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, aneverything 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.

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

5

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 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 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 15 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

--

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

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.

5 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,

stirring it up in the neighborhood of the ribs with her fat forefinger.

'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.'

5

20

'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.

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 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' 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.

'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

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 down an' die.' 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 did n't like the looks of the country, 40 anyhow,' Haskins said, partly rising and glancing at his wife. I was ust 't' northern Ingyannie, where we have lots o' timber 'n' lots o' rain, 'n' I didn't like the looks o' that dry prairie. What galled me 45 the worst was goin' s' far away acrosst so much fine land layin' all through here vacant.'

'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.'

972

II

5

Jim Butler was one of those men called in the Westland poor.' Early in the history of Rock River he had come into the town and started in the grocery business in a small way, occupying a small building in a mean part of the town. At this period of his life he earned all he got, and was up early and late sorting beans, 10 working over butter, and carting his goods to and from the station. But a change came over him at the end of the second year, when he sold a lot of land for four times what he paid for it. From that 15 time forward he believed in land speculation as the surest way of getting rich. Every cent he could save or spare from his trade he put into land at forced sale, or mortgages on land, which were just 20 as good as the wheat,' he was accustomed to say.

Farm after farm fell into his hands, until he was recognized as one of the leading landowners of the county. His mort- 25 gages were scattered all over Cedar County, and as they slowly but surely fell in he sought usually to retain the former

owner as tenant.

thousand dollars, but land had been a little slow of sale of late, so that he was not worth so much.

A fine farm, known as the Higley place, had fallen into his hands in the usual way the previous year, and he had not been able to find a tenant for it. Poor Higley, after working himself nearly to death on it in the attempt to lift the mortgage, had gone off to Dakota, leaving the farm and his curse to Butler.

This was the farm which Council advised Haskins to apply for; and the next day Council hitched up his team and drove down town to see Butler.

'You jest let me do the talkin',' he said. 'We'll find him wearin' out his pants on some salt barrel somew'ers; and if he thought you wanted a place he'd sock it to you hot and heavy. You jest keep quiet; I'll fix 'im.'

Butler was seated in Ben Ashley's store telling fish yarns when Council sauntered in casually.

'Hello, But; lyin' agin, hey?'
'Hello, Steve! how goes it?'

'Oh, so-so. Too dang much rain these days. I thought it was goin' t' freeze up f'h good last night. Tight squeak if I get

He was not ready to foreclose; indeed, 30 m' plowin' done. How's farmin' with

he had the name of being one of the easiest' men in the town. He let the debtor off again and again, extending the time whenever possible.

All 35

'I don't want y'r land,' he said. I'm after is the int'rest on my money that's all. Now, if y' want 'o stay on the farm, why, I'll give y' a good chance. I can't have the land lyin' vacant.' And in many cases the owner remained as tenant. 40 In the meantime he had sold his store; he could n't spend time in it; he was mainly occupied now with sitting around town on rainy days smoking and 'gassin' with the boys,' or in riding to and from 45 his farms. In fishing-time he fished a good deal. Doc Grimes, Ben Ashley, and Cal Cheatham were his cronies on these fishing excursions or hunting trips in the time of chickens or partridges. In winter 50 they went to Northern Wisconsin to shoot deer.

In spite of all these signs of easy life Butler persisted in saying he had n't money to pay taxes on his land,' and was 55 careful to convey the impression that he was poor in spite of his twenty farms. At one time he was said to be worth fifty

you these days?

'Bad. Plowin' ain't half done.'

'It 'ud be a religious idee f'r you t' go out an' take a hand y'rself.'

'I don't haff to,' said Butler, with a wink.

'Got anybody on the Higley place?' 'No. Know of anybody?

'Waal, no; not eggsackly. I've got a relation back t' Michigan who's ben hot an' cold on the idee o' comin' West fr some time. Might come if he could get a good lay-out. What do you talk on the farm?'

'Well, I d' know. I'll rent it on shares or I'll rent it money rent.'

'Waal, how much money, say?' 'Well, say ten per cent, on the pricetwo-fifty.'

'Waal, that ain't bad. Wait on 'im till 'e thrashes?'

Haskins listened eagerly to his important question, but Council was coolly eating a dried apple which he had speared out of a barrel with his knife. Butler studied him carefully.

'Well, knocks me out of twenty-five dollars interest.'