were married by the probate judge. the first deaths that occurred in the county were of two young men who came into the new settlement to make homes for themselves in , selected their claims and went to work, and a few days later were killed in their camp at night. it was believed that a disreputable character who came along with a small herd of horses committed the murder, but no one knew what the motive was. he was arrested and his name given as jake haynes, but as no positive proof could be obtained he was cleared at the preliminary examination, and left the country. a story became current a short time afterward that he was hanged in kansas for stealing a mule. the first murder that occurred in the county that was proven was that of henry stutzman, who was killed by william john mcelroy, february , , about four miles south of hastings. he was arrested a few hours afterward, and on his trial was convicted and sent to the penitentiary. the first child born in the county was born to francis m. luey and wife in the spring of . these parents were the first married couple to settle in this county. the child lived only a short time and was buried near the home, there being no graveyard yet established. a few years ago the k. c. & o. r. r. in grading its roadbed through that farm disturbed the grave and uncovered its bones. in the spring and summer of mr. kress broke about fifty acres of prairie on his claim and this constituted the first improvement of that nature in the county. j. r. carter and wife settled in this neighborhood about , and the two young men, mentioned above as having been murdered, stopped at their house over night, their first visitors. it was a disputed point for a long time whether mrs. carter, mrs. w. s. moote, or mrs. francis m. luey was the first white woman to settle permanently in the county; but mr. kress is positive that the last named was the first and is entitled to that distinction. mrs. moote, with her husband, came next and camped on their claim, then both left and made their entries of the land. in the meantime, before the return of the mootes, mr. and mrs. carter made permanent settlement on their land, so the honors were pretty evenly divided. the first white settler in the county to die a natural death and receive christian burial was william h. akers, who had taken a homestead in section - - . the funeral services were conducted by rev. j. w. warwick. in the summer of a colony of settlers from michigan settled on land on which the townsite of juniata was afterward located, and october , , the first deed that was placed on record in the county was executed by john and margaret stark to col. charles p. morse before p. f. barr, a notary public at crete, nebraska, and was filed for record march , , and recorded on page , volume , of deed records of adams county. the grantee was general superintendent of the burlington & missouri river railroad company which was then approaching the eastern edge of the county, and opened its first office at hastings in april, , with agent horace s. wiggins in charge. mr. wiggins is now a well-known public accountant and insurance actuary residing in lincoln. the land conveyed by this deed and some other tracts for which deeds were soon after executed was in section , township , range , and on which the town of juniata was platted. the stark patent was dated june , , and signed by u. s. grant as president. the town plat was filed for record march , . the first church organized in the county was by rev. john f. clarkson, chaplain of a colony of english congregationalists who settled near the present location of hastings in . he preached the first sermon while they were still camped in their covered wagons at a point near the present intersection of second street and burlington avenue, the first sunday after their arrival. a short time afterward, in a sod house on the claim of john g. moore, at or near the present site of the lepin hotel, the church was organized with nine members uniting by letter, and a few sundays later four more by confession of their faith. this data i have from peter fowlie and s. b. binfield, two of the persons composing the first organization. the first sunday school organized in the county was organized in a small residence then under construction on lot in block of moore's addition to hastings. the frame was up, the roof on, siding and floor in place, but that was all. nail kegs and plank formed the seats, and a store box the desk. the building still stands and constitutes the main part of the present residence of my family at north burlington avenue. it was a union school and was the nucleus of the present presbyterian and congregational sunday schools. i am not able to give the date of its organization but it was probably in the winter of - . i got this information from mr. a. l. wigton, who was influential in bringing about the organization and was its first superintendent. the first school in the county was opened about a mile south of juniata early in , by miss emma leonard, and that fall miss lizzie scott was employed to teach one in juniata. so rapidly did the county settle that by october , , thirty-eight school districts were reported organized. the acting governor, w. h. james, on november , , ordered the organization of the county for political and judicial purposes, and fixed the day of the first election to be held, on december following. twenty-nine votes were cast and the following persons were elected as county officers: clerk, russell d. babcock. treasurer, john s. chandler. sheriff, isaac w. stark. probate judge, titus babcock. surveyor, george henderson. superintendent of schools, adna h. bowen. coroner, isaiah sluyter. assessor, william m. camp. county commissioners: samuel l. brass, edwin m. allen, and wellington w. selleck. the first assessment of personal property produced a tax of $ , , on an assessed valuation of $ , , and the total valuation of personal and real property amounted to $ , , mostly on railroad lands of which the burlington road was found to own , acres and the union pacific, , . very few of the settlers had at that time made final proof. this assessment was made in the spring of . the first building for county uses was ordered constructed on january , , and was x feet on the ground with an eight-foot story, shingle roof, four windows and one door, matched floor, and ceiled overhead with building paper. the county commissioners were to furnish all material except the door and windows and the contract for the work was let to joseph stuhl for $ . . s. l. brass was to superintend the construction, and the building was to be ready for occupancy in ten days. the salary of the county clerk was fixed by the board at $ , that of the probate judge at $ for the year. it is claimed that the law making every section line a county road, in the state of nebraska, originated with this board in a resolution passed by it, requesting their representatives in the senate and house of the legislature then in session to introduce a bill to that effect and work for its passage. their work must have been effective for we find that in july following, the burlington railroad company asked damages by reason of loss sustained through the act of the legislature taking about eight acres of each section of their land, for these public roads. the first poorhouse was built in the fall of . it was x feet, one and one-half stories high, and was constructed by ira g. dillon for $ , , and peter fowlie was appointed poormaster at a salary of $ per month. and on november of that year he reported six poor persons as charges on the county, but his administration must have been effective for on december , following, he reported none then in his charge. the first agricultural society was organized at kingston and the first agricultural fair of which there is any record was held october and , . the fair grounds were on the southeast corner of the northwest quarter of section - - on land owned by g. h. edgerton, and quite a creditable list of premiums were awarded. the first grand army post was organized at hastings under a charter issued may , , and t. d. scofield was elected commander. the first newspaper published in the county was the _adams county gazette_, issued at juniata by r. d. and c. c. babcock in january, . this was soon followed by the _hastings journal_ published by m. k. lewis and a. l. wigton. these were in time consolidated and in january, , the first daily was issued by a. l. and j. w. wigton and called the _daily gazette-journal_. early experiences in adams county by general albert v. cole i was a young business man in michigan in , about which time many civil war veterans were moving from michigan and other states to kansas and nebraska, where they could secure free homesteads. i received circulars advertising juniata. they called it a village but at that time there were only four houses, all occupied by agents of the burlington railroad who had been employed to preëmpt a section of land for the purpose of locating a townsite. in october, , i started for juniata, passing through chicago at the time of the great fire. with a comrade i crossed the missouri river at plattsmouth on a flatboat. the burlington was running mixed trains as far west as school creek, now sutton. we rode to that point, then started to walk to juniata, arriving at harvard in the evening. harvard also had four houses placed for the same purpose as those in juniata. frank m. davis, who was elected commissioner of public lands and buildings in , lived in one house with his family; the other three were supposed to be occupied by bachelors. we arranged with mr. davis for a bed in an upper room of one of the vacant houses. we were tenderfeet from the east and therefore rather suspicious of the surroundings, there being no lock on the lower door. to avoid being surprised we piled everything we could find against the door. about midnight we were awakened by a terrible noise; our fortifications had fallen and we heard the tramp of feet below. some of the preëmptors had been out on section for wood and the lower room was where they kept the horse feed. the next morning we paid our lodging and resumed the journey west. twelve miles from harvard we found four more houses placed by the burlington. the village was called inland and was on the east line of adams county but has since been moved east into clay county. just before reaching inland we met a man coming from the west with a load of buffalo meat and at inland we found c. s. jaynes, one of the preëmptors, sitting outside his shanty cutting up some of the meat. it was twelve miles farther to juniata, the railroad grade being our guide. the section where hastings now stands was on the line but there was no town, not a tree or living thing in sight, just burnt prairie. i did not think when we passed over that black and desolate section that a city like hastings would be builded there. the buffalo and the antelope had gone in search of greener pastures; even the wolf and the coyote were unable to live there at that time. [illustration: oregon trail monument on nebraska-wyoming state line erected by the sons and daughters of the american revolution of nebraska and wyoming. dedicated april , . cost $ ] [illustration: monument on the oregon trail seven miles south of hastings. erected by niobrara chapter, daughters of the american revolution at a cost of $ ] six miles farther on we arrived at juniata and the first thing we did was to drink from the well in the center of the section between the four houses. this was the only well in the district and that first drink of water in adams county was indeed refreshing. the first man we met was judson buswell, a civil war veteran, who had a homestead a mile away and was watering his mule team at the well. although forty-four years have passed, i shall never forget those mules; one had a crooked leg, but they were the best mr. buswell could afford. now at the age of seventy-three he spends his winters in california and rides in his automobile, but still retains his original homestead. juniata had in addition to the four houses a small frame building used as a hotel kept by john jacobson. it was a frail structure, a story and a half, and when the nebraska wind blew it would shake on its foundation. there was one room upstairs with a bed in each corner. during the night there came up a northwest wind and every bed was on the floor the next morning. later another hotel was built called the juniata house. land seekers poured into adams county after the burlington was completed in july, , and there was quite a strife between the jacobson house and the juniata house. finally a runner for the latter hotel advertised it as the only hotel in town with a cook stove. adams county was organized december , . twenty-nine voters took part in the first election and juniata was made the county-seat. we started out the next morning after our arrival to find a quarter section of land. about a mile north we came to the dugout of mr. chandler. he lived in the back end of his house and kept his horses in the front part. mr. chandler went with us to locate our claims. we preëmpted land on section twenty-eight north of range ten west, in what is now highland township. i turned the first sod in that township and put down the first bored well, which was feet deep and cost $ . . our first shanty was x feet in size, boarded up and down and papered on the inside with tar paper. our bed was made of soft-pine lumber with slats but no springs. the table was a flat-top trunk. in the spring of my wife's brother, george crane, came from michigan and took acres near me. we began our spring work by breaking the virgin sod. we each bought a yoke of oxen and a fish brothers wagon, in crete, eighty miles away, and then with garden tools and provisions in the wagon we started home, being four days on the way. a few miles west of fairmont we met the gaylord brothers, who had been to grand island and bought a printing press. they were going to publish a paper in fairmont. they were stuck in a deep draw of mud, so deeply imbedded that our oxen could not pull their wagon out, so we hitched onto the press and pulled it out on dry land. it was not in very good condition when we left it but the boys printed a very clean paper on it for a number of years. in august mrs. cole came out and joined me. i had broken acres and planted corn, harvesting a fair crop which i fed to my oxen and cows. mrs. cole made butter, our first churn being a wash bowl in which she stirred the cream with a spoon, but the butter was sweet and we were happy, except that mrs. cole was very homesick. she was only nineteen years old and a thousand miles from her people, never before having been separated from her mother. i had never had a home, my parents having died when i was very small, and i had been pushed around from pillar to post. now i had a home of my own and was delighted with the wildness of nebraska, yet my heart went out to mrs. cole. the wind blew more fiercely than now and she made me promise that if our house ever blew down i would take her back to michigan. that time very nearly came on april , . the storm raged three days and nights and the snow flew so it could not be faced. i have experienced colder blizzards but never such a storm as this easter one. i had built an addition of two rooms on my shanty and it was fortunate we had that much room before the storm for it was the means of saving the lives of four friends who were caught without shelter. two of them, a man and wife, were building a house on their claim one-half mile east, the others were a young couple who had been taking a ride on that beautiful sunday afternoon. the storm came suddenly about four in the afternoon; not a breath of air was stirring and it became very dark. the storm burst, black dirt filled the air, and the house rocked. mrs. cole almost prayed that the house would go down so she could go back east. but it weathered the blast; if it had not i know we would all have perished. the young man's team had to have shelter and my board stable was only large enough for my oxen and cow so we took his horses to the sod house on the girl's claim a mile away. rain and hail were falling but the snow did not come until we got home or we would not have found our way. there were six grown people and one child to camp in our house three days and only one bed. the three women and the child occupied the bed, the men slept on the floor in another room. monday morning the snow was drifted around and over the house and had packed in the cellar through a hole where i intended to put in a window some day. to get the potatoes from the cellar for breakfast i had to tunnel through the snow from the trap door in the kitchen. it was impossible to get to the well so we lifted the trap door and melted fresh snow when water was needed. the shack that sheltered my live stock was feet from the house and it took three of us to get to the shack to feed. number two would keep within hearing of number one and the third man kept in touch with number two until he reached the stable. wednesday evening we went for the horses in the sod house and found one dead. they had gnawed the wall of the house so that it afterwards fell down. i could tell many other incidents of a homesteader's life, of trials and short rations, of the grasshoppers in - - , of hail storms and hot winds; yet all who remained through those days of hardship are driving automobiles instead of oxen and their land is worth, not $ . an acre, but $ . frontier towns by francis m. broome with the first rush of settlers into northwest nebraska, preceding the advent of railroads, numerous villages sprang up on the prairies like mushrooms during a night. all gave promise, at least on paper, of becoming great cities, and woe to the citizen unloyal to that sentiment or disloyal to his town. it is sufficient to recount experiences in but one of these villages for customs were similar in all of them, as evidence of the freedom common to early pioneer life. in a central portion of the plains, that gave promise of future settlement, a man named buchanan came out with a wagonload of boards and several boxes of whiskey and tobacco and in a short space of time had erected a building of not very imposing appearance. over the door of this building a board was nailed, on which was printed the word "saloon" and, thus prepared for business, this man claimed the distinction of starting the first town in that section. his first customers were a band of cowboys who proceeded to drink up all of the stock and then to see which one could shoot the largest number of holes through the building. this gave the town quite a boom and new settlers as far away as valentine began hearing of the new town of buchanan. soon after another venturesome settler brought in a general merchandise store and then the rush began, all fearing they might be too late to secure choice locations. the next public necessity was a newspaper, which soon came, and the town was given the name of nonpareil. it was regularly platted into streets and alleys, and a town well sunk in the public square. efforts to organize a civil government met with a frost, everyone preferring to be his own governor. a two-story hotel built of rough native pine boards furnished lodging and meals for the homeless, three saloons furnished drinks for the thirsty twenty-four hours in the day and seven days in the week; two drug stores supplied drugs in case of sickness and booze from necessity for payment of expenses. these with a blacksmith shop and several stores constituted the town for the first year and by reason of continuous boosting it grew to a pretentious size. the second year some of the good citizens, believing it had advanced far enough to warrant the establishment of a church, sent for a methodist minister. this good soul, believing his mission in life was to drive out sin from the community, set about to do it in the usual manner, but soon bowed to the inevitable and, recognizing prevailing customs, became popular in the town. boys, seeing him pass the door of saloons, would hail him and in a good-natured manner give him the contents of a jackpot in a poker game until, with these contributions and sums given him from more religious motives, he had accumulated enough to build a small church. [illustration: mrs. angie f. newman second vice-president general from nebraska, national society, daughters of the american revolution. elected ] after the organization of the county, the place was voted the county-seat, and a courthouse was built. the court room when not in use by the court was used for various public gatherings and frequently for dances. everybody had plenty of money and spent it with a prodigal hand. the "save-for-rainy-days" fellows had not yet arrived on the scene. they never do until after higher civilization steps in. old dan, the hotel keeper, was considered one of the best wealth distributors in the village. his wife, a little woman of wonderful energy, would do all the work in a most cheerful manner while dan kept office, collected the money and distributed it to the pleasure of the boys and profit to the saloons, and both husband and wife were happy in knowing that they were among the most popular people of the village. it did no harm and afforded the little lady great satisfaction to tell about her noble french ancestry for it raised the family to a much higher dignity than that of the surrounding plebeian stock of english, irish, and dutch, and nobody cared so long as everything was cheerful around the place. cheerfulness is a great asset in any line of business. the lawyer of the village, being a man of great expectations, attempted to lend dignity to the profession, until, finding that board bills are not paid by dignity and becoming disgusted with the lack of appreciation of legal talent, he proceeded to beat the poker games for an amount sufficient to enable him to leave for some place where legal talent was more highly appreciated. these good old days might have continued had the railroads kept out, but railroads follow settlement just as naturally as day follows night. they built into the country and with them came a different order of civilization. many experiences of a similar character might be told concerning other towns in this section, namely, gordon, where old hank ditto, who ran the roadhouse, never turned down a needy person for meals and lodging, but compelled the ones with money to pay for them. then there was rushville, the supply station for vast stores of goods for the indian agency and reservation near by; hay springs, the terminal point for settlers coming into the then unsettled south country. chadron was a town of unsurpassed natural beauty in the pine ridge country, where billy carter, the dick turpin of western romance, held forth in all his glory and at whose shrine the sporting fraternity performed daily ablutions in the bountiful supply of booze water. crawford was the nesting place for all crooks that were ever attracted to a country by an army post. these affairs incident to the pioneer life of northwestern nebraska are now but reminiscences, supplanted by a civilization inspired by all of the modern and higher ideals of life. historical sketch of box butte county by ira e. tash box butte county, nebraska, owes its existence to the discovery of gold in the black hills in . when this important event occurred, the nearest railroad point to the discovery in deadwood gulch was sidney, nebraska, miles to the south. to this place the gold seekers rushed from every point of the compass. parties were organized to make the overland trip to the new el dorado with ox teams, mule teams, and by every primitive mode of conveyance. freighters from colorado and the great southwest, whose occupation was threatened by the rapid building of railroads, miners from all the rocky mountain regions of the west, and thousands of tenderfeet from the east, all flocked to sidney as the initial starting point. to this heterogeneous mass was added the gambler, the bandit, the road agent, the dive keeper, and other undesirable citizens. this flood of humanity made the "old sidney trail" to the black hills. then followed the stage coach, wells-fargo express, and later the united states mail. the big freighting outfits conveyed mining machinery, provisions, and other commodities, among which were barrels and barrels of poor whiskey, to the toiling miners in the hills. indians infested the trail, murdered the freighters and miners, and ran off their stock, while road agents robbed stages and looted the express company's strong boxes. bandits murdered returning miners and robbed them of their nuggets and gold dust. there was no semblance of law and order. when things got too rank, a few of the worst offenders were lynched, and the great, seething, hurrying mass of humanity pressed on urged by its lust for gold. this noted trail traversed what is now box butte county from north to south, and there were three important stopping places within the boundaries of the county. these were the hart ranch at the crossing of snake creek, mayfield's, and later the hughes ranch at the crossing of the niobrara, and halfway hollow, on the high tableland between. the deep ruts worn by the heavily loaded wagons and other traffic passing over the route are still plainly visible, after the lapse of forty years. this trail was used for a period of about nine years, or until the northwestern railroad was extended to deadwood, when it gave way to modern civilization. traveling over this trail were men of affairs, alert men who had noted the rich grasses and wide ranges that bordered the route, and marked it down as the cattle raiser's and ranchman's future paradise. then came the great range herds of the ogallalla cattle company, swan brothers, bosler brothers, the bay state and other large cow outfits, followed by the hard-riding cowboy and the chuck wagon. these gave names to prominent landmarks. a unique elevation in the eastern part of the county they named box butte. butte means hill or elevation less than a mountain, box because it was roughly square or box-shaped. hence the surrounding plains were designated in cowman's parlance "the box butte country," and as such it was known far and wide. later, in and , a swarm of homeseekers swept in from the east, took up the land, and began to build houses of sod and to break up the virgin soil. the cowman saw that he was doomed, and so rounded up his herds of longhorns and drove on westward into wyoming and montana. these new settlers soon realized that they needed a unit of government to meet the requirements of a more refined civilization. they were drawn together by a common need, and rode over dim trails circulating petitions calling for an organic convention. they met and provided for the formation of a new county, to be known as "box butte" county. this name was officially adopted, and is directly traceable to the discovery of gold in the black hills. the lure of gold led the hardy miner and adventurer across its fertile plains, opened the way for the cattleman who named the landmark from which the county takes its name, and the sturdy settler who followed in his wake adopted the name and wrote it in the archives of the state and nation. [illustration: unveiling of monument at kearney, nebraska, in commemoration of the oregon trail left to right: mrs. ashton c. shallenberger, governor shallenberger, mrs. oreal s. ward, state regent nebraska society, daughters of the american revolution; mrs. andrew k. gault, vice-president general, national society, daughters of the american revolution; mrs. charles o. norton, regent ft. kearney chapter, daughters of the american revolution; john w. patterson, mayor of kearney; john lee webster, president nebraska state historical society; rev. r. p. hammons, e. b. finch, assisting with the flag rope] a broken axle by samuel c. bassett in , edward oliver, sr., his wife and seven children, converts to the mormon faith, left their home in england for salt lake city, utah. at florence, nebraska, on the missouri river a few miles above the city of omaha, they purchased a traveling outfit for emigrants, which consisted of two yoke of oxen, a prairie-schooner wagon, and two cows; and with numerous other families having the same destination took the overland mormon trail up the valley of the platte on the north side of the river. when near a point known as wood river centre, miles west of the missouri river, the front axle of their wagon gave way, compelling a halt for repairs, their immediate companions in the emigrant train continuing the journey, for nothing avoidable, not even the burial of a member of the train, was allowed to interfere with the prescribed schedule of travel. the oliver family camped beside the trail and the broken wagon was taken to the ranch of joseph e. johnson, who combined in his person and business that of postmaster, merchant, blacksmith, wagon-maker, editor, and publisher of a newspaper (_the huntsman's echo_). johnson was a mormon with two wives, a man passionately fond of flowers which he cultivated to a considerable extent in a fenced enclosure. while buffalo broke down his fence and destroyed his garden and flowers, he could not bring himself to kill them. he was a philosopher and, it must be conceded, a most useful person at a point so far distant from other sources of supplies. the wagon shop of mr. johnson contained no seasoned wood suitable for an axle and so from the trees along wood river was cut an ash from which was hewn and fitted an axle to the wagon and the family again took the trail, but ere ten miles had been traveled the green axle began to bend under the load, the wheels ceased to track, and the party could not proceed. in the family council which succeeded the father urged that they try to arrange with other emigrants to carry their movables (double teams) and thus continue their journey. the mother suggested that they return to the vicinity of wood river centre and arrange to spend the winter. to the suggestion of the mother all the children added their entreaties. the mother urged that it was a beautiful country, with an abundance of wood and water, grass for pasture, and hay in plenty could be made for their cattle, and she was sure crops could be raised. the wishes of the mother prevailed, the family returned to a point about a mile west of wood river centre, and on the banks of the river constructed a log hut with a sod roof in which they spent the winter. when springtime came, the father, zealous in the mormon faith, urged that they continue their journey; to this neither the mother nor any of the children could be induced to consent and in the end the father journeyed to utah, where he made his home and married a younger woman who had accompanied the family from england, which doubtless was the determining factor in the mother refusing to go. the mother, sarah oliver, proved to be a woman of force and character. with her children she engaged in the raising of corn and vegetables, the surplus being sold to emigrants passing over the trail and at fort kearny, some twenty miles distant. in those days there were many without means who traveled the trail and sarah oliver never turned a hungry emigrant from her door, and often divided with such the scanty store needed for her own family. when rumors came of indians on the warpath the children took turns on the housetop as lookout for the dread savages. in two settlers were killed by indians a few miles east of her home. in the year occurred the memorable raid of the cheyenne indians in which horrible atrocities were committed and scores of settlers were massacred by these indians only a few miles to the south. in william storer, a near neighbor, was killed by the indians. sarah oliver had no framed diploma from a medical college which would entitle her to the prefix "dr." to her name, possibly she was not entitled to be called a trained nurse, but she is entitled to be long remembered as one who ministered to the sick, to early travelers hungry and footsore along the trail, and to many families whose habitations were miles distant. sarah oliver and her family endured all the toil and privation common to early settlers, without means, in a new country, far removed from access to what are deemed the barest necessities of life in more settled communities. she endured all the terrors incident to settlement in a sparsely settled locality, in which year after year indian atrocities were committed and in which the coming of such savages was hourly expected and dreaded. she saw the building and completion of the union pacific railroad near her home in ; she saw nebraska become a state in the year . in when buffalo county was organized her youngest son, john, was appointed sheriff, and was elected to that office at the first election thereafter. her eldest son, james, was the first assessor in the county, and her son edward was a member of the first board of county commissioners and later was elected and served with credit and fidelity as county treasurer. when, in the year , sarah oliver died, her son robert inherited the claim whereon she first made a home for her family and which, in this year, , is one of the most beautiful, fertile farm homes in the county and state. a dream-land complete dreaming, i pictured a wonderful valley, a home-making valley few known could compare; when lo! from the bluffs to the north of wood river i saw my dream-picture--my valley lies there. miles long, east and west, stretch this wonderful valley: broad fields of alfalfa, of corn, and of wheat; 'mid orchards and groves the homes of its people; the vale of wood river, a dream-land complete. nebraska, our mother, we love and adore thee; within thy fair borders our lot has been cast. when done with life's labors and trials and pleasures, contented we'll rest in thy bosom at last. a pioneer nebraska teacher by mrs. isabel roscoe in , b. s. roscoe, twenty-two years of age, returned to his home in huron county, ohio, after two years' service in the civil war. he assisted his father on the farm until , when he was visited by f. b. barber, an army comrade, a homesteader in northwestern nebraska. his accounts of the new country were so attractive that mr. roscoe, who had long desired a farm of his own, decided to go west. he started in march, , was delayed in chicago by a snow blockade, but arrived in omaha in due time. on march , , mr. roscoe went to decatur via the stage route, stopping for dinner at the lippincott home, called the half-way house between omaha and decatur. he was advised to remain in decatur for a day or two for the return of b. w. everett from maple creek, iowa, but being told that logan creek, where he wished to settle, was only sixteen miles distant, he hired a horse and started alone. the snow was deep with a crust on top but not hard enough to bear the horse and rider. after going two miles through the deep snow he returned to decatur. on march he started with mr. everett, who had a load of oats and two dressed hogs on his sled, also two cows to drive. they took turns riding and driving the cows. the trail was hard to follow and when they reached the divide between bell creek and the blackbird, the wind was high and snow falling. they missed the road and the situation was serious. there was no house, tree, or landmark nearer than josiah everett's, who lived near the present site of lyons, and was the only settler north of what is now oakland, where john oak resided. they abandoned the sled and each rode a horse, mr. everett trying to lead the way, but the horse kept turning around, so at last he let the animal have its way and they soon arrived at josiah everett's homestead shanty, the cows following. the next day mr. roscoe located his homestead on the bank of logan creek. a couple of trappers had a dugout near by which they had made by digging a hole ten feet square in the side of the creek bank and covering the opening with brush and grass. their names were asa merritt and george kirk. mr. roscoe then returned to decatur and walked from there to omaha, where he filed on his claim april , . the ice on the missouri river was breaking though drays and busses were still crossing. mr. roscoe walked across the river to council bluffs and then proceeded by train to bartlett, iowa, intending to spend the summer near brownville, nebraska. in august he returned to his homestead and erected a claim shanty. the following winter was spent working in the woods at tietown. in the winter of fifty dollars was appropriated for school purposes in everett precinct and mr. roscoe taught school for two months in his shanty and boarded around among the patrons. experiences of a pioneer woman by mrs. elise g. everett on december , , in a bleak wind i crossed the missouri river on the ice, carrying a nine months' old baby, now mrs. jas. stiles, and my four and a half year old boy trudging along. my husband's brother, josiah everett, carried three-year-old eleanor in one arm and drove the team and my husband was a little in advance with his team and wagon containing all our possessions. we drove to the town of decatur, that place of many hopes and ambitions as yet unfulfilled. we were entertained by the herrick family, who said we would probably remain on logan creek, our proposed home site, because we would be too poor to move away. on january , , in threatening weather, we started on the last stage of our journey in quest of a home. nestled deep in the prairie hay and covered with blankets, the babies and i did not suffer. the desolate, wind-swept prairie looked uninviting but when we came to the logan valley, it was beautiful even in that weather. the trees along the winding stream, the grove, now known as fritt's grove, gave a home-like look and i decided i could be content in that valley. we lived with our brother until material for our shack could be brought from decatur or onawa, iowa. five grown people and seven children, ranging in ages from ten years down, lived in that small shack for three months. that our friendship was unimpaired is a lasting monument to our tact, politeness, and good nature. the new year snow was the forerunner of heavier ones, until the twenty-mile trip to decatur took a whole day, but finally materials for the shack were on hand. the last trip extended to onawa and a sled of provisions and two patient cows were brought over. in decatur, b. s. roscoe was waiting an opportunity to get to the logan and was invited to "jump on." it was late, the load was heavy, and somewhere near blackbird creek the team stuck in the drifts. the cows were given their liberty, the horses unhooked, and with some difficulty the half frozen men managed to mount and the horses did the rest--the cows keeping close to their heels; and so they arrived late in the night. coffee and a hot supper warmed the men sufficiently to catch a few winks of sleep--on bedding on the floor. a breakfast before light and they were off to rescue the load. the two frozen and dressed porkers had not yet attracted the wolves, and next day they crossed the logan to the new house. a few days more and the snowdrifts were a mighty river. b. w. was a sort of crusoe, but as everything but the horses and cows--and the trifling additional human stock--was strewn around him, he suffered nothing but anxiety. josiah drove to decatur, procured a boat, and with the aid of two or three trappers who chanced to be here, we were all rowed over the mile-wide sea, and were at home! slowly the water subsided, and nebraska had emerged from her territorial obscurity (march , ) before it was possible for teams to cross the bottom lands of the logan. one sunday morning i caught sight of two moving figures emerging from the grove. the dread of indian callers was ever with me, but as they came nearer my spirits mounted to the clouds--for i recognized my sister, mrs. andrew everett, as the rider, and her son frank leading the pony. their claim had been located in march, but owing to the frequent and heavy rains we were not looking for them so soon. the evening before we had made out several covered wagons coming over the hills from decatur, but we were not aware that they had already arrived at josiah's. the wagons we had seen were those of e. r. libby, chas. morton, southwell, and clements. a boat had brought my sister and her son across the logan--a pony being allowed to swim the stream but the teams were obliged to go eight miles south to oakland, where john oak and two or three others had already settled, and who had thrown a rough bridge across. before fall the andrew everett house (no shack) was habitable--also a number of other families had moved in on both sides of the logan, and it began to be a real neighborhood. one late afternoon i started out to make preparations for the night, as mr. everett was absent for a few days. as i opened the door two indians stood on the step, one an elderly man, the other a much-bedecked young buck. i admitted them; the elder seated himself and spoke a few friendly words, but the smart young man began immediately to inspect the few furnishings of the room. though quaking inwardly, i said nothing till he spied a revolver hanging in its leather case upon the wall and was reaching for it. i got there first, and taking it from the case i held it in my hands. at once his manner changed. he protested that he was a _good_ indian, and only wanted to _see_ the gun, while the other immediately rose from his chair. in a voice i never would have recognized as my own, i informed him that it was time for him to _go_. the elder man at last escorted him outside with me as rear guard. fancy my feelings when right at the door were ten or more husky fellows, who seemed to propose entering, but by this time the desperate courage of the arrant coward took possession of me, and i barred the way. it was plain that the gun in my hand was a surprise, and the earnest entreaties of my five-year-old boy "not to shoot them" may also have given them pause. they said they were cold and hungry; i assured them that i had neither room nor food for them--little enough for my own babies. at last they all went on to the house of our brother, andrew everett. i knew that they were foraging for a large party which was encamped in the grove. soon they came back laden with supplies which they had obtained, and now they insisted on coming in to _cook them_, and the smell of spirits was so unmistakable that i could readily see that andrew had judged it best to get rid of them as soon as possible, thinking that they would be back in camp by dark, and the whiskey, which they had obtained between here and fremont, would have evaporated. but it only made them more insistent in their demands and some were looking quite sullen. at last a young fellow, _not_ an indian--for he had long dark curls reaching to his shoulders--with a strategic smile asked in good english for a "drink of water." instead of leaving the door, as he evidently calculated, i called to my little boy to bring it. a giggle ran through the crowd at the expense of the strategist but it was plain they were growing ugly. now the older indian took the opportunity to make them an earnest talk, and though it was against their wishes, he at last started them toward the grove. after a while frank everett, my nephew, who had come down to bolster up my courage, and the children went to bed and to sleep, but no sleep for me; as the gray dawn was showing in the east, a terrific pounding upon the door turned my blood to ice. again and again it came, and at last i tiptoed to the door and stooped to look through the crack. a pair of very slim ankles was all that was visible and as i rose to my feet, the very sweetest music i had ever heard saluted me, the neigh of my pet colt bonnie, who had failed to receive her accustomed drink of milk the previous evening and took this manner of reminding me. this was the only time we were ever menaced with actual danger, and many laughable false alarms at last cured me of my fears of a people among whom i now have valued friends. recollections of weeping water, nebraska by i. n. hunter mr. and mrs. l. d. hunter were pioneer settlers of nebraska and weeping water, coming from illinois by team. their first settlement in the state was near west point in cuming county where father staked out a claim in . things went well aside from the usual hardships of pioneer life, such as being out of flour and having to pound corn in an iron kettle with an iron wedge to obtain corn meal for bread. when the bottom of the kettle gave way as a result of the many thumpings of the wedge, a new plan was devised--that of chopping a hole in a log and making a crude wooden kettle which better stood the blows of the wedge. this method of grinding corn was used until a trip could be made with an ox team, to the nearest mill, forty miles distant; a long and tedious trip always but much more so in this particular instance because of the high water in the streams which were not bridged in those days. these were small hardships compared to what took place when the home was robbed by indians. these treacherous savages stripped the premises of all the live stock, household and personal effects. cattle and chickens were killed and eaten and what could not be disposed of in this way were wantonly destroyed and driven off. clothing and household goods were destroyed so that little was saved except the clothing the members of the family had on. from the two feather beds that were ripped open, mother succeeded in gathering up enough feathers to make two pillows and these i now have in my home. they are more than a half century old. a friendly indian had come in advance of the hostile band and warned the little settlement of the approach of the indians with paint on their faces. his signs telling them to flee were speedily obeyed and in all probability this was all that saved many lives, as the six or seven families had to keep together and travel all night to keep out of the reach of the indians until the people at omaha could be notified and soldiers sent to the scene. on the arrival of the soldiers the indians immediately hoisted a white flag and insisted that they were "good indians." as no one had been killed by the indians, it was the desire of the soldiers to merely make the indians return the stolen property and stock, but as much property was destroyed, the settlers received very little. a number of the indians were arrested and tried for robbing the postoffice which was at our home. my parents were the principal witnesses and after the indians were acquitted, it was feared they might take revenge, so they were advised to leave the country. with an ox team and a few ragged articles of clothing they started east. when he reached rock bluffs, one of the early river towns of cass county, father succeeded in obtaining work. his wages were seventy-five cents a day with the privilege of living in a small log cabin. there was practically no furniture for the cabin, corn husks and the few quilts that had been given them were placed on the floor in the corner to serve as a place to sleep. father worked until after christmas time without having a coat. at about this time, he was told to take his team and make a trip into iowa. just as he was about to start, his employer said to him: "hunter, where's your coat?" the reply was, "i haven't any." "well, that won't do; you can't make that trip without a coat; come with me to the store." father came out of the store with a new under coat and overcoat, the first coat of any kind he had had since his home was invaded by the red men. an explanation of the purpose of the trip into iowa will be of interest. the man father worked for was a flour and meat freighter with a route to denver, colorado. in the winter he would go over into iowa, buy hogs and drive them across the river on the ice, to rock bluffs, where they were slaughtered and salted down in large freight wagons. in the spring, from eight to ten yoke of oxen would be hitched to the wagon, and the meat, and often times an accompanying cargo of flour, would be started across the plains to attractive markets in denver. father made a number of these trips to denver as ox driver. the writer was born at rock bluffs in . we moved to weeping water in when four or five dwellings and the little old mill that stood near the falls, comprised what is now our beautiful little city of over , population. during the early sixties, many bands of indians numbering from forty to seventy-five, visited weeping water. it was on one of their visits that the writer made the best record he has ever made, as a foot racer. the seven or eight year old boy of today would not think of running from an indian, but half a century ago it was different. it was no fun in those days to be out hunting cattle and run onto a band of indians all sitting around in a circle. in the morning the cattle were turned out to roam about at will except when they attempted to molest a field, and at night they were brought home if they could be found. if not the search was continued the next day. some one was out hunting cattle all the time it seemed. with such a system of letting cattle run at large, it was really the fields that were herded and not the cattle. several times a day some member of the family would go out around the fields to see if any cattle were molesting them. one of our neighbors owned two shepherd dogs which would stay with the cattle all day, and take them home at night. it was very interesting to watch the dogs drive the cattle. one would go ahead to keep the cattle from turning into a field where there might be an opening in the rail fence, while the other would bring up the rear. they worked like two men would. but the family that had trained dogs of this kind was the exception; in most cases it was the boys that had to do the herding. it was on such a mission one day that the writer watched from under cover of some bushes, the passing of about seventy-five indians all on horseback and traveling single file. they were strung out a distance of almost a mile. of course they were supposed to be friendly, but there were so many things that pointed to their tendency to be otherwise at times, that we were not at all anxious to meet an indian no matter how many times he would repeat the characteristic phrase, "me good injun." we were really afraid of them and moreover the story was fresh in our minds of the murder of the hungate family in colorado, mrs. hungate's parents being residents of our vicinity at that time. her sister, mrs. p. s. barnes, now resides in weeping water. thus it will be seen that many indian experiences and incidents have been woven into the early history of weeping water. in conclusion to this article it might be fitting to give the indian legend which explains how the town received its name of weeping water. the poem was written by my son, rev. a. v. hunter, of boston, and is founded on the most popular of the indian legends that have been handed down. the legend of weeping water long before the white man wandered to these rich nebraska lands, indians in their paint and feathers roamed in savage warlike bands. they, the red men, feared no hardships; battles were their chief delights; victory was their great ambition in their awful bloody fights. then one day the war cry sounded over valley, hill and plain. from the north came dusky warriors, from that vast unknown domain. when the news had reached the valley that the foe was near at hand, every brave was stirred to action to defend his home, his land. to the hills they quickly hastened there to wait the coming foe. each one ready for the conflict each with arrow in his bow. awful was the scene that followed, yells and warwhoops echoed shrill. but at last as night descended death had conquered; all was still. then the women in the wigwams hearing rumors of the fight, bearing flaming, flickering torches soon were wandering in the night. there they found the loved ones lying calm in everlasting sleep. little wonder that the women, brokenhearted, all should weep. hours and hours they kept on weeping, 'til their tears began to flow in many trickling streamlets to the valley down below. these together joined their forces to produce a larger stream which has ever since been flowing as you see it in this scene. indians christened it nehawka crying water means the same. in this way the legend tells us weeping water got its name. incidents at plattsmouth by ella pollock minor mr. and mrs. jacob vallery were living in glenwood, iowa, in , when they decided to purchase a store from some indians in plattsmouth. mr. vallery went over to transact the business, and mrs. vallery was to follow in a few days. upon her arrival in bethlehem, where she was to take the ferry, she learned that the crossing was unsafe on account of ice floating in the river. there were two young men there, who were very anxious to get across and decided to risk the trip. they took a letter to her husband telling of the trouble. the next day, accompanied by these two young men, mr. vallery came over after her in a rowboat, by taking a course farther north. the boat was well loaded when they started on the return trip. some of the men had long poles, and by constantly pushing at the ice they kept the boat from being crushed or overturned. mrs. vallery's oldest daughter was the third white child born in the vicinity of plattsmouth. and this incident happened soon after her arrival in . mrs. vallery had the baby in a cradle and was preparing dinner when she heard a knock at the door. before she could reach it, an indian had stepped in, and seeing some meat on the table asked for it. she nodded for him to take it, but he seemed to have misunderstood, and then asked for a drink of water. while mrs. vallery was getting the drink, he reached for the baby, but she was too quick for him and succeeded in reaching the baby first. he then departed without further trouble. at one time the vallerys had a sick cow, and every evening several indians would come to find out how she was. she seemed to get no better and still they watched that cow. in the course of a week she died, evidently during the night, because the next morning the first thing they heard was the indians skinning the cow, out by the shed, and planning a "big feed" for that night down by the river. the late mrs. thomas pollock used to tell us how the indians came begging for things. winnebago john, who came each year, couldn't be satisfied very easily, so my grandmother found an army coat of her brother's for him. he was perfectly delighted and disappeared with it behind the wood pile, where he remained for some time. the family wondered what he was doing, so after he had slipped away, they went out and hunted around for traces of what had kept him. they soon found the clue; he had stuffed the coat in under the wood, and when they pulled it out, they found it was minus all the brass buttons. another time one of mrs. pollock's children, the late mrs. lillian parmele, decided to play indian and frighten her two brothers, who were going up on the hill to do some gardening. she wrapped up in cloaks, blankets and everything she could find to make herself look big and fierce, then went up and hid in the hazel brush, where she knew they would have to pass. pretty soon she peeked out and there was a band of indians coming. terrified, she ran down toward her home, dropping pieces of clothing and blankets as she went. the indians seeing them, ran after her, each one anxious to pick up what she was dropping. the child thinking it was she they were after, let all her belongings go, so she could run the better and escape them. after that escapade quite a number of things were missing about the house, some of them being seen later at an indian camp near by. first things in clay county by mrs. charles m. brown the first settler of clay county, nebraska, was john b. weston, who located on the little blue, built a log hut in and called the place pawnee ranch. it became a favorite stopping place of st. joe and denver mail carriers. the first settler of sutton was luther french who came in march, , and homesteaded eighty acres. mr. french surveyed and laid out the original townsite which was named after sutton, massachusetts. his dugout and log house was built on the east bank of school creek, east of the park, and just south of the kansas city and omaha railroad bridge. traces of the excavation are still visible. the house was lined with brick and had a tunnel outlet near the creek bottom for use in case of an indian attack. among his early callers were miss nellie henderson and capt. charles white who rode in from the west blue in pursuit of an antelope, which they captured. mrs. wils cumming was the first white woman in sutton. she resided in the house now known as the mrs. may evans (deceased) place. part of this residence is the original cumming home. at this time the population of sutton consisted of thirty-four men and one woman. in the spring of , f. m. brown, who was born in illinois in , came to nebraska and settled on a homestead in clay county, four miles north of the present site of sutton. at that time clay county was unorganized territory, and the b. & m. railroad was being extended from lincoln west. september , , governor james issued a proclamation for the election of officers and the organization of clay county fixing the date, october , . the election was held at the home of alexander campbell, two miles east of harvard, and fifty-four votes were cast. sutton was chosen as the county-seat. f. m. brown was elected county clerk; a. k. marsh, p.o. norman, and a. a. corey were elected county commissioners. when it came to organizing and qualifying the officers, only one freeholder could be found capable of signing official bonds and as the law required two sureties, r. g. brown bought a lot of luther french and was able to sign with luther french as surety on all official bonds. as the county had no money and no assessments had been made all county business was done on credit. there was no courthouse and county business was conducted in the office of r. g. brown, until february, , when a frame building to be used as a courthouse was completed at a cost of $ , . this was the first plastered building in the county and was built by f. m. brown. in may, , a petition for an election to relocate the county seat was filed, but the motion of commissioner a. k. marsh that the petition be "tabled, rejected and stricken from the files" ended the discussion temporarily. in the county-seat was removed to clay center. several buildings were erected during the fall of and sutton became the center of trade in the territory between the little blue and the platte rivers. melvin brothers opened the first store in south of the railroad tracks, now south sanders avenue. at that time it was called "scrabble hill." in the town was incorporated and a village government organized, with f. m. brown as mayor. luther french was the first postmaster. thurlow weed opened the first lumber yard. william shirley built and run the first hotel. l. r. grimes and j. b. dinsmore opened the first bank. pyle and eaton built and operated the first elevator. isaac n. clark opened the first hardware store. dr. martin v. b. clark, a graduate of an ohio medical college, was the first physician in the county and opened the first drug store in sutton. in , during the first term of district court, he was appointed one of the commissioners of insanity. in he was elected coroner. the odd fellows hall was the first brick building erected. the congregational church, built in , was the first church building in the county. william l. weed taught the first school, beginning january , , with an enrollment of fourteen scholars. in the evangelical association of north america sent rev. w. schwerin to sutton as a missionary. in the early seventies the burlington railroad company built and maintained an immigrant house on the corner south of the present cottage hotel. this was a long frame building of one room with a cook stove in either end. many of the immigrants were dependent upon a few friends who were located on the new land in the vicinity. their food consisted largely of soup made with flour and water; any vegetables they were able to get were used. meat was scarce with the immigrants. they had considerable milk, mostly sour, brought in by their friends. the immigrants remained here until they found work; most of them moved on to farms. the house burned about . in the early days sutton was a lively business place with all the features of a frontier town. now it is a city enjoying the comforts of modern improvements and refined society. reminiscences of custer county by mrs. j. j. douglas in july, , i arrived at broken bow, which is situated geographically about the center of the state. that village looked strange to me with not a tree in sight excepting a few little cuttings of cottonwood and box elder here and there upon a lawn. after having lived all my life in a country where every home was surrounded by groves and ornamental shade trees, it seemed that i was in a desert. i had just completed a course of study in a normal school prior to coming to nebraska, and was worn out in mind and body, so naturally my first consideration was the climatic condition of the country and its corresponding effect upon the vegetation. i wondered how the people stood the heat of the day but soon discovered that a light gentle breeze was blowing nearly all the time, so that the heat did not seem intense as it did at my iowa home. after i had been in broken bow about two weeks i was offered a position in the mortgage loan office of trefren and hewitt. the latter was the first county clerk of custer county. i held this position a few weeks, then resigned to take charge of the berwyn school at the request of mr. charles randall, the county superintendent. berwyn was a village situated about ten miles east of broken bow. it consisted of one general merchandise store, a postoffice, depot, and a blacksmith shop. i shall never forget my first impression on arriving at berwyn very early on that september morning. it was not daylight when the train stopped at the little depot, and what a feeling of loneliness crept over me as i watched that train speed on its way behind the eastern hills! i found my way to the home of j. o. taylor (who was then living in the back end of his store building) and informed him that i was the teacher who had come to teach the school and asked him to direct me to my boarding place. being a member of the school board, mr. taylor gave me the necessary information and then sent his hired man with a team and buggy to take me a mile farther east to the home of ben talbot, where i was to stay. the talbot home was a little sod house consisting of two small rooms. on entering i found mrs. talbot preparing breakfast for the family. i was given a cordial welcome, and after breakfast started in company with mrs. talbot's little girl for the schoolhouse. the sense of loneliness which had taken possession of me on my way to this place began to be dispelled. i found mrs. talbot to be a woman of kind heart and generous impulses. she had two little girls, the older one being of school age. i could see the schoolhouse up on the side of a hill. it was made of sod and was about twelve by fifteen feet. the roof was of brush and weeds, with some sod; but i could see the blue sky by gazing up through the roof at almost any part of it. i looked out upon the hills and down the valley and wondered where the pupils were to come from, as i saw no houses and no evidence of habitation anywhere excepting mr. talbot's home. but by nine o'clock about twelve children had arrived from some place, i knew not where. i found in that little, obscure schoolhouse some of the brightest and best boys and girls it was ever my good fortune to meet. there soon sprang up between us a bond of sympathy. i sympathized with them in their almost total isolation from the world, and they in turn sympathized with me in my loneliness and homesickness. on opening my school that first morning, great was my surprise to learn how well those children could sing. i had never been in a school where there were so many sweet voices. my attention was particularly directed to the voices of two little girls as they seemed remarkable for children of their years. i often recall one bright sunny evening after i had dismissed school and stood watching the pupils starting out in various directions for their homes, my attention was called to a path that led down the valley through the tall grass. i heard singing and at once recognized the voices of these two little girls. the song was a favorite of mine and i could hear those sweet tones long after the children were out of sight in the tall grass. i shall never forget how charmingly sweet that music seemed to me. i soon loved every pupil in that school and felt a keen regret when the time came for me to leave them. i have the tenderest memory of my association with that district, though the school equipment was meager and primitive. after finishing my work there i returned to broken bow where i soon accepted a position in the office of j. j. douglass, clerk of the district court. mr. douglass was one of the organizers of custer county and was chosen the first clerk of the court, which position he held for four years. i began my work in this office on november , , and held the position till the close of his term. during this time many noted criminal cases were tried in court, judge francis g. hamer of kearney being the judge. one case in which i was especially interested was the demerritt case, in which i listened to the testimony of several of my pupils from the berwyn district. another far-famed case was the haunstine case, in which albert haunstine received a death sentence. to hear a judge pronounce a death sentence is certainly the most solemn thing one can imagine. perhaps the most trying ordeal i ever experienced was the day of the execution of haunstine. it so happened that the scaffold was erected just beneath one of the windows of our office on the south side of the courthouse. as the nails were being driven into that structure how i shuddered as i thought that a human being was to be suspended from that great beam. early in the morning on the day of the execution people from miles away began to arrive to witness the cruelest event that ever marred the fair name of our beloved state. early in the day, in company with several others, i visited the cell of the condemned man. he was busy distributing little souvenirs he had made from wood to friends and members of his family. he was pale but calm and self-composed. my heart ached and my soul was stirred to its very depth in sympathy for a fellow being and yet i was utterly helpless so far as extending any aid or consolation. the thought recurred to me so often, why is it men are so cruel to each other--wolfish in nature, seeking to destroy their own kind? and now the thought still comes to me, will the day ever dawn when there will be no law in nebraska permitting men to cruelly take the life of each other to avenge a wrong? i trust that the fair name of nebraska may never be blotted again by another so-called _legal_ execution. it was during the time i was in that office the first commencement of the broken bow high school was held, the class consisting of two graduates, a boy and a girl. the boy is now dr. willis talbot, a physician of broken bow, and the girl, who was stella brown, is now the wife of w. w. waters, mayor of broken bow. we moved our office into the new courthouse in january, . soon after we saw the completion of the mammoth building extending the entire length of the block on the south side of the public square called the realty block. the ansley cornet band was the first band to serenade us in the new courthouse. mr. douglass completed his term of office as clerk of the district court on january , , and two weeks later we were married and went for a visit to my old home in iowa. soon after returning to broken bow we moved to callaway. i shall never forget my first view of the little city of which i had heard so much, the "queen city of the seven valleys." after moving to callaway i again taught school and had begun on my second year's work when i resigned to accept a position in the office of the state land commissioner, h. c. russell, at lincoln, where i remained for two years. during the time i was in that office mr. douglass was appointed postmaster at callaway, so i resigned my work in lincoln and returned home to work in the postoffice. we were in this office for seven years, after which i accepted a position in the seven valleys bank. after a year i again took up school work and have been engaged in that ever since. we have continued to reside at callaway all these years and have learned to love the rugged hills and glorious sunshine. the winds continue to blow and the sands beat upon our pathway, but we would not exchange our little cottage in the grove for a palace in the far east. an experience by mrs. harmon bross an experience through which i passed in northwestern nebraska in the early days comes to my mind very frequently. when the railroad first went through that region to chadron, mr. bross was general missionary for the northwest, including central wyoming and the black hills country. when we first visited chadron it was a town of white tents, and we occupied a tent for several days. then the tent was needed for other purposes and mr. bross suggested that we find lodging in a building in process of erection for a hotel. the frame was up and enclosed, the floors laid, but no stairs and no division into rooms. the proprietor said we could have a bed in the upper room, where there were fifty beds side by side. he would put a curtain around the bed. as that was the only thing to do, we accepted the situation and later i climbed a ladder to the upper floor. the bed in one corner was enclosed with a calico curtain just the size of the bed. i climbed on, and prepared the baby boy and myself for sleep. as i was the only woman in the room, and every bed was occupied before morning by two men, the situation was somewhat unique. however, i was soon asleep. about three o'clock i was awakened by the stealthy footsteps of two men on the ladder. they came to the bed at the foot of the one we occupied, and after settling themselves to their satisfaction began discussing the incidents of the night. as they were gamblers, the conversation was a trifle strange to a woman. soon in the darkness below and close to the side of the building where we were, rang out several pistol shots with startling distinctness. one man remarked, in a calm, impersonal tone, "i prefer to be on the ground floor when the shots fly around like that." the remark was not especially reassuring for a mother with a sleeping baby by her side. as no one in the room seemed to be disturbed, and as the tumult below soon died away, i again slept, and awakened in the morning none the worse for the experience of the night. [illustration: mrs. andrew k. gault third vice-president general from nebraska, national society, daughters of the american revolution. elected ] legend of crow butte by dr. anna robinson cross the early history of crawford and its environment is replete with tales of indian scares; the pioneer settlers banding themselves together and arming for protection against possible indian raids, all presenting lurid material for the most exciting stories, if one could gather the accurate data. the legend of crow butte is one of the most thrilling, and at the same time the most important, of the many tales told by the old settlers around the winter fireside. in the early history of the sioux and crow indians, much strife and ill-feeling was engendered between the two tribes by the stealing of horses. as no satisfactory settlement could be arranged between them, it was declared, after a solemn pow-wow, that a decisive battle should be fought, and the field for the said conflict was chosen on the land east of the present site of crawford. the final stand was taken on one of the peculiar clay formations known as buttes, found in northwestern nebraska. these eminences, dividing this section of the country into valleys and ridges of hills, add very much to the beauty of the landscape, by their seeming likeness to a succession of battlements and old castles. this particular butte, standing like a sentinel about five miles east of crawford, rises to a height of nearly three hundred feet on the east side, and is possible of ascent by gradual elevation on the west side. it appears to stand distinct and alone, forming a landmark on the horizon that has guided many a settler and traveler to home and safety. the writer is one of the number of travelers who, from bitter experiences in long winter drives over the prairie, has learned to appreciate the landmark of the old crow butte. the sioux, having driven the crows to the top of this butte, thought, by guarding the path, they could quickly conquer by starving them out. under cover of night the crows decided, after due deliberation, that the warriors could escape, if the old men of the tribe would remain and keep up a constant singing. this was done. the young and able-bodied men, making ropes of their blankets, were let down the steep side of the butte, while the poor old men kept up a constant wailing for days, until death, from lack of food and exhaustion, had stilled their voices. as the singing gradually ceased, the sioux, while watching, saw white clouds passing over the butte, having the appearance of large, white birds with outstretched wings, on which they carried the old men to the "happy hunting grounds." the sioux, awed by the illusion, believed it an omen of peace and declared that forever after there should be no more wars between the crows and the sioux. through capt. james h. cook, an early settler and pioneer of this section, who has served as scout and interpreter for the indians for years, i have learned that it was near this crow butte that the last great treaty was made with the indians, in which the whole of the black hills country was disposed of to the white people. according to his statement, the affair came very nearly ending in a battle in which many lives might have been lost. the bravery and quick action of a few men turned the tide in favor of the white people. the following original poem by pearl shepherd moses is quite appropriate in this connection: to crow heart butte oh, lofty crow heart butte, uprising toward the sun, what is your message to the world below? or do you wait in silence, race outrun, the march of ages in their onward flow? ye are so vast, so great, and yet so still, that but a speck i seem in nature's plan; or but a drop without a way or will in this mad rush miscalled the race of man. in nature's poems you a period stand among her lessons we can never read; but with high impulse and good motive found, you help us toward the brave and kindly deed. the winds and sunshine, dawns and throbbing star, yield you their message from the ether clear, while moonlight crowns your brow so calm and fair with homage kingly as their greatest peer. a longing fills me as i nightly gaze; would i could break your spell of silence vast; but centuries and years and months and days must add themselves again unto the past. and i can only wish that i were as true, always found faithful and as firmly stand for right as you since you were young and new, a wondrous product from a mighty hand. life on the frontier by james ayres _prairie covered with indians_ in july, , a freight train left the old plum creek station late one night for the west. as the company was alarmed for the safety of the trains, pat delahunty, the section boss, sent out three men on a hand-car over his section in advance of this train. they had gone about three miles to the bend west of the station when they were attacked by indians. this was at a point nearly north of the john jacobson claim. there are still on the south side of the track some brickbats near the culvert. this is the place where the indians built a fire on the south side of the track and took a position on the north side. when the hand-car came along, they fired upon it. they killed one man and wounded another, a cockney from london, england, and thinking him dead took his scalp. he flinched. they stuck a knife in his neck but even that did not kill him. he recovered consciousness and crawled into the high weeds. the freight came and fell into the trap. while the indians were breaking into the cars of the wrecked freight, the englishman made his escape, creeping a mile to the north. as soon as morning came, patrick delahunty with his men took a hand-car and went to investigate. before they had gone half a mile they could see the indians all around the wreck. each one had a pony. they had found a lot of calico in one car and each indian had taken a bolt and had broken one end loose and was unfolding it as he rode over the prairie. yelling, they rode back and forth in front of one another with calico flying, like a maypole dance gone mad. when they saw the section men with guns, they broke for the platte river and crossed it due south of where martin peterson's house now stands. the section men kept shooting at them but got no game. they found that a squaw-man had probably had a hand in the wrecking of the train for the rails had been pried up just beyond the fire. the smoke blinded the engineer and he ran into the rails which were standing as high as the front of the boiler. the engineer and the fireman were killed. the engine ran off the track, but the cars remained on the rails. the indians opened every car and set fire to two or three of the front ones. one car was loaded with brick. the writer got a load of these brick in and built a blacksmith forge. among the bricks were found pocket knives, cutlery, and a colt's revolver. the man who had been scalped came across the prairie toward the section men. they thought he was an indian. his shirt was gone and his skin was covered with dried blood. they were about to shoot when delahunty said, "stop, boys," for the man had his hands above his head. they let him come nearer and when he was a hundred yards away delahunty said, "by gobs, it's cockney!" they took him to the section house and cared for him. he told them these details. after this event he worked for the union pacific railroad at omaha. then he went back to england. the railroad had just been built and there was only one train a day. _wild turkeys and wild cats_ tom mahum was the boss herder for ewing of texas and had brought his herd up that summer and had his cattle on dilworth's islands until he could ship them to chicago. he bantered me for a turkey hunt, and we went on horseback up plum creek. he was a good shot and we knew we would get game of some kind. we followed the creek five miles, when we scared up a flock of turkeys. they were of the bronze kind, large and heavy. we got three, and as we did not find any more, we took the tableland for the platte. as we came down a pocket we ran into a nest of wildcats. there were four of them. one cat jumped at a turkey that was tied to tom's saddle. that scared his horse so that it nearly unseated him, but he took his pistol and killed the cat. i was afraid they would jump at me. they growled and spit, and i edged away until i could shoot from my pony, and when twenty-five yards away i slipped in two cartridges and shot two of the cats. the fourth one got away and we were glad to let it go. we took the three cats to town, skinned them, and sold the pelts to peddler charley for one dollar. tom talked about that hunt when i met him in oregon a few years ago. _a scare_ on another occasion, perley wilson and i took a hunt on the big island south of the river where there were some buffalo. the snow was about eight inches deep and we crossed the main stream on the ice. before we got over, i saw a moccasin track and showed it to wilson. he said we had better get out. "no," said i, "let us trail it and find where it goes." it took us into a very brushy island. wilson would go no further, but i took my shotgun, cocked both barrels, and went on but with caution for fear the indian would see me first. i got just half way in, and i heard a "ugh!" right behind me. the hair on my head went straight up. i was scared, but i managed to gasp, "sioux?" "no, pawnee. heap good indian." then he laughed and i breathed again. i asked, "what are you doing here?" "cooking beaver," he replied, and led the way to his fire. he had a beaver skinned hanging on a plum tree and he had a tin can over the fire, boiling the tail. i returned to wilson and told him about it. he said, "it is no use to try to sneak up on an indian in the brush, for he always sees you first." i could have shot the indian, as he only had a revolver, but that would have been cowardly as he had the first drop on me and could have had my scalp. we got home with no game that day. plum creek (lexington), nebraska by wm. m. bancroft, m.d. on april , , i arrived at plum creek, now lexington, with what was called the second colony from philadelphia, pennsylvania. captain f. j. pearson, who was in charge, later became editor of the _pioneer_. judge robert b. pierce and the tucker family were also with this colony. on our arrival the only town we found was a mile east of the present site of lexington. it consisted of a section house, a small shanty called the johnson restaurant, one story and a half log house run by daniel freeman as a general store, and a stockade built of ties used as a place of safety for the horses and cows. the upper story of the freeman building was occupied by the johnson family, who partitioned it off with blankets to accommodate the immigrants, and the only lights we could depend on were candle dips from the freeman store at twenty-five cents each. at this time bread sold at twenty-five cents per loaf. there was also an immigrant house by feet located on the north side of the railroad nearly opposite the other buildings referred to. this house was divided into rooms by feet square with a hall between. the front room was used as dawson county's first office by john h. maccoll, then county clerk. there was also a coal shed and a water tank on the south side of the track. the depot was a mile west on a railroad section where the town was finally built. the reason for the change of townsite was a fight by freeman against the union pacific company. freeman owned the quarter section of government land, on which the buildings referred to were located. the first house in plum creek was