tle bedroom. She got his shaving-water and razor ready. At last she buttoned on his collar and fastened his black cravat.

Adoniram never wore his collar and cravat except on extra occasions. He held his head high, with a rasped dignity. When he was all ready, with his coat and hat brushed, and a lunch of pie and cheese in a paper bag, he hesitated on the thresh

new barn. Mrs. Penn ran out. 'Stop!' she screamed-stop!'

The men stopped and looked; Sammy upreared from the top of the load, and 5 stared at his mother.

'Stop!' she cried out again. 'Don't you put the hay in that barn; put it in the old one.'

'Why, he said to put it in here,' re

ingly. He was a young man, a neighbor's son, whom Adoniram hired by the year to help on the farm.

old of the door. He looked at his wife, 10 turned one of the haymakers, wonderand his manner was defiantly apologetic. 'If them cows come to-day, Sammy can drive 'em into the new barn,' said he; an' when they bring the hay up, they can pitch it in there.'

'Well,' replied Mrs. Penn.

Adoniram set his shaven face ahead and started. When he had cleared the door-step, he turned and looked back with

'Don't you put the hay in the new barn; 15 there's room enough in the old one, ain't there?' said Mrs. Penn.

a kind of nervous solemnity. I shall be 20 cerned. Well, I s'pose he changed his back by Saturday if nothin' happens,' said he.

'Do be careful, father,' replied his wife. She stood in the door with Nanny at her elbow and watched him out of sight. 25 Her eyes had a strange, doubtful expression in them; her. peaceful forehead was contracted. She went in, and about her baking again. Nanny sat sewing. Her wedding-day was drawing nearer, and she 30 was getting pale and thin with her steady sewing. Her mother kept glancing at her. Have you got that pain in your side this mornin'?' she asked.

A little.'

mind. He took hold of the horses' bridles.

Mrs. Penn went back to the house. Soon the kitchen windows were darkened, and a fragrance like warm honey came into the room.

Nanny laid down her work. 'I thought father wanted them to put the hay into the new barn?' she said, wonderingly.

It's all right,' replied her mother. Sammy slid down from the load of hay, and came in to see if dinner was ready.

I ain't goin' to get a regular dinner to-day, as long as father's gone,' said his 35 mother. I've let the fire go out. You can have some bread an' milk an' pie. I thought we could get along.' She set out some bowls of milk, some bread, and a pie on the kitchen table. You'd better eat your dinner now,' said she. You might jest as well get through with it. I want you to help me afterward.'

Mrs. Penn's face, as she worked, changed, her perplexed forehead smoothed, her eyes were steady, her lips firmly set. She formed a maxim for herself, although incoherently with her unlettered thoughts. 40 Unsolicited opportunities are the guideposts of the Lord to the new roads of life,' she repeated in effect, and she made up her mind to her course of action.

S'posin' I had wrote to Hiram,' she 45 muttered once, when she was in the pantry-s'posin' I had wrote, an' asked him if he knew of any horse? But I didn't, an' father's goin' wa'n't none of my doin'. It looks like a providence.' Her voice 50 rang out quite loud at the last.

What you talkin' about, mother?' called Nanny.

'Nothin'.'

Mrs. Penn hurried her baking: at 55 eleven o'clock it was all done. The load of hay from the west field came slowly down the cart track, and drew up at the

Nanny and Sammy stared at each other. There was something strange in their mother's manner. Mrs. Penn did not eat anything herself. She went into the pantry, and they heard her moving dishes while they ate. Presently she came out with a pile of plates. She got the clothesbasket out of the shed, and packed them in it. Nanny and Sammy watched. She brought out cups and saucers, and put them in with the plates.

What you goin' to do, mother?' inquired Nanny, in a timid voice. A sense of something unusual made her tremble, as if it were a ghost. Sammy rolled his eyes over his pie.

