mean well, Mr. Hersey,' said she, 'but there are things people had n't ought to interfere with. I've been a member of the church for over forty year. I've got my own mind an' my own feet, an' I'm goin' to think my own thoughts an' go my own ways, an' nobody but the Lord is goin' to dictate to me unless I've a mind to have him. Won't you come in an 'set down? How is Mis' Hersey?' 'She is well, I thank you,' replied the minister. He added some more perplexed apologetic remarks; then he retreated. would be confronted by the cow flashed upon Nanny. There was a hysterical sob in her throat. Adoniram emerged from the shed and stood looking about in a 5 dazed fashion. His lips moved; he was saying something, but they could not hear. what it was. The hired man was peeping around a corner of the old barn, but nobody saw him. 10 Adoniram took the new horse by the bridle and led him across the yard to the new barn. Nanny and Sammy slunk close to their mother. The barn doors rolled back, and there stood Adoniram, with the long mild face of the great Canadian farm horse looking over his shoulder. He could expound the intricacies of every character study in the Scriptures, 15 he was competent to grasp the Pilgrim Fathers and all historical innovators, but Sarah Penn was beyond him. He could deal with primal cases, but parallel ones worsted him. But, after all, although it 20 was aside from his province, he wondered more how Adoniram Penn would deal with his wife than how the Lord would. Everybody shared the wonder. When Adoniram's four new cows arrived, Sarah 25 ordered three to be put in the old barn, the other in the house shed where the cooking-stove had stood. That added to the excitement. It was whispered that all four cows were domiciled in the house. 30 Towards sunset on Saturday, when Adoniram was expected home, there was a knot of men in the road near the new barn. The hired man had milked, but he still hung around the premises. Sarah 35 Penn had supper all ready. There were brown-bread and baked beans and a custard pie; it was the supper that Adoniram loved on a Saturday night. She had on a clean calico, and she bore herself imper- 40 turbably. Nanny and Sammy kept close at her heels. Their eyes were large, and Nanny was full of nervous tremors. there was to them more pleasant excitement than anything else. An inborn confidence in their mother over their father asserted itself. Still 45 Sammy looked out of the harness-room window. There he is,' he announced, in an awed whisper. He and Nanny peeped 50 around the casing. Mrs. Penn kept on about her work. The children watched Adoniram leave the new horse standing in the drive while he went to the house door. It was fastened. Then he went 55 around to the shed. That door was seldom locked, even when the family was away. The thought how how her father Nanny kept behind her mother, but Sammy stepped suddenly forward, and stood in front of her. Adoniram stared at the group.. 'What on airth you all down here for?' said he. 'What's the matter over to the house?' 'We've come here to live, father,' said Sammy. His shrill voice quavered out bravely. What'- Adoniram sniffed-what is it smells like cookin'?' said he. He stepped forward and looked in the open door of the harness-room. Then he turned to his wife. His old bristling face was pale and frightened. What on airth does this mean, mother?' he gasped. 'You come in here, father,' said Sarah. She led the way into the harness-room and shut the door. 'Now, father,' said she, you need n't be scared. I ain't crazy. There ain't nothin' to be upset over. But we've come here to live, an' we're goin' to live here. We've got jest as good a right here as new horses an COWS. The house wa'n't fit for us to live in any longer, an' I made up my mind I wa'n't goin' to stay there. I've done my duty by you forty year, an' I'm goin' to do it now; but I'm goin' to live here. You've got to put in some windows and partitions; an' you'll have to buy some furniture.' Why, mother!' the old man gasped. 'You'd better take your coat off an' get washed there's the wash-basin - an' then we'll have supper.' 'Why, mother!' Sammy went past the window, leading the new horse to the old barn. The old man saw him, and shook his head speechlessly. He tried to take off his coat, but his arms seemed to lack the power. His wife helped him. She poured some water into the tin basin, and put in a piece of soap. She got the comb and brush, and smoothed his thin gray hair after he had washed. Then she put the beans, hot bread, and tea on the table. Sammy came in, and the family drew up. Adoniram sat looking dazedly at his plate, and they waited. Ain't you goin' to ask a blessin', father?' said Sarah. And the old man bent his head and mumbled. away and the milk-pans washed, Sarah went out to him. The twilight was deepening. There was a clear green glow in the sky. Before them stretched the 5 smooth level of field; in the distance was a cluster of hay-stacks like the huts of a village; the air was very cool and calm and sweet. The landscape might have been an ideal one of peace. 