built by robert pierce, whose family got permission to live in a freight car on the side-track while the house was being built. while in the freight car the family was attacked by measles. in order to gain entrance to this temporary residence a step-ladder had to be used, and in visiting the family while in the car, i would find them first at one end of the switch and next at the other, and would have to transfer the ladder each time. later on robert pierce was elected probate judge and served until by reason of his age he retired. tudor tucker built the first frame house on buffalo creek five miles northeast of town. the first store building in plum creek was built by mr. betz. the first hotel was built by e. d. johnson, who deserves much credit for his work in building up dawson county. in the population numbered about . the old townsite was soon abandoned and the town of plum creek on its present site became a reality. the completion of the platte river bridge was celebrated july , , by a big demonstration. it then became necessary to get the trade from the republican valley, plum creek being the nearest trading point for that locality. since there were no roads from the south, a route had to be laid out. with this object in view, judge pierce, e. d. johnson, elleck johnson, and i constituted ourselves a committee to do the work. we started across the country and laid up sod piles every mile, until we reached the arapahoe, miles southwest. coming back we shortened up the curves. this was the first road from the south into plum creek, and we derived a great amount of trade from this territory. it was no uncommon thing for the erwin & powers company, conducting a general store at this time, to take in from one thousand to twelve hundred dollars on saturdays. the first church and sunday school was organized sunday, april , , three and one-half miles north of town at the farm of widow mullen. those present, including myself, were: mrs. mullen and family, captain john s. stuckey, afterwards treasurer of dawson county, joseph stuckey, samuel clay stuckey and wife, edgar mellenger, and one negro servant. joseph stuckey was appointed leader, james tipton, superintendent of the sunday school, and i took charge of the music. the first regular sermon was preached by a mr. wilson who came to overton to live on a homestead. he consented to preach for us until we could fill his place by an appointment at general conference. we held the first regular service both of the church and the sunday school in the old frame schoolhouse located in the east ward. we also held revivals in the hill hall where smith's opera house now stands. on this sunday afternoon about five o'clock the great april storm started with blizzard from the northwest. it was impossible for any of us to get away until tuesday afternoon. on monday night captain stuckey, doc mellenger, and i had to take the one bed. during the night the bed broke down and we lay until morning huddled together to keep from freezing. mellenger and i left tuesday afternoon, when the storm abated, and started back toward the old town. the storm again caught us and drifted us to doc's old doby two and one-half miles north of the townsite. by this time the snow had drifted from four to five feet in depth. the horses took us to the dugout stable in which we put them. then we had to dig our way to the doby where we remained from tuesday evening until thursday morning. we had nothing to eat during that time but a few hard biscuits, a little bacon, and three frozen chickens, and nothing but melted snow to drink. the bedstead was a home-made affair built of pine boards. this we cut up and used for fuel and slept on the dirt floor. the storm was so terrific that it was impossible to get to the well, fifteen feet from the doby. we became so thirsty from the snow water that doc thought he would try to get to the well. he took a rope and pistol, tied the rope around his waist and started for the well. his instructions were that if i heard the pistol i was to pull him in. after a very short time the pistol report came and i pulled and pulled and doc came tumbling in without pistol or bucket. it was so cold he had nearly frozen his hands. thursday was clear and beautiful. one of the persons from mullen's, having gone to town, reported that we had left there tuesday afternoon. on account of this report a searching party was sent out to look for us. another item of interest was the pawnee and sioux massacre on august , . it was the custom of the pawnees, who were friendly and were located on a reservation near columbus, nebraska, to go on a fall hunt for buffalo meat for their winter use. the sioux, who were on the pine bluff reservation, had an old grudge against the pawnees and knew when this hunt took place. the pawnees made plum creek their starting point across the country southwest to the head of the frenchman river. they camped about ten miles northwest of culbertson, a town on the b. & m. railroad. the camp was in the head of a pocket which led from a tableland to the republican river. the sioux drove a herd of buffalo on the pawnees while the latter were in camp. not suspecting danger the pawnees began to kill the buffalo, when the sioux came up, taking them by surprise. the pawnees, being outnumbered, fled down the cañon. the sioux followed on either bank and cross-fired them, killing and wounding about a hundred. i was sent by the government with mr. longshore, the indian agent of columbus, and two guides to the scene of the massacre, which was about one hundred and forty miles southwest of plum creek, for the purpose of looking after the wounded who might have been left behind. we made this trip on horseback. the agent had the dead buried and we followed up the wounded. we found twenty-two at arapahoe and ten or fifteen had left and started on the old fort kearny trail. we brought the twenty-two wounded to plum creek, attended to their wounds and then shipped them in a box car to the reservation at columbus. my first trip to wood river valley twenty miles north, was to attend james b. mallott, one of the first settlers. they were afraid to let me go without a guard but i had no fear of the indians, so they gave me a belt of cartridges and a colt's revolver. finally maccoll, the county clerk, handed me a needle gun and commanded me to get back before dark. i started on horseback with this arsenal for wood river and made the visit, but on my return i stopped to let the horse rest and eat bluestem. soon the horse became frightened and began to paw and snort. on looking back toward the divide, i saw three indians on horseback were heading my way. we were not long in getting started. i beat them by a mile to the valley, arriving safely at tucker's farm on buffalo creek. the indians did not follow but rode along the foothills to the west. a party of four or five from tucker's was not long in giving chase, but the indians had disappeared in the hills. a little later, anton abel, who lived a mile north of town, came in on the run and stated that a file of eight or ten indians, with scalp sticks waving, were headed south a half mile west of town. a number mounted their horses and gave chase to the river where the indians crossed and were lost sight of. we never suffered much loss or injury from the indians. many scares were reported, but like the buffalo after - , they were a thing of the past in our county. my practice for the first ten or twelve years among the sick and injured, covered a field almost unlimited. i was called as far north as broken bow in the loup valley, fifty miles, east to elm creek, buffalo county, twenty miles, west to brady island, lincoln county, thirty-five miles, and south to the republican river. most of the time there were no roads or bridges. the valley of the platte in dawson county is now the garden spot of the state. as stated before the settlement of was on the extreme edge of the frontier. now we have no frontier. it is progressive civilization from coast to coast. i have practiced my profession for over forty years continuously in this state, and am still in active practice. i have an abiding faith that i shall yet finish up with an airship in which to visit my patients. early recollections by c. chabot after repeated invitations from my old boyhood companion, dr. bancroft, to visit him in his new home in western nebraska, i left philadelphia and arrived in omaha the early part of april, . omaha at that time did not impress me very favorably. after buying my ticket to plum creek (in those days you could only buy a ticket to omaha) the next thing in order was to get in line and have my trunk checked, and witness baggage "smashers" demolish a few trunks, then coolly offer to rope them at twenty-five cents each. our train left at a. m. and arrived in plum creek at p. m., good time for those days. the train left with all seats occupied and some passengers standing. everybody was eager to see the great prairie country. we expected to see indians and buffalo, but only a few jack rabbits appeared, which created quite a laugh, as it was the first time any of us had ever seen one run. after we had traveled about twenty miles, "u. p. sam," as he called himself, came into our car and treated us to a song of his own composition. in his song he related all the wonders of the great union pacific railroad and the country between omaha and ogden. i saw him two years later in dawson county, playing the violin at a country dance, and singing songs about different persons at the gathering. all you had to do was to give him a few points as to a man's disposition and habits with a few dimes and he would have the whole company laughing. we stopped at grand island for supper, and in due time arrived in plum creek. dr. bancroft was waiting for me and after being introduced to many of his western friends, we retired for the night. next morning feeling the necessity of visiting a barber shop, i asked the doctor if there was a barber shop in town. judging from the accommodations at the hotel i had my doubts. "we have a good barber in town," he replied, "but i will go with you." on arriving at the corner of what is now main and depot streets we entered a building which i discovered to be a saloon. i protested, but before i had had time to say much, the doctor asked the barkeeper where ed. (the barber) was. "why, he has gone south of the river to plaster a house," was the reply. then i thought "what kind of a country have i come to, barber and plasterer the same person." then my mind wandered back to the far east where i saw a comfortable bath room, and i thought "what can the doctor see in this country to deny himself all the comforts of home?" before i had time to recover from my reveries, i was surrounded by cowboys who insisted that i drink with them. i protested and if it had not been for dr. bancroft i suppose they would have made me dance to the music of their six shooters or drink, but as i was a friend of "little doc" (as they called him) that was sufficient and the tenderfoot was allowed to leave. then and only then i saw in the northwest corner of the room the barber's chair. i accompanied dr. bancroft on many drives over the country going as far north as the loup and dismal rivers. we went several times south to arapahoe; in fact it was but a short time before i was acquainted with most all the settlers in dawson and adjacent counties. the population at that time was hardly , in dawson county. in a very short time i began to feel more at home. the hospitality of the people was something i had never dreamed of; the climate and good fresh air so invigorating that i soon adjusted myself to surrounding conditions, and before i had been here a month i decided to cast my lot with the rest of the new settlers and became one of them. while i have had many ups and downs i cannot say that i regret having done so. when i look back and think of the many friends i made in the early days and how we stood hand in hand in our adversities as well as in our good fortunes, i cannot help feeling that we are more than friends and belong to one big family. recollections of the first settler of dawson county by mrs. daniel freeman i came from canada to leavenworth, kansas. mr. freeman was a freighter to pike's peak, but was not always successful. he spent $ , on one train and came back with only a team of oxen and a team of ponies. the next spring, , i bought a stage-coach and using the pony team, i took my three children, the youngest only two months old, and drove all the way to nebraska. my husband was there and had started a little store just across from the pony express station on plum creek. he bought buffalo hides of the indians and shipped them east. the buffalo were in easy reach and we had fresh meat every day. we had a big sign with the word "bakery" on it. i baked a hundred pounds of flour every day. i would make yeast bread over night and bake it in the forenoon, and make salt-rising in the morning and bake it in the afternoon. we got st. louis flour that the freighters brought from denver when they came back. i sold my bread for fifty cents a loaf and made as much as thirty dollars a day. i made cheese, too. we had seventy-five head of cows and milked twenty-five. we would take a young calf and let it fill its stomach with its mother's milk, then kill it. then we took the stomach and washed and wiped it and hung it up on a nail to dry. when it was perfectly dry we would put it away carefully in a cloth and used it for rennet to make the cheese. i would put a little piece of it in new milk and it would form a solid curd. my husband made me a press and a mold. i got twenty-five cents a pound for my cheese, and sold lots of it. i got up fine meals and charged two dollars a meal. the people were glad to pay it. there was plenty of firewood. the trees drifted down the river and we piled the wood up on the islands, but after the settlers came they would steal it. there was no need of anybody going hungry those days, for anyone could kill a buffalo. one day a herd of thirty came within ten feet of our door, and our cows went away with them. the children and i walked three miles before we came up to the cows and could get them back home. we were near the river and it was not far down to water. we dug holes in the ground and sunk five salt barrels. the water came up in these and we always had plenty of water. sometimes we dipped the barrels dry, but they would be full the next morning. there wasn't a pump in the country for years. the people who kept the pony express station were named humphries. these stations were about fifty miles apart. there would be lots of people at the station every night, for after the indians became troublesome, the people went in trains of about a hundred wagons. there were many six oxen teams. the indians never troubled anybody until the whites killed so many buffalo and wasted so much. there were carcasses all over the prairies. the indians used every part, and they knew this great slaughter of the buffalo meant starvation for them, so they went on the warpath in self-defense. they would skulk on the river bank where the trail came close, and would rush up and attack the travelers. the soldiers were sent out as escorts and their families often went with them. one night at plum creek pony express station twin babies were born to the lieutenant and wife. i went over in the morning to see if i could help them, but they were all cared for by the lieutenant. he had washed the babies and had the tent in order. i do not remember his name now. we often saw tiny babies with their mothers lying in the wagons that came by. they would be wrapped up, and looked very comfortable. water was so scarce that they had to pay for enough to wash the babies. brigham young made trip after trip with foreign people of all kinds but blacks. most of these could not speak english, and i don't think brigham bought any water for them, as they were filthy dirty. brigham was a great big fat man, and he kept himself pretty neat. he made just about one trip a year. one company of these immigrants was walking through, and the train was a couple of miles long. they went south of the river on the oregon trail. there was no other road then. on august , , the sioux people killed eleven men at : o'clock in the morning, on elm creek. i was afraid to stay on our ranch, so i took the children and started to fort kearny. on the way we came to the place of the massacre. the dead men were lying side by side in a long trench, their faces were covered with blood and their boots were on. three women were taken prisoners. i heard that there were two children in the party, and that they were thrown in the grass, but i looked all around for them and didn't find any signs of them. friends of these people wrote to mr. e. m. f. leflang, to know if he could locate them. the indians never troubled us except to take one team during this war, but i was always afraid when i saw the soldiers coming. they would come in the store and help themselves to tobacco, cookies, or anything. then the teamsters would swing their long black-snake whips and bring them down across my chicken's heads, then pick them up and carry them to camp. i think the officers were the most to blame, for they sold the soldiers' rations, and the men were hungry. when the union pacific railroad was first built we lived on our homestead north of the river and the town was started on our land. we had the contract to supply the wood for the engines. they didn't use any other fuel then. we hired men to cut the wood on wood river where eddyville and sumner are now. i boarded the men in our new big house across from the depot in old plum creek. the store was below and there was an outside stairway for the men to go up. that summer mr. freeman was in washington, philadelphia, and new york talking up this country. mr. freeman was the first county clerk and his office was upstairs over the store. we rented some of the rooms to newcomers. we did a big business until the railroad moved the town to their section, a mile west. mr. freeman kept on trapping, and finally was drowned near deadwood, south dakota. i stayed by dawson county and raised my family and they all are settled near me and have good homes. early days in dawson county by lucy r. hewitt mr. and mrs. thomas j. hewitt, in june, , journeyed from forreston, illinois, to plum creek, nebraska. their object was to take advantage of the offer the government was making to civil war soldiers, whereby each soldier could obtain one hundred and sixty acres of land. they stopped at grand island and kearney, but at neither place could they find two adjoining quarter sections, not yet filed on. they wanted two, for my grandfather, rockwood, who lived with us was also a soldier. at plum creek, now lexington, they were able to obtain what they wanted but it was six miles northwest of the station. plum creek at that early date consisted of the depot. the town was a mile east and when my parents arrived at plum creek, they were obliged to walk back to the town, in order to find lodging for the night. rooms seem to have been scarce for they had to share theirs with another man and his wife. they found a place to eat in the restaurant owned by mr. and mrs. e. d. johnson. in august of the same year, they made a second trip to nebraska, this time with wagon and carriage, bringing with others a carpenter who built their house upon the dividing line of the two homesteads. this house had the distinction of being the first two-story house in the neighborhood. all the others were one-story, because the settlers feared the high winds that occasionally swept over the prairies. for a few months it was the farthest away from town. in the three months between the two trips the town had moved to the depot, and had grown from nothing to a village of sixty houses and stores. the johnsons had brought their restaurant and placed it upon the site where a little later they built a hotel called the johnson house. mr. t. martin had built the first hotel which he named the alhambra. i have a very faint recollection of being in this hotel when the third trip brought the household goods and the family to the new home. it was in december when this last journey was taken, and great was the astonishment of the older members of the family to see the ground covered with a foot of snow. they had been told that there was practically no winter in nebraska, and they had believed the statement. they found that the thermometer could drop almost out of sight with the cold, and yet the greater part of many winters was very pleasant. my father opened a law office in the town and t. l. warrington, who taught the first school in the village, read law with him, and kept the office open when the farm required attention. the fields were small at first and did not require so very much time. the first exciting event was a prairie fire. a neighbor's family was spending the day at our farm and some other friends also came to call. the day was warm, no wind was stirring until about o'clock, when it suddenly and with much force blew from the north and brought the fire, which had been smoldering for some days in the bluffs to the north of the farm, down into the valley with the speed of a racing automobile. we children were very much frightened, and grandmother who was sick with a headache, was so startled she forgot her pain--did not have any in fact. mother and mrs. fagot, the neighbor's wife, were outside loosening the tumble weeds and sending them along with the wind before the fire could catch them. in that way they saved the house from catching fire. my father, who had seen the fire come over the hills, as he was driving from town, had unhitched the horses and riding one of them as fast as possible, reached home in time to watch the hay stacks. three times they caught fire and each time he beat it out with a wet gunny sack. i think this happened in march, . that same year about harvest time the country was visited by grasshoppers. they did considerable damage by nipping off the oat heads before the farmers could finish the reaping. my aunt who was visiting us suggested that the whole family walk through the potato field and send the hoppers into the grass beyond. it was a happy thought, for the insects ate grass that night and the next day a favorable wind sent them all away. the worst grasshopper visitation we had was in july, . one sunday morning father and mother and i went to town to church. the small grain had been harvested and the corn all along the way was a most beautiful, dark green. when we were about a mile from town a slight shade seemed to come over the sun; when we looked up for the cause, we saw millions of grasshoppers slowly dropping to the ground. they came down in such numbers that they clung two or three deep to every green thing. the people knew that nothing in the way of corn or gardens could escape such devastating hordes and they were very much discouraged. to add to their troubles, the presbyterian minister that morning announced his intention to resign. he, no doubt, thought he was justified. i was pretty small at that time and did not understand what it all meant, but i do know that as we drove home that afternoon, the cornfields looked as they would in december after the cattle had fed on them--not a green shred left. the asparagus stems, too, were equally bare. the onions were eaten down to the very roots. of the whole garden, there was, in fact, nothing left but a double petunia, which grandmother had put a tub over. so ravenous were the pests that they even ate the cotton mosquito netting that covered the windows. in a day or two when nothing remained to eat, the grasshoppers spread their wings and whirred away. then grandfather said, "we will plant some beans and turnips, there is plenty of time for them to mature before frost." accordingly, he put in the seeds and a timely rain wet them so that in a very few days they had sprouted and were well up, when on monday morning, just two weeks and one day from the time of the first visitation, a second lot dropped down and breakfasted off grandfather's beans. it was too late in the season then to plant more. my mother had quite a flock of turkeys and a number of chickens. they were almost dazed at the sight of so many perfectly good insects. they tried to eat them all but had to give up the task. they ate enough, however, to make themselves sick. this time i believe the grasshoppers stayed several days. they seemed to be hunting some good hard ground in which to lay their eggs. the following spring the warm days brought out millions of little ones, which a prairie fire later destroyed. the corn crop having been eaten green and the wheat acreage being rather small, left many people with nothing to live on during the winter. many moved away and many of those who could not get away had to be helped. it was then that dawson county people learned that they had good friends in the neighboring states for they sent carloads of food and clothing to their less fortunate neighbors. a good many homesteaders were well-educated, refined people from pennsylvania, new york, and elsewhere. they were a very congenial company and often had social times together. they were for the most part young people, some with families of young children, others just married, and some unmarried. i remember hearing my mother tell of a wedding that she and father attended. the ceremony was performed at a private house and then the whole company adjourned to a large hall where everybody who wanted to, danced and the rest watched until the supper was served by mr. and mrs. johnson in their new hotel. the bride on this occasion was miss addie bradley and the groom was w. h. lingle, at one time county superintendent of public instruction. for some time after the starting of the town of plum creek there was no church edifice but there was a good sized schoolhouse, and here each sunday morning the people for miles around gathered. one sunday the methodist preacher talked to all the people and the next week the presbyterian minister preached to the same congregation, until the courthouse was built, and then the presbyterians used the courtroom. i have heard the members say that they received more real good from those union services than they ever did when each denomination had a church of its own. the episcopalians in the community were the most enterprising for they built the first church, a little brick building that seated one hundred people. it was very plainly furnished, but it cost fifteen hundred dollars, due to the fact that the brick was brought from kearney and freight rates were high. it stood on the site of the present modern building and was built in . my grandfather, an ardent churchman, often read the service when there was no rector in town. speaking of the courthouse reminds me that it was not always put to the best use. i cannot remember when the following incident occurred, but i do remember hearing it talked of. a man who lived on the south side of the platte river was accused of poisoning some flour that belonged to another man. he was ordered arrested and two or three men, among them charles mayes, the deputy sheriff, were sent after him. he resisted arrest and using his gun, killed mayes. he was finally taken and brought to town and put into the county jail in the basement of the courthouse. mayes had been a very popular man and the feeling was very high against his slayer, so high, indeed, that some time between night and morning the man was taken from the jail, and the next morning his lifeless body was found hanging at the back door of the courthouse. one of the pleasures of the pioneer is hunting. in the early days there was plenty of game in dawson county, buffalo, elk, deer, antelope, jack rabbits, and several game birds, such as plover, prairie hen, ducks, geese, and cranes. by the time we arrived, however, the buffalo had been driven so far away that they were seldom seen. there was plenty of buffalo meat in the market, however, for hunters followed them and shot them, mostly for their hides. the meat was very good, always tender and of fine flavor. my father rushed into the house one day and called for his revolver. a herd of buffalo was racing across the fields towards the bluffs on the north. father and some of the men with him, thought possibly they might get near enough to shoot one. but although he rode as fast as his pony could carry him, he could not get close enough and the herd, once it reached the hills was safe. the poor beasts had been chased for miles and were weary, but they did not give up. the cows huddled the calves together and pushed them along and the bulls led the way. father learned afterward that his pony had been trained by the indians to hunt; and if he had given him the rein and allowed him to go at it in his own way, he would have gone so close that father could have shot one. but he did not know this until the buffalo were far away. pioneer justice by b. f. krier in the early history of lexington, nebraska, as in all western states, there was no crime committed more reprehensible than that of stealing a horse. one might kill a man and it would be overlooked or excused, but the offense of stealing a horse was a crime that nothing could atone for but the "wiping out" of the thief. and generally when the horse thief was caught the nearest tree or the upraised end of a wagon tongue was immediately brought into use as a gallows upon which the criminal was duly hanged without the formalities of courts or juries. it was amply sufficient to know that the accused had stolen a horse, and it mattered but little to whom the horse belonged or whether the owner was present to take a hand in the execution. the culprit was dealt with in such manner that he never stole another animal. this sentiment prevailed among the first settlers of dawson county, as was shown in , shortly after the organization of the county. among the officials of the county at that time was a justice of the peace, a sturdy, honest man, who had been a resident of the county several years before it was organized. one day in a half-breed sioux came riding from the east into plum creek (as lexington was then called). the indian stopped in the town and secured a meal for himself and feed for his horse. while he was eating, two pawnee warriors arrived at the station on a freight train, from the east. they at once hunted up the sheriff, a broad-shouldered irishman named john kehoe, and made complaint that the half-breed sioux had stolen a horse from one of them and had the animal in his possession. complaint was formally made and a warrant issued for the half-breed's arrest upon the charge of horse-stealing, the warrant being issued by the aforesaid justice of the peace. the sioux was at once taken in custody by the sheriff and brought before the justice. one of the pawnees swore the horse the half-breed rode when he entered the town was his property, and the other pawnee upon oath declared he knew it was. the prisoner denied the statement made by the pawnees and vehemently declared the animal was his property; that he came by it honestly, and that the pawnee had no title whatever in the horse. there was no jury to hear and judge the evidence, and the justice was compelled to decide the case. he had had some experience with redskins, and entertained but small regard for any of them, but as the preponderance of the evidence was against the sioux, he decided the latter was guilty, and after a short study of the matter sentenced the culprit to be hanged. there were no lawyers in plum creek at that time, a condition that has not existed since, and each side did its own talking. the sioux at once filed a vigorous complaint against the sentence, but was ordered by the court to keep still. realizing he had no chance, he became silent, but some of the citizens who were present and listening to the trial, interposed objections to the strenuous sentence, and informed the court that "as we are now organized into a county and have to go by law, you can't sentence a man to hang fer stealin' a hoss." this staggered the justice somewhat and he again took the matter under advisement, and shortly after made the following change in the sentence, addressing the prisoner as follows "----, dem laws don't let you get hanged, vich iss not right. you iss one teef; dat iss a sure ting, and i shust gif you fifteen minutes to git out of dis state of newbrasky." the pawnee secured possession of the horse, but whether it belonged to them or not is questionable, and hit the eastern trail for the "pawnee house," while the sioux warrior hastily got himself together and made a swift hike toward the setting sun and safety. a good indian by mrs. clifford whittaker the late john h. maccoll came to dawson county in to benefit his health, but shortly after reaching here he had an attack of mountain fever, that left his lower limbs paralyzed. the nearest medical aid he could get was from the army surgeon at fort mcpherson, forty miles to the west. he made a number of trips to attend mr. maccoll, and finally told him that he would never be any better. an old indian medicine man happened along about that time and he went to see mr. maccoll. by curious signs, gesticulations, and grunts, he made mr. maccoll understand that he could cure him and that he would be back the next day at the rising of the sun. true to his word, he came, bringing with him an interpreter who explained to mr. maccoll that the medicine man could cure him if he would submit to his treatment. mr. maccoll was desperate and willing to do almost anything, so he agreed. the patient was stripped and laid flat on a plank. the medicine man then took a saw-edged knife and made no less than a hundred tiny gashes all over his patient's body. this done he produced a queer herb, and began chewing it. then he spit it in his hand, as needed, and rubbed it into each tiny wound. that was all, and in three days mr. maccoll could stand alone, and in a week he could walk. this incident was told to me in by the sister, laura maccoll. from missouri to dawson county in by a. j. porter i left southwest missouri late in october, , accompanied by my sister, and journeyed by team via topeka, kansas, to nebraska. we spent our first night in nebraska at fairbury, november , . trains on the st. joe and grand island railroad had just reached that point. after visiting a few days with the carney families near fairmont we took the train for plum creek (now lexington) and reached kearney at o'clock p. m. all rooms being occupied we sat in the office of the hotel till morning. none of the union pacific trains stopped at that place except to take mail. at o'clock that night we got a train to plum creek, which place we reached at o'clock. there being no hotel we stayed in the depot until morning, when we found our brother living on a homestead. during our stay i filed on land six miles northeast of plum creek. the next april i brought my family by wagon over the same route and reached dawson county a month after the noted easter storm of . at that time we saw hundreds of hides of texas cattle, that had perished in the storm, hanging on fences surrounding the stockyards at elm creek. we remained on our homestead until august, , at which time we came to fillmore county and bought the southwest quarter of section eleven in madison township, which place we now own. the erickson family by mrs. w. m. stebbins charles j. erickson left sweden in and for two years lived in new york, indiana, and illinois. in he moved to fort mcpherson, nebraska. he worked around the fort until when he took a homestead nine miles east. the next year, he sent to sweden for his family. they arrived at mcpherson station--now maxwell--on september , . mr. erickson died in april, . the family resided on the old homestead until , when they moved to gothenburg, nebraska. the sons, frank and john erickson, who still reside in nebraska, unite in the following statement: "coming to this part of the state at so early a date we have been eye witnesses to the development and transformation of the country from a bleak, wild prairie covered with blue stem grasses, upon which fed thousands of buffalo, deer, antelope, and elk. the indians still controlled the country and caused us to have many sleepless nights. "in those early days we always took our guns with us when we went away from home, or into the field to work. several times we were forced to seek shelter in the fort, or in some home, saving our scalps from the indians by the fleetness of our ponies. but how changed now. "one of our early recollections is the blackened posts and poles along the old oregon trail. as we gazed down the trail these looked like sentinels guarding the way, but we soon learned they were the poles of the first telegraph line built across nebraska. it extended from nebraska city to fort laramie, wyoming. when the union pacific railroad was built through here--on the north side of the river--in , the telegraph line followed and the old line on the south side of the platte was abandoned. the old poles were of red cedar taken from the cañons and were all burned black by the prairie fires. they soon disappeared, being used by the indians and the emigrants for firewood. the old trail and telegraph line crossed our farm and only a few years ago we dug out of the ground one of the stubs of a cedar telegraph pole about two feet in diameter and six feet long, and there are still more of these old stubs in our fields. "in the early seventies the most prominent ranches in this section were upper and lower . these ranches had first been the relay stations of the old wells fargo express company. at each of these may be seen well preserved cedar log buildings still in use built by this company when they first established their express business across the plains in the middle of the last century. on the advent of the union pacific, the wells fargo express company abandoned these stations and they became the property of the ranch. although they have passed through the hands of several different owners they have always retained their names of upper ranch and lower ranch. "the cañons leading into the hills from the south side of the river are named from the early ranches along the valley near the mouths of the cañons; conroy from conroy's ranch, jeffrie from jeffrie's ranch, gilman from gilman's ranch, and hiles from hiles' ranch. an exception to the above is the dan smith cañon which is named after dan smith in memory of the tragedy with which his name is connected. dan smith and wife were working at the lower ranch in . mrs. smith wished to attend a ball to be given by the officers at fort mcpherson and wanted her husband to go with her, but he being of a jealous disposition refused to go. she mounted her horse and started to go alone when he called to her to come back and take his gun to protect herself from the indians. she turned around and started back toward him. he drew his gun and fired, killing her instantly. she was buried at the lower ranch and until a few years ago her grave was kept green. after shooting his wife, dan smith mounted her horse and rode away into the hills to the south. the soldiers at the fort twenty-five miles away were notified and the next day they came to hunt for the murderer. they surrounded him in a cañon in the hills and there shot him to death leaving his body a prey for buzzards and wolves. the cañon to this day is called dan smith cañon and through it is the main road leading from gothenburg to farnam, nebraska." the beginnings of fremont by sadie irene moore fremont was named for john c. fremont, who was a candidate against buchanan for president. the first stakes were set august , , the boundaries being finished three days later. "the first habitation of any sort, was constructed of poles surrounded by prairie grass. it was built and owned by e. h. barnard and j. koontz, in , and stood upon the site of the present congregational church." in the autumn of , robert kittle built and owned the first house. a few weeks later his house was occupied by rev. isaac e. heaton, wife and two daughters, who were the first family to keep house in fremont. alice flor, born in the fall of , was the first child born in fremont. she is now mrs. gilkerson, of wahoo. the first male child born in fremont was fred kittle. he was born in march, , and died in . on august , , occurred the first marriage. the couple were luther wilson and eliza turner. the first death was that of seth p. marvin, who was accidentally drowned in april, , while crossing the elkhorn seven miles northeast of fremont. the marvin home was a mile and a quarter west of fremont and this house was the rendezvous of the parties who laid out fremont. mr. marvin was one of the town company. the first celebration of the fourth of july was in . robert kittle sold the first goods. j. g. and towner smith conducted the first regular store. in , the first district school was opened with miss mcneil teacher. then came mary heaton, now mrs. hawthorne. mrs. margaret turner, followed by james g. smith, conducted the first hotel situated where the first national bank now is. this was also the "stage house," and here all the traders stopped en route from omaha to denver. in the evening the old hotel resounded with the music of violin and the sound of merry dancing. charles smith conducted a drug store where holloway and fowler now are. a telegraph line was established in . the first public school was held in a building owned by the congregational church at the corner of eighth and d streets. miss sarah pneuman, now mrs. harrington, of fremont, was the teacher. when court convened, school adjourned, there being no courthouse. in three years the school had grown from sixteen to one hundred pupils, with three teachers. the first public schoolhouse was built at the corner of fifth and d streets. in the union pacific was built. the first bank was established in . the _tribune_, the first newspaper, was published july , . "the central school" was built in and the teacher, in search of truant boys, would ascend to the top, where with the aid of field glass, she could see from the platte to the elkhorn. today, can be seen on the foundations of this old landmark, the marks of slate pencils, which were sharpened by some of our middle aged business men of today. [illustration: monument at fremont, nebraska, marking the overland emigrant trails or california road erected by lewis-clark chapter, daughters of the american revolution] mrs. cynthia hamilton, of fremont, gives an interesting account of the early days. in june, , she, with her husband, mr. west, their daughter, julia, mrs. west's brother, the late wilson reynolds, and mrs. reynolds, reached the few dwellings then comprising fremont, after an eighteen or nineteen days trip in moving wagons from racine, wisconsin. they first stopped at the house of robert kittle, corner military and broad streets. this house was made from trees grown on the bluffs southwest of town, and had a red cedar shingle roof, the shingles shaved from logs floated down the platte. after two days, they all moved to a log house in "pierce's grove." while living here, mrs. hamilton tells of hearing a great commotion among the tinware and upon investigation, found it was caused by a huge snake. in august of the same year they moved to their homestead, northwest of town, on the rawhide. it is now known as the rohr place. here they remained two years. in winter the men made trips to the river for wood, and the women must either accompany them or remain at home, alone, far from another house. thus, alone one day, she saw a large band of indians approaching. the chief, picking up an axe from the wood pile, placed it under the window where she sat, indicating that she must take care of it, else some one might steal it. he then led his band northward. during all the residence on the homestead the three members of the family suffered continually from ague. in the fall of , mrs. west and her child returned to wisconsin, where they remained ten months. during her absence, mr. west became a trader with the indians and once in saunders county as he was selling a quantity of meat on a temporary counter, the indians became rather unruly. his white companions fled, and mr. west seizing a club, went among the indians, striking them right and left. for this, they called him a brave and ever afterwards called him "buck skadaway," meaning curly hair. when mrs. west returned from wisconsin, she came down the mississippi and up the missouri to omaha, then a small town. from there they drove to fremont, with horse and buggy, via florence. mr. west now bought a cottonwood house, battened up and down. it consisted of two rooms, and stood on the site of the present residence of thad quinn. wilson reynolds bought two lots on the south side of sixth street near the west home for twenty-five cents. here he built a house made partly of black walnut taken from the banks of the platte. in this house, was born our present postmaster, b. w. reynolds. mrs. hamilton relates that the indians were frequent callers at her home, one even teaching her to make "corn coffee," "by taking a whole ear of corn, burning it black and then putting it in the coffee pot." food consisted of vegetables, which were grown on the prairie sod, prairie chickens, small game, and corn bread. butter was twenty-five cents a pound. syrup was made by boiling down watermelon. boiled beans were mashed to a pulp and used as butter. "everything was high and when the money and supplies which we bought were exhausted it was hard to get more." screens were unknown and the flies and mosquitoes were terrible. in the evenings everyone would build a smudge so that they could sleep. not a tree was to be seen except those on the banks of the streams. tall prairie grass waved like the ocean and prairie fires were greatly feared. everyone began setting out trees at once. "in those days broad street was noted as a racing road for the indians and now it is a boulevard for automobiles," says mrs. hamilton. "yes," she continued, "i well remember the fourth of july celebration in . there were about one hundred people in attendance. miss mcneil was my little girl's first teacher and dr. rhustrat was our first physician." in , after a short illness, mr. west died. he was buried beside his infant daughter in the cemetery, which at that time stood near the present brewery. the bodies were afterward removed to barnard's cemetery and later to ridge. the following year, mrs. west, with her daughter, julia, returned to her parents at racine, wisconsin, where she remained for many years. in , as the wife of william hamilton she returned and made her home on one of her farms near the stockyards. twenty-five years ago this place was sold for $ per acre while the old homestead northwest of town brought $ per acre in . after selling the south farm she and mr. hamilton, who died a few years ago, bought the present home on broad street. everyone should honor the early settlers, who left their eastern homes, endured hardships and privations that a beautiful land might be developed for posterity. they should be pensioned as well as our soldiers. and we, of the younger generation, should respect and reverence their memory. a grasshopper story by margaret f. kelly i came to fremont, nebraska, in may, , and settled on a farm on maple creek. in or we were visited by grasshoppers. i had never formed an idea of anything so disastrous. when the "hoppers" were flying the air was full of them. as one looked up, they seemed like a severe snow storm. it must have been like one of the plagues of egypt. they were so bad one day that the passenger train on the union pacific was stalled here. i went to see the train and the odor from the crushed insects was nauseating. i think the train was kept here for three hours. the engine was besmeared with them. it was a very wonderful sight. the rails and ground were covered with the pests. they came into the houses and one lady went into her parlor one day and found her lace curtains on the floor, almost entirely eaten. mrs. george turner said that she came home from town one day when the "hoppers" were flying and they were so thick that the horses could not find the barn. mrs. turner's son had a field of corn. w. r. wilson offered him fifty dollars for it. when he began to husk it, there was no corn there. a hired man of mrs. turner's threw his vest on the ground. when he had finished his work and picked up the vest it was completely riddled by the grasshoppers. i heard one man say that he was out riding with his wife and they stopped by a field of wheat where the "hoppers" were working and they could hear their mandibles working on the wheat. when they flew it sounded like a train of cars in motion. horses would not face them unless compelled. one year i had an eighty acre field of corn which was being cultivated. the men came in and said the "hoppers" were taking the corn. they did not stay long, but when they left no one would have known that there had ever been any corn in that field. my brother from california came in . on the way to the farm a thunder storm came up and we stopped at a friend's until it was over. my brother said, "i would not go through the experience again for $ , , and i would not lose the experience for the same amount." the "hoppers" came before the storm and were thick on the ground. it was a wonderful experience. in those days we cut our small grain with "headers." the grain head was cut and fell into boxes on wagons. after dinner one day, the men went out to find the grasshoppers in full possession. a coat which had been left hanging was completely destroyed. gardens and field crops were their delight. they would eat an onion entirely out of the hard outer skin. i had a thirty acre field of oats which looked fine on saturday. we could not harvest it then and on monday it looked like an inverted whisk broom. some of the "hoppers" were three inches long. the backs were between brown and slate color and underneath was white. i think we received visits from them for five years. early days in fremont by mrs. theron nye from the year until the beginning of the civil war in the early settlers of nebraska experienced nearly all of the ills and hardships incidental to a pioneer life. fifty years have passed since then and to one having lived through those trying days--or to a stranger who merely listens to the almost incredulous tales of a past generation--there arises a question as to why any sane person or persons should desire to leave a land of comparative comfort and plenty for one of deprivation and possible starvation. the early settlers of fremont were for the most part young people from the eastern states, full of ambition and hope. there is in the youthful heart a spirit of energy, of doing and daring in order to realize, if possible, dreams of a perhaps glorious future in which may be won honor and fame and wealth. then again the forces of nature are never at rest and man, being a part of the great whole, must inevitably keep in step with the universal law. a few lines written for a paper several years ago give the first impression of the landscape which greeted the eyes of a stranger on entering the valley of the elkhorn river in , april : "this is the picture as i see it plainly in retrospect--a country, and it was all a country, with a smooth, level, gray surface which appeared to go on toward the west forever and forever. on the north were the bluffs of the elkhorn river, but the great elkhorn valley was a part of an unknown world. south of the little townsite of fremont the platte river moved sluggishly along to meet and be swallowed up in the great missouri. ten or twelve log cabins broke the monotony of the treeless expanse that stretched far away, apparently to a leaden sky. my heart sank within me as i thought but did not say, 'how can i ever live in a place like this?'" and yet the writer of the above lines has lived in fremont for forty-seven years. the histories of the world are chiefly men's histories. they are stories of governments, of religions, of wars, and only in exceptional instances has woman appeared to hold any important place in the affairs of nations. from the earliest settlement of the colonies in the new world until the present time, women have not only borne with bravery and fortitude the greater trials of the pioneer life, but from their peculiar organization and temperament suffered more from the small annoyances than their stronger companions of the other sex. the experiences of the home and family life of the early settlers of the great west have never entered into the annals of history nor can a truthful story be told without them, but thus far no doubt the apparent neglect has been due to woman herself, who until quite recently has felt that she was a small factor in the world's affairs. in the beginning of the new life in fremont women had their first introduction to the log cabin which was to be their home for many years. it was not as comfortable as it looks picturesque and romantic printed on paper. it was a story and a half high, sixteen by twenty feet in size. the logs were hewn on two sides, but the work performed by the volunteer carpenters of that time was not altogether satisfactory, consequently the logs did not fit closely but the open spaces between were filled with a sort of mortar that had a faculty of gradually dropping off as it dried, leaving the original holes and openings through which the winter winds whistled and nebraska breezes blew the dirt. the houses were made of cottonwood logs and finished with cottonwood lumber. the shingles warped so the roof somewhat resembled a sieve. the rain dripped through it in summer and snow sifted through it in winter. the floors were made of wide rough boards, the planing and polishing given by the broom, the old-fashioned mop, and the scrubbing brush. the boards warped and shrunk so that the edges turned up, making wide cracks in the floor through which many small articles dropped down into a large hole in the ground miscalled a cellar. it was hardly possible to keep from freezing in these houses in winter. snow sifted through the roof, covering beds and floors. the piercing winds blew through every crack and crevice. green cottonwood was the only fuel obtainable and that would sizzle and fry in the stove while water froze standing under the stove. this is no fairy tale. the summers were not much more pleasant. it must be remembered that there were no trees in fremont, nothing that afforded the least protection from the hot rays of a nebraska sun. mosquitoes and flies were in abundance, and door screens were unknown at that time. the cotton netting nailed over windows and hung over and around the beds was a slight protection from the pests, although as the doors must necessarily be opened more or less no remedy could be devised that would make any perceptible improvement. to submit was the rule and the law in those days, but many, many times it was done under protest. the first floor was divided or partitioned off, by the use of quilts or blankets, into a kitchen, bedroom, and pantry. the chamber, or what might be called attic, was also partitioned in the same way, giving as many rooms as it would hold beds. the main articles of food for the first two years consisted of potatoes, corn meal, and bacon. the meal was made from a variety of corn raised by the indians and called pawnee corn. it was very soft, white, and palatable. wheat flour was not very plentiful the first year. bacon was the only available meat. occasionally a piece of buffalo meat was obtained, but it being very hard to masticate only served to make a slight change in the gravy, which was otherwise made with lard and flour browned together in an iron frying pan, adding boiling water until it was of the right consistency, salt and pepper to suit the taste. this mixture was used for potatoes and bread of all kinds. lard was a necessity. biscuits were made of flour, using a little corn meal for shortening and saleratus for raising. much of the corn was ground in an ordinary coffee mill or in some instances rubbed on a large grater or over a tin pan with a perforated bottom, made so by driving nails through it. the nearest flouring mill was at fort calhoun, over forty miles away, which was then a three days' journey, taking more time than a trip to california at the present day. nothing, however, could be substituted for butter. the lack of meat, sugar, eggs and fruit, tea and coffee, was borne patiently, but wheat flour and corn meal bread with its everlasting lard gravy accompaniment was more than human nature could bear, yet most of the people waxed strong and flourished on bread and grease. oh, where are the students of scientific research and domestic economy? there were possibly three or four cows in the settlement, and if there was ever an aristocracy in fremont, it was represented by the owners of said cows. in a little sorghum was raised. "hope springs eternal in the human breast." men, women, and children helped to prepare the stalks when at the right stage for crushing, which was done with a very primitive home-made machine. the juice obtained was boiled down to syrup, but alas, the dreams of a surfeit of sweetness vanished into thin air, for the result of all the toil and trouble expended was a production so nauseous that it could not be used even for vinegar. wild plums and grapes grew in profusion on the banks of the rivers. there was much more enjoyment in gathering the fruit than in eating or cooking it. the plums were bitter and sour, the grapes were sour and mostly seeds, and sugar was not plentiful. the climate was the finest in the world for throat and lung troubles, but on the breaking up of the soil malaria made its appearance and many of the inhabitants suffered from ague and fever. quinine was the only remedy. there were neither physicians nor trained nurses here, but all were neighbors and friends, always ready to help each other when the occasion required. in , the year in which fremont was born, the pawnee indians were living four miles south across the platte river on the bluffs in saunders county. they numbered about four thousand and were a constant source of annoyance and fear. in winter they easily crossed the river on the ice and in summer the water most of the time was so low they could swim and wade over, consequently there were few days in the year that they did not visit fremont by the hundred. weeks and months passed before women and children became accustomed to them and they could never feel quite sure that they were harmless. stealing was their forte. eyes sharp and keen were ever on the alert when they were present, yet when they left almost invariably some little article would be missed. they owned buffalo robes and blankets for which the settlers exchanged clothing which they did not need, jewelry, beads, and ornaments, with a little silver coin intermixed. the blankets and robes were utilized for bedding and many were the shivering forms they served to protect from the icy cold of the nebraska winters. in the government moved them to another home on the loup river and in they were removed to indian territory. snakes of many kinds abounded, but rattlesnakes were the most numerous. they appeared to have a taste for domestic life, as many were found in houses and cellars. a little four-year-old boy one sunny summer day ran out of the house bare-footed, and stepping on the threshold outside the door felt something soft and cold to his feet. an exclamation of surprise caused a member of the household to hasten to the door just in time to see a young rattlesnake gliding swiftly away. in several instances they were found snugly ensconced under pillows, on lounges, and very frequently were they found in cellars. for more than two years there was no way of receiving or sending mail only as one or another would make a trip to omaha, which was usually once a week. in a stage line was put on between omaha and fort kearny. no one can tell with what thankfulness and rejoicing each and every improvement in the condition and surroundings was greeted by the settlers. dating from the discovery of gold in colorado the pioneer was no more an object of pity or sympathy. those who had planted their stakes and made their claims along the old military and california trail were independent. many of the emigrants became discouraged and turned their faces homeward before getting a glimpse of the rocky mountains. on their way home they sold loads of provisions for a song. the same fall the fertile soil of the platte valley, after two years of cultivation, responded to the demand of civilization. there was a market west for every bushel of grain and every pound of vegetables grown. so at least the patient and persevering ones received their reward. the sources of amusement were few, and yet all enjoyed the strange new life. a pleasant ride over the level prairie dotted with wild flowers, in any sort of vehicle drawn by a pair of oxen, was as enjoyable to the young people then as a drive over the country would now be in the finest turnout that fremont possesses. a dance in a room twelve by sixteen feet in a log cabin, to the music of the arkansas traveler played on one violin, was "just delightful." a trip to omaha once or twice a year was a rare event in the woman's life particularly. three days were taken, two to drive in and out, and one to do a little trading (not shopping) and look around to view the sights. a span of horses, a lumber wagon with a spring seat in front high up in the air, was the conveyance. women always wore sunbonnets on these occasions to keep their complexion fair. several times in the earlier years the mormons passed through here with long trains of emigrants journeying to the promised land, and a sorry lot they were, for the most of them were footsore and weary, as they all walked. the train was made up of emigrant covered wagons drawn by oxen, and hand carts drawn by cows, men and women, and dogs. it was a sight never to be forgotten. this is merely a short description of some of the trials and sufferings endured by the majority of the early settlers of this state. many of the actors in the drama have passed away, a few only now remaining, and soon the stories of their lives will be to the coming generation like forgotten dreams. pioneer women of omaha by mrs. charles h. fisette very few of those now living in omaha can have any realization of the privations, not to say hardships, that were endured by the pioneer women who came here at an early date. a few claim shanties were scattered at distant intervals over this beautiful plateau, and were eagerly taken by those who were fortunate enough to secure them. there was seldom more than one room in them, so that no servants could be kept, even if there were any to be had. many an amusing scene could have been witnessed if the friends who had been left behind could have peeped in at the door and have seen the attempts made at cooking by those who never had cooked before. a description of one of the homes might be of interest. a friend of ours owned a claim shanty that stood on the hill west of what is now saunders, or twenty-fourth street, and he very kindly offered it to us, saying he would have it plastered and fixed up. we, of course, accepted it at once and as soon as possible it was made ready and we moved into it late one evening, very happy to have a home. the house consisted of upstairs, downstairs, and a cellar, the upstairs being just high enough for one to stand erect in the center of the room, provided one was not very tall. the stairs were nothing but a ladder, home-made at that, in one corner of the room, held in place by a trunk. it was some time before i succeeded in going up and down gracefully. i happened to be upstairs when our first caller came and in my effort to get down quickly caught my feet in one of the rungs of the ladder and landed on the aforementioned trunk so suddenly that it brought everyone in the room to their feet. it took away all the formality of an introduction. mr. and mrs. hanscom lived half a mile north of the cottage just described, and had what seemed to others a house that was almost palatial. it contained three rooms, besides a kitchen, and had many comforts that few had in those days, including a cradle, which held a rosy-cheeked, curly-headed baby girl, who has long since grown to womanhood and had babies of her own. another home, standing where creighton college now stands, was built by a nephew of the late rev. reuben gaylord, but was afterwards occupied by mr. and mrs. w. n. byers, who have for many years resided in colorado. the gaylords moved from there to a new home at eleventh and jackson streets. their family consisted of three children: mrs. s. c. brewster, of irvington, who is still living at the age of years; a son, ralph gaylord; and an adopted daughter, georgia, who has since died. [illustration: mrs. charlotte f. palmer first state regent, nebraska society, daughters of the american revolution. - ] a one story house built just in the rear of tootle and mauls' store on farnam, between thirteenth and fourteenth streets, was kept as a boarding house by kentucky wood and his wife. it was considered a high-toned boarding house, although the partitions were made of unbleached cloth and the floor of the dining room was covered with sawdust. judges lockwood and bradley, two of our territorial judges, boarded there and a dinner was given in their honor by the landlord. the invited guests included governor and mrs. cuming, colonel and mrs. c. b. smith, and dr. geo. l. miller. that was the first dinner party ever given in omaha. governor and mrs. cuming then boarded at the douglas house, thirteenth and harney streets, and their rooms were often filled with the elite of this young and growing city. mrs. cuming was very popular in the little gatherings which were frequently held. she was the leading light and was always ready and willing to assist in any good work. wherever there was sickness she was sure to be found. mrs. thomas davis was another who was always doing little acts of kindness. she was the mother of the late mrs. herman kountze, who, at that time, was the only white little girl in omaha. still another who never turned anyone away from her door who needed help was mrs. e. estabrook. mrs. a. d. jones, our first postmaster's wife, lived at that time at what was called park wild, in a one story log and frame house, which was afterwards occupied by general g. m. dodge, the distinguished soldier, so well and widely known to the whole country as the chief engineer of the union pacific railroad. among others who were here were mrs. edwin patrick and mrs. allen root, also mrs. t. g. goodwill, who lived in the kentucky wood house that i have already mentioned. she afterwards built the brick house that still stands near the northwest corner of davenport street, facing south. it is an old landmark near fifteenth street. one of the most prominent women of that day was mrs. john m. thayer, whose home at that time was said to have been the first civilized appearing home. it was plastered, clapboarded, and shingled. the entire community envied mrs. thayer her somewhat imposing residence. it was in very strong contrast, however, with the beautiful brick house which general thayer afterwards built and occupied for several years, on the northeast corner of sixteenth and davenport streets. mrs. samuel rogers, mrs. william snowden, mrs. thomas o'conner, mrs. o. b. selden, mrs. hadley johnson, and mrs. harrison johnson were among the first women who lived in omaha. mrs. a. j. poppleton may be classed among the number, although at that time she was living in council bluffs, then called kanesville, where she was one of the leading young ladies. the first hotel in omaha, a log house, eighteen by twenty feet, one story high, was named the st. nicholas. it was first occupied by the family of wm. p. snowden, and stood on the corner of twelfth and jackson streets in . the douglas house, a two story frame building, was erected at the southwest corner of thirteenth and harney streets. the rear part was made of cottonwood slabs, and in the winter time it was said to have been very cold. it was the leading hotel and all the high-toned people stopped there. the tremont house, between thirteenth and fourteenth streets, was built in , and opened by wm. f. sweezy and aaron root. mr. sweezy is still living in omaha. the farnham, between thirteenth and fourteenth on harney, was built in . the famous herndon house was built in by dr. geo. l. miller and lyman richardson. the hamilton, a brick building, was erected in by c. w. hamilton, c. b. smith, and h. m. judson. the proprietors bought their furniture in st. louis and brought it to omaha by steamboat. the upper part of the house was one large bedroom with beds ranged against the walls. about once a week the furniture was all removed from this room and it was temporarily converted into a ballroom. a pioneer family by edith erma purviance dr. wm. washington wiley, with his wife, gertrude miranda wiley, and their children, came to nebraska july , , and lived at saratoga (now in omaha) a year and a half. they came from ohio in covered wagons, driving their cows along. it took two months to make the trip. they caught up with a company of mormon emigrants when they reached iowa city, iowa, three or four hundred of whom camped along about five miles ahead of the wiley family. they stopped at florence a few weeks to buy provisions and teams to carry them across the plains to utah. these mormons had two-wheeled carts. these carts were provision carts drawn by both men and women. mrs. wiley was of holland dutch descent, and inherited the thrift and capability of her ancestors. she deserved great credit for her quick action in saving one victim from the claim club. this claim club was an organization of prominent omaha business men. john kelly, a nephew of mrs. wiley's sister, had a claim of one hundred sixty acres near omaha. there were four wagonloads of men out looking for him to compel him to give them the papers showing his right to the land. the late joseph redman, of omaha, lived near mrs. wiley, and when he saw the men coming for john kelly he went to mrs. wiley and requested her to warn young kelly, as she could get past the men, but he could not. mrs. redman went to mrs. wiley's house and took care of the three months' old baby and five other children. john kelly was working at the carpenter's trade in omaha, about three miles south of mrs. wiley's. all she had to ride was a stallion, of which she was afraid, and which had never been ridden by a woman. she rode slowly until out of sight of the wagonloads of men and then hit the horse every other jump. she made him run all the way, passing some indians on the way, who looked at her wonderingly but did not try to stop her. after going to several places she finally located john kelly. he wanted to go to the ferry, but her judgment was better and she said they would look for him there the first thing, which they did. she took him on behind her and rode to the home of jane beeson, his aunt, who put him down cellar and then spread a piece of rag carpet over the trap door. the claim club men were there several times that day to look for him, but did not search the house. after dark he walked to bellevue, twelve miles, and the next morning crossed the missouri river on the ferry boat and went to missouri. when his claim papers were returned from washington he returned and lived on his land without any further trouble. he would have been badly beaten and probably killed had it not been for mrs. wiley's nerve and decision in riding a fractious horse to warn him of his danger. while dr. and mrs. wiley resided at omaha the territorial law-makers disagreed, part of them going to florence to make laws and part of them to omaha, each party feeling it was the rightful law-making body of the territory. in december, , the family crossed the platte river on the ice and located on a farm in cass county, three miles west of the missouri river, about three miles southwest of the present town of murray, although the old town of rock bluffs was their nearest town at that time. dr. wiley and the older children went on ahead with the household goods and live stock. mrs. wiley, with the small children, rode in a one-horse buggy. she did not know the way and there were no fences or landmarks to guide her. she had the ague so badly she could hardly drive the horse. a sack containing $ , in gold was tied around her waist. this was all the money they had, and they intended to use it to build a house and barn on their new farm. she objected to carrying so much money, but dr. wiley said it was safer from robbers with her than with him. in spite of her illness and the difficulty in traveling in an unknown country a distance of thirty-five or forty miles, she reached the new home safely. she took off the sack of gold, threw it in a corner, and fell on the bed exhausted. they lived all winter in a log house of two rooms. there was a floor and roof, but no ceiling, and the snow drifted in on the beds. most of the family were sick all winter. the next summer they built a frame house, the first in that locality, which caused the neighbors to call them "high toned." mrs. wiley bought a parlor set of walnut furniture, upholstered in green. general worth, who had been a congressman, wrote to washington, d. c., and got the commission, signed by abraham lincoln, appointing dr. wiley postmaster, the name of the postoffice being three groves. they kept the postoffice eleven years. they kept the stage station five years. it was the main stop between st. joseph and omaha before the railroad went through. they had from ten to fifteen people to dinner one coach load. the stage coach was drawn by four horses, and carried both mail and passengers. the horses were changed for fresh ones at the wiley farm. at first the meals were twenty-five cents; the last two years, fifty cents. this was paid by the passengers and not included in the stage fare. shortly after the discovery of pike's peak and gold in colorado, freighters, with big freight wagons of provisions drawn by six or eight oxen, stopped there over night. there were usually twelve men, who slept on the floor, paying eighteen dollars for supper, breakfast, and lodging. mr. mccomas and mr. majors (father of col. thomas j. majors) each had freight wagons starting at nebraska city and taking the supplies to denver and pike's peak via fort kearny, nebraska. when the union pacific railroad was completed in the freighters had to sell their oxen and wagons, as they could not compete with the railroad in hauling freight. the omaha, pawnee, and otoe indians, when visiting other indians, would stop at dr. wiley's and ask for things to eat. sometimes there would be fifty of them. an old indian would peer in. if the shade was pulled down while he was looking in he would call the party vile names. if food was given him a dozen more indians would come and ask for something. if chickens were not given them they helped themselves to all they found straying around. it would make either tribe angry to ask if they were going to visit any other tribe. the pawnees would say, "omaha no good"; the omahas would say, "pawnee no good." mrs. wiley kept a copy of the _omaha republican_, published november , . the paper is yellow with age, but well preserved, and a few years ago she presented it to the state historical society. it is a four-page paper, the second and third pages being nearly all advertisements. it contains a letter written by robert w. furnas, ex-governor of nebraska, and a long article about the late j. sterling morton. this was about the time mr. morton tried to claim the salt basin at lincoln as a preëmption, and wanted to locate salt works there. mrs. wiley always took a great interest in the development of the state; she attended the state fair almost every year, spending a great deal of time looking over the new machinery. dr. wiley died in and mrs. wiley in . mrs. wiley lived to the age of years. little erma purviance, daughter of dr. w. e. and edith e. purviance, of omaha, is a great-granddaughter of mrs. wiley, and also a namesake. may she possess some of the virtue and intelligence of her ancestor. note: mrs. wiley's two daughters, araminta and hattie, were students in the early years at brownell hall, then the only means of obtaining an education, as there were very few public schools. some of the children and grandchildren still live on the lands taken by dr. and mrs. wiley, and have always been among the well-to-do citizens of cass county. mrs. edith erma purviance, the writer of the foregoing article, spent most of her girlhood with her grandmother, who sent her to the state university, where she made good use of her advantages. other children of mrs. wiley were also university students or identified with the various schools of the state. mrs. a. dove wiley asche, youngest daughter of mrs. wiley, now occupies the old home, out of which so recently went the brave pioneer who made it of note among the early homes of the territory.