'You'll see what I'm goin' to do,' replied Mrs. Penn. 'If you're through, Nanny, I want you to go upstairs an' pack up your things; an' I want you, Sammy, to help me take down the bed in the bedroom.'

'Oh, mother, what for?' gasped Nanny. 'You'll see.'

5

most as home-like as the abandoned house The across the yard had ever done. young hired man milked, and Sarah directed him calmly to bring the milk to the new barn. He came gaping, dropping little blots of foam from the brimming pails on the grass. Before the next morning he had spread the story of Adoniram Penn's wife moving into the new barn all over the little village. Men assembled in the store and talked it over, women with shawls over their heads scuttled into each other's houses before their work was done. Any deviation from the ordinary course of life in this quiet town was enough to stop all progress in it. Everybody paused to look at the staid, independent figure on the side track. There was a difference of opinion with regard 20 to her. Some held her to be insane; some, of a lawless and rebellious spirit.

During the next few hours a feat was performed by this simple, pious New 10 England mother which was equal in its way to Wolfe's storming of the Heights of Abraham. It took no more genius and audacity of bravery for Wolfe to cheer his wondering soldiers up those steep 15 precipices, under the sleeping eyes of the enemy, than for Sarah Penn, at the head of her children, to move all their little household goods into the new barn while her husband was away.

Nanny and Sammy followed their mother's instructions without a murmur; indeed, they were overawed. There is a certain uncanny and superhuman quality about all such purely original undertak- 25 ings as their mother's was to them. Nanny went back and forth with her light loads, and Sammy tugged with sober energy.

At five o'clock in the afternoon the lit- 30 tle house in which the Penns had lived for forty years had emptied itself into the new barn.

Every builder builds somewhat for unknown purposes, and is in a measure a 35 prophet. The architect of Adoniram Penn's barn, while he designed it for the comfort of four-footed animals, had planned better than he knew for the comfort of humans. Sarah Penn saw at a 40 glance its possibilities. Those great boxstalls, with quilts hung before them, would make better bedrooms than the one she had occupied for forty years, and there was a tight carriage-room. The harness- 45 room, with its chimney and shelves, would make a kitchen of her dreams. The great middle space would make a parlor, by-andby, fit for a palace. Upstairs there was as much room as down. With partitions 50 and windows, what a house would there be! Sarah looked at the row of stanchions before the allotted space for cows, and reflected that she would have her front entry there.

At six o'clock the stove was up in the harness-room, the kettle was boiling, and the table was set for tea. It looked al

Friday the minister went to see her. It was in the forenoon, and she was at the barn door shelling peas for dinner. She looked up and returned his salutation with dignity, then she went on with her work. She did not invite him in. The saintly expression of her face remained fixed, but there was an angry flush over it.

The minister stood awkwardly before her, and talked. She handled the peas as if they were bullets. At last she looked up, and her eyes showed the spirit that her meek front had covered for a lifetime.

'There ain't no use talkin', Mr. Hersey,' said she. 'I've thought it all over an' over, an' I believe I'm doin' what's right. I've made it the subject of prayer, an' it's betwixt me an' the Lord an' Adoniram. There ain't no call for nobody else to worry about it.'

'Well, of course, if you have brought it to the Lord in prayer, and feel satisfied that you are doing right, Mrs. Penn,' said the minister, helplessly. His thin graybearded face was pathetic. He was a

sickly man; his youthful confidence had cooled; he had to scourge himself up to some of his pastoral duties as relentlessly as a Catholic ascetic, and then he was prostrated by the smart.

'I think it's right jest as much as I think it was right for our forefathers to come over from the old country 'cause 55 they didn't have what belonged to 'em,' said Mrs. Penn. She arose. The barn threshold might have been Plymouth Rock from her bearing. 'I don't doubt you

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.

10

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 5 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 con- 45 fidence in their mother over their father asserted itself.

Still

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 her father

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.

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.

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.

The

'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. 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 furni

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 so, father,' said Sarah. 'I'll put up the partitions, an'— everything you - 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 PAW 1

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