10 Sarah bent over and touched her husband on one of his thin, sinewy shoulders. 'Father!' All through the meal he stopped eating at intervals, and stared furtively at his 15 wife, but he ate well. The home food tasted good to him, and his old frame was too sturdily healthy to be affected by his mind. But after supper he went out, and sat down on the step of the smaller 20 door at the right of the barn, through which he had meant his Jerseys to pass in stately file, but which Sarah designed for her front house door, and he leaned his head on his hands. After the supper dishes were cleared The old man's shoulder heaved: he was weeping. 'Why, don't do 'I'll put up everything you so, father,' said Sarah. the partitions, an— want, mother.' Sarah put her apron up to her face; she was overcome by her own triumph. Adoniram was like a fortress whose walls had no active resistance, and went down the instant the right besieging tools were used. Why, mother,' he said, hoarsely, I had n't no idee you was so 25 set on 't as all this comes to.' Harper's Magazine, Sept., 1890. HAMLIN GARLAND (1860 What Mrs. Freeman did for New England Hamlin Garland did for the Middle West, the only difference being that Garland was the pioneer depicter of his middle border farm lands and Mrs. Freeman was the last of a long line of story tellers dealing with Yankee life. He was born in Wisconsin, on a frontier farm, and before he was eleven he had accompanied his parents on three different migrations westward. Attending winter schools, like most of the farm boys of his region, he became interested in his studies. was graduated at length from the Cedar Valley Seminary, Iowa, taught school for a year or two, took part in the Dakota land boom of 1883, then following his literary dreams, migrated to Boston, supported himself as he could while studying and reading and fitting himself for literary work, and finally, after a visit home during which he saw the prairies with new eyes and the farm life there with entirely new perspective, wrote the series of stories which in 1891 he published with the title Main Travelled Roads. He was a revolutionist at first, a radical as may be learned from his declaration of independence, Crumbling Idols, 1894. Boldly he spoke out for the truth, not farm life with a halo of romance upon it, but farm life as it actually was to be found in the region of his boyhood, with all its deprivation, and filth, and soul-grinding toil. His pictures grip the imagination like Zola's: they do not depress, they anger. they stir the blood, they call for action. His later work has been voluminous, no less than thirty volumes standing to his credit. Some of his far western novels have about them a certain elemental strength, but nothing of his later output is to be compared for gripping power with the short stories of his earliest period which came from his heart and his conviction, and which are alive, moreover, with the life of a fresh new area of American soil. UNDER THE LION'S PAW1 I It was the last of autumn and first day of winter coming together. All day long the plowmen on their prairie farms had moved to and fro in their wide level fields through the falling snow, which melted as it fell, wetting them to the skin -all day, notwithstanding the frequent 10 squalls of snow, the dripping, desolate clouds, and the muck of the furrows, black and tenacious as tar. Under their dripping harness the horses swung to and fro silently, with that 15 marvelous uncomplaining patience which marks the horse. All day the wild geese, honking wildly, as they sprawled sidewise down the wind, seemed to be fleeing from an enemy behind, and with neck outthrust 20 and wings extended, sailed down the wind, soon lost to sight. Yet the plowman behind his plow, though the snow lay on his ragged greatcoat, and the cold clinging mud rose on 25 his heavy boots, fettering him like gyves, 1 Published by permission of Hamlin Garland, owner of the copyright. whistled in the very beard of the gale. As day passed, the snow, ceasing to melt, lay along the plowed land, and lodged in the depth of the stubble, till on each slow 5 round the last furrow stood out black and shining as jet between the plowed land and the gray stubble. When night began to fall, and the geese, flying low, began to alight invisibly in the near corn-field, Stephen Council was still at work finishing a land.' He rode on his sulky plow when going with the wind, but walked when facing it. Sitting bent and cold but cheery under his slouch hat, he talked encouragingly to his four-in-hand. 