--harriett s. macmurphy. the badger family lewis h. badger drove with his parents, henry l. and mary a. badger, from their home in livingston county, illinois, to fillmore county, nebraska. they had a covered emigrant wagon and a buggy tied behind. lewis was twelve years old october , , the day they crossed the missouri river at nebraska city, the nearest railroad station to their future home. the family stayed with friends near saltillo while h. l. badger came on with the horse and buggy and picked out his claim on the north side of fillmore county, it being the northwest quarter of section , township , range , west of the sixth principal meridian. at that time the claims were taken near the river in order that water might be obtained more easily, and also to be near the railroad which had been surveyed and staked out in the southern edge of york county near the west blue river. the badger family came on to lincoln, then a mere village, and stopped there. they bought a log chain, and lumber for a door; the window frames were hewed from logs. when they reached the claim they did not know where to ford the river so they went on farther west to whitaker's and stayed all night. there they forded the river and came on to the claim the next morning, october , . there they camped while mr. badger made a dugout in the banks of the west blue river, where the family lived for more than two years. the hollow in the ground made by this dugout can still be seen. in h. l. badger kept the postoffice in the dugout. he received his commission from postmaster general creswell. the postoffice was known as west blue. about the same time e. l. martin was appointed postmaster at fillmore. those were the first postoffices in fillmore county. before that time the settlers got their mail at mcfadden in york county. mr. badger kept the postoffice for some time after moving into the log house and after the establishment of the postoffice at fairmont. in the indians were all on reservations but by permission of the agents were allowed to go on hunting trips. if they made trouble for the settlers they were taken back to the reservations. while the badgers were living in the dugout a party of about one thousand omaha indians came up the river on a hunting trip. some of their ponies got away and ate some corn belonging to a man named dean, who lived farther down the river. the man loved trouble and decided to report them to the agent. the indians were afraid of being sent back to the reservation so the chief, prairie chicken, his brother, sammy white, and seventeen of the other indians came into the dugout and asked mr. badger to write a letter to the agent for them stating their side of the case. this he did and read it to sammy white, the interpreter, who translated it for the other eighteen. it proved satisfactory to both indians and agent. in august, , while mr. badger was away helping a family named whitaker, who lived up the river, to do some breaking, the son, lewis, walked to where his father was at work, leaving mrs. badger at home alone with her four-year-old daughter. about four o'clock it began to rain very hard and continued all night. the river raised until the water came within eighteen inches of the dugout door. the roof leaked so that it was almost as wet inside as out. mr. badger and lewis stayed at the whitaker dugout. they fixed the canvas that had been the cover of the wagon over the bed to keep grandmother whitaker dry and the others sat by the stove and tried to keep warm, but could not. the next morning the men paddled down the rived to the badger dugout in a wagon box. the wagon box was a product of their own making and was all wood, so it served the purpose of a boat. it should be explained that the reason the roofs of the dugouts and log houses leaked was because of the material used in their construction. shingles were out of the question to these settlers of small means living one hundred miles from the railroad. there were plenty of trees near the river, so the settlers hewed out logs for ridge poles, then placed willow poles and brush across for a support. on top of that they put dirt and sod. when it rained the water naturally soaked through. the roof would leak for several days after a big rain. the next dwelling place of the badger family was a log house built on the south half of the quarter section. for some time they lived in the log house and kept their stock in the dugout stable on the river bank. thus they were living during the great april storm of , which lasted for three days. all of the draws and ravines, even the river, were packed full of snow that was solid enough to hold a man up. there was very little snow on the level, it all being in drifts in the low places. the badgers had a corn field between the log house and the river. while the storm raged lewis wrapped himself in a blanket, and by following the rows of corn made his way to the dugout stable and fed the horses corn once each day. it was impossible to give them water. henry l. badger was commissioned by governor butler the first notary public in fillmore county. later he was appointed by acting governor james, registrar of voters for the election to be held april , , to elect officers for the new county. at that election he was elected both county clerk and county surveyor. in the late sixties when the county was first settled the country abounded in buffalo, deer, antelope, elk, prairie chickens, wild geese, ducks, and turkeys. the muddy stream known as west blue river was clear and the fish found in it were not of the same variety as those caught now. wild plums grew in abundance along the river bank and were much larger and of finer quality than the wild plums of today. in those days glass jars for canning were not as plentiful as now, so they picked the plums late in the fall, put them in a barrel and poured water over them and kept them for winter use. lewis badger tells of going on buffalo hunts with his father and seeing herds of thousands of the big animals, and driving for ten hours through the herd. he has now an old silver half dime that he found in an abandoned stage station on the oregon trail, when on a buffalo hunt. in early days the settlers did lots of trapping. the indians were frequent visitors and one time an indian went with mr. badger and his son to look at their traps. in one trap they found a mink. mr. badger remarked that they got a mink in that same trap the day before. the indian said, "him lucky trap." the indian would not steal but he wanted the lucky trap, so the next day that trap was gone and another in its place. the indian seemed to get the best of the bargain for it is a fact that they never caught a thing in the trap he left. sammy and luke white, brothers of chief prairie chicken of the omahas, frequently visited the early settlers. sammy could talk english and was a good interpreter. he told of a big indian battle in the western part of the state wherein the sioux and cheyenne, and omahas, otoes, poncas, and pawnees all took part and fought for two days and only killed two indians. his brother, prairie chicken, killed one of the indians and scalped him in the midst of the battle. for that act of bravery he was made a chief. after telling the story of his brother, when asked about himself, sammy very modestly said, "me 'fraid, me run." on one of mr. badger's hunting trips he killed a deer. when it was dressed lewis was sent to the whitaker dugout with a quarter of the meat. an indian, pawnee jack, happened to be there at the time and it stormed so they had to keep him all night, much to their disgust. evidently he enjoyed their hospitality, especially the venison, for when they started him on the next morning he inquired where the "papoose" lived that brought the "buckskin," meaning the venison. they told him and he made straight for the badger dugout and the "buckskin." it stormed so they were forced to keep him there two nights before sending him on. although most painfully familiar to every early settler, no pioneer story is complete without the grasshoppers. they came in herds and droves and ate every green thing. for days great clouds of them passed over. the next year they hatched out in great numbers and flew away without hurting anything. mr. badger had a nice young orchard that he had planted and tended. the grasshoppers ate the leaves off the trees and as it was early in august they leaved out again and were frozen so they died. snakes feasted on the hoppers. since seeing a garter snake at that time just as full of grasshoppers as it could possibly be, lewis badger has never killed a snake or permitted one to be killed on his farm. he declared that anything that could make away with so many grasshoppers should be allowed to live. many people asked for and received the so-called "aid for grasshopper sufferers." in this section of the country it seemed absolutely unnecessary as there had been harvested a good crop of wheat, previous to the coming of the hoppers. in the railroad was built through the county. that season lewis badger sold watermelons, that he had raised, to the construction gang at work on the road. the town of fairmont was started the same year. in those days the settlers would walk to town. it was nothing unusual for mr. and mrs. badger and lewis to walk to fairmont, a distance of six miles. when the badger family settled on their claim, they planted a row of cottonwood trees around it. these trees have made a wonderful growth. in part of them were sawed into lumber. there are two especially large cottonwood trees on the farm. one measures twenty-six feet in circumference at the base and nineteen feet around five feet above the ground and runs up forty feet before it begins to branch out. the other is thirty-three feet around the base but branches into three trees four feet above the ground. mrs. h. l. badger was a witness of the first wedding in the county, that of wm. whitaker and sabra brumsey, which took place june , . the ceremony was performed by the first county judge, wm. h. blaine, who stayed all night at the badger home and attended the wedding the next day. mrs. h. l. badger died january , , and mr. badger july , . the son lewis and family still own and farm the old homestead. first white settler in fillmore county the first settlement in fillmore county, nebraska, was made in by nimrod j. dixon, a native of pennsylvania. he was married to lydia gilmore, who had previously filed on a homestead adjoining his. mr. and mrs. dixon continued to reside on their homestead until they moved to fairmont, nebraska, where they are now living, having lived on the farm forty years. mr. and mrs. dixon were married february , , at the home of mrs. dixon's father, elias gilmore, near blue vale. mr. dixon got the license at nebraska city. from that time until the summer of they were the only settlers in the county and were seven or eight miles from the nearest neighbor. in relating her experiences mrs. dixon said: "i was afraid to stay alone, so when mr. dixon had to go away i went with him or my sisters stayed with me. at that time we had to go to milford for flour and twenty-five miles to get a plow-lay sharpened. at such times mr. dixon would stay at my father's home near blue vale and help them two or three days with their breaking, in return for which one of the boys would come and help him. "the indians visited us frequently and i was afraid of them. one time a number of them came and two entered the dugout and asked for flour. we gave them as much as we could spare, but they could see the flour sitting on a bench behind the door and wanted more. we refused, but they became very insistent, so much so that mr. dixon grabbed a black-snake whip that hung on the wall and started toward them. this show of resistance was all that was necessary. it proved to the indians that mr. dixon was not afraid of them, so they gave him powder and shot to regain his friendship. "an indian came in one day and gave me a lot of beads, then he wanted flour, which we gave him. he took it and held it out to me, saying, 'squaw cook it, squaw cook it!' this i refused to do, so he said, 'give me the beads, give me the beads.' "my baby, arthur, born january , , was the first white child born in fillmore county. i recall one time that i was home alone with the baby. an indian came in and handed me a paper that said he had lost a pony. i assured him that we had seen nothing of the pony. he saw a new butcher knife that was lying on the table, picked it up, and finally drew out his old knife and held it toward me, saying, 'swap, swap!' i said, 'yes,' so he went away with my good knife. "the worst fright i ever did have was not from indians. my sister minnie was with me and we were out of salt. mr. dixon said he would go across the river to whitaker's and borrow some. we thought that he wouldn't be gone long so we stayed at home. while he was away a cloud came up and it began to rain. i never did see it rain harder. the river raised, and the water in the ravine in front of the dugout came nearly to the door. the roof leaked so we were nearly as wet indoors as we would have been out. the rain began about four o'clock in the afternoon. it grew dark and mr. dixon did not return. we thought that he would certainly be drowned in trying to cross the river. while we were in this state of suspense, the door burst open and a half-clad woman rushed in, saying, 'don't let me scare you to death.' i was never so frightened in my life, and it was some time before i recognized her as my neighbor, mrs. fairbanks. "mr. and mrs. fairbanks had gone to whitaker's, who were coopers, to get some barrels fixed for sorghum, and left the children at home. when it rained they thought they must try to cross the river and get to their children. mr. dixon came with them. at first they tried to ride horses across, but the one mrs. fairbanks was riding refused to swim and threw her into the water, so she had to swim back. they were all excellent swimmers, so they started again in a wagon box which those on land tried to guide by means of a line. with the aid of the wagon box and by swimming they succeeded in getting across. that was in the fall of . "the only time i ever saw a buffalo skinned was when a big herd stayed a week or more on the south side of the river. kate bussard and i stood on the top of the dugout and watched the chase, and after they killed one we went nearer and watched them skin it." mr. dixon took his claim without seeing it. in october, , he went to the land office and learned that he could then take a homestead of one hundred and sixty acres but the new law would soon go into effect providing that settlers could only homestead eighty acres. mr. dixon was afraid that he could not go and see the claim and get back to nebraska city and file on it in time to get one hundred and sixty acres. in telling about it mr. dixon says, "i thought it would, indeed, be a poor quarter section that would not have eighty acres of farm land, so i took my chances. "in the year , the first year that we had any crops planted, it almost forgot to rain at all. the barley was so short that it fell through the cradle. there were no bridges so we had to ford the river. it was hard to haul much of a load across because the wagon would cut into the mud on the two banks while the sandy river bottom would stand a pretty good load. that difficulty i overcame by making bundles or sheaves of willow poles and placing them at the two banks and covering them with sand. later the settlers made a bridge across the river near the homestead of h. l. badger. this has ever since been known as the 'badger bridge.' the first bridge was made of logs which we procured along the river. "i was making a hayrack of willow poles at the time of the total eclipse of the sun. it began to grow dark, the chickens went to roost, and it seemed that night was coming on. "the year was rainy and we raised good crops and fine potatoes that season. that was the year they were driving texas cattle up to eat the northern grass and then ship them east over the union pacific railroad. the cattle stampeded, so they lost many of them and we saw them around for a year or more. "my first buffalo hunt was in . the country seemed to be covered with great herds and the indians were hunting them. twenty of us started out with five wagons. there were jake and boss gilmore, jim johnson, and myself in one wagon. we had only about three days' supplies with us, expecting to get buffalo before these were exhausted, but the indians were ahead of us and kept the buffalo out of our range. our party crossed the little blue at deweese. beyond there we found carcasses of buffalo and a fire where the indians had burned out a ranch. realizing that it was necessary for us to take precautions, we chose colonel bifkin our leader and decided to strike another trail and thus avoid the indians if possible. we traveled toward the republican river but found no track of either buffalo or indians, so we turned around and followed the indians. by that time our food supply was exhausted, but by good luck we shot two wild turkeys. "we were soon following the indians so closely that we ate dinner where they ate breakfast and by night we were almost in sight of them. we thought it best to put out a guard at night. my station was under a cottonwood tree near a foot-log that crossed a branch of the little blue. i was to be relieved at eleven o'clock. i heard something coming on the foot-log. i listened and watched but it was so dark that i could see nothing, but could hear it coming closer; so i shot and heard something drop. colonel bifkin, who was near, coming to relieve me, asked what i was shooting at. 'i don't know, perhaps an indian; it dropped,' i replied. we looked and found merely a coon, but it did good service as wagon grease, for we had forgotten that very necessary article. "the indians kept the main herd ahead of them so we were only able to see a few buffalo that had strayed away. we went farther west and got two or three and then went into camp on the little blue. we always left a guard at camp and all of the fun came when boss gilmore and i were on guard so we missed it. the others rounded up and killed about twenty buffalo. one fell over the bluff into the river and it fell to our lot to get it out and skin it, but by the time we got it out the meat had spoiled. the water there was so full of alkali that we could not drink it and neither could the horses, so we started back, struck the freight road and followed it until we came to deep well ranch on the platte bottom. we had driven without stopping from ten o'clock in the forenoon till two o'clock in the morning. we lay down and slept then, but i was awakened early by chickens crowing. i roused the others of our party and we went in search of something to eat. it had been eight days since we had had any bread and i was never so bread-hungry as then. we came to the martin home about three miles west of grand island and although we could not buy bread, the girls baked biscuits for us and i ate eleven biscuits. that was the home of the two martin boys who were pinned together by an arrow that the indians shot through both of them while riding on one pony. "that morning i saw the first construction train that came into grand island over the union pacific railroad. if i remember correctly it was in november, . "we took home with us five wagonloads of buffalo meat. i did not keep any of the hides because i could not get them tanned. mr. gilmore got indian women to tan a hide for him by giving them sugar and flour. they would keep asking for it and finally got all that was coming to them before the hide was done, so they quit tanning, and mr. gilmore had to keep baiting them by giving them more sugar and flour in order to get it done." mr. and mrs. dixon have eight children, all living. they still own the original homestead that was their home for so many years. pioneering in fillmore county by john r. mccashland in the fall of , with mrs. mccashland and two children, addie and sammy, i left livingston county, illinois, and drove to fillmore county, nebraska. we started with two wagons and teams. i had three good horses and one old plug. i drove one team and had a man drive the other until i became indignant because he abused the horses and let him go. mrs. mccashland drove the second team the rest of the way. a family of neighbors, thomas roe's, were going west at the same time, so we were together throughout the journey until we got lost in the western part of iowa. the road forked and we were so far behind we did not see which way roe turned and so went the other way. it rained that night and a dog ate our supplies so we were forced to procure food from a settler. we found the roe family the next evening just before we crossed the missouri river, october , . east of lincoln we met a prairie schooner and team of oxen. an old lady came ahead and said to us, "go back, good friends, go back!" when questioned about how long she had lived here, she said, "i've wintered here and i've summered here, and god knows i've been here long enough." when mrs. mccashland saw the first dugout that she had ever seen, she cried. it did not seem that she could bear to live in a place like that. it looked like merely a hole in the ground. we finally reached the settlement in fillmore county and lived in a dugout with two other families until i could build a dugout that we could live in through the winter. that done, i picked out my claim and went to lincoln to file on it and bought lumber for a door and for window frames. i looked the claim over, chose the site for buildings, and when home drew the plans of where i wanted the house, stable, well, etc., on the dirt hearth for mrs. mccashland to see. she felt so bad because she had to live in such a place that i gave it up and went to the west blue river, which was near, felled trees, and with the help of other settlers hewed them into logs and erected a log house on the homestead. while living in the dugout indian women visited mrs. mccashland and wanted to trade her a papoose for her quilts. when she refused, they wanted her to give them the quilts. i had just forty-two dollars when we reached fillmore county, and to look back now one would hardly think it possible to live as long as we did on forty-two dollars. there were times that we had nothing but meal to eat and many days we sent the children to school with only bread for lunch. i was a civil war veteran, which fact entitled me to a homestead of one hundred and sixty acres. i still own that homestead, which is farmed by my son. after visiting in the east a few years ago i decided that i would not trade my quarter section in fillmore county for several times that much eastern land. fillmore county in the seventies by william spade we came to nebraska in october of by wagon and wintered a mile east of what now is the red lion mill. we made several trips to lincoln during the fall and winter and one to nebraska city, where brother dan and i shucked corn for a farmer for a dollar a day with team. i moved on the william bussard claim, later the elof lindgren farm, in march, , and raised a crop, then moved on our homestead in section , town , range west. we built part dugout and part sodup for a house and slept in it the first night with only the blue sky for a roof. then we put on poles, brush, hay, dirt, and sod for a roof. this was in october, and we lived in this dugout until , then built a sod house. in april, , we had a three days' snow storm called a blizzard. in the spring of i attended the election for the organization of the county of fillmore. i followed farming as an occupation and in the fall of william howell and i bought a threshing machine, which we ran for four seasons. some of the accounts are still due and unpaid. our lodging place generally was the straw stack or under the machine and our teams were tied to a wagon, but the meals we got were good. aside from farming and threshing i put in some of the time at carpentry, walking sometimes six miles back and forth, night and morning. in july or august, , we had a visit from the grasshoppers, the like of which had never been seen before nor since. they came in black clouds and dropped down by the bushel and ate every green thing on earth and some things in the earth. we had visits from the indians too but they mostly wanted "hogy" meat or something to fill their empty stomachs. well, i said we built a sodup of two rooms with a board floor and three windows and two doors, plastered with nebraska mud. we thought it a palace, for some time, and were comfortable. in june, , i took a foolish notion to make a fortune and in company with ten others, supplied with six months' provisions, started for the black hills. we drove ox teams and were nearly all summer on the road; at least we did not reach the mining places till august. in the meantime the water had played out in the placer mining district so there was "nothing doing." we prospected for quartz but that did not pan out satisfactorily, so we traded our grub that we did not need for gold dust and returned to our homes no richer than when we left. however, we had all of the fresh venison we could use both coming and going, besides seeing a good many indians and lots of wild country that now is mostly settled up. early days in nebraska by j. a. carpenter i came to gage county, nebraska, in the fall of , and homesteaded acres of land, four miles from the village of beatrice, in the blue river valley. i built a log house x feet with one door and two windows. the floor was made of native lumber in the rough, that we had sawed at a mill operated by water power. with my little family i settled down to make my fortune. though drouth and grasshoppers made it discouraging at times, we managed to live on what little we raised, supplemented by wild game--that was plentiful. wild turkeys and prairie chickens could be had by going a short distance and further west there were plenty of buffalo and antelope. our first mail was carried from nebraska city on horseback. the first paper published in gage county was in and was called the _blue valley record_. in a postoffice was established in the settlement where we lived, which was an improvement over going four miles for mail. for the first schoolhouse built in the district where i lived i helped haul the lumber from brownville, nebraska, on the missouri river, sixty-five miles from the village of beatrice. the first few crops of wheat we raised were hauled to nebraska city, as there was no market at home for it. on the return trip we hauled merchandise for the settlement. every fall as long as wild game was near us we would spend a week or two hunting; to lay in our winter supply of meat. i remember when i came through where the city of superior now is, first in and again in , nothing was to be seen but buffalo grass and a few large cottonwood trees. i killed a buffalo near the present town of hardy. we have lived in nebraska continuously since and it is hard to believe the progress that it has made in these few years. reminiscences of gage county by albert l. green the writer has in his possession an old map of the north american continent published in london in , twelve years after the close of the american revolution, whereon the region now comprising the state of nebraska is shown as a part of quivera; that supposed kingdom of fabulous riches in quest of which coronado pursued his tedious wanderings more than three hundred years ago. at the time this map was published the french had visited indian tribes as far west as the missouri, and it must have been from french and spanish sources that the geographer and map-maker gathered the information that enabled him to compile that part of his map covering the vast unknown regions of the west. guess-work and supposition resulted in elongations and abbreviations of territory and rivers that made it possible for him to show our own blue river as emptying into the gulf of california, and the great kingdoms of quivera and teguayo as extending from the missouri river to the pacific coast. the greater part of what is now mexico is shown as "new biscay" and "new navarre," while mexico or "new spain" is crowded down towards central america. the existence of the rocky mountains, at the time this map was made, was unknown; and the whole region covered by them is shown as a vast plain. while spending leisure hours among some rare old books in the library of the union league of philadelphia, i came across the chronicles of coronado's wanderings and adventures, as detailed by his monkish chaplain and preserved in the spanish archives. a careful perusal of these fully convinced me that the route traversed was through eastern nebraska as far northward as the present site of lincoln, and possibly as far as the platte. the great salt marsh was referred to, and the particulars of a disastrous encounter with the warlike otoes are given. mention is made of the missouri nation and its bold warriors, as well as of other tribes whose habitat and hunting grounds were the plains or prairies of eastern nebraska. in prehistoric times the indian trails led along the level river bottoms where both wood and water could be obtained and where game was usually most abundant, and also in the direction of salt springs or licks where salt might be obtainable and the larger kinds of game be more plentiful. at the time of its settlement by white people the bottom lands of the blue were threaded by many deeply worn trails that had evidently been traveled for centuries and a careful consideration of happenings, as recorded by the monkish chronicler, and the fact i have just stated in regard to the prehistoric routes of travel, forces the conclusion that coronado's weary cavalcade must undoubtedly have followed the course of the blue river to a point where the well worn trail diverged towards the great salt basin. possibly the party may have encamped on the site of beatrice and there can be little doubt that one of the indian cities mentioned by the faithful monkish historian, occupied the present site of blue springs, where evidences of an ancient indian town can still be seen, and the outlines of ancient fortifications be traced. fragments of indian pottery and stone knives and implements, of both the paleolithic and the neolithic ages, are frequently turned up by the plowshare in that vicinity, all indicating a long established occupancy that must have continued for centuries. as late as the early part of the last century the pawnees occupied the site; and when the writer as united states government agent took charge of the otoes and missouris, in the summer of , there were still old warriors living who remembered hearing their fathers tell of deeds of bloody warfare done in this very vicinity, and who pointed out to the writer the very spot, in a deep draw or ravine on the prairie a few miles east of blue springs, where a war party of thirty otoes met a well-deserved, but terrible death. at the time of this occurrence the otoes were living at the mouth of the nemaha and were on very bad terms with the pawnees, many of whose scalps the writer has seen adorning otoe medicine bags or hanging in their wigwams. the pawnees had started on a buffalo hunt, leaving at home only the old and decrepit and a few children, and the otoes, knowing that the defenders of the village had started on the hunt, made an attack at daybreak the next morning, murdering and scalping old and young alike and after loading themselves with plunder, hastened on their homeward trip. unfortunately for the otoes the pawnee hunters had encamped only eight miles up indian creek and one of them that morning had returned to the village on some errand and arrived just in time to discover what was going on. the otoes wounded him severely, but he succeeded in escaping to the pawnee camp and giving the alarm. the enraged pawnee warriors, mounted on their freshest and fastest ponies, were not long in reaching the village, nor were they long in discovering the trail of the otoe war party, which they followed until they overtook it at the place pointed out to the writer. here a fierce battle took place which resulted in the complete extermination of the otoe party; the tall slough grass, in which they took shelter, having been set on fire, the wounded all perished in the conflagration. this is probably one of the most tragic incidents of which we have any knowledge as having happened within the limits of gage county. the first store established within the county was located in a log house on plum creek near the present site of the village of liberty. it was established, primarily as an indian trading place, by a mr. macdonald, of st. joseph, missouri, but was under the management of mrs. palmer, who with her husband, david, were the first white settlers within the limits of the county, having arrived in a few weeks prior to the coming of the founders of beatrice. david was drowned a few years ago while bathing in the blue. the store on plum creek, on one occasion, was raided by a party of pawnees who, loaded with plunder, were pursued by a large party of otoes, who overtook them on the little blue some distance above the present site of fairbury, and killed them all. the site of this battle was pointed out to the writer by the otoes while accompanying them on a buffalo hunt in . the skulls and bones of the slain were still in evidence at that time, being concealed in the dense thicket in which the battle had taken place. about the year a war party of osages made a raid on the aboriginal inhabitants of the county and murdered and scalped several squaws who were chopping wood near the blue. the trail of the osages was followed, by a war party of otoes, to the reservation of the former and satisfaction exacted in the shape of a gift of forty head of ponies. on their way back the otoes concluded that they had settled too cheaply and feared they might be censured by the kindred of the murdered women. they halted, and leaving the forty head of ponies under guard, made a flying raid on the osage pony herds and succeeded in stealing and getting safely away with another forty head. in due time, with eighty head of osage ponies, they made a triumphal daylight entry into their home village. if they had been unsuccessful they would have stolen in one by one during the darkness of the night. the last indian war party to traverse the soil of gage county consisted of thirty naked and painted omahas. it transpired that a party of kickapoos had raided the pony herds of the omahas and stolen thirty head of ponies, and in order to throw suspicion on the otoes, had cunningly directed their trail towards the otoe reservation, passing in the night as near to the otoe village as possible without being discovered. the otoes at this time were expecting, and trying to guard against, a raid from the osages, whom they had great reason to fear, as it was fully expected that they would exact satisfaction, sooner or later, for that extra forty head of ponies that the otoes had stolen. as a protection from the osages, the otoes had constructed a sort of a stockade of poles tied together with withes and strips of bark, in front of each wigwam, where they kept their nearly eight hundred head of ponies under careful watch every night. the omaha war party stealthily approached under cover of the darkness and finding sentinels posted and watching, they hid in the tall weeds and sunflowers as close to the stockades as they could safely get, until daybreak, when the sleepy sentinels, thinking all danger over, entered the wigwams for something to eat and a nap, then emerging from their hiding places the omahas made quick work of cutting the lashings that bound the poles and selecting thirty of the best ponies they could get hold of. the noise of the ponies' hoof-beats, as the omahas rode swiftly away, aroused the otoes, and in a very few minutes the whole village was in a commotion. fierce war whoops resounded; the heralds went about calling the braves into action and soon there was mounting in hot haste. the writer, awakened by the tumult, stepped out upon a balcony in front of the agency building and beheld a sight such as no historian of the county will ever again record. in the far distance the naked omahas were riding for their very lives, while perhaps a hundred or more otoes were lashing their ponies in a wild frenzy of pursuit. in the village the greatest commotion prevailed, the women wailed, the heralds shouted, and the dogs barked; scores of women stood on the tops of their wigwams shrieking and gesticulating and the temper of the community closely resembled that of a nest of hornets when aroused by the rude thrust of a pole. it was nearly noon when the distant war whoops, announcing the return of the pursuers, were heard; as they drew near it was apparent that they were wildly triumphant and were bringing with them the thirty hideously painted omahas. the prisoners were delivered to the agent who directed his police to disarm them, and cause them to be seated on the floor of the council room where they formed a dejected looking group with their naked bodies and shaved and vermillion painted heads. it was then that their leader explained that their seizure of ponies was honestly intended as a reprisal for ponies which they had lost. old medicine horse, an otoe chief, assured them that his braves would have killed every one of them if the agent had not talked so much about the wickedness of killing, and it was only their fear of displeasing him that caused them to take prisoners instead of scalps. after much speech-making, the agent adjourned the council and suggested that the otoes take the omahas to their wigwams, feed them, and allow them to depart in peace; and this was done. the only blood shed during the campaign was in the shooting of one of elijah filley's hogs by the omahas. the first notification i had of this atrocious and bloody affair was when elijah, then quite a young man, came to see me and file a complaint, bringing with him the blood-stained arrow that had pierced the vitals of his innocent hog. perhaps one of the saddest tragedies of those early days occurred in when two homesteaders, returning to their families from a trip to brownville for provisions, were brutally murdered by a half-breed named jim whitewater. jim was just returning from a buffalo hunt and had secured a supply of whiskey from a man named wehn, at fairbury. being more than half drunk, he conceived the idea that the bravest thing he could do would be to kill some white people; and it happened that he came across the poor homesteaders just at that time. it was about dusk and the poor fellows had halted for the night, by the side of a draw where the grass was tall enough to cut for their horses. they had unharnessed their teams, tied them to the wagons and were in the act of mowing grass for them when a pistol shot rang out and one of them fell mortally wounded; the other, being attacked, and though mortally hurt, tried to defend himself with the scythe that he had been using, and in doing so cut the indian's hand, almost severing the thumb. the scene of this terrible affair was just over the gage county line in jefferson county and consequently it devolved on the sheriff of that county to discover and arrest the murderer. as whitewater had been seen in the vicinity, suspicion pointed to him and his arrest followed. he soon escaped from the officers and was hidden for two weeks, when the indian police discovered his place of concealment in the timber on wolf creek. his own brother, assisted by other indians, captured him by strategy, bound him securely with their lariats and delivered him at the agency. the writer had gone to beatrice on business and was not expected back until the next day, but in his absence his wife, then a young woman of about twenty, took energetic measures to insure the safety of the prisoner by ordering him placed in irons, and kept under a strong guard until the agent's return. in the meantime, having finished the business at beatrice and there being a full moon, the writer decided to drive the twenty miles to the agency between sundown and midnight, which he did, arriving there shortly after midnight. of course, until his arrival, he had no intimation that whitewater had been captured. before leaving home the indians had reported that they had reason to believe that he was hiding somewhere on wolf creek, as his wife had taken dried buffalo meat to that locality, and as the writer, in returning, had to drive for about forty rods through the heavy timber bordering that creek and cross it at a deep and rather dangerous ford, and knowing that whitewater had declared that he would take both the agent and the sheriff with him to the other world, and that he was heavily armed, the writer is not ashamed to confess to a feeling of nervousness almost akin to fear, as he was about to enter that stretch of timber shaded road dimly lighted by the full moon. he first carefully let down the curtains of the carriage and then made his team dash at full speed through the long stretch of timber, plunge and flounder through the ford, and out once more upon the open prairie, the driver expecting at almost any moment to hear the crack of a pistol. on arriving within sight of the agency building, instead of finding it dark and silent as he had expected, the writer was greatly surprised to see it well lighted and many indian police standing about it as if on guard. the next morning the writer with several indian chiefs and the indian police started for fairbury with the prisoner; the indians riding two abreast and carrying a large united states flag at the head of the procession. the trip was made via beatrice and the distance traveled was about fifty miles. the indians feared an attack from the rose creek settlers; neighbors and friends of the murdered men, and as they approached fairbury the entire line of indians commenced a melodious chant which the interpreter explained as nothing less than an appeal to the great spirit asking him to incline the hearts of the people to treat the indians kindly and fairly. on arriving at fairbury the cavalcade halted in the public square and was soon surrounded by the entire population of the hamlet. it was nearly dark, but the good ladies of the place set about preparing a bountiful meal for the hungry indians, to which they did ample justice. there being no jail in the place, we waived a hearing and started the next morning for pawnee city, where prison accommodations could be had. shortly after leaving fairbury the interpreter told the indians that evidently the great spirit had heard their appeal, to which they all vociferously assented. jim was kept at pawnee city until his trial, which took place at fairbury before judge o. p. mason, who sentenced him to imprisonment for life. whitewater was one of three individuals among the otoes who could read and write, the other two being battiste barneby and battiste deroin, both of whom were very capable interpreters. polygamy being allowable among the otoes, deroin was one who had availed himself of its privileges, his two wives being sisters. on learning that whitewater had been imprisoned for life, his wife soon found another husband, greatly to his sorrow and chagrin. it was during whitewater's imprisonment that the reservation was sold and the indians removed. eighteen years after his conviction he received a pardon and left the penitentiary to rejoin the tribe. what retribution he meted out to those who aided in his capture or to his wife's second husband, the writer has never learned. a year before the writer took charge of the otoes and missouris, a delegation of their chiefs had accompanied their agent major smith, to washington and made a treaty under which the whole reservation of , acres was to be sold at $ . per acre. the writer was informed by major smith that a railroad company would become the ultimate beneficiary, provided the treaty was ratified by the senate, and that he had been promised a section of land if the scheme proved successful. smith urged the writer to use all the influence possible to secure the ratification of the treaty and before the writer had taken any steps to secure its defeat, he also received an intimation, if not an absolute promise, from interested parties, that in the event of its ratification, he should have his choice of any section of land on the domain. believing that such a treaty was adverse to the interests and welfare of the indians, the writer at once set about to accomplish its defeat, in which, through the aid of eastern friends, he was finally successful. coronado's chronicler mentions, among other nations with whom the expedition came in contact, the _missourias_ as being very fierce and warlike, and it may be a matter of local historical interest to state that the missouri "nation" with which coronado became acquainted, and from which one of the world's largest rivers and one of the largest and richest states take their names, reduced to a remnant of less than one hundred individuals, found an abiding place within the limits of gage county for more than a generation. placed on a reservation with the otoes and under the care of the same agent, they still retained their own chief and their own language, though circumstances gradually induced the adoption of the otoe tongue. the old chief of the missouris was called eagle and was known as a war chief. it was his province to command and direct all hunting operations. he was a man of very striking appearance, over six feet in height, straight as an arrow, with fine features and apparently about seventy-five years of age in . he was an hereditary chief, and probably a lineal descendant of one of the kings of the missouri nation that coronado and his followers met. old eagle was the only chief of the missouris, and was respected and highly esteemed by both the missouris and the otoes. during a buffalo hunt, in which the writer participated with the indians, eagle chief was the highest authority in regard to all matters pertaining to the chase and attack on the herd. in the head chief of the otoes was arkeketah who was said to have been appointed to that position by major daily. he was a polygamist and very much opposed to the ways of the white man. in fact he was such a reactionary and stumbling-block to the progress of the tribe that the writer finally deposed him and advanced medicine horse to the position of head chief. the number of indians living within the borders of gage county in was probably not far from eight hundred. the reservation, comprising two hundred and fifty square miles, extended some distance into kansas and also took in a part of jefferson county in this state, but the indians were all domiciled in gage county. their principal village was situated close to the site now occupied by the town of barnston and where a fine spring afforded an ample supply of water. the wigwams were of a type adopted by the indians long before the discovery of america, and most of them were large enough to accommodate several families. it was a custom of the otoes to vacate the wigwams and live during the winter in tipis which were pitched in the timber where fuel was close at hand. in only three persons in the confederated tribes wore citizens clothes, the rest were all blanket indians, who, during warm weather, went almost naked, and habitually painted their faces and shaved heads, with vermillion and indigo. the principal burial place of the otoes was on a bluff overlooking the river bottoms, and within a short distance of where barnston now stands. for years it was visited, as one of the curiosities of the reservation, by the white settlers and strangers, chiefly on account of the weird and ghostly funeral oaks that stood on the brink of the bluff, bearing, lashed to their gnarled and crooked limbs, gruesome burdens of dead indians, wrapped in bark and partly mummified by the sun and wind; there was probably a score of these interesting objects resting peacefully on the boughs of these three oaks; they had been there for many years, and might possibly have remained to this day had not a great prairie fire during the summer of destroyed the oaks and their ghastly burden, leaving only an assortment of charred bones and skulls to mark the site. a strange and pathetic tragedy, in connection with this old burial place, transpired shortly before the writer took charge of the agency and its affairs; and it was from the interpreter, battiste deroin, that the particulars were obtained. the incident may be worth preserving by the local historian, as illustrating the absolute faith of the indians in a continued existence of the spirit beyond the grave. dogs were frequently strangled at children's funerals in order that the dog's spirit might accompany that of the child, and it was a common sight to see a dog's body sitting upright with its back to a stake and securely tied in that position, in the vicinity of the old burial place. the man who figured in this tragedy was very aged and feeble, and the little child was very dear to him; he doubtless knew that he had not long to live and that he very soon would have to travel over the same lonely trail that the little child was about to take. doubtless he realized fully what a comfort it would be to each, if they could take the long journey together. the otoes always buried their dead in a sitting posture; and the old man, when seated in the grave, held the body of the child in his arms. the relatives took a last farewell of both the dead child and its living caretaker; the grave was covered with a buffalo robe supported on poles or heavy sticks, and the mass of earth taken from the grave was piled thereon; this being their usual mode of burial. the custom of strangling a horse or pony at the burial of an indian brave was a common occurrence among the otoes prior to and the old burial place on the bluff was somewhat decorated with horses' skulls laid upon the graves of warriors who are supposed to have gone to heaven on horseback. the tail of the horse sacrificed was usually fastened to a pole that stood at the head of the grave. the first school established within the limits of the county was a mission school under the care of the rev. mr. murdock, and the old stone building, built for it on mission creek, was the first stone building in the county. it was a ruin in . in there were still some beavers to be found along the blue; and at that time the river abounded with large gars, some of which were three or four feet in length; a fish which has since become entirely extinct in the blue, probably because the water is no longer clear. the gar was one of the primitive fishes of the silurian age; it was very destructive of all other fish. white people never ate it, but the indians thought it fairly good. the indians obtained most of their fish by shooting with arrows from the river banks. they often succeeded in shooting very large fish owing to the clearness of the water. this could not be done now that the prairies have been put into cultivation, as that has destroyed the clearness of the water. as late as there were some wild deer in the county and little spotted fawns were occasionally caught. the writer procured two of the latter from the indians and gave them to ford roper's family in beatrice; they became very tame and were frequently seen on the streets of the town. in the writer, while driving from blue springs to beatrice, met a large buck with antlers, as it emerged from an opening in the bluffs. among the first settlers of the county were some families from tennessee who settled near the present town of liberty on plum creek. they did their own spinning and weaving, and having been accustomed to raising cotton and mixing it with the wool for spinning, they undertook to raise it here. the writer remembers seeing their cotton patches, but never saw them gathering cotton. the first bridge built in the county to cross the river, was built on market street, beatrice, about the year . it was a very narrow wooden structure, only wide enough for one wagon at a time to pass over. the firm of peavy and curtiss of pawnee city were the contractors and the contract price was $ , . it was regarded as a public improvement of very great importance to the town. ranching in gage and jefferson counties by peter jansen i came to beatrice, nebraska, in , after having been through minnesota, dakota, and kansas, looking for a place where a settlement of our people, the mennonites, could be established. of all the land i had looked over, i liked southeastern nebraska best, and the little town of beatrice on the banks of the big blue, then consisting of maybe fifty dwellings and a few stores on lower court street, seemed very picturesque and attractive. after forty years i have not changed my opinion. we found a suitable tract of prairie just across the line in jefferson county, which we bought of the burlington and missouri river railroad at $ . per acre on easy payments. beatrice remained our chief place of business. smith brothers had just started a banking business in one-half of a little shack, the other half being occupied by a watchmaker carrying a small stock of jewelry. klein & lang had a general store on the corner of second and court streets, and here we did nearly all of our trading. the "pacific house" on second street was the only hotel. here i made headquarters for some time. mr. and mrs. randall, the hosts, were very kind to me. the latter died a few years later in the prime of her life. we soon commenced to build up what was for years known as "jansen's ranch," about twenty miles southwest of beatrice, and stock it with sheep, which we brought from wisconsin. the first summer i had a temporary sheep corral about where the west side schoolhouse now stands. we used to drive from the ranch to beatrice diagonally across the prairie; very few section lines had been established, and there was only one house between the two points. major wheeler, of stage route fame, lived at the pacific house and took a kindly interest in the young emigrant boy. i remember on one occasion i had brought in a carload of valuable breeding sheep and quartered them for the night in the corral of the livery stable across the street from the hotel, run then by s. p. lester. i was afraid of strange dogs attacking them, and sat up all night on the porch watching. in the morning, while washing up in the primitive wash-room, i overheard the major telling mr. randall about it. he concluded by saying: "that young fellow is all right; a boy who sits up all night with a few sheep will certainly succeed." i felt proud over the praise, and it encouraged me very much. we were told by the few settlers who had preceded us that the upland prairie would not grow anything and that the bottom land was the only place where crops could be raised with any assurance of success. however, we were going to try farming, anyway. i bought a yoke of young oxen and a breaking plow and started in. the oxen were not well broken, and the plow was new and would not scour. besides, i did not know anything about breaking prairie or driving oxen. the latter finally became impatient and ran away, dragging the plow with them. it was a hot day in may, and they headed for a nearby slough, going into the water up to their sides. i had by that time discarded my shoes and followed them as fast as i could. when i reached the slough, quite out of breath and thoroughly disgusted, i sat down and nearly cried and wished i were back in russia where i did not have to drive oxen myself. about this time the nearest neighbor, a mr. babcock, living four miles away, happened along driving a team of old, well broken oxen. he asked what my trouble was, and after i told him in broken english, he said: "well, pete, take off your trousers and go in and get your oxen and plow out, and i will help you lay off the land and get your plow agoing," which he did, and so started me farming. my younger brother, john, and i bached it for two years. one of us would herd the sheep and the other stay at home and do the chores and cooking. we took turns about every week. we had a room partitioned off in the end of the sheep shed, where we lived. game was plentiful those days, and during the fall and winter we never lacked for meat. i had by that time, i regret to say, acquired the filthy american habit of chewing (i have quit it long since), and enjoyed it very much while doing the lonely stunt of herding the flock. one day we had gotten a new supply of groceries and also a big plug of what was known as "star" chewing tobacco. next morning i started out on my pony with the sheep, the plug in my pocket, and anticipating a good time. soon a severe thunder storm came up, and lightning was striking all around me. i felt sure i would be hit and they would find me dead with the big plug of tobacco in my pocket. my mother knew nothing of my bad habit, and i also knew that it would nearly kill her to find out, so i threw the plug far away and felt better--for awhile. the clouds soon passed away, however, and the sun came out brightly and soon found me hunting for that plug, which, to my great disappointment, i never recovered. those early winters, seems to me, were severer than they are now, and the snow storms or blizzards much fiercer, probably because the wind had an unrestricted sweep over the vast prairies. in a few years our flocks had increased, so that we built a corral and shed a mile and a half away, where we kept our band of wethers and a herder. about christmas, i think it was in , a blizzard started, as they usually did, with a gentle fall of snow, which lasted the first day. during the night the wind veered to the north, and in the morning we could not see three rods; it seemed like a sea of milk! we were very anxious to know the fate of our herder and his band of sheep, and towards noon i attempted to reach them, hitching a pair of horses to a sleigh and taking a man along. we soon got lost and drove around in a circle, blinded by the snow, for hours, my companion giving up and resigning himself to death. we probably would have both perished had it not been for the sagacity of my near horse, to which i finally gave the reins, being benummed myself. he brought us home, and you may believe the barking of the shepherd dogs sounded very musical to me as we neared the barn. we got our fuel from the indian reservation about eight miles south of us on the creek, where now stands the thriving town of diller. the indians were not allowed to sell any timber, but a generous gift of tobacco was too tempting to them to resist. rattlesnakes were found frequently in those days, and their venomous bites caused great agony and sometimes death. one sunday afternoon, wife and myself were sitting on the porch of our small frame house, while our baby was playing a few feet away in a pile of sand. our attention was attracted by her loud and gleeful crooning. looking up, we saw her poking a stick at a big rattler, coiled, ready to spring, about three feet away. i have always detested snakes and would give even a harmless bull-snake a wide berth. however, i took one big jump and landed on mr. rattler with both feet, while my wife snatched the baby out of harm's way. the next ten years made a great change. we had proven that farming on the tablelands could be made a success, railroads had been built, and towns and villages had sprung up like mushrooms. we even got a telephone. the wilderness had been conquered. when i look back upon those first years of early settlement, with their privations and hardships, i cannot refrain from thinking they were the happiest ones of my life, especially after i got married in and my dear wife came to share joy and sorrow with me. to her i attribute to a very large extent what little i may have achieved in the way of helping to build up this great commonwealth. [illustration: mrs. frances avery haggard third state regent, nebraska society, daughters of the american revolution. ] early recollections of gage county by mrs. e. johnson emerson aptly said, "america is another word for opportunity." we realize this most truly when we compare present prosperity with early day living in the middle west. in my brother, a. m. mcmaster, and family, arrived in nebraska city. they came overland to gage county and settled on section , two and a half miles northeast of filley and one mile south of what was then known as melroy postoffice, so-called in honor of two little boys born the same year the postoffice was established, mell gale and roy tinklepaugh, whose parents were among the earliest settlers in this neighborhood. my brother built his house of lumber he had shipped to nebraska city. beatrice was our market place. we sold all our grain, hogs, and produce there. eggs were five cents a dozen and butter six cents a pound. the first year we came we bought five hundred bushels of corn at twelve cents a bushel delivered, and cribbed it. there was an indian trail across the farm, and often the indians would pass going from the omaha reservation to the otoe reservation at barnston; the children would become frightened and hide under the bed; the indians would often call and ask for flour and meat. there was not a house between elijah filley's stone barn and beatrice on the scott street road, and no bridges. the trail we followed going to beatrice led us north to melroy, making the traveling distance one and a half miles farther than in these times of well preserved section lines and graded country roads. this stone barn of elijah filley's was an early landmark. i have heard mr. filley tell interesting anecdotes of his early years here, one of an indian battle near the present site of virginia. before the town of filley was in existence, there was a postoffice called "cottage hill," which is shown on old time maps of the state. one of the curiosities of the early times was a cow with a wooden leg, running with a herd of cattle. the hind leg was off at the knee joint. she was furnishing milk for the family of her owner, a mr. scott living on mud creek, near the town of filley. mr. scott often told of pounding their corn to pulverize it. the nearest mill was at nebraska city. this difficult traffic continued until , when the burlington came through filley. two or three years after we had located here, two young men came along from kansas looking for work. my brother was away from home, working at carpentry, and his wife, fearing to be alone, would lock the stair door after they retired and unlock it in the morning before they appeared. they gathered the corn and then remained and worked for their board. one day, one of the young men was taken sick. the other was sent for dr. boggs. he lost his way in a raging blizzard and came out five miles north of where he intended to, but reached the doctor and secured medicine, the doctor not being able to go. the next day dr. boggs, with his son to shovel through the drifts, succeeded in getting there. the young man grew worse, they sent for his mother, and she came by stage. the storm was so fierce the stage was left there for a week; the horses were taken to melroy postoffice. the young man died and was taken in the stage to beatrice to be shipped home, men going with shovels to dig a road. arriving there it was found that the railroad was blocked. as they could not ship the body, they secured a casket and the next day brought it back to our house. my brother was not at home, and they took the corpse to a neighbor's house. the next day they buried him four miles east, at what is now known as crab orchard. true, life in those days tended to make our people sturdy, independent and ingenious, but for real comfort it is not strange that we prefer present day living, with good mail service, easy modes of transportation, modern houses, and well equipped educational institutions. biography of ford lewis by (mrs. d. s.) h. virginia lewis dalbey as my father, ford lewis, was one of the pioneer land owners in nebraska and assisted actively in settling the southeast part of the state, i have been requested to give a brief sketch of his life and early experiences in this state. my only regret in writing this is that he is not here to speak for himself. ford lewis was born in deckertown, new jersey, july , , son of phoebe and levi lewis, the latter engaged in mercantile business both in hamburg and hackettstown, new jersey. after finishing his education at william rankin's classical school and studying under chris marsh, author of double entry bookkeeping, he assisted his father in the mercantile business for some time. however, he preferred other pursuits and after a successful test of his judgment in real estate, started west. at syracuse, new york, he was induced to engage in partnership under the name of chapman & lewis, watch case manufacturers and importers of watch movements; keeping standard time for the new york central and other roads and supplying railroad officials, conductors, and engineers with the highest grade of watches. selling his interest in , he accepted the general agency of the morse publishing house, new york, making his headquarters at charleston, south carolina, in winter and at cleveland, ohio, in summer, until , when he went to jerseyville, illinois, with his parents and sister, buying and selling real estate in that city and jersey county until , when, with congressman robert m. knapp, he visited nebraska, and made his first investment in government land, many of his united states patents being signed by presidents grant and johnson. ford lewis was in pioneer days one of the largest owners of farm lands in nebraska, his holdings being chiefly in pawnee, otoe, gage, johnson, and lancaster counties. on one of his advertising cards he states that, "occupied for eighteen years past in the purchase and sale of over , acres of other lands, these, on account of their well known intrinsic value have been reserved intact." mr. lewis founded the towns of lewiston in pawnee county and virginia in gage county, naming the latter in honor of his daughter. at a meeting of the nebraska legislature held at omaha in , mr. lewis was an interested spectator, and before the capital of the state was changed he predicted its location in the salt basin, almost on the spot where lincoln now stands. he accordingly purchased property in the vicinity of what is now beatrice, making a comfortable fortune as the result of his wisdom and foresight. by ford lewis' liberality to those purchasing land from him, in selling at reasonable prices, and extending their contracts during hard times, instead of making purchasers forfeit their land because of inability to meet their payments, he encouraged and assisted many settlers who are now some of nebraska's most prosperous farmers to keep their land, which is now the source of their prosperity. during the period when he was borrowing money for his investments in nebraska land, many illinois people remarked that ford lewis was "land crazy," but have since wished they had had his vision, and courage to hold their purchases through the crop failures and drouths which are sometimes the portion of every community: those who followed his advice now "rise up and call him blessed." that he was not alone in his judgment is evidenced by the large land holdings of the late lord scully of england and the late john w. bookwalter of springfield, ohio, who recently died in italy, and was a warm personal friend of my father's, having purchased some of his land from him. mr. lewis married miss elizabeth davis of jerseyville, illinois, in . she was the first girl baby born in that town, her parents being among the earliest pioneers there from new jersey; so her childhood memories of bears, indians, and slave refugees during the civil war, and roaming the woods surrounding their home prepared her to be a capable and sympathetic helpmate for my father during his many pioneer trips to nebraska. a buffalo hunt by w. h. avery in the fall of , about the last of october, a party of nine men, myself included, started out from rose creek for a buffalo hunt. at whiterock, kansas, we were joined by another party of four men with "old martin fisher," an early whiterock settler, as official guide. our equipment consisted of four wagons, one of which was drawn by a double ox team. there were numerous firearms and plenty of provisions for the trip. the party was much elated over the first day's experiences as night found us in possession of four fine buffalo. that evening while we were riding out after one of the buffalo our ears were greeted by the indian yell. looking back up a draw we saw five redmen galloping toward us. at the time we did not know they were friendly, but that was proven later. they came up to us and wanted powder or "bullet" and also wanted to swap guns. all they succeeded in getting was a necktie which one of the men gave them. after a short parley among themselves they left, going back to our camp where we had left one man to guard the camp and prepare supper. there they helped themselves to the loaf of bread the guard had just baked, a $ coat, a $ revolver, and one good bridle; away they went and that was the last seen of them. the night was passed in safety and the next day we hunted without any exciting experiences. the following day we met with only fair success so thought we had better start for home. in the morning the party divided, our guide, fisher, and two men going on and leaving the rest of us to hunt as we went along. we succeeded in getting only one buffalo, but fisher's men had done better and were ready to make tracks for home. that night they had suspicions that there were indians near so built no fire and in the morning soon after breaking camp a party of indians came upon them. there was considerable parleying about a number of things which the indians wanted but the men were unwilling to make any bargains whatever. all the indians but one started off and this one still wanted to parley and suddenly drew his revolver and shot fisher in the shoulder. the indian then rode off at breakneck speed and that was the last seen of them. fisher warned the men not to shoot as he was uncertain as to how many redmen might be in their vicinity and he did not want to take any great risk of them all being killed. our party did not know of the accident until we returned home and we had no encounter with the party of indians. we were thankful to be safely home after a ten days hunt. a grasshopper raid by edna m. boyle allen perhaps children who live in a pioneer country remember incidents in their early life better than children living in older settled countries. these impressions stand out clearly and in prominence all the rest of their lives. at least there are several things which happened before i was six years old that are as vivid in my memory as if they had happened but yesterday. such was the coming of the grasshoppers in , when i was two years old. my father, judge boyle, then owned the block on the north side of fifth street between i and j streets, in the village of fairbury. our house stood where j. a. westling's house now stands. near our place passed the stage road to beatrice. a common remark then was, "we are almost to fairbury, there is boyle's house." father always had a big garden of sweet corn, tomatoes, cabbage, etc., and that year it was especially fine. one day he came rushing home from his office saying, "the grasshoppers are coming." mother and he hurried to the garden to save all the vegetables possible before the grasshoppers arrived. i put on a little pink sunbonnet of which i was very proud, and went out to watch my parents gather the garden truck as fast as they could and run to the cellar door and toss it down. i jumped up and down thoroughly enjoying the excitement. finally, the grasshoppers, which were coming from the northwest like a dark cloud, seeming so close, father shut the cellar door before he and mother returned to the garden for another load. they had just filled their arms when the grasshoppers began to drop and not wishing to let any down cellar they threw what vegetables they had on the ground and turned a big wooden wash tub over them. by this time my little pink sunbonnet was covered with big grasshoppers. mother picked me up in her arms and we hurried into the house. from the north kitchen window we watched every stalk of that garden disappear, even the onions were eaten from the ground. when father went to get the vegetables from under the wooden tub there wasn't a thing there. the grasshoppers had managed to crawl and dig their way under the edge of that tub. the only time an indian ever frightened me was in the fall of . i was used to having the otoe indians come to our house. mother was not afraid of them so of course i was not. among them was a big fellow called john little pipe. the door in the hall of our house had glass in the upper half. one afternoon mother being nearly sick was lying down on the couch and i took my doll trying to keep quiet playing in the hall. looking up suddenly i saw john stooping and looking in through the glass in the door. i screamed and ran to mother. he didn't like my screaming but followed me into the sitting room and upon seeing mother lying down said, "white lady sick?" mother was on her feet in a moment. he sat down and after grumbling a while about my screaming he began to beg for a suit of clothes. mother said, "john, you know well enough you are too large to wear my husband's clothes." then he wanted something for his squaw and children. finally mother gave him an old dress of hers. he looked it over critically and asked for goods to patch it where it was worn thin. grabbing his blanket where it lay across his knees he shook it saying, "wind, whew, whew." after receiving the patches, he wanted food but mother told him he could not have a thing more and for him to go. he started, but toward the closet he had seen her take the dress from. she said, "you know better than to go to that door. you go out the way you came in." he meekly obeyed. i had seen him many times before and saw him several times afterward but that was the only time i was frightened. early days in pawnee county by daniel b. cropsey in march, , i left fairbury, illinois, with my two brothers and a boy friend in a covered wagon drawn by two mules. we landed at nebraska city after swimming the mules to get to the ferry on which we crossed the big muddy. we then drove to lincoln the first week in april. my father had purchased a home there on the site where the capital hotel now stands. lincoln then was but a hamlet of a few hundred people. there were no shade trees nor sidewalks and no railroad. later father built a larger house, out a considerable distance in those days, but today it faces the capitol building. the house is a brick structure, and all the bricks were hauled from nebraska city. afterwards father sold the home to chancellor fairfield of the state university. the year before we came father had come to nebraska and had bought a large body of land, about ten thousand acres, in pawnee county. i being the oldest boy in our family, it devolved upon me to go to pawnee county to look after the land, which was upland and considered by the older inhabitants of little value; but the tract is now worth about a million dollars. among other duties i superintended the opening up of the lines and plowing out fifty-two miles of hedge rows around and through this land. i am sorry to say that most of the money and labor were lost for prairie fires almost completely destroyed the hedge. i had many experiences during my two years' sojourn in pawnee county. the work was hard and tedious. shelter and drinking-water were scarce--we drank water from the buffalo wallows or went thirsty, and at times had to brave the storms in the open. the people were poor and many lived in sod houses or "dugouts," and the living was very plain. meat and fruit were rarities. the good people i lived with did their best to provide, but they were up against it. grasshoppers and the drouth were things they had to contend with. at times our meals consisted of bread and butter and pumpkin, with pumpkin pie for sunday dinner. the barn we usually carried with us. it consisted of a rope from sixty to a hundred feet long for each mule or horse and was called the lariat. i put the pony one night in the barn across the ravine, i well remember, and in the morning i found a river between the barn and me. a rain had fallen in the night and i had to wait nearly a day before i could get to the pony. our only amusement was running down young deer and rabbits and killing rattlesnakes. we often met the red man with his paint and feathers. he was ever ready to greet you with "how!" and also ready to trade ponies, and never backward about asking for "tobac." as i was neither brave nor well acquainted with the indians i was always ready to divide my "tobac." later i found out i was easy, for the boys told me whenever they met the beggar indian they told him to "puckachee," which they said meant for him to move on. we had no banks, and we cashed our drafts with the merchants. david butler was governor at that time. he was a merchant as well, and made his home in pawnee, so he was my banker. on two occasions i had the pleasure of riding with him in his buggy from pawnee to lincoln. it was indeed a privilege to ride in a buggy, for we all rode ponies those days, and i think i was envied by most of the boys and girls of pawnee. on one of my return trips with the governor my good mother had baked a nice cake for me to take with me, which i put under the seat along with a lot of wines of several kinds and grades which the governor's friends had given him. of course mother didn't know about the liquids. i'll never forget that trip. we grew very sociable and the nemaha valley grew wider and wider as we drove along; and when we arrived at pawnee the next day the cake was all gone, our faces were like full moons, and it was fully a week before i had any feeling in my flesh. i also well remember the first train which ran between lincoln and plattsmouth. that was a great day, and the burlington excursion was made up of box cars and flat cars with ties for seats. crowds of young people took advantage of the excursion and we enjoyed it much more than we would today in a well-equipped pullman. early events in jefferson county by george cross along in the seventies, when everyone was interested in the project of the erection of a united brethren college in fairbury, the leading promoter of that enterprise held a revival in the baptist church. the weather was warm and as his zeal in expounding the gospel increased he would remove his coat, vest, and collar, keeping up meantime a vigorous chewing of tobacco. the house was usually crowded and among the late-comers one night was w. a. gould, who was obliged to take a seat in front close to the pulpit. the next day some one offered congratulations at seeing him in church, as it was the first time he had ever been seen at such a place in fairbury. "yes," said gould, "i used to attend church, but that was the first time i ever sat under the actual drippings of the sanctuary, for the minister spit all over me." the most closely contested election ever held in jefferson county was that in on the question of voting bonds to the burlington and missouri railroad to secure the passing through fairbury of the line being built east from red cloud. the proposition was virtually to indirectly relieve the road from taxation for ten years. as bonding propositions were submitted in those days this was considered a very liberal one, as the taxes were supposed to offset the bonds and if the road was not built there would be neither bonds nor taxes. it required a two-thirds vote to carry the bonds and as the northern and southern portions of the county were always jealous of fairbury the contest was a bitter one. some of the stakes of the old brownville & ft. kearny survey were yet standing and some still hoped that road would be built. the people of fairbury resorted to all known devices to gain votes, some of which have not yet been revealed. it was long before the days of the australian ballot and more or less bogus tickets were in circulation at every election. on this occasion a few tickets containing a double negative were secretly circulated in a precinct bitterly opposed to the bonds. several of these were found in the ballot box and of course rejected, which left on the face of the returns a majority of one in favor of the bonds. it has always been believed that fairbury lost the road because the officials of the road, who also comprised the townsite company, thought they could make more by building up new towns of their own. [illustration: monument on the oregon trail, three miles north of fairbury erected by quivira chapter, daughters of the american revolution. dedicated october , . cost $ ] early days of fairbury and jefferson county by george w. hansen the first white settler in what is now jefferson county was daniel patterson, who established a ranch in where the overland, or oregon trail crosses the big sandy. newton glenn located the same year at the trail crossing on rock creek. the first government survey of land in this county was made in , and the plat and field notes show the location of "patterson's trading post" on the southeast quarter of section , town north, range east. early in may, , d. c. jenkins, disappointed in his search for gold at pike's peak, returned on foot pushing a wheelbarrow with all his possessions the entire distance. he stopped at the big sandy and established a ranch a short distance below patterson's place. a few weeks later, on may , , joel helvey and his family, enroute for pike's peak, discouraged by the reports of mr. jenkins and other returning gold hunters, settled on the little sandy at the crossing of the trail. about the same time came george weisel, who now lives in alexandria, james blair, whose son grant now lives near powell, on the land where his father first located, and d. c. mccanles, who bought the glenn ranch on rock creek. the helvey family have made this county their home ever since. one of joel helvey's sons, frank, then a boy of nineteen, is now living in fairbury. he knew daniel patterson and d. c. mccanles, and with his brothers thomas and jasper, buried mccanles, jim woods, and jim gordon, wild bill's victims of the rock creek tragedy of . he drove the overland stage, rode the pony express, was the first sheriff of this county, and forms a connecting link between the days of indian raids and the present. alexander majors, one of the proprietors of the overland stage line, presented each of the drivers with a bible, and frank helvey's copy is now loaned to the nebraska state historical society. thomas helvey and wife settled on little sandy, a short distance above his father's ranch, and there on july , , their son orlando, the first white child in the present limits of jefferson and thayer counties, was born. during the civil war a number of families came, settling along the little blue and in the fertile valleys of rose, cub, and swan creeks. in ives marks settled on rose creek, near the present town of reynolds, and built a small sawmill and church. he organized the first sunday school at big sandy. the first election for county officers was held in . d. l. marks was elected county clerk, t. j. holt, county treasurer, ed. farrell, county judge. in november, , ives marks was elected county treasurer. if a person was unable to pay his entire tax, he would accept a part, issue a receipt, and take a note for the balance. sometimes he would give the note back so that the party would know when it fell due. he drove around the county collecting taxes, and kept his funds in a candle box. he drove to lincoln in his one-horse cart, telling everyone he met that he was rev. ives marks, treasurer of jefferson county, and that he had five hundred dollars in that box which he was taking to the state treasurer. fairbury was laid out in august, , by w. g. mcdowell and j. b. mattingly. immediately after the survey sidney mason built the first house upon the townsite of fairbury, on the corner northwest of the public square, where now stands the u. s. postoffice. mrs. mason kept boarders, and advertised that her table was loaded with all the delicacies the market afforded, and i can testify from personal experience that the common food our market did afford was transformed into delicacies by the magic of her cooking. mrs. mason has lived in fairbury ever since the town was staked out, and now ( ), in her ninety-sixth year, is keeping her own house and performing all the duties of the home cheerfully and happily. mrs. mason's grandson, claiborn l. shader, son of mr. and mrs. a. l. shader, now of lincoln, was the first child born in fairbury. one of the most vivid and pleasant memories that comes to me after the lapse of forty-five years is that of a boy, tired and footsore from a hundred-mile walk from the missouri river, standing on the hill where the traveler from the east first sees the valley of the little blue, looking down on a little group of about a dozen houses--the village of fairbury. this was in the summer of , and was my first view of the town that was ever after to be my home. on the second floor of thomas & champlin's store i found george cross and my brother, harry hansen, running off the _fairbury gazette_, alternating in inking the types with the old-fashioned roller and yanking the lever of the old-fashioned hand press. this was about the first issue of the _gazette_ entirely printed at home. the first issues were set up at home, hauled to beatrice in a lumber wagon, and printed in the office of the beatrice _express_, until the press arrived in fairbury. when subscriptions were mostly paid in wood, butter, squash, and turnips, you can imagine what a time mr. cross had in skirmishing around for cash to pay for paper and ink, and the wages of a printer; so he decided if the paper was to survive and build up the country, he must have a printer for a partner, and he sold a half interest in the _gazette_ to my brother and me. the principal source of our revenue was from printing the commissioners' proceedings and the delinquent tax list, taking our pay in county warrants. these warrants drew ten per cent interest, were paid in a year, and we sold them to editor cramb's grandfather for seventy-five cents on the dollar. on that basis they yielded him forty per cent per annum--too low a rate, we thought, to justify holding. prairie grass grew luxuriantly in the streets. there were not enough buildings around the public square to mark it. on the west side were three one-story buildings, the best one still standing, now owned by wm. christian and used as a confectionery; it was then the office of the county clerk and board of county commissioners. the second was the pioneer store of john brown, his office as justice of the peace, and his home; the third was a shanty covered with tarred paper, the office and home of dr. showalter, physician, surgeon, politician, and sometimes exhorter; and a past master he was in them all. on the north side were two of the same class of buildings, one occupied by mr. mccaffery, whose principal business was selling a vile brand of whiskey labeled hostetter's bitters, and the other was wesley bailey's drug store and postoffice. george cross had the honor of being postmaster, but wes drew the entire salary of four dollars and sixteen cents per month, for services as deputy and rent for the office. on the east side there was but one building, thomas & champlin's farmers' store. on the south side there was nothing. on the south half of the square was our ball ground. men were at work on the foundation of the methodist church, the first church in fairbury. we were short on church buildings but long on religious discussions. where the city hall now stands were the ruins of the dugout in which judge boyle and family had lived the previous winter. he had built a more stately mansion of native cottonwood lumber--his home, law and real-estate office. m. h. weeks had for sale a few loads of lumber in his yard on the corner northeast of the square, hauled from waterville by team, a distance of forty-five miles. all supplies were hauled from waterville, the nearest railroad station, and it took nearly a week to make the round trip. judge mattingly was running a sawmill near the river, cutting the native cottonwoods into dimension lumber and common boards. the otoe indians, whose reservation was on the east line of the county, camped on the public square going out on their annual buffalo hunts. the boys spent the evenings with them in their tents playing seven-up, penny a game, always letting the indians win. they went out on their last hunt in the fall of , and traveled four hundred miles before finding any buffalo. the animals were scarce by reason of their indiscriminate slaughter by hunters, and the otoes returned in february, , with the "jerked" meat and hides of only fifteen buffalo. the western stage company ran daily to and from beatrice, connecting there by stage with brownville and nebraska city. the arrival of the stage was the great and exciting event of each day; it brought our mail and daily newspaper, an exchange to the _gazette_; and occasionally it brought a passenger. after resting from my long walk i decided to go on to republic county, kansas, and take a homestead. there were no roads on the prairie beyond marks' mill, and i used a pocket compass to keep the general direction, and by the notches on the government stones determined my location. i found so much vacant government land that it was difficult to make a choice, and after two trips to the government land office at junction city, located four miles east of the present town of belleville. i built a dugout, and to prevent my claim being jumped, tacked a notice on the door, "gone to hunt a wife." returning to fairbury, i stopped over night with rev. ives marks at marks' mill. he put me to bed with a stranger, and in the morning when settling my bill, he said: "i'll charge you the regular price, fifteen cents a meal, but this other man must pay twenty cents, he was so lavish with the sugar." on this trip i walked four hundred and forty miles. two years later i traded my homestead to mr. alfred kelley for a shotgun, and at that time met his daughter mary. mary and i celebrated our fortieth anniversary last may, with our children and grandchildren. the first schoolhouse in fairbury was completed in december, , and for some time was used for church services, dances, and public gatherings. the first term of school began january , , with p. l. chapman for teacher. in december, , i was employed to teach the winter and spring terms of school at a salary of fifty dollars a month, and taught in one room all the pupils of fairbury and surrounding country. mr. cross announced in the _gazette_ that no town of its size in the state was so badly in need of a shoemaker as fairbury, and he hoped some wandering son of st. crispin would come this way. just such a wandering shoemaker came in the person of robert christian, with all his clothes and tools in a satchel, and twenty-five cents in his pocket. he managed to get enough leather from worn-out boots given him to patch and halfsole others, and was soon prosperous. during the summer of c. f. steele built a two-story building on the lot now occupied by the first national bank, the first floor for a furniture store, the second floor for a home. when nearly completed a hurricane demolished it and scattered the lumber over the prairie for two miles south. it was a hard blow on mr. steele. he gathered together the wind-swept boards and, undismayed, began again the building of his store and business. in the fall of , william allen and i built the star hotel, a two-story building, on the east side, with accommodations for ten transient guests--large enough, we thought, for all time. in the early days of my hotel experience, i was offered some cabbages by a farmer boy--rather a reserved and studious looking lad. he raised good cabbages on his father's homestead a few miles north of town. after dickering awhile over the price, i took his entire load. he afterwards said that i beat him down below cost of production, and then cleaned him out, while i insisted that he had a monopoly and the price of cabbages should have been regulated by law. soon after, i was surprised to find him in my room taking an examination for a teacher's certificate, my room-mate being the county superintendent, and rather astonished, i said, "what! you teach school?"--a remark he never forgot. he read law with slocumb & hambel, was some time afterwards elected county attorney and later judge of this district. ten years ago he was elected one of the judges of the supreme court of the state of nebraska, and this position he still fills with distinguished ability. i scarcely need to mention that this was charles b. letton. a celebration was held on july , , at mattingly's sawmill, and enthusiasm and patriotism were greatly stimulated by the blowing of a steam whistle which had recently been installed in the mill. colonel thomas harbine, vice-president of the st. joseph & denver city r. r. co., now the st. joseph & grand island railroad, made the principal address, his subject being "the railroad, the modern civilizer, may we hail its advent." the otoe indian, jim whitewater, got drunk at this celebration, and on his way to the reservation murdered two white men who were encamped near rock creek. he was arrested by the indians, brought to fairbury, and delivered to the authorities, after which chief pipe stem and chief little pipe visited the _gazette_ office and watched the setting of type and printing on the press with many a grunt of satisfaction. i was present at the trial of whitewater the following spring. after the verdict of guilty was brought in, judge o. p. mason asked him if he had anything to say why judgment should not be pronounced. whitewater proceeded to make a lengthy speech, ridiculed the former sheriff, s. j. alexander, and commenced criticizing the judge. the judge ordered him to sit down. a look of livid rage came over whitewater's face, and he stooped slightly as though to spring. then the judge turned pale, and in that rasping voice which all who knew him remember well, commanded the sheriff to seat the prisoner, which was done. the spring of marked a new era in the life of fairbury. on march th of that year the st. joseph and denver city railroad built into and through our city. from the time the track-layers struck jenkin's mills, a crowd of us went down every day to see the locomotive and watch the progress of the work. one of our fondest dreams had come true. in the fall of col. thomas harbine began the erection of the first bank building, a one-story frame structure on the east side of the square. george cross was the bank's first customer, and purchased draft no. . upon the death of col. harbine's son john, in august, , i became cashier, bookkeeper, teller, and janitor of the "banking house of thomas harbine." in this bank incorporated under the state banking law as the "harbine bank of fairbury," and i have been connected with it in various capacities ever since. we had our pleasures in those pioneer days, but had to make them ourselves. theatrical troupes never visited us--we were not on the circuit--but we had a dramatic company of our own. mr. charles b. slocumb, afterwards famous as the author of the slocumb high license law, was the star actor in the club. a local critic commenting on our first play said: "mr. slocumb as a confirmed drunkard was a decided success. w. w. watson as a temperance lecturer was eminently fitted for his part. g. w. hansen as a hard-up student would have elicited applause on any stage." election days in those "good old times" gave employment to an army of workers sent out by candidates to every precinct to make votes, and to see that those bought or promised were delivered. john mct. gibson of gibson precinct, farmer, green-backer, and poet, read an original poem at a fourth of july celebration forty years ago, one verse of which gives us an idea of the bitterness of feeling existing in the political parties of that time: "unholy mammon can unlock the doors of congress halls and legislative floors, dictate decisions of its judges bought, and poison all the avenues of thought. metes out to labor miseries untold, and grasps forever at a crown of gold." i do not care to live too much in the past; but when the day's work is done, i love to draw aside the curtain that hides the intervening years, and in memory live over again fairbury's pioneer days of the early seventies. grasshoppers and drouth brought real adversity then, for, unlike the present, we were unprepared for the lean years. but we had hope and energy, and pulled together for the settlement of our county and the growth and prosperity of fairbury. we dreamed then of the days to come--when bridges should span the streams, and farm houses and fields of grain and corn should break the monotony of the silent, unending prairie. we were always working for better things to come--for the future. the delectable mountains were always ahead of us--would we ever reach them? the earliest romance of jefferson county, nebraska by george w. hansen one hundred and three years ago hannah norton was born "away down east" in the state of maine. hannah married jason plummer, and in the year , seized by the wanderlust, they decided to move west. one morning their little daughter eleanor, four years old, stood outside the cabin door with her rag doll pressed tightly to her breast, and watched her parents load their household goods into the heavy, covered wagon, yoke up the oxen, and make preparations for a long journey. as little eleanor clambered up the wheel and into the wagon, she felt none of the responsibilities of the long pioneer life that lay before her, nor did she know or care about her glorious ancestry. only a few decades previous her ancestor, major peter norton, who had fought gallantly in the war of the revolution, had gone to his reward. his recompense on earth had been the consciousness of patriotic duty well performed in the cause of liberty and independence. a hero he was, but the maine woods were full of revolutionary heroes. he was not yet famous. it was reserved for peter norton's great-great-great-granddaughters to perpetuate the story of his heroic deeds. one, mrs. auta helvey pursell, the daughter of our little eleanor, is now a member of quivera chapter, d. a. r., of fairbury, nebraska, and another, lillian norton, is better known to the world she has charmed with her song, as madame nordica. but little eleanor was wholly unmindful of past or future on that morning long ago. she laughed and chattered as the wagon rolled slowly on its westward way. a long, slow, and painful journey through forests and over mountains, then down the ohio river to cincinnati was at last finished, and the family made that city their home. after several years the oxen were again yoked up and the family traveled to the west, out to the prairies of iowa, where they remained until . then, hearing of a still fairer country where free homes could be taken in fertile valleys that needed no clearing, where wild game was abundant and chills and fever unknown, jason, hannah, and eleanor again traveled westward. after a toilsome journey they settled in swan creek valley, nebraska territory, near the present northern line of jefferson county. theirs were pioneer surroundings. the only residents were ranchers scattered along the creeks at the crossings of the oregon trail. a few immigrants came that year and settled in the valleys of the sandys, swan creek, cub creek, rose creek, and the little blue. no human habitation stood upon the upland prairies. the population was four-fifths male, and the young men traveled up and down the creeks for miles seeking partners for their dances, which were often given. but it was always necessary for a number of men to take the part of ladies. in such cases they wore a handkerchief around one arm to distinguish them. the advent of a new family into the country was an important event, and especially when a beautiful young lady formed a part of it. the families of joel helvey and jason plummer became neighborly at once, visiting back and forth with the friendly intimacy characteristic of all pioneers. paths were soon worn over the divide between joel helvey's ranch on the little sandy and the plummer home on swan creek, and one of joel's boys was accused of making clandestine rambles in that direction. certain it was that many of the young men who asked eleanor for her company to the dances were invariably told that frank helvey had already spoken. their dejection was explained in the vernacular of the time--they had "gotten the mitten." the music for the dances was furnished by the most energetic fiddlers in the land, and the art of playing "fisher's hornpipe," "devil's dream," and "arkansaw traveler" in such lively, triumphant tones of the fiddle as played by joe baker and hiram helvey has been lost to the world. sometimes disputes were settled either before or after the dance by an old-fashioned fist fight. in those days the accepted policy was that if you threshed your adversary soundly, the controversy was settled--there was no further argument about it. at one dance on the little sandy some "boys" from the blue decided to "clear out" the ranchers before the dance, and in the lively melee that followed, frank helvey inadvertently got his thumb in his adversary's mouth; and he will show you yet a scar and cloven nail to prove this story. the ranchers more than held their own, and after the battle invited the defeated party to take part in the dance. the invitation was accepted and in the morning all parted good friends. on august , , the overland stage, which had been turned back on its way to the west, brought news that the sioux and cheyenne were on the warpath. they had massacred entire settlements on the little blue and along the trail a few miles west, and were planning to kill every white person west of beatrice and marysville. for some time the friendly old indians had told joel helvey that the young men were chanting the old song: "some day we shall drive the whites back across the great salt water whence they came; happy days for the sioux when the whites go back." little attention had been paid to these warnings, the helvey family believing they could take care of themselves as they had during the past eighteen years in the indian country. but the report brought by the stage was too alarming to be disregarded; and the women asked to be taken to a place of safety. at this time mrs. plummer and her daughter eleanor were visiting at the home of joel helvey. they could not return to swan creek, for news had come that all swan creek settlers had gone to beatrice. there was no time to be lost. the women and father helvey, who was then in failing health, were placed in wagons, the boys mounted horses to drive the cattle, and all "struck out" over the trail following the divide towards marysville, where breastworks had been thrown up and stockades had been built. during the day frank found many excuses to leave the cattle with his brothers while he rode close to the wagon in which eleanor was seated. it was a time to try one's courage and he beguiled the anxious hours with tales of greater dangers than the impending one and assured her, with many a vow of love, that he could protect her from any attack the indians might make. the first night the party camped at the waterhole two miles northwest of the place where now an imposing monument marks the crossing of the oregon trail and the nebraska-kansas line. towards evening of the next day they halted on horseshoe creek. in the morning it was decided to make this their permanent camp. there was abundant grass for their stock, and here they would cut and stack their winter hay. a man in the distance saw the camp and ponies, and mistaking the party for indians, hurried to marysville and gave the alarm. captain hollenberg and a squad of militia came out and from a safe distance investigated with a spyglass. finding the party were white people he came down and ordered them into marysville. the captain said the indians would kill them all and, inflamed by the bloodshed, would be more ferocious in their attack on the stockade. the helveys preferred taking their chances with the indians rather than leave their cattle to the mercies of the kansas jayhawkers, and told the captain that when the indians came they would get to marysville first and give the alarm. their camp was an ideal spot under the grateful shadow of noble trees. the songs of birds in the branches above them, the odor of prairie flowers and the new-mown hay about them, lent charm to the scene. two of the party, at least, lived in an enchanted land. after the blistering heat of an august day frank and eleanor walked together in the shadows and coolness of night and watched the moon rise through the trees. and here was told the old, old story, world old yet ever new. here were laid the happy plans for future years. and yet through all these happy days there ran a thread of sorrow. father joel helvey failed rapidly, and on september he passed away. after he was laid to rest, the entire party returned to the ranch on little sandy. the day for the wedding, september , at last arrived. none of the officers qualified to perform marriage ceremonies having returned since the indian raid, frank and eleanor, with frank's sister as chaperon, drove to beatrice. on arriving there they were delighted to meet eleanor's father. his consent to the marriage was obtained and he was asked to give away the bride. the marriage party proceeded to judge towle's cabin on the big blue where the wedding ceremony was solemnly performed and "pap" towle gave the bride the first kiss. and thus, just fifty years ago, the first courtship in jefferson county was consummated. experiences on the frontier by frank helvey i was born july , , in huntington county, indiana. my father, joel helvey, decided in to try his fortune in the far west. our family consisted of father, mother, three boys, and three girls. so two heavy wagons were fitted up to haul heavy goods, and a light wagon for mother and the girls. the wagons were the old-fashioned type, built very heavy, carrying the customary tar bucket on the rear axle. nebraska was at this time in what was called the indian country, and no one was allowed to settle in it. we stopped at old fort kearny--now nebraska city. in a short time we pulled up stakes and housed in a log cabin on the iowa side. father, two brothers--thomas and whitman--and i constructed a ferry to run across the missouri river, getting consent of the commandant at the fort to move the family over on the nebraska side; but he said we would have to take our chances with the indians. we broke a small patch of ground, planting pumpkins, melons, corn, etc. the indians were very glad to see us and very friendly--in fact, too much so. when our corn and melons began to ripen, they would come in small bands, gather the corn and fill their blankets. it did no good for us to protest, so we boys thought we would scare them away. we hid in the bushes close to the field. soon they came and were filling their blankets. we shot over their heads, but the indians didn't scare--they came running straight toward us. they gave us a little of our own medicine and took a few shots at us. we didn't scare any more indians. when word came in the fall of that gold had been discovered in pike's peak by the wagonload, that settled it. we got the fever, and in april, , we started for pike's peak. we went by the way of beatrice, striking the overland trail near the big sandy. an ex-soldier, tim taylor, told us he believed the little sandy to be the best place in southern nebraska. we built a ranch house on the trail at the crossing of little sandy and engaged in freighting from the missouri river to the rocky mountains. this we did for several years, receiving seven to eight cents per pound. we hauled seven thousand to eight thousand pounds on a wagon, and it required from seventy-five to eighty days to make a round trip with eight and ten yoke of oxen to a wagon. i spent about nine years freighting across the plains from atchison, leavenworth, st. joseph, and nebraska city to denver, hauling government supplies to fort laramie. in - i served as substitute stage driver, messenger, or pony express rider. i have met at some time or another nearly every noted character or "bad man" that passed up and down the trail. i met wild bill for the first time at rock creek ranch. i met him often after the killing of mccanles, and helped bury the dead. i was well acquainted with mccanles. wild bill was a remarkable man, unexcelled as a shot, hard to get acquainted with. lyman, or jack, slade was considered the worst man-killer on the plains. the indians did not give us much trouble until the closing year of the civil war. our trains were held up several times, being forced to corral. we were fortunate not to lose a man. i have shot at hundreds of indians. i cannot say positively that i ever killed one, although i was considered a crack shot. i can remember of twenty or more staying with us one night, stretching out on their blankets before the fireplace, and departing in the morning without making a move out of the way. the pawnees and otoes were very bitter toward the sioux and cheyennes. in the summer of over five hundred indians were engaged in an all-day fight on the little blue river south of meridian. that night over a hundred warriors danced around a camp-fire with the scalps of their foes on a pole, catching the bloody scalp with their teeth. how many were killed we never knew. my brothers and i went on one special buffalo hunt with three different tribes of indians--otoes, omahas, and pawnees--about one thousand in all, on rose creek, about where the town of hubbell is situated. we were gone about four days. the indians would do all the killing. when they got what they wanted, then we boys would get our meat. there was plenty for all. the prairies were covered with buffalo; they were never out of sight. on the th of july, , six of us with two wagons, four yoke of oxen to a wagon, went over on the republican where there were always thousands of buffalo. we were out two weeks and killed what meat we wanted. we always had a guard out at night when we camped, keeping the wolves from our fresh meat. we came home to the ranch heavily loaded. we sold some and dried some for our own use. i homesteaded, june , , on the little blue, five miles northwest of fairbury, and helped the settlers looking for homesteads locate their land. my father, joel helvey, entered forty acres where we had established our ranch on little sandy in , the first year any land was entered in this county. i was the first sheriff of this county; served four years, - . no sheriff had qualified or served before . county business was done at big sandy and meridian, and at the houses of the county officers. we carried the county records around from place to place in gunny sacks. i am glad i participated in the earliest happenings of this county, and am proud to be one of its citizens. [illustration: mrs. elizabeth c. langworthy seventh state regent, nebraska society, daughters of the american revolution. - ] looking backward by george e. jenkins looking backward forty years and more, i feel as longfellow so beautifully expresses it, "you may build more splendid habitations, fill your rooms with sculpture and with paintings, but you cannot buy with gold the old associations," for in that time i have seen fairbury grow from a little hamlet to a city of the first class, surrounded by a country that we used to call "the indian country," considered unfit for agricultural purposes, but today it blossoms as the rose and no finer land lies anywhere. i have read with great interest of the happenings of ten, twenty, thirty years ago as published each week in our fairbury papers, but am going to delve into ancient history a little deeper and tell you from personal experience of the interesting picture presented to me forty-odd years ago, i think in the year or ' , for i distinctly remember the day i caught the first glimpse of fairbury. it was a bright and sunshiny morning in july. we had been making the towns in western kansas and had gotten rather a late start from concordia the day before; a storm coming up suddenly compelled us to seek shelter for the night. my traveling companion was a. v. whiting, selling shoes, and i was selling dry-goods, both from wholesale houses in st. joseph, missouri. mr. whiting is well and honorably known in fairbury as he was afterwards in business there for many years. he has been a resident of lincoln for twenty-three years. there were no railroads or automobiles in the country at that time and we had to depend on a good pair of horses and a covered spring wagon. we found a place of shelter at marks' mill, located on rose creek fifteen miles southwest of fairbury, and here we stayed all night. i shall always remember our introduction there, viz: as we drove up to the house i saw a large, portly old man coming in from the field on top of a load of hay, and as i approached him i said, "my name is jenkins, sir--" but before i could say more he answered in a deep bass voice, saying, "my name is clodhopper, sir," which he afterwards explained was the name that preachers of the united brethren church were known by at that time. this man, marks, was one of the first county treasurers of jefferson county, and it is related of him that while he was treasurer he had occasion to go to lincoln, the capital of the state, to pay the taxes of the county, and being on horseback he lost his way and meeting a horseman with a gun across his shoulder, he said to the stranger, "i am treasurer of jefferson county. my saddle-bags are full of gold and i am on the way to lincoln to pay the taxes of the county, but i have lost my way. please direct me." returning to my story of stopping over night at rose creek: we were most hospitably entertained and at breakfast next morning we were greatly surprised on being asked if we would have wild or tame sweetening in our coffee, as this was the first time in all our travels we had ever been asked that question. we were told that honey was wild sweetening and sugar the tame sweetening. i cannot refrain from telling a little incident that occurred at this time. when we had our team hitched up and our sample trunks aboard, we asked mr. marks for our bill and were told we could not pay anything for our entertainment, and just then mrs. marks appeared on the scene. she had in her hand a lot of five and ten cent war shinplasters, and as she handed them to mr. marks he said, "mother and i have been talking the matter over and as we have not bought any goods from you we decided to give you a dollar to help you pay expenses elsewhere"; and on our refusing to take it he said, "i want you to take it, for it is worth it for the example you have set to my children." politely declining the money and thanking our host and hostess for their good opinion and splendid entertainment, we were soon on our way to pay our first visit to fairbury. we arrived about noon and stopped at a little one-story hotel on the west side of the square, kept by a man by the name of hurd. after dinner we went out to see the town and were told it was the county-seat of jefferson county. the courthouse was a little one-story frame building and is now located on the west side of the square and known as christian's candy shop. there was one large general store kept by champlin & mcdowell, a drug store, a hardware store, lumber yard, blacksmith shop, a schoolhouse, church, and a few small buildings scattered around the square. the residences were small and widely scattered. primitive conditions prevailed everywhere, and we were told the population was one hundred and fifty but we doubted it. the old adage reads, "big oaks from little acorns grow," and it has been my privilege and great pleasure to have seen fairbury "climb the ladder round by round" until today it has a population of fifty-five hundred. the easter storm of by charles b. letton spring opened very early in the year . farmers plowed and harrowed the ground and sowed their oats and spring wheat in february and march. the grass began to grow early in april and by the middle of the month the small-grain fields were bright green with the new crops. most of the settlers on the uplands of jefferson county were still living in dugouts or sod houses. the stables and barns for the protection of their live stock were for the most part built by setting forked posts in the ground, putting rough poles and brush against the sides and on the roof, and covering them with straw, prairie grass, or manure. sometimes the bank of a ravine was made perpendicular and used as one side. the covering of the walls and roof of these structures needed continual renewal as the winds loosened it or as the spring rains caused it to settle. settlers became careless about this early in the spring, thinking that the winter was over. the prairies were still bare of hedges, fences, or trees to break the winds or catch the drifting snow. easter sunday occurred on the thirteenth of april. for days before, the weather had been mild and the air delightful. the writer was then living alone in a dugout seven miles north of fairbury in what is now the rich and fertile farming community known as bower. the granary stood on the edge of a ravine a short distance from the dugout. the stable or barn was partly dug into the bank of this ravine; the long side was to the north, while the roof and the south side were built of poles and straw in the usual fashion of those days. on the afternoon of easter sunday it began to rain and blow from the northwest. the next morning i had been awake for some time waiting for daylight when i finally realized that the dim light coming from the windows was due to the fact that they were covered with snow drifts. i could hear the noise of the wind but had no idea of the fury of the tempest until i undertook to go outside to feed the stock. as soon as i opened the door i found that the air was full of snow, driven by a tremendous gale from the north. the fury of the tempest was indescribable. the air appeared to be a mass of moving snow, and the wind howled like a pack of furies. i managed to get to the granary for some oats, but on looking into the ravine no stable was to be seen, only an immense snow drift which almost filled it. at the point where the door to the stable should have been there appeared a hole in the drift where the snow was eddying. on crawling into this i found that during the night the snow had drifted in around the horses and cattle, which were tied to the manger. the animals had trampled it under their feet to such an extent that it had raised them so that in places their backs lifted the flimsy roof, and the wind carrying much of the covering away, had filled the stable with snow until some of them were almost and others wholly buried, except where the remains of the roof protected them. two animals died while i was trying to extricate them and at night i was compelled to lead two or three others into the front room of the dugout and keep them there until the storm was over in order to save their lives. it was only by the most strenuous efforts i was able to get to the house. my clothing was stiff. the wind had driven the snow into the fabric, as it had thawed it had frozen again, until it formed an external coating of ice. i had nothing to eat all day, having gone out before breakfast, and when night came and i attempted to build a fire in the cook stove i found that the storm had blown away the joints of stovepipe which projected through the roof and had drifted the hole so full of snow that the snow was in the stove itself. i went on the roof, cleared it out, built a fire, made some coffee and warmed some food, then went to bed utterly fatigued and, restlessly tossing, dreamed all night that i was still in the snow drift working as i had worked all day. many other settlers took their cattle and horses into their houses or dugouts in order to save them. every ravine and hollow that ran in an easterly or westerly direction was filled with snow from rim to rim. in other localities cattle were driven many miles by this storm. houses, or rather shacks, were unroofed and people in them frozen to death. travelers caught in the blizzard, who attempted to take refuge in ravines, perished and their stiffened bodies were found when the drifts melted weeks afterward. stories were told of people who had undertaken to go from their houses to their outbuildings and who, being blinded by the snow, became lost and either perished or nearly lost their lives, and of others where the settler in order to reach his well or his outbuildings in safety fastened a rope to the door and went into the storm holding to the rope in order to insure his safe return. deer, antelope, and other wild animals perished in the more sparsely settled districts. the storm lasted for three days, not always of the same intensity, and freezing weather followed for a day or two thereafter. in a few days the sun shone, the snow melted, and spring reappeared; the melting drifts, that lay for weeks in some places, being the only reminder of the severity of the storm. to old settlers in nebraska and northern kansas this has ever since been known as "the easter storm." in the forty-six years that i have lived in nebraska there has only been one other winter storm that measurably approached it in intensity. this was the blizzard of when several people lost their lives. at that time, however, people were living in comfort; trees, hedges, groves, stubble, and cornfields held the snow so that the drifts were insignificant in comparison. the cold was more severe but the duration of the storm was less and no such widespread suffering took place. beginnings of fairbury by joseph b. mcdowell in the fall of my brother, w. g. mcdowell, and i started from fairbury, illinois, for nebraska. arriving at brownville, we were compelled to take a stage for beatrice, as the only railroad in the state was the union pacific. brownville was a little river village, and tecumseh was the only town between brownville and beatrice. it probably had one hundred inhabitants. there was only one house between it and beatrice. the trip from brownville to beatrice took two days with a night stop at tecumseh. the scenery consisted of rolling prairie covered with buffalo grass, and a few trees along the banks of rock creek. we stopped for dinner at a house a few miles northeast of the present site of endicott, where the oregon trail stages changed horses. on our arrival at beatrice we found a little village of about three hundred inhabitants. the only hotel had three rooms: a reception room, one bedroom with four beds--one in each corner--and a combination dining-room and kitchen. there was a schoolhouse fourteen by sixteen feet, but there were no churches. we bought a few town lots, entered two or three sections of land, and decided to build a stone hotel, as there was plenty of stone along the banks of the blue river, and in the water. we then took a team and spring-wagon and started to find a location for a county-seat for jefferson county. we found the land where fairbury is now located was not entered, so we entered it with the intention of making it the county-seat. on our return to beatrice we let the contract for the stone hotel, which still stands today. we returned to illinois, but the following february of i came back to look after the building of the hotel. i bought a farm with buildings on it, and began farming and improving the land i had entered. in the summer of my brother came out again, and we drove over to lay out the county-seat of jefferson county, which we named after fairbury, illinois, with the sanction of the county commissioners. we shipped the machinery for a sawmill to waterville, kansas, and hauled it to fairbury with teams. judge mattingly bought it and sawed all the lumber that was used for building around fairbury. armstrong brothers started a small store in a shack. about , i came over from beatrice and built the first store building, on the east side of the square, which was replaced a few years ago by the j. d. davis building. the fairbury roller mill was built in by col. andrew j. cropsey. i bought his interest in and have had it ever since. in i came to make my home in fairbury and have watched its steady growth from its beginning, to our present thriving and beautiful little city of . early experiences in nebraska by elizabeth porter seymour in the spring of , we came from waterloo, iowa, to plymouth, nebraska. my husband drove through, and upon his arrival i came by train with my young brother and baby daughter four months old. when my husband came the previous fall to buy land, there was no railroad south of crete, and he drove across the country, but the railroad had since been completed to beatrice. there was a mixed train, with one coach, and i was the only lady passenger. there was one young girl, who could not speak any english, but who had a card hung on her neck telling where she was to go. the trainmen held a consultation and decided that the people lived a short distance from the track, in the vicinity of wilber, so they stopped the train and made inquiries. finding these people expected someone, we waited until they came and got the girl. my husband met me at beatrice, and the next morning we started on a fourteen-mile drive to plymouth, perched upon a load of necessaries and baggage. we had bought out a homesteader, so we had a shelter to go into. this consisted of a cottonwood house fourteen by sixteen feet, unplastered, and with a floor of rough boards. it was a dreary place, but in a few days i had transformed it. one carpet was put on the floor and another stretched overhead on the joists. this made a place to store things, and gave the room a better appearance. around the sides of the room were tacked sheets, etc., making a white wall. on this we hung a few pictures, and when the homesteader appeared at the door, he stood amazed at our fine appearance. a rude lean-to was built to hold the kitchen stove and work-table. many times that summer a feeling of intense loneliness at the dreary condition came over me, but the baby helen, always happy and smiling, drove gloom away. then, in august, came the terrible blow of losing our baby blossom. cholera infantum was the complaint. a young mother's ignorance of remedies, and the long distance from a doctor, caused a delay that was fatal. before we came, the settlers had built a log schoolhouse, with sod roof and plank seats. in the spring of , the congregational home missionary society sent rev. henry bates of illinois to the field, and he organized a congregational church of about twenty-five members, my husband and myself being charter members. for a time we had service in the log schoolhouse, but soon had a comfortable building for services. most of the land about plymouth was owned by a railroad company, and they laid out a townsite, put up a two-story schoolhouse, and promised a railroad soon. after years of waiting, the railroad came, but the station was about two miles north. business went with the railroad to the new town, and the distinction was made between new plymouth and old plymouth. prairie chickens and quail were quite abundant during the first years, and buffalo meat could often be bought, being shipped from the western part of the state. in the droves of cattle driven past our house to the beatrice market, i have occasionally seen a buffalo. deer and wolves were sometimes seen, and coyotes often made havoc with our fowls, digging through the sod chicken house to rob the roosts. rattlesnakes were frequently killed and much dreaded, but deaths from the bite were very rare, though serious illness often resulted. prairie fires caused the greatest terror, and the yearly losses were large. everyone plowed fire guards and tried to be prepared, but, with tall grass and weeds and a strong wind, fire would be carried long distances and sweep everything before it with great rapidity. indians frequently camped on cub creek for a few days in their journey from one reservation to another to visit. they would come to the houses to beg for food, and, though they never harmed us, we were afraid of them. more than once i have heard a slight noise in my kitchen, and on going out, found indians in possession; they never knocked. i was glad to give them food and hasten their departure. in the summer of , quite a party of us went to the otoe reservation to see just how the indians lived. we had two covered wagons and one provision wagon. we cooked our food by a camp-fire, slept out of doors, and had a jolly time. we spent nearly one day on the reservation, visiting the agent's house and the school and peering into the huts of the indians. at the schoolhouse the pupils were studious, but several of them had to care for papooses while studying, and the indians were peering into the doors and windows, watching proceedings. most of the indians wore only a blanket and breech cloth, but the teacher was evidently trying to induce the young pupils to wear clothes, and succeeded in a degree. one boy amused us very much by wearing flour sacks for trousers. the sacks were simply ripped open at the end, the stamps of the brand being still upon them, one sack being lettered in red and the other in blue. preparations were going on for a visit to the omahas by a number of braves and some squaws, and they were donning paint and feathers. the agent had received some boxes of clothing from the east for them, which they were eager to wear on their trip. not having enough to fit them out, one garment was given to each, and they at once put them on. it was very ludicrous to see them, one with a hat, another with a shirt, another with a vest, etc. at last they were ready and rode away on their ponies. as we drove away, an indian and squaw, with papoose, were just ahead of us. a thunder storm came up, and the brave indian took away from the squaw her parasol and held it over his head, leaving her unprotected. although the settlers on the upland were widely scattered, they were kind and neighborly, as a rule--ready to help each other in all ways, especially in sickness and death. one thanksgiving a large number of settlers brought their dinners to the church, and after morning services enjoyed a good dinner and social hour together. that church, so important a factor in the community in early days, was disbanded but a few years ago. pioneer life has many privations, but there are also very many pleasant experiences. personal recollections by mrs. c. f. steele calvin f. steele came to nebraska, in march, , staying for a little time in beatrice. he heard of a new town just starting called fairbury. thinking this might be a good place for one with very little capital to start in business, he decided to go there and see what the prospects were. nearly all of the thirty-three miles was unbroken prairie, with no landmarks to guide one. mr. steele had hired a horse to ride. late in the afternoon the sky was overcast, and a storm came up. he saw some distance ahead of him a little rise of ground, and urging his horse forward he made for that, hoping he might be able to catch sight of the town he sought. to his surprise he found himself on top of a dugout. the man of the house came rushing out. mr. steele explained and asked directions, only to find he was not near fairbury as he hoped. he was kindly taken in for the night, and while all slept in the one room, that was so clean and comfortable, and the welcome so kindly, a friendship was started that night, a friendship that grew and strengthened with the years and lasted as long as e. d. brickley, the man of the dugout, lived. i arrived in fairbury the first day of may, . the morning after i came i counted every building in the town, including all outbuildings having a roof. even so i could only bring the grand total up to thirty. that summer proved a very hot one--no ice, and very few buildings had a cellar. we rented for the summer a little home of three rooms. the only trees in sight were a few cottonwoods along the ravine that ran through the town and on the banks of the little blue river. how to keep milk sweet or butter cool was a problem. at last i thought of our well, still without a pump. i would put the eatables in a washboiler, put the cover on, tie a rope through the handles, and let the boiler down into the well. in late september a lady told me as her husband was going away she would bring her work and sit with me. i persuaded her to stay for supper. i intended to have cold meat, a kind of custard known as "floating island"; these with milk and butter were put down the well. after preparing the table i went out and drew up my improvised refrigerator, and removing the cover went in with milk and butter. returning almost instantly, the door closed with a bang and frightened a stray dog doubtless attracted by the smell of meat. he started to run and was so entangled in the ropes that as far as i could see, dog, boiler, and contents were still going. the whole thing was so funny i laughed at the time, and still do when i recall that scene of so long ago. how the sons of george winslow found their father's grave by mrs. c. f. steele and george w. hansen _statement by mrs. steele_ i have been asked to tell the story of how the sons of george winslow found their father's grave. in april, , it was my pleasure and privilege to go to washington to attend the national meeting of the daughters of the american revolution. i went in company with mrs. c. b. letton as well as a number of other delegates from different parts of the state. while passing around to cast our votes for president general, an eastern lady noticing our badges exchanged greetings with some of our delegates and expressed a wish to meet some one from fairbury. she was told that fairbury had a delegate and i was called up to meet mrs. henry winslow of meriden, connecticut. she greeted me cordially, saying her husband's father was a "forty-niner" and while on his way to california was taken sick, died, and was buried by the side of the oregon trail. in february, , a letter appeared in a boston paper from rev. s. goldsmith of fairbury, nebraska, saying that he had seen a grave with the inscription "geo. winslow, newton, ms. ae. " cut on a crude headstone, and that he was ready to correspond with any interested party as to the lone grave or its silent occupant. this letter came to the notice of the sons of george winslow, and they placed mr. goldsmith in communication with david staples, of san francisco, california, who was a brother-in-law of george winslow and a member of the same company on the overland journey to california. mr. staples wrote him about the organization of the company, which was called the "boston and newton joint stock association," and the sickness and death of george winslow; but after this they heard nothing further from the nebraska man. mrs. winslow asked me if i knew anything of the grave. i did not, but promised to make inquiries regarding it on my return home. [illustration: mrs. charles b. letton eighth state regent, nebraska society, daughters of the american revolution. - ] soon after reaching home, judge and mrs. letton came down from lincoln and as guests of mr. and mrs. g. w. hansen we were all dining together. the conversation turned to the trip mrs. letton and i had enjoyed together, and we told the story of the talk with mrs. winslow. to my great surprise and pleasure judge letton said, "why, mrs. steele, i remember seeing, many years ago, close by the oregon trail, somewhere near the head of whiskey run, a grave marked with a red sandstone, and it is probably the grave you are searching for. i believe mr. hansen can find it." a few days after this mr. hansen reported the finding of the grave. he said the headstone had been knocked down by a mower and dragged several rods away, and that he had replaced it upon the grave; that the inscription on the stone was as distinct as though freshly cut. i at once wrote to mrs. winslow, giving her the facts, and telling her mr. hansen would gladly answer any questions and give such further information as she might wish. the grateful letter i received in reply more than compensated me for what i had done. _statement by mr. hansen_ upon a beautiful swell of the prairie between the forks of whiskey run, overlooking the charming valley of the little blue river, in a quiet meadow, five miles north and one mile west of fairbury, close to the "old legitimate trail of the oregon emigrants," is a lone grave marked with a red sandstone slab, twenty inches in height, of equal width, and six inches thick, on which is carved "geo. winslow, newton, ms. ae. ." through this meadow untouched by the plow may still be seen the deep, grass-grown furrows of the oregon trail; and when george winslow's companions laid him at rest by its side, they buried him in historic ground, upon earth's greatest highway. to the honor of george winslow's comrades be it said they loved him so well that in their grief the feverish haste to reach the gold fields was forgotten, and every member did what he could to give him christian burial and perpetuate his memory. they dug his grave very deep so that neither vandals nor wolves would disturb him. they searched the surrounding country and found, two miles away, a durable quality of sandstone, which they fashioned with their rude tools for his monument, his uncle jesse winslow carving with great care his name, home, and age, and on a footstone the figures . this service of love rendered him that day gave to his sons their father's grave, and enabled us sixty-three years afterwards to obtain the story of his life, and the story of the journey of his company to california. of all the thousands of men who were buried by the side of the old trail in and , the monument of george winslow alone remains. all the rest, buried in graves unmarked or marked with wooden slabs, have passed into oblivion. in june, , it was my pleasure to meet george winslow's sons, george e. of waltham, massachusetts, and henry o. at the home of the latter in meriden, connecticut. they were intensely interested in the incident of their father's death and in the protection of his grave. it was planned that they should obtain a granite boulder from near their father's home in which the old red sandstone set up by his companions in might be preserved, and a bronze tablet fashioned by henry o. winslow's hands placed upon its face. this has been done, and the monument was unveiled on october , , with appropriate ceremonies. i learned from them that charles gould, then in the eighty-ninth year, the last survivor of the party, lived at lake city, minnesota. mr. gould kept a record of each day's events from the time the boston and newton joint stock association left boston until it arrived at sutter's fort, california. a copy of this interesting diary and a copy of a daguerreotype of mr. gould taken in are now in the possession of the nebraska state historical society. the original letter written by george winslow to his wife eliza from independence, missouri, may , , and the letter of brackett lord written at fort kearny june , , describing winslow's sickness, death, and burial, and a copy of a daguerreotype of george winslow taken in , were given me by mr. henry o. winslow to present to the nebraska state historical society. from the winslow memorial published in , we learn that george winslow was descended from kenelm winslow of dortwitch, england, whose two sons edward and kenelm emigrated to leyden, holland, and joined the pilgrim church there in . edward came to america with the first company of emigrants in the mayflower, december, , and was one of the committee of four who wrote the immortal compact or magna charta. he became governor of plymouth colony in . his brother kenelm came to america in the mayflower with the long hindered remainder of the pilgrim church on a later voyage. his son kenelm winslow was born at plymouth, massachusetts, in . his son, josiah winslow, born , established the business of cloth dressing at freetown, massachusetts. his son james winslow, born , continued his father's business, and was a colonel in the second regiment massachusetts militia. his son shadrach winslow, born , graduated at yale in and became an eminent physician. at the outbreak of the revolutionary war, being a gentleman of independent fortune, he fitted out a warship or a privateer, and was commissioned to attack the enemy on the high seas. he was captured off the coast of spain, and confined in a dismal prison ship where he suffered much. his son eleazer winslow, born , took up his abode in the catskill mountains with a view to his health and while there at ramapo, new york, on august , , his son george winslow was born. the family moved to newton, mass., now a suburb of boston, where george learned his father's trade, that of machinist and molder. in the same shop and at the same time, david staples and brackett lord, who afterwards became brothers-in-law, and charles gould were learning this trade. george winslow was married in . his first son, george edward, was born may , . his second son henry o., was born may , , the day the father left the frontier town of independence, missouri, for california. the boston and newton joint stock association consisted of twenty-five picked young men from newton and the vicinity of boston, each member paying $ into the treasury. the incidents along the journey we obtain from mr. gould's excellent journal. they left boston, april , , traveling by rail to buffalo, taking the steamer baltic for sandusky, ohio, and then by rail to cincinnati, where they arrived april , at : o'clock p. m. they left cincinnati april rd, on the steamer griffin yeatman for st. louis, and arrived there april th, then by steamer bay state, to independence, missouri. the boat was crowded principally with passengers bound for california. a set of gamblers seated around a table well supplied with liquor kept up their game all night. religious services were held on board on the sabbath, rev. mr. haines preaching the sermon. the usual exciting steamboat race was had, their boat leaving the steamer alton in the rear, where, mr. gould remarks "we think she will be obliged to stay." on may rd, they landed at independence, missouri, and began preparations for the overland journey. in the letter written by george winslow to his wife, he says: "we have no further anxiety about forage; millions of buffalo have feasted for ages on these vast prairies, and as their number have been diminished by reason of hunters, it is absurd to think we will not have sufficient grass for our animals.... "we have bought forty mules which cost us $ apiece. i have been appointed teamster, and had the good luck to draw the best wagon. i never slept better in my life. i always find myself in the morning--or my bed, rather--flat as a pan cake. as the darn thing leaks just enough to land me on terra firma by morning, it saves me the trouble of pressing out the wind; so who cares.... "sunday morning, may , . this is a glorious morning and having curried my mules and washed my clothes and bathed myself, i can recommence writing to you eliza.... "we engaged some mexicans to break the mules. to harness them they tied their fore legs together and threw them down. the fellows then got on them and wrung their ears, which like a nigger's shin, is the tenderest part. by that time they were docile enough to take the harness. the animals in many respects resemble sheep, they are very timid and when frightened will kick like thunder. they got six harnessed into a team, when one of the leaders, feeling a little mulish, jumped right straight over the other one's back. one fellow offered to bet the liquor that he could ride an unbroken one he had bought; the bet was taken--but he had no sooner mounted the fool mule than he landed on his hands and feet in a very undignified manner; a roar of laughter from the spectators was his reward. i suppose by this time you have some idea of a mule.... "i see by your letter that you have the blues a little in your anxiety for my welfare. i do not worry about myself, then why do you for me? i do not discover in your letter any anxiety on your own account; then let us for the future look on the bright side and indulge in no more useless anxiety. it effects nothing, and is almost universally the bugbear of the imagination.... the reports of the gold region here are as encouraging as they were in massachusetts. just imagine to yourself seeing me return with from $ , to $ , ...." on may th this company of intrepid men started out upon the long overland trail to california. they traveled up the kansas river, delayed by frequent rains and mud hub deep, reaching the lower ford of the kansas on the th, having accomplished about fifty miles in ten days. the wagons were driven on flatboats and poled across by five indians. the road now becoming dry, they made rapid progress until the th, when george winslow was suddenly taken violently sick with the cholera. two others in the party were suffering with symptoms of the disease. the company remained in camp three days and the patients having so far recovered, it was decided to proceed. winslow's brothers-in-law, david staples and brackett lord, or his uncle, jesse winslow, were with him every moment, giving him every care. as they journeyed on he continued to improve. on june th they camped on the big blue, and on the th, late in the afternoon, they reached the place where the trail crosses the present nebraska-kansas state line into jefferson county, nebraska. mr. gould writes: "about a half hour before sunset a terrific thunder shower arose, which baffles description, the lightning flashes dazzling the eyes, and the thunder deafening the ears, and the rain falling in torrents. it was altogether the grandest scene i have ever witnessed. when the rain ceased to fall the sun had set and darkness closed in." to this storm is attributed george winslow's death. the next morning he appeared as well as usual, but at o'clock became worse, and the company encamped. he failed rapidly, and at o'clock a. m., the next day, the th of june, , painlessly and without a struggle, he sank away as though going to sleep. he was taken to the center of the corral, where funeral services were performed, by reading from the scriptures by mr. burt, and prayer by mr. sweetser. he was then borne to the grave by eight bearers, and followed by the rest of the company. tears rolled down the cheeks of those strong men as each deposited a green sprig in the open grave. for him the trail ended here--in these green pastures. all the rest of his company traveled the long old trail across plains, mountains, and deserts, and reached the fabled gardens and glittering sands of el dorado, only to find them the ashes of their hopes. he alone of all that company was never disillusioned. early days in jefferson county by mrs. m. h. weeks when i look upon the little city of fairbury and see the beautiful trees, fine lawns, and comfortable homes, it is hard to realize the feelings i had in july, , when as a bride, coming from the dear old granite state, we came to our future home. i wanted to "go on" somewhere else, for everything that is usually green was so parched and dreary looking and desolate. the only trees were at the homes of l. c. champlin and s. g. thomas. we spent the night at the purdy house, and the following day drove to our homestead; and in fording the river where the weeks bridge is now, the water poured into the express wagon (finest conveyance in town) driven by will hubbell. at least two of the party were much alarmed--our sister mary weeks and the writer. it was the first of many peculiar experiences, such as taking my sewing and a rocking chair, on a hayrack, to the hay field, rather than stay home alone for fear of the otoe indians. the first intimation of their presence would be their faces pressed against the window glass, and that would give one a creepy feeling. i have ridden to town many times on loads of sand, rock, and hay; and when the ford was impassable with wagons, i would go on horseback, with arms around the neck of faithful billy, and eyes closed for fear of tumbling off into the water. on the return trip both of our horses would be laden with bags of provisions. in my husband went with a party of twenty-five on a buffalo hunt with a man by the name of soules as guide. they secured plenty of elk, deer, and buffalo. the wagons were formed in a circle, to corral the horses and mules nights for fear of an attack by the indians; each one taking turns as sentinel. the mules would always whistle if an indian was anywhere near, so he felt secure even if he did sleep a little. they only saw the indians at a distance as they were spearing the buffalo. all things have surely changed, and now we ride in autos instead of covered wagons. what will the next fifty years bring? location of the capital at lincoln by john h. ames by an act of the legislature, approved june , , it was provided that the governor, secretary, and auditor of state, should be commissioners for the purpose of locating the seat of government and public buildings of the state of nebraska, and they were vested with the necessary powers and authority for proceeding, as soon as practicable, to effect that purpose, and required on or before the fifteenth day of july in the same year, to select from among certain lands belonging to the state, and lying within the counties of seward, saunders, butler, and lancaster, "a suitable site, of not less than six hundred and forty acres lying in one body, for a town, due regard being had to its accessibility from all portions of the state and its general fitness for a capital." the commissioners were also required, immediately upon such selections being made, to appoint a competent surveyor and proceed to "survey, lay off and stake out the said tract of land into lots, blocks, streets, alleys, and public squares or reservations for public buildings"; and the act declared that such town when so laid out and surveyed, should "be named and known as lincoln," and the same was thereby declared to be "the permanent seat of government of the state of nebraska, at which all the public offices of the state should be kept, and at which all the sessions of the legislature thereof should be held." the act further provided that the lots in the alternate blocks, not reserved as aforesaid, in said town, should, after notice thereof had been given by advertisement for the time and in the manner therein prescribed, be offered for sale to the highest and best bidder; and the commissioners were authorized, after having held the sale for five successive days, as therein provided, at lincoln, nebraska city, and omaha, to adjourn the same to be held at such other place or places within or without the state, as they might see proper, provided that at such sales no lots should be sold for a less price than a minimum to be fixed on each lot by the commissioners, previous to the opening of the sales. all moneys received for the sale of said lots were declared to be a state building fund, and were directed to be deposited in the state treasury and kept separate from all other funds for that purpose. notice was directed to be issued immediately after the sale of lots, asking from architects plans and specifications for a building, the foundation of which should be of stone, and the superstructure of stone or brick, which should be suitable for the two houses of the legislature and the executive offices of the state, and which might be designed as a portion of a larger edifice, but the cost of which should not exceed fifty thousand dollars. provision was also made for the letting of the contract for its construction, and appointing a superintendent thereof, and also for the erection at lincoln, as soon as sufficient funds therefor could be secured by the sale of public lands or otherwise, of a state university, agricultural college, and penitentiary; but no appropriation, other than of the state lands and lots as above described, was made for the aid of any of the enterprises herein mentioned. what was the result of sending three men fifty miles out into an unbroken, and at that time, almost unknown prairie, to _speak_ into existence simply by the magic of their own unconquerable, though unaided, enterprise and perseverance, a city that should not only be suitable for the seat of government of the state, but should be able, almost as soon as its name was pronounced, to contribute from its own resources sufficient funds for the erection of a state house and other necessary public state buildings, remains to be seen. it appears from the report of the commissioners, made to the senate and house of representatives at its first regular session, held in january, , that, having provided themselves with an outfit, and employed mr. augustus f. harvey, as surveyor, to ascertain the location of the lines of the proposed sites, they left nebraska city on the afternoon of the th of july, , for the purpose of making the selection required in the act. after having visited and examined the town sites of saline city, or "yankee hill," and lancaster, in lancaster county, they proceeded to visit and examine the several proposed sites in each of the counties named in the act, in which occupations they were engaged until the twenty-ninth of the same month, when they returned, and made a more thorough examination of the two sites above referred to, at which time the favorable impressions received of lancaster on their first visit were confirmed. says the report: "we found a gently undulating surface, its principal elevation being near the centre of the proposed new site. the village already established being in the midst of a thrifty and considerable agricultural population; rock, timber, and water power available within short distances; the centre of the great saline region within two miles; and in addition to all other claims, the special advantage was that the location was at the centre of a circle, of about miles in diameter, along or near the circumference of which are the kansas state line directly south, the important towns of pawnee city, nebraska city, plattsmouth, omaha, fremont, and columbus.... under these circumstances we entertained the proposition of the people residing in the vicinity of lancaster, offering to convey to the state in _fee simple_ the west half of the west half of section , the east half and the southwest quarter of section , which, with the northwest quarter of section (the last named quarter being saline land), all in town , range east; the whole embracing acres, and upon which it was proposed to erect the new town. in addition, the trustees of the lancaster seminary association proposed to convey to the state, for an addition to the site named in the foregoing proposition, the town site of lancaster, reserving, however, certain lots therein which had been disposed of in whole or in part to the purchasers thereof." after being satisfied of the sufficiency of the titles proposed to be conveyed to the state, and having carefully "considered all the circumstances of the condition of the saline lands, the advantage of the situation, its central position, and the value of its surroundings over a district of over _twelve thousand square miles_ of rich agricultural country, it was determined to accept the proposition made by the owners of the land." accordingly on the afternoon of the th of july the commissioners assembled at the house of w. t. donavan, in lancaster, and by a unanimous vote formally declared the present site of the capital city of lincoln, which action was first made public by a proclamation issued on the th day of august next following. on the th of august, messrs. harvey and smith, engineers, with a corps of assistants, commenced the survey of the town, the design being calculated for the making of a beautiful city. the streets are one hundred and twenty feet wide, and all except the business streets capable of being improved with a street park outside the curb line; as, for instance: on the one hundred feet streets, pavements twelve feet wide and a park or double row of trees outside the pavement, and planted twelve feet apart so as to admit of a grass plat between, may be made on both sides the street. this will leave on the one hundred feet streets a roadway fifty-two feet wide; with pavements as above, and parks fifteen feet wide, will leave a roadway on the one hundred and twenty feet streets of sixty feet; while on the business streets a ninety-foot roadway was thought to be amply sufficient for the demands of trade. reservations of about twelve acres each were made for the state house, state university, and a city park, these being at about equal distances from each other. reservations of one block each were made for a courthouse for lancaster county, for a city hall and market space, for a state historical and library association, and _seven_ other squares in proper locations for public schools. reservations were also made of three lots each in desirable locations for ten religious denominations, upon an understanding with the parties making the selections on behalf of the several denominations, that the legislature would require of them a condition that the property should only be used for religious purposes, and that some time would be fixed within which suitable houses of worship, costing not less than some reasonable minimum amount, should be erected. one lot each was also reserved for the use of the independent order of good templars, and odd fellows, and the order of ancient free and accepted masons. these reservations were afterwards confirmed by the legislature, with conditions recommended by the commissioners, and religious denominations were required to build on their reserved lots previous to or during the summer of . in anticipation of the completion of the survey, due advertisement thereof was made as provided by law, and a sale of lots opened at lincoln on the th day of september, for the purpose of raising the necessary funds for commencing the construction of the state house. owing to the unpropitious state of the weather but few bidders were present, and the results of the first day's sales were light and disheartening; during their continuation, however, circumstances were changed for the better, and at the end of five days $ , had been realized. subsequent sales were held at nebraska city and omaha, which by the fourth day of october had increased that amount to the sum of $ , . sales were subsequently held at lincoln on the seventeenth of june and september, , from which were realized the sum of $ , . on the tenth of september, , the commissioners issued their notice to architects, inviting, for a period of thirty days, plans and specifications for a state house; and upon the tenth of october, after having considered the merits of the several plans presented, they concluded to accept that of prof. john morris, of chicago, whom they thereupon appointed superintendent of construction, and issued notice to builders, inviting proposals for a term of three months, for the erection of the work; prof. morris in the meantime commencing such preliminary work as excavations for foundations, delivery of material for foundation, and other arrangements as should tend to facilitate the progress of the work after the contract was let. on the tenth of november the superintendent caused the ground to be broken in the presence of a number of the citizens of lancaster, the removal of the first earth being awarded to master frele morton donavan, the first child born in, and the youngest child of the oldest settler of lancaster county. on the eleventh of january, , the bid of mr. joseph ward, proposing to furnish the material and labor, and erect the building contemplated in the contract for the sum of $ , , was accepted, and from that time forward the work steadily progressed, with the exception of a few unavoidable delays, until its completion. on account, however, of the increasing wants of the state, the difficulties attending, the changes of material and increased amount of work and additional accommodation found necessary and advisable, the commissioners deemed it expedient to exceed the amount of expenditure contemplated in the statute; the additional expense being defrayed from the proceeds of the sales of lots and lands appropriated for that purpose. it was originally intended that the walls of the building should be built of red sandstone, and faced with blue limestone, but upon proceeding with the work the architect and builder found that the difficulties attending the procuration of the last named material would, unless the object was abandoned, result in an impossibility of the completion of the work at contract prices; and in so far retarding its progress as to prevent its erection in time for the use of the next session of the legislature. its use, therefore, was accordingly abandoned, and it was decided to substitute in lieu thereof the magnesian limestone of beatrice, which the experience of the architect had proved to be of far better character for building purposes than the blue limestone, it being less liable to wear or damage from frost or fire or any other action of the elements. this change having been made, the work was pushed vigorously forward, and on the third day of december, , was so far completed as to be ready for the occupancy of the state officers, and the governor, therefore, on that day issued his proclamation announcing the removal of the seat of government from omaha to lincoln and ordering the transportation of the archives of the state to the new capitol. an incident in the history of lincoln by ortha c. bell on february , , i arrived in lincoln, the capital of the state. about the middle of january, , the residents of lincoln were greatly startled at seeing a man, shoeless and coatless, mounted on a horse without saddle or bridle, coming down eleventh street at full speed, and crying at the top of his voice, "mutiny at the pen!" the man proved to be a guard from the penitentiary heralding the news of this outbreak and calling for help. the prisoners had taken advantage of the absence of warden woodhurst, overpowered deputy warden c. j. nobes, bound and gagged the guard. the leader, quinn bohanan, disrobed the deputy warden, exchanged his own for the clothing and hat of the deputy, and produced the effect of a beard with charcoal. this disguise was all so complete that the guards did not detect the ruse when the prisoners were marched through the yards, supposed to be in charge of the deputy. when on the inside of the prison they used the warden's family as hostages and took possession of the arsenal, and were soon in command of the situation. the man on horseback had spread the news through the city in a very short time and soon hundreds of men with all kinds of guns had left their places of business and gone to the penitentiary, which they surrounded, holding the prisoners within the walls. the governor wired for a detail from the regulars, stationed at fort omaha, and with all possible haste they were rushed to the scene. they were soon in charge of the situation, and negotiations were begun for a restoration of normal conditions, which result was attained in three days' time. during all this time warden woodhurst was on the outside of the walls and his brave little wife, with their two small children, were on the inside. mrs. woodhurst used all the diplomacy at her command to save her own life and that of the two children. she and the children had served as shields to the prisoners, protecting them from the bullets of the soldiers on the firing line around the penitentiary. the incident closed without loss of life to citizen or prisoner, but has left a lasting impression on the minds of those who were present. lincoln in the early seventies by (mrs. o. c.) minnie deette polley bell in the spring of my father, hiram polley, came from ohio to lincoln, i being a young lady of nineteen years. to say that the new country with its vast prairies, so different from our beautiful timber country, produced homesickness, would be putting it mildly. my parents went on to a farm near what is now the town of raymond, i remaining in lincoln with an aunt, mrs. watie e. gosper. my father built the barn as soon as possible and this was used for the house until after the crops were put in, then work was begun on the house that they might have it before cold weather. the first trouble that came was the devastating plague of grasshoppers which swept over this section of the country in the years and . not long after this a new trouble was upon us. the day dawned bright and fair, became hotter and more still, until presently in the distance there could be seen the effects of a slight breeze; this however was only the advance of a terrible windstorm. when the hurricane had passed, the barn, which only a few months before had served as the house, was in ruins. undaunted, my father set about to rebuild the barn, which still remains on the farm; the farm, however, is now owned by other parties. in the winter of there was quite a fall of snow, and one of the funny sights was a man driving down o street with a horse hitched to a rocking chair. everything that could be used for a sleigh was pressed into service. this was a strange sight to me, having come from ohio where we had from three to four months of sleighing with beautiful sleighs and all that goes to make up a merry time. during this winter many were using corn for fuel and great quantities were piled on the ground, which of course made rats very plentiful--so much so that when walking on the streets at dusk one would almost have to kick them out of the way or wait for them to pass. in the course of time a young man appeared upon the scene, and on december , , i was married to ortha c. bell. we were married in the house which now stands at the northeast corner of twelfth and m streets, then the home of my aunt, mrs. gosper. four children were born to us: the first, a daughter, dying in infancy; the second, jennie bell-ringer, of lincoln; the third, a son, ray hiram bell, dying at the age of three; and the fourth, a daughter, hazel bell-smith. two grandchildren have come to brighten our lives, deette bell smith and edmund burke smith. our home at d street, which we built in , is still occupied by us. a pioneer baby show by (mrs. frank i.) jennie bell-ringer i am a nebraska product, having been born in the city of lincoln, just across the street from the state university, on r street, between eleventh and twelfth. when yet very young my proud mother entered me in an old-fashioned baby show which was held in the old opera house, known as "the hallo opera house." this show was not conducted as the "better babies" contest of today is conducted, but rather along the line of a game of chance. the judges went around and talked and played with the various babies. the baby that made the best impression on the judges, or perhaps, more correctly speaking, the baby that was on its good behavior, was the one that made the best impression on the judges. to make a long story short, i evidently, at that tender age, knew when to put on my company manners, and when the prizes were awarded, i held the lucky number and rode away in a handsome baby buggy, the first prize. the second prize was awarded to john dean ringer, second son of mr. and mrs. bradford ringer. the third prize was given to harry hardenburg; and an impromptu fourth prize was awarded to a colored baby. the day i was married my newly acquired brother, in bestowing good wishes upon me, said there was only one fault he had to find with me, and upon inquiry as to what that might be, he answered, "you took the first prize away from me at the baby show." [illustration: boulder at fort calhoun commemorating the council of lewis and clark with the otoe and missouri indians, august , . erected by the daughters of the american revolution, the sons of the american revolution, and the nebraska state historical society] marking the site of the lewis and clark council at fort calhoun by mrs. laura b. pound looking backward for thirteen years, it is difficult for me to realize that at the beginning of my fourth term as state regent, in , there were as yet only two chapters of the daughters of the american revolution in nebraska. from to there had been three other state regents besides myself; and it was surely through no lack of diligence or patriotism that the organization grew so slowly. mrs. s. c. langworthy had been appointed organizing regent at seward in ; mrs. j. a. cline at minden, and mrs. sarah g. bates at long pine in ; and miss anna day at beatrice in . the total membership in the state probably did not exceed two hundred and fifty, and these, with the exception of the regents already named, belonged to the deborah avery and the omaha chapters. in , mrs. eliza towle reported to the president general and the national board of management that the omaha chapter had decided to place a monument at fort calhoun--undoubtedly at the suggestion of mrs. harriet s. macmurphy, who was much interested in the early history of that place. as the hundredth anniversary of the acquisition of the louisiana territory approached, and interest began to center around the expedition of lewis and clark, it was found that the only point touched in nebraska by these explorers which could be positively identified was old council bluff, near fort calhoun; and here the omaha chapter had decided to erect a monument. at a meeting of the omaha chapter in , the state regent directed the attention of the members to this fact, and it was voted to enlarge the scope of the undertaking, to make the marking of the site a state affair, and to ask the coöperation of the sons of the american revolution and of the state historical society. this action was ratified at the first conference of the daughters of the american revolution held in nebraska, the meeting having been called especially for that purpose, in october, . a committee in conjunction with the sons of the american revolution asked the state legislature of for a sum of five thousand dollars to buy the site of fort atkinson and to erect a suitable monument, under the auspices of the sons and the daughters of the american revolution, the monument to be erected according to plans and specifications furnished by the two societies. disappointed by the failure of the legislature to make the desired appropriation but in no way discouraged, the daughters of the american revolution at the second state conference, held in october, , voted to observe the anniversary of the first official council held by lewis and clark with the indians in the louisiana territory, and to commemorate the event by placing a nebraska boulder upon the site. as chairman of the committee, it fell to my lot to raise the money and to find the boulder; and it is with pleasure that i record the ease with which the first part of my duty was accomplished. the deborah avery chapter gave seventy-five dollars, the omaha chapter one hundred, and the two new chapters organized in , quivira of fairbury and lewis-clark of fremont, raised the sum to two hundred, each promising more if it was needed. to find a nebraska boulder was more difficult; and it was still more difficult to find a firm in nebraska willing to undertake to raise it from its native bed and to carve upon it the insignia of the d. a. r., with a suitable inscription. finally a boulder of sioux falls granite was found in the marsden farm, north of lincoln, and it was given to the society by the owner, who remarked that he was "glad to be rid of it." its dimensions were - / x - / x - / feet. its weight was between seven and eight tons. the firm of kimball brothers of lincoln took the contract for its removal and inscription. through the assistance of mr. a. e. sheldon of the state historical society, the burlington and missouri railroad generously transported it to fort calhoun, where its placing was looked after by mr. j. h. daniels of the sons of the american revolution. as the project had drifted away from the original intention, and had become a memorial to commemorate an event rather than to mark a spot, the boulder was placed on the public school grounds at fort calhoun. at last, almost five years from the time of the broaching of the project, the wish of the society was accomplished. the following condenses an account of the unveiling of the boulder, and the program, from the report of miss anna tribell adams of the omaha chapter for the _american monthly_ of january, : "on august , , the village of fort calhoun, fifteen miles above omaha on the missouri river, was the scene of the unveiling of a boulder commemorating the first peace council between the united states government and the chiefs of the otoe and missouri indian tribes. the town as well as the school grounds were brave with bunting and flags. everyone wore with a small flag the souvenir button on which was a picture of the boulder with a suitable inscription. as a matter of history it is a pleasure to record that the button was designed by mrs. elsie de cou troup of the omaha chapter. one worn by one of the speakers is in the collection of the deborah avery chapter in the rooms of the state historical society at lincoln. "among those present were brigadier general theodore wint, representing the united states government, governor j. h. mickey, adjutant general and mrs. j. h. culver, mr. j. a. barrett and mr. a. e. sheldon of the state historical society, senator j. h. millard, ex-governor j. e. boyd, and others. "the thirtieth infantry band from fort calhoun opened the program. then came a brief reproduction, in pageant-manner, by the knights of ak-sar-ben of omaha, of the council of , enacting the lewis and clark treaty. mr. edward rosewater of the omaha _bee_ extended the welcome of the day, and brought to the attention of the audience the presence of mr. antoine cabney, the first white child born in nebraska, whose birthplace, in , was near the site of fort calhoun. the state regent, mrs. abraham allee, introduced governor mickey, who spoke briefly. he was followed by j. a. barrett of the state historical society, who gave an account of the lewis and clark council. honorable w. f. gurley of omaha then delivered the address of the day. at the conclusion of the formal program the boulder was unveiled. in the presentation speech by mrs. s. b. pound of lincoln, the boulder was committed formally, in the name of the sons and the daughters of the american revolution and of the state historical society, to the care of the citizens of fort calhoun." early history of lincoln county by major lester walker (late captain fifth u. s. cavalry and brevet major u. s. army) it is supposed that the first white men who visited lincoln county were the mallet brothers, who passed this way to santa fe in . pierre and auguste chouteau were sent out from st. louis to explore the northwestern country in . in another expedition was sent to explore the country between the missouri river and the rocky mountains. after the expedition of lewis and clark, which followed up the missouri river, the first government expedition was made in , under major stephen h. long, who traveled up the north side of the platte and crossed just above the forks of the two rivers, then going up the valley between the two streams to the site of the present town of north platte. titian peale, the naturalist of philadelphia, was with this expedition and the peale family living at north platte, are relatives of his. in , col. henry dodge visited this section of the country in the government employ to treat with the arikara indians. in , col. john c. fremont, making his expedition up the platte, celebrated the fourth of july of that year, in what is now lincoln county. during the year travel up the platte river became quite heavy and the first building in the county was erected by a frenchman (name unknown) near the present residence of mrs. burke at fort mcpherson, and was used as a trading ranch, but was abandoned in . in , a man by the name of brady settled on the south side of the island now known as brady island. brady is supposed to have been killed some time during the following year by the indians. in , the first permanent settlement in the county was made at cottonwood springs and the first building was erected in the fall of the year by boyer & roubidoux. i. p. boyer had charge of this ranch. in the same year another trading ranch was built at o'fallon's bluffs on the south side of the river. in dick darling erected the second building at cottonwood springs. this building was purchased by charles mcdonald for a store, and he stocked it with general merchandise. in , mr. mcdonald brought his wife from omaha, she being the first white woman to settle in lincoln county. mrs. mcdonald lived here about three years before another white woman settled at cottonwood springs. mr. mcdonald is now living at north platte, engaged in the banking business. mrs. mcdonald died in december, , and is buried at north platte. in the spring of , j. a. morrow built a ranch about twelve miles west from cottonwood, to accommodate the great rush to california. to give some idea of the extent of the freight and emigrant business along this route, it was no uncommon thing to count from seven hundred to one thousand wagons passing in one day. during the year , the creighton telegraph line was completed through the county. in june, , the first white child was born. his name is w. h. mcdonald, son of chas. mcdonald, now of north platte, nebraska. in the spring of , w. m. hinman removed from port laramie to cottonwood springs, and opened up a farm, trading with the emigrants and indians. in november, , fort mcpherson was established by the government at this settlement of cottonwood springs. this military post was first commanded by major george m. o'brien. fort mcpherson was established none too soon, for it was in the following year, , that the war with the sioux and cheyenne indians commenced. this war continued for over five years and many emigrants and soldiers were killed. what is now known as lincoln county, was first organized as a county under the territorial government of nebraska in . cottonwood springs was made the county-seat. the following officers were elected: county commissioners--i. p. boyer, j. c. gilman and j. a. morrow; judge--charles mcdonald; treasurer--w. m. hinman. instead of calling the county lincoln, it was named "shorter." nothing, however, was done under this organization. judge mcdonald qualified and the only business was the marriage ceremony. on september , , a meeting was held and arrangements made to reorganize shorter county under the name of lincoln county. under the reorganization, the following officers were elected: j. c. gilman, w. m. hinman, and j. a. morrow were elected county commissioners; s. d. fitchie, county judge; wilton baker, sheriff; and charles mcdonald, clerk. the county seat was at cottonwood springs. w. m. hinman built a sawmill near cottonwood springs and did a large business. the union pacific railroad was then being constructed through this county and the cañons south of the platte abounded with cedar timber, furnishing an abundance of material. during november, , the union pacific railroad was completed to north platte and a town was laid out by the railroad company. the plat of the town was filed with the clerk of the county on january , ; a military post was established, and a garrison of soldiers was stationed here. in the union pacific railroad began the erection of shops and roundhouse, north platte having been designated as a division station. during the year , a freight train was wrecked by the indians. several of the trainmen were killed and the train plundered and burned. in september, , the indian chiefs were all called to assemble at north platte, where they were met by the commissioners appointed by the government to treat with them. these commissioners were general sherman, general harney, and john p. sanborne, and a treaty of peace was entered into. during the stay of these commissioners, they were well entertained by the citizens of north platte. the county-seat was moved from cottonwood springs to north platte at an election held october , . a total of twenty-one votes were cast. the officers elected were b. i. hinman, representative; w. m. hinman, county judge; charles mcdonald, clerk; o. o. austin, sheriff; hugh morgan, treasurer, and a. j. miller, county commissioner. there was no courthouse, and the records were kept at the home of w. m. hinman, who had moved from his farm to north platte. the first county warrant was issued in . the first term of district court was held at north platte in , judge gantt then being the circuit judge for the entire state. july , , the first levy on the union pacific railroad in lincoln county was made on an assessed valuation of $ , . . during this year, there was an indian scare and settlers throughout the county thronged to the military parks at mcpherson and north platte, taking refuge in the railroad roundhouse at the latter place. the first money collected from fines was that paid into the county treasury on february , , by r. c. daugherty, a justice of the peace, who fined a man $ . for stealing an overcoat. the first school in the county was taught at north platte during the summer of . theodore clark was the first teacher. the next term of school began november , , and was taught by mary hubbard, now mrs. p. j. gilman. the first sunday school in the county was at north platte, and was founded by mrs. keith, mrs. miller, mrs. cogswell, and mrs. kramph. there were only three children in attendance. during the year , troubles with the indians were on the increase. on one occasion, "dutch" frank, running an engine and coming round a curve with his train, saw a large body of indians on each side of the road, while a number were crowded on the track. knowing it would be certain death to stop, he increased the speed of his train and went through them, killing quite a number. in may, , the fifth u. s. cavalry arrived at fort mcpherson under general carr. eight companies were left here and four companies went to sidney and cheyenne. the government was surveying this county at that time and the troops were used to protect the surveyors. large bands of indians had left the reservation and were killing settlers and stealing horses. during the summer of the order from general auger, commanding the department, was to clear the country of indians between the union pacific and the kansas pacific. i was an officer of the fifth u. s. cavalry and was in command of the post at north platte in and , and was in all the indian campaigns until i resigned in . the first bank in north platte was started in by walker brothers and was later sold to charles mcdonald. gray eagle, pawnee chief by millard s. binney it is not often that one sees a real indian chief on the streets of fullerton, but such happened in june, , when the city was visited by david gillingham, as he is known in the english tongue, or gray eagle, as his people call him, chief of the pawnees. gray eagle is the son of white eagle, whom the early inhabitants of nance county will remember as chief of the pawnees at the time the county was owned by that tribe. gray eagle was born about three miles this side of genoa, in . he spent his boyhood in the county and when white men began to build at the place that is now genoa, he attended school there. when he was fourteen years of age he accompanied his tribe to its new home at pawnee city, oklahoma, where he has since resided. the trip overland was made mostly on horseback, and the memories of it are very interesting as interpreted to us by chief gray eagle, and john williamson, of genoa, one of the few white men to make this long journey with the red men. gray eagle made one trip back here in , visiting the spot that is now fullerton--then only a few rude shacks. uppermost in gray eagle's mind had always been the desire to return and see what changes civilization had brought. in he was sent to st. louis as a delegate to the baptist convention, after which he decided to visit the old scenes. from st. louis he went to chicago and from that city he came to genoa. "i have always wanted to see if i could locate the exact spot of my birth," said gray eagle, in perfect english, as he talked to us on this last visit, "and i have been successful in my undertaking. i found it last week, three miles this side of genoa. i was born in a little, round mud-house, and although the house is long since gone, i discovered the circular mound that had been its foundation. i stood upon the very spot where i was born, and as i looked out over the slopes and valleys that had once been ours; at the corn and wheat growing upon the ground that had once been our hunting grounds; at the quietly flowing streams that we had used so often for watering places in the days so long gone by; my heart was very sad. yet i've found that spot and am satisfied. i can now go back to the south and feel that my greatest desire has been granted." when asked if the indians of today followed many of the customs of their ancestors, he answered that they did not. occasionally the older indians, in memory of the days of their supremacy, dressed themselves to correspond and acted as in other days, but the younger generation knows nothing of those things and is as the white man. in oklahoma they go to school, later engage in farming or enter business. "civilization has done much for them," said gray eagle. "they are hard workers and have ambitions to accomplish great things and be better citizens. only we old indians, who remember the strenuous times of the early days, have the wild blood in our veins. the younger ones have never even seen a buffalo." then he told of his early life in the county and related interesting stories of the past--gray eagle, the indian chief, and john williamson, the pioneer, talking together, at times, in a tongue that to us was strange, but to them an echo of a very real past. the loup he called potato water, because of the many wild potatoes that formerly grew upon its banks. horse creek he remembered as skeleton water, the pawnees one time having fought a band of sioux on its banks. they were victorious but lost many warriors. their own dead they buried, leaving the bodies of their enemies to decay in the sun. soon the banks of the creek were strewn with skeletons and ever after the creek was known to the indians as skeleton water. the cedar was known as willow creek, council creek as the skidi, and the beaver as the sandburr. lovers' leap by mrs. a. p. jarvis i pause before i reach the verge and look, with chilling blood, below; some dread attraction seems to urge me nearer to the brink to go. the hunting red men used to force the buffalo o'er this frightful steep; they could not check their frantic course; by following herds pressed down they leap, then lie a bleeding, mangled mass beside the little stream below. their red blood stained the waving grass, the brook carnation used to flow. yet a far more pathetic tale the pawnees told the pioneer of dusky maid and stripling pale who found in death a refuge here. the youth had been a captive long, yet failed to friendly favor find; he oft was bound with cruel thong, yet noma to the lad was kind. she was the chieftain's only child, as gentle as the cooing dove. pure was this daughter of the wild; the pale-face lad had won her love. her father, angered at her choice, had bid'n her wed a chieftain brave; she answered with a trembling voice, "i'd rather lie within my grave." the day before the appointed eve when wactah was to claim his bride, the maid was seen the camp to leave-- the pale-face youth was by her side. she led him to this dangerous place that on the streamlet's glee doth frown; the sunlight, gleaming on her face, her wild, dark beauty seemed to crown. "dear youth," exclaimed the dusky maid, "i've brought thee here thy faith to prove: if thou of death art not afraid, we'll sacrifice our lives to love." hand linked in hand they looked below, then, headlong, plunged adown the steep. the pawnees from that hour of woe have named the place the lovers' leap. early indian history by mrs. sarah clapp in mr. and mrs. lester w. platt were first engaged in missionary work among the pawnees, and in the government set aside a tract of land thirty miles by fifteen miles, in the rich prairie soil of nance county, for their use; and when the indian school was established at genoa, mrs. platt was made matron or superintendent. my mother taught in this school during the years - . she found the work interesting, learned much of the customs and legends of the pawnees and grew very fond of that noble woman, mrs. platt, who was able to tell thrilling stories of her experiences during her mission work among the members of that tribe. at the time my mother taught in the genoa school, the sioux, who were the greatest enemies of the pawnees, on account of wanting to hunt in the same territory, were supposed to be friendly with the settlers, but drove away their horses and cattle and stole everything in sight, furnishing much excitement. my father, captain s. e. cushing, accompanied my uncle, major frank north, on a number of expeditions against the hostile indians, during the years until . he was with major north at the time of the famous charge on the village of the cheyennes, when the notorious chief, tall bull, was killed by my uncle. in , when frank north came to nebraska, a young boy, he mingled fearlessly with the indians along the missouri in the region of omaha, where our family first settled, learning their mode of warfare and living, and their language, which he spoke as fluently as his mother tongue. in he took a position as clerk and interpreter at the pawnee reservation and by he had become known as a daring scout. the next year the building of the union pacific railroad was started, and as the work progressed westward the fierce arapahoes, cheyennes, and sioux began attacking the laborers, until it seemed deadly peril to venture outside the camps. it was useless to call on the regular troops for help as the government needed them all to hold in check the armies of lee and johnston. a clipping from the washington _sunday herald_, on this subject, states that "a happy thought occurred to mr. oakes ames," the main spirit of the work. he sent a trusty agent to hunt up frank north, who was then twenty-four years old. "what can be done to protect our working parties, mr. north?" said mr. ames. "i have an idea," mr. north answered. "if the authorities at washington will allow me to organize a battalion of pawnees and mount and equip them, i will undertake to picket your entire line and keep off other indians. "the pawnees are the natural enemies of all the tribes that are giving you so much trouble, and a little encouragement and drill will make them the best irregular horse you could desire." this plan was new but looked feasible. accordingly mr. ames went to washington, and, after some effort, succeeded in getting permission to organize a battalion of four hundred pawnee warriors, who should be armed as were the u.s. cavalry and drilled in such simple tactics as the service required, and my uncle was commissioned a major of volunteers and ordered to command them. the newspaper clipping also says: "it would be difficult to estimate the service of major north in money value." general crook once said, in speaking of him, "millions of government property and hundreds of lives were saved by him on the line of the union pacific railroad, and on the nebraska, wyoming, and montana frontiers." there is much to be said in his praise, but i did not intend writing a eulogy, rather to tell of the stories which have come down to me, with which he and my other relatives were so closely connected. during the many skirmishes and battles fought by the pawnees, under major north, he never lost a man; moreover, on several different occasions he passed through such hair-breadth escapes that the pawnees thought him invulnerable. in one instance, while pursuing the retreating enemy, he discovered that his command had fallen back and he was separated from them by over a mile. the enemy, discovering his plight, turned on him. he dismounted, being fully armed, and by using his horse as a breastwork he managed to reach his troops again, though his faithful horse was killed. this and many like experiences caused the pawnees to believe that their revered leader led a charmed life. he never deceived them, and they loved to call him "little pawnee le-sharo" (pawnee chief), and so he was known as the white chief of the pawnees. the coming of the railroad through the state, bringing thousands of settlers with household furnishings and machinery for tilling the soil, was of the greatest importance. it was concerning the guarding of that right of way that a writer for the _horse world_ has some interesting memories and devotes an article in a number in february, , to the stories of colonel w. f. cody, major frank north, captain charles morse, captain luther north, captain fred mathews, and my father, captain s. e. cushing. the correspondent was under my father, in company b, during one of the scouting expeditions, when the company was sent to guard o'fallon's bluffs, west of fort mcpherson on the union pacific. he tells much more of camp activities and of his initiation into border life than of the skirmishes or scouting trips. he was fond of horses and tells of a memorable race in which a horse of buffalo bill's was beaten by my father's horse "jack." my uncle, captain luther north, who also commanded a company of scouts at that time, now resides in omaha. while yet a boy he freighted between omaha and columbus and carried the mail, by pony, during a period when my grandmother felt that when she bade him good-bye in the morning she might never see him again, so unsettled was the feeling about the indians. he was intimately acquainted with every phase of indian life. he knew their pastimes and games, work of the medicine men and magicians, and especially was he familiar with many of their legends. i am happy to have been one of the children who often gathered 'round him to listen to the tales of his own experiences or stories told him by the red men. one personal experience in the family happened before the building of the railroad, probably in sixty-one or sixty-two. a number of men, accompanied by the wives of two of them, went to put up hay for the government, on land located between genoa and monroe. one night the indians surrounded their camp, presumably to drive away their stock. naturally the party rebelled, and during the melee which followed adam smith and another man were killed and one of the women, mrs. murray, was wounded but saved herself by crawling away through the tall grass. the recital of this trouble grew in magnitude the farther it traveled, until people grew frantic with fear, believing it to mean an uprising of the sioux. the settlers from shell creek and all directions, bringing horses, cattle, and even their fowls, together with personal belongings, flocked into the village of columbus for mutual protection. my mother, then a young girl, describes the first night as one of much confusion. some of the fugitives were sheltered with friends, others camped in the open. animals, feeling as strange as did their masters, were bawling or screeching, and no one could sleep, as the greatest excitement prevailed. "they built a stockade of upright posts about eight feet high, around the town," says my uncle luther, thinking that as the indians usually fought on horseback, this would be a great help if not a first-class fort. they organized a militia company and men were detailed for guard duty and stationed at different points along the stockade, so serious seemed the situation. one night luther north and two other young men were sent on picket duty outside the stockade. they took their horses and blankets and went up west of town about half a mile, to keep an eye on the surrounding country. a mr. needham had gone up to his farm (now the john dawson farm) that day, and did not return until it was getting dark. the guards thought it would be great fun to give him a little scare, so as he approached they wrapped themselves in their blankets, mounted, and rode down under a bank. just as he passed they came up in sight and gave the indian war whoop and started after him. he whipped his team into a run; they chased him, yelling at every step, but stopped a reasonable distance from the stockade and then went back. mr. needham gave graphic description of how the indians had chased him, which so upset the entire population that sleep was out of the question that night. moreover he cautioned his wife in this wise: "now, christina, if the indians come, it is everybody for himself, and you will have to skulk." this remark made by mr. needham became a byword, and even down into the next generation was a favorite saying and always provoked a smile. the young guards had no fear whatever of marauding indians, and, blissfully unaware of the commotion they had aroused, went back up the road to a melon patch, ate a sufficient amount of the luscious fruit, picketed their horses, wrapped themselves in their blankets, and lay them down to pleasant dreams. the next morning they rode into town and reported no red men in sight. after a few weeks, when there was no further evidence of trouble from the savages, the people gradually dispersed to their homes and farms which were, by that time, much in need of attention. [illustration: mrs. oreal s. ward ninth state regent, nebraska society, daughters of the american revolution. - ] the blizzard of by minnie freeman penney on january , , the states of nebraska and south dakota were visited by a blizzard so fierce and cruel and death-dealing that residents of those sections cannot speak of it even now without an involuntary shudder. the storm burst with great suddenness and fury, and many there were who did not live to tell the story of their suffering. and none suffered more keenly than did the occupants of the prairie schoolhouses. teachers and pupils lost their lives or were terribly maimed. the great storm indicated most impressively the measure of danger and trial that must be endured by the country school teacher in the isolated places on the frontier. three nebraska country school teachers--loie royce of plainfield, etta shattuck of holt county, and minnie freeman of mira valley, were the subjects of much newspaper writing. miss royce had nine pupils. six went home for luncheon and remained on account of the storm. the three remaining pupils with the teacher stayed in the schoolhouse until three o'clock. their fuel gave out, and as her boarding house was but fifteen rods away, the teacher decided to take the children home with her. in the fury of the storm they wandered and were lost. darkness came, and with it death. one little boy sank into the eternal silence. the brave little teacher stretched herself out on the cold ground and cuddled the two remaining ones closer. then the other little boy died and at daylight the spirit of the little girl, aged seven, fluttered away, leaving the young teacher frozen and dumb with agony. loie royce "hath done what she could; angels can do no better." miss royce lost both feet by amputation. etta shattuck, after sending her children home (all living near) tried to go to her home. losing her way, she took refuge in a haystack, where she remained, helpless and hungry friday, saturday, and sunday, suffering intensely and not able to move. she lived but a short time after her terrible experience. minnie freeman was teaching in mira valley, valley county. she had in her charge seventeen pupils. finding it impossible to remain in the schoolhouse, she took the children with her to her boarding place almost a mile from the schoolhouse. words are useless in the effort to portray that journey to the safe shelter of the farmhouse, with the touching obedience of the children to every word of direction--rather _felt_ than _heard_, in that fierce winding-sheet of ice and snow. how it cut and almost blinded them! it was terrible on their eyes. they beat their way onward, groping blindly in the darkness, with the visions of life and death ever before the young teacher responsible for the destiny of seventeen souls. all reached the farmhouse and were given a nice warm supper prepared by the hostess and the teacher, and comfortable beds provided. minnie freeman was unconscious of anything heroic or unusual. doing it in the simple line of duty to those placed in her care, she still maintains that it was the trust placed in the great spirit who guides and cares for his own which led the little band-- "through the desert and illimitable air, lone wandering, but not lost." an acrostic _written to miss minnie freeman in by mrs. ellis of st. paul, nebraska. mrs. ellis was then seventy-eight years old--now deceased_ 'midst driving winds and blinding snows, impending dangers round her close; no shelter from the blast and sleet, no earthly help to guide her feet. in god alone she puts her trust, ever to guide the brave and just. fierce and loud the awful storm, racking now her slender form, eager to save the little band entrusted to her guiding hand. marshalled her host, see, forth she goes and falters not while tempest blows; now god alone can help, she knows. see them falling as they go; angry winds around them blow. is there none to hear their cry? now her strength will almost fail; tranquil, she braves the fearful gale. preëminent her name shall stand, a beacon light o'er all the land, unrivalled on the page of time; let song and story swell the chime. early days in nance county by mrs. ellen saunders walton in , after passing through a great sorrow, a longing came to me to enter the missionary field among the indians. at that time the pawnee tribe was located on their reservation, now nance county, and i was sent to work among them. it was interesting, at the same time sad and depressing, to witness the degeneration and savagery of tribal life; and ofttimes it was seemingly hopeless to civilize and christianize them. in the pawnees were removed by the government to indian territory, now oklahoma, and the reservation was thrown on the market. this became nance county, and a new order of things followed. settlers came to the little hamlet of genoa, that had been first settled by the mormons in , and though later given over to the indians, it was one of the oldest towns in nebraska. a church was established under the care of the new england congregational mission and rev. charles starbuck was put in charge. a small farmhouse where travelers could be accommodated, and a few homes of those who had bought land, comprised the village life. this freedom from restraint was indeed new to one accustomed to the rush of busy life in new york. daily rides over the prairie on my pony were a delight. it was wonderful how many cultured people drifted into the almost unknown western country. it was not infrequent to see in humble sod houses shelves filled with standard books and writings of the best authors. this was the second wave of population, and though many things had to be sacrificed that in the old life were considered necessary to comfort, pioneer life had its happy features. one especially was the kindly expression of helpfulness in time of sickness or sorrow. the discomforts and self denials and the longing for dear ones far away grow dim and faded! only memories of pleasant hours remain. then came the third wave of men and women settling all around, bringing fashion and refining influences, and entertainment of various kinds. churches, elevators, banks, and business houses were built and nance county began to show the march of civilization and progress. where first we knew the flower-gemmed prairie, modern homes spring up and good roads follow the trails of the indian and the hunter. the pawnee chief's farewell by chauncey livingston wiltse as i strolled alone, when the day had flown, through the once pawnee reserve, where the memories keep of the brave asleep by the winding cedar's curve-- methought the leaves of the old oak trees 'neath the sheltering hill-range spoke, and they said: "it's here that hearts knew no fear, where arose the pawnee smoke! "in the eventide, when all cares subside, is the hour the tribe liked best; when the gold of day crossed the hills away, and, like those who tried, found rest. o'er this lovers' leap, where now shadows creep, strode the chief, in thought, alone-- and he said: 'trees true, and all stars in view, and you very winds my own! "'i soon shall pass, like the blades of grass, where the wandering shadows go; only leaves will tell what my tribe did well-- but you hearts of oak--you know! to those hunting grounds that are never found shall my tribe, in time, depart; then it will be you to tell who were true, with the dawn-song in their heart! "'you will sing a song, with the winds along, how the pawnee loved these hills! here he loved to stray, all the wind-glad day-- in his heart the wind sings still! you will whisper, too, how he braved the sioux, how life's days he did his part; though not understood, how he wished but good, with but love within his heart! "'the white father's call reaches us, and all to his south wind land we fly, yet we fain would stay with you hills alway-- it is hard to say good-bye! you, our fatherland, we could once command, we are driven from, so fast; but you hills alway in our hearts will stay and be with us at the last! "'here we took our stand for our fatherland, here our sons to manhood grew; here their loves were found, where these hills surround-- here the winds sang to them, too! by this cedar's side, where the waters glide, we went forth to hunt and dream; here we felt the spell of you oaks as well, and felt all that love may seem! "'here we felt the pang of the hot wind tang, here we felt the blizzard's breath; here we faced the foe, as the stars all know-- here we saw the face of death! here we braved the wrath of the lightning's path, here we dared starvation's worst; here tonight we stand, for our fatherland, banished from what was ours--first! "'bravely we obey, and will go away; the white father wills it so; but our thoughts will roam to this dawntime home where our fathers sleep, below! and some shining day, beyond white men's sway, we will meet our long-lost own-- where you singing winds and the dawn begins, one will say, "come in--come home!" "'just beyond you hills, the rest land still is waiting for us all; at earth's sunset hour one will wake each flower, and us home will softly call! trees and stream, good-bye! now our parting's nigh; know you memory's sweet to me! though our footsteps go, you may always know you've the heart of each pawnee!' "as the chief passed by, stars filled the sky, and the moonlight softest fell-- but the night winds said, 'peace is overhead!' and the hills said, 'all is well!'" my trip west in by sarah schooley randall in my brother, charles a. schooley, landed at brownville and soon after purchased several tracts of land near there, one being the old home of church howe and adjoining the present site of the village of howe. incidentally, my husband's father, n. g. randall, three years later purchased land within three miles--known later as bedford. in , while my brother was visiting his old home, white deer valley, near williamsport, pennsylvania, the smoldering flames of adventure were kindled in my mind which nothing but a trip west could quench. on march , , we left williamsport by train from pittsburgh and on arriving there went to the monongahela hotel, then a magnificent building. abe lincoln had just left the hotel, much to our disappointment. after a few days we engaged passage on the _argonaut_ to st. louis via the monongahela, the ohio, and the mississippi rivers. our experiences were varied and exciting enough to meet my expectations. during one night we stood tied to a tree and another night the pumps were kept going to keep us from sinking. small consolation we got from the captain's remark that this was "the last trip for this old hulk." we had ample time for seeing all the important cities along the shore--cincinnati, louisville, etc. arriving at st. louis we took passage on a new boat, _sunshine_, and set sail upstream. perhaps we felt a few pangs of fear as we neared the real pioneer life. we changed boats again at st. joe and then our trip continued, now up the treacherous missouri. every now and then we struck a snag which sent the dishes scurrying from the table. i am reminded that this trip was typical of our lives: floating downstream is easy but upstream is where we strike the snags. of our valued acquaintances met on the trip were rev. and mrs. barrette, the former a presbyterian minister coming to brownville, and our friendship continued after reaching our destination. arriving in brownville, we went to the mcpherson hotel, where we continued to hear disturbing rumors about the coming civil war. after a few days we took a carriage and went west ten miles over the beautiful rolling prairies to our ranch. i was charmed with the scene, which was vastly different from the mountains and narrow winding valleys of pennsylvania, and was determined to stay, though my brother had lost his enthusiasm and gave me two weeks to change my mind. many a homesick spell i had when i would have very quickly returned to my father's home of peace and plenty, but the danger of travel detained me. i assured my brother that if he would only stay i would be very brave and economical. i only wanted five small rooms plainly furnished and a horse and carriage. when the place was ready we left brownville in a big wagon, drawn by oxen, and fortified by a load of provisions. when we came in sight of our bungalow it proved to be a one-room, unpainted and unplastered edifice, but i soon overcame that defect by the use of curtains, and as all lived alike then, we were content with our surroundings. our first callers were three hundred indians on an expedition. i had been reading extensively about indians, so knew when i saw their squaws and papooses with them that they were friendly--in fact, rather too familiar. my brother fenced his land and planted it in corn and all kinds of vegetables. the season being favorable there was an abundant crop, both cultivated and wild. the timber abounded with grapes, plums, nuts, etc., and strawberries on the prairies. we had a well of fine water, a good cellar or cave, and a genuine "creampot" cow. instead of a carriage i had a fine saddle horse (afterwards sold to a captain in the army), and how we did gallop over the prairies! one of my escapades was to a neighbor's home ten miles away for ripe tomatoes. in lieu of a sack we tied together the neck and sleeves of a calico wrapper, filled it with the tomatoes, then tied the bottom and balanced it astride the horse in front of me. going through the tall slough grass in one place near sheridan, now auburn, the horse became frantic with heat and flies and attempted to run away. the strings gave way and the tomatoes scattered. finally the saddle turned and the well-trained horse stopped. an inventory revealed one sleeve full of tomatoes remaining. among our near neighbors were mr. and mrs. milo gates and family, and mr. and mrs. engle. mrs. gates's cheerful optimism made this pioneer life not only possible but enjoyable. after five months, my brother joined the army and went south as a captain; was several times promoted, and stayed all through the war. a year after i went back to brownville to stay until the war was over, and there made many valued acquaintances: senator tipton's sister, mrs. atkinson, judge wheeler, h. c. lett, the mccrearys, hackers, whitneys, carsons, dr. guin, furnas, johnson, etc. about this time the citizens gave a party for the boys who enlisted, and there i met e. j. randall, whom i married soon after he returned from the army. of the four randall brothers who enlisted one was killed, one wounded, and one taken prisoner. two of them still live, dr. h. l. randall of aurora, forty-seven years a practicing physician in nebraska and at one time surgeon at the soldiers' home, grand island; and a. d. randall of chapman, nebraska, who enlisted at the age of sixteen and served all through the war. after a college course of four years my husband entered the ministry and served for twenty-five years in nebraska, except for one year of mission work at cheyenne, wyoming. the itinerant life is not unlike the pioneer life and brought with it the bitter and sweet as well, but the bitter was soon forgotten and blessed memories remain of the dear friends scattered all over the state of nebraska, and indeed to the ends of the earth. dr. wharton said when paying his tribute to my departed husband, "he still lives on in the lives of those to whom he has ministered." our children are charles h. randall of los angeles, california, member of congress, and mrs. anna randall pope of lincoln, nebraska. stirring events along the little blue by clarendon e. adams _painting a buffalo_ the following narrative of albert bierstadt's visit to what is now nuckolls county, nebraska, was told to me by mr. e. s. comstock, a pioneer of the county. mr. comstock made his first settlement in this county at oak grove, in , and was in charge of the oak grove ranch when this incident took place. in mr. bierstadt returned from the pacific coast via the overland stage route, which was then conducted by russell, majors & waddell, the pioneer stage and pony expressmen of the plains. arriving at oak grove ranch, mr. bierstadt and his traveling companion, a mr. dunlap, correspondent of the new york _post_, decided to stop a few days and have a buffalo hunt. in company with e. s. comstock, his son george, and a neighbor by the name of eubanks, who was killed by the indians the next year, they proceeded to the republican valley and camped the first night in the grove on lost creek, now known as lincoln park. the following morning the party proceeded up the river to the farm now owned by frank schmeling. here they discovered a large herd of buffalo grazing along the creek to the west and covering the prairies to the north for several miles. mr. comstock says that it was one of the largest herds of buffalo he had ever encountered and that mr. bierstadt became greatly excited and said, "now, boys, is our time for fun. i want to see an enraged wounded buffalo. i want to see him so mad that he will bellow and tear up the ground." mr. comstock said they arranged for the affray: mr. bierstadt was to take his position on a small knoll to the east of the herd, fix himself with his easel so that he could sketch the landscape and the grazing bison, and when this was done the wounding of one of the buffalo bulls was to take place. bierstadt was stationed on a small knoll in plain view of the herd; mr. eubanks was stationed in a draw near bierstadt, in order to protect him from the charges of the buffalo, if necessary. george comstock was to select a buffalo bull from the herd and wound him and then tantalize him by shaking a red blanket at him until he was thoroughly enraged, then he was to give him another wound from his rifle and lead out in the direction of mr. bierstadt. the wounded buffalo became furious and charged comstock's horse repeatedly, but comstock, being an expert horseman, evaded the fierce charges and was all the time coming nearer to bierstadt. when within about three hundred yards comstock whirled his horse to the side of the maddened monster. as a buffalo does not see well out of the side of his eyes on account of the long shaggy hair about the face, comstock was lost to his view. the infuriated animal tossed his head high in air and the only thing he saw was bierstadt. onward he rushed toward the artist, pawing the ground and bellowing furiously. bierstadt called for help and took to his heels. the buffalo struck the easel and sent it in splinters through the air. onward he rushed after the fleeing artist, who was making the best time of his life. mr. comstock said he was running so fast that his coat tails stuck so straight out that you could have played a game of euchre on them. the buffalo was gaining at every jump. at this point in his story mr. comstock became greatly excited. he was standing on the identical spot telling me the story, and was living the exciting scene over again. "why," he said, "i thought eubanks never would shoot. i was scared. the buffalo nearly had his horns under bierstadt's coat tail. he was snorting froth and blood all over him, but the gun cracked and the buffalo fell and bierstadt was so overcome he fell at the same time entirely exhausted, but saved from a fearful death." when he recovered sufficiently to talk, he said, "that's enough; no more wounded buffalo for me." mr. bierstadt was several days recovering from his fearful experience, but while he was recovering, he was painting the picture. "mr. dunlap, the correspondent, wrote a graphic and vivid pen picture of the exciting scene," said mr. comstock; "but when mr. bierstadt finished his picture of the infuriated charging buffalo and the chase, the pen picture was not in it." this was the painting that brought bierstadt into prominence as an artist. it was exhibited at the first chicago exhibition and was sold for $ , . i saw the picture in chicago before i heard mr. comstock's narrative, and as i was one of the owners of el capitan rancho, the landscape of the famous painting, i fixed his story vividly upon my memory. mr. mike woerner now owns a portion of el capitan rancho, the landscape of this famous painting. a portion of this original painting is embraced in mr. bierstadt's masterpiece, "the last of the buffalo." _an indian raid_ the settlement of the section now included in nuckolls county was attended with more privation and suffering from indian raids and depredations than any other county in the state of nebraska. the great indian raids of august , , extended from denver, colorado, to gage county, nebraska, at which time every stage station and settlement along the entire line of the overland trail was included in that skilfully planned attack. a certain number of warriors were assigned to each place and the attack was simultaneous along the line for four hundred miles in extent. the oak grove ranch was among the most formidable in fortifications and a band of forty well-armed braves was sent to capture and destroy it. on the day of the attack g. s. comstock, owner of oak grove ranch, was away from home; but besides his family there were five men at the stockade. the indians came to the ranch about mid-day in a friendly attitude. they had left their ponies about a quarter of a mile away. they asked for something to eat and were permitted to come into the house with their guns and bows and arrows on their persons. they finished their dinner and each received a portion of tobacco and some matches. then without any warning they turned upon the inmates of the ranch yelling and shooting like demons, and only for the quickness and great presence of mind of one of the comstock boys the whites would all have been killed or taken away captives to submit to the cruelty of the savage foe. a mr. kelly, from beatrice, was there and was the first to fall pierced with an arrow. he had a navy revolver in his belt. the indians rushed for it but young comstock was too quick for them and seized the revolver first and shot down the leader of the braves. seeing the fate of their leader, the indians rushed to the door in great fright. the revolver was in skilful hands and three more of the braves went down under the unerring aim of young comstock. kelly and butler were both killed outright. two men by the name of ostrander and a boy were wounded. all the other occupants of the ranch had their clothes pierced with arrows or bullets. the indians ran to their ponies, and while they were away planning another attack, the wounded were cared for as best they could. the doors were securely barred and the living were stationed in the most advantageous places for defense. the friendly game of the indians had not worked as they expected, but they were not daunted and soon they encircled the house, riding, shooting, and yelling. this fiendish warfare they kept up all the afternoon. they tried several times to set the buildings on fire but shots from experienced marksmen, both men and women, kept them at bay. the new leader of the indians rode a white pony and seemed at times to work his warriors up to great desperation, and young comstock made up his mind to shoot him the next time that he appeared. it was now too dark to distinguish one man from another. mr. comstock, senior, was mounted on a white horse and he was enroute home about the time the indians were expected to return. the vigilant son raised his gun, took aim, and was about to shoot, when one of the girls, remembering that her father rode a white horse, called out, "father, is it you?" an affirmative answer came back just in time to prevent the fatal shot which would have followed in an instant more. mr. comstock had ridden through the indian lines, while returning to his ranch, unmolested. he said to me he believed the indians spared his life that evening on account of favors he had always granted them. five miles east of the comstock ranch that day a boy eighteen years old by the name of ulig was met by two indians. one of them shook hands with him while the other pierced his body with a spear and then scalped him and left him writhing in the broiling sun to die on the prairie. this savage and brutal act was followed by others unparalleled even in savage warfare. four miles above oak grove at a place called the narrows on the little blue river, lived a family of ten persons by the name of eubanks. they were from the east and knew nothing of indians' cruel warfare and when they were attacked they left their cabin and ran for the trees and brush along the river banks. nine of them were murdered in the most brutal manner: scalped and stripped of their clothing. two of the women, mrs. eubanks, with a young babe in her arms, and laura roper, a school teacher who was there on a visit, were the only ones who arrived at a place of concealment and would have escaped had not the babe from heat and fright cried out. the practiced ear of the indians caught the sound and they were made captives and subjected to the most inhuman and beastly treatment by the horrible savages. after the mother was made a captive the baby cried from hunger. the mother was so famished she could not nourish the babe but held it fondly in her arms trying to soothe it; and one of the merciless savages stepped up and brained it with his tomahawk. no pen or brush can tell the horrors of this diabolical deed. the two women were subjected to six months of bondage impossible to describe. i was telling this story one day to the late captain henry e. palmer of omaha, and learned from him that he and his command of soldiers and pawnee scouts followed these inhuman wretches over the plains trying to bring them to bay, and finally down on the solomon river in kansas captured some of the indian chiefs and succeeded in exchanging them for the two women captives. this is one of the terrible chapters in the early settlement of nuckolls county and was graphically detailed to me by mr. comstock soon after i settled in the county. my last buffalo hunt by j. sterling morton (read before the nebraska state historical society, january , ) among all the glowing and glorious autumns of the forty-odd which i have enjoyed in clear-skied nebraska, the most delicious, dreamy, and tranquil was that of . the first day of october in that year surpassed in purity of air, clouds, and coloring all the other october days in my whole life. the prairies were not a somber brown, but a gorgeous old-gold; and there drifted in the dry, crisp atmosphere lace-like fragments of opalescent clouds which later in the afternoon gave the horizon the look of a far-away ocean upon which one could see fairy ships, and upon its farther-away shores splendid castles, their minarets and towers tipped with gold. the indolence of savagery saturated every inhalation, and all physical exertion except in the hunt or chase seemed repellent, irksome, and unendurable. then it was that--like an evolution from environment--the desire and impulse to go upon a buffalo hunt seized upon and held and encompassed and dominated every fibre of my physical, every ambition and aspiration of my mental, make-up. controlled by this spontaneous reincarnation of the barbaric tastes and habits of some nomadic ancestor of a prehistoric generation, arrangements for an excursion to fort kearny on the platte (colonel alexander, of the regular army, then in command) were completed. with food rations, tent and camping furniture, and arms and ammunition, and pipes and tobacco, and a few drops of distilled rye (to be used only when snake-bitten), a light one-horse wagon drawn by a well-bred horse which was driven by the writer, was early the next morning leaving arbor lodge, and briskly speeding westward on the "overland trail" leading to california. and what rare roads there were in those buoyant days of the pioneers! all the prairies, clear across the plains from the missouri river to the mountains, were perfectly paved with solid, tough, but elastic sod. and no asphalt or block-paved avenue or well-worked pike can give the responsive pressure to the touch of a human foot or a horse-hoof that came always from those smooth and comely trails. especially in riding on horseback were the felicities of those primitive prairie roads emphasized and accentuated. upon them one felt the magnetism and life of his horse; they animated and electrified him with the vigor and spirit of the animal until in elation, the rider became, at least emotionally, a centaur--a semi-horse human. the invigoration and exaltation of careering over undulating prairies on a beautiful, speedy, and spirited horse thrilled every sense and satisfied, as to exhilaration, by physical exercise, the entire mental personality. nature's roads in nebraska are unequaled by any of their successors. this excursion was in a wagon without springs; and after driving alone, as far as the weeping water crossing, i overtook an ox train loaded with goods and supplies for gilman's ranch on the platte away beyond fort kearny. one of the proprietors, mr. jed gilman, was in command of the outfit, and by his cordial and hospitable invitation i became his willing and voracious guest for the noonday meal. with a township for a dining room over which arched the turquoise-colored sky, like a vaulted ceiling, frescoed with clouds of fleecy white, we sat down upon our buffalo robes to partake of a hearty meal. there was no white settler within miles of our camp. the cry of "dinner is now ready in the next car" had never been heard west of the mississippi river nor even dreamed of in the east. the bill of fare was substantial: bacon fried, hot bread, strong coffee, stronger raw onions, and roasted potatoes. and the appetite which made all exquisitely palatable and delicious descended to us out of the pure air and the exhilaration of perfect health. and then came the post-prandial pipe--how fragrant and solacing its fumes--from virginia natural leaf, compared to which the exhalations from a perfecto cigar are today a disagreeable stench. there was then the leisure to smoke, the liberty and impulse to sing, to whoop, and to generally simulate the savages into whose hunting grounds we were making an excursion. life lengthened out before us like the overland route to the pacific in undulations of continuously rising hillocks and from the summit of each one scaled we saw a similarly attractive one beyond in a seemingly never-ending pathway of pleasure, ambition, and satisfaction. the gold of the pacific coast was not more real then than the invisible possibilities of life, prosperity, success, and contentment which were to teem, thrive, and abound upon these prairies which seemed only farms asleep or like thoughts unuttered--books unopened. but the smoke over, the oxen again yoked to the wagons and the train, like a file of huge white beetles, lumbered along to the songs, swearing, and whip-crackings of the drivers toward the crossing of salt creek. however, by my persuasive insistence, mr. gilman left his wagon boss in charge and getting into my wagon accompanied me. together we traveled briskly until quite late at night when we made camp at a point near where the town of wahoo now stands. there was a rough ranch cabin there, and we remained until the following morning, when we struck out at a brisk trot toward fort kearny, entering the platte valley at mccabe's ranch. the day and the road were perfect. we made good time. at night we were entertained at warfield's, on the platte. the water in the well there was too highly flavored to be refreshing. nine skunks had been lifted out of it the day of our arrival and only platte river water could be had, which we found rather stale for having been hauled some distance in an old sorghum cask. but fatigue and a square meal are an innocent opiate and we were soon fast asleep under the open sky with the moon and stars only to hear how loudly a big ranchman can snore in a bedroom of a million or more acres. in the morning of our third day out, we were up, breakfasted with the sunrise, and drove on over the then untried railroad bed of the platte valley at a rattling gait. the stanch and speedy animal over which the reins were drawn, a splendid bay of gentle birth, had courage and endurance by heredity, and thus we made time. ranches were from twenty to thirty miles apart. and the night of the third day found us at mabin's. this was a hotel, feed barn, dry goods establishment, and saloon all under one roof, about thirty miles from fort kearny. after a reasonably edible supper, mr. gilman and i were escorted to the saloon and informed that we could repose and possibly sleep in the aisle which divided it from the granary which was filled with oats. our blankets and buffalo robes were soon spread out in this narrow pathway. on our right were about two hundred bushels of oats in bulk, and on our left the counter which stood before variously shaped bottles containing alleged gin, supposed whiskey, and probable brandy. we had not been long in a recumbent position before--instead of sleep gently creeping over us--we experienced that we were race courses and grazing grounds for innumerable myriads of sand fleas. immediately gilman insisted that we should change our apartment and go out on the prairies near a haystack; but i stubbornly insisted that, as the fleas had not bitten me, i would continue indoors. thereupon gilman incontinently left, and then the fleas with vicious vigor and voracity assaulted me. the bites were sharp, they were incisive and decisive. they came in volleys. then in wrath i too arose from that lowly but lively couch between the oats and the bar and sullenly went out under the starlit sky to find mr. gilman energetically whipping his shirt over a wagon wheel to disinfest it from fleas. but the sand fleas of the platte are not easily discharged or diverted, from a fair and juicy victim. they have a wonderful tenacity of purpose. they trotted and hopped and skipped along behind us to the haystack. they affectionately and fervidly abided with us on the prairie; and it is safe to say that there never were two human beings more thoroughly perforated, more persistently punctured with flea bites than were the two guests at mabins's ranch during all that long and agonizing night. however, there came an end to the darkness and the attempt at sleep, and after an early breakfast we resumed the fort kearny journey to arrive at its end in the late afternoon of the fourth day. there i found colonel alexander, of the regular army, in command. john heth, of virginia, was the sutler for the post and after some consultation and advisement it was determined that we might without much danger from indians go south to the republican river for a buffalo hunt. at that time the cheyennes, who were a bloodthirsty tribe, were in arms against the white people and yearning for their scalps wherever found. but to avoid or mitigate dangers colonel alexander considerately detailed lieutenant bush with twelve enlisted men, all soldiers of experience in the indian country, to go with us to the republican valley as an escort or guard--in military parlance, on detached service. thus our party moved southward with ample force of arms for its defense. the four hunters of the expedition were lieutenant bush, john heth, john talbot (who had been honorably discharged from the regular army after some years of service) and myself. the excursion was massed and ready for departure at o'clock on the bright morning of october , . the course taken was nearly due south from the present site of kearney city in buffalo county. the expedition consisted of two large army wagons, four mules attached to each wagon, a light, two-horse spring wagon, and four trained riding horses experienced in the chase, together with twelve soldiers of the regular u. s. army and the gentlemen already named. it had not traveled more than twenty-five miles south of fort kearny before it came in view of an immense and seemingly uncountable herd of buffalo. my first sight of these primitive beeves of the plains i shall never forget. they were so distant that i could not make out their individual forms and i at once jumped to the conclusion that they were only an innumerable lot of crows sitting about upon the knobs and hillocks of the prairies. but in a few moments, when we came nearer, they materialized and were, sure enough, real bellowing, snorting, wallowing buffaloes. at first they appeared to give no heed to our outfit, but after we saddled and mounted our horses and rode into their midst they began to scatter and to form into small bands, single file. the herd separated into long, black swaying strings and each string was headed by the best meat among its numbers. the leading animal was generally a three-year-old cow. each of these strings, or single-file bands, ran in a general southeast direction and each of the four hunters--bush, heth, talbot, and the writer--selected a string and went for the preëminent animal with enthusiasm, zeal, and impulsive foolhardiness. in the beginning of the pell-mell, hurry-scurry race it seemed that it would be very easy to speedily overtake the desired individual buffalo that we intended to shoot and kill. the whole band seemed to run leisurely. they made a sort of sidewise gait, a movement such as one often sees in a dog running ahead of a wagon on a country road. upon the level prairie we made very perceptible gains upon them, but when a declivity was reached and we made a down hill gallop we were obliged to rein in and hold up the horses, or take the chances of a broken leg or neck by being ditched in a badger or wolf hole. but the buffaloes with their heavy shoulders and huge hair-matted heads lumbered along down the incline with great celerity, gaining so much upon us that every now and then one of them would drop out from the line upon reaching an attractive depression, roll over two or three times in his "wallow," jump up and join his fleeing fellows before we could reach him. but finally after swinging and swaying hither and thither with the band or line as it swayed and swung, the lead animal was reached and with much exultation and six very nervous shots put to death. my trophy proved to be a buffalo cow of two or three years of age; and after she had dropped to the ground, a nimble calf, about three months old, evidently her progeny, began making circles around and around the dead mother and bleating pitifully, enlarging the circle each time, until at last it went out of sight onto the prairie and alone, all the other parts of the herd having scattered beyond the rising bluffs and far away. that afternoon was fuller of tense excitement, savage enthusiasms, zeal and barbaric ambition than any other that could be assorted from my life of more than sixty years. there was a certain amount of ancestral heathenism aroused in every man, spurring a horse to greater swiftness, in that chase for large game. and there was imperial exultation of the primitive barbaric instinct when the game fell dead and its whooping captors surrounded its breathless carcass. but the wastefulness of the buffalo hunter of those days was wicked beyond description and, because of its utter recklessness of the future, wholly unpardonable. only the hump, ribs, the tongue, and perhaps now and then one hind-quarter were saved for use from each animal. the average number of pounds of meat saved from each buffalo killed between the years and would not exceed twenty. in truth, thousands of buffaloes were killed merely to get their tongues and pelts. the inexcusable and unnecessary extermination of those beef-producing and very valuable fur-bearing animals only illustrates the extravagance of thoughtlessness and mental nearsightedness in the american people when dealing with practical and far-reaching questions. it also demonstrates, in some degree, the incapacity of the ordinary every-day law-makers of the united states. game laws have seldom been enacted in any of the states before the virtual extinction of the game they purposed to protect. here in nebraska among big game were many hundreds of thousands of buffaloes, tens of thousands of elk and deer and antelope, while among smaller game the wild turkey and the prairie chicken were innumerable. but today nebraska game is practically extinct. even the prairie chicken and the wild turkey are seldom found anywhere along the missouri bluffs in the southern and eastern part of the commonwealth. looking back: what might have been accomplished for the conservation of game in the trans-missouri country is suggested so forcibly that one wonders at the stupendous stupidity which indolently permitted its destruction. the first night outward and southeastward from fort kearny we came to turkey creek which empties into the republican river. there, after dark, tents were pitched at a point near the place where the government in previous years established kilns and burned lime for the use of soldiers in building quarters for themselves and the officers at fort kearny which was constructed in by stewart l. van vliet, now a retired brigadier general and the oldest living graduate of west point. after a sumptuous feast of buffalo steak, a strong pint of black coffee and a few pipes of good tobacco, our party retired; sleep came with celerity and the camp was peacefully at rest, with the exception of two regular soldiers who stood guard until o'clock, and were then relieved by two others who kept vigil until sunrise. at intervals i awoke during the night and listened to the industrious beavers building dams on the creek. they were shoveling mud with their trowel-shaped tails into the crevices of their dams with a constantly-resounding slapping and splashing all night. the architecture of the beaver is not unlike that which follows him and exalts itself in the chinked and daubed cabins of the pioneers. the darkness was followed by a dawn of beauty and breakfast came soon thereafter, and for the first time my eyes looked out upon the attractive, fertile and beautiful valley of the republican river. all that delightful and invigorating day we zealously hunted. we found occasionally small bands of buffaloes here and there among the bluffs and hills along the valley of the republican. but these animals were generally aged and of inferior quality. besides such hunting, we found a great quantity of blue-winged and green-winged teal in the waters of the republican and bagged not a few of them. there is no water-fowl, in my judgment, not even the redheaded duck and canvasback duck, which excels in delicate tissue and flavor the delicious teal. just a little before sundown, on the third day of our encampment, by the bluffs land of the republican, lieutenant bush and mr. heth in one party, and john talbot and i in another, were exploring the steep, wooded bluffs which skirted the valley. the timber growing at that time on the sides of these bluffs was, much of it, of very good size and i shall never forget going down a precipitous path along the face of a hill and suddenly coming upon a strange and ghastly sight among the top limbs and branches of an oak tree which sprang from the rich soil of a lower level. the weird object which then impressed itself upon my memory forever was a dead indian sitting upright in a sort of wicker-work coffin which was secured by thongs to the main trunk of the tree. the robe with which he had been clothed had been torn away by buzzards and only the denuded skeleton sat there. the bleached skull leered and grinned at me as though the savage instinct to repulse an intruder from their hunting grounds still lingered in the fleshless head. perfectly i recall the long scalp-lock, floating in the wind, and the sense of dread and repellent fear which, for the startled moment, took possession of me in the presence of this arboreally interred indian whose remains had been stored away in a tree-top instead of having been buried in the ground. not long after this incident we four came together again down in the valley at a great plum orchard. the plum trees covered an area of several acres; they stood exceedingly close together. the frosts had been just severe enough to drop the fruit onto the ground. never before nor since have my eyes beheld or my palate tasted as luscious fruit as those large yellow and red plums which were found that afternoon lying in bushels in the valley of the republican. while we were all seated upon the ground eating plums and praising their succulence and flavor we heard the click-cluck of a turkey. immediately we laid ourselves flat upon the earth and in the course of ten minutes beheld a procession of at least seventy-five wild turkeys feeding upon plums. we remained moveless and noiseless until those turkeys had flown up into the tall cottonwood trees standing thereabouts and gone to roost. then after darkness had settled down upon the face of the earth we faintly discerned the black forms or hummocks of fat turkeys all through the large and leafless limbs of the cottonwoods which had been nearly defoliated by the early frosts of october. it required no deft marksmanship or superior skill to bring down forty of those birds in a single evening. that number we took into camp. in quick time we had turkey roasted, turkey grilled, turkey broiled; and never have i since eaten any turkey so well flavored, so juicy and rich, as that fattened upon the wild plums of the republican valley in the year . at last, surfeited with hunting and its successes, we set out on our return to fort kearny. when about half way across the divide, a sergeant, one of the most experienced soldiers and plainsmen of the party, declared that he saw a small curl of smoke in the hazy distance and a little to the west and south of us. to my untrained eye the smoke was at first invisible, but with a field glass i ultimately discerned a delicate little blue thread hanging in the sky, which the soldiers pronounced smoke ascending from an indian camp. readjusting the glasses i soon made out to see three indians stretched by the fire seemingly asleep, while two were sitting by the embers apparently cooking, eating and drinking. very soon, however, the two feasters espied our wagons and party. immediately they came running on foot to meet us; the other three, awaking, followed them; speedily they were in our midst. they proved, however, to be peaceful pawnees. mr. john heth spoke the language of that tribe and i shall never forget the coolness with which these representatives of that nomadic race informed him that mrs. heth and his little two-years-of-age daughter, minnie, were in good health in their wigwam at fort kearny; they were sure of it because they had looked into the window of the heth home the day before and saw them eating and drinking their noonday meal. these indians then expressed a wish for some turkey feathers. they were told to help themselves. immediately they pulled out a vast number of the large feathers of the wings and tails and decorated their own heads with them. the leader of the aboriginal expedition, in conversation with mr. heth, informed him that although they were on foot they carried the lariats which we saw hanging from their arms for the purpose of hitching onto and annexing some cheyenne ponies which they were going south to steal. they walked away from home, but intended to ride back. the barbaric commander in charge of this larcenous expedition was named "the fox," and when questioned by mr. heth as to the danger of the enterprise, and informed that he might probably lose his life and get no ponies at all, captain fox smiled and said grimly that he knew he should ride back to the pawnee village on the loup the owner of good horses; that only a year or two before that time he had been alone down into the cheyenne village and got a great many horses safely out and up onto the loup fork among the pawnees without losing a single one. "the fox" admitted, however, that even in an expedition so successful as the one which he recalled there were a great many courage-testing inconveniences and annoyances. but he dwelt particularly upon the fact that the cheyennes always kept their ponies in a corral which was in the very center of their village. the huts, habitations, tipis, and wigwams of the owners of the ponies were all constructed around their communal corral in a sort of a circle, but "the fox" said that he nevertheless, in his individual excursion of which he proudly boasted, crawled during the middle of the night in among the ponies and was about to slip a lariat on the bell-mare without her stirring, when she gave a little jump, and the bell on her neck rang out pretty loudly. then he laid down in the center of the herd and kept still, very still, while the horses walked over him and tramped upon him until he found it very unpleasant. but very soon he saw and heard some of the cheyennes come out and look and walk about to see if anything was wrong. then he said he had to stay still and silent under the horses' hoofs and make no noise, or die and surely be scalped. at last, however, the cheyennes, one after another, all went back into their wigwams to sleep, and then he very slowly and without a sound took the bell off from the mare, put his lariat on her neck quietly, led her out and all the herd of cheyenne ponies followed. he never stopped until he was safe up north of the platte river and had all his equine spoils safe in the valley of the loup fork going towards the pawnee village where genoa now stands. the fox was an "expansionist" and an annexationist out of sympathy for the oppressed ponies of the cheyennes. "the fox" declared that the number of horses he made requisition for at that time on the stables of the cheyennes was three hundred. at this statement some incredulity was shown by mr. heth, myself, and some others present. immediately "the fox" threw back his woolen blanket which was ornamented on the inside with more than two hundred small decorative designs of horses. among the pawnees, and likewise, if i remember rightly, among the otoes and omahas, robes and blankets were thus embellished and so made to pass current as real certificates of a choice brand of character for their wearers. each horse depicted on the robe was notice that the owner and wearer had stolen such horse. finally, after expressions of friendship and good will, the expedition in charge of "the fox" bade us adieu and briskly walked southward on their mission for getting horses away from their traditional enemies. it is perhaps worth while to mention that, it being in the autumn of the year, all these indians were carefully and deftly arrayed in autumn-colored costumes. their blankets, head-gear and everything else were the color of dead and dried prairie grass. this disguise was for the purpose of making themselves as nearly indistinguishable as possible on the brown surface of the far-stretching plains. for then the weeds and grasses had all been bleached by the fall frosts. we were given an exhibition of the nearly perfect invisibleness of "the fox" by his taking a position near a badger hole around which a lot of tall weeds had grown upon the prairie, and really the almost exact similitude of coloring which he had cunningly reproduced in his raiment made him even at a short distance indistinguishable among the faded weeds and grasses by which he was surrounded. in due time we reached fort kearny and after a pleasant and most agreeable visit with mr. heth and his family, colonel alexander and lieutenant bush, i pushed on alone for the missouri river, by the north platte route, bringing home with me two or three turkeys and a quarter of buffalo meat. about the second evening, as i remember it, i arrived at the agency of the four bands of the pawnee on the loup fork of the platte river, near where the village of genoa in nance county now stands. judge gillis of pennsylvania was the u. s. government agent then in charge of that tribe, and mr. allis was his interpreter. there i experienced the satisfaction of going leisurely and observingly through the villages of the four bands of pawnees, which there made their habitation. the names of the four confederate bands of pawnee indians were grand pawnee, wolf pawnee, republican pawnee, and tapage pawnee. at that time they all together numbered between four thousand and five thousand. distinguished among them for fearlessness and impetuous courage and constant success in war was an indian who had been born with his left hand so shrunken and shriveled that it looked like the contracted claw of a bird. he was celebrated among all the tribes of the plains as "crooked hand, the fighter." hearing me express a wish for making the acquaintance of this famous warrior and scalp accumulator, judge gillis and mr. allis kindly volunteered to escort me to his domicile and formally introduce me. we took the trail which lay across beaver creek up into the village. this village was composed of very large, earthen, mound-like wigwams. from a distance they looked like a number of great kettles turned wrong side up on the prairie. finally we came to the entrance of the abode of crooked hand. he was at home. i was presented to him by the interpreter, mr. allis. through him, addressing the tawny hero who stood before me, i said: it has come to my ears that you are and always have been a very brave man in battle. therefore i have made a long journey to see you and to shake the hand of a great warrior. this seemed to suit his bellicose eminence and to appeal to his barbaric vanity. consequently i continued, saying: i hear that you have skilfully killed a great many sioux and that you have kept the scalp of each warrior slain by you. if this be true, i wish you would show me these trophies of your courage and victories? immediately crooked hand reached under a sort of rude settee and pulled out a very cheap traveling trunk, which was locked. then taking a string from around his neck he found the key thereunto attached, inserted it in the lock, turned it, and with gloating satisfaction threw back the lid of the trunk. it is fair to state that, notwithstanding mr. crooked hand's personal adornments in the way of paint, earrings, and battle mementoes, he was evidently not a man of much personal property, for the trunk contained not one other portable thing except a string of thirteen scalps. this he lifted out with his right hand and held up before me as a connoisseur would exhibit a beautiful cameo--with intense satisfaction and self-praise expressed in his features. the scalps were not large, averaging not much more in circumference than a silver dollar (before the crime of ). each scalp was big enough to firmly and gracefully retain the scalp-lock which its original possessor had nourished. each scalp was neatly lined with flaming red flannel and encircled by and stitched to a willow twig just as boys so stretch and preserve squirrel skins. then there was a strong twine which ran through the center of each of the thirteen scalps leaving a space of something like three or four inches between each two. after looking at these ghastly certificates of prowess in indian warfare i said to the possessor: "do you still like to go into fights with the sioux?" he replied hesitatingly: "yes, i go into the fights with the sioux but i stay only until i can kill one man, get his scalp and get out of the battle." then i asked: "why do you do this way now, and so act differently from the fighting plans of your earlier years when you remained to the end of the conflict?" instantly he replied and gave me this aboriginal explanation: "you see, my friend, i have only one life. to me death must come only once. but i have taken thirteen lives. and now when i go into battle there are thirteen chances of my being killed to one of my coming out of the fight alive." this aboriginal application of the doctrine of chance is equally as reasonable as some of the propositions relating to chances found in "hedges' logic," which i studied in the regular college course. there is more excuse for a savage faith in chance than can be made for the superstitious belief in it which is held by some civilized people. my last buffalo hunt was finished and its trophies and its choicest memories safely stored for exhibition or reminiscence at arbor lodge. more than thirty-seven years afterwards i am permitted this evening by your indulgence and consideration to attempt faintly to portray the country and its primitive condition at that time in that particular section of nebraska which is now franklin county. but in concluding this discursive and desultory narrative i cannot refrain from referring to and briefly descanting on another and an earlier and larger expedition into the valley of the republican which set out from mexico in the year under the command of coronado. that explorer was undoubtedly the first white man to visit nebraska. in his report to the spanish government is a description of buffalo which for graphic minuteness and correctness has never been excelled. thus it pictures them as they appeared to him and his followers more than three hundred and fifty years ago: "these oxen are of the bigness and color of our bulls, but their horns are not so great. they have a great bunch upon their foreshoulders, and more hair upon their fore-part than on their hinder-part; and it is like wool. they have, as it were, a horse mane upon their back bone, and much hair, and very long from the knees downward. they have great tufts of hair hanging down their foreheads, and it seemeth they have beards, because of the great store of hair hanging down at their chins and throats. the males have very long tails, and a great knob or flock at the end, so that in some respects they resemble the lion, and in some other the camel. they push with their horns, they run, they overtake and kill a horse when they are in their rage and anger. finally, it is a fierce beast of countenance and form of body. the horses fled from them, either because of their deformed shape, or because they had never seen them before. their masters [meaning no doubt the indians] have no other riches or substance; of them they eat, they drink, they apparel, they shoe themselves; and of their hides they make many things, as houses, shoes, apparel and robes; of their bones they make bodkins; of their sinews and hair, thread; of their horns, maws and bladders, vessels; of their dung, fire; and of their calf skins, budgets, wherein they draw and keep water. to be short, they make so many things of them as they have need of, or as may suffice them in the use of this life." it is perhaps a work of supererogation for me after the lapse of three and a half centuries to endorse and verify the accuracy of that word picture of the buffalo. a photograph of the great herd which i rode into during my hunt could hardly better convey to the mind the images of buffalo. the hundreds of years intervening between my own excursion into the valley of the republican and the invasion of coronado had neither impaired, improved, nor perceptibly changed either the buffalo or the soil of that fertile section now comprising the county of franklin in the state of nebraska. of that immediate propinquity coronado said: "the place i have reached is in the fortieth degree of latitude. the earth is the best possible for all kinds of productions of spain, for while it is very strong and black, it is very well watered by brooks, springs and rivers. i found prunes" [wild plums, no doubt, just as my party and the wild turkeys were feasting upon in october, ] "like those of spain, some of which are black; also some excellent grapes and mulberries." and jaramillo, who was with coronado, says: "this country has a superb appearance, and such that i have not seen better in all spain, neither in italy nor france, nor in any other country where i have been in the service of your majesty. it is not a country of mountains; there are only some hills, some plains and some streams of very fine water. it satisfies me completely. i presume that it is very fertile and favorable for the cultivation of all kinds of fruits." and this land whence the coronado expedition upon foot retraced its march to old mexico, a distance, by the trail he made, of , miles, was in latitude forty degrees and distant westward from the missouri about one hundred and forty miles. geographically, topographically, and in every other way, the description of franklin and the neighborhood of riverton in that county. here then in franklin county it is recorded that the last horse belonging to coronado and his band of precious-metal hunters died. at that time all the horses on this continent had been imported. the loss of this animal that day at that place was like the loss today of a man-of-war for spain in a great naval conflict with the united states. it was discouraging and overwhelming and resulted in the relinquishment of further exploration for the land of quivera--the home of gold and silver--and the return to old mexico. there was no use for saddles, bridles and other equestrian trappings, for with no horse to ride even stirrups were thrown away, and it has been the good fortune of nebraska to have them exhumed after a sequestration of more than three centuries. and thus, after so many years of delay, i give you the story of the first buffalo hunt and the last buffalo hunt in the republican valley concerning which i am competent to make statement. how the founder of arbor day created the most famous western estate by paul morton "the memories that live and bloom in trees, that whisper of the loved and lost in summer leaves, are as imperishable as the seasons of the year--immortal as the love of a mother."--j. sterling morton. i suppose the story of a successful pioneer will always interest and encourage people. the narrative of a strong, far-sighted man who makes something out of nothing seems to put heart into the average worker. that is why i am telling the story of how my father, j. sterling morton, and his young wife, set their faces toward the west, one october day in , and built them a home on the prairies. arbor lodge as it stands today, with its classic porticoes, its gardens, and its arboretum, the present country home of my brother, mr. joy morton, is not the home that i remember as a boy. that was a much more modest edifice. yet even that house was a palace compared with the first one, which was a little log-cabin standing on the lonely prairie, exposed to blizzards and indians, and with scarcely a tree in sight. my father was a young newspaper man in detroit, only recently out of college, when he took his bride, two years his junior, out to the little-known frontier. attracted by the information about the new country brought out by douglas and others in the kansas-nebraska debates in congress, he conceived and acted on the idea that here were fortunes to be made. taking such household goods as they could, they traveled to the new land, making the last stage up the missouri river by boat. nebraska at that time was the indian's own country. there were not over , white people in the entire state. all the country west of the missouri was called in the geographies the great american desert, and it took a good deal of faith to believe that anything could be made to grow where annual fires destroyed even the prairie grass and the fringes of cottonwoods and scrub-oaks along the rivers. today this section, within a radius of some two hundred miles, includes perhaps the most fertile soil in the world and has become a center of industry, agriculture, and horticulture for the middle west. there was then no political organization, no laws; men went about fully armed. there were no roads and no bridges to speak of in the entire state; it was "waste land." this was part of the land of the louisiana purchase, and my father bought a quarter section ( acres) from the man who preëmpted it from the government. the price paid was $ . an acre. today the estate comprises about , acres, and the land is readily saleable at a hundred times this price. on the spot where arbor lodge now stands, my father built his first log-cabin. this was soon replaced by a modest frame house; there was not then another frame house between it and the rocky mountains, six hundred miles away. on the same place two succeeding houses were built by my father, the present, and fifth, arbor lodge having been built by his sons after his death. my father called these first four houses, "seed, bud, blossom, and fruit." the first winter was a mild one, fortunately, but there were plenty of hardships for the young people. there were no very near neighbors, the village of kearny heights, now nebraska city, being then over two miles away. the indians formed the greatest danger. i can remember a day in my boyhood when we had everything packed up, ready to flee across the missouri to iowa from the murderous pawnees and cheyennes, who, fortunately, did not come that time. a part of that first winter my father and mother spent in bellevue. when spring came they set about building their home. later on they had young trees sent to them from the east, including some excellent varieties of apples, peaches, cherries, pears, etc. things grew fast; it was only the prairie fires that had kept the land a desert so long, and year by year these fires had enriched the soil. the farm was located on the overland trail, the favorite route to pike's peak and the el dorado. many of the mormon emigrants crossed the river at that place. i can remember the big trains of ox and mule teams passing the house. my father's interests were always inseparably joined with those of the community; he was in public life from the start, and nebraska's fortunes were his. his neighbors all had the same experiences, and many a farmer who started with nothing is now wealthy. the farmers had to bring in from missouri and iowa all the food for themselves and their horses and cattle the first year. they were living on faith. during the first spring and summer the anxiety was great, but they were rewarded by a good harvest in the fall. the success of that harvest settled the nebraska question forever. it was a land that could support its inhabitants. but the end was not yet. the "get-rich-quick" fever struck the community. immigration was over-stimulated, and town lots were manufactured at a great rate. in a few months they increased in price from $ to $ , apiece. banks were created and money was made plenty by legislation. my father never caught this fever, being always a sound-money man and believing in wealth based on the soil. at the end of the second summer the crop of town lots and nebraska bank-notes was greater than the crop of corn. but the lesson was not learned until the panic of drove out the speculators and left the farmers in possession of the territory. with the spring of sanity came to rule once more, and there was less bank making and more prairie breaking. the citizens had learned that agriculture was to be the salvation of the new country. in , two dollars a bushel had been paid for imported corn, but in the same steamers that had brought it in bore thousands of bushels south at forty cents a bushel, bringing more money into the territory than all the sales of town lots for a year. the first territorial fair was held in nebraska city in , and on that occasion my father made a speech in which he reviewed the history of the new territory up to that time. i speak of these things because my father was always a man of public interests, and his fortunes were wrapped up in those of the territory. his hardships came when the community went crazy, and his fortune grew when sanity was once more restored. i know of nothing that better illustrates my father's private character than an editorial which he wrote and published in _the conservative_ a short time before the untimely death of my brother carl. the fact that both the author and the two loved ones of whom he so tenderly wrote have passed to the great beyond, imparts to this beautiful passage a most exquisite pathos: "it was a bright, balmy morning in april more than a quarter of a century ago. the sun was nursing the young grass into verdure, and the prairie was just beginning to put off its winter coat of somber colorings. tranquil skies and morning mists were redolent at arbor lodge of the coming resurrection of the foliage and flowers that died the autumn before. all about the cottage home there was hope and peace; and everywhere the signs of woman's watchful love and tidy care, when, suddenly, toned with affectionate solicitude, rang out: 'carl, carl!' but no answer came. downstairs, upstairs, at the barn, even in the well, everywhere, the mother's voice called anxiously, again and again. but the silence, menacing and frightening, was unbroken by an answer from the lost boy. at last, however, he was found behind a smokehouse, busily digging in the ground with a small spade, though only five years of age, and he said: 'i'm too busy to talk. i'm planting an orchard,' and sure enough, he had set out a seedling apple tree, a small cottonwood, and a little elm. "the delighted mother clasped him in her arms, kissed him, and said: 'this orchard must not be destroyed.' "and so now "'i hear the muffled tramp of years come stealing up the slopes of time; they bear a train of smiles and tears of burning hopes and dreams sublime.' "the child's orchard is more than thirty years of age. the cottonwood is a giant now, and its vibrant foliage talks, summer after summer, in the evening breeze with humanlike voice, and tells its life story to the graceful, swaying elm near by, while the gnarled and scrubby little apple tree, shaped, as to its head, like a despondent toadstool, stands in dual shade, and bears small sweet apples, year after year, in all humility. but that orchard must not be destroyed. it was established by the youngest tree planter who ever planted in this tree planter's state, and for his sake and the memory of the sweet soul who nursed and loved him, it lives and grows, one cottonwood, one apple tree, one elm. "'but o, for the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still.' "the memories that live and bloom in trees, that whisper of the loved and lost in summer leaves, are as imperishable as the seasons of the year--immortal as the love of a mother." early reminiscences of nebraska city by ellen kinney ware _social aspects_ as a girl graduate i came to nebraska city from virginia, at an early day. it seemed to me that i was leaving everything attractive socially and intellectually, behind me, but i was mistaken. on arriving here, i expected to see quite a town, was disappointed, for two large brick hotels, and a few scattered houses comprised the place. among my first acquaintances was the family of governor black, consisting of his daughter about my own age, his wife, and himself. he was not only bright and clever, but a wit as well, and famous as a story-teller. alas a sad fate awaited him. for leaving here to take command of a pennsylvania regiment, he was killed early in the civil war. those were freighting days and russell, majors and waddell, government freighters, made this their headquarters. alexander majors brought his family here adding much socially to the town. major martin, an army officer, was stationed here. he was a charming gentleman and had a lovely wife. dancing was the principal amusement with the young people. informal dances at private homes and occasionally on a steamboat when it arrived, brilliantly lighted and having a band of music on board. at the "outfit" as it was called, where the supplies for the freighting company were kept, dwelt a family, raisin by name, who were exceedingly hospitable, not only entertaining frequently, but often sending an ambulance for their guests. at these parties no round dancing was indulged in, just simple quadrilles and the lancers. mr. and mrs. j. sterling morton, who lived on a country place, a short distance from town, which has since become widely known as arbor lodge, were among the most active entertainers, dispensing that delightful hospitality for which in later times they were so well known. and so we lived without railroads, without telephones, automobiles, or theaters. but i believe that our social enjoyment was greater than it is now. instead of railroads, we had steamboats arriving almost daily from st. louis, st. joseph, and other towns. in carriages we drove to omaha and back, and the social intercourse of the two towns was much greater than it is now. [illustration: oregon trail monument, located at the point where the line between jefferson and gage counties intersects the kansas-nebraska state line dedicated may , . cost $ . trail crosses state line , feet east, and crosses jefferson-gage county line , feet north of this point. erected by the citizens of gage and jefferson counties, nebraska, washington county, kansas, and elizabeth montague chapter, daughters of the american revolution] amateur theatricals took the place of the theater, and often brilliant, undreamed of talent was shown. literature also was not neglected, many highly educated men and women were among our pioneers and literary societies were a prominent part of our social life. we played chess in those days, but not cards. this alone might be taken as an index of how much less frivolous that day was than the present. in bishop talbot arrived here from indianapolis and made this his home, adding greatly socially and intellectually to the life of the community. in his family was the rev. isaac hager, beloved and revered by all who knew him, a most thorough musician, as well as a fine preacher. remembering old times we sometimes ask ourselves, where now are the men and women, equal to the ones we knew in those days, certainly there are none superior to them, in intellect, manners, wit, and true nobility. "oh brave hearts journeyed to the west, when this old town was new!" some personal incidents by w. a. mcallister my father and family came to nebraska in , living two years at genoa. at this time the government assigned what is now nance county, to the pawnee indians, as a reservation. when the white settlers sought other homes our family located eight miles east of columbus, at mcallister's lake. every fall my father hired about sixty squaws to husk out his crop of corn. only one buck ever came to work, and he was always known as "squaw charlie" after that. he spoke english quite well. they were slow workers, husking about twenty bushels per day. they were very gluttonous at meals, eating much bread, with meat soup containing potatoes and other vegetables, cooked in large twenty gallon camp kettles. this was supplemented by watermelons by the wagonload. it required a week or ten days to harvest the corn crop. the indians were very thievish, stealing almost as much as their wages amounted to. during these years i often witnessed their "medicine dances." when fifteen years old i enlisted in company b, second nebraska cavalry, and went to fort kearny. our company relieved the tenth infantry, which went to the front. in less than twenty days this company was nearly annihilated at the battle of fredericksburg. while at the fort a buffalo hunt was organized by the officers, and i had an opportunity to go. our party went south to the valley of the republican. the first night we camped at the head of the big blue, and the second day i noticed south of us, about eight miles distant, a dark line along the horizon extending as far east and west as the eye could reach. i inquired what it was and an old hunter replied "buffaloes." i could not believe him, but in a few hours found he was right, for we were surrounded by millions of them. they were hurrying to the east with a roaring like distant thunder. our sportsmen moved in a body through the herd looking for calves, not caring to carry back the meat of the old specimens. strange to say this tremendous herd seemed to be composed of males, for the cows were still on the oklahoma ranges caring for their calves, until strong enough to tramp north again. we noticed an old fellow making good progress on three legs, one foot having been injured. one of the party wished to dispose of him, but his wooly forehead covered with sand, turned every bullet. finally the hunter asked me to attract his attention, while he placed a bullet in his heart. in doing this, he almost succeeded in goring my pony, but i turned a second too quickly for him. i was near enough to see the fire flashing from his angry eyes. in a few minutes he fell with a thud. several years after the war being over, i worked for the union pacific railroad company. at kearney, in , we met the buck surveying party, who had come west to lay out, for the government, the lands of the republican valley. in this company was a young man from pontiac, illinois, named harry mcgregor. he left a home of plenty to hunt buffalo and indians, but found among other privations, he could not have all the sugar he wished, so at kearney he decided to leave the party and work with us. this decision saved his life, for the rest of the surveyors, about ten in all, after starting south next morning, were never seen again. they were surprised and killed by the indians. their skeletons were found several years later, bleaching on the nebraska prairie. major north's buffalo hunt by minnie freeman penny a party under the direction of major frank north set out with six wagon teams and four buffalo horses on november , , to engage in a buffalo hunt. the other men were luther north, c. stanley, hopkins brown, charles freeman, w. e. freeman, w. e. freeman, jr., and messrs. bonesteel, wasson, and cook. they camped the first night at james cushing's ranch, eighteen miles out; the second night at jason parker's home at lone tree, now central city, and the third night arrived at grand island. on the way to grand island one of the party accidentally started a prairie fire six miles east of grand island. a hard fight was made and the flames subdued just in time to save a settler's stable. leaving grand island on the sixteenth they crossed the platte river and camped on the west blue. from this point in the journey the party suffered incredible hardships until their return. about midnight the wind changed to the north, bringing rain and sleet, and inside of an hour a blizzard was raging on the open prairie. the horses were covered with snow and ice and there was no fuel for the fires. the men went out as far as they dared to go for wood, being unsuccessful. it was decided to try to follow the indian trail south--made by the pawnee scouts under major north. little progress could be made and they soon "struck camp" near some willows that afforded a little protection to their horses and a "windbreak" was made for man and beast. this camp was at the head of the big sandy, called by this party the "big smoky" for the men suffered agonies from the smoke in the little tipi. for two days the storm continued in all its terrible force. the wind blew and the air was so full of snow that it was blinding. the cold was intense. the men finally determined to find some habitation at any price and in groups of two and three left camp following the creek where they were sure some one had settled. a sod house was found occupied by two english families who received the party most hospitably. charles freeman, older than the other men of the party, suffered a collapse and remained at this home. during the night the storm abated and next morning, finding all the ravines choked with heavy snow drifts, it was decided by vote to abandon the hunt. they dug out their belongings from under many feet of snow, sold their corn to the english families to lighten their load and started back. the journey home was full of accidents, bad roads, and drifted ravines. reaching the union pacific railroad at grand island major north and mr. bonesteel returned to columbus by rail, also mr. stanley from lone tree. the rest of the party returned by team, arriving on november . major north admitted that of all his experiences on the prairie--not excepting his years with the pawnee scouts--this "beat them all" as hazardous and perplexing. the foregoing is taken from my father's diary. pioneer life by mrs. james g. reeder it is almost impossible for people of the present day to realize the hardships and privations that the first settlers in nebraska underwent. imagine coming to a place where there was nothing but what you had brought with you in wagons. add to the discomfort of being without things which in your former home had seemed necessities, the pests which abound in a new country: the rattlesnake, the coyote, the skunk, the weasel, and last--but not least--the flea. my father, samuel c. smith, held the post of "trader" for the pawnee indians under major wheeler in - . we lived in a house provided by the government, near the indian school at genoa, or "the reservation," as it was commonly called. i was only a few weeks old, and in order to keep me away from the fleas, a torture to everyone, they kept me in a shallow basket of indian weave, suspended from the ceiling by broad bands of webbing, far enough from the floor and wall to insure safety. i have heard my mother tell of how the indians would walk right into the house without knocking, or press their faces against a window and peer in. they were usually respectful; they simply knew no better. sometimes in cold weather three or four big men would walk into the kitchen and insist upon staying by the fire, and mother would have hard work to drive them out. the next year my father moved his family to a homestead two miles east of genoa where he had built a large log house and stables surrounded by a high tight fence, which was built for protection against the unfriendly indians who frequently came to make war on the pawnees. the government at times kept a company of soldiers stationed just north of us, and when there would be an "indian scare," the officers' wives as well as our few neighbors would come to our place for safety. major noyes was at one time stationed there. firearms of all sorts were always kept handy, and my mother could use them as skilfully as my father. one night my father's barn was robbed of eight horses by the sioux and the same band took ten head from mr. gerrard, who lived four miles east of us. e. a. gerrard, luther north, and my father followed their trail to the missouri river opposite yankton, south dakota, and did not see a white man while they were gone. they did not recover the horses, but twenty years after the government paid the original cost of the horses without interest. the loss of these horses and the accidental death of a brother of mine so discouraged my father that he moved to columbus in . one of the delights of my childhood were the nights in early autumn when all the neighborhood would go out to burn the grass from the prairie north of us for protection against "prairie fires," as great a foe as was the unfriendly indian of a few years before. in the summer of , which in nebraska history is known as "the grasshopper year," my grandmother, mrs. william boone, accompanied by her daughter, mrs. mary hemphill, and granddaughter, ada hemphill, came to make us a visit. for their entertainment we drove in a three-seated platform spring wagon or carryall to see the indians in their village near genoa. their lodges were made of earth in a circular form with a long narrow entrance extending out like the handle of a frying pan. as we neared the village we came upon an ordinary looking indian walking in the road, and to our surprise my father greeted him very cordially and introduced him to us. it was petalesharo, chief of the pawnees, but without the feathers and war-paint that i imagined a chief would always wear. he invited us to his lodge and we drove to the entrance, but my grandmother and aunt could not be persuaded to leave the surrey. my cousin, being more venturesome, started in with my father, but had gone only a few steps when she gathered up her skirts and cried, "oh, look at the fleas! just see them hop!" and came running back to the rig, assuring us she had seen enough. the indians must have taken the fleas with them when they moved to oklahoma, for we seldom see one now. early days in polk county by calmar mccune in the early history of the county, county warrants were thicker than the leaves on the trees (for trees were scarce then), and of money in the pockets of most people there was none. those were the days when that genial plutocrat, william h. waters, relieved the necessities of the needy by buying up county warrants for seventy-five cents on the dollar. don't understand this as a reflection on the benevolent intentions of mr. waters, for he paid as high a price as anybody else offered; i mention it only to illustrate the financial condition of the people and the body politic. henry mahan was postmaster and general merchant. the combined postoffice and store which, with a blacksmith shop, constituted the business part of the town of osceola, was located on the west side of the square. it was a one and one-half story frame and on the second floor was _the homesteader_ (now the osceola _record_). here h. t. arnold, w. f. kimmel, frank burgess, the writer, and stephen fleharty exercised their gray matter by grinding out of their exuberant and sometimes lurid imaginations original local items and weighty editorials. in those days if a top buggy was seen out on the open, treeless prairie, the entire business population turned out to watch it and soon there were bets as to whether it came from columbus or seward, for then there was not a top buggy in polk county. the first drug store was opened by john beltzer, a country blacksmith who suddenly blossomed from the anvil into a full-fledged pharmacist. doctor stone compounded the important prescriptions for a while. i need not try to describe the grasshopper raid of for the old-timers remember it and i could not picture the tragedy so that others could see it. to see the sun's rays dimmed by the flying agents of destruction; to witness the disappearance of every vestige of green vegetation--the result of a year's labor, which was to most of the inhabitants the only resource against actual want, to see this i say, one must live through it. many of the early settlers were young people newly married, who had left their homes in the east with all their earthly possessions in a covered wagon, or "prairie schooner" as it was called, and making the trip overland, had landed with barely enough money to exist until the first crop was harvested. added to the loss and privation entailed by the visitation of the winged host was the constant dread that the next season would bring a like scourge. on sunday afternoon, april , , i left the farm home of james bell in valley precinct for columbus, expecting to take the train there monday morning for omaha. the season was well advanced, the treeless prairie being covered with verdure. it was a balmy sunshiny spring day, as nearly ideal as even nebraska can produce. as i left the clother hotel that evening to attend the congregational church i noticed that the clouds were banking heavily in the northwest. there was a roll of distant thunder, a flash of lightning, and a series of gentle spring showers followed and it was raining when i went to bed at my hotel. next morning when i looked out of my window i could not see half-way across the street. the wind was blowing a gale, which drove large masses of large, heavy snow-flakes southward. already where obstructions were met the huge drifts were forming. this continued without cessation of either snow or wind all day monday and until late tuesday night. wednesday about noon the snow plow came, followed by the monday train, which i boarded for omaha. as the train neared fremont i could see the green knolls peeping up through the snow, and at omaha the snow had disappeared. there they had had mainly rain instead of snow. i may say that the storm area was not over two hundred miles wide with clarks as about the center, the volume gradually diminishing each way from that point. it should be borne in mind that the farmers raised mainly spring wheat and oats. these grains had been sown several weeks before the storm and were all up, but the storm did not injure them in the least. on leaving omaha a few days later i went to grand island. at gardner's siding, between columbus and clarks, a creek passed under the track. this had filled bank high with snow which now melting, formed a lake. the track being bad the train ran so slowly that i had time to count fifty floating carcasses of cattle upon the surface of the water. this was the fate of many thousands of head of stock. nobody dared to venture out into that storm for no human being could face it and live. the great flakes driven by a fifty-mile gale would soon plaster shut eyes, nose and mouth--in fact, so swift was the gale that no headway could be made against it. in those days merchants hauled their goods from columbus or seward and all the grain marketed went to the same points. wheat only was hauled, corn being used for feed or fuel. a trip to columbus and return the same day meant something. a start while the stars still twinkled; the mercury ten, twenty, or even thirty degrees below, was not a pleasure trip, to the driver on a load of wheat. but the driver was soon compelled to drop from the seat, and trudge along slapping his hands and arms against his body to keep from freezing. leaving home at three or four o'clock in the morning he was lucky if he got home again, half frozen and very weary, several hours after dark. speaking of exposure to wintry blasts, reminds me of a trip on foot i made shortly after my arrival in polk county. december , , i started to walk from the milsap neighborhood in hamilton county, several miles west of where polk now stands, to the home of william stevens, near the schoolhouse of district no. . it was a clear, bitter cold morning, the wind blowing strongly from the northwest, the ground coated with a hard crust of snow. i kept my bearings as best i could, for it should be remembered that there were no roads or landmarks and i was traveling purely by guess. along about mid-day i stumbled upon a little dugout, somewhere north of where stromsburg now stands--the first house i had seen. on entering i found a young couple who smiled me a welcome, which was the best they could do, for, as i saw from the inscriptions on a couple of boxes, they were recent arrivals from sweden. the young lady gave me some coffee and rusks, and i am bound to say that i never tasted better food than that coffee and those rusks. i did not see another house until i reached the bluffs, where, about sunset, i was gladdened by the sight of the stevens house in the valley, a couple of miles distant. when i finally reached this hospitable home the fingers of both hands were frozen and my nose and ears badly frosted. in the early days we traveled from point to point by the nearest and most direct route, for while the land was being rapidly taken up, there were no section line roads. whenever the contour of the land permitted, we angled, being careful to avoid the patches of cultivated land. there were no trees, no fences, and very few buildings, so, on the level prairie, nothing obstructed the view as far as the eye could carry. the sod houses and stables were a godsend, for lumber was very expensive and most of the settlers brought with them lean purses. it required no high-priced, skilled labor to build a "soddy," and properly built they were quite comfortable. when i grow reminiscent and allow my mind to go back to those pioneer days, the span of time between then and now seems very brief, but when i think longer and compare the _then_ with the _now_, it seems as though that sod house-treeless-ox driving period must have been at least one hundred years ago. it is a far cry from the ox team to the automobile. personal reminiscences by mrs. thyrza reavis roy in march, , my husband, george roy, and i started from our home in avon, illinois, to nebraska territory. the railroad extended to st. joseph, missouri. there they told us we would have to take a steamboat up the missouri river to rulo, forty miles from st. joseph. we took passage on a small steamboat, but the ice was breaking up and the boat ran only four miles up the river. they said it was too dangerous to go farther so told us we would have to go back or land and get some one to drive us to rulo, or the missouri side of the river across from rulo. we decided to land, and hired a man to drive us across country in an old wagon. it was very cold and when we reached the place where we would have to cross the missouri, the ice was running in immense blocks. it was sunset, we were forty miles from a house on that side of the river. there was a man on the other side of the river in a small skiff. mr. roy waved to him and he crossed and took us in. every moment it seemed those cakes of ice would crush the little skiff, but the man was an expert dodger and after a perilous ride he let us off at rulo. by that time it was dark. we went to a roughly boarded up shanty they called a tavern. it snowed that night and the snow beat in on our bed. the next morning we hired a man to take us to falls city, ten miles from rulo. falls city was a hamlet of scarcely three hundred souls. there was a log cabin on the square; one tiny schoolhouse, used for school, sunday school, and church. as far as the eye could reach, it was virgin prairie. there was very little rain for two years after we came. all provisions, grain, and lumber were shipped on boats to rulo. there was only an indian trail between rulo and falls city. everything was hauled over that trail. after the drouth came the grasshoppers, and for two years they took all we had. the cattle barely lived grazing in the nemaha valley. all grain was shipped in from missouri. the people had no amusements in the winter. in the summer they had picnics and a methodist camp-meeting, on the muddy river north of falls city. [illustration: mrs. charles oliver norton tenth state regent, nebraska society, daughters of the american revolution. - ] over the nemaha river two and one-half miles southwest of falls city, on a high hill above the falls from which the town was named, was an indian village. the sac and foxes and iowa indians occupied the village. each spring and fall they went visiting other tribes, or other tribes visited them. they would march through the one street of falls city with their ponies in single file. the tipi poles were strapped on each side of the ponies and their belongings and presents, for the tribe they were going to visit, piled on the poles. the men, women, and children walked beside the ponies, and the dogs brought up the rear. sometimes, when the indians had visitors, they would have a war-dance at night and the white people would go out to view it. their bright fires, their scouts bringing in the news of hostile indians in sight, and the hurried preparations to meet them, were quite exciting. the indians were great beggars, and not very honest. we had to keep things under lock and key. they would walk right into the houses and say "eat!" the women were all afraid of them and would give them provisions. if there was any food left after they had finished their eating, they would take it away with them. their burying-ground was very near the village. they buried their dead with all accoutrements, in a sitting posture in a grave about five feet deep, without covering. the indians cultivated small patches of land and raised corn, beans, pumpkins, etc. a man named fisher now owns the land on which the indians lived when i reached the country. the people were very sociable. it was a healthy country, and we had health if very little else. we were young and the hardships did not seem so great as they do in looking backward fifty years. note--thyrza reavis roy was born august , , in cass county, illinois, the daughter of isham reavis and mahala beck reavis. her great-grandfather, isham reavis, fought in the war of the revolution. her grandfather, charles reavis, and her own father, isham reavis, fought in the war of . she is a real daughter of the war of . she is a member of the u. s. daughters of , a member of the deborah avery chapter d. a. r. of lincoln, and a member of the territorial pioneers association of nebraska. her husband, george roy, died at falls city march , . two seward county celebrations by mrs. s. c. langworthy i recall one reminiscence of my early life in nebraska which occurred in , when we first located in seward. we could have gone no farther, even had we wished, as seward was then the terminus of the billings line of the burlington railroad. we soon learned that a county celebration was to be held on the fourth of july, and i naturally felt a great curiosity to know how a crowd of people would look to whom we had been sending boxes of clothing and bedding in response to appeals from the grasshopper sufferers. my surprise cannot be imagined when i saw people clothed as well as elsewhere and with baskets filled with an abundance of good things for a picnic dinner. the same pretty grove in which this gathering occurred thirty-nine years ago is now our beautiful city park, where during the summer of our commercial club gave an old-time barbecue costing the members twelve hundred dollars. they secured the state band and fine speakers, and served a bounteous dinner to about fifteen thousand people. everything was free to all who came, and a happier crowd can not be imagined. i speak of this because in the years to come it will be a pleasant reminiscence to many who may have been present. note--elizabeth c. (bennett) langworthy, fourth state regent of the nebraska society d. a. r., is a daughter of jacob and caroline (valentine) bennett. her paternal grandfather was also jacob bennett, a soldier in the revolutionary war. he was taken prisoner and held in an english ship off the coast of quebec for some time. mrs. langworthy was born in orleans county, new york, in . the family moved to wisconsin in , and the daughter finished her education at hamline university, then located at red wing, minnesota. in she was married to stephen c. langworthy, and in became a resident of seward, nebraska. mr. langworthy died march , . mrs. langworthy has been active and prominent in club work, and is widely known. she served for five years as a member of the school board at seward and organized the history and art club of seward of which she was president for several years. she was the first secretary of the state federation of woman's clubs, and was elected president in . mrs. langworthy is the mother of six children. seward county reminiscences compiled by margaret holmes chapter d. a. r. seward county shared with other counties all of the privations and experiences of pioneer life, though it seems to have had less trouble with hostile indians than many localities in the state. the struggles of pioneer settlers in the same country must necessarily be similar, though of course differing in detail. the first settlers deemed it important to locate on a stream where firewood could be obtained, and they were subject to high waters, prairie fires, constant fear of the indian, and lack of provisions. at one time the little band of settlers near the present site of seward was reduced to one pan of corn, though they were not quite as reduced as their historic pilgrim forefathers, when a load of provisions arrived that had been storm-bound. reminiscences are best at first hand, and the following letters, taken from the _history of seward county_ by w. w. cox, recount some of the incidents of early pioneer life by those who really lived it. mrs. sarah f. anderson writes as follows: "at the time of the great indian scare of , my father's family was one of the families which the nebraska city people had heard were killed. it had been rumored throughout the little settlement that there were bands of hostile indians approaching, and that they were committing great depredations as they went. "one sunday morning my uncle and thomas shields started down the river on a scouting expedition. after an all-day search, just at nightfall, they came suddenly upon an indian camp. the men thought their time had come, but the redskins were equally scared. there was no chance to back out, and they resolved to know whether the indians were friendly or hostile. as they bravely approached the camp, the indians began to halloo, 'heap good omaha!' the men then concluded to camp over night with them, and they partook of a real indian supper. the next morning they went home satisfied that there were no hostile indians in the country. "a day or two after this, my father (william imlay) and his brothers were on upper plum creek haying, when grandfather imlay became frightened and hastened to our house and said the indians were coming upon the settlement. he then hurried home to protect his own family. about three o'clock in the afternoon we saw a band of them approaching. they were about where the b. & m. depot now stands. we were living about eighty rods above the present iron bridge. my mother, thinking to escape them, locked the cabin door, and took all the children across the creek to the spring where she kept the milk. to kill time, she commenced churning. very soon, four indians (great, big, ugly creatures) came riding up to the spring and told mother that she was wanted over to the house. she said, 'no, i can't go; i am at work.' but they insisted in such a menacing manner that she felt obliged to yield and go. they said, 'come, come,' in a most determined manner. the children all clinging to her, she started, and those great sneaking braves guarded her by one riding on each side, one before, and one behind. poor mother and we four children had a slim show to escape. they watched our every movement, step by step. when we reached the cabin, there sat sixteen burly indians in a circle around the door. when we came up, they all arose and saluted mother, then sat down again. they had a young indian interpreter. as they thought they had the family all thoroughly frightened, the young indian began in good shape to tell just what they wanted. they would like to have two cows, two sacks of flour, and some meat. mother saw that she must guard the provisions with desperation, as they had cost such great effort, having been hauled from the missouri river. the indians said, 'the sioux are coming and will take all away, and we want some.' 'no,' said mother, 'we will take our cattle and provisions and go to plattsmouth.' 'but,' said the indian, 'they will be here tonight and you can't get away.' mother at this point began to be as much angry as frightened. 'i will not give you anything. you are lying to me. if the sioux were so close, you would all be running yourselves.' at this point another brave, who had been pacing the yard, seeing mother grow so warm, picked up our axe and marched straight up to her and threw it down at her feet. she picked it up and stood it beside her. mother said afterward that her every hair stood on end, but knowing that indians respect bravery, she resolved to show no cowardice. we could all see that the whole river bend was swarming with indians. mother said with emphasis, 'i now want you to take your indians and be gone at once.' then they said, 'you are a brave squaw,' and the old chief motioned to his braves and they marched off to camp. the next day our family all went over to plum creek and remained until things became settled. "the following winter father was at omaha attending the legislature; and i am sure that over a thousand indians passed our place during the winter. it required pluck to withstand the thievish beggars. sometimes they would sneak up and peep in at the window. then others would beg for hours to get into the house. "a great amount of snow had fallen, and shortly after father's return home, a heavy winter rain inundated all the bottom lands. we all came pretty near being drowned but succeeded in crawling out of the cabin at the rear window at midnight. our only refuge was a haystack, where we remained several days entirely surrounded by water, with no possible means of escape. mr. cox made several attempts to rescue us. first he tried to cross the river in a molasses pan, and narrowly escaped being drowned, as the wind was high and the stream filled with floating ice. the next day he made a raft and tried to cross, but the current was so rapid he could not manage it. it drifted against a tree where the water was ten feet deep, and the jar threw him off his balance, and the upper edge of the raft sank, so that the rapid current caught the raft and turned it on edge against the tree. mr. cox caught hold of a limb of the tree and saved himself from drowning. a desperate struggle ensued but he finally kicked and stamped until he got the raft on top of the water again, but it was wrong side up. we then gave up all hopes of getting help until the water subsided. the fourth day, tall trees were chopped by father on one side and by mr. cox on the other, and their branches interlocked, and we made our escape to his friendly cabin, where we found a kindly greeting, rest, food, and fire." the following from the pen of addison e. sheldon is recorded in the same _history of seward county_: "my recollections of early seward county life do not go back as far as the author's. they begin with one wind-blown day in september, , when i, a small urchin from minnesota, crossed the seward county line near pleasant dale on my way with my mother and step-father (r. j. mccall), to the new home on the southeast quarter of section , town , range east--about three miles southeast of the present beaver crossing. looked back upon now, through all the intervening years, it seems to me there never was an autumn more supremely joyous, a prairie more entrancing, a woodland belt more alluring, a life more captivating than that which welcomed the new boy to the frontier in the beautiful west blue valley. the upland 'divides' as i remember them were entirely destitute of settlement, and even along the streams, stretches of two, three, and five miles lay between nearest neighbors. "what has become of the nebraska wind of those days? i have sought it since far and wide in the sand hills and on the table lands of western nebraska--that wind which blew ceaselessly, month after month, never pausing but to pucker its lips for a stronger blast! where are the seas of rosin-weed, with their yellow summer parasols, which covered the prairie in those days? i have sought them too, and along gravelly ridges or some old ditch yet found a few degenerate descendants of the old-time host. "mention of merely a few incidents seeming to hold the drama and poetry of frontier life at that time: 'pittsburgh, the city of vision, at the junction of walnut creek and the west blue, inhabited by a population of , people, with a glass factory, a paper factory, a brick factory, oil wells, a peat factory, woolen mills, junction of three railway lines, metropolis of the blue valley.' all this and so much more that i dare not attempt to picture it; a real existence in the brain of christopher lezenby in the years of - . what unwritten dramas sleep almost forgotten in the memories of early settlers! when mr. lezenby began to build his metropolis with the assistance of attorney boyd of lincoln and a few other disinterested speculators, he was the possessor of several hundred acres of land, some hundreds of cattle, and other hundreds of hogs, and a fair, unmarried daughter. what pathetic memories of the old man, month after month, surveying off his beautiful farm into city lots for the new metropolis, while his cattle disappeared from the prairies and his swine from the oak thickets along the walnut; with sublime and childish simplicity repeating day after day the confession of his faith that 'next week' work would begin; 'next week' the foundation for the factories would be laid; 'next week' the railway surveyors would set the grade stakes. and this real rural tragedy lasted through several years, ending in the loss of all his property, the marriage of his daughter to irwin stall, and the wandering forth of the old man until he died of a broken heart in california. "one monument yet remains to mark the site and perpetuate the memory of pittsburgh, a flowing well, found i think at the depth of twenty-eight feet in the year and continuously flowing since that. strange that no one was wise enough to take the hint and that it was twenty years later before the second flowing well was struck at beaver crossing, leading to the systematic search for them which dotted the entire valley with their fountains. "there were no high water bridges across the west blue in those days. i remember acting as mail carrier for a number of families on the south bank of the blue during the high waters of two or three summers, bringing the mail from the city of pittsburgh postoffice on the north bank. a torn shirt and a pair of short-legged blue overalls--my entire wardrobe of those days--were twisted into a turban about my head, and plunging into the raging flood of the blue which covered all the lower bottoms, five minutes' vigorous swimming carried me through the froth and foam and driftwood to the other side where i once more resumed my society clothes and, after securing the mail, upon my return to the river bank, tied it tightly in the turban and crossed the river as before. "i remember my first lessons in political economy, the fierce fight between the northern and the southern parts of the county upon the question of voting bonds to the midland pacific railway during the years - . it was a sectional fight in fact, but in theory and in debate it was a contest over some first principles of government. the question of the people versus the corporation, since grown to such great proportions, was then first discussed to my childish ears. one incident of that contest is forever photographed on my brain--a crowd of one hundred farmers and villagers lounging in the shadow of t. h. tisdale's old store. a yellow-skinned, emaciated lawyer from lincoln who looked, to my boyish vision, like a chinese chieftain from manchuria, was speaking with fluent imaginative words in favor of the benefits the people of seward county might secure by voting the bonds. this was h. w. sommerlad, registrar of lincoln land office. a short saxon opponent, rev. w. g. keen of walnut creek, was picked from the crowd by acclamation to reply to the lincoln lawyer. the impression of his fiery words denouncing the aggressions of capital and appealing to the memories of the civil war and the revolutionary fathers to arouse the people's independence is with me yet. "next in the economic vista is the old brisbin sod schoolhouse east of walnut creek where a grange was organized. here a lyceum was held through several winters in which the debates were strongly tinctured with the rising anti-monopoly sentiment of those hard times. george michael and charley hunter, leaders of the boyish dare-deviltry of those days, were chosen as judges upon the debates in order to insure their good behavior, and they gravely decided for the negative or affirmative many deep discussions of doubtful themes. "beaver crossing in the early days was remarkable for the great number of boys in its surrounding population, and i have observed in these later years when visiting there, that the custom of having boy babies in the family does not appear to have entirely gone out of fashion. that great swarm of restless boy population which gathered, sometimes two hundred strong, saturday afternoons on the common! what 'sleights of art and feats of strength' went round! what struggles of natural selection to secure a place upon the 'first nine' of the baseball team! for years beaver crossing had the best baseball club in three or four counties, and some of her players won high laurels on distant diamonds. "one custom which obtained in those frontier days seems to have been peculiar to the time, for i have not found it since in other frontier communities. it was the custom of 'calling off' the mail upon its arrival at the postoffice. the postmaster, old tom tisdale--a genuine facsimile of petroleum v. nasby--would dump the sacks of mail, brought overland on a buckboard, into a capacious box upon the counter of his store, then pick up piece by piece, and read the inscriptions thereon in a sonorous voice to the crowd, sometimes consisting of one or two hundred people. each claimant would cry out 'here!' when his name was called. sometimes two-thirds of the mail was distributed in this way, saving a large amount of manual labor in pigeon-holing the same. nasby had a happy and caustic freedom in commenting upon the mail during the performance, not always contemplated, i believe, by the united states postal regulations. a woman's handwriting upon a letter addressed to a young man was almost certain to receive some public notice from his sharp tongue, to the great enjoyment of the crowd and sometimes the visible annoyance of the young man. at one time he deliberately turned over a postal card written by a well-known young woman of beaver crossing who was away at school, and on observing that the message was written both horizontally and across, commented, 'from the holy mother, in dutch.' if i should ever meet on the mystic other shore, which poets and philosophers have tried to picture for us, old tom tisdale, i would expect to see him with his spectacles pushed back from his nose, 'calling off' the mail to the assembled spirits, the while entertaining them with pungent personal epigrams. "one startling picture arises from the past, framed as browning writes 'in a sheet of flame'--the picture of the great prairie fire of october, , which swept seward county from south to north, leaving hardly a quarter section of continuous unburnt sod. a heavy wind, increasing to a hurricane, drove this fire down the west blue valley. it jumped the blue river in a dozen places as easily as a jack rabbit jumps a road. it left a great broad trail of cindered haystacks and smoking stables and houses. a neighbor of ours who was burnt out remarked that he had 'been through hell in one night,' and had 'no fear of the devil hereafter.' "at the other end of the scale of temperature are recollections of the 'great storm' of april , , , . there burst from a june atmosphere the worst blizzard in the history of the state. for three days it blew thick, freezing sleet, changing to snow so close and dense and dark that a man in a wagon vainly looked for the horses hitched to it through the storm. men who were away from home lost their lives over the state. stock was frozen to death. in sod houses, dugouts, and log cabins settlers huddled close about the hearth, burning enormous baskets of ten-cent corn to keep from freezing. "in these later years of life, fate has called me to make minute study of many historical periods and places. yet my heart always turns to review the early scenes of settlement and civilization in seward county with a peculiar thrill of personal emotion and special joy in the risen and rising fortunes of those who there built the foundations of a great commonwealth. no land can be dearer than the land of one's childhood and none can ever draw my thoughts further over plain or ocean than the happy valley upon west blue whose waters spring spontaneously from beneath the soil to water her fortunate acres." pioneering by grant lee shumway on september , , i crossed the missouri river at omaha, and came west through lincoln. the state fair was in full blast but our party did not stop, as we were bound for benkleman, parks, and haigler, nebraska. after looking over dundy county, nebraska, and cheyenne county, kansas, the rest of the party returned to illinois. i went to indianola, and with mr. palmatier, i started for the medicine. he carried the mail to stockville and medicine, which were newly established postoffices in the interior to the north, and his conveyance was the hind wheels of an ordinary wagon, to which he had fashioned a pair of thills. he said that he was using such a vehicle because it enabled him to cut off several miles in the very rough country through which we passed. the jolting was something fierce, but being young and used to riding in lumber wagons, i did not mind. i was very much interested in everything, but the things that linger most clearly in my mind after all these years are the bushy whiskered, hopeful faces of the men who greeted us from dugouts and sod cabins. the men's eyes were alight with enthusiasm and candor, but i do not remember of having seen a woman or child upon the trip. it seems that men can drop back into the primitive so much more easily than women: not perhaps with all the brutality of the first men, but they can adjust themselves to the environment of the wilderness, and the rusticity of the frontier, with comparative ease. i stopped for the night in hay cañon, a branch of lake cañon, at hawkins brothers' hay camp, and i remember when they told me that they had three hundred tons of hay in the stack, that it seemed almost an inconceivable quantity. on our old illinois farm twenty-five or thirty tons seemed a large amount, but three hundred tons was beyond our range of reasoning. however, we now stack that much on eighty acres in the scottsbluff country. in due time i went on over the great tableland to the city of north platte, and going down the cañon on the south side of the south river, i killed my first jack rabbit, an event which seemed to make me feel more of a westerner than any circumstance up to that time. my first impression of north platte, with its twelve saloons, was not of the best. and my conception of buffalo bill dropped several notches in esteem when i saw the wild west saloon. but in the light of years, i am less puritanical in my views of the first people of the plains. in subsequent years i rode the range as a cowboy, and drove twenty-mule teams with a single line and a black-snake, and while always i remained an abstainer and occasionally found others that did likewise, i learned to tolerate, and then enjoy, the witticisms and foolishness of those that did indulge. sometimes the boys in their cups would "smoke up" the little cities of the plains, but they never felt any resentment if one of their number did not participate in their drinking and festive sports. i spent the winter of on the ranch of hall & evans, near north platte, and one of the pleasantest acquaintanceships of my life has been that of john evans, now registrar of the land office at north platte. in the spring of ' the constant stream of emigrant wagons going west gave one an impression that in a little time the entire west would be filled, and i grew impatient to be upon my way and secure selections. in may i arrived at sidney and from there rode in a box car to cheyenne. when we topped the divide east of cheyenne, i saw the snow-capped peaks of the rockies for the first time. during the summer i "skinned mules," aiding in the construction of the cheyenne & northern, now a part of the hill system that connects denver with the big horn basin and puget sound. returning to sidney in the autumn, i fell in with george hendricks, who had been in the mines for twenty years and finally gave it up. we shoveled coal for the union pacific until we had a grub stake for the winter. i purchased a broncho, and upon him we packed our belongings--beds, blankets, tarpaulin, provisions, cooking utensils, tools, and clothing, and started north over the divide for "pumpkin creek," our promised land. in a little over a day's travel, one leading the horse and the other walking behind to prod it along, we reached hackberry cañon, and here, in a grove by a spring, we built our first cabin. three sides were log, the cracks filled with small pieces of wood and plastered with mud from the spring, and the back of the cabin was against a rock, and up this rock we improvised a fireplace, with loose stones and mud. when we had rigged a bunk of native red cedar along the side of this rude shelter, and the fire was burning in our fireplace, the coffee steaming, the bread baking in the skillet, the odor of bacon frying, and the wind whistling through the tree-tops, that cabin seemed a mighty cozy place. we could sometimes hear the coyotes and the grey wolves howl at night, but a sense of security prevailed, and our sleep was sound. out of the elements at hand, we had made the rudiments of a home on land that was to become ours--our very own--forever. early days in stanton county _statement by andrew j. bottorff_ i came to nebraska at the close of the civil war, having served during the entire campaign with the seventeenth indiana regiment. i came west with oxen and wagon in the fall of , bringing my family. we wintered at rockport, but as soon as spring opened went to stanton county, where i took a homestead. here we had few neighbors and our share of hardships, but thrived and were happy. one day i heard my dogs barking and found them down in a ravine, near the elkhorn river, with an elk at bay, and killed him with my axe. the first year i was appointed county surveyor. having no instruments at hand, i walked to omaha, over a hundred miles distant, and led a fat cow to market there. i sold the cow but found no instruments. i was told of a man at fort calhoun who had an outfit i might get, so wended my way there. i found e. h. clark, who would sell me the necessary supplies, and i bought them; then carried them, with some other home necessities obtained in omaha, back to stanton, as i had come, on foot. i am now seventy-five years old, and have raised a large family; yet wife and i are as happy and spry as if we had never worked, and are enjoying life in sunny california, where we have lived for the last ten years. _statement by sven johanson_ with my wife and two small children i reached omaha, nebraska, june , . we came direct from norway, having crossed the stormy atlantic in a small sailboat, the voyage taking eight weeks. a brother who had settled in stanton county, miles from omaha, had planned to meet us in that city. after being there a few days this brother, together with two other men, arrived and we were very happy. with two yoke of oxen and one team of horses, each hitched to a load of lumber, we journeyed from omaha to stanton county. arriving there, we found shelter in a small dugout with our brother and family, where we remained until we filed on a homestead and had built a dugout of our own. we had plenty of clothing, a good lot of linens and homespun materials, but these and ten dollars in money were all we possessed. the land office was at omaha and it was necessary for me to walk there to make a filing. i had to stop along the way wherever i could secure work, and in that way got some food, and occasionally earned a few cents, and this enabled me to purchase groceries to carry back to my family. there were no bridges across rivers or creeks and we were compelled to swim; at one time in particular i was very thankful i was a good swimmer. a brother-in-law and myself had gone to fremont, nebraska, for employment, and on our return we found the elkhorn river almost out of its banks. this frightened my companion, who could not swim, but i told him to be calm, we would come to no harm. i took our few groceries and our clothing and swam across, then going back for my companion, who was a very large man, i took him on my back and swam safely to the other shore. while i was away, my family would be holding down our claim and taking care of our one cow. we were surrounded by indians, and there were no white people west of where we lived. in the fall of we secured a yoke of oxen, and the following spring hauled home logs from along the river and creek and soon had a comfortable log house erected. thus we labored and saved little by little until we were able to erect a frame house, not hewn by hand, but made from real lumber, and by this time we felt well repaid for the many hardships we had endured. the old "homestead" is still our home, but the dear, faithful, loving mother who so bravely bore all the hardships of early days was called to her rich reward january , . she was born june , , and i was born october , . fred e. roper, pioneer by ernest e. correll fred e. roper, a pioneer of hebron, nebraska, was eighty years old on october , . sixty-one years ago mr. roper "crossed the plains," going from new york state to california. eleven years more than a half-century--and to look back upon the then barren stretch of the country in comparison with the present fertile region of prosperous homes and populous cities, takes a vivid stretch of imagination to realize the dreamlike transformation. at that time san francisco was a village of about five hundred persons living in adobe huts surrounded by a mud wall for a fortified protection from the marauding indians. fred e. roper was born in candor hill, new york, october , . when three years old he moved with his parents to canton, bradford county, pennsylvania, and later moved with his brother to baraboo, wisconsin. then he shipped as a "hand" on a raft going down the wisconsin and mississippi rivers to st. louis, getting one dollar a day and board. he returned north on a steamer, stopping at burlington, iowa, where his sister resided. in , when he was nineteen years of age, mr. roper "started west." his sister walked to the edge of the town with him as he led his one-horned cow, which was to furnish milk for coffee on the camp-out trip, which was to last three months, enroute to the pacific coast. there were three outfits--a horse train, mule train, and ox train. mr. roper traveled in an ox train of twenty-five teams. the travelers elected officers from among those who had made the trip before, and military discipline prevailed. at nights the men took turns at guard duty in relays--from dark to midnight and from midnight to dawn, when the herder was called to turn the cattle out to browse. one man herded them until breakfast was ready, and another man herded them until time to yoke up. this overland train was never molested by the indians, although one night some spying cheyennes were made prisoners under guard over night until the oxen were yoked up and ready to start. [illustration: oregon trail monument, two miles north of hebron erected by the citizens of hebron and thayer county, and oregon trail chapter, daughters of the american revolution, dedicated may , . cost $ ] the prospectors crossed the missouri river at omaha, which at that time had no residences or business buildings. enroute to salt lake city, the south platte route was followed, averaging about twenty miles a day. enough provisions were carried to last through the journey and as they had some provisions left when they reached salt lake city, they were sold to the half-starved mormons at big prices. some perplexing difficulties were encountered on the journey. at one point in the mountains, beyond salt lake city, the trail was so narrow that the oxen were unhitched and led single file around the cliff, while the wagons were taken apart and lowered down the precipice with ropes. when crossing the desert, additional water had to be carried in extra kegs and canteens. when the tired cattle got near enough to the river to smell the fresh water, they pricked up their ears, stiffened their necks, and made a rush for the stream, so the men had to stand in front of them until the chains were loosened to prevent their crazily dashing into the water with the wagons. mr. roper worked by the day for three months in the mines northeast of san francisco. while placer mining, he one day picked up a gold nugget, from which his engagement ring was made by a jeweler in san francisco, and worn by mrs. roper until her death, october , . the ring was engraved with two hearts with the initials m. e. r., and is now in the possession of their son maun, whose initials are the same. mr. roper was one of a company of three men who worked a claim that had been once worked over, on a report that there was a crevasse that had not been bottomed. the first workers did not have "quicksilver," which is necessary to catch fine gold, but mr. roper's company had a jug shipped from san francisco. nothing less than a fifty-pound jug of quicksilver would be sold, at fifty cents a pound. this was used in sluice-boxes as "quicksilver riffles," to catch the fine float gold, when it would instantly sink to the bottom of the quicksilver, while the dirt and stones would wash over; the coarse rock would be first tossed out with a sluice-fork (similar to a flat-tined pitchfork). in three years the three men worked the mine out, making about fifteen hundred dollars apiece. with his share carried in buckskin sacks belted around his waist under his clothes, mr. roper started in a sailing vessel up north along the coast on a trip, hunting for richer diggings. then he went on a steamer to the isthmus of panama, which he crossed with a hired horse team, then by steamer to new york and by railroad to philadelphia to get his gold minted. after his marriage in mr. roper returned to the west and in ' ran a hotel at beatrice called "pat's cabin." when nebraska voted on the question of admission to statehood, mr. roper's ballot was vote no. . desiring to get a home of his own, fred roper came on west into what is now thayer county, and about six miles northwest of the present site of hebron up the little blue, he bought out the preëmption rights of bill and walt hackney, who had "squatted" there with the expectation of paying the government the customary $ . per acre. in certain localities those claims afterwards doubled to $ . per acre. mr. roper paid only the value of the log cabin and log stables, and came into possession of the eighty acres, which he homesteaded, and later bought adjoining land for $ . per acre. occasionally he made trips to st. joe and nebraska city for supplies, which he freighted overland to hackney ranch. at that time mr. roper knew every man on the trail from the missouri river to kearney. on these trips he used to stop with bill mccandles, who was shot with three other victims by "wild bill" on rock creek in jefferson county. the first house at hackney ranch was burned by the cheyenne indians in their great raid of , at which time miss laura roper (daughter of joe b. roper) and mrs. eubanks were captured by the indians near fox ford in nuckolls county and kept in captivity until ransomed by colonel wyncoop of the u. s. army for $ , . si alexander of meridian (southeast of the present town of alexandria), was with the government troops at the time of miss roper's release near denver. her parents, believing her dead, had meanwhile moved back to new york state. (laura roper is still alive, being now mrs. laura vance, at skiatook, oklahoma.) at the time of the above-mentioned raid, the indians at hackney ranch threw the charred cottonwood logs of the house into the well, to prevent travelers from getting water. fred roper was then at beatrice, having just a few days before sold hackney ranch to an overland traveler. after the raid the new owner deserted the place, in the fall of , and in a few months mr. roper returned from beatrice and again preëmpted the same place. in mr. and mrs. roper moved to meridian and ran a tavern for about a year, then moved back to hackney, where they resided until the fall of , when they moved into hebron to make their permanent home. mr. roper was postmaster at hebron for four years under cleveland's last administration. the lure of the prairies by lucy l. correll the memories of the long hot days of august, , are burned into the seared recollection of the pioneers of nebraska. for weeks the sun had poured its relentless rays upon the hopeful, patient people, until the very atmosphere seemed vibrant with the pulsing heat-waves. one day a young attorney of hebron was called to nuckolls county to "try a case" before a justice of the peace, near a postoffice known as henrietta. having a light spring wagon and two ponies he invited his wife and little baby to accompany him for the drive of twenty-five miles. anything was better than the monotony of staying at home, and the boundless freedom of the prairies was always enticing. an hour's drive and the heat of the sun became oppressively intense. the barren distance far ahead was unbroken by tree, or house, or field. there was no sound but the steady patter of the ponies' feet over the prairie grass; no moving object but an occasional flying hawk; no road but a trail through the rich prairie grass, and one seemed lost in a wilderness of unvarying green. the heat-waves seemed to rise from the ground and quiver in the air. soon a wind, soft at first, came from the southwest, but ere long became a hot blast, and reminded one of the heated air from an opened oven door. added to other inconveniences came the intense thirst produced from the sun and dry atmosphere--and one might have cried "my kingdom for a drink!"--but there was no "kingdom." after riding about nine miles there came into view the homestead of teddy mcgovern--the only evidence of life seen on that long day's drive. here was a deep well of cold water. cheery words of greeting and hearty handclasps evidenced that all were neighbors in those days. again turning westward a corner of the homestead was passed where were several little graves among young growing trees--"heartache corner" it might have been called. the sun shone as relentless there as upon all nebraska, that scorching summer. as the afternoon wore on, looking across the prairies the heat-waves seemed to pulse and beckon us on; the lure of the prairies was upon us, and had we chosen we could not but have obeyed. only the pioneers knew how to endure, to close their eyes to exclude the burning light, and close the lips to the withering heat. at last our destination was reached at the homestead of the justice of the peace. we were gladly seated to a good supper with the host and family of growing boys. after the meal the "justice court" was held out of doors in the shade of the east side of the house, there being more room and "more air" outside. the constable, the offender, the witness and attorney and a few neighbors constituted the prairie court, and doubtless the decisions were as legal and as lasting as those of more imposing surroundings of later days. but the joy of the day had only just begun, for as the sun went down, so did even the hot wind, leaving the air so heavy and motionless and oppressive one felt his lungs closing up. the boys of the family sought sleep out of doors, the others under the low roof of a two-roomed log house. sleep was impossible, rest unknown until about midnight, when mighty peals of thunder and brilliant lightning majestically announced the oncoming nebraska storm. no lights were needed, as nature's electricity was illuminatingly sufficient. the very logs quivered with the thunder's reverberations, and soon a terrific wind loaded with hail beat against the little house until one wondered whether it were better to be roasted alive by nature's consuming heat, or torn asunder by the warring elements. but the storm beat out its fury, and with daylight old sol peeped over the prairies with a drenched but smiling face. adieus were made and the party started homeward. after a few miles' travel the unusual number of grasshoppers was commented upon, and soon the air was filled with their white bodies and beating wings; then the alarming fact dawned upon the travelers that this was a grasshopper raid. the pioneers had lived through the terrors of indian raids, but this assault from an enemy outside of the human realm was a new experience. the ponies were urged eastward, but the hoppers cheerfully kept pace and were seen to be outdistancing the travelers. they filled the air and sky and obliterated even the horizon. heat, thirst, distance were all submerged in the appalling dread of what awaited. as the sun went down the myriads of grasshoppers "went to roost." every vegetable, every weed and blade of grass bore its burden. on the clothes-line the hoppers were seated two and three deep; and upon the windlass rope which drew the bucket from the well they clung and entwined their bodies. the following morning the hungry millions raised in the air, saluted the barren landscape and proceeded to set an emulating pace for even the busy bee. they flew and beat about, impudently slapping their wings against the upturned, anxious faces, and weary eyes, trying to penetrate through the apparent snowstorm--the air filled with the white bodies of the ravenous hordes. this appalling sight furnished diversion sufficient to the inhabitants of the little community for that day. people moved quietly about, in subdued tones wondering what the outcome would be. how long would the hoppers remain? would they deposit their eggs to hatch the following spring and thus perpetuate their species? would the old progenitors return? but, true to the old persian proverb, "this too, passed away." the unwelcome intruders departed leaving us with an occasional old boot-leg, or leather strap, or dried rubber, from which the cormorants had sucked the "juice." the opening of the next spring was cold and rainy. not many of the grasshopper eggs hatched. beautiful nebraska was herself again and "blossomed as the rose." suffrage in nebraska _statement by mrs. gertrude m. mcdowell_ when i was requested to write a short article in regard to woman's suffrage in nebraska i thought it would be an easy task. as the days passed and my thoughts became confusedly spread over the whole question from its incipiency, it proved to be not an easy task but a most difficult one. there was so much of interest that one hardly knew where to begin and what to leave unsaid. this question has been of life-long interest to me and i have always been in full sympathy with the movement. when the legislature in submitted the suffrage amendment to the people of the state of nebraska for their decision, we were exceedingly anxious concerning the outcome. a state suffrage association was formed. mrs. brooks of omaha was elected president; mrs. bittenbender of lincoln, recording secretary; gertrude m. mcdowell of fairbury, corresponding secretary. there were many enthusiastic workers throughout the state. among them, i remember mrs. clara bewick colby, of beatrice, whom we considered our general; mrs. lucinda russell and mrs. mary holmes of tecumseh, mrs. annie m. steele of fairbury, mrs. a. j. sawyer, mrs. a. j. caldwell, and mrs. deborah king of lincoln, mrs. e. m. correll of hebron and many more that i do not now recall. there were many enthusiastic men over the state who gave the cause ardent support. senator e. m. correll of hebron was ever on the alert to aid in convention work and to speak a word which might carry conviction to some unbeliever. some years previous to our campaign, elizabeth cady stanton and lucy stone on one of their lecture tours in the west were so impressed with the enthusiasm and good work of hon. e. m. correll that they elected him president of the national suffrage association, for one year. i also recall judge ben s. baker, now of omaha, and c. f. steele of fairbury, as staunch supporters of the measure. during the campaign, many national workers were sent into the state, among them susan b. anthony, phoebe couzens, elizabeth saxon of new orleans, and others. they directed and did valiant work in the cause. we failed to carry the measure in the state, but we are glad to note that it carried in our own town of fairbury. thanks to the indomitable personality of our nebraska women, they began immediately to plan for another campaign. in , our legislature again submitted an amendment and it was again defeated. since then i have been more than ever in favor of making the amendment a national one, president wilson to the contrary notwithstanding--not because we think the educational work is being entirely lost, but because so much time and money are being wasted on account of our foreign population and their attitude towards reform. it is a grave and a great question. one thing we are assured of, viz: that we will never give up our belief in the final triumph of our great cause. it is a far cry from the first woman's suffrage convention in , brought about by the women who were excluded from acting as delegates at the anti-slavery convention in london in . thus a missionary work was begun then and there for the emancipation of women in "the land of the free and the home of the brave." we can never be grateful enough to lucretia mott, elizabeth cady stanton, susan b. anthony, and other noble, self-sacrificing women who did so much pioneer work in order to bring about better laws for women and in order to change the moth-eaten thought of the world. many felt somewhat discouraged when the election returns from new jersey, massachusetts, and new york announced the defeat of the measure, but really when we remember the long list of states that have equal suffrage we have reason to rejoice and to take new courage. we now have wyoming, kansas, utah, idaho, colorado, california, oregon, washington, nevada, montana, arizona, new mexico, alaska, and illinois, besides the countries of norway, sweden, denmark, iceland, finland, new zealand, australia, nova scotia, and some parts of england. in the future when the cobwebs have all been swept from the mind of the world and everyone is enjoying the new atmosphere of equal rights only a very few will realize the struggle these brave women endured in order to bring about better conditions for the world. _statement by lucy l. correll_ hebron, thayer county, nebraska, was the cradle of the nebraska woman suffrage movement, as this was the first community in the state to organize a permanent woman's suffrage association. previous to this organization the subject had been agitated through editorials in the hebron _journal_, and by a band of progressive, thinking women. upon their request the editor of the _journal_, e. m. correll, prepared an address upon "woman and citizenship." enthusiasm was aroused, and a column of the _journal_ was devoted to the interests of women, and was ably edited by the coterie of ladies having the advancement of the legal status of women at heart. through the efforts of mr. correll, susan b. anthony was induced to come to hebron and give her lecture on "bread versus the ballot," on october , . previous to this time many self-satisfied women believed they had all the "rights" they wanted, but they were soon awakened to a new consciousness of their true status wherein they discovered their "rights" were only "privileges." on april , , mrs. elizabeth cady stanton, upon invitation, lectured in hebron and organized the thayer county woman's suffrage association. this society grew from fifteen, the number at organization, to about seventy-five, many leading business men becoming members. other organizations in the state followed, and at the convening of the nebraska legislature of , a joint resolution providing for the submission to the electors of this state an amendment to section , article vii, of the constitution, was presented by representative e. m. correll, and mainly through his efforts passed the house by the necessary three-fifths majority, and the senate by twenty-two to eight, but was defeated at the polls. during that memorable campaign of - , lucy stone blackwell, and many other talented women of note, from the eastern states, lectured in nebraska for the advancement of women, leaving the impress of the nobility of their characters upon the women of the middle west. the thayer county woman's suffrage association was highly honored, as several of its members held positions of trust in the state association, and one of its members, hon. e. m. correll, who was publishing the _woman's journal_, at lincoln, at the time of the annual conference of the american woman's suffrage association, at louisville, kentucky, in october, , was elected to the important position of president of that national organization, in recognition of the work he had performed for the advancement of the cause of "equality before the law." this association served its time and purpose and after many years was instrumental in organizing the hebron library association. the constitution and by-laws of this first woman's suffrage association of the state are still well preserved. the first officers were: susan e. ferguson, president; harriet g. huse, vice president; barbara j. thompson, secretary; lucy l. correll, treasurer; a. martha vermillion, corresponding secretary. of these first officers only one is now living. an indian raid by ernest e. correll in , fayette kingsley and family resided on the haney homestead at the southeast corner of hebron, where mr. haney had been brutally murdered in the presence of his three daughters in , the daughters escaping and eventually reaching their home, "back east." on may , , "old daddy" marks, accompanied by a young man for protection, drove over from rose creek to warn kingsley's that the indians were on a raid. while they were talking, mr. kingsley heard the pit-pat of the indian horses on the wet prairie. from the west were riding thirty-six indians, led by a white man, whose hat and fine boots attracted attention in contrast to the bare-headed indians wearing moccasins. in the house were enough guns and revolvers to shoot sixty rounds without loading. when mrs. kingsley saw the indians approaching she scattered the arms and ammunition on the table where the men could get them. there were two spencer carbines, a double-barreled shotgun, and two navy revolvers, besides other firearms. mr. kingsley and charlie miller (a young man from the east who was boarding with them) went into the house, got the guns, and leveled them on the indians, who had come within yards of the log-house, but who veered off on seeing the guns. one of the party at the house exclaimed, "the indians are going past and turning off!" mr. marks then said, "then for god's sake, don't shoot!" the indians went on down the river and drove away eleven of king fisher's horses. two of fisher's boys lay concealed in the grass and saw the white leader of the indians remove his hat, showing his close-cut hair. he talked the indian language and ordered the redskins to drive up a pony, which proved to be lame and was not taken. the indians continued their raid nearly to meridian. meanwhile at kingsley's preparations were made for a hurried flight. mr. marks said he must go home to protect his own family on rose creek, but the young man accompanying him insisted that he cross the river and return by way of alexander's ranch on the big sandy, as otherwise they would be following the indians. mr. kingsley, with his wife and three children, went with them to alexander's ranch, staying there two weeks until governor butler formed a company of militia composed of the settlers, to protect the frontier. a company of the second u. s. cavalry was sent here and stationed west of hackney, later that summer. the indians killed a man and his son, and took their horses, less than two miles from the soldiers' camp. on returning to the homestead, two cows and two yoke of oxen were found all right. before the flight, mr. kingsley had torn down the pen, letting out a calf and a pig. sixty days later, on recovering the pig, mr. kingsley noticed a sore spot on its back, and he pulled out an arrow point about three inches long. the indians had taken all the bedding and eatables, even taking fresh baked bread out of the oven. they tore open the feather-bed and scattered the contents about--whether for amusement or in search of hidden treasures is not known. they found a good pair of boots, and cut out the fine leather tops (perhaps for moccasins) but left the heavy soles. from a new harness they also took all the fine straps and left the tugs and heavy leather. they had such a load that at the woodpile they discarded mr. kingsley's double-barreled shotgun, which had been loaded with buckshot for them. captain wilson, a lawyer who boarded with mr. kingsley, had gone to warn king fisher, leaving several greenbacks inside a copy of the nebraska statutes. these the indians found and appropriated--perhaps their white leader was a renegade lawyer accustomed to getting money out of the statutes. in mr. kingsley's family had a narrow escape from death in a peculiar manner. after a heavy rain the walls of his basement caved in. his children occupied two beds standing end to end and filling the end of the basement. when the rocks from the wall caved in, both beds were crushed to the floor and a little pet dog on one of the beds was killed, but the children had no bones broken. presumably the bedding protected them and the breaking of the bedsteads broke the jar of the rocks on their bodies. mr. kingsley has a deeply religious nature, and believes that divine protection has been with him through life. reminiscences by mrs. e. a. russell in september, , rev. e. a. russell was transferred by the american baptist publication society from his work in the east to nebraska, and settled on an eighty-acre ranch near ord. mr. russell had held pastorates for twenty-six years in new hampshire, new york, and indiana, but desired to come west for improvement in health. he was accompanied by his family of seven. western life was strange and exciting with always the possibility of an indian raid, and dangerous prairie fires. it was the custom to plow a wide furrow around the home buildings as a precaution against the latter. the first year in nebraska, our oldest daughter, alice m. russell, was principal of the ord school, and edith taught in the primary grade. on the fifth of august, , late in the afternoon, a terrific hail-storm swept over the country. all crops were destroyed; even the grass was beaten into the earth, so there was little left as pasture for cattle. pigs and poultry were killed by dozens and the plea of a tender-hearted girl, that a poor calf, beaten down by hailstones, might be brought "right into the kitchen," was long remembered. not a window in our house remained unbroken. the floor was covered with rain and broken glass and ice; and our new, white, hard-finished walls and ceilings were bespattered and disfigured. this hail-storm was a general calamity. the whole country suffered and many families returned, disheartened, to friends in the east. the baptist church was so shattered that, for its few members, it was no easy task to repair it. but they soon put it in good condition, only to see it utterly wrecked by a small cyclone the following october. the income that year from a forty-acre cornfield was one small "nubbin" less than three inches in length. all these things served to emphasize the heart-rending stories we had heard of sufferings of early pioneers. the nervous shock sustained by the writer was so great that a year elapsed before she was able to see clearly, or to read. as she was engaged on the four years' post-graduate course of the chautauqua literary and scientific circle, her eldest son read aloud to her during that year and her work was completed at the same time as he and his younger sister graduated with the class of . some time later the writer organized a chautauqua circle, ord's first literary society. its president was a mr. king and its secretary e. j. clements, now of lincoln, nebraska. during our second winter in nebraska the writer did not see a woman to speak to after her daughters went to their schools in lincoln, where one was teaching and the other a university pupil. of the "minnie freeman storm" in january, , all our readers have doubtless heard. our two youngest boys were at school a mile away; but fortunately we lived south of town and they reached home in safety. in fort hartsuff, twelve miles away, had been abandoned. the building of this fort had been the salvation of pioneers, giving them work and wages after the terrible scourge of locusts in . it was still the pride of those who had been enabled to remain in the desolated country and we heard much about it. so, when a brother came from new england to visit an only sister on the "great american desert," we took an early start one morning and visited "the fort." the buildings, at that time, were in fairly good condition. officers' quarters, barracks, commissary buildings, stables, and other structures were of concrete, so arranged as to form a hollow square; and, near by on a hill, was a circular stockade, which was said to be connected with the fort by an underground passage. a prominent figure in ord in was an attractive young lady who later married dr. f. d. haldeman. in mrs. haldeman organized _coronado_ chapter, daughters of the american revolution. her sister, dr. minerva newbecker, has practiced medicine in ord for many years. another sister, clara newbecker, has long been a teacher in the public schools of chicago. these three sisters, who descended from lieutenant philip newbecker, of revolutionary fame, and mrs. nellie coombs, are the only living charter members of _coronado_ chapter. the chapter was named in honor of that governor of new galicia in mexico who is supposed to have passed through some portion of our territory in when he fitted out an expedition to seek and christianize the people of that wonderful region where "golden bells and dishes of solid gold" hung thick upon the trees. about all that is definitely known is that he set up a cross at the big river, with the inscription: "thus far came francisco de coronado, general of an expedition." and now, in , the family of seven, by one marriage after another, has dwindled to a lonely--two. the head of our household, with recovered health, served his denomination twenty years in this great field, comprising nebraska, upper colorado, and wyoming. he retired in to the sanctuary of a quiet home. reminiscences of fort calhoun by w. h. allen i reached fort calhoun in may, , with my friends, mr. and mrs. john allen; coming with team and wagon from edgar county, illinois. i was then eleven years old. fort calhoun had no soldiers, but some of the fort atkinson buildings were still standing. i remember the liberty pole, the magazine, the old brick-yard, at which places we children played and picked up trinkets. there was one general store then, kept by pink allen and jascoby, and but few settlers. among those i remember were, my uncle, thomas allen; e. h. clark, a land agent; col. geo. stevens and family, who started a hotel in , and orrin rhoades, whose family lived on a claim five miles west of town. that summer my father took a claim near rhoades', building a log house and barn at the edge of the woods. we moved there in the fall, and laid in a good supply of wood for the huge fireplace, used for cooking as well as heating. our rations were scanty, consisting of wild game for meat, corn bread, potatoes and beans purchased at fort calhoun. the next spring we cleared some small patches for garden and corn, which we planted and tended with a hoe. there were no houses between ours and fort calhoun, nor any bridges. rhoades' house and ours were the only ones between fontenelle and fort calhoun. members of the quincy colony at fontenelle went to council bluffs for flour and used our place as a half-way house, stopping each way over night. how we children did enjoy their company, and stories of the indians. we were never molested by the red men, only that they would come begging food occasionally. i had no schooling until when i worked for my board in fort calhoun at e. h. clark's and attended public school a few months. the next two years i did likewise, boarding at alex. reed's. from to inclusive i cut cord-wood and railroad ties which i hauled to omaha for use in the building of the union pacific railroad. i received from $ . to $ . per cord for my wood, and $ . each for ties. deer were plentiful and once when returning from omaha i saw an old deer and fawn. unhitching my team i jumped on one horse and chased the young one down, caught and tamed it. i put a bell on its neck and let it run about at will. it came to its sleeping place every night until the next spring when it left, never to be seen by us again. in the fall of i was engaged by edward creighton to freight with a wagon train to denver, carrying flour and telegraph supplies. the cattle were corralled and broke at cole's creek, west of omaha known then as "robber's roost," and i thought it great fun to yoke and break those wild cattle. we started in october with forty wagons, seven yoke of oxen to each wagon. i went as far as fort cottonwood, one hundred miles beyond fort kearny, reaching there about november . there about a dozen of us grew tired of the trip and turned back with a wagon and one ox team. on our return, at plum creek, thirty-fives miles west of fort kearny we saw where a train had been attacked by indians, oxen killed, wagons robbed and abandoned. we waded the rivers, loup fork and platte, which was a cold bath at that time of year. i lived at this same place in the woods until i took a homestead three miles farther west in . my father's home was famous at that time, also years afterward, as a beautiful spot, in which to hold fourth of july celebrations, school picnics, etc., and the hospitality and good cooking of my mother, "aunt polly allen" as she was familiarly called, was known to all the early settlers in this section of the country. reminiscences of washington county by mrs. emily bottorff allen i came to washington county, nebraska, with my parents in the fall of , by ox team from indiana. we stopped at rockport, where father and brothers got work at wood chopping. they built a house by digging into a hill and using logs to finish the front. the weather was delightful, and autumn's golden tints in the foliage were beautiful. we gathered hazel nuts and wild grapes, often scaring a deer from the underbrush. our neighbors were the shipleys, who were very hospitable, and shared their garden products with us. during the winter father bought john frazier's homestead, but our home was still in a dugout, in which we were comfortable. we obtained all needed supplies from fort calhoun or omaha. in the spring amasa warrick, from cuming city, came to our home in search of a teacher and offered me the position, which i accepted. elam clark of fort calhoun endorsed my teacher's certificate. i soon commenced teaching at cuming city, and pupils came for miles around. i boarded at george a. brigham's. mr. brigham was county surveyor, postmaster, music teacher, as well as land agent, and a very fine man. one day, while busy with my classes, the door opened and three large indians stole in, seating themselves near the stove. i was greatly alarmed and whispered to one of my pupils to hasten to the nearest neighbor for assistance. as soon as the lad left, one indian went to the window and asked "where boy go?" i said, "i don't know." the three indians chattered together a moment, and then the spokesman said. "i kill you sure," but seeing a man coming in the distance with a gun, they all hurried out and ran over the hill. i taught at cuming city until the school fund was exhausted, and by that time the small schoolhouse on long creek was completed. allen craig and thomas mcdonald were directors. i boarded at home and taught the first school in this district, with fourteen pupils enrolled. at this time judge bowen of omaha was county superintendent, and i went there to have my certificate renewed. when all the public money in the long creek district was used up, i went back to cuming city to teach. the population of this district had increased to such an extent that i needed an assistant, and i was authorized to appoint one of my best pupils to the position. i selected vienna cooper, daughter of dr. p. j. cooper. i boarded at the lippincott home, known as the "halfway house" on the stage line between omaha and decatur. it was a stage station where horses were changed and drivers and passengers stopped over night. at the close of our summer term we held a picnic and entertainment on the methodist church grounds, using the lumber for the new church for our platform and seats. this entertainment was pronounced the grandest affair ever held in the west. the school funds of the cuming city district being again exhausted, i returned to long creek district in the fall of , and taught as long as there was any money in the treasury. by that time the village of blair had sprung up, absorbing cuming city and de soto, and i was employed to teach in their new log schoolhouse. t. m. carter was director of the blair district. orrin colby of bell creek, was county superintendent, and he visited the schools of the county, making the rounds on foot. i taught at blair until april, , when i was married to william henry allen, a pioneer of fort calhoun. our license was issued by judge stilts of fort calhoun, where we were married by dr. andrews. we raised our family in the long creek district, and still reside where we settled in those pioneer days. reminiscences of pioneer life at fort calhoun by mrs. n. j. frazier brooks i came to nebraska in the spring of from edgar county, illinois, with my husband, thomas frazier, and small daughter, mary. we traveled in a wagon drawn by oxen, took a claim one and one-half miles south of fort calhoun and thought we were settling near what would be nebraska's metropolis. my husband purchased slabs at the saw mill at calhoun and built our shanty of one room with a deck roof. for our two yoke of oxen he made a shed of poles and grass and we all were comfortable and happy in our new home. in the spring mr. frazier broke prairie, put in the most extensive crops hereabouts, for my husband was young and ambitious. we had brought enough money with us to buy everything obtainable in this new country, but he would often say, "i'd hate to have the home folks see how you and mary have to live." deer were a common sight and we ate much venison; wild turkeys were also plentiful. they could be heard every morning and my husband would often go in our woods and get one for our meat. in he went to boone county, iowa, and bought a cow, hauling her home in a wagon. she soon had a heifer calf and we felt that our herd was well started. the following winter was so severe that during one storm we brought the cow in our house to save her. the spring of opened up fine and as we had prospered and were now making money from our crops we built us a frame house, bought a driving team, cows, built fences, etc. i still own this first claim, and although my visions of fort calhoun were never realized i know of no better place in which to live and my old neighbors, some few of whom are still here, proved to be everlasting friends. reminiscences of de soto in by oliver bouvier mother bouvier, a kind old soul, who settled in de soto in the summer of , had many hardships. just above her log house, on the ridge, was the regular indian trail and the indians made it a point to stop at our house regularly, as they went to fort calhoun or to omaha. she befriended them many times and they always treated her kindly. "omaha mary," who was often a caller at our house was always at the head of her band. she was educated and could talk french well to us. what she said was law with all the indians. our creek was thick with beavers and as a small boy i could not trap them, but she could, and had her traps there and collected many skins from our place. i wanted her to show me the trick of it, but she would never allow me to follow her. at one time i sneaked along and she caught me in the act and grabbed me by the collar and with a switch in her hand, gave me a severe warming. this same squaw was an expert with bow and arrow, and i have seen her speedily cross the missouri river in a canoe with but one oar. our wall was always black and greasy by the indians sitting against it while they ate the plates of mush and sorghum my mother served them. i have caught many buffalo calves out on the prairies, and one i brought to our de soto home and tamed it. my sister adeline and myself tried to break it to drive with an ox hitched to a sled, but never succeeded to any great extent. one day joseph la flesche came along and offered us $ . for it and we sold it to him but he found he could not separate it from our herd, so bought a heifer, which it would follow and mr. joseph boucha and myself took them up to the reservation for him. he entertained us warmly at his indian quarters for two or three days. i have cured many buffalo steak (by the indian method) and we used the meat on our table. reminiscences by thomas m. carter in the spring of , with my brother, alex carter, e. p. and d. d. stout, i left the beautiful hills and valleys of ohio, to seek a home in the west. after four weeks of travel by steamboat and stage, horseback and afoot, we reached the town of omaha, then only a small village. it took us fourteen days to make the trip from st. louis to omaha. while waiting at kanesville or council bluffs as it is now called, we ascended the hills back of the town and gazed across to the nebraska side. i thought of daniel boone as he wandered westward on the kentucky hills looking into ohio. "fair was the scene that lay before the little band, that paused upon its toilsome way, to view the new found land." at st. mary we met peter a. sarpy. he greeted us all warmly and invited all to get out of the stage and have a drink at his expense. as an inducement to settle in omaha, we were each offered a lot anywhere on the townsite, if we would build on it, but we had started for de soto, washington county, and no ordinary offer could induce us to change our purpose. we thought that with such an excellent steamboat landing and quantities of timber in the vicinity, de soto had as good a chance as omaha to become the metropolis. we reached de soto may , , and found one log house finished and another under way. zaremba jackson, a newspaper man, and dr. finney occupied the log cabin and we boarded with them until we had located a claim and built a cabin upon the land we subsequently entered and upon which the city of blair is now built. after i had built my cabin of peeled willow poles the cuming city claim club warned me by writing on the willow poles of my cabin that if i did not abandon that claim before june , , i would be treated to a free bath in fish creek and free transportation across the missouri river. this however proved to be merely a bluff. i organized and was superintendent of the first sunday school in washington county in the spring of . the first board of trustees of the methodist church in the county was appointed by rev. a. g. white, on june , , and consisted of the following members, alex carter, l. d. cameron, james van horn, m. b. wilds, and myself. the board met and resolved itself into a building committee and appointed me as chairman. we then proceeded to devise means to provide for a church building at cuming city, by each member of the board subscribing fifty dollars. at the second meeting it was discovered that this was inadequate and it was deemed necessary for this subscription to be doubled. the church was built, the members of the committee hewing logs of elm, walnut, and oak for sills and hauling with ox teams. the church was not completely finished but was used for a place of worship. this building was moved under the supervision of rev. jacob adriance and by his financial support from cuming city to blair in . later it was sold to the christian church, moved off and remodeled and is still doing service as a church building in blair. jacob adriance was the first regular methodist pastor to be assigned to the mission extending from de soto to decatur. his first service was held at de soto on may , , at the home of my brother, jacob carter, a baptist. the congregation consisted of jacob carter, his family of five, alex carter, myself and wife. the winter before rev. adriance came isaac collins was conducting protracted meetings in de soto and so much interest was being aroused that some of the ruffians decided to break up the meetings. one night they threw a dead dog through a window hitting the minister in the back, knocking over the candles and leaving us in darkness. the minister straightened up and declared, "the devil isn't dead in de soto yet." i was present at the calhoun claim fight at which mr. goss was killed and purple and smith were wounded. the first little log school was erected on the townsite of blair, the patrons cutting and hauling the lumber. i was the first director and mrs. william allen _nee_ emily bottorff, first teacher. i served as worthy patriarch of the first sons of temperance organization in the county and lived in de soto long enough to see the last of the whiskey traffic banished from that township. i have served many years in washington county as school director, justice of the peace, and member of the county board. in october, , i joined the second nebraska cavalry for service on the frontier. our regiment lost a few scalps and buried a number of indians. we bivouacked on the plains, wrapped in our blankets, while the skies smiled propitiously over us and we dreamed of home and the girls we left behind us, until reveille called to find the drapery of our couch during the night had been reinforced by winding sheets of drifting snow. fort calhoun in the later fifties by mrs. e. h. clark e. h. clark came from indiana in march, , with judge james bradley, and was clerk of the district court in nebraska under him. he became interested in fort calhoun, then the county-seat of washington county. the town company employed him to survey it into town lots, plat the same, and advertise it. new settlers landed here that spring and lots were readily sold. in june, , mr. clark contracted with the proprietors to put up a building on the townsite for a hotel; said building to be x feet, two stories high, with a wing of the same dimensions; the structure to be of hewn logs and put up in good style. for this he was to receive one-ninth interest in the town. immediately he commenced getting out timber, boarding in the meantime with major arnold's family, and laboring under many disadvantages for want of skilled labor and teams, there being but one span of horses and seven yoke of cattle in the entire precinct at this time. what lumber was necessary for the building had to be obtained from omaha at sixty dollars per thousand and hauled a circuitous route by the old mormon trail. as an additional incident to his trials, one morning at breakfast mr. clark was told by mrs. arnold that the last mouthful was on the table. major arnold was absent for supplies and delayed, supposedly for lack of conveyance; whereupon mr. clark procured two yoke of oxen and started at once for omaha for provisions and lumber. never having driven oxen before he met with many mishaps. by traveling all night through rain and mud he reached sight of home next day at sunrise, when the oxen ran away upsetting the lumber and scattering groceries all over the prairies. little was recovered except some bacon and a barrel of flour. finally the hotel was ready for occupancy and col. george stevens with his family took up their residence there. it was the best hostelry in the west. mr. stevens was appointed postmaster and gave up one room to the office. the stevens family were very popular everywhere. mr. and mrs. john b. kuony were married at the douglas house, omaha, about and came to the new hotel as cooks; but soon afterward started a small store which in due time made them a fortune. this couple were also popular in business, as well as socially. in march, , my husband sent to indiana for me. i went to st. louis by train, then by boat to omaha. i was three weeks on the boat, and had my gold watch and chain stolen from my cabin enroute. i brought a set of china dishes which were a family heirloom, clothes and bedding. the boxes containing these things we afterward used for table and lounge. my husband had a small log cabin ready on my arrival. i was met at omaha by thomas j. allen with a wagon and ox team. he hauled building material and provisions and i sat on a nail keg all the way out. he drove through prairie grass as high as the oxen's back. i asked him how he ever learned the road. when a boat would come up the river every one would rush to buy furniture and provisions; i got a rocking chair in , the first one in the town. it was loaned out to sick folks and proved a treasure. in we bought a clock of john bauman of omaha, paying $ . for it, and it is still a perfect time piece. my father, dr. j. p. andrews, came in the spring of and was a practicing physician, also a minister for many years here. he was the first sunday school superintendent here and held that office continually until when he moved to blair. in the vanier brothers started a steam grist mill which was a great convenience for early settlers. in elam clark took it on a mortgage and ran it for many years. mr. clark also carried on a large fur trade with the indians, and they would go east to the bottoms to hunt and camp for two or three weeks. at one time i had planned a dinner party and invited all my lady friends. i prepared the best meal possible for those days, with my china set all in place and was very proud to see it all spread, and when just ready to invite my guests to the table, a big indian appeared in the doorway and said, "hungry" in broken accents. i said, "yes i get you some" and started to the stove but he said, "no," and pointed to the table. i brought a generous helping in a plate but he walked out doors, gave a shrill yell which brought several others of his tribe and they at once sat down, ate everything in sight, while the guests looked on in fear and trembling; having finished they left in great glee. some items from washington county by mrs. may allen lazure alfred d. jones, the first postmaster of omaha, tells in the _pioneer record_ of the first fourth of july celebration in nebraska. "on july , , i was employed in the work of surveying the townsite of omaha. at this time there were only two cabins on the townsite, my postoffice building and the company claim house. the latter was used as our boarding house. inasmuch as the fourth would be a holiday, i concluded it would be a novelty to hold a celebration on nebraska soil. i therefore announced that we would hold a celebration and invited the people of council bluffs, by inserting a notice in the council bluffs paper, and requested that those who would participate should prepare a lunch for the occasion. "we got forked stakes and poles along the river, borrowed bolts of sheeting from the store of james a. jackson; and thus equipped we erected an awning to shelter from the sun those who attended. anvils were procured, powder purchased and placed in charge of cautious gunners, to make a noise for the crowd. the celebration was held on the present high school grounds. "the picnickers came with their baskets, and the gunner discharged his duty nobly. a stranger, in our midst, was introduced as mr. sawyer, an ex-congressman from ohio." i had a life-long acquaintance with one of those early picnickers, mrs. rhoda craig, a daughter of thomas allen, who built the first house in omaha. mrs. craig was the first white girl to live on the site of omaha. she often told the story of that fourth of july in omaha. their fear of the indians was so great that as soon as dinner was over, they hurried to their boats and rowed across to council bluffs for safety. another pioneer woman was aimee taggart kenny, who came to fontenelle with her parents when a small child. her father was a baptist missionary in nebraska, and his earliest work was with the quincy colony. i have heard her tell the following experience: "on several occasions we were warned that the indians were about to attack us. in great fear, we gathered in the schoolhouse and watched all night, the men all well armed. but we were never molested. another time mother was alone with us children. seeing the indians approaching we locked the doors, went into the attic by means of an outside ladder and looked out through a crack. we saw the red men try the door, peep in at the windows, and then busy themselves chewing up mother's home-made hop-yeast, which had been spread out to dry. they made it into balls and tossed it all away." john t. bell of newberg, oregon, contributed the following: "i have a pleasant recollection of your grandfather allen. my father's and mother's people were all southerners and there was a kindliness about mr. and mrs. allen that reminded me of our own folks back in illinois. i often stopped to see them when going to and from the calhoun mill. "i was also well acquainted with mrs. e. h. clark, and rev. mr. taggart and his family were among the most highly esteemed residents of our little settlement of fontenelle. mr. taggart was a man of fine humor. it was the custom in those early days for the entire community to get together on new year's day and have a dinner at 'the college.' there would be speech-making, and i remember that on one of these occasions mr. taggart said that no doubt the time would come when we would all know each others' real names and why we left the states. "the experiences of the bell family in the early nebraska days were ones of privation. we came to nebraska in quite well equipped with stock, four good horses, and four young cows which we had driven behind the wagon from western illinois. the previous winter had been very mild and none of the settlers were prepared for the dreadful snow storm which came on the last day of november and continued for three days and nights. our horses and cows were in a stable made by squaring up the head of a small gulch and covering the structure with slough grass. at the end of the storm when father could get out to look after the stock there was no sign of the stable. the low ground it occupied was levelled off by many feet of snow. he finally located the roof and found the stock alive and that was about all. the animals suffered greatly that winter and when spring came we had left only one horse and no cows. that lone horse was picking the early grass when he was bitten in the nose by a rattlesnake and died from the effects. one of those horses, 'old fox,' was a noble character. we had owned him as long as i could remember, and when he died we children all cried. i have since owned a good many horses but not one equalled old fox in the qualities that go to make up a perfect creature. "after the civil war my brother will and i were the only members of our family left in nebraska. we served with grant and sherman and then went back to fontenelle, soon afterward beginning the improvement of our farm on bell creek in the western part of the county. by that time conditions had so improved in nebraska that hardships were not so common. i was interested in tree planting even as a boy and one of the distinct recollections of our first summer in nebraska was getting so severely poisoned in the woods on the elkhorn when digging up young sprouts, that i was entirely blind. a colored man living in fontenelle told father that white paint would cure me and so i was painted wherever there was a breaking out, with satisfactory results. "later the planting of cottonwood, box elder, maple, and other trees became a general industry in nebraska and i am confident that i planted twenty thousand trees, chiefly cottonwood. to j. sterling morton, one of nebraska's earliest and most useful citizens, nebraska owes a debt of gratitude. he was persistent in advocating the planting of trees. in his office hung a picture of an oak tree; on his personal cards was a picture of an oak tree with the legend 'plant trees'; on his letterheads, on his envelopes was borne the same injunction and the picture of an oak tree. on the marble doorstep of his home was cut a picture of an oak tree and the words 'plant trees'; on the ground-glass of the entrance door was the same emblem. i went to a theater he had built and on the drop curtain was a picture of an oak tree and the words 'plant trees.' today the body of this useful citizen lies buried under the trees he planted in wyuka cemetery, near nebraska city." county seat of washington county by frank mcneely in an act was passed by the territorial legislature reorganizing washington county and designating fort calhoun as the county-seat. de soto, a small village five miles north of fort calhoun, wished the county-seat to be moved there. in the winter of a crowd of de soto citizens organized and with arms went to fort calhoun to take the county-seat by force. fort calhoun citizens barricaded themselves in the log courthouse and held off the de soto band until the afternoon of the second day, when by compromise, the county-seat was turned over to de soto. one man was killed in this contest, in which i was a participant. the county-seat remained in de soto until an election in the fall of when the vote of the people relocated it at fort calhoun, where it remained until . an election in the latter year made blair the county-seat. a courthouse was built in blair, the present county-seat of washington county, in , at a cost of $ , . note--in the early days every new town, and they were all new, was ambitious to become the county-seat and many of them hopefully sought the honor of becoming the capital of the territory. washington county had its full share of aspiring towns and most of them really got beyond the paper stage. there were de soto, fort calhoun, rockport, cuming city, and last but not least--fontenelle, then in washington county, now a "deserted village" in dodge county. of these only fort calhoun remains more than a memory. de soto was founded by potter c. sullivan and others in , and in had about five hundred population. it began to go down in , and when the city of blair was started its decline was rapid. rockport, which was in the vicinity of the fur trading establishments of early days, was a steamboat landing of some importance and had at one time a population of half a hundred or more. now only the beautiful landscape remains. cuming city, like de soto, received its death blow when blair was founded, and now the townsite is given over to agricultural purposes. the story of the town of fontenelle by mrs. eda mead when nebraska was first organized as a territory, a party of people in quincy, illinois, conceived the idea of starting a city in the new territory and thus making their fortune. they accordingly sent out a party of men to select a site. these men reached omaha in . there they met logan fontenelle, chief of the omahas, who held the land along the platte and elkhorn rivers. he agreed to direct them to a place favorable for a town. upon reaching the spot, where the present village is now situated, they were so pleased that they did not look farther, but paid the chief one hundred dollars for the right to claim and locate twenty square miles of land. this consisted of land adjoining the elkhorn river, then ascending a high bluff, a tableland ideal for the location of the town. these men thought the elkhorn was navigable and that they could ship their goods from quincy by way of the missouri, platte, and elkhorn rivers. early in the spring of a number of the colonists, bringing their household goods, left quincy on a small boat, the "mary cole," expecting to reach fontenelle by way of the elkhorn; and then use the boat as a packet to points on the platte and elkhorn rivers. but the boat struck a snag in the missouri and, with a part of the cargo, was lost. the colonists then took what was saved overland to fontenelle. by the first of may, , there were sufficient colonists on the site to hold the claims. then each of the fifty members drew by lot for the eighteen lots each one was to hold. the first choice fell to w. h. davis. he chose the land along the river, fully convinced of its superior situation as a steamboat landing. the colonists then built houses of cottonwood timber, and a store and hotel were started. thus the little town of about two hundred inhabitants was started with great hopes of soon becoming a large city. land on the edge of the bluff had been set aside for a college building. this was called collegeview. here a building was begun in and completed in . this was the first advanced educational institution to be chartered west of the missouri river. in this building was burned. another building was immediately erected, but after a few years' struggle for patronage, they found it was doomed to die, so negotiated with the people of crete, nebraska, and the congregational organizations (for it was built by the congregationalists) in nebraska. it therefore became the nucleus of what is now doane college. the bell of the old building is still in use in the little village. the first religious services were held by the congregationalists. the church was first organized by rev. reuben gaylord, who also organized the first congregational church in omaha. in fontenelle the congregationalists did not have a building but worshiped in the college. this church has long since ceased to exist, but strange as it may seem after so many years, the last regular pastor was the same man, rev. reuben gaylord, who organized it. there was a little band of fifteen methodists; this was called the fontenelle mission. in an evangelist, jerome spillman, was sent to take charge of this little mission. he soon had a membership of about three score people. a church was organized and a building and parsonage completed. this prospered with the town, but as the village began to lose ground the church was doomed to die. the building stood vacant for a number of years but was finally moved to arlington. the settlers found the first winter of - mild and agreeable. they thought that this was a sample of the regular winter climate; so when the cold, blizzardy, deep-snow winter of - came it found the majority ill prepared. many were living in log cabins which had been built only for temporary use. the roofs were full of holes and just the dirt for floors. on awaking in the morning after the first blizzard many found their homes drifted full of snow; even the beds were covered. the snow lay four or five feet deep on the level and the temperature was far below zero. most of the settlers lost all of their stock. food was scarce, but wild game was plentiful. mr. sam francis would take his horse and gun and hunt along the river. the settlers say he might be seen many times that winter coming into the village with two deer tied to his horse's tail trailing in the snow. by this means, he saved many of the colonists from starvation. provisions were very high priced. potatoes brought four and five dollars a bushel; bacon and pork could not be had at any price. one settler is said to have sold a small hog for forty-five dollars; with this he bought eighty acres of land, which is today worth almost one hundred eighty dollars an acre. a sack of flour cost from ten to fifteen dollars. at this time many who had come just for speculation left, thus only the homebuilders or those who had spent their all and could not return, remained. then came trouble with the indians. in the year the pawnees were not paid by the government, for some reason. they became desperate and began stealing cattle from the settlers along the elkhorn around fontenelle. the settlers of fontenelle formed a company known as the "fontenelle mounted rangers," and together with a company sent out by governor black from omaha with one piece of light artillery, started after the pawnees who were traveling west and north. they captured six prisoners and held them bound. while they were camped for rest, a squaw in some way gave a knife to one of the prisoners. he pretended to kill himself by cutting his breast and mouth so that he bled freely. he then dropped as if dead. amidst the confusion the other five, whose ropes had been cut, supposedly by this same squaw, escaped. as the settlers were breaking camp to still pursue the fleeing tribe, they wondered what to do with the dead indian. someone expressed doubt as to his really being dead. then one of the settlers raised his gun and said he would soon make sure. no sooner had the gun been aimed than the indian jumped to his feet and said, "whoof! me no sick!" they then journeyed on to attack the main tribe. when near their camp the settlers formed a semi-circle on a hill, with the artillery in the center. as soon as the indians saw the settlers, they came riding as swiftly as possible to make an attack, but when within a short distance and before the leader of the settlers could call "fire!" they retreated. they advanced and retreated in this way three times. the settlers were at a loss to understand just what the indians intended to do; but decided that they did not know of the artillery until near enough to see it, then were afraid to make the attack, so tried to scare the settlers, but failing to do this they finally advanced with a white rag tied to a stick. the indians agreed to be peaceable and stop the thieving if the settlers would pay for a pony which had been accidentally killed, and give them medicine for the sick and wounded. some of the men who took part in this fight say that if the leader had ordered the settlers to fire on the first advance of the indians every settler would have been killed. there were twice as many indians in the first place and the settlers afterwards found that not more than one-third of their guns would work; and after they had fired once, while they were reloading, the indians with their bows and arrows would have exterminated them. they consider it was the one piece of light artillery that saved them, as the indians were very much afraid of a cannon. this ended any serious indian trouble, but the housewives had to be ever on the alert for many years. each spring either the omahas or pawnees passed through the village on their way to visit some other tribe, and then returned in the fall. then through the winter stray bands would appear who had been hunting or fishing along the river. as they were seen approaching everything that could be was put under lock, and the doors of the houses were securely fastened. the indians would wash and comb their hair at the water troughs, then gather everything about the yard that took their fancy. if by any chance they got into a house they would help themselves to eatables and if they could not find enough they would demand more. they made a queer procession as they passed along the street. the bucks on the horses or ponies led the way, then would follow the pack ponies, with long poles fastened to each side and trailing along behind loaded with the baggage, then came the squaws, with their babies fastened to their backs, trudging along behind. one early settler tells of her first experience with the indians. she had just come from the far east, and was all alone in the house, when the door opened and three indians entered, a buck and two squaws. they closed the door and placed their guns behind it, to show her that they would not harm her. they then went to the stove and seated themselves, making signs to her that they wanted more fire. she made a very hot fire in the cook stove. the old fellow examined the stove until he found the oven door; this he opened and took three frozen fish from under his blanket and placed them upon the grate. while the fish were cooking, he made signs for something to eat. the lady said she only had bread and sorghum in the house. this she gave them, but the indian was not satisfied; he made a fuss until she finally found that he wanted butter on his bread. she had to show him that the sorghum was all she had. they then took up the fish and went out of doors by the side of the house to eat it. after they were gone she went out to see what they had left. she said they must have eaten every bit of the fish except the hard bone in the head, that was all that was left and that was picked clean. among the first settlers who came in was a young german who was an orphan and had had a hard life in america up to this time. he took a claim and worked hard for a few years. he then went back to quincy and persuaded a number of his own countrymen to come out to this new place and take claims, he helping them out, but they were to pay him back as they could. years passed; they each and all became very prosperous. but this first pioneer prospered perhaps to the greatest degree. the early settlers moved away one by one; as they left he would buy their homes. the houses were torn down or moved away, the trees and shrubs were uprooted, until now this one man, or his heirs--for he has gone to his reward--owns almost the whole of the once prosperous little village, and vast fields of grain have taken the place of the homes and streets. it is hard to stand in the streets of the little village which now has about one hundred fifty inhabitants and believe that at one time it was the county-seat of dodge county, and that it lacked only one vote of becoming the capital of the state. there are left only two or three of the first buildings. a short distance south of this village on a high bluff overlooking the river valley, and covered with oaks and evergreens, these early pioneers started a city which has grown for many years, and which will continue to grow for years to come. in this city of the dead we find many of the people who did much for the little village which failed, but who have taken up their abode in this beautiful spot, there to remain until the end of time. this story of fontenelle has been gathered from my early recollections of the place and what i have learned through grandparents, parents, and other relatives and friends. my mother was raised in fontenelle, coming there with her parents in . she received her education in that first college. my father was the son of one of the first congregational missionaries to be sent there. i received my first schooling in the little village school. [illustration: mrs. warren perry eleventh state regent, nebraska society, daughters of the american revolution. - ] thomas wilkinson and family mr. and mrs. thomas wilkinson, early nebraska settlers, were of english birth, and came to america when very young. they met in illinois and were married in at barrington. they moved to louisiana, remaining there until the outbreak of the civil war, when they returned to illinois for a short time, and then emigrated to the west, traveling in a covered wagon and crossing the missouri river on the ferry. they passed through omaha, and arrived at elk city, nebraska, july , , with their two children, ida and emma, who at the present time are married and live in omaha. soon after arriving in elk city, mr. wilkinson lost one of his horses, which at that time was a great misfortune. he purchased another from the united states government, which they called "sam" and which remained in the family for many years. at one time provisions were so high mr. wilkinson traded his watch for a bushel of potatoes. at that time land was very cheap and could be bought for from two to five dollars per acre. the same land is now being held at two hundred dollars per acre. labor was scarce, with the exception of that which could be obtained from the indians. there were a large number of indians in that part of the country, and the settlers often hired the squaws to shuck corn and cut firewood. mrs. wilkinson has often told of the indians coming to her door and demanding corn meal or beef. they always wanted beef and would not accept pork. they would come at night, look in at the windows, and call for firewater, tobacco, and provisions. their visits were so frequent that mrs. wilkinson soon mastered much of their language and was able to talk to them in their own tongue. mr. and mrs. wilkinson first settled about twenty-five miles from omaha on the old military road. during the early days of their life there, mrs. wilkinson made large quantities of butter for regular customers in omaha. they often arose at three o'clock, hitched up the lumber wagon, and started for town, there to dispose of her butter and eggs and return with a supply of provisions. as a rule the winters were extremely severe and mrs. wilkinson has often told of the terrible snow storms which would fill the chimneys so full of snow it would be impossible to start a fire, and she would have to bundle the children up in the bedclothes and take them to the nearest house to keep from freezing. during their second year in nebraska they went farther west and located at "timberville," which is now known as ames. there they kept a "ranch house" and often one hundred teams arrived at one time to remain over night. they would turn their wagons into an immense corral, build their camp fires, and rest their stock. these were the "freighters" of the early days, and generally got their own meals. during their residence at elk city, two more children were born, nettie and will. they continued to live on the farm until the year , when they moved to blair, nebraska, there to rest in their old age. mr. wilkinson died july , . he is survived by his wife, mrs. lucy wilkinson, a son, wm. w. wilkinson, and two daughters, mrs. j. fred smith and mrs. herman shields. mrs. george b. dyball, another daughter, died may , . nikumi by mrs. harriet s. macmurphy he glanced from the letter in his hand to the indian woman sitting in the door of the skin tipi, and the papoose on the ground beside her, then down the river, his eyes moving on, like the waters, and seeing some vision of his brain, far distant. after a time his gaze came back and rested upon the woman and her babe again. "if i could take the child," he murmured. the squaw watched him furtively while she drew the deer sinew through the pieces of skin from which she was fashioning a moccasin. she understood, although spoken in english, the words he was scarce conscious of uttering, and, startled out of her indian instinct of assumed inattention, looked at him with wide-opened eyes, trying to fathom a matter hardly comprehended but of great moment to her. "take the child"--where, and for what? was he going to leave and sail down the great river to the st. louis whence came all traders and the soldiers on the boats? going away again as he had come to her many seasons ago? "take the child," her child and his? her mouth closed firmly, her eyes darkened and narrowed, as she stooped suddenly and lifted the child to her lap; and the indian mother's cunning and watchfulness were aroused and pitted against the white father's love of his child. fort atkinson was the most western post of the line established by president monroe in , after the louisiana purchase, to maintain the authority of the united states against indian turbulence and british aggression, and had been in existence about four years before our story opens. here had been stationed the sixth u. s. infantry, who had wearily tramped for two months the banks of the missouri river and dragged their boats after them, a distance of nearly a thousand miles of river travel to reach this post in the wilderness. not a white man then occupied what is now the state of iowa, except julien dubuque and a score or so of french traders. not a road was to be found nor a vehicle to traverse it. but one or two boats other than keel boats and barges had ever overcome the swift current of the great missouri thus far. the santa fe trail, that wound over the hills west of the fort, connected them with the mexican spanish civilization of the southwest, and the great rivers with their unsettled land far away on the atlantic seaboard. seventy-five years ago these soldiers dropped the ropes with which they had dragged the barges and keel boats and themselves thither, and picking up spade and shovel, dug foundations, molded and burned brick, cut down trees, and built barracks for themselves and the three detachments of artillery who terrified the redmen with the mysterious shells which dropped down amongst them and burst in such a frightful manner. they numbered about twelve hundred men, and the bricks they molded and the cellars they dug still remain to tell of the fort atkinson that was, beside whose ruins now stands the little village of fort calhoun, sixteen miles north of omaha on the missouri river. dr. gale, whom we have thus seen considering a question of great importance both to himself and to the indian woman with whom he seems to have some relation, was the surgeon of the sixth infantry, an englishman, short, thick-set, and evidently of good birth, although the marks of his rough life and rather dissolute habits obscured it in some degree. the point where fort atkinson was built was the noted "council bluff" at which lewis and clark held the indian council famous in the first annals of western explorations, and it still remains a rendezvous for the various tribes of indians, the "otoes, pawnees, 'mahas, ayeaways, and sioux," attracted thither by the soldiers and the trading posts, and secure from each others' attacks on this neutral ground. shortly after the troops were located here an ayeaway (iowa) chief and his band pitched their tents near the fort. the daughter of this chief was named nikumi; she was young and had not been inured to the hard tasks which usually fell to the squaws, so her figure was straight, her eyes bright, and her manner showed somewhat the dignity of her position. not a white woman was there within a radius of five hundred miles except a few married ones belonging to the fort; was it strange that dr. gale, the younger son of an english family who had left civilization for a life of adventure in the new world, and who seemed destined to dwell away from all women of his own race, should woo this indian princess and make her his wife? he had chosen the best of her race, for all who remember her in after years speak of her dignified carriage, her well-formed profile, and her strength of will and purpose, so remarkable among indian women. for four years she had been his wife, and the child she had just seized and held in her arms as if she would never let her go, was their child, little mary, as her father named her, perhaps from his own name, marion. but now this union, which her unknowing mind had never surmised might not be for all time, and his, alas, too knowing one had carelessly assumed while it should be his pleasure, was about to be severed. a boat had come up the river and brought mail from chariton or la charette, as the frenchmen originally named it, several hundred miles below, and the point to which mail for this fort was sent. these uncertain arrivals of news from the outside world made important epochs in the life of the past. the few papers and letters were handled as if they had been gold, and the contents were read and reread until almost worn out. for dr. gale came a bulky letter or package of letters tied together and sealed over the string with a circle of red wax. there was no envelope, as we have now, but each letter was written so as to leave a blank space after folding for the superscription, and the postage was at least twenty-five cents on the three letters so tied together. the postmark of the outer one was new york city; it was from a law firm and informed dr. marion f. gale, surgeon of the sixth infantry, stationed at fort atkinson, the "camp on the missouri river," that the accompanying letters had been received by them from a firm of london solicitors, and begging to call his attention to the same. his attention being most effectually called thereto elicited first that messrs. shadwell & fitch of london desired them to ascertain the whereabouts of marion f. gale, late of ipswich, england, and now supposed to be serving in the u. s. army in the capacity of surgeon, and convey to him the accompanying information, being still further to the effect that by a sudden death of james burton gale, who died without male issue, he, marion f. gale, being next of kin, was heir to the estate of burton towers, ipswich, england. last came a letter from the widow of his brother, telling him the particulars of his brother's death. ten years before he had left home with a hundred pounds in his pocket and his profession, to make himself a career in the new country. there were two brothers older than he, one of them married, and there seemed little prospect that he would ever become proprietor of burton towers; but they, who lived apparently in security, were gone, and he who had traversed the riverway of an unknown and unsettled country, among indians and wild animals, was alive and well to take their place. he thought of the change, back to the quiet life of an english country squire, after these ten years of the free life of the plains, and the soldiers and the indians. the hunting of the buffalo, the bear, and the elk exchanged for the tame brush after a wild fox, or the shooting of a few partridges. but the family instinct was strong, after all, and his eye gleamed as he saw the old stone house, with its gables and towers, its glorious lawns and broad driveway with the elms meeting overhead. oh, it would satisfy that part of his nature well to go back as its master. this vision it was that had filled his eyes as they looked so far away. but then they came back again and rested on nikumi and the child. a certain kind of love had been begotten in his heart for the indian maiden by her devotion to him, although he had taken her without a scruple at the thought of leaving her when circumstances called him away. but now he felt a faint twinge of the heart as he realized that the time had come, and a stronger one when he thought that he must part with the child. "but why need i do it?" he soliloquized. "i can take the child with me and have her educated in a manner to fit her for my daughter; if she is as bright as her mother, education and environment will fit her to fill any position in life, but with nikumi it is too late to begin, and she has no white blood to temper the wildness of the indian. i will take the child." not a care for the mother love and rights. "only a squaw." what rights had she compared with this english gentleman who had taken her from her tribe, and now would cast her back again and take away her child? but ah, my english gentleman, you reckoned without your ordinary sagacity when you settled that point without taking into consideration the mother love and the indian cunning and watchfulness, their heritage from generations of warfare with each other. "what have you got?" she asked in the flowing syllables of the indian tongue, for like the majority of indians, though she understood much english she never, to the end of her days, deigned to speak it. "some words from my friends in the far-away country over the waters, nikumi," he answered. "my brother is dead." "ah, and you are sad. you will go there to that land?" she said. "i don't know, nikumi; i may have to go over, for there is much land and houses and fields to be cared for. i am going down to see sarpy, now. he came up on the boat today." she watched him as he strode off down past the cattle station towards the fort. in the summer time her love of her native life asserted itself, and she left the log quarters which dr. gale provided for her, and occupied a tipi, or tent of skins, down among the cottonwoods and willows of the bottom lands where portions of her tribe were generally to be found. when he passed out of sight she took her baby and went to a tipi a short distance from hers, where a stalwart buck lay on a shaggy buffalo robe on the shady side, smoking a pipe of kinnikinick, and playing with some young dogs. she spoke with him a few minutes. he ceased playing with the dogs, sat up and listened, and finally with a nod of assent to some request of hers started off towards the fort. she followed shortly after and glided about from the post store to the laundresses' quarters, stopping here and there where groups of soldiers were gathered, and listening attentively to their talk about the news that had come by the boats. she learned that these boats were to be loaded with furs from sarpy's trading post and go back to st. louis in a few days. in the meantime the young buck, who was her brother, had gone by her directions to sarpy's trading post, just below the fort. she had told him what she knew and surmised; that the "pale-faced medicine man," as the indians called him, had received a paper from his friends across the great waters towards the rising sun which told his brother was dead, and that he might have to go there to care for the houses and lands his brother had left; that she had heard him say "if i could take the child," and she feared he might take her papoose away; "and he shall not," she said passionately. "i must know what he will do. go you and listen if the medicine man talks with sarpy; watch him closely and find out all." he had followed the indian trail which skirted along the edge of the high bluffs on the eastern boundary of the fort, and reached the trading post from the north. going in he uttered the single word "tobac," and while the clerk was handing it out to him he glanced around in the aimless, stolid indian manner, as if looking over the blankets and skins hung against the logs. back at the further, or southwest, corner of the store, near a window, and partially screened by a rude desk made of a box set upon a table and partitioned into pigeon-holes, sat two men. one of them was dr. gale, the other, peter a. sarpy. to the ears of most readers the name will convey no particular impression; if a resident of nebraska it would call to mind the fact that a county in that state was named sarpy, and the reader might have a hazy consciousness that an early settler had borne that name; but in the days of this story and for thirty years later it meant power and fame. the agent of the american fur company in that section, peter a. sarpy's word was law; to him belonged the trading posts, or so it was believed; he commanded the voyageurs who cordelled the boats and they obeyed. every winter he went down the great river before it was frozen over, to st. louis, and every spring his boats came up after the ice had broken up, and before the great mountain rise came on in june, with new goods that were anxiously looked for, and eagerly seized in exchange for the buffalo robes, the beaver, mink, otter, and deer skins that had been collected through the winter. he was of french parentage, a small man, with the nervous activity of his race; the brightest of black eyes; careful of his dress, even in the wilds; the polish of the gentleman always apparent in his punctilious greeting to everyone; but making the air blue with his ejaculations if his orders were disobeyed or his ire aroused. famous the length of the river for his bravery and determination, he was a man well fitted to push actively the interests of the company of which he was the agent as well as a member. the indian passed noiselessly out and going around to the side of the building seated himself upon the ground, and pulling his long pipe from the folds of his blanket, filled it with the "tobac," rested it on the ground, and leisurely began to smoke. it was no unusual thing for the indians thus to sit round the post, and no one took any notice of him, nor in fact that he was very near the open window, just out of the range of vision of the two men sitting within. "so upon me devolves the succession of the estate of burton towers," gale was saying to sarpy, "and my sister-in-law writes that some one is imperatively needed to look after the estate as there is no male member of the family left in england." "and you will leave your wild life of the prairies to go back to the tame existence of rural english life? egad, i don't believe i could stand it even to be master of the beautiful demesnes which belong to my family. power is sweet, but mon dieu, the narrowness, the conventionalities, the tameness of existence!" "no worse than the tameness of this cursed fort for the last year or two. it was very well at first when the country was new to us and the indians showed some fight that gave us a little excitement, but now we've exhausted all the resources, and an english squire, even, will be a great improvement. you've some change, you know. st. louis in winter gives you a variety." "what are you going to do with nikumi and mary?" "that's what i want to talk to you about. i find i'm fonder of the child than i thought, and indeed it gives my heartstrings a bit of a wrench to leave nikumi behind; but to take her is out of the question. mary, however, i can educate; she is bright enough to profit by it, and young enough to make an english woman of. i believe i shall try to get her away quietly, and take her with me." "you ought to have lived here long enough to have some knowledge of the indians, but i'm damned if i think you are smart enough to get that child away from its mother," said sarpy. "well, i'll try it, anyway. the worst trouble i apprehend is getting away myself at so short notice. when do your boats go down again?" "in about a week." "to leave the troops without any surgeon is rather risky, but they're pretty healthy at this season, and young carver has been studying with me considerably, and can take my place for a short time. if i succeed in getting leave of absence to go on to washington, atkinson will probably send some one up from st. louis as soon as possible. i shall have to get leave of absence from leavenworth here, and then again from atkinson at st. louis. then i can send in my resignation after i arrive at philadelphia. all this beside the intermediate hardships and delays in reaching there." to the indian outside much of this was unintelligible, but he heard and understood perfectly "i think i shall try to get her away from her mother and take her with me," and later the reply that the boats would go down in about a week. that was sufficient for him, and he arose, gathered up his blanket that had dropped down from his shoulders, slipped the pipe into his belt which held it around his waist, and then his moccasined feet trod the narrow trail, one over the other, the great toe straight in a line with the instep, giving the peculiar gait for which the indian is famous. he found nikumi back at her tipi: the kettle was hung from the tripod of three sticks over the fire, and a savory smell arose which he sniffed with pleasure as he approached, for nikumi was favored above her tribe in the supplies which she received from the camp, and which included great luxuries to the indians. nikumi was very generous to her relatives and friends, and often shared with them the pot which she had varied from the original indian dish of similar origin by diligently observing the methods of the camp cooks. she had learned to use dishes, too, and bringing forth two bowls, some spoons, and a tin cup, ladled some of the savory mixture into them, for she had evidently learned the same lesson as her white sisters: when you would get the best service from a man, feed him well. on the present site of fort atkinson may be found, wherever the ground is plowed over or the piles of bricks and depressions that mark the cellars of the buildings are overhauled, a profusion of old buttons, fragments of firearms, cannon balls and shells, and many pieces of delf. a quaint old antiquarian who lives there has a large collection of them which he shows with delight. who knows but that some of the fragments are pieces of nikumi's bowl, for as her brother told her of gale's words to sarpy, her face added to its bronze hue an indescribable grayish tinge, and starting suddenly, the bowl fell from her hand, striking the stones which formed a circle for the fire, and broke into fragments. she forgot to eat, and a rapid flow of words from her lips was accompanied by gestures that almost spoke. they should keep strict watch of the loading of the boats, she said, and of the voyageurs in charge of them, and when they saw signs of departure of them, she would take the child and go--and she pointed, but spoke no word. he must make a little cave in the hillside, and cover it with trees and boughs, and she would provide food. when the white medicine man had gone he could tell her by a strip of red tied in the branch of a tree like a bird, which could be seen down the ravine from her hiding place, and she would be found again in her tipi as if she had never been absent. he grunted assent as well as satisfaction at the innumerable bowls of soup, and then stretched himself comfortably and pulled out his pipe. meanwhile little mary, the heroine of this intrigue, was eating soup and sucking a bone contentedly. would she be an indian or an english maiden? she was an indian one now and happy, too. and nikumi? she had come to her white husband and remained with him contented and happy. he had been good to her in the main, although he swore at her and abused her sometimes when he got drunk or played at cards too long, but he was better than the braves were to their squaws, and she did not have to work as they did; she had wood and food and she could buy at the trading post the blankets and the strouding and the gay red cloths, and the beads with which the squaws delighted to adorn their necks and to stitch with deer sinew into their moccasins. she had lived each day unconscious that there might not be a tomorrow like it. but it had dropped from the skies, this sudden knowledge that had changed everything. had she had no child she would doubtless have mourned silently for the man who had come and taken her life to be lived beside his and then left her worse than alone; but the greater blow had deadened the force of the lesser, and only her outraged mother love cried out. she sat on the buffalo robe inside the tipi and watched the child rolling about outside with the little fat puppy, hugging it one moment, savagely spatting it over the eyes the next. she had no right to rebel; an indian did what he would with his squaw, how much more a white man, and to any decree concerning herself she would doubtless have submitted silently, but to lose her child--that she would not do, and she knew how to save it. all unconscious of this intrigue, gale made his preparations for departure, and it was soon known through the camp that he was about to go to the "states." he had taken pains to conceal the fact of his intended final departure for england. he secretly made arrangements with the man who acted as cook for the boats to take charge of little mary until they got to st. louis, where they could get a servant, and going down the river would take but a few days. gale's condition of mind was not to be envied during the interval before he started. he scarcely felt the injustice to nikumi in thus leaving her, but he could not quite reconcile with even his weak sense of her rights that he should take the child away from her, and yet he fully intended to do so. he spent much of the time with nikumi at her summer residence, the tipi, and she treated him with the same gentle deference and quiet submissiveness that were usual to her, so completely deceiving him that he did not once surmise she knew anything of his plans. the last two or three days he occupied himself in packing a case of articles of various kinds that he had accumulated: an indian pipe of the famous red pipestone of the sioux country, with its long flat stem of wood cut out in various designs and decorated with feathers and bits of metal; moccasins of deer skin, handsomely beaded and trimmed with fringes, some of them made by nikumi's own hands; specimens of the strange mexican cloths woven from the plumage of birds, brought by the trading mexicans up the santa fe trail; a pair of their beautiful blankets, one robe, a few very fine furs, among them a black bear skin of immense size, a little mat woven of the perfumed grasses, which the indians could find but the white man never, some of the nose and ear rings worn by the squaws. nikumi came to his quarters while he was taking these things down from the walls and shelves where she had always cared for them with so much pride. in answer to her inquiring gaze he said: "i go nikumi, to the far eastern land, and these i shall take with me to show my friends what we had that is beautiful in the land of the indian and the buffalo, that they wish to know all about." "and when will you return to nikumi and mary?" "i can not tell; i hope before many moons; will you grieve to have me go nikumi?" "nikumi will look every day to the rising sun and ask the great spirit to send her pale-faced medicine man back safely to her and the child." he put his arms about her with a strange spasm of heart relenting, realizing for a moment the wrong he was purposing to commit. but ah, the stronger taking advantage of the weaker. the strong race using for their own pleasure the weak one. "ye that are strong ought to help the weak." he also prepared at sarpy's trading post, and by his advice, a smaller package of such things as would be desirable for little mary's welfare and comfort. it was greatly lacking in the articles we should consider necessary these times, but when we