'Come round there, boys! - Round agin! We got t' finish this land. Come in there, Dan! Stiddy, Kate, stiddy! None o' y'r tantrums, Kittie. It's purty tuff, but got a be did. Tchk! tchk! Step along, Pete! Don't let Kate git y'r singletree on the wheel. Once more!' They seemed to know what he meant. and that this was the last round, for they worked with greater vigor than before. 'Once more, boys, an' then, sez I, oats an' a nice warm stall, an' sleep f'r all.' By the time the last furrow was turned on the land it was too dark to see the house, and the snow was changing to rain again. The tired and hungry man could see the light from the kitchen shining through the leafless hedge, and he lifted a great shout, Supper f'r a half a dozen!' It was nearly eight o'clock by the time he had finished his chores and started for supper. He was picking his way care- 10 fully through the mud, when the tall form of a man loomed up before him with a premonitory cough. Waddy ye want?' was the rather startled question of the farmer. 15 'Well, ye see,' began the stranger, in a deprecating tone, we'd like t' git in f'r the night. We've tried every house f'r the last two miles, but they had n't any room f'r us. My wife's jest about sick, 20 'n' the children are cold and hungry 'Oh, y' want 'o stay all night, eh?' 'Yes, sir; it 'ud be a great accom 'Waal, I don't make it a practice t' turn anybuddy way hungry, not on sech nights 25 as this. Drive right in. We ain't got much, but sech as it is' But the stranger had disappeared. And soon his steaming, weary team, with drooping heads and swinging single-trees, 30 moved past the well to the block beside the path. Council stood at the side of the 'schooner' and helped the children out two little half-sleeping children and then a small woman with a babe in her 35 arms. There ye go!' he shouted jovially, to the children. 'Now we're all right! Run right along to the house there, an' tell Mam' Council you wants sumpthin' t' 40 eat. Right this way, Mis'- keep right off t' the right there. I'll go an' git a lantern. Come,' he said to the dazed and silent group at his side. 'Mother,' he shouted, as he neared the 45 fragrant and warmly lighted kitchen, 'here are some wayfarers an' folks who need sumpthin' t' eat an' a place t' snooze.' He ended by pushing them all in. Mrs. Council, a large, jolly, rather 50 coarse-looking woman, took the children in her arms. Come right in, you little rabbits. 'Most asleep, hey? Now here's a drink o' milk f'r each o' ye. I'll have s'm tea in a minute. Take off y'r things 55 and set up t' the fire.' While she set the children to drinking milk, Council got out his lantern and went 5 out to the barn to help the stranger about his team, where his loud, hearty voice could be heard as it came and went between the haymow and the stalls. The woman came to light as a small, timid, and discouraged-looking woman, but still pretty, in a thin and sorrowful way. Land sakes! An' you've traveled all the way from Clear Lake t'-day in this mud! Waal! waal! No wonder you're all tired out. Don't wait f'r the men, Mis'' She hesitated, waiting for the name. 'Haskins.' 'Mis' Haskins, set right up to the table an' take a good swig o' tea whilst I make y' s'm toast. It's green tea, an' it's good. I tell Council as I git older I don't seem to enjoy Young Hyson n'r Gunpowder. I want the reel green tea, jest as it comes off'n the vines. Seems t' have more heart in it. some way. Don't s'pose it has. Council says it's all in m' eye.' Going on in this easy way, she soon had the children filled with bread and milk and the woman thoroughly at home, eating some toast and sweet-melon pickles, and sipping the tea. See the little rats!' she laughed at the children. They 're full as they can stick now, and they want to go to bed. Now, don't git up, Mis' Haskins; set right where you are an' let me look after 'em. I know all about young ones, though I'm all alone now. Jane went an' married last fall. But, as I tell Council, it's lucky we keep our health. Set right there, Mis' Haskins; I won't have you stir a finger.' It was an unmeasured pleasure to sit there in the warm, homely kitchen, the jovial chatter of the housewife driving out and holding at bay the growl of the impotent, cheated wind. The little woman's eyes filled with tears which fell down upon the sleeping baby in her arms. The world was not so desolate and cold and hopeless, after all. 