realize that every piece of merchandise which reached this far away post had to be transported thousands of miles by river it is matter of wonder how much there was. the morning of the day before the boats were to start he occupied himself with some last preparations, giving nikumi a number of articles that she had used around his quarters to take to her tipi, and telling her he would leave money with sarpy so that she might get what was necessary for herself and mary. in the afternoon he went down to the post and did not return to the quarters until late, where he supped at the mess table and then went in the direction of nikumi's tent. he had devised, he thought, a cunning plan to get nikumi to go the next morning for some fresh leaves of a shrub which she often procured for him to mix in his tobacco, and of which he was very fond; and after her departure he would make for the boat and embark hastily with little mary, whom he would keep. resolving the broaching of his plan as he approached the tipi, he did not notice that it failed to show the usual signs of habitation until he drew near when he observed that the kettle hanging from the tripod over the circle of stones had no fire beneath it, and no steam issuing from it, no dogs were playing about, and there was no sign of nikumi and little mary. he began to look about for them; the flap of skin usually fastened up to form a doorway was dropped down; he put it up and stooping, entered the tipi. it was almost entirely empty; the skins which had formed the beds were gone; the dishes seemed to be there, but the food of which he knew she always kept a supply, was all gone, and there were no signs of the articles of clothing belonging to them. sarpy's words come to him, "i'm damned if i think you are smart enough to get the child away from its mother," and he knew that nikumi had outwitted him. he should never see mother or child again. he turned and traced angrily the narrow trail to sarpy's. striding in and down the low, dingy, fur odorous room to the rear where sarpy sat lazily smoking his pipe he exclaimed, "you were right, sarpy, nikumi has gone with the child." sarpy took his pipe from his mouth slowly, "well i'm sorry you are disappointed, but it will be better for you and the child, too; she would have grieved herself to death, and worried you almost to the verge of lunacy first, and you would have had the burden on your conscience of nikumi unhappy, and all for no good." "but i'll not give her up. i had set my heart on it; i shall start a search party for her at once." "and much good it will do you. there isn't a soldier in your camp that can find what an indian chooses to hide, if it is not more than six feet away from him. you will only inform the camp of your design and of the fact that a squaw has outwitted you." gale knew too well the truth of his statement, but he paced up and down the building angrily for some time, determining at each turn towards the door to start out at the head of a search party, but turning again with an oath toward the rear as the futility of it all was forced upon him. sarpy regarded him quietly, a half smile in his eyes. he understood the conflict of feelings, the pain at leaving nikumi, not very great, but enough to cause him some discomfort; the now added pain of separation from the child, also; the chagrin at being outwitted by a squaw, and one who had always seemed so submissive, and whom he had not dreamed possessed so much acuteness; the english obstinacy aroused by antagonism, all struggling against his knowledge that he could do nothing. sarpy in his place would have invoked all the spirits of the darker regions, but he probably would never have put himself in a like predicament. to his class, seekers of fortunes in the new world, the indian was simply a source of revenue and pleasure, treated fairly well to be sure, because that was the better policy; while it suited their convenience to use them they did so; when the need was supplied they cast them off; possibly gale, if he analyzed the situation at all, thought the same, but under the present circumstances, a different set of emotions dominated him. nikumi, superior to her tribe, had inspired inconveniently deep feelings, and he found his fatherly love a factor he had not counted on. at last he approached sarpy, and throwing himself in a chair, took out one of the two great soothers of man's woes, his pipe, lighted it and proceeded to mingle its smoke with that of sarpy's. "i suppose i shall have to give it up, but i'm damned if i can submit to it with equanimity, yet; outwitted by an apparently innocent and submissive squaw, i suppose two months from now i'll be thanking my lucky stars that i'm not saddled with a brat of an indian, and at intervals thereafter shall be falling upon my knees, and repeating the operation. but i'm blessed if i can see it so now." "yes it will be better for you as well as the others, and as soon as you get away from here you will view it very differently," said sarpy. and nikumi in her cave dug into the bluff, held her baby tight in her arms, and listened to every sound, while she watched by aid of the rude but cunningly devised dark lantern, the reptiles and insects which crawled about, moving only to dispatch a snake or two that were venomous. could gale have seen her would he have relented and left the child to her? has it been the history of the union of the stronger and weaker races that the stronger have given up their desires? "you will have to look out for mary, too, sarpy, as you have promised to do for nikumi. i haven't any more money to leave with you at present, but i will send you some from england. i don't want her to grow up without any education at all, and have to slave and toil as squaws do generally, nor nikumi either." "i'll see to them," said sarpy, briefly, "there isn't much chance for education unless they keep up the post here and she be permitted to learn with the white children; for i don't suppose nikumi will ever let her go away to school as fontenelle sends his boys, but she shall have what education she can get and nikumi shall not be obliged to go back to her tribe for support as long as i am here," and the smoke of the frenchman's and englishman's pipes ascended to ratify this compact. the next day at sunrise the boats dropped swiftly down the river. a figure at the stern of one of them watched until the last sign of the landing place faded in the early morning light. dr. gale had played a brief part in the settlement of a new country from which he now disappeared as if he had never been. in after years only the few who belonged to that early settlement remembered that mary was his child, and told of it sometimes, when they recounted the adventurous life of those early days. a young man listened to these reminiscences from the lips of the strange, irascible, but warm hearted frenchman, and treasured them in memory. hence this true tale. nikumi released from her reptile inhabited cave by the little red bird in the tree down the ravine, came back to her tipi. she had kept her child but she had lost her lover and her life. how should she take it up again? she had been always quiet and little given to the chatter and laughter of the young squaws; she was only a little more quiet now, and mary's lot was decided; she would always be an indian woman. one day sarpy came to her and told her that gale had left money for her and she was to come to the fort for what she wished. and after a time it came to pass that sarpy took her to wife as gale had done. perhaps that was in his mind when he looked at gale with a smile in his eyes; but nikumi would not listen to him till she had waited long, and until sarpy told her and she heard from others that gale would never come again. and she was his faithful wife for many years, occupying always, because of her inherent dignity and real womanliness, a position high in the estimation both of the white and the red men. many tales are told of her life with sarpy, how at one time she carried him miles on her back when he was stricken with fever in the mountains, until she brought him to aid and safety. another time when he had given orders that no more goods should be given her from the post (she was always very liberal to her relatives and he wished to check it) she quietly picked up two or three bolts of calico, and walking to the river bank, threw them in; a second armful followed, and then the enemy capitulated. and still another time when sarpy had bought a beautiful black mare, "starlight," to minister to the pleasure of a designing english widow, she one day quietly appeared when the horse was driven round by sarpy's black servant, and ordered it taken to the stable, and enforced the order, too. but this is another story. in later years, as sarpy's dominion ceased with the gradual decline of the fur company, and he spent much of his time in st. louis, nikumi lived with mary, who had married an indian like herself, with a mixture of white blood in his veins, although he was french, and who occupied a prominent position in one of the tribes to whom was given a distinct reservation. from this mixture of english, french, and indian bloods has arisen a family which stands at the head of their tribe, and one member who is known throughout this country. it is worthy of notice, too, that with one exception it has been the women of the family who have shown the qualities which gave them preëminence. nikumi died march , , at the home of her daughter mary; but her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren live to show that sometimes the mixture of races tends to development of the virtues, and not, as has been so often said, of the vices of both races. the heroine of the jules-slade tragedy by mrs. harriet s. macmurphy our two weeks' ride over iowa prairies was ended and we had reached our new home in nebraska. i sat in the buggy, a child of twelve, with my three-year-old brother beside me, on the eastern bank of the missouri river, while father went down where the ferry boat lay, to make ready for our crossing. in the doorway of a log cabin near by stood a young girl two or three years older than i. we gazed at each other shyly. she was bare-headed and bare-footed, her cheeks tanned, and her abundant black hair roughened with the wind, but her eyes were dark and her figure had the grace of untrammeled out door life. to my girl's standard she did not appeal, and i had not then the faintest conception of the romance and tragedy of which she was the heroine. we gazed at each other until father gave the signal for me to drive down on the clumsy raft-like boat behind the covered half-wagon half-carriage that held the other members of our family, which i did in fear and trembling that did not cease until we had swung in and out as the boat strained at the rope to which it was attached, the waters of the "old muddy," the like of which i had never seen before, straining and drawing it down with the current, and a fresh spasm of fear was added as we reached the far shore and dropped off the boat with a thud down into the soft bank. we had reached decatur, our future nebraska home, adjoining the indian reservation with its thousand omahas. for a long time i did not know anything further of the girl of the log cabin by the river side, only that they told us the family were named keyou and the men were boatmen and fishermen and ran the ferry. this first chapter of my little story opened in the spring of . six years later my girlhood's romance brought marriage with my home-coming soldier, who in his first days in the territory of nebraska had passed through many of the romantic events that a life among the indians would bring, among them clerking in a trading post with one "billy" becksted, now the husband of my maiden of the riverside log cabin. and billy and john always continued the comradeship of the free, happy, prairie hunting life, riding the "buckskin" ponies with which they began life together, although they came together from very different walks of life. and i learned of my husband that "addie," as we had learned to call her, young as she was when first i saw her, had been the wife of a frenchman named jules, after whom the town of julesburg (colorado) is named, and his dreadful death at the hands of one slade was one of the stock stories of the plains well known to every early settler. billy and addie after a time drifted away from decatur down the river and we lost sight of them. we, too, left the home town and became residents of plattsmouth. one day my husband, returning from a trip in the country said, "i ran across billy and addie becksted today and they were so glad to see me that addie put her arms round me and kissed me, with tears in her eyes." later we learned with sorrow that billy was drinking and then that he had come down to plattsmouth and tried to find my husband, who was out of town and had gone back home and when almost there had taken a dose of morphine, and they had found him unconscious and dying near their log cabin under the bluffs half a mile above the bellevue station. and my husband really mourned that he had not been at home, perhaps to have kept good-hearted billy from his woeful fate. after a time addie married elton, a brother of billy's, and one sunday i persuaded my husband to go down to them in their cabin under the bluffs. "i have always wanted to get addie to tell me her story of her life with jules," i said. "i don't believe you can get her to talk about it," said mac, "she never speaks of it, elton says." we went, and they were delighted to see us, killed the fatted chicken and gathered for us some of the wild berries that grew in the bluffs, and then as we sat under the trees with the bluff towering above us, i asked her for the story of her girlhood's days out on the plains, when only a single house that sheltered three or four people was her home, and not another for many miles. "i was just a child," she said, "and jules was more like my father than my husband. but there were few women in the country in those days and jules said to my parents that he would take good care of me, and so they gave me to him, and they went on to denver. he had a man and his wife to take care of the place and do the work, and i just did whatever i wanted to. we were on the great trail to california and pike's peak and trains would come by and purchase supplies from us, so i did not get lonesome. jules had had some trouble with a man named slade a few years before and had shot slade, but had taken him to denver and put him in a hospital and paid to have him cared for and slade and he had made it all up, my husband thought. slade's ranch was further west and on the other side of his ranch jules had another ranch with cattle on, and one day he started off with two or three men to bring some of the cattle back. he had been told that slade had threatened to kill him but he did not believe it, although he went armed and with good men, he thought. this time he did not take me along as he had the cattle to drive. when he got near slade's place slade and his gang came down on jules and his men, shouting and shooting, drove off jules' men, took him and carried him to slade's ranch. one of jules' men followed them and saw them tie jules up to a great box and then slade stood a ways off with his rifle and shot at jules, just missing his ear or his neck or his hand that was stretched out and tied; sometimes hitting him just enough to draw the blood. he kept this up all the rest of the day and then towards night he fired a shot that killed him. the boys who were with jules came back to us and told us what had been done. we were so frightened we did not know what to do at first, for we expected every minute that slade and his gang would come and kill us. they did come the next day and carried off a lot of the stuff we had in the trading post but did not do any harm to us. the man and his wife that were with us and the boys then got a team together and put enough stuff into the wagon to do us until we could get to denver. all the rest and the cattle i guess slade got. jules had money in some bank in denver, he had always said, but we never could find it. i found my folks and after a while we came back here where we had lived before we went to denver." she told her story in the simplest commonplace manner, but it did not need any addition of word or gesture to paint on my memory for all time the pathos beneath. a girl of fourteen, happy and care-free under the protection of her father husband one day, putting him in the place of father, and mother, trusting to him, and suddenly standing beside the rude trading post way out on the treeless spaces of the trail that seemed to come from solitude and lead away to it again, and listening to the story of the frightened cowboy on his broncho whose almost unintelligible words finally made her understand that her protector, the kind man she had learned to love, had died a death so horrible it would make the strongest man shudder. and with only three or four frightened, irresponsible people to save her, perhaps from a similar or worse fate? but the women of the plains had but little childhood, and must act the part that came to them no matter what it might be. afterward she told me more of her strange life with jules, of his fatherly, protecting care of her, of his good heart, of the trouble with slade, which was slade's fault in the first place, and it was plain to see the ideal that had always been cherished way down in her subconsciousness of the man who played such an eventful but brief part in her life. it was a wrong, perhaps, but natural feeling to have when i found by after reading of annals of the plains that slade died the death that such a fiendish nature should have suffered. addie becksted still lives in a little cabin down among the hills about bellevue, her children and grandchildren about her, and still bears traces of the beauty that was hers as a girl. she is only about ten miles distant from omaha but has not visited it for years. when i go to see her, as i do occasionally, she puts her arms about me and kisses me on the cheek. and her still bright brown eyes look the affection of all the years and events that we have known together. it is well worth while to have these humble friends who have lived through the pioneer days with us. the last romantic buffalo hunt on the plains of nebraska by john lee webster in the autumn of a group of men, some of whom were then prominent in nebraska history, judge elmer s. dundy and colonel watson b. smith, and one who afterward achieved national fame as an american explorer, lieutenant frederick schwatka, and another who has since become known throughout europe and america as a picturesque character and showman, colonel wm. f. cody, participated in what proved to be the last romantic buffalo hunt upon the western plains of the state of nebraska. elmer s. dundy was a pioneer who had come to nebraska in . he had been a member of the territorial legislature for two successive terms; he was appointed a territorial judge in , and became the first united states district judge after the admission of the state into the union. colonel watson b. smith at that time held the office of clerk of the united states district and circuit courts for the district of nebraska. some years afterward he met a tragic death by being shot (accidentally or by assassination) in the corridors of the federal building in the city of omaha. colonel smith was a lovable man, of the highest unimpeachable integrity and a most efficient public officer. there was also among the number james neville, who at that time held the office of united states attorney and who afterward became a judge of the district court of douglas county. he added zest, vim, and spirit by reason of some personal peculiarities to be mentioned later on. these men, with the writer of this sketch, were anxious to have the experience and the enjoyment of the stimulating excitement of participating in a buffalo hunt before those native wild animals of the plains should become entirely extinct. to them it was to be a romantic incident in their lives and long to be remembered as an event of pioneer days. they enjoyed the luxury of a pullman car from omaha to north platte, which at that time was little more than a railway station at a division point upon the union pacific, and where was also located a military post occupied by a battalion of united states cavalry. [illustration: memorial fountain erected in antelope park, lincoln, nebraska, by deborah avery chapter, daughters of the american revolution, in memory of mary m. a. stevens, first regent of the chapter ( - ). dedicated, june , . cost $ ] lieutenant frederick schwatka, a regular army officer and american explorer, at one time commanded an arctic expedition in search of traces of the remains of dr. franklin. at another time he was in command of an exploring expedition of the yukon river. at another time he commanded an expedition into the northernmost regions of alaska in the interest of the new york _times_. he also became a writer and the author of three quite well known books: _along alaska's great river_, _nimrod in the north_, and _children of the cold_. at the time of which we are speaking lieutenant schwatka was stationed at the military post at north platte. he furnished us with the necessary army horses and equipment for the hunting expedition, and he himself went along in command of a squad of cavalry which acted as an escort to protect us if need be when we should get into the frontier regions where the indians were at times still engaged in the quest of game and sometimes in unfriendly raids. william f. cody, familiarly known as "buffalo bill," who had already achieved a reputation as a guide and hunter and who has since won a world reputation as a showman, went along with us as courier and chief hunter. he went on similar expeditions into the wilder regions of wyoming with general phil sheridan, the grand duke alexis, and others quite equally celebrated. this omaha group of amateur buffalo hunters, led by buffalo bill and escorted by lieutenant schwatka and his squad of cavalry, rode on the afternoon of the first day from north platte to fort mcpherson and there camped for the night with the bare earth and a blanket for a bed and a small army tent for shelter and cover. on the next morning after a rude army breakfast, eaten while we sat about upon the ground, and without the luxury of a bath or a change of wearing apparel, this cavalcade renewed its journey in a southwesterly direction expecting ultimately to reach the valley of the republican. we consumed the entire day in traveling over what seemed almost a barren waste of undulating prairie, except where here and there it was broken by a higher upland and now and then crossed by a ravine and occasionally by a small stream of running water, along the banks of which might be found a small growth of timber. the visible area of the landscape was so great that it seemed boundless--an immense wilderness of space, and the altitude added to the invigorating and stimulating effect of the atmosphere. we amateurs were constantly in anticipation of seeing either wild animals or indians that might add to the spirit and zest of the expedition. there were no habitations, no fields, no farms. there was the vast expanse of plain in front of us ascending gradually westward toward the mountains with the blue sky and sunshine overhead. i do not recollect of seeing more than one little cabin or one little pioneer ranch during that whole day's ride. i do know that as the afternoon wore on those of us who were amateur horsemen were pleased to take our turns as the opportunity offered of riding in the army wagon which carried our supplies, and leading our horses. when the shades of night of the second day had come we had seen many antelope and now and then heard the cry of the coyote and the wolf but we had not seen any sign of buffalo, but we did receive information from some cattlemen or plain wanderers that there was a band of roving indians in that vicinity which created in us a feeling of some anxiety--not so much for our personal safety as that our horses might be stolen and we be left in these remote regions without the necessary facilities for traveling homeward. our camp for the night was made upon a spot of low ground near the bank of a small creek which was bordered by hills on either side and sheltered by a small grove of timber near at hand. the surrounding hills would cut off the sight of the evening camp fires, and the timber would obscure the ascending columns of smoke as they spread into space through the branches of the trees. the horses were picketed near the camp around the commissary wagon and lieutenant schwatka placed the cavalrymen upon sentinel duty. the night was spent with some restlessness and sleep was somewhat disturbed in anticipation of a possible danger, and i believe that all of us rather anxiously awaited the coming of the morning with the eastern sunlight that we might be restored to that feeling of security that would come with freedom of action and the opportunity for "preparedness." when morning did come we had the pleasure of greeting each other with pleasant smiles and a feeling of happy contentment. we had not been molested by the indians and our military sentinels had not seen them. on the afternoon of the third day of our march into the wilderness we reached the farther margin of a high upland of the rim of a plain, where we had an opportunity of looking down over a large area of bottom land covered by vegetation and where there appeared to be signs of water. from this point of vantage we discovered a small herd of browsing buffalo but so far away from us as to be beyond rifle range. these animals were apparently so far away from civilization or human habitation of any kind that their animal instinct gave them a feeling of safety and security. we well knew that these animals could scent the approach of men and horses even when beyond the line of vision. we must study the currents of the air and plan our maneuvers with the utmost caution if we expected to be able to approach within any reasonable distance without being first discovered by them. we intrusted ourselves to the guidance of buffalo bill, whose experience added to his good judgment, and so skilfully did he conduct our maneuvers around the hills and up and down ravines that within an hour we were within a reasonable distance of these wild animals before they discovered us, and then the chase began. it was a part of the plan that we should surround them but we were prudently cautioned by mr. cody that a buffalo could run faster for a short distance than our horses. therefore we must keep far enough away so that if the buffalo should turn toward any of us we could immediately turn and flee in the opposite direction as fast as our horses could carry us. i must stop for a moment to recite a romantic incident which made this buffalo chase especially picturesque and amusing. judge neville had been in the habit of wearing in omaha a high silk hat and a full dress coat (in common parlance a spiketail). he started out on this expedition wearing this suit of clothes and without any change of garments to wear on the hunt. so it came about that when this group of amateur buffalo huntsmen went riding pell-mell over the prairies after the buffalo, and likewise when pursued by them in turn, judge neville sat astride his running war-horse wearing his high silk hat and the long flaps of his spiketail coat floating out behind him on the breeze as if waving a farewell adieu to all his companions. he presented a picture against the horizon that does not have its parallel in all pioneer history. it was entirely impossible for us inexperienced buffalo hunters while riding galloping horses across the plains to fire our rifles with any degree of accuracy. suffice it to say we did not succeed in shooting any buffalo and i don't now even know that we tried to do so. we were too much taken up with the excitement of the chase and of being chased in turn. at one time we were the pursuers and at another time we were being pursued, but the excitement was so intense that there was no limit to our enjoyment or enthusiasm. buffalo bill furnished us the unusual and soul-stirring amusement of that afternoon. he took it upon himself individually to lasso the largest bull buffalo of the herd while the rest of us did but little more than to direct the course of the flight of these wild animals, or perhaps, more correctly expressed--to keep out of their way. it did not take buffalo bill very long to lasso the large bull buffalo as his fleet blooded horse circled around the startled wild animal. when evening came we left the lassoed buffalo out on the plains solitary and alone, lariated to a stake driven into the ground so firmly that we felt quite sure he could not escape. it is my impression that we captured a young buffalo out of the small herd, which we placed in a corral found in that vicinity. on the following morning we went out upon the plains to get the lassoed buffalo and found that in his efforts to break away he had broken one of his legs. we were confronted with the question whether we should let the animal loose upon the prairies in his crippled condition or whether it would be a more merciful thing to shoot him and put him out of his pain and suffering. buffalo bill solved the vexatious problem by concluding to lead the crippled animal over to the ranchman's house and there he obtained such instruments as he could, including a butcher knife, a hand-saw, and a bar of iron. he amputated the limb of the buffalo above the point of the break in the bone and seared it over with a hot iron to close the artery and prevent the animal from bleeding to death. the surgical operation thus rudely performed upon this big, robust wild animal of the prairie seemed to be quite well and successfully performed. the buffalo was then left in the ranchman's corral with the understanding that he would see it was well fed and watered. we were now quite a way from civilization and near the colorado border line, and notwithstanding our subsequent riding over the hills and uplands during the following day we did not discover any other buffalo and those which had gotten away from us on the preceding day could not be found. during that day we turned northward, and i can remember that about noon we came to a cattleman's ranch where for the first time since our start on the journey we sat down to a wooden table in a log cabin for our noonday meal. during the afternoon we traveled northward as rapidly as our horses could carry us but night came on when we were twenty miles or more southwest of fort mcpherson and we found it again necessary to go into camp for the night, sleeping in the little army tents which we carried along with us in the commissary wagon. colonel cody on this journey had been riding his own private horse--a beautiful animal, capable of great speed. i can remember quite well that mr. cody said that he never slept out at night when within twenty miles of his own home. he declined to go into camp with us but turned his horse to the northward and gave him the full rein and started off at a rapid gallop over the plains, expecting to reach his home before the hour of midnight. it seemed to us that it would be a desolate, dreary, lonesome and perilous ride over the solitude of that waste of country, without roads, without lights, without sign boards or guides, but buffalo bill said he knew the direction from the stars and that he would trust his good horse to safely carry him over depressions and ravines notwithstanding the darkness of the night. so on he sped northward toward his home. on the next day we amateur buffalo hunters rode on to fort mcpherson and thence to north platte where we returned our army horses to the military post with a debt of gratitude to lieutenant schwatka, who at all times had been generous, courteous, and polite to us, as well as an interesting social companion. so ended the last romantic and rather unsuccessful buffalo hunt over the western plains of the state of nebraska--a region then desolate, arid, barren, and almost totally uninhabited, but today a wealthy and productive part of our state. the story of the buffalo hunt in and of itself is not an incident of much importance but it furnishes the material for a most remarkable contrast of development within a period of a generation. the wild buffalo has gone. the aboriginal red man of the plains has disappeared. the white man with the new civilization has stepped into their places. it all seems to have been a part of nature's great plan. out of the desolation of the past there has come the new life with the new civilization, just as new worlds and their satellites have been created out of the dust of dead worlds. there was a glory of the wilderness but it has gone. there was a mystery that haunted all those barren plains but that too has gone. now there are fields and houses and schools and groves of forest trees and villages and towns, all prosperous under the same warm sunshine as of a generation ago when the buffalo grazed on the meadow lands and the aboriginal indians hunted over the plains. [illustration: mrs. charles h. aull twelfth state regent, nebraska society, daughters of the american revolution. - ] outline history of the nebraska society, daughters of the american revolution by mrs. charles h. aull, _state regent_ the national society of the daughters of the american revolution was organized in washington, district of columbia, october , , and incorporated under the laws of congress, june , . its charter membership numbered . its declared object was: "to perpetuate the memory of the spirit of the men and women who achieved american independence by the acquisition and protection of historical spots, and the erection of monuments; by the encouragement of historical research in relation to the revolution and the publication of its results; by the preservation of documents and relics, and of the records of the individual services of revolutionary soldiers and patriots, and by the promotion of celebrations of all patriotic anniversaries. "to carry out the injunction of washington in his farewell address to the american people, 'to promote, as an object of primary importance, institutions for the general diffusion of knowledge,' thus developing an enlightened public opinion, and affording to young and old such advantages as shall develop in them the largest capacity for performing the duties of american citizens. "to cherish, maintain, and extend the institutions of american freedom, to foster true patriotism and love of country, and to aid in securing for mankind all the blessings of liberty." although there were previously some "members at large" in nebraska, no chapter had been organized until the formation of deborah avery chapter in . at present ( ) there are thirty-three chapters with a membership of fifteen hundred, and a well organized state society actively engaged in historical, educational, and patriotic work. each chapter pays to the state society a per capita tax of twenty-five cents. a conference is held annually to plan the state work and promote the purposes of the national society. mrs. charlotte f. palmer of omaha was appointed by the national society as organizing regent for nebraska, june , . she was reappointed in february, , and again in february, . no chapters were formed until in , when mary m. a. stevens of lincoln was admitted to membership in the national society, january , and was made organizing regent by mrs. philip hichborn, vice-president general in charge of organization. under the direction of miss stevens, deborah avery chapter was formed may , , and chartered june following. in may, , mrs. laura b. pound of lincoln was appointed state regent to succeed mrs. palmer and the real work of organization was begun. omaha chapter was formed june , , and approved by the national society october , . in december, , mrs. elizabeth c. langworthy was appointed organizing regent at seward but a chapter was not completed there until nine years later. in february, , mary m. a. stevens of deborah avery chapter and mrs. henry l. jaynes of omaha chapter were delegates to the continental congress at washington. miss stevens nominated mrs. pound for state regent and mrs. jaynes nominated mrs. john m. thurston of omaha for vice-president general from nebraska. their election followed. mrs. thurston died march , , and her sister-in-law, mrs. angie thurston newman of lincoln was elected at the following congress to succeed her. no new chapters were perfected in but minnie shedd cline of minden and mrs. sarah g. bates of valentine were appointed organizing regents. mrs. frances avery haggard of lincoln was elected state regent by the continental congress in february, . she devoted her energies to raising money and supplies for the relief work undertaken by the daughters during the spanish-american war. at the close of her first term mrs. haggard declined a renomination. the third state regent was mrs. elizabeth towle of omaha, who was first elected in and reëlected in . miss anna day of beatrice was appointed organizing regent by mrs. towle. in mrs. laura b. pound was again elected state regent and served two terms. the national society having made provision for state vice-regents, mrs. mildred l. allee of omaha was elected to that office. mrs. annie strickland steele was appointed organizing regent at fairbury, mrs. janet k. hollenbeck at fremont, and mrs. olive a. haldeman at ord. in her last report as state regent mrs. pound recorded two new chapters, quivira chapter at fairbury, organized december , , and lewis-clark chapter at fremont, january , , with chapters at beatrice and ord in process of formation. quivira chapter was chartered february , , and lewis-clark chapter was chartered february , . the first state conference was called by mrs. pound in october, , and was held in lincoln at the home of the late mrs. addison s. tibbetts. this conference was called to nominate a state regent and plan for observing the centennial of the lewis and clark expedition. this event was celebrated august , , the anniversary of the council of lewis and clark with the otoe and missouri indians. on this date a nebraska boulder was dedicated at fort calhoun with appropriate exercises, participated in by the sons of the american revolution and the nebraska state historical society. this was the first historical event commemorated by the daughters in nebraska. mrs. mildred l. allee of omaha was nominated for state regent at the conference in , and mrs. emma kellogg of lincoln for vice-regent. these nominations were approved at the continental congress in and both nominees were elected, and reëlected in . coronado chapter at ord was organized january , , and elizabeth montague chapter at beatrice june , . the former was chartered september , , and the latter june , . on october , , the second annual state conference was held in omaha. mrs. charles warren fairbanks, president general of the national society, was the guest of honor and delivered an address upon the subject, "the mission of the daughters of the american revolution." the third annual state conference assembled in lincoln, october , , for a two days' session. mrs. elizabeth c. langworthy of seward was chosen for state regent and mrs. janet k. hollenbeck of fremont was the choice of the conference for vice-regent. both were elected, and both were renominated at the fourth state conference held at fairbury in october, . mrs. langworthy organized the margaret holmes chapter at seward april , , and nikumi chapter at blair, february , . lincoln entertained the fifth annual state conference october - , , mrs. donald mclean, president general, being the guest of honor. at this conference a state organization was perfected and by-laws adopted providing that nominations for state regent and vice-regent should be made by the state board of management and submitted to the continental congress for election. other officers for the state organization were to be elected at the annual conference. this system was followed until , when the by-laws of the national society were changed to permit each state organization to elect its own regent and vice-regent. mrs. charles b. letton of quivira chapter, fairbury, was nominated for state regent and mrs. janet k. hollenbeck for vice-regent at the meeting of the board of management in the spring of , and were elected at the national congress immediately following. mrs. letton was reëlected in and mrs. s. d. barkalow of omaha was elected vice-regent. the sixth annual state conference was held in omaha october - , . mrs. letton appointed three organizing regents, one at aurora, where no chapter has yet been formed; mrs. arthur e. allyn at hastings, and mrs. charles oliver norton at kearney. on may , , she organized the fort kearney chapter at kearney, which was chartered october , , with mrs. norton as its first regent. mrs. richard c. hoyt presented the following resolution to the sixth annual conference and moved its adoption, the motion being seconded by mrs. henrietta m. rees: "therefore, be it resolved that the d. a. r. of nebraska coöperate with the state historical society in taking some steps toward marking the old oregon trail in nebraska and that a committee be appointed to act in unison with the historical society." the resolution was adopted. members of the omaha chapter who were interested in this matter at the time, say that the idea was suggested by dr. george l. miller of omaha, then president of the state historical society. in accordance with the foregoing resolution mrs. letton, state regent, appointed the following committee: mrs. john j. stubbs, omaha; mrs. george h. brash, beatrice; and mrs. stephen b. pound, lincoln. [illustration: monument located in bemis park, omaha, on the california trail or military road erected by omaha chapter, daughters of the american revolution] [illustration: monument in riverside park, omaha, marking the initial point of the california trail erected by omaha chapter, daughters of the american revolution] the seventh annual conference was held at fremont october - , . at this conference mrs. letton urged that plans be made for marking the oregon trail across nebraska, and called upon mrs. charles oliver norton who had been appointed chairman of the oregon trail committee to present the subject to the conference. in april, , mrs. oreal s. ward of lincoln was elected state regent and mrs. s. d. barkalow of omaha was reëlected vice-regent. in mrs. ward was reëlected state regent with mrs. charles oliver norton as vice-regent. the eighth state conference was held at beatrice october - , . at this conference it was voted to present two marble pedestals to memorial continental hall. it was resolved to vigorously prosecute the efforts to secure an appropriation from the legislature for the marking of the oregon trail. mrs. charles b. letton, during her last term as state regent, had endeavored to have the legislature of appropriate money for marking this trail, but no action was taken by that body until the session of , when, through the efforts of mrs. oreal s. ward, who had been elected state regent, $ , was appropriated "for the purpose of assisting in the procuring of suitable monuments to mark the oregon trail in the state of nebraska." this money was to be expended under the direction of a commission composed of "the state surveyor of nebraska, the state regent of the daughters of the american revolution in the state of nebraska, and the secretary of the nebraska state historical society." this act was approved april , . on april th following, the above-named commissioners met and organized as the "oregon trail memorial commission," with robert harvey president, mrs. oreal s. ward vice-president, and clarence s. paine secretary-treasurer. during mrs. ward's term as state regent she organized four chapters, st. leger cowley chapter, lincoln, december , ; niobrara chapter, hastings, october , ; otoe chapter, nebraska city, february , ; major isaac sadler chapter, omaha, march , . the ninth annual state conference was held in seward, october - , , and mrs. charles oliver norton of kearney was elected state regent, and mrs. warren perry of fairbury vice-regent. they were reëlected at the tenth state conference, held at kearney, october - , . the following eleven chapters were organized during mrs. norton's administration: platte chapter, columbus, october , . reavis-ashley chapter, falls city, january , . superior chapter, superior, january , . thirty-seventh star chapter, mccook, february , . david city chapter, david city, march , . pawnee chapter, fullerton, march , . david conklin chapter, callaway, february , . josiah everett chapter, lyons, february , . bonneville chapter, lexington, february , . nancy gary chapter, norfolk, february , . stephen bennett chapter, fairmont, february , . mrs. norton attended the third meeting of the oregon trail commission, held may , , and was elected vice-president in place of mrs. oreal s. ward whom she had succeeded as state regent. during her term mrs. norton vigorously prosecuted the work of marking the oregon trail, with the assistance of mrs. charles b. letton, whom she had appointed as chairman of the oregon trail committee. during her administration the contract was made for regulation markers to be used in marking the trail, and several were erected. there were also several special monuments erected ranging in cost from $ to $ . the first monument to be planned for during this period was the one on the kansas-nebraska state line, to cost $ , which, however, was not dedicated until later, and the last monument to be dedicated during mrs. norton's term was the one on the nebraska-wyoming line, costing $ , for which mrs. norton raised the money from the sons and daughters of the american revolution in nebraska and wyoming. during this time there was also a very careful survey made of the trail and sites for monuments were selected. in april, , mrs. andrew k. gault of omaha was elected vice-president general from nebraska at the national congress and reëlected in , serving, in all, four years. the eleventh annual conference was held in lincoln, october - , . mrs. mathew t. scott, president general, was the honor guest. amendments to the by-laws were adopted in harmony with the by-laws of the national organization and the date of the state conference was changed from october to march. it was provided that all state officers should serve for one term of two years, and the per capita tax was raised from ten cents to twenty-five cents. mrs. warren perry of fairbury was elected state regent and mrs. charles h. aull of omaha vice-regent. the twelfth annual state conference convened at fairbury, march - , . during mrs. perry's term of office there were organized the following chapters: oregon trail chapter, hebron, october , . jonathan cass chapter, weeping water, january , . elijah gove chapter, stromsburg, february , . fontenelle chapter, plattsmouth, april , . reverend reuben pickett chapter, chadron, march , . at the close of her administration twelve organizing regents were at work: mrs. eleanor murphey smith, crete; mrs. capitola skiles tulley, alliance; mrs. mabel raymond, scottsbluff; miss jessie kellogg, red cloud; mrs. alice dilworth, holdrege; mrs. clara king jones, wayne; mrs. c. m. wallace, shelton; mrs. charles brown, sutton; mrs. margaret orr, clay center; mrs. viola romigh, gothenburg; mrs. leona a. craft, morrill; dr. anna cross, crawford. the most important work to engage the attention of the state society during the administration of mrs. perry was the erection of monuments on the oregon trail, and the accumulation of material for the present volume of reminiscences. a large number of the regulation markers on the oregon trail were erected during this time; several special monuments dedicated and others arranged for. the thirteenth state conference was held in omaha, march - , . mrs. charles h. aull of omaha was elected state regent, and mrs. e. g. drake of beatrice vice-regent. three chapters have been organized under the present administration: capt. christopher robinson chapter, crawford, june , . butler-johnson chapter, sutton, june , . three trails chapter, gothenburg, december , . at the present time plans are being formulated for marking the california trail from omaha and florence along the north side of the platte river to the wyoming line. this work will be carried forward by the daughters, through the agency of the nebraska memorial association of which the state regent is vice-president. finis "the moving finger writes, and having writ, moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it." --_omar khayyam_ index abel, anton, adams, anna tribell, adams, clarendon e., _stirring events along the little blue_, adams county _gazette_, adams county, historical sketch of, , adriance, rev. jacob, akers, william h., ak-sar-ben, knights of, alexander, colonel, , , alexander, s. j., , alexander's ranch, alexandria, nebraska, , alexis of russia, grand duke, allee, mildred l. (mrs. abraham), , , allen, edna m. boyle, _a grasshopper raid_, allen, edwin m., allen, mrs. emily bottorff, _reminiscences of washington county_, allen, mr. and mrs. john, allen, pink, allen, thomas, , allen, thomas j., allen, william, allen, william henry, _reminiscences of fort calhoun_, , allen, mrs. william henry, alliance, nebraska, allis, samuel, allyn, mrs. arthur e., american baptist publication society, american fur company, american monthly magazine, american woman's suffrage association, ames, john h., _location of the capital at lincoln_, ames, nebraska, ames, oakes, anderson, mrs. sarah f., andrews, dr. j. p., , anthony, susan b., , arapahoe, nebraska, , , arbor lodge, , , , , arkeketah (otoe chief), arlington, nebraska, armstrong brothers, arnold, mrs., arnold, major, asche, mrs. a. dove wiley, atkinson, mrs., atkinson, general henry, auburn, nebraska, auger, general c. c., aull, mrs. charles h., _outline history of the nebraska society, daughters of the american revolution_, , aurora, nebraska, austin, o. o., avery, w. h., _a buffalo hunt_, ayres, james, _life on the frontier_, babcock, ----, babcock, c. c., babcock, russell d., , babcock, titus, badger family, badger, henry l., , , badger, mrs. h. l., badger, lewis h., badger, mary a., bailey, wesley, bainter, james, baker, ben s., baker, joe, baker, wilton, bancroft, dr. william m., , banking house of thomas harbine, barber, f. b., barkalow, mrs. s. d., , barnard, e. h., barneby, battiste, barnes, mrs. p. s., barnston, nebraska, , barr, p. f., barrett, jay amos, barrette, rev. and mrs., bartlett, iowa, bassett, samuel c., _a broken axle_, ; _dreamland complete_ (poem), bates, rev. henry, bates, mrs. sarah g., , bauman, john, bay state cattle company, beatrice _express_, beatrice, nebraska, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , beaver creek (sandburr creek), beaver crossing, nebraska, , , , becksted, addie, , becksted, billy, becksted, elton, bedford, nebraska, beeson, jane, bell creek, , , bell, james, bell, john t., bell, ortha c., _an incident in the history of lincoln_, , bell, mrs. ortha c., _lincoln in the early seventies_, - bell, ray hiram, belleville, kansas, bellevue, nebraska, , , beltzer, john, beni, jules, , , benkleman, nebraska, bennett, caroline valentine, bennett, jacob, berwyn, nebraska, bethlehem, iowa, betz, ----, bierstadt, albert, , bifkin, colonel, big blue river, , , , big sandy, , , , , , , binfield, s. b., binney, millard s., _gray eagle, pawnee chief_, bittenbender, mrs. ada m., black, gov. samuel w., , black hills, , , , blackbird creek, , blackwell, lucy stone, blaine, william h., blair, grant, blair, james, blair, nebraska, , , , , blizzards, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , blue river, , , , , blue springs, nebraska, , , blue vale, _blue valley record_, boggs, dr., bohanan, quinn, bonesteel, ----, , bonneville chapter, daughters of the american revolution, bookwalter, john w., boone, mrs. william, bosler brothers, boston and newton joint stock association, , , bottorff, andrew j., _early days in stanton county_, boucha, joseph, bouvier, adeline, bouvier, mother, bouvier, oliver, _reminiscences of de soto in _, bowen, adna h., bowen, judge, bower, nebraska, box butte county, _historical sketch of_, , boyd, ----, boyd, james e., boyer and roubidoux, boyer, j. p., , boyle, judge, , bradley, judge james, , brady, ----, brady island, , brash, mrs. george h., brass, samuel l., brewster, mrs. s. c., brickley, e. d., brigham, george a., brisbane, ----, broken bow, nebraska, , , brooks, mrs. ----, brooks, mrs. n. j. frazier, _reminiscences of pioneer life at fort calhoun_, broome, francis m., _frontier towns_, bross, rev. harmon, bross, mrs. harmon, _an experience_, brown, mrs. charles, brown, mrs. charles m., _first things in clay county_, brown, f. m., , brown, hopkins, brown, john, brown, r. g., brownell hall, brownville & fort kearny railroad, brownville, nebraska, , , , , , , buchanan, a frontier town, buck surveying party, buffalo, , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , buffalo county, , , buffalo creek, , burgess, frank, burke, mrs. ----, burlington and missouri r. r. co., , , , , , , , , , , burt, mr. ----, bush, lieutenant ----, , , , bussard, kate, bussard, william, buswell, judson, butler, ----, butler, gov. david, , butler johnson chapter, daughters of the american revolution, byers, mr. and mrs. william n., cabney, antoine, caldwell, mrs. a. j., california trail, , callaway, nebraska, , cameron, l. d., camp, william m., campbell, alexander, capital hotel, lincoln, captain christopher robinson chapter, daughters of the american revolution, carney family, carpenter, j. a., _early days in nebraska_, carr, gen. e. a., carson family, carter, alex., , carter, "billy," carter, jacob, carter, mr. and mrs. j. r., carter, thomas m., _reminiscences_, cass county, nebraska, , cedar creek (willow creek), central city, nebraska, chabot, c., _early recollections_, chadron, nebraska, , , champlin and mcdowell, champlin, l. c., chandler, john s., , chapman, nebraska, chapman, p. l., chautauqua literary and scientific circle, cheyenne and northern r. r., cheyenne county, kansas, cheyenne, wyoming, , chief pipe stem (otoe indian), chouteau, auguste, chouteau, pierre, christian, ----, christian, robert, christian, william, claim clubs, clapp, mrs. sarah, _early indian history_, clark, e. h., , , clark, mrs. e. h., _fort calhoun in the early fifties_, , clark, elam, , clark, isaac n., clark, dr. martin v. b., clark, theodore, clarks, nebraska, clarkson, rev. john f., clay center, nebraska, , clay county, , , clements, ----, clements, e. j., cline, mrs. j. a., cline, minnie shed, clother hotel, columbus, cody, william f. (buffalo bill), , , , , - cogswell, mrs., colby, mrs. clara bewick, colby, orrin, cole, gen. albert v., _early experiences in adams county_, cole's creek, collegeview (fontenelle college), collins, rev. isaac, columbus, nebraska, , , , , - comstock, e. s., , comstock, george s., - concordia, kansas, conroy's ranch, cook, ----, cook, capt. james h., cooper, dr. p. j., cooper, vienna, corey, a. a., coronado chapter, daughters of the american revolution, , coronado, francisco de, , , , , , correll, ernest e., _fred e. roper, pioneer_, ; _an indian raid_, correll, e. m., , , correll, lucy l., _the lure of the prairies_, , ; _suffrage in nebraska_, , cottage hill postoffice, cottonwood springs, , , council bluff (fort calhoun), nebraska, council bluffs, iowa, , , , , , council creek (skidi creek), cox, william w., , crab orchard, nebraska, craft, mrs. leona a., craig, allen, craig, mrs. rhoda, cramb, j. o., cramb, will f., crane, george, crawford, nebraska, , , creighton college, creighton, edward, creighton telegraph line, crete, nebraska, , , , , crook, general george, crooked hand, the fighter (pawnee indian), cropsey, col. andrew j., cropsey, daniel b., _early days in pawnee county_, cross, dr. anna, _legend of crow butte_, , cross, george, _early events in jefferson county_, , , , crow butte, legend of, crow heart butte (poem), pearl shepherd moses, cub creek, , , culbertson, nebraska, culver, gen. jacob h., culver, mrs. jacob h., cuming city claim club, cuming city, nebraska, , , , , cuming county, cuming, governor thomas b., cuming, mrs. thomas b., cumming, mrs. nils, cushing, james, cushing, capt. s. e., , _custer county, reminiscences of_, by mrs. j. j. douglas, , _daily-gazette-journal_, daily, major, dalbey, dwight s., dalbey, mrs. dwight s., member book committee, dalbey, mrs. virginia lewis, _biography of ford lewis_, daniels, j. h., darling, dick, daugherty, r. c., daughter of the american revolution, , , , david city, nebraska, david city chapter, daughters of the american revolution, davis, frank m., davis, j. v., davis, mrs. thomas, davis, w. h., dawson county, , - , , , dawson, john, day, miss anna, , deadwood, south dakota, deborah avery chapter, daughters of the american revolution, , , , , , decatur, nebraska, - , , , deep well ranch, delahunty, patrick, demerritt, case of, deroin, battiste, , de soto, nebraska, - , , diller, nebraska, dillon, ira g., dilworth, mrs. alice, dilworth's islands, dinsmore, john b., dismal river, ditto, hank, dixon, mr. and mrs. nimrod j., doane college, dodge county, , dodge, gen. grenville m., dodge, col. henry, donavan, frele morton, donavan, w. t., douglas county, nebraska, douglas house, omaha, douglas, j. j., , douglas, mrs. j. j., _reminiscences of custer county_, douglas, stephen a., dubuque, julien, dundy county, nebraska, dundy, judge elmer s., dunlap, ----, drake, mrs. e. g., dreamland complete (poem), dyball, mrs. george b., eagle (missouri indian chief), eddyville, nebraska, edgerton, gordon h., , , el capitan rancho, elijah gore chapter, daughters of the american revolution, elizabeth montague chapter, daughters of the american revolution, elk city, nebraska, , elkhorn river, , , , , , , ellis, mrs. ----, _an acrostic_, elm creek, nebraska, , , endicott, nebraska, engle, mr. and mrs., erickson, charles j., erickson, frank, erickson, john, erwin & powers company, estabrook, mrs. experience, eubanks, mr. and mrs., , , , , evans, john, evans, mrs. may, everett, mr. and mrs., , everett, b. w., , everett, eleanor, everett, mrs. elise g., _experiences of a pioneer woman_, everett, frank, , everett, josiah, , , ewing, ----, fagot, mrs., ----, fairbanks, mr. and mrs., fairbanks, mrs. charles warren, fairbury _gazette_, - fairbury, nebraska, , , , , , - , , - , , , , , , , , - fairfield, chancellor e. b., fairmont, nebraska, , , , falls city, nebraska, , , farnam, nebraska, ferguson, susan e., fifth u. s. cavalry, , filley, elijah, , filley, nebraska, fillmore county, , , , , fillmore postoffice, finney, dr., first national bank, fairbury, first territorial fair, fisette, mrs. charles h., _pioneer women of omaha_, fish creek, fisher, ----, fisher, king, fisher, martin, fitchie, s. d., florence, nebraska, , , , , fontenelle chapter, daughters of the american revolution, fontenelle college, fontenelle, logan, fontenelle mission, fontenelle mounted rangers, fontenelle, nebraska, , , , , , , fort atkinson, , , , fort calhoun, , , , , , , , , , fort cottonwood, fort hartsuff, fort kearney chapter, daughters of the american revolution, fort kearny (nebraska city), fort kearny, , , , , , , , - , , , , , fort laramie, wyoming, fort leavenworth, fort mcpherson, , , , , , , , fort omaha, fourth of july celebration, fouts, marion jerome (california joe), , fowlie, peter, , fox, the (pawnee indian), , fox ford, francis, samuel, franklin, dr., franklin county, , frazier, john, frazier, thomas, freeman, charles, , freeman, daniel, , freeman, mrs. daniel, _recollections of the first settler of dawson county_, freeman, minnie (see penney), , freeman, w. e., freighting, , , , , , , , fremont, john c., , fremont, nebraska, , , , , , , , french, luther, - frenchman river, fritt's grove, _frontier towns_, frances m. broome, fullerton, nebraska, , furnas, gov. robert w., , gage county, , - , , - , gale, dr. marion f., - gale, mary, - gale, mell, gantt, judge daniel, gardner's siding, gates, mr. and mrs. milo, gates, susan, gault, mrs. andrew k., gaylord brothers, gaylord, georgia, gaylord, ralph, gaylord, rev. reuben, , genoa, nebraska, , , , , , , , , gerrard, e. a., gibson, john mct., gilkerson, alice flor, gillingham, david (gray eagle), gillis, judge, gilman, j. c., , gilman, jed, , , gilman, mrs. p. j. (mary hubbard), gilman's ranch, , gilmore, boss, gilmore, elias, gilmore, jake, gilmore, lydia, gilmore, minnie, glenn, newton, glenwood, iowa, goldsmith, rev. s., goodwill, mrs. taylor g., gordon, jim, gordon, nebraska, gosper, mrs. watie, goss, ----, gothenburg, nebraska, , gould, charles, , gould, w. a., grand island, nebraska, , , , , , , , , grant, u. s., grasshoppers, , , , , , , - , , , gray eagle (pawnee chief), - great american desert, , green, albert l., _reminiscences of gage county_, grimes, l. r., guin, dr., gurley, w. f., hackberry cañon, hacker family, hackney ranch, , , hackney, walt, hackney, william, hager, rev. isaac, haggard, mrs. frances avery, haigler, nebraska, haile, ----, haines, rev., haldeman, dr. f. d., haldeman, mrs. olive a. (mrs. f. d.), , halfway hollow ranch, hall & evans, hamer, judge francis g., hamilton county, hamilton, mrs. cynthia, , hamilton hotel, hamilton, mrs. william, , haney, ----, hanscom, mr. and mrs. andrew j., hansen, george w., _early days of fairbury and jefferson county_, , ; _the earliest romance of jefferson county_, ; _finding the grave of george winslow_, - hansen, harry, hansen, mary kelley, harbine bank of fairbury, harbine, john, harbine, col. thomas, , hardenburg, harry, hardy, nebraska, harney, general w. s., harrington, sarah p., hart ranch, harvard, nebraska, , harvey, augustus f., , harvey, robert, hastings _journal_, hastings, nebraska, , , , , , , haunstine, albert, hawkins brothers, hawthorne, mary heaton, hay cañon, hay springs, nebraska, haynes, jack, heaton, rev. isaac e., heaton, mrs. isaac e., hebron _journal_, hebron library association, hebron, nebraska, - , , , , helvey, frank, , - , _experiences on the frontier_, , helvey, jasper, helvey, joel, , - , , helvey, orlando, helvey, thomas, , helvey, whitman, hemphill, ada, hemphill, mrs. mary, henderson, george, henderson, nellie, hendricks, george, henrietta postoffice, herndon house, herrick family, heth, john, , , , , , heth, mrs. john, heth, minnie, hewitt, lucy r., _early days in dawson county_, hewitt, thomas j., hewitt, mrs. thomas j., hichborn, mrs. philip, hickok, james b. (wild bill), , hiles' ranch, hinman, beach i., hinman, washington m., , history and art club, seward, holdrege, nebraska, hollenbeck, mrs. janet k., , hollenberg, captain, holloway & fowler, holmes, mrs. mary, holt county, horse creek (skeleton water), horseshoe creek, howe, church, howe, nebraska, howell, william, hoyt, mrs. richard c., hubbard, mary (mrs. p. j. gilman), hubbell, nebraska, hubbell, will, hughes' ranch, humphries, ----, hungate family, hunter, rev. a. v., hunter, charley, hunter, george michael, hunter, i. n., _recollections of_, hunter, mr. and mrs. l. d., _huntsman's echo_, hurd, ----, huse, harriet, imlay, william, indians, , , , - , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , - , - , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , - , - , , - , , , , - , , , , , , , , - , , - indian burial, , indian creek, indian massacres, , , , , , , indian police, , indian school, genoa, indianola, nebraska, inland, nebraska, independence, missouri, , , irvington, nebraska, jackson, james a., jackson, zaremba, jacobson, john, , jacobson house, james, gov. william h., , , jansen, john, jansen, peter, _ranching in gage and jefferson counties_, jarvis, mrs. a. p., _lovers' leap_, jascoby, ----, jaynes, c. s., jaynes, mrs. henry l., jefferson county, , , , , - , , , , , , jeffrie's ranch, jenkins, d. c., jenkins, george e., _looking backward_, jenkins' mill, johanson, sven, _early days in stanton county_, johanson, mrs. sven, johnson county, johnson family, johnson, mrs. e., _early recollections of gage county_, johnson, mr. and mrs. e. d., , , , johnson, elleck, johnson, mrs. hadley, johnson, mrs. harrison, johnson, jim, johnson, joseph e., jonathan cass chapter, daughters of the american revolution, jones, alfred d., jones, mrs. alfred d., jones, mrs. clara king, josiah everett chapter, daughters of the american revolution, judson, h. m., julesburg, colorado, junction city, kansas, juniata, nebraska, , , , juniata house, kanesville (council bluffs), iowa, , kansas city & omaha r. r., kansas pacific r. r., kearney county, kearney, nebraska, , , , , , , , , kearny heights (nebraska city), keen, rev. w. g., kehoe, john, keith, mrs., kelley, alfred, kelly, ----, , kelly, john, kelly, margaret f., _a grasshopper story_, kellogg, miss jessie, kellogg, mrs. emma, kenesaw, , kenny, aimee taggart, keyou, ----, kimball brothers, king, ----, king, mrs. deborah, kingsley, fayette, , kirk, george, kittle, fred, kittle, robt., , klein and lang, knapp, robert m., koontz, j., kountze, mrs. herman, kramph, mrs., kress, mortimer n. (wild bill), , , krier, b. f., _pioneer justice_, kuony, mr. and mrs. john b., la flesche, joseph, lake cañon, lancaster county, , , lancaster, nebraska, , , langworthy, elizabeth c. (mrs. stephen c.), ; _two seward county celebrations_, , , lazure, mrs. may allen, _some items from washington county_, lee, general, leflang, e. m. f., leonard, emma, lepin hotel, lester, s. p., lett, h. c., letton, mrs. charles b., , , , , letton, judge charles b., ; _the easter storm of _, - , lewis and clark, , , , , lewis-clark chapter, daughters of the american revolution, , lewis, elizabeth davis, lewis, ford, , lewis, levi, lewis, m. k., lewis, phoebe, lewiston, nebraska, lexington, nebraska, , , , , lezenby, christopher, libby, e. r., liberty, nebraska, lincoln, nebraska, , , , , , , - , - , , , , , , , , , lincoln county, , - lindgren, elof, lingle, mrs. addie bradley, lingle, w. h., lippincott halfway house, little blue river, , , , , , , , , , , , , little pipe, john (otoe indian), , little sandy, , , , lockwood, judge william f., logan creek, , logan valley, lomas (or loomis), roderick, lone tree (central city), nebraska, , long creek, , long, major stephen h., longshore, ----, long pine, nebraska, lord, brackett, , , lost creek (lincoln park), louisiana purchase, , loup river, , (potato water), , , , _lovers' leap_, lower ranch, luey, francis m., , lyons, nebraska, maccoll, john h., , , maccoll, laura, macmurphy, harriet s., , ; _nikumi_, ; _the heroine of the jules-slade tragedy_, macmurphy, john a., mcallister, w. a., _some personal incidents_, mccabe's ranch, mccaffery, ----, mccall, r. j., mccandles, bill, mccanles, d. c., , mccashland, addie, mccashland, john r., _pioneering in fillmore county_, mccashland, mrs. john r., mccashland, sammy, mccomas, ----, mccook, nebraska, mccreary family, mccune, calmer, _early days in polk county_, mcdonald, mrs. charles, mcdonald, charles, , , mcdonald, thomas, mcdonald, w. h., mcdowell, mrs. gertrude m., _suffrage in nebraska_, mcdowell, joseph b., _beginnings of fairbury_, , mcdowell, w. g., , mcelroy, william john, mcgovern, teddy, mcgregor, harry, mclean, mrs. donald, mcmaster, a. m., mcneely, frank, _county-seat of washington county_, mcneil, miss, , mcpherson hotel, brownville, mcpherson station, mabin's ranch, , mahan, henry, mahum, tom, major isaac sadler chapter, daughters of the american revolution, majors, alexander, , majors, col. thomas j., mallet brothers, mallott, james b., maple creek, iowa, , margaret holmes chapter, daughters of the american revolution, _seward county reminiscences_, , marks, mrs. ives, marks, rev. ives, , , , marks' mill, , marsden, ----, marsh, a. k., , martin, ----, martin, e. l., martin, major, marvin, seth p., mary cole steamboat, marysville, kansas, , mason, judge o. p., , mason, sidney, mr. and mrs., mathews, capt. fred, mattingly, j. b., , , , maxwell, nebraska, mayes, charles, mayfield's ranch, mead, mrs. eda, _the story of the town of fontenelle_, medicine, nebraska, medicine horse (otoe chief), , mellenger, "doc," mellenger, edgar, melroy, nebraska, , melvin brothers, memorial continental hall, meridian, nebraska, , , , , merritt, asa, mickey, gov. john h., midland pacific r. r., milford, nebraska, military road, millard, joseph h., miller, mrs., miller, a. j., miller, charlie, miller, dr. george l., , minden, nebraska, , minor, ella pollock, _incidents at plattsmouth_, mira valley, , mission creek, missouri river, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , missouri river ferry, monroe, nebraska, moore, john s., moore, sadie irene, _the beginnings of fremont_, moote, mr. and mrs. w. s., morgan, hugh, mormon trail, , , mormons, , , , , , morrill, nebraska, morris, prof. john, morrow, j. a., , morse, capt. charles, morse, col. charles f., morton, carl, morton, caroline joy, , morton, charles, morton, j. sterling, ; _my last buffalo hunt_, , , , , morton, joy, morton, paul, _how the founder of arbor day created the most famous western estate_, moses, pearl shepherd, _crow heart butte_ (poem), mott, lucretia, mud creek, mullen, mrs., murdock, rev., murray, mrs., murray, nebraska, nance county, - , , , , , nancy, gary chapter, daughters of the american revolution, narrows, the, national society, daughters of the american revolution, national suffrage association, nebraska city, nebraska, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , nebraska memorial association, nebraska society, daughters of the american revolution, nebraska society, sons of the american revolution, , nebraska state historical society, , , , , - , , , nebraska territorial pioneers' association, needham, mr., needham, mrs. christina, nemaha river, neville, judge james, , newbecker, clara, newbecker, dr. minerva, newbecker, lieut. philip, newman, mrs. angie thurston, _nikumi_, - nikumi chapter, daughters of the american revolution, niobrara chapter, daughters of the american revolution, niobrara river, nobes, c. j., nonpareil, a frontier town, norfolk, nebraska, norman, p. o., north, major frank, , , , north, capt. luther, , , north platte, nebraska, , , , , , , , northwestern r. r., norton, mrs. charles oliver, , , norton, hannah, norton, lilian (madam nordica), norton, major peter, noyes, major, nuckolls county, , , , , nye, mrs. theron, _early days in fremont_, oak, john, oak grove ranch, , oakland, nebraska, o'brien, major george m., o'conner, mrs. thomas, o'fallon's bluffs, , ogallalla cattle company, oliver, sr., edward, oliver, edward, oliver, james, oliver, john, oliver, robert, oliver, sarah, omaha, nebraska, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , - , , , , , - omaha _bee_, omaha chapter, daughters of the american revolution, , , , , omaha mary, omaha _republican_, onawa, iowa, ord, nebraska, , oregon trail, , , , , , , , , - oregon trail chapter, daughters of the american revolution, oregon trail memorial commission, , orr, mrs. margaret, osceola, nebraska, osceola _record_, ostrander, ----, otoe chapter, daughters of the american revolution, otoe county, otoe indian reservation, - , , , , overland stage line, , , overland trail, , , , , , , , overton, nebraska, pacific house, beatrice, pacific telegraph line, , paine, mrs. c. s., paine, clarence s., palmatier, ----, palmer, mrs. charlotte f., , palmer, capt. henry e., parker, jason, parks, nebraska, parmele, mrs. lilian, patrick, mrs. edwin, patterson, daniel, patterson's trading post, pawnee city, nebraska, , , , pawnee county, , , pawnee indian reservation, , , , , , pawnee ranch, pawnee scouts, , peale, titian, pearson, capt. f. j., peavy and curtiss, penney, minnie freeman, _the blizzard of _, ; _major north's buffalo hunt_, perry, mrs. lula correll (mrs. warren), , , petalesharo (pawnee chief), peterson, martin, pierce, judge robert d., pine bluff reservation, pine ridge country, _pioneer_, dawson county, _pioneer record_, pittsburgh postoffice, nebraska, , plainfield, nebraska, platt, elvira gaston, platt, lester w., platte chapter, daughters of the american revolution, platte river, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , platte valley, plattsmouth, nebraska, , , , , , , pleasant dale, nebraska, plum creek, , , , , , , plum creek (gage county), , plum creek (lexington), nebraska, , , , , , , , , plummer, eleanor, , , plummer, mrs. jason, plummer, jason, , plymouth, nebraska, polk county, , polk, nebraska, polley, hiram, pollock, mrs. thomas, pony express, , pope, mrs. anna randall, poppleton, mrs. andrew j., porter, a. j., _from missouri to dawson county in _, pound, mrs. laura b., _marking the site of the lewis and clark council at fort calhoun_, , , , , pumpkin creek, purdy house, fairbury, purple, ----, pursell, mrs. auta helvey, purviance, edith erma, _a pioneer family_, purviance, erma, purviance, dr. w. e., prairie chicken (omaha indian), prairie fires, , , , pyle and eaton, quincy colony, , , - quivira, , quivira chapter, daughters of the american revolution, , , , randall, mr. and mrs., randall, a. d., randall, charles, , randall, e. j., randall, dr. h. l., randall, n. g., randall, sarah schooley, _my trip west in _, rawhide creek, raymond, mrs. mabel, raymond, nebraska, reavis-ashley chapter, daughters of the american revolution, reavis, isham, reavis, mahala beck, red cloud, nebraska, , red lion mill, redman, joseph, reed, alexander, reeder, mrs. james g., _pioneer life_, rees, henrietta m., republic county, kansas, _republican_, omaha, republican river, , , , , , , republican valley, , , , , reverend reuben pickett chapter, daughters of the american revolution, reynolds, nebraska, reynolds, b. w., reynolds, wilson, rhoades, orrin, rhustrat, dr., richardson, lyman, ringer, mr. and mrs. bradford, ringer, frank j., ringer, jennie bell, ringer, john dean, riverton, nebraska, rock bluffs, nebraska, , rock creek, , , , , rockport, nebraska, , , rockwood, martin t., roe, thomas, rogers, mrs. samuel e., romigh, mrs. viola, root, aaron, root, mrs. allen, roper, ford, roper, fred e., - roper, joe b., roper, laura, , roper, mann e., roscoe, b. s., , , roscoe, mrs. isabel, _a pioneer nebraska teacher_, rose creek, , , , , , , rosewater, edward, roy, george, , roy, mrs. thyrza reavis, _personal reminiscences_, , royce, loie, rulo, nebraska, rushville, nebraska, russell, alice m., russell, mrs. e. a., _reminiscences_, russell, rev. e. a., russell, h. c., russell, mrs. lucinda, russell, majors and waddell, , st. joe & denver city r. r. co., st. joe and grand island r. r., , st. joseph, missouri, , , , , st. leger cowley chapter, daughters of the american revolution, st. marys, iowa, st. nicholas hotel, st. paul, nebraska, saline city, salt creek, saltillo, nebraska, salt lake city, sanborne, john p., sand hills, santa fe trail, , saratoga (omaha), nebraska, sarpy, peter a., , - sarpy's trading post, , saunders county, , sawyer, mrs. a. j., saxon, elizabeth, schmeling, frank, school creek, , schooley, charles a., schwatka, lieut. frederick, , , , schwerin, rev. w., scofield, t. d., scott, ----, scott, miss lizzie, scott, mrs. mathew t., scottsbluff country, scottsbluff, nebraska, scully, lord, second nebraska cavalry, , second u. s. cavalry, selden, mrs. o. b., selleck, wellington w., seward, seward county, , , seward, nebraska, , , , , , seymour, elizabeth porter, _early experiences in nebraska_, - shader, mr. and mrs. a. l., shader, claiborn, shattuck, etta, sheldon, addison e., , , shell creek, shelton, nebraska, sheridan (auburn), nebraska, sheridan, gen. phil, sherman, general, shields, mrs. herman, shields, thomas, shipley, shirley, william, shorter county, - showalter, dr., shumway, grant lee, _pioneering_, sidney, nebraska, , , sidney trail, sixth u. s. infantry, , slade, jack, , slade, lyman or jack, slocumb, charles, slocumb and hambel, sluyter, isaiah, smith, ----, , smith, adam, smith brothers, smith, c. b., , smith, mrs. c. b., smith, charles, smith, dan, smith, mrs. dan, smith, de etta bell, smith, edmund burke, smith, mrs. eleanor murphey, smith, hazel bell, smith, mrs. j. fred, smith, j. g., smith, john, smith, major, smith, samuel c., smith, towner, smith, col. watson b., snake creek, snowden, mrs. william p., solomon river, sommerlad, h. w., sons of the american revolution, , soules, ----, southwell, ----, spade, dan, spade, william, _fillmore county in the 's_, spanish american war, spillman, jerome, stall, irwin, stanley, c., , stanton county, , stanton, elizabeth cady, , staples, david, , - starbuck, rev. charles, star hotel, fairbury, stark, isaac w., stark, john, stark, margaret, state federation of woman's clubs, stebbins, mrs. w. m., _the erickson family_, steele, annie m., steele, mrs. annie strickland, steele, calvin f., , , steele, mrs. c. f., _personal recollections_, - ; _finding the george winslow grave_, stephen, bennett chapter, daughters of the american revolution, stevens, col. george, , stevens, mary m. a., stevens, william, stiles, james, stilts, judge, stockville, nebraska, stone, dr. ----, stone, lucy, storer, william, stout, d. d., stout, e. p., stromsburg, nebraska, stubbs, mrs. j. j., stuckey, capt. john s., stuckey, joseph, stuckey, samuel clay, stuhl, joseph, stutzman, henry, sullivan, potter c., sumner, nebraska, superior chapter, daughters of the american revolution, superior, nebraska, , sutton, nebraska, , , , swan brothers, swan creek, , - sweetser, ----, sweezy, william f., taggart, rev. j. m., talbot, mr. and mrs. ben, talbot, bishop, talbot, john, , talbot, dr. willis, tall bull (cheyenne indian), tash, ira e., _historical sketch of box butte county_, taylor, j. o., taylor, tim, tecumseh, nebraska, , tenth u. s. infantry, thayer county, , , thayer county woman's suffrage association, , thayer, gen. john m., thayer, mrs. john m., _the conservative_, _the homesteader_, thomas, s. g., thomas & champlin, , thompson, barbara j., thirty-seventh star chapter, daughters of the american revolution, thirty-two mile creek, three groves, nebraska, three trails chapter, daughters of the american revolution, thurston, mrs. john m., tibbetts, mrs. addison s., timberville (ames), nebraska, tinklepaugh, roy, tipton, james, tipton, thomas w., tisdale, thomas h., , tooth & maul, towle, albert, towle, mrs. eliza, towle, mrs. elizabeth, tree planting, , trefren and hewitt, tremont house, _tribune_, the fremont, troup, mrs. elsie de cou, tucker, ----, tucker family, tucker, tudor, tulley, mrs. capitola skiles, turkey creek, turner, eliza, turner, mrs. george, turner, mrs. margaret, ulig, ----, union pacific r. r., , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , united states daughters of the war of , upper ranch, valentine, nebraska, , vallery, mr. and mrs. jacob, valley county, van horn, james, van vliet, brig. gen. stewart l., vance, mrs. laura (laura roper), vanier brothers, vermillion, a. martha, virginia, nebraska, , wahoo, nebraska, , walker brothers, walker, major lester, _early history of lincoln county_, wallace, mrs. c. m., walnut creek, , , walton, mrs. ellen saunders, _early days in nance county_, ward, joseph, ward, mrs. oreal s., , ware, ellen kinney, _early reminiscences of nebraska city_, warfield's ranch, warrick, amasa, warrington, t. l., warwick, rev. j. w., warwick, lila (or eliza), , washington county, , , - wasson, ----, waters, stella brown, waters, william h., waters, w. w., waterville, kansas, waterville, nebraska, watson, w. w., wayne, nebraska, webster, john lee, _the last romantic buffalo hunt on the plains of nebraska_, weed, thurlow, weed, william l., weeks, m. h., weeks, mrs. m. h., _early days in jefferson county_, weeks, mary, weeping water, legend of, weeping water, nebraska, , , , weeping water river, wehn, ----, weisel, george, wells fargo express company, , west, ----, west, mr. and mrs., west, julia, west blue river, , , , , , west blue postoffice, west point, nebraska, western stage company, westling, j. a., weston, john b., wharton, rev. fletcher l., wheeler, judge, wheeler, major, , whiskey run, whitaker, ----, whitaker, sabra brumsey, white, rev. a. g., white, capt. charles, white eagle (pawnee chief), white, luke, white, sammy, , whiterock, kansas, whitewater, jim (otoe half-breed), , , whiting, a. v., whitney family, whittaker, mrs. clifford, _a good indian_, wiggins, horace s., wigton, a. l., , wigton, j. w., wilbur, nebraska, wild bill (james b. hickok), , , wild cat banks, wilds, m. b., wiley, araminta, wiley, gertrude miranda, wiley, hattie, wiley, dr. william washington, wilkinson, emma, wilkinson, ida, wilkinson, nettie, wilkinson, thomas, , wilkinson, mrs. thomas, , wilkinson, william w., williamson, john, , wilson, ----, wilson, capt., wilson, luther, wilson, perley, wilson, w. r., wiltse, chauncey livingston, _the pawnee chief's farewell_, - winslow, edward, winslow, eleazer, winslow, george, - winslow, mrs. george, winslow, george e., winslow, george edward, winslow, henry o., , winslow, mrs. henry, winslow, james, winslow, jesse, , winslow, josiah, winslow, kenelm, , winslow, shadrach, wint, brig. gen. theodore, woerner, mike, wolf creek, _woman's journal_, , woman's suffrage, - wood, mr. and mrs. kentucky, wood river, , , wood river centre, , woodhurst, mrs., woodhurst, warden, woods, jim, work, george f., _historical sketch of adams county_, wright, eben, wyncoop, col. ----, wyoming society daughters of the american revolution, wyoming society sons of the american revolution, wyuka cemetery, nebraska city, yankee hill, yankton, south dakota, young, brigham, * * * * * transcriber's notes: punctuation has been standardised. minor printer errors (e.g. omitted, superfluous or transposed characters) have been fixed. kearny and kearney are both used in this text. page , "rhoderic" changed to "roderick" (roderick lomas) [per internet search] page , "eldorado" changed to "el dorado" (trip to the new el dorado) page , "asch" changed to "asche" (a. dove wiley asche) [per internet search] page , "benumed" changed to "benummed" (being benummed myself) [per webster's dictionary] page , "daguerrotype" changed to "daguerreotype" (daguerreotype of mr.) (daguerreotype of george) page , " " changed to " " (colony in ) page , "repellant" changed to "repellent" (seemed repellent, irksome) page , "repellant" changed to "repellent" (and repellent fear) page , "arborially" changed to "arboreally" (arboreally interred) page , "markmanship" changed to "marksmanship" (no deft marksmanship) page , "nemeha" changed to "nemaha" (grazing in the nemaha) page , "ottoes" changed to "otoes" (the "ottoes, pawnees) page , the spelling of "delf" was retained (per webster dictionary)