'Now I hope Council won't stop out there and talk politics all night. He's the greatest man to talk politics an' read the Tribune How old is it?' She broke off and peered down at the face of the babe. 'Two months 'n' five days,' said the mother, with a mother's exactness. 'Ye don't say! I want 'o know! The dear little pudzy-wudzy!' she went on, 'Pooty tough on 'oo to go gallivant'n' 'cross lots this way 'Yes, that's so; a man can't lift a mountain,' said Council, entering the door. Mother, this is Mr. Haskins, from Kansas. He's been eat up 'n' drove out by grasshoppers.' Glad t see yeh! Pa, empty that 10 wash-basin 'n' give him a chance t' wash.' Haskins was a tall man, with a thin, gloomy face. His hair was a reddish brown, like his coat, and seemed equally faded by the wind and sun, and his sallow 15 face, though hard and set, was pathetic somehow. You would have felt that he had suffered much by the line of his mouth showing under his thin, yellow mustache. 'Hain't Ike got home yet, Sairy?' 'Hain't seen 'im.' worse till they jest rolled on one another, piled up like snow in winter. Well, it ain't no use. If I was t' talk all winter I could n't tell nawthin'. But all the while 5 I could n't help thinkin' of all that land back here that nobuddy was usin' that I ought 'o had 'stead o' bein' out there in that cussed country.' 'Waal, why did n't ye stop an' settle here?' asked Ike, who had come in and was eating his supper. For the simple reason that you fellers wanted ten 'r fifteen dollars an acre fer the bare land, and I had n't no money fer that kind o' thing.' 'Yes, I do my own work,' Mrs. Council was heard to say in the pause which followed. I'm a gettin' purty heavy t' be on m' laigs all day, but we can't afford t' 20 hire, so I keep rackin' around somehow, like a foundered horse. S' lame I tell Council he can't tell how lame I am, f'r I'm jest as lame in one laig as t' other.' And the good soul laughed at the joke on herself as she took a handful of flour and dusted the biscuit-board to keep the dough from sticking. 'W-a-a-1, set right up, Mr. Haskins; wade right into what we've got; 't ain't much, but we manage to live on it—she 25 gits fat on it,' laughed Council, pointing his thumb at his wife. After supper, while the women put the children to bed, Haskins and Council talked on, seated near the huge cooking- 30 stone, the steam rising from their wet clothing. In the Western fashion Council told as much of his own life as he drew from his guest. He asked but few questions, but by and by the story of Haskins' 35 struggles and defeat came out. The story was a terrible one, but he told it quietly, seated with his elbows on his knees, gazing most of the time at the hearth. I didn't like the looks of the country, anyhow,' Haskins said, partly rising and glancing at his wife. 'I was ust 't' northern Ingvannie, where we have lots o' timber 'n' lots o' rain, 'n' I did n't like the looks o' that dry prairie. What galled me the worst was goin' s' far away acrosst so much fine land layin' all through here vacant.' And the 'hoppers eat ye four years, hand runnin', did they?? Eat! They wiped us out. They chawed everything that was green. They jest set around waitin' f'r us to die t' eat us, too. My God! I ust t' dream of 'em sittin' 'round on the bedpost, six 55 feet long, workin' their jaws. They eet the fork-handles. They got worse 'n' 'Well, I hain't never been very strong, said Mrs. Haskins. Our folks was Canadians an' small-boned, and then since my last child I hain't got up again fairly. I don't like t' complain. Tim has about all he can bear now but they was days this week when I jes wanted to lay right down an' die.' - 'Waal, now, I'll tell ye," said Council, from his side of the stove, silencing everybody with his good-natured roar, I'd go down and see Butler, anyway, if I was you. I guess he 'd let you have his place purty cheap; the farm's all run down. He's ben anxious t' let t' somebuddy next year. It 'ud be a good chance fer you. Anyhow, you go to bed and sleep like a babe. I've got some plowin' t' do, anyhow, an' we 'll see if somethin' can't be done about your case. Ike, you go out an' see if the horses is all right, an' I'll show the folks t' bed.' When the tired husband and wife were lying under the generous quilts of the spare bed. Haskins listened a moment to the wind in the eaves, and then said, with a slow and solemn tone, 'There are people in this world who are good enough t' be angels, an' only haff t' die